Welcome to Torte-a small-town family bakeshop where the coffee is hot, the muffins are fresh, and the cakes are definitely to die for...
It's autumn in Ashland, Oregon-'tis the season for a spiced hot apple cider with a serving (or two) of Torte's famous peach cobbler. It's also the perfect time for Jules Capshaw to promote her family's beloved bake shop by competing in The Pastry Channel's reality show, Take the Cake. The prize is $25,000. But as Jules quickly learns, some people would kill for that kind of dough. Literally.
Then, just as Jules dusts off her Bavarian Chocolate Cake recipe and cinches up her apron, the corpse of a fellow contestant is discovered-death by buttercream. What began as a fun, tasteful televised adventure has morphed into something of a true-crime detective show for Jules and everybody else on set. Who could have killed Chef Marco, and why? Can Jules sift out the killer before someone else gets burned?
Release date:
June 30, 2015
Publisher:
St. Martin's Publishing Group
Print pages:
272
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They say that time heals a broken heart. I've noticed that no one mentions exactly how much time it takes, though. A week? A month? A year? Having a solid number might have made me feel better, since my heart was mending slowly.
While I waited for the heartache to subside, I busied myself with building a new life in my sweet hometown of Ashland, Oregon. Never would I have imagined that I'd be saying that, when I left the ship and my husband last summer. Returning to Ashland was supposed to be a temporary stop until I figured out what I was going to do next.
Mom had advised me to take things slow. "One day at a time, Jules. You don't need to figure everything out this minute."
She was right. Her words stuck, and so did I.
The summer breezed by in a whirlwind of activity. Ashland is home to the world-famous Oregon Shakespeare Festival and a playground for outdoor enthusiasts with sunny mountains and rivers. During the summer months, our little town bursts at the seams with tourists, actors, playwrights, backpackers, and whitewater guides. Torte, our family bakeshop, sits right in the middle of downtown.
Mom's been serving up a selection of sweet and savory pastries with a side of love for nearly three decades. She and my dad purchased the cheery space that houses the bakery when I was a kid. Most of my early memories are of sitting on a bar stool next to the butcher-block island while the two of them kneaded bread dough and chatted with customers. Dad would quote Shakespeare sonnets and engage out-of-town visitors in lively discussions about OSF's latest plays. Mom would press tart crust into tins and act as a sounding board for locals who came to the shop for more than just a warm cup of coffee.
Their love affair wasn't fancy. It was quiet and easy. Maybe that was part of my problem. I wanted what they had. The other part of my problem could have been that my name set me up to be a romantic. Really, Juliet Montague Capshaw? I didn't have a chance. Ill-fated romance is literally my namesake.
My parents thought naming their only child after one of literature's greatest heroines would ensure a life of passion. I'm not sure they thought it all the way through, though.
When I left for culinary school after Dad died, I shortened my name to Jules. It fits. I'm pretty laid-back and casual for the most part. The one exception is in the kitchen. There I run a tight ship. It's a good thing because after being home for a few weeks I realized that Torte needed me as much as I needed it. Mom's a genius in the kitchen and when it comes to caring for our customers, but running the bakeshop on her own had really taken its toll. I was glad to be able to help lighten her load.
Torte needed updating and a serious influx of cash. The steady throng of tourists in and out the front door this summer had helped. We'd been so slammed for the last few months that I was actually looking forward to the off-season so that we could spend some time mapping out a long-term plan for Torte's future.
That's what we'll focus on today, I thought as I laced up my tennis shoes and grabbed a jacket off the hook hanging by my front door. The October sun greeted me as I headed down the stairs from my apartment and out onto the main square. Downtown Ashland is like a little village with a collection of shops, restaurants, and the famed OSF theater complex an easy walk up the hill. Lithia Park, the jewel of town, flanks one end of the downtown. Its meandering pathways, ancient trees, and natural streams make it one of my favorite places on the planet, which is saying a lot. A decade of working on a cruise ship allowed me to visit ports of call all over the world. Other places might be more exotic or boast a more happening night life scene, but Ashland's sophisticated charm and quaint beauty was unparalleled.
