Mocha, She Wrote

by Ellie Alexander

  “I think this man has no confidence himself. This is why he must put down others. I do not understand why the organizers allow it.”

  Before I could agree and elaborate on how odd I found the entire competition and Benson’s role as a judge and organizer himself, a commotion broke out down the Calle. The crackling sound of walkie-talkies and the sight of Thomas, Kerry, and the Professor pushing back their chairs in unison and getting to their feet made Carlos stop talking.

  In a blur, the police team raced past us.

  Thomas held his walkie-talkie in his hand as he ran. “We are in route and responding!”

  “What is this?” Carlos asked.

  “No idea.” I shrugged, trying to make eye contact with Mom who had gotten up from the table and was speaking to a waiter. After a minute she caught my eye, nodded, and came toward us.

  “What happened?” I asked, hearing sirens erupt on the plaza.

  “Benson.” Mom looked stunned. “The call just came in from dispatch.”

  “What about Benson?” I asked.

  Her walnut eyes were wide with disbelief. “He’s dead.”

  Chapter Nine

  How could that be?

  “Mom, did you say that Benson is dead?”

  She let out a sigh. Her lips parted as she nodded again and again in disbelief, as if trying to make sense of it herself. “Yes. He’s dead. They found him in the back seat of the car he’d called for dinner.”

  “Is it wrong to say that I am not that sad after everything you have told me about this man?” Carlos scowled. “Sorry, that was not kind of me. Of course I do not want anyone to come to harm, but Julieta was just explaining how awful he has been to Andy. This is terrible.”

  Benson was dead. I couldn’t believe it.

  “That must mean they think it’s murder?” I asked. My mind was already spinning with possibilities.

  Carlos wrinkled his brow. “Why do you say that?”

  “Doug and his team get called to the scene of any unnatural death,” Mom answered. “It’s his role to determine if an investigation needs to be opened, but I think what Juliet means is that if the call had been for a heart attack or something similar, Doug wouldn’t have been summoned to the scene.”

  “Ah, si.” Carlos nodded.

  Had Benson died of natural causes or could someone have killed him? He had certainly amassed a growing list of enemies at the Barista Cup.

  “Do they know anything more yet?” I asked Mom.

  “No. You know everything I heard from Doug.” Her voice sounded strained.

  “Helen, please sit.” Carlos held the wine bottle. “Would you like a glass?”

  Mom glanced down the cobblestone path to the table she had abandoned. “That would be nice. I already asked the waiter to box up our meals. Let me go get them and settle the bill. Then I’ll join you.”

  “Julieta, what is it?” Carlos asked. He had moved next to me so that our shoulders touched.

  “Huh?”

  “You are thinking something. I can see it in your eyes.”

  He had always been able to read my thoughts.

  “I’m wondering if Benson’s death could be connected to the competition. It seems like a strange coincidence, don’t you think?”

  Carlos shrugged. “I do not know. This will be up to the Professor to determine, but do not worry. It will be okay and it is probably better for Andy that this man will not be at the competition tomorrow.” He massaged the back of my neck, flooding my body with a rush of calming energy.

  If the competition even continues, I thought.

  Mom returned with her half-eaten dinner and three to-go boxes. Carlos poured her a glass of wine. We talked about Uva. Carlos told her about his plans for a dinner in the vines. We tried to keep the conversation light, but I could tell that none of us were fully present. The sun sank behind the mountains. Waitstaff came outside to light votive candles and offer guests hot Irish coffees and blankets to warm their legs. I enjoyed June’s cool evening breezes, but many tourists who visited Ashland were used to climates with warmer evening temperatures back home.

  We polished off the bottle of wine. I took our dinner dishes into the kitchen and plated three servings of strawberry shortcake. Mom and Carlos devoured the dessert. The berries were ripe and juicy and Sterling’s concrete was like tasting strawberries plucked fresh from the vine.

