Mocha, She Wrote

by Ellie Alexander

  “You probably know more about this than I do, but apparently there are huge costs with trying to scale up a brand, even if it’s just a regional expansion.”

  “Absolutely.” I gave him a brief history on what I had learned about the process in culinary school. There were dozens of factors to consider, including the cost of leasing property, building out sites, supplies, staffing, and marketing—just to cover the basics.

  Andy stirred his latte with his paper straw. “So, if it’s true, Sammy would have needed a lot of cash and financial backers, right?”

  “Unless she’s independently wealthy, yeah.”

  He plunged a straw into his coffee. “Here’s where it gets interesting. According to what I heard, Benson was one of her backers. He was planning to invest in the chain. Her vision is not only an expansion of Fluid coffees shops throughout Washington, Oregon, and California, but also a bunch of drive-through locations. That’s just the start. After she establishes her dominance on the West Coast, she wants to go nationwide and then even international. I guess she tells people that she’s going to be the new Starbucks, only way better. She hates corporate coffee and wants Fluid to make artisan drinks mainstream.”

  The drive-through coffee market had mushroomed in the last ten years. It was nearly impossible to go to any small town and not have multiple choices for coffee-on-the-go options. In Ashland alone we had five exclusive drive-through shops. It was a risky market. Yes, rents tended to be lower, but the competition was fierce and sales were dependent on variables like proximity to freeways. Mom and I had been approached a while ago about taking the Torte brand regional with a collection of drive-through shops. That was another proposal we declined.

  One glaring issue with Sammy’s expansion plan was that artisan coffee, like what we served at Torte, was meant to be served slow. Drive-through coffee chains had their place in the market. I had frequented many of them on road trips to the coast or wine country, but their model was to produce consistent coffee products quickly and efficiently. Drive-through coffee shops relied on volume, not customers staying to savor a complex cup of a custom roast or lingering for lunch. I wondered how Sammy intended to scale Fluid, given her voraciousness about her intentional, studied approach to coffee.

  “Sammy doesn’t solely want to be the Barista Cup champion. She wants Fluid to be a household name. From what I heard, she doesn’t care about who she takes down in the process. There are more rumors about her circling some mom-and-pop shops that are struggling, like a vulture, waiting for them to go under and then swooping in and devouring the carcass.”

  “That’s a graphic analogy.” I drank a long sip of coffee trying to get the image of vulture tearing up its prey out of my head.

  “Sorry.” Andy’s cheeks tinged pink. “I guess that is kind of dramatic. The point is that Sammy is cutthroat and ruthless—if the rumors are true.”

  “Where did you hear these rumors?”

  “You won’t believe it—James.”

  “James?” I sat up straighter. “How would James know?”

  Andy shrugged. “He didn’t say.”

  Why would James tell all of this to Andy? Something seemed off.

  I tabled that thought for the moment and moved on to the next thing that was bugging me. “I don’t understand though. If Benson was planning to invest in Sammy’s shops, that wouldn’t give her motive to kill him. In fact, that would be the opposite. She would want him alive if she needed his cash.”

  Andy’s lips thinned. “Right? You would think, but here’s the kicker. Apparently, they had a big blowup and Benson told her that he was pulling all of his funding. According to James, that happened the night before Benson was killed. He overheard the whole thing. Sammy and Benson were on the pool deck, and when Benson told her he was withdrawing his offer, Sammy told him that he would never get away with it and that he had better watch his back.”

  If Andy was right and if James was telling the truth, that changed everything. Suddenly, Sammy had a very viable motive for murder. Not only that, but she had a weapon too. She had admitted yesterday that her anti-anxiety medication was missing. Was it really missing or had she used it to spike Benson’s drink?

  Chapter Twenty

  Andy watched my reaction. “Right? That’s crazy isn’t it? I mean if Sammy thought she was going to get a huge financial investment from Benson for Fluid’s expansion and then learned that he wanted out, that’s motive for killing him, don’t you think?”

