Caught Bread Handed (16 page)

“Like beer. That's funny. I had my distributor here earlier and he took me through a tasting flight and he said the same thing. We started with the pilsners and ended with a stout.” Craig pointed behind him to a four-foot-long row of beer taps.

“Exactly—pastry, beer—it's the same concept.”

Craig took a bite of the green vanilla cake. “Hey, that's an idea. What if you made a beer cake or booze cake?”

“I'd love to.” I glanced around the bar while Craig took another bite. A group of hockey players were toasting with celebratory pints at the back of the bar. Closer to me, an older couple was sharing a bottle of champagne. My eyes rested on a high table at the very front. Reggie and Mathew were drinking beer from cans and talking intently. Neither noticed me. Mathew passed Reggie a sheet of paper. Reggie pushed it back to him. I wondered what was going on with them. Maybe Mathew was offering Reggie a new contract, but Reggie was refusing.

“Okay. A booze cake,” Craig said as he polished off the vanilla cake.

I returned my attention to him. “Booze.”

“Except I need this too. This is amazing, Jules. It's so light. What's that frosting?”

“It's a flour frosting.”

“Flour? No way. It's the best frosting I've ever tasted. I don't even usually like frosting.”

I smiled. “That's the idea.”

Craig tasted the red velvet next. “Oh man, this is good.”

“Glad you like it.”

“Love it.” He stabbed it with his fork and took another bite. “Yeah. We have to have these.”

“Good. They both should hold up really well, especially with that frosting. It will help keep the cakes moist. You can cover them and serve them by the slice. They'll even do okay in the refrigerator. You'll just want to make sure to let them come up to room temperature before serving.”

“Jules, you're making it sound like we're going to have a problem keeping them fresh. We are going to have a problem, but it won't be that.”

“What is it?”

“Keeping them in stock. I'm telling you. I get asked for dessert all the time.” He pointed to the open shelf behind us. “I bought two of those glass cake stands. I'm going to put your cakes on either end of the bar. That way customers can drool over them while they're waiting in line for drinks. It doesn't look like it now but come back when the band is on and you won't be able to get within an inch of this bar. Not without a fight anyway.”

“I believe it.” On any given night in Ashland there's music playing somewhere. Most of the bars and restaurants showcase Ashland's musical talent with free performances. From Irish funk to light jazz it's easy to find a new band or relax with a glass of wine to the sound of classical music over dinner.

“I want to start offering both of these right away. When can you start delivering them?”

“How's tomorrow?”

“Perfect. And what do you think about a beer or vodka cake or something? That could be really fun.”

“I love it. I'll play around with some recipes and bring you another round of samples.”

Craig walked to the cash register. “What do I owe you for these?”

“Nothing. They're yours. Keep them for yourself or give samples to your customers.”

“You sure?” He held up a twenty-dollar bill. “Can I at least give you a tip for delivering?”

“Craig, put your money away. I'm not taking it.” I scanned the bar. There were two women drinking their lime cocktails at the far end of the bar. A couple of the tables were taken, but otherwise it was pretty slow. I was sure that within the next hour or two there would be a line of customers jockeying for position at the bar. “Hey, before I go, I wanted to ask you one thing.”

“Shoot.” He pushed the cash drawer shut.

“It's about that fight you mentioned yesterday.” I glanced over my shoulder to make sure Mathew and Reggie hadn't come up for another round.

“Oh, yeah. Get this. Word is that Rosalind is the one who hit Mindy. Can you believe that?”

“I know. That's what I heard. When you mentioned that Mindy was in a fight, I guess I assumed it was Alan. Did you hear anything else yesterday?”

Craig shook his head. “Not really. We were slammed though. Were you?”

I nodded.

“I guess murder is good for business.”

I grimaced. “I guess so.”

A customer approached the bar. “Be with you in a sec,” Craig said.

“I'll let you go. I'll deliver your cakes with your bread tomorrow morning and start brainstorming some cakes with booze.”