  The dinner crowd on the Calle dispersed for the evening shows at OSF. We lingered over dessert and coffee, listening to the calming sounds of Ashland Creek and watching bats swoop above our heads snatching mosquitoes from the sky.

  The Professor returned as the antique streetlamps came on, illuminating the cobblestone pathway with soft glowing halos of light. “Sorry to have left you stranded, my dear.” He kissed Mom on the top of the head. He wore a lightweight sport coat and pair of khaki slacks.

  “Don’t give it a thought.” She waved him off. “I had the better end of the deal. I’ve been drinking wine and eating Juliet’s delicious strawberry shortcake.”

  “Can I get you a slice?” I asked.

  He looked at the stack of to-go boxes. “Actually, I’m quite famished. I think I’ll finish my dinner.”

  “Would you like a glass of wine with that?” Carlos offered. “I can open another bottle.”

  “No, no. Water will be fine.” He nodded to the pitcher on the table.

  Mom poured him a glass.

  The Professor reached for her hand, clutching it like a crutch. “‘From women’s eyes this doctrine I derive: They sparkle still the right Promethean fire; They are the books, the arts, the academes, That show, contain, and nourish all the world.’ Oh my dearest, Helen, what comfort and grounding I find in your gentle caress.”

  Mom massaged his hand. “Was it bad?”

  He sighed. “Bearing witness to death is never something I take lightly, but I fear that it’s becoming more and more difficult.”

  “This is understandable.” Carlos exhaled deeply, shaking his head. “This work that you do, it is not for the weakhearted.”

  The Professor gave him a half smile.

  “Do you have any idea what happened to Benson?” I asked.

  “The medical examiner is quite sure that some sort of substance was involved. She’ll be doing a formal autopsy, but we are in agreement that his death is unlikely to be from natural causes. The question will be whether Benson accidentally overdosed on something—be that prescription medication or illegal drugs—or whether he ingested something intentionally put into his food or drink. He was found with a coffee cup in the back of the car. We’ll be examining the contents of the cup.”

  My stomach dropped. “Oh no.”

  “What is it, Juliet?” Mom asked. “Your face just went white.”

  “Andy. He gave Benson a cup of coffee right as we were leaving, remember? You don’t think that could have been Andy’s drink?”

  “Why would you assume that?” The Professor studied me.

  “Did Mom tell you what happened at the competition?” I swatted at a mosquito that landed on my wrist.

  He shook his head. “No. We met Thomas and Kerry for dinner and the conversation was focused on their wedding plans.”

  I gave him a condensed version of the day’s events. “Andy made Benson another version of his signature hot honey latte after the competition was over. He was distraught that his first drink had been ruined. He wanted another chance to impress Benson. What if whoever added salt to his first drink slipped something into that one too?”

  The Professor paused and removed a Moleskin notebook from the breast pocket of his linen shirt. He made a note. “Do you know when this was?”

  “Mom and I left a little before five, right?” I looked to Mom for confirmation.

  She nodded.

  “You’ll have to ask Andy, but it was around then.”

  “Excellent. I’ll have a conversation with him first thing in the morning.” He started to put the notebook away then changed his mind. “
You mentioned that you believe someone tampered with Andy’s drink. Can you elaborate more on that? Did you see anything suspicious? What about the other contestants?” He addressed both Mom and me. Carlos snuck off to get the Professor a slice of my strawberry shortcake.

  “I did notice Diaz at Andy’s station when I came back from lunch.” I explained that Diaz had quickly returned to his spot when he saw me.

  “You know, come to think of it I saw Sammy, one of the other contestants, talking to Andy at his station right before the third round,” Mom added. “She had one arm behind her back the entire time they were talking, which I thought was odd.”

  “Really?” I asked. “I missed that.”

  “You were talking with Bethany. She was taking thousands of photos. You know how she gets when it comes to posing the perfect picture.” Mom squinted, as if trying to recall the scene. “I thought it was strange, because Sammy had been quite aloof when it came to interacting with any of the other baristas. She suddenly seemed interested in Andy’s drinks, and kept fiddling with something behind her back.”

