Caught Bread Handed

Book 4: A Bakeshop Mystery

by Ellie Alexander

Genres: Mystery; Female Sleuths; Amateur Sleuth; Culinary Cozy Mysteries

Synopsis

Welcome to Torte?a friendly, small-town family bake shop where the oven is heating up as high as the body count…

Jules Capshaw is still chewing over her husband Carlos’s return to Ashland, Oregon. Could there be too many cooks in the kitchen? Whatever is stirring between those two will have to wait. Despite the Oregon Shakespeare Festival being dark for the winter, the bakeshop is bustling, the dough is rolling, and there’s no rest for the weary…especially when murder is thrown into the mix.

When Mindy Nolan, the owner of a new restaurant in town, turns up dead, the batter at hand thickens. Jules knows that there was bad blood between Mindy and others in town, and tracking down the killer could prove to be an unwelcome treat. And to top it all off, there’s Carlos, who is pleading?with those delicious dark eyes and sexy Spanish accent?for Jules to take him back. Is home where the heart is or will she make a fresh start…and risk getting burned?

Release date: June 28, 2016

Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group

Print pages: 320

Sample

Chapter One



They say that home is where the heart is. That could be true. But what if my heart was lost? What if my heart couldn’t find its way home?

Technically I’d been home for six months. Home for me was my childhood town of Ashland, Oregon. It’s a magical place with its Elizabethan architecture, charming Shakespearean-themed shops and restaurants, inviting outdoor parks and public spaces, and mild Mediterranean climate. Not to mention the warm and welcoming locals who can make a stranger feel like they’ve lived in Ashland for decades upon meeting for the first time.

Our family bakeshop, Torte, sits in the center of my hometown. It’s located in the downtown plaza just a few hundred feet from Lithia Park and Shakespeare’s stairs, a set of cement stairs that lead from the park’s expansive lawn to the Oregon Shakespeare Festival’s theater complex. Walking around the plaza is like stepping back in time. Storefronts are designed in Tudor style with narrow symmetrical buildings, timber framing, and ornate windows.

Ashland has something for everyone from its world-famous stage productions, to its funky artistic community, and wide open spaces perfect for adventure lovers. The only thing it didn’t have at the moment was snow. Usually in January, Mt. Ashland’s slopes were coated in deep layers of snow. But not this January.

I looked out Torte’s front windows. The sun hung low in the late afternoon sky. A group of musicians with banjos and an accordion were busking in the center of the plaza. Two well-dressed tourists stopped in front of the bubbling fountains to listen to them play. It looked like spring outside. Bistro tables had been set up in front of restaurants and shop doors were propped open. It was hard to believe that people were meandering through downtown without coats in January, especially since winter had begun with an epic storm.

A week ago I had been at Lake of the Woods Resort, a remote alpine lodge, for a catering job and had ended up snowed in. Thick white flakes dumped from the sky for three days. Snow fell in record levels causing power outages and making travel impossible. Ashland had been hit by the blizzard too. Customers had to strap on cross-country skis for their morning coffee fix. After the storm blew over the sun emerged from the clouds. It melted the snow and ushered in a stretch of unseasonably warm weather.

I had to admit that I was a little disappointed. I hadn’t experienced a winter in over a decade and I had been looking forward to a change of seasons. My work as a pastry chef for a renowned cruise line had taken me to every corner of the globe. It had been an adventurous ten years. I’d seen nearly every tropical port of call, but the ship always sailed under sunny skies. Winter meant island hopping in the Caribbean and swimming in the Mediterranean Sea. Snow was unheard of in the warm blue waters where tourists took refuge from winter’s harsh winds and swirling storms.

In anticipation of the cold-weather months in Southern Oregon, I bought myself a new wardrobe of sweaters, jeans, and thick wool socks. From the looks of the busy plaza outside, I wasn’t going to need them anytime soon. People milled around the fountains and information kiosk wearing shorts and thin sweatshirts. Definitely not winter attire. They looked like they belonged on the upper deck of the cruise ship, not Ashland in January. Since I’d returned from Lake of the Woods the temperature in Ashland had been holding in the mid-sixties. At this rate, I was going to have to break out my summer clothes again.

The sound of mixers churning in the background and the smell of sweet rolls rising in the oven made the lack of snow more manageable. Breathing in the comforting scents brought an instant calm to my body. Being home again had been better than I had ever expected. When I returned to Ashland six months ago with a broken heart, I thought it would be a temporary stop until I found my land legs and figured out what was next for me. That quickly changed. The community had welcomed me in, and working at Torte with Mom and our incredible young staff had given me a new sense of purpose and direction. There was just one lingering problem (literally and figuratively)—my estranged husband, Carlos.

