“Please,” he begged, and batted his lashes. “For your best friend?”
“I don’t know.” I hesitated.
“Look, I didn’t want it to have to come to this, but you do owe me. I saved your life, remember? If it hadn’t been for my superb acting you might be floating at the bottom of the ocean or dead in a ditch. The least you can do to repay me is whip up a culinary masterpiece.”
“Fine.” I knew it was probably easier to just agree. Lance wasn’t used to hearing no, and this conversation could go on for hours.
“You’ll do it? Excellent.” Lance leaped to his feet. “I’ll return later with my set designer. I’ll want to coordinate the color scheme, and I have some original recipes from the 1500s that you can use.”
Before I could caution him that translating a four-hundred-year-old recipe wasn’t my expertise, he kissed both my cheeks. “Ta-ta, darling. Don’t forget to cut yourself a slice of Grandma J’s pie.”
He wrapped his scarf around his neck and practically skipped to the door. Mom came in as he was leaving.
“Lance, how lovely to see you,” Mom said while he held the door open for her.
“Dearest Helen, how lovely to see you. Ashland was positively bleak without your presence.” He kissed both of her cheeks. “You are absolutely aglow with the blush of love. I’ve heard the news and I assure you I’m at your service. Anything you need. Anything, you let me know.”
“Thanks.” Mom gave him a hug in return.
Lance clapped his hands together. “Now, let me see the ring.”
Mom raised her left hand to show Lance her antique platinum engagement ring.
“Stunning. Not that I would expect anything less from our resident bard.” Lance kissed her hand. “I must be off. I have a party to plan. Juliet will fill you on all the gory details. Ta-ta!”
He had certainly perked up since the start of our conversation, but I was still worried about him.
“I’m trying to remember if I’ve ever seen Lance here this early,” Mom said, walking over to greet me.
I motioned for her to sit. Lance was right. There was a lightness about her that I hadn’t seen for years. Her brown eyes were bright and filled with eagerness. When she caught my eye her expression changed.
“What’s wrong, honey?” she asked, taking off her pale green jacket and placing it on the back of the booth.
“It’s Lance. He’s acting unstable.” I filled her in on our conversation and about how I had just agreed to cater a dessert buffet for his party. “He breezed in with a pie from Medford, demanding that I taste it.” I pointed to the untouched pie box. “Then he completely shifted gears and launched into a rant about his leading man and how the board is trying to usurp his power.”
When I finished, she glanced behind her to the plaza. Ashland was beginning to wake up. Storefront lights had been turned on, sidewalk seating and sandwich boards had been placed outside, and shop owners chatted with one another. “I’ve been wondering about this,” Mom said, returning her attention to me. “Lance has been at the helm of OSF for over a decade, and he’s taken that responsibility seriously. He lives and breathes the theater. I wonder if he needs a break? He’s good at putting on a happy face, but I suspect that the stress and pressure of managing so many personalities, as well as the board, volunteers, and patrons, has to have taken its toll. Can you imagine constantly having to be ‘on’?”
“No.” I shook my head. Mom raised a valid point. I knew that Lance loved the theater, but maybe it was too much of a good thing. I thought about how even being away from Ashland for a week had given me new insight and perspective. When Lance came back with his set design and ancient menus I was going to suggest that he take a break. A little rest and relaxation was hopefully just the thing my friend needed.
Chapter Three
“What are you doing here, Mrs. C.?” Andy asked when Mom and I brought the pie box to the kitchen.
“Some welcome.” Mom winked at him.
Andy’s boyish cheeks flamed. “I didn’t mean it like that. I thought you were taking a break and doing wedding stuff.”
Mom’s wide smile spread to her eyes. “I am doing wedding stuff, but that doesn’t mean you’re going to be entirely rid of me. I have some time between appointments this morning and thought I would come by and get my hands sticky for a while.”
“Cool.”
“You want a slice of pie?” I asked.
He shifted his eyes from side to side. “Boss, come on, you had me at pie.”
“Don’t you want to know what kind it is?”
“If it’s pie, I’ll eat it.” Andy flexed his muscles. “Coach wants me to add some weight for next season.”