  The Professor cleared his throat. “Sammy was near Andy’s coffees before they were delivered to the judges?”

  “Yes, I’m sure of it. At the time I thought it was odd that she left her station. Actually, James—the MC—was there too. Did you see him leaning over Andy’s shoulder when they were doing the close-ups?” Mom asked me.

  “No.” I shook my head. I was impressed that Mom had been so observant. Not that I had any reason to be surprised by that. She was naturally interested in people and a careful listener.

  The Professor jotted down more notes. “Anything else you can add? Even if it doesn’t seem monumental, you never know what might be important.”

  I thought back through the entire day as Carlos returned with a slice of shortcake and a cup of coffee for the Professor. “Oh, yeah, there was one other thing. I overheard James and Benson fighting. They were in the hallway and James kept saying, ‘I’m not going to let you get away with this again.’ I asked James about it and he brushed me off.”

  “Interesting.” The Professor tucked away his notebook and took a bite of the shortcake. “Thank you, my most beloved women. This gives me a starting point for tomorrow. I’m much obliged.”

  We lingered a bit longer while the Professor finished his dessert. I was exhausted. The stress of the competition and Benson’s death had caught up with me.

  “Mi querida, let’s go home. You cannot keep your eyes open.” Carlos stood up and helped me to my feet.

  I didn’t bother to protest. Nothing sounded better than our comfortable bed at the moment. I wasn’t sure what had happened with Benson, but I was pretty convinced that his death wasn’t an accident. I needed a good night of sleep because, come morning, I intended to put every effort into making sure that my lead barista wasn’t tied to his murder.

  Chapter Ten

  The next morning, I headed straight for Torte, leaving Carlos snoozing under the covers and ignoring the fact that not even the birds were awake yet.

  To my surprise, Mom was already in the kitchen and had made a pot of coffee and a tray of sticky buns.

  “You’re here early,” I noted, washing my hands and tying on an apron.

  “Doug couldn’t sleep. He was up most of the night researching the case on the computer. I kept seeing the glow of the blue screen in the hallway, and finally got up a little before four to ask him if he wanted to come into town. There’s only so much he can do from his laptop at home, and when he’s on a case like this, he always says that the first forty-eight hours are critical.” She used a spatula to remove a glistening bun drizzled with caramel and walnuts from the tray. “Is everyone coming in this morning?”

  “Yes. The events don’t start until eleven, so Andy should be here in a half hour or so.”

  Mom handed me a plate with one of the rolls. “Coffee?” She held the pot.

  “As if you need to ask.”

  She poured us both a cup.

  “How is Doug feeling this morning? He seemed pretty shaken last night.”

  “I know. I’m worried about him.” She twisted her wedding band. “Seeing death close up takes a toll. He’s been trying to scale back, giving Thomas and Kerry more responsibility. We talked about it last night. He doesn’t want to officially retire until after the wedding. He doesn’t think it’s fair to do that to them. They have a lot to focus on with planning a wedding, but he did promise that once the wedding is done and they’re back from their honeymoon he’s going to pull back.”

  “What does ‘pull back’ mean?” I took a bite of the morning bun. The yeast roll was springy and light. The caramel sauce and toasted walnuts gave it a gooey sweetness with a nutty finish. It paired perfectly with the dark French roast.

  “Doug says that he’s ready to retire, and I know that cases like this are becoming harder and harder for him. But I also think he might—no—he will—go stir-crazy being at home full time. Plus, we’re spring chickens. Just because he can retire doesn’t mean that he should. I think finding a balance is going to be the key for him. I suggested scaling back to two or three days a week. Ease into it. I know that working sixty-hour-plus weeks are wearing on him, but at the same time I think suddenly being at home twenty-four seven isn’t the solution. Doug is a brilliant man, he’s connected to the community, his mind thrives on puzzling through investigations. We’re going to have to figure out a plan.” Mom stretched her hands. She had developed mild arthritis from years and years of heavy lifting and kneading dough. Her doctor and physical therapist had suggested a stretching routine along with gentle yoga, walking, and water aerobics. It seemed to be working. However, she had a history of being less than forthcoming about her level of pain. I knew she didn’t want me to worry about her. Our roles had slowly shifted over the last few years.

