Trouble Is Brewing--A Bakeshop Mini-Mystery

by Ellie Alexander

  “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 chocolatey 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 of 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 at 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.”

  “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 wait staff 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 hair to match. 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.

  When she finished, the Professor sighed and strummed his fingers on his beard. “This is out of character, don’t you agree?”

  We both nodded.

  “Perhaps I should stop by the theater and have a talk with him. As fate would have it, I need to have a conversation with him about another matter.”

  “Would you?” Mom looked relieved.

  “Of course, but only if I get the first taste of your royal marchpanes.” He winked at me.

  “We can probably arrange that, don’t you think, Juliet?” Mom asked me.

  “You bet.” I gave the Professor a thumbs-up. “Hey, speaking of Medford, Lance said he was there earlier too.”

  The Professor’s face clouded. “Indeed.” He strummed his fingers on his chin and stared outside for a moment. “I might suggest that you follow the old adage of ‘letting sleeping dogs lie’ when it comes to Lance for the moment.”

  His reaction surprised me. Then again, given Lance’s erratic behavior maybe it would be better to let the Professor, who exuded a natural calmness, try to talk Lance off the ledge.

  I agreed and excused myself. I figured they might want some privacy, and I needed to get back to the kitchen. If Lance ended up going through with his party for the ages, then I had some long nights ahead of me. I did love a challenge when it came to baking. Re-creating an Elizabethan menu wasn’t going to be easy, but after seeing how intense Lance had been with Thad and Vera I was resolved to help him however I could. Even if it meant whipping up a batch of (shudder) black pudding or one of the many other authentic desserts on his approved list.

  Chapter Four

  “Is anyone up for late-night baking?” I asked the team after Mom and the Professor left and we closed the shop for the afternoon. “There’s extra cash in the deal.” I explained that I was willing to pay double time and had promised tips.

  “Count me in,” Bethany said. “I’m saving up for a new camera and professional studio lights.”

  Stephanie shrugged. “I guess I am too. It’s not like I’m going to get any sleep anyway.”

  “Are you sure?” I didn’t want her to overextend herself.

  “Yeah, I’m cool.”


  Andy took off his apron. “Wish I could, but I have a hot date, boss.”

  Sterling looked injured. “You do?”

  “Gotcha!” Andy flipped his baseball cap forward. “I’m taking my grandma to dinner.”

  “That’s sweet,” I said, noticing a brief glimmer of relief on Bethany’s face. Could it be that we had not one, but two, budding bakeshop romances?

  “Catch you guys, tomorrow.” Andy waved and left.

  “Sterling, what about you? You want to join us for some Renaissance baking?” I asked.

  He glanced in Stephanie’s direction. “Nah, I’ll let you guys have a girls’ night. I’ve got some stuff to do.”

  “I guess it’s us, then,” I said to Bethany and Steph.

  “Do you think you could teach us how to make macarons tonight too?” Bethany asked as Sterling ducked out.

  “Great idea.” I waved to Sterling. “I’ll order Thai food and we can blast some . . .” I trailed off. Stephanie shot daggers at me. “No, I take that back. No music. Just delicious food and some serious sixteenth-century baking.”

  We cleared the island and started by reviewing each recipe. I was surprised to find it was much more enjoyable than I had imagined—many of the recipes weren’t radically different than today’s. Not that I intended to admit that to Lance. Bethany found some videos online of one of Stephanie’s favorite British chefs, who specialized in demonstrating traditional methods. We chowed down bowls of spicy yellow curry and Pad Thai, as we watched the chef meticulously tackle the task of constructing marzipan castles and turrets.

  “That looks pretty cool,” Stephanie said when the video ended. She twisted a strand of her purple hair. “I kind of want to give it a shot.”

  “Consider it yours,” I said, wiping my curry bowl clean with a slice of bread. “What about you, Bethany, do any of these recipes look appealing to you?”

  She picked up a recipe for an old English pudding, which was usually made in a mold and more like what we thought of as bread pudding. “You know me. Fine detail isn’t my skill set. I’m much better at baking or taking pics. I could try one of these puddings.”

  “Sounds good. Let’s divide and conquer. I’ll work on a fruit trifle.”

  We worked in an easy rhythm. I checked their progress and offered suggestions about ratios and potential proportion sizes. If the entire company did attend Lance’s party, then we were going to have to size each recipe accordingly. Collaborating with them was seamless. Bethany documented our progress on her phone throughout the night. Stephanie concentrated on her work and drank cup after cup of coffee.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to call it a night?” I asked, pointing to the clock on the far wall. “It’s after eight.”

  Stephanie rubbed her eyes. “Nah, it’ll be worse at my place. At least here I’m doing something productive.”

  “Is it that bad?” Bethany asked, dumping raisins, dates, and figs into a bowl. The smell of bread soaking in sherry and cognac gave the kitchen a holiday smell.

  Stephanie rolled a sheet of marzipan paper-thin. “It’s been over a week of no sleep.”

  “Cumulative sleep deprivation is the worst.” I stared at her sallow face. “I think we should send you home. Or, you can come hang out at my apartment. I tend to fall asleep on my couch most nights anyway. I’ll gladly give you my bed.”

  Bethany agreed. “Good idea, Jules. You can come crash with me too.”

  “No, I’m good.” Stephanie cut the marzipan with a pizza cutter.

  I looked at Bethany, who shrugged. Stephanie was fiercely independent which often served her well, but with sleepless days that trait had become a detriment.

  We were about to switch gears and start in on macaron technique when someone pounded on the front door. We jumped in unison. I clutched my heart, which thudded in my chest.