I glanced across the plaza and shook my head. Carlos was at the Merry Windsor chatting with a bellboy in a green-and-gold-stripped uniform. Of course. I couldn’t escape him. I wasn’t sure I wanted to.

I watched them talk. Carlos’s dark hair fell in a soft wave over one eye. The sleeves of his casual white shirt had been rolled up to the elbows, revealing his bronzed forearms. He’d been telling everyone in town that he brought the Spanish sun with him. “You see, this is how we winter in Spain. We drink in the sun along with some lovely Spanish wine.”

Everyone was charmed by Carlos, myself included. It was impossible not to fall under his spell. His sultry dark eyes and Spanish accent were practically irresistible, as was his naturally relaxed personality. He’d been in Ashland a little over a week and had managed to bewitch everyone in town.

Almost everyone. Richard Lord, the owner of the Merry Windsor, where Carlos was staying, didn’t look pleased that Carlos was distracting the bellboy from his work. I shook my head again as I watched his animated speech and hand motions. The bellboy chatted happily as if he and Carlos had been friends for years. Carlos had that effect on people.

My mom, Helen, had the same gift, but she used it differently. Her approach was to offer up a hot cup of coffee, a fresh pastry, and a listening ear. Carlos tended to lure people in with his witty banter and whimsical pranks. Both approaches achieved the same result. Mom and Carlos had a way of putting people at ease. I wasn’t sure that I had the same ability. It’s something I’ve been trying to work on. I think that I come across as too serious sometimes.

Carlos turned in my direction and caught my eye. He blew me a kiss and then waved with both hands in an attempt to get me outside. I shook my head and pointed to the kitchen. Heat rose in my cheeks as I left the window and walked back to my workstation. My husband had caught me staring at him. Normally that wouldn’t be a bad thing, but right now it was for me. Having Carlos in Ashland for the last week had been equally wonderful and confusing. He was leaving for the ship in three days. I couldn’t get distracted now. I had too much to do. Like getting our wholesale orders out the door, I said to myself, focusing on the stack of orders resting on the kitchen island.

I leafed through them, making sure everything was ready for tomorrow morning’s shift. Thanks to some new restaurant accounts, Mom and I would finally be able to get the new ovens that Torte so desperately needed. We’d been barely getting by with one functional oven. New kitchen equipment came with a hefty price tag. We had been saving every extra penny for the last six months, and taking on extra wholesale accounts. It had paid off. We were so close that I could almost taste the fresh bread baking in shiny new stainless steel commercial ovens. I’d even gone so far as sketching out how we might make some minor tweaks to the kitchen floorplan and modernize our ordering system.

Having the new wholesale accounts had been great for our bottom line, but it meant that things were very tight in Torte’s already small kitchen. I had been coming in earlier than usual in order to bake and deliver bread to our wholesale clients before the morning coffee rush. The long hours were taking a toll on my body. I shifted my weight as I restacked the order forms and surveyed the kitchen. Everything was running smoothly, as usual.

Stephanie, the college student who had been helping with pastry orders in the back, rolled sugar-cookie dough on the butcher block. “Is this thin enough, Mrs. Capshaw?”

Mom tucked a strand of her brown bobbed hair behind her ear and nodded in approval. “Perfect.”

“I’m going to grab a coffee. Need anything?” I asked.

Mom dusted a pan of brownies with powdered sugar. “No, thanks.” Her brown eyes narrowed. She caught my apron as I passed. “Hold up there, young lady.”

“What?”

“How many cups is that for you today?”

“Uh. I don’t know. Not that many. Maybe a couple. I haven’t been keeping count.” I looked at my feet. If I made eye contact with her I knew that she’d catch me in a lie.

Mom threw her head back and laughed. “Ha!” She turned to Stephanie. “Did you hear that? Not many. By my count you’ve had at least a gallon.”

“A gallon?” I overenunciated my words and played along. “Hardly.” Then I folded my arms in front of my chest. “Plus it’s my duty to carefully sample our coffee offerings. You wouldn’t want us serving bitter coffee to customers, would you?”

Mom flicked my apron and shook her head. “Stephanie, you and I may need to stage a coffee intervention.”

Stephanie looked up from the cookie dough and offered us both a rare grin. “I’m in.”

I left them brainstorming ways to keep me from the espresso bar and headed for the front of the bakeshop. As I was about to ask Andy, our barista, for a double Americano, a woman’s voice called my name.

“Juliet! You are just the person I wanted to see. Can I bother you for moment, dear?” An elderly woman with silver hair stood near the pastry case holding an almond croissant in one hand and clutching the counter with the other.