I smiled and waved as I passed Elevation's front door. My apartment is above the outdoor store and I've gotten to know the owners. They keep promising to take me climbing once things slow down. From the look of the store this morning, climbing would have to wait. A group of tourists were bunched near the front of the store, waiting for a turn on the indoor climbing wall.
Sulfur fountains bubbled in the square. Visitors drink the fizzy mineral water, pumped in from Lithia Springs, for good health and good luck. I stopped and watched as a teenager, eager to impress two young girls, drank a mouthful of the water and then quickly proceeded to spit it out all over himself. It's definitely an acquired taste.
I continued on toward Torte. Its bright red and teal awning swayed in the slight midday breeze. Flower boxes with clematis cascading down the side hung below the windows. I greeted customers enjoying their pastries at the bistro tables on the sidewalk, and checked to make sure their coffee was fresh before heading inside.
Usually I arrive at the bakeshop much, much earlier than this, but last night I had stayed late to have dinner with a producer who was in town from California. Mom told me to sleep in. Things were starting to slow down as we eased into the off-season.
I felt surprisingly excited to share my news from last night's dinner with everyone. As I swung open the front door, the familiar smell of rising yeast and espresso made me pause and take in a deep breath. Torte is the kind of place that lifts your mood. The space is inviting, with corrugated metal siding, royal teal and red accent colors, and concrete floors. A giant chalkboard menu with rotating daily specials fills the far wall. Each table and the booths along the windows had been polished and held bright fall bouquets. A preschooler noshed on a cookie the size of his head while he scribbled on the bottom of the chalkboard-a space Mom reserves exclusively for our youngest customers. In the far corner, a writer tapped on her laptop while downing a latte. Tourists ogled the glass pastry cases at the front counter.
Yep, this is the place for me, I thought as I snagged an apron with our Torte logo from the wall and wrapped it around my waist.
I passed the chalkboard on my way to the open kitchen in the back. It read, "They Are All but Stomachs, and We Are All but Food."
"Nice quote, Mom." I walked up behind her and pinched her on the waist.
She jumped, sending flour flying in the air. "Jules. You startled me."
"You need hearing aids, Mom."
"I'm much too young for hearing aids, honey." She brushed flour from her apron and studied me. "You look refreshed. How was the dinner?"
I glanced toward the front of the shop where Andy, our resident coffee geek and college student, stood at the espresso machine, pulling shots. His boyish good looks and easygoing attitude charmed a customer waiting for her drinks. Quite an impressive feat. I've found that people tend to be chatty and polite after they've consumed a cup of our delicious brew, but Andy has mastered the art of coffee talk. He's also mastered coffee art. I watched as he poured the shot into a mug and designed a foam leaf on top.
Sterling, our newest employee, manned the cash register and pastry case. Mom and I sort of adopted him earlier this summer. He'd showed up in Ashland the same time I did, and while our paths were different, we were kindred spirits in our nomadic lifestyles and search for home. Sterling, like Andy, had a natural rapport with customers-although his approach couldn't be more different.
Andy typically talks sports with customers, and likes to get their input on his latest coffee creations. He keeps a spiral-bound notebook under the counter and whips it out whenever he has time to mix a new drink. His signature concoctions have become legendary around town and with tourists, who keep coming back to Torte for more. Lately, he'd been experimenting with fall flavors-amaretto, caramel, and an organic pumpkin pie latte made with real pumpkin purée.
Sterling's dark hair, tattoos, and startlingly blue eyes tend to captivate our customers, especially the female ones. He has just the right balance of an edge with a kind heart. The girls swoon over his sultry looks, but it's a wasted effort. He only has eyes for Stephanie, the somewhat sullen, alternative college student who's been apprenticing under Mom and me for the past couple months.
Stephanie used to work the counter, but it turned out that customer service wasn't exactly her strong suit. I've been pleasantly surprised at the progress she's making in the kitchen. She has innate skill and "the touch," as Mom likes to say, when it comes to pastry. If I could only soften her up a little, it would make things so much easier.