  “That’s exactly what I was thinking.” I took another drink of the milky latte. “What I don’t understand is why James told you all of this information. Why wouldn’t he have gone to the police?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t think about that.” Andy thought for a minute. “He and I were going over the plan for today when Sammy stormed out for some reason and he said, ‘Don’t mind her, she’s upset about something else’ then he proceeded to tell me everything I just told you. I guess at the time it seemed kind of off the cuff, like he was trying to explain her behavior, but now that I think about it, it is weird.”

  “You should really call the Professor.” I glanced at the clock. It was after six now. Even if it wasn’t, Andy had critical information to share.

  “Okay.” He stood.

  “Do you need his number?”

  “No, I’ve got it.” He reached for his phone. His case was plastered with ski stickers.

  I returned to the kitchen. Sammy wanting to expand her coffee empire and Benson investing in it was a huge piece of information. The question that kept pounding on my head was why James had shared this news with Andy. It didn’t make sense. Unless he was lying, maybe trying to push suspicion onto someone else?

  I wondered if there was any way I could learn whether Sammy really was planning a West Coast rollout for Fluid. Could she be trying to inflate her sense of worth in the coffee industry to intimidate her fellow competitors?

  I also wanted to find some time to see if I could read through some of Benson’s old reviews in the Seattle Times. I wasn’t sure whether James’s information was trustworthy, but it certainly gave me more incentive to find time to get him alone at some point today.

  The rest of the team arrived shortly after my discussion with Andy. The kitchen hummed to life. I found myself busy running trays of pastries upstairs and making sure we were ready to open the front doors by seven. When the time came to flip the sign from Closed to Open, there was already a small line of customers eager for affagatos and flaky cherry almond croissants. I worked the counter with Rosa. At least once or twice a week I opted to spend a few hours upstairs in the dining room. It was an important way to stay connected with our loyal clientele and welcome tourists. When my parents had started Torte, they had made it their mission to create a space where anyone who walked through the front door was treated like family. If I succeeded in no other way, I was committed to carrying on that part of their legacy.

  Selfishly, I enjoyed watching people ogle over our mint chocolate macarons or salted caramel tarts. It was such a delight to see kids press their faces close to the glass for a better peek at fluffy marshmallow cloud cupcakes, raspberry bars, and vanilla sugar cookies with rainbow sprinkles. It never got old to observe a customer taking their first sip of our cold brew or soak in the aroma of our spicy chai latte.

  Sometime after nine, I spotted a familiar face in the dining room—Lance.

  “You are here early,” I noted, greeting him with a kiss on the cheek.

  Lance was a night owl. We had opposite schedules. I rose before the sun to bake, whereas he greeted audiences at the evening show and lingered for cast parties long into the early hours of the morning.

  “Don’t remind me.” He massaged his temples and sighed. “The things I do for you. The sacrifices I make. I gave up two hours of beauty sleep for our coffee date.”

  “We don’t have a coffee date.”

  He tilted his head to one side. “I beg to differ. I’m here. You’re here. In a coffee s
hop. I smell coffee. I see coffee. I need coffee.”

  I chuckled. “Oh, Lance, what would I do without you?”

  “Perish the thought.” He looped his arm through mine and dragged me to the espresso bar.

  We ordered coffees and took them to a booth by the front windows.

  “Okay, dish.” Lance leaned closer. “I know you were trying to downplay your involvement for the sake of Carlos, but it’s just the two of us. Time to come clean. Confess. What else do you know?”

  “Not that much,” I replied.

  Lance pursed his lips together. “Please. It’s me. I can read every muscle in your face. You know something, and you know that we make a perfect team when it comes to sleuthing out whodunit. You need me.”

  I wasn’t sure if I needed him, but it was nice to have someone to toss ideas off of, and I could count on Lance to listen to any theory—regardless of how far-fetched it might be.