“You’re perfect, just as you are,” Mom assured Andy. “Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”
I brought the pie box into the kitchen and grabbed plates, forks, a knife, and a server. “Anyone else want to try Lance’s pie?” I asked the team.
Sterling stopped peeling eggs for the egg salad he was making. His cobalt-blue eyes widened. “Lance bakes?”
“No.” I pointed to the logo on top of the box. “It’s from a shop in Medford.”
Bethany had arranged cupcakes, each frosted with a different color of buttercream, in the shape of a rainbow. “Is that from Grandma J’s? I love that place!” She twisted the legs of a miniature tripod that she would use to take photos of her rainbow art. “My dad always gets a pie from Grandma J’s for his birthday.”
“Weird, I’ve never heard of it and I’ve lived in Ashland nearly my whole life.” I removed the pie from the box.
“You kind of have to go looking for it. It’s on the far end of town, on the way up to the mountains,” Bethany replied.
Sterling held his arm next to the box. “Get a shot of this, Bethany. Hummingbirds unite.” The tattoo on his forearm mirrored the bird logo.
I sliced through the snowy mounds of whipped cream and cut into a flaky crust. The first piece slid out of the tin in one fluid motion. That was the sign of a well-crafted pie. After cutting generous helpings for my staff, I put Grandma J’s pie to the fork test. It passed with flying colors. My fork stood straight as a statue in the custard pie.
“This is amazing,” Bethany said through a mouthful. “Can I have that piece for a sec?” She framed Sterling’s tattoo, the logo, and my slice; then stepped back to assess the angle. Satisfied with her layout, she lined her phone up even with the island and knelt to take a few shots. Her ability to construct a scene in a photo impressed me.
Stephanie hung on the opposite side of the kitchen. “You want a piece?” I asked. She shook her head and returned to packaging cooled bread in paper bags.
“I doubt that Grandma J’s has any social media,” Bethany said, handing me back my slice of pie. “If you’re cool with it, I’ll do a post about them. Maybe something funny like ‘the team at Torte dies for pie’!”
Mom chuckled. “You guys are so clever.”
“Don’t worry, Mrs. C.,” Andy called from the bar. “If you ask, I’m sure Bethany will hook you up with wedding hashtags.”
Bethany’s head bobbed in agreement.
“Maybe,” Mom said with a subtle wink to me.
I tasted the coconut cream pie. Each layer offered a different texture. The light-as-air whipped cream blended with the crunchy coconut, and the smooth custard with hints of vanilla bean mingled with the buttery, flaky crust. “This is divine.”
“It’s really good,” Sterling agreed. He finished his piece and returned to his egg salad station.
Grandma J’s pie inspired me. When I had a free moment, I wanted to tweak her coconut concoction slightly by adding a layer of strawberry puree and fresh strawberries marinated in a simple syrup. In the meantime, I checked on the dining room and helped prep for the lunch rush. The morning flew by as Andy cranked out aromatic coffees and we churned out cakes and giant cookies.
As promised Lance returned after lunch with an entourage. He hollered at me from
the other side of the pastry case. “Oh Juliet!” Lance snapped his fingers together and shifted the attaché case under his arm. “We need you.” A trim balding man in his early forties and a woman with short red hair and huge orange glasses stood next to him.
Sterling snickered. “They need you, Jules.”
“Great.” I untied my apron and reached for a stack of cooling cowboy cookies with huge chunks of milk and dark chocolate, pecans, and coconut. “Wish me luck.”
“You need it,” Stephanie said, not bothering to look up from the meringue she was whipping.
I scooted through the busy dining room and joined Lance and his friends at the only open window booth. He had opened the leather case and was arranging elaborate sketches and recipes written in old scroll on the table.
“Sit, sit,” he commanded.
I slid in next to the balding man, who wore thick jeans with a tool belt that stretched over both shoulders and around his waist like a suspension harness. Screwdrivers, hammers, carpenters’ pencils, chisels, and a tape measure hung from two reinforced leather pouches. “Thad, set designer.” He extended his hand.