  I felt the same way about her as she did about the Professor. I wanted her to take more time for herself and yet I knew that Torte was her happy place too.

  “That’s smart. Balance is a good goal.” I stacked applewood in the pizza oven and started a fire.

  “Thomas pulled me aside the other day and asked me to try and convince Doug to stick around in some capacity, even if it’s consulting. He’s worried that he and Kerry aren’t ready to take over, but I tried to tell him no one is ever ready. We just have to dive into the deep end and start treading water sometimes.”

  “True.” I thought back to my first days on the ship. Despite having graduated from culinary school, I had felt like I was diving into unknown waters when I had been thrown into the commercial kitchen, especially a large pastry kitchen at sea. I remember inching into the kitchen with my head half-down, and whispering my name to the head pastry chef, who immediately told me to square my shoulders, speak clearly, and hold on for dear life.

  It had been good advice both literally and figuratively. Half the battle of working on a luxury cruise ship had been learning how to find a solid grip when the ship listed or we hit choppy seas. The other half had been learning how to trust my instincts when it came to baking. Pastry school may have taught me how to roll out layer after layer of buttery puff pastry dough or how to whip a light-as-air French chocolate soufflé, but the vast majority of my culinary skills had been honed from years of practice, fails and all.

  “He might not know it yet, but Thomas is ready, so is Kerry. Doug has trained them well, whether they realized that or not. But most importantly they both care about our community. You can’t ask for more than that—and as Doug says, you can’t teach that. That piece of policing comes from the heart.”

  As Mom spoke a thought hit me that I had never considered before. “Who will take the lead?”

  “What do you mean?” She chopped walnuts into fine pieces.

  “Between Thomas and Kerry. One of them will take over the Professor’s role at some point. I never thought about it, but I wonder if that could put a strain on their relationship?”

  Mom considered my words
. “I’m sure that Doug has accounted for that, and I think that when the time comes he’ll work something out.”

  “I’m sure he will.” I hadn’t considered competing for a job with my husband. Fortunately Carlos and I had always managed different kitchens. We collaborated well together, but I never had to worry about him critiquing my technique for folding egg whites into a flourless chocolate almond cake or going after the same job. The pastry kitchen and the main kitchen were completely separate on the ship. We had our own staff, different hours, and unique challenges. Often we would sneak away for a late-night cocktail on the upper deck and swap stories about a sous chef who didn’t realize that a fish skin must be dried before it goes into the sauté pan in order to achieve a beautiful crispiness, or a baker who had to be taught to crack eggs on the flat edge of the counter instead of on the rim of a bowl, where the eggs were more likely to break unevenly and end up in the bowl. However, we never had to answer to each other or provide anything other than support.

  The thought gave me new appreciation for Thomas and Kerry’s situation.

  Andy arrived as I finished the last few bites of my sticky bun. “Good morning, Mrs. The Professor.” He appeared to be in brighter spirits as he gave Mom a salute, and then turned to me. “Boss.”

  “Morning,” Mom replied. “How are you feeling after the craziness of yesterday? I still can’t get over how harsh the judging was. I told Juliet I was expecting the coffee version of the Great British Baking Show.”

  “Ha! I wish.” Andy took off his baseball cap. “Sammy told me she wanted to murder Benson, and honestly I can’t blame her. I had heard that he was arrogant, but I never expected anything like what happened yesterday.”

  Mom frowned. “Andy, you haven’t seen Doug yet this morning, have you?”

  “No why?” His eyes were lighter than they had been yesterday, but they were still puffy. “Is the police station even open yet?”

  “No, but Doug is there. I’m guessing that means that you haven’t heard the news?” Mom sounded concerned.