Mom flicked me with a dish towel. "Jules, you with me? How was dinner?"
I returned my attention to her. "Sorry. It was good. Really good. I want to tell everyone about it, though. How about if we try to call a team meeting once this mid-morning rush dies down?"
Mom brushed a tray of pies with an egg wash and sprinkled the crusts with crystalized sugar. "You want to throw these in the oven?"
I took the tray of pies and opened the oven door. We used to have two industrial ovens, but one had been on the fritz since July. We'd been getting by with one, but Mom and I were pinching pennies to upgrade. If we were going to take Torte to the next level, it was going to cost a chunk of cash.
Autumn aromas permeated the bakeshop. Mom chopped apples and pears for individual fruit crisps that we'd serve warm in ramekins with a scoop of vanilla ice cream. Stephanie mixed snickerdoodle cookie dough.
"Hey, be sure to keep your hair tied back," I cautioned as she twisted off the beater. "You don't want to get hair in that dough."
She nodded and readjusted the black headband that secured her ebony hair streaked with purple. "Do you wanna taste this before I scoop it?"
I have a strict rule that everything must be tasted before it gets baked. The same rule applies after baking, too, but it's much easier to taste the product before it goes in the oven. I took a pinch of Stephanie's cookie batter and popped it in my mouth. "Needs just a little more cream of tartar."
Stephanie reached for the leavening agent. "Like what-a teaspoon?"
"Yeah, probably about that. I usually base it on flavor. Did you taste it?" I motioned toward the metal mixing bowl.
She shook her head.
"Try it. It's too sweet. The cream of tartar will give it a nice bite."
Stephanie followed my instructions and then began placing round balls of cookie dough onto trays with an ice-cream scoop.
I pulled my hair back into a ponytail, catching my reflection in the window. I've always worn it long, but I keep thinking maybe I'll do something drastic, like chop it all off into a cute bob or something-a fresh start. Then I look in the mirror. I'm not sure short hair would work with my angled jawline and long neck. When I was growing up I used to think I looked like a giraffe. Mom promised me that being graced with a lean frame and ash-blond hair was a blessing, but sometimes it felt more like a curse.
"I'll start on a soup," I said, grabbing a handful of vegetables from a cardboard box on the counter. We get local produce delivered from nearby farms every morning. With the return of cool crisp mornings and the changing leaves outside, customers have been eager for soup and fresh bread at lunchtime.
Today I opted for a butternut squash and apple purée that I'd serve with a splash of olive oil and crème fraîche. I diced onions and sautéed them in butter. The smell momentarily overpowered the scent of baking pies and bread. Despite my late night, I quickly found my rhythm. The kitchen always energizes me somehow.
A little after eleven, things began to quiet down in the front. Andy restocked his espresso and Sterling wiped down the tables. In the summer, we rarely get any sort of lull, but now that the season was winding down things tended to ease before lunch.
I finished my soup and left it to simmer on the stove. "Can everyone come back here for a second? I've got some news to share."
As the team gathered, I noticed that Stephanie stood on the opposite side of the island from Sterling. I couldn't figure out what was going on between those two. It was evident from the way I'd catch them glancing at each other when they thought that no one was looking, that they had a mutual attraction. I wondered if they were trying to conceal their attraction, or if they'd had a fight.
"Stop stalling, young lady." Mom interrupted my thought. "Tell us what happened last night." The laugh lines at the corners of her eyes and lips creased as she looked at me with anticipation.
Andy balanced four mugs brimming with creamy coffee in his hands.
"Well." I paused for effect.
She bumped my hip and pointed at Andy. "Don't let her have one of those until she spills the beans about last night."
"Good one, Mrs. C." Andy passed out samples to everyone except me. "Try these, you guys. It's a pumpkin-cream latte. Tell me if it's too much. I tried to go real easy on the sugar."
The coffee smelled divine, as usual, but even more compelling was its color. The combination of milk, espresso, and pumpkin gave it a warm amber color. I tried to reach for a mug, but Mom held out her hand to stop me.