  “I did hear a new piece of information from Andy this morning that may or may not be connected to Benson’s death.”

  “I knew it.” Lance snapped. “Continue.”

  “Andy told me that Benson and Sammy were going into business together. They were planning to expand her coffee shops throughout the West Coast, but apparently Benson pulled out of the deal right before he was killed.”

  Lance let out a low whistle. “Color me intrigued. Now that sounds like motive for murder if I’ve ever heard it.”

  “Maybe, but it’s just a rumor.” I told him about Sammy’s claim that her anxiety medication was missing and how James had been the one to relay everything to Andy.

  “Hmmm. That leaves us with two possibilities. James is lying or Sammy is a murderess.”

  “I’m not sure it’s that simple.”

  Lance scoffed. “Don’t get caught up in details. We have to interrogate both of them.”

  This was exactly the reaction I had expected from Lance. There was no arguing that he loved to bring a touch of dramatics to any conversation. “The Professor, Thomas, and Kerry might frown on us ‘interrogating’ them, but I do agree that I’d like to find a way to talk with them. I think I have a good excuse with James. I made reservations for a staff party tonight. I could go to The Hills under the guise of wanting to talk about dinner.”

  “Wait.” Lance held up his index finger. “I don’t recall receiving an invite to this bash. I’m hurt, darling. Hurt.”

  “You want to come to our staff party?”

  “No.” He rolled his eyes. “I want to be invited, though.”

  “Consider this your invitation.”

  He pressed his palms together. “Thank you. I just may take you up on the offer after all. Now, back to our investigation. You go scurry off and see what you can glean from James.” He was about to say more, but he stopped and gasped. “Ah, fate!”

  “What?”

  “Look.” He pointed out the window across the plaza by the Lithia bubblers. “Speak of the devil.”

  Sammy sat at a bench near the famed fountains. She had a sketch book and set of pencils with her.

  “That’s my cue.” Lance brushed his hands together and got up.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m simply going to gush over her performance at the competition and dazzle her with my winning personality.” He tapped his wrist. “Shall we reconvene at The Hills? Say thirty minutes before the espresso starts to fly?”

  He didn’t give me a chance to reply before blowing a kiss and dashing out the front door.

  I went downstairs to check on progress in the kitchen. Steph was using a palette knife to paint bright red, yellow, and orange buttercream in messy streaks on a cake.

  “Ohhhh, I’m loving that,” I said kneeling to get a look at the artistic cake from another angle.

  “Embrace the mess.” Steph slapped more buttercream on. “It’s been one of our most requested cakes this summer. Everyone wants a painted cake for their barbecues and birthday parties.”

  The sweeping brushstrokes of buttercream gave the cake the feel of a textured oil painting. If I didn’t know that there were luscious layers of our white almond pound cake beneath the colorful frosting, I could have been convinced that Steph’s painted cake was actually canvas.

  “I don’t blame them.” I turned to Bethany, who was working at the station next to Steph. One of the upgrades we’d made during the basement renovation was to install dedicated decorating stations. The intricate task of hand-pipping ten dozen cookies or a showpiece wedding cake required good counter space, access to tools like our ever-expanding sprinkle collection and flat spatulas in every size possible, and great lighting. Lighting was essential. We had installed track lighting as well as magnifying spotlights on swiveling arms that could be moved in any direction so our cake designers didn’t have to squint to see what they were doing when it came to the fine details.

  Bethany worked on a two-tone gray and navy tiered terrazzo cake. The design was also on trend for the summer. It gave the cake a dramatic effect of resembling wall or floor tiles, made with colored fondant, flecks of gold, and sugar paste.

  Marty and Sterling were leafing through cookbooks while watching butter sizzling on the stove.

  “Marty, can you keep an eye on things? I’m going to run over and finalize our dinner at The Hills. Remember, we’re going to close early this afternoon. I’ve posted signs on the front door and at the counter, and Bethany shared on social media.”