“Nice to meet you.” I returned his handshake and recoiled slightly at the smell of his garlicy breath.
“Right, right. Jules, Thad. Thad, Jules,” Lance said, brushing his hand over the sketches. “These are Thad’s designs. He’s simply the best.”
Thad cleared his throat. “And I’ve told you that the best is going to cost you, Lance. A week is an impossible deadline. My crew is focused on last-minute set tweaks for the season. The board is not going to like it if I have to pull them off to work on this. It can’t be done. There’s not enough time.”
Lance slammed his hand on the table. “It has to be done. I don’t care what it costs, just do it.” Like earlier, he seemed to realize that his outburst was unwelcome. He smoothed one of the recipes and plastered on a serene smile. “What I mean is that as the personal benefactor of this event I assure you that every expense you incur will be generously compensated. If you have to pay your teams double or triple to get the job done, so be it.”
Thad shook his head and looked to the woman sitting across from me for support. I’d seen her before, but didn’t know her name.
“Boys, let’s all calm down.” She smiled at me. “I’m Vera MacBohn, by the way.”
“You look familiar to me,” I replied.
“I’ve been with OSF forever. You’ve probably seen me around.”
“Enough,” Lance interrupted. “We’re not here to chitchat. We are here to plan the most jaw-dropping soiree that Ashland has ever seen.”
Thad let out an audible sigh. “Lance, this is ridiculous.” He adjusted one of the screwdrivers in his tool belt.
Vera gave him a look to tell him to stop from across the table.
In an attempt to break the tension, I offered everyone a cowboy cookie. “Cookie?”
Lance scoffed. “Jules, this is no time for cookies.”
Thad snatched three from the plate. “I disagree.”
Vera smiled but declined with a curt shake of her head. “If you can believe it, I don’t enjoy sweets.”
“Really?”
“It’s true. With one exception. Carrot cake. I have been known to devour an entire cake, especially Torte’s carrot cake. You make the most exceptional cream cheese frosting with fresh candied ginger. I love it because it isn’t overly sweet.” Her eyes drifted off. “My husband thinks that the reason I like carrot cake is because I’m ginger.” She ran her fingers through her short tangerine hair.
Lance threw his hands up in disgust. “Enough. Focus, people. Focus.” He picked up photocopied recipes and forced them at me. “Study these. I want everything for the party to be completely authentic. Clotted cream, trifle, pudding, tarts, and royal marchpanes. Understood?”
I started to reply, but he didn’t let me finish. “You must coordinate the dessert color scheme with Vera’s costumes and the sets.” He turned his attention to Vera. “Did you bring the swatches?”
She gave me an apologetic look and then reached into a leopard-print bag. “I did.” Then she placed gorgeous swatches of silk, organza, and taffeta in eggplant, navy, gold, silver, and cream next to Thad’s sketches.
“You want us to match the desserts to these?” I asked Lance. I had to agree with Thad—Lance’s request was over the top.
“Yes, of course, darling.” Lance tore off his tie.
“Gold? Silver? I mean we could use edible gold dust and silver pearls, but I’m not sure how we would tie that in with these recipes.” I studied the papers he handed me. “I’ve never even heard of a royal marchpane.”
“You’ll figure it out. I have complete faith in you. Keep the sketches and the swatches. I’ll be here at three P.M. sharp tomorrow for a tasting.” Lance picked up his case and waited for Vera to exit the booth.
“Mind if I have another?” Thad asked, pointing to the cookies. “These are great.” His breath now had a chocolaty garlic scent. I wanted to offer him a breath mint, but instead told him to help himself and moved out of his way.
Lance blew me a kiss and arched his shoulders. “Spare no expense and tell your staff there’s a hefty tip waiting for them at the end of this fete.” With that he strolled to the door.
Vera patted my wrist. “Don’t worry. You know how he gets. Hopefully, he’ll come to his senses and rethink this party.”
“I wouldn’t count on it,” Thad interjected, stuffing two cookies into the left pouch in his tool belt. “The man is on a mission and he’s not going to stop until one of us kills him.” He pushed past us to catch up with Lance.