"I said talk, young lady. It's not every day we have a major television producer on our doorstep."
"Okay, okay. Just let me have one sip and then I'll dish."
She handed me the mug.
I took a sip of Andy's invention. It tasted even better than it looked. The spice mixed with the milky espresso paired nicely and the pumpkin purée gave it an interesting texture.
Mom tapped her fingernails on the butcher block. "Juliet."
"Yes, I know." I rested my mug on the island. "This is great, Andy. Add it to the menu."
Mom cleared her throat.
"As you all know, I met with Philip Higgins, a producer for the Pastry Channel, last night. They want to film the show Take the Cake here in Ashland. Have any of you guys seen it?"
Stephanie twisted a strand of purple hair around her finger. "That's the one where pastry chefs compete against each other, right?"
Sterling looked surprised. "You watch the Pastry Channel?"
She shrugged. "Research."
Impressive. Stephanie acted aloof most of the time. She must be taking her apprenticeship seriously if she was watching the Pastry Channel in her free time.
"Stephanie's right." I took another sip of the pumpkin-cream latte. "According to Philip, Take the Cake is one of the network's top shows. Five pastry chefs from all over the country will be competing against each other. The winner takes home twenty-five thousand dollars and a contract for their own show. I guess it's a pretty big deal."
"Why are they coming to Ashland?" Andy asked. He'd obviously had his fair share of summer sun. His cheeks had erupted with freckles and matched the color of the pumpkin coffee.
"Good question. I asked Philip the same thing. He said this is the third season of the show. They filmed the first season in New York and last year in Austin, Texas. His goal is to rotate it all around the country."
"How did we make the list?" Mom asked.
"Philip is friends with Lance. I guess they worked together in the theater years ago, before Lance became the artistic director for OSF. Philip is planning to feature the theater complex and actors in the show. He thinks that the richness of Shakespeare and OSF's stages will add a layer of drama to the show. In fact, they're planning to film the entire show at the Black Swan Theater."
"Cool." Andy elbowed Sterling. "Maybe we'll get a shot at being on TV."
I warmed my hands on the mug. "Actually, that's part of my news. They also want to use Torte."
Mom let out a little yelp of delight and clapped her hands together. "They want to film here?"
"Don't get too excited," I cautioned. "They want to pay us to use Torte's kitchen for one of the contestants. They might film some little clips of the contestant prepping here, but it's not like they'll film the whole show here or anything like that."
"It doesn't matter. What great exposure for the shop! And they want to pay us?" Mom's cheeks turned pink with excitement.
"Yeah. Like a couple thousand bucks."
Mom raced around the island and threw her arms around me. "Good work. You know what this means? One step closer to new ovens!"
I didn't want to burst her bubble. New ovens were still a bit out of reach for us, but a payment from the Pastry Channel, especially during our slow season, would definitely put us closer.
"This is the best news all week!" Mom beamed. "When do they come?"
"Two weeks." I pointed at Andy and Sterling. "We're going to need to do some rearranging before they arrive. Things are going to get tight. Philip plans to have the competitors using our space after hours for the most part, but depending on their filming schedule we might have 'guests' in the kitchen during regular hours."
Mom straightened her apron. "That should be fine. Things are already slowing down, and by November they'll be dead."
"That's pretty much what I said to Philip. He's going to be using the kitchen at the Merry Windsor and OSF too."
"Richard Lord will eat that up." Andy rolled his eyes.
Richard Lord, owner of the Merry Windsor Inn across the plaza from Torte, is the town's self-proclaimed king. The Merry Windsor lacks quality in their offerings both in food and customer service, but that hasn't stopped Richard from touting his newly remodeled restaurant and coffee counter as the "Best Shakespearean Pastry Palace in Town." That's literally what the sign hanging on his forest-green awning says. He might fool out-of-towners with his marketing gimmicks, but locals know that Torte is the only bakeshop in town where they can find authentic hand-crafted pastries.
"Don't worry about Richard," I said to Andy. "We have bigger and better things to concentrate on."
Never could I have imagined that bigger things were indeed coming, and most of them weren't better.
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