  “No problem.” He tucked a pencil behind his ear. “Carlos called to tell us about the dinner. We’ve got some ideas, don’t we, Sterling?”

  Sterling nodded. “Yeah, but don’t tell her yet.”

  “Never.” Marty grinned. “A chef never tells his secrets.”

  I shielded my eyes with my hand. “I promise I won’t look.” I walked over to the decorating station and filled Bethany and Steph in our vineyard dinner plans. “Can you two put your creative brains to work on decorations; and Steph, I was hoping maybe you could design some fliers to post at the winery and upstairs?”

  They were already chatting about possibilities when I left for The Hills. I wasn’t sure if James would be available to talk with me, but I had to give it a shot. I didn’t want to get my hopes up, but it felt like we were starting to close in on Benson’s killer.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The Hills lobby was still set up for the Barista Cup when I arrived. Vendor tables lined both sides of the spacious mid-century room with its angled ceiling and exposed beams. I walked to the reception desk and asked if James was available.

  “Do you have an appointment?” the young woman behind the welcome desk asked. A massive peace sign made from ferns and foliage hung behind her.

  “No. I’m Jules with Torte. We’re having a staff dinner here tonight after the competition and I happened to be on this side of town and thought I might be able to get a few minutes with James to chat about menu options and pre-pay.”

  “Let me check.” She made a phone call. “He said to give him five minutes. He’s in the ballroom. He’ll meet you in his office. Do you know where it is?”

  “No.”

  “Right down that hallway.” She pointed in the opposite direction of the ballroom. “Second door on the left.”

  “Thanks.” I walked through the hotel until I found the door that read CATERING AND SPECIAL EVENTS. It was partway open, so I went inside.

  James’s office was tidy. His desk had a variety of plastic organizers with brochures for weddings and events, menus, and pricing sheets. A variety of magazine articles about The Hills had been framed and hung on the walls. I read one of the features from Sunset that touted James’s skills as a chef. The article raved about Ashland, as well as the hotel’s modern design, stunning views, and world-class food. I was about to take a seat when the tag line under a photo of James wearing his chef coat, caught my eye. “Former Seattle barista trades coffee culture for hotel couture.”

  James had been a barista in Seattle? That couldn’t
be a coincidence.

  “Hey, sorry to keep you waiting.” James came into his office.

  I startled and moved away from the article. “No problem. I had some errands on this side of town, so thought it might be easier to chat about tonight’s dinner before things get busy with the competition.”

  “Sure. Have a seat.” He walked around his desk.

  I took a seat across from him. The article from Sunset was my perfect entry. “I didn’t realize you were a barista in Seattle.” I pointed to the framed magazine.

  “Huh? Oh yeah. That was a lifetime ago.”

  “How did you make the switch from coffee to catering?”

  Was it my imagination or was James starting to sweat?

  He ran his wrist along his forehead. “I wasn’t a barista for long. After I left the coffee shop I’d been working at in Seattle, I got a job as a line cook for a hotel and, you know how the story goes—I worked my way up until I was the assistant catering director.”

  That was impressive. Most catering directors I knew had gone through culinary school.

  “Catering is a better match for me. Too many angry customers in the coffee world, if you ask me. I think it’s because people are crabby until they get their caffeine fix.”

  I wasn’t sure that I shared his sentiment. Yes, we had a few outliers at Torte. A handful of customers who had no interest in making small talk while they waited for their drinks, but they were the exception. The vast majority of our clientele was friendly and engaging.

  James reached for an order form and changed the subject. “I have tables reserved for you on the patio starting at eight tonight, although we can adjust earlier or later if the competition goes longer.”

  “That’s great. My staff is coming to cheer Andy on, so we’ll all be here.”

  “What else did you want to discuss?” James asked.

  “I wondered about menu options. Is it better to have everyone order off the standard menu or do you prefer to have a limited offering for bigger parties?”