  “Jeez, who is that?” Stephanie asked.

  It was dark outside, but the streetlights cast soft halos on the sidewalk. I peered out the window to see Lance banging on the door.

  “Take a guess,” I said.

  “Lance?” Bethany asked with a look of trepidation.

  “The one and only. Keep at it. I’ll go see what he wants.”

  He didn’t let up on his knocking. “Juliet, I’ve been out here for hours. I was about to break down the door.”

  “Lance, you’ve been outside for one minute and you scared us to death.”

  The top three buttons of his shirt were undone, his jacket was missing, and he wore a pair of bright red sneakers instead of his leather dress shoes.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked, letting him inside.

  He paced to the pastry counter and twiddled his fingers on top of the glass. The nervous cloud of energy surrounding him was palpable. “I had to do something. I’m going to kill him. Seriously kill him, Juliet.”

  “Slow down.” I walked closer.

  The concrete floor trembled beneath us as Lance bounced his foot up and down. “I’ve got a plan. A big plan.”

  “To do what, Lance?” My stomach felt queasy, and I didn’t think it was from the curry.

  “To ruin him,” Lance spat out.

  “Look, we’ve been playing around with your menu tonight. Doing some early recipe testing. Do you want to sit down? I’ll bring you a taste of what we’ve put together so far.”

  He strummed his fingers and exhaled. “I don’t know if I can sit.”

  “Try.” I placed my hand on his shoulder. “I’ll make you a cup of chamomile tea. You go take a seat in the booth and try to relax.”

  “He looks messed up,” Bethany whispered when I walked into the kitchen.

  I kept my voice low. “I know. I’m going to make him a cup of tea. Can you guys put a small tasting tray together?”

  Stephanie nodded. “I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but I almost feel sorry for him.”

  “Me too,” I sighed. I filled a mug with water and zapped it in the microwave. Hopefully a cup of calming tea would bring Lance back to center. I took the steaming mug of tea and a plate of our interpretation of sixteenth-century desserts to the front.

  “Here, drink this.” I handed Lance the tea and set the plate in front of him.

  He cradled the mug in his hands for a minute and then without saying a word tasted every dish I set before him, including hand-designed royal marchpanes in the shape of popular fruit from the time—figs, dates, plums, and apples.

  “It’s perfect. Perfection,” he said, finishing a bite of layered trifle. His demeanor had shifted radically. He leaned against the booth and stared at the ceiling.

  “Lance, what’s going on?”

  He sat up. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean your outbursts. Showing up here—now—freaking out.”

  “I’m not freaking out.” He cracked his knuckles and savored his tea.

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  Lance scowled. “Oh, do keep that chin up. Cheekbones, Juliet. Cheekbones.”

  “Look, Lance, I’m worried about you. Have you thought of taking a little break? Maybe take a vacation? Go get some sun, sip a fruity cocktail on the beach. You’re not acting like yourself.”

  He threw his hand over his heart as if I had stabbed him. “Not acting like myself? Darling, acting is my middle name, and I assure you I’m fine. I need this party to be fabulous and all will be right with the world.”

  “What happened with Antony tonight?”

  He shuddered. “It’s nothing. Like I said, I have a plan. And it’s not going to matter, because your pastries are gifts from the gods.” He popped a bite of marzipan in his mouth. “This party is going to solve my problems. Trust me.”

  “That’s putting a lot of faith into one night, Lance.” I sighed and looked at Steph and Bethany, who had their heads down, focused on baking. “I can’t even imagine how much it’s going to cost you. Can you afford a party like this?”

  Lance threw his head back and laughed. “Please. You do not need to w
orry about my financial status. I have a strict rule to never speak of politics, religion, or money with friends. It’s tacky, darling. But I promise you that money is the least of my worries.”

  I wondered what he meant by that.

  “Do you have anything else awaiting my taste buds in the kitchen?” Lance asked, changing the subject.

  “Nope. This is it.”

  “Excellent. In that case, I’ll call it a night. I’m going to write up some notes for my vendors, with details and final numbers. Expect an email from me later this evening.”

  It was futile to attempt to rationalize with him, so instead I picked up the tasting tray and returned to the kitchen. Getting Lance to open up wasn’t going to be an easy task. But I knew that I had to do something. My friend was clearly in bad shape.

  Chapter Five

  “Jules, is he okay?” Bethany tugged on one of her braids. They had cleaned up our sixteenth-century baking mess and had assembled supplies for macarons.

  “I don’t know.”

  “He kind of seems like he’s on the edge,” Stephanie added. “And if I’m saying that right now, that’s terrifying.” Her lip, painted with black lipstick, curled into a snarl.

  I couldn’t argue with them. Instead I let out a sigh and brushed my hands together, as if trying to brush off my worry about Lance. “What do you say, macarons?”

  Professional bakers know that there is a huge difference between macaroons, which are basically coconut balls dipped in chocolate, versus macarons—French sandwich cookies filled with everything from lavender and honey buttercream to pineapple jam. Many bakeries use food dyes to color their macarons, but I prefer to use natural flavors to achieve beautiful colors. Like pureed blueberries for purple and fresh raspberries for a soft, subtle red.

  I handed Steph and Bethany each a mixing bowl and French whip (or whisk). “You want to start by whisking almond flour and confectioners’ sugar together.”

  They obliged and I showed them how to beat egg whites, cream of tartar, and a pinch of salt until frothy and then slowly incorporate superfine sugar and beat until it formed shiny peaks. “Be careful not to break the egg whites as you fold this into the flour and sugar,” I cautioned.