It was Rosalind Gates, the president of the Ashland Downtown Association. She wore a black T-shirt with the words SOS—SAVE OUR SHAKESPEARE written on the front.

“Sure.” I scanned the dining room and pointed to an empty booth near the front windows.

Rosalind looked a bit unsteady on her feet. “Let me help.” I offered her my hand and guided her to the booth.

“Thanks, my dear,” she said as she carefully lowered herself into the booth. “My hip has been creaky lately.”

Before I could ask her what she needed she pointed a bony finger across the street. “Look at that monstrosity. We have to put a stop to this right now. That woman has gone too far this time. Way too far.”

My eyes followed Rosalind’s quivering finger. She was pointing to ShakesBurgers. The chain restaurant had opened last week. Many local business owners weren’t thrilled about it. Downtown Ashland is known for its eclectic shops and restaurants. The plaza is a hub for small, family-owned businesses. ShakesBurgers was the first chain to take ownership of a building downtown and most people weren’t happy about it. Not only was the neon fast-food burger joint out of place in the historic Shakespearean village, but they had also taken over one of Ashland’s beloved restaurants, the Jester.

Alan Matterson had opened the Jester last February. He was an old family friend who had run an extremely successful food booth at the farmers’ market since I was a kid. His hand-dipped corn dogs were legendary around town, as was Alan’s entertaining personality. In any place other than Ashland, Alan might have struggled to find his niche. Here, though, he blended right in. No one gave his black-and-white-checked jester jumpsuits or his zany hats a second look.

Locals flocked to the Jester for Alan’s home-style cooking. The restaurant was themed after a medieval court. Tourists loved the restaurant’s brocade façade and funky collection of jester hats and scepters that hung from the walls and ceiling. Alan greeted each customer who walked through the door with a goofy joke and a little jig. Kids’ meals came with a gag gift—like waxed candy lips or a fake camera that squirted water. The Jester’s food was equally irreverent. Alan served his signature corn dogs along with pink-and-blue-swirled cotton candy and banana splits piled high with Umpqua Valley ice cream and topped with sprinkles and maraschino cherries.

It seemed like the Jester would be a lasting success, but in early December right before the holiday season a CLOSED sign was posted on the front door. A week later the building was listed for sale and before anyone could blink, a construction crew ripped down the Shakespearean façade and carted away the cotton candy machine.

One of the issues with running a seasonal business in Ashland is calculating for the slow season. Sadly, many of the shops and restaurants that open in February when OSF kicks off their new season end up closing in November and December when the tourists return home. Watching it happen to a friend like Alan had been devastating. What made it even worse was having a chain like ShakesBurgers move in.

Mindy Nolan, a wealthy real estate developer who owned a number of chain restaurants, swooped in, purchased the building, and gave it an overnight makeover. She opened ShakesBurgers two weeks later. The two restaurants could not have been more different. ShakesBurgers had over thirty stores in eight western states. They specialized in fast food—burgers, fries, anything coated in grease. Unlike the other shops in the plaza, ShakesBurgers had painted the exterior of the building a shocking lime green and installed neon flashing signage that included an animated dancing milkshake and hamburger and a dialogue bubble pulsing their tagline: Our burgers make your buns shake.

It all happened so fast. One day the Jester was there and thriving. The next day it was gone. Some of my fellow business owners had expressed concern about Mindy and how she had handled the takeover. The word “hostile” had been tossed around. Rumors tend to spread quickly in a small town. I’ve learned that it’s best not to make assumptions. I hadn’t had a chance to talk to Alan, since he’d gone into hiding since ShakesBurgers had opened.

While Mindy was in the middle of renovations, she caught me in the plaza one day and asked if we’d be willing to source all of the bread and buns for ShakesBurgers.

“You’re Juliet, right?” She hoisted a box of precut frozen potatoes in one arm and extended her hand. “I’m Mindy Nolan. Word is you bake the best bread in town. I want to source all of our buns from you. We try to partner with local businesses, you know, throw the small guy a bone, when we launch a new store. I don’t take no for an answer. You might as well say yes.”

Mindy’s condescending attitude was off-putting. “I’m not sure,” I replied. “We’re pretty busy right now.”

“A small business owner turning down hundreds—if not thousands—of dollars per month in new revenue before you’ve even had a chance to hear my pitch, are you crazy?” She set the box of frozen potatoes on the sidewalk and folded her arms across her chest. Her lime-green shirt with a cartoon logo of a burger oozing with melting cheese blended in with the garish color of the building.

I didn’t appreciate Mindy’s approach. “I’ll have to talk it over with my mom,” I said, trying to end the conversation.