Vera scratched her short red hair. She only stood five feet and barely came to my shoulder, yet she had a commanding presence. “I have to confess that Thad might be right.” She pulled her glasses to the tip of her nose and shot Lance a look of concern. “To tell you the truth, I’m not sure what to think. I’ve worked with Lance for a long time and I’ve never seen him like this. It’s been a weird start to the season. The entire company is out of sorts.”
“Me, too.” I was glad that Vera recognized that Lance wasn’t himself. “He seems to think that the board is conspiring against him.”
Vera’s brow shot up. “What?”
“That’s what he told me earlier. That the board is trying to force him out.”
A strange look flashed across Vera’s face. “No. Certainly not. That’s ludicrous. The board adores Lance. Are you sure you didn’t misunderstand him?”
“Positive.”
“Hmm. I’ll talk to him.” She pressed her glasses back onto the bridge of her nose. “In the meantime, please tell me if you put your carrot cake back on the menu.”
“I will. In fact, consider it done. I’ll bake some while I try to figure out how to re-create a dessert menu from the sixteenth century.”
“Good luck.” She looped her bag around her shoulder and left.
“How did it go?” Mom asked while I started picking up Lance’s master party plans from the table.
I showed her the sketches, fabric, and recipes. “He wants us to coordinate an authentic Shakespearean dessert buffet that matches these.”
“What?” Mom laughed aloud. “He can’t be serious.” She must have seen the dismal look on my face because she stopped laughing and asked, “Oh, he is serious?”
“Yeah.” I nodded and pointed at one of Thad’s sketches. It was labeled “Guest entrance” and showed a massive gold spiraling staircase that twisted up to a balcony and then back down the other side where huge marble arches would welcome everyone into the space. The pencil drawings were lush with greenery, candles, garlands of flowers, and handcrafted furniture. “This is just the first of ten designs.”
“How can he afford it?” Mom thumbed through the pencil drawings. “Some of these sets are twice the size and scale of shows at OSF.”
“I know.” I picked up a recipe for fig tarts. “And to color-coordinate food and costumes.”
&n
bsp; “Why costumes?” Mom ran her hand over a piece of ivory silk. Her skin was still tan from a week in the Caribbean.
“Apparently, he’s planning to outfit the waitstaff in period costumes, and the invitations state that costumes are required.”
“Hmm.” Her lips turned down. “It’s almost like he’s delusional. Not that I would ever want to say that about a friend. You know how much I care about Lance, but this is worrisome.”
“Yeah.” I held up a recipe. “Do you know what royal marchpanes are?”
At the same moment, someone approached the booth. “Did someone say marchpanes?”
We turned to see the Professor, Mom’s paramour and Ashland’s resident detective standing in front of us. He wore his signature tweed jacket and a pair of loafers.
“Doug.” Mom’s voice was full of delight as she patted the spot next to her. “I wasn’t expecting to see you this afternoon. I thought you were in Medford?”
He slid in next to her and gave her a light kiss on the lips. They made a handsome couple. The Professor had a reddish beard that was streaked with gray and matching hair. His thoughtful and intelligent eyes held an inquisitive kindness. Mom’s walnut hair was cut in a shoulder-length bob; she tucked it behind her ears and stared up at the Professor. “Indeed, I did make a stop in Medford today, but my business wrapped up early so I thought I would pop by and say hello. What’s this about marchpanes?”
“What are they?” I asked.
His lips formed a knowing smile. In addition to being in charge of Ashland’s small police department, the Professor was also the town’s go-to source for all things Shakespeare. He had studied the classics and dabbled in community theater. The man was a walking encyclopedia of the Bard, as he would say. “Royal marchpanes were a most favored delicacy in the Bard’s time. We, however, refer to it as marzipan today.”
“Oh.” I grinned at Mom. “We can handle that.”
“With our eyes closed,” Mom bantered back.
“Why, pray tell, do you need to handle marchpanes?” The Professor smoothed his tweed jacket.
“Lance, who else.” Mom filled him in on Lance’s extravagant party plans.
Another One Bites the Crust Page 3