Mindy continued to press. “I’ll make it worth your while. This could be a very lucrative deal for you. ShakesBurgers is one of the fastest growing chains on the West Coast. You’re going to want to be in on what we have to offer.”

I disagreed. Working with the chain would anger my fellow downtown business owners. I couldn’t betray Alan, and I didn’t want Torte’s products associated with a giant corporation. “Like I said, we’ll talk about it, but I don’t know that it’s going to be a match,” I said to Mindy.

My instincts were right. When I told Mom about Mindy’s proposition she held up her hand to stop me before I’d even finished speaking. “Juliet, no. No amount of money is worth it. We can’t do that to our friends.”

“It would be more money, though,” I said. My voice didn’t sound convincing. “It would get us even closer to new ovens.”

Mom was adamant. She stood firm. “No, it’s not worth it. She can get her buns from Richard Lord. They seem like a match made in heaven, don’t you think?”

I agreed. “Absolutely. I’m glad you think so too. She accosted me with a box of frozen potatoes in her hand. That was my first red flag.”

“And Alan.” Mom put her hand to her heart. “We couldn’t do that to him. He’s still upset about losing the Jester. I saw him the other day and he wasn’t even wearing one of his funny hats.”

* * *

“Juliet, you’re not working with the enemy, are you?” Rosalind’s voice brought me back into the present moment.

I tore my gaze away from ShakesBurgers. “The enemy?”

She ripped off a bite of flaky croissant. “There’s a rumor going around that Torte is supplying ShakesBurgers with buns.” Her hands trembled slightly as she spoke.

“That rumor is false. I promise. Mindy approached us about using our products, but Mom and I both declined.”

“Thank goodness.” Rosalind let out a long sigh. “I told everyone that there was no way that Torte would agree to such a thing.” She paused and took another bite. “The rumor mill is working overtime. The latest is that Mindy has hired two OSF actors to dress up in hideous hamburger and milkshake costumes to hand out fliers around town. It’s absolutely sacrilegious. The woman is single-handedly destroying Ashland and I intended to put a stop to her.”

“How?”

“The city has design standards, but they’ve become too lax. Mindy might meet the letter of standards on paper, but not the intent.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“Juliet, that thing is an eyesore.” Rosalind pointed again. “Look at it. It belongs in a strip mall, not downtown Ashland. ShakesBurgers? What kind of a name is that? Mindy has a blatant disregard for the caliber of development downtown. Neon and, God forbid”—she made a cross in front of her chest and continued—“hamburger mascots prancing around town! Nothing about ShakesBurgers is compliant with the vision of this community.”

I had to agree with Rosalind. Everyone was irritated that Mindy had torn down the old façade. Part of downtown’s charm is the nod that businesses give to the Bard. Like the flower shop, A Rose by Any Other Name, Puck’s Pub, and even the Merry Windsor, the hotel across the street, owned by Richard Lord, my least favorite person in town. Renaissance architecture dominates the plaza. From gables and turrets to elaborately carved porches and staircases, each building downtown is designed in Tudor style.

At Torte, we pay homage to Shakespeare and my father’s memory with a rotating quote on our chalkboard menu. It’s sort of an unwritten rule that downtown businesses incorporate a touch of whimsy, like our royal-red and teal walls at Torte, which are inspired by Elizabethan art.

“I’m still not clear what you need from me,” I said.

“I need the support of all business owners. I’ve called an emergency meeting tonight. We are going straight to the city council and demand that the design standards be tightened. I’ve already worked up a rough draft. The new standards will specify materials, quality of finishes, that sort of thing, and trust me, neon-green paint is not on the list.” She glared in the direction of ShakesBurgers again.

“Tonight?”

“Yes. At the Black Swan. At five o’clock.” Rosalind stuffed half of her croissant into a paper to-go bag and checked the silver watch dangling from her thin wrist. “Oh, dear! It’s almost time. You’ll be there, won’t you, Juliet? We have to put a stop to this.”

Before I could reply she was already limping toward the door to catch up with the owner of Puck’s Pub. I had a feeling he was going to get an earful about ShakesBurgers too.

Mom came up behind me with a tray of petit fours as Rosalind left. “What was that about?” she asked.

“Rosalind has called a town meeting tonight to talk about ShakesBurgers.”

The smile lines on Mom’s cheeks deepened. “Talk, huh?”

I shrugged and helped her arrange the petit fours in the pastry case. They were hand-dipped in pastel-colored white chocolate. Each one looked like a dainty present. “That’s what she said.”

Mom handed me a pink petit four with a white chocolate heart in the center. “Let me go in your place. You look exhausted, honey.”

“No.” I took the petit four and bit into it. Layers of vanilla sponge cake, buttercream, and blackberry preserves melted together in my mouth. “You have a date with the Professor. It’s fine. I’ll make a quick appearance and call it a night.”

We walked to the kitchen with the empty tray. “Those are so good,” I said. “Are there more?”

Mom pointed to the island where Stephanie was drizzling white chocolate over a tray of petit fours. “Plenty.”

Carlos and Sterling had their heads bent over a notebook at the counter. I hadn’t noticed them come in while I was talking to Rosalind. Sterling could almost pass for Carlos’s younger brother. His black hair matched Carlos’s, although he wore his in an intentionally rough cut. When I first met Sterling I judged him based on his skateboarder style and tattoos. What a mistake. He’s a wise soul with a kind heart and the most piercing blue eyes.

“It looks like you two are plotting something,” I said, interrupting their concentration.

They both looked up.

“Julieta, I have decided tonight I will teach Sterling how to cure meat and make an antipasto. We will serve this as the starter for the Sunday supper, is this good?”

“Great.”

“And it is okay that we can have the kitchen tonight?” He sounded surprised.

I picked up another petit four. The chocolate hadn’t hardened. It melted onto my fingers. “It’s all yours. I have to go to a town meeting.”

Mom scowled. “We’re not done discussing that.”

Carlos clapped Sterling on the back. “Okay. It is decided. We must go to the market.”

We’d been hosting specialty dinners affectionately called “Sunday suppers” each week. Customers paid a flat rate for a three-course meal served family style. They’d become so popular around town that we had to start taking reservations. This weekend’s supper was already sold out. I had a feeling that it had to do with the fact that rumors had spread that Carlos would be preparing the meal.

Sunday’s supper would be his last meal before he had to return to the ship, and everyone wanted a taste of his cuisine. I couldn’t blame them. Carlos was the best chef I’d ever met, and not just because I’m biased. His food is simple and elegant. It’s an experience. You don’t just eat a meal prepared by Carlos, you linger over it, savoring each morsel. He says the secret is infusing his food with love. I’m a believer. In addition to his culinary talents, Carlos is an excellent teacher, a rarity in the world of chefs. While he was in Ashland I had asked him to take Sterling under his wing.

Sterling is our newest hire at Torte, but thanks to a solid work ethic and eagerness to learn, he had quickly become invaluable. Carlos thought so too when they had worked together at the catering event at Lake of the Woods. Carlos had been impressed with Sterling’s eagerness to learn and instinct. He was a natural in the kitchen. They hit it off immediately. Carlos loved having a young protégé to nurture. I loved not having to worry about the menu for Sunday and that every seat in the house was taken.

I glanced at the whiteboard hanging on the far wall. It looked like a math equation gone wrong. I had color-coded everyone’s schedules along with all of our wholesale orders and custom cakes for the week. It was a jumbled mess.

Stephanie was due in before dawn tomorrow morning. She and I would handle the wholesale bread and pastry orders. Once they were boxed and ready to go, I would deliver them while Mom and Stephanie would swap gears and begin working on stocking Torte’s pastry cases. Andy, another college student, would man the espresso bar. So far the system was working, but there was no margin for error. If anyone got behind, or couldn’t make it in, it would throw off the entire day.

I yawned and stretched. The clock on the wall ticked in a steady rhythm in the empty room. It was almost five. The long hours had finally been getting to me. I’m usually an early riser. I tend to thrive on little sleep.

Mom noticed. “You’re exactly like your father, Juliet,” she complained. “He used to work himself sick. He was always the first person here in the morning and the last person to leave at the end of the day.”

“I’m fine, Mom,” I said. I grabbed a cup of coffee and held it up. “This is all I need.”

She frowned. “Juliet, your eyes are bloodshot and you keep staring at that whiteboard in a daze. We need to adjust this schedule.”

“No,” I protested. “It’s okay. I promise. I just need to get through this weekend.”

The truth was that having in Carlos in town wasn’t helping. We’d been going out each night. In part because Carlos wanted to try every restaurant, and because we had a lot to discuss. Ramiro, Carlos’s son, who I had only recently learned about, had been our main topic of conversation. He had failed to mention that he had a son when we got married. I’d been struggling with coming to terms about why he hadn’t told me, and Carlos had been doing everything he could to try and regain my trust.

The clock dinged, signaling that it was five. Usually at five, I’d be on my way home, but I’d made a promise to Rosalind. I would have preferred to call it an early night with a glass of wine and the latest issue of Baker and Spice magazine, but duty called. It was off to a town meeting for me.



Copyright © 2016 by Kate Dyer-Seeley