Craig gave me a thumbs-up and turned his attention to the customer. I passed by Reggie's table. Mathew had left. Reggie chugged the rest of his beer and gave me a strange look. I waved and continued out the door. On the way back to Torte, Craig's words replayed in my head: murder was good for business.

 

Chapter Sixteen

By the time I arrived back at Torte, Sterling and Carlos had begun plating the first course, a gorgeous charcutería board with chorizo, duck-liver mousse, chicken pâté, and foie gras. I dusted my almond cake with powdered sugar and decorated it with almonds. Then I whipped mascarpone cream with a little sugar and vanilla to accompany my lemon olive oil cake.

Right before we opened the doors, I lit the votive candles that Mom had placed on the table, dimmed the overhead lights, and plugged in the twinkle lights. The dining room looked like a scene from one of OSF's most romantic productions. Carlos arranged bottles of Spanish wines and sparkling wineglasses on the front counter, and Sterling turned up the volume on the Latin salsa music.

“Are we ready?” I asked.

They both nodded enthusiastically.

I unlocked the front door, and placed a chalkboard sign on the sidewalk. It read:
SUNDAY SUPPER. A LATIN FEAST. TAPAS AND SPANISH WINE. ADVANCED TICKETS REQUIRED.

Sterling brought the tray of cheese, cured meats, and olives to the front as the first guests arrived. I took tickets at the door. Lance was one of the first people in line.

He greeted me with a kiss on both cheeks. “Juliet, the place looks absolutely divine. It must be that Latin lover of yours. His romantic influence is rubbing off on our young starlet.”

“Stop.” I ushered him to his seat.

“I see a rosy blush rising in those gorgeous cheekbones of yours, darling. No need to blush. I would swoon too.”

“Lance,” I whispered. “I'm not swooning or blushing. It's hot in here.”

He threw his head back and laughed. “Nice try.” He removed his perfectly cut black jacket and rested it on the back of his chair. His crisp pink shirt was color-coordinated with a pink-and-silver-striped tie. Not many men could pull of the look, but Lance wore it well.

“Do tell, darling. What's the word on this murder business?”

“I don't know.” I reached for a pitcher and filled his water glass.

“Don't play coy with me, Juliet. We've been here before. I know that you know something.”

I glanced to the line of people waiting at the door. “I can't talk right now, Lance. I've got to get everyone else seated.”

“Fair enough, fair lady, but mark my words, you are going to dish.” He smiled like a Cheshire cat. “I might have some
clues
to share with you.”

Drat. Lance knew that he had me. I hurried to seat the remaining diners. Each time I passed Lance's seat, he caught my eye and winked.

Carlos uncorked the first bottle of white wine and circulated the table, filling glasses and explaining the vintage of the wine and the growing region for the grapes. Soon the dining room was full of happy chatter and the sound of wineglasses clinking.

I waited by the door. We were missing three guests. If they didn't show up in the next ten minutes we'd begin serving tapas without them. In the meantime everyone appeared merry and lively. Carlos's wine selections were a hit. I overheard a woman comment on the roses and greenery. “Such ambiance. It must be Helen's work. She has the touch.”

I'd be sure to tell Mom that everyone was impressed with her décor. At that moment the last group of guests arrived, and I recognized one of them right away. “Rosalind,” I said, extending my hand. “I didn't that know you were coming tonight. I didn't see your name on the guest list.”

She wrapped her wrinkled hand over mine. A deep scratch ran the length of her arm and a red bruise marked her wrist. “I wasn't. A friend became ill at the last minute and offered me her ticket.”

“I'm sorry that your friend isn't feeling well, but I'm glad that you could join us.” My eyes lingered on her arm.

She tucked it close to her body. “I took a bit of a tumble.”

“Are you all right?”

“Right as rain.” She walked with a pronounced limp as I showed her to her seat.

“Have you been to a Sunday supper before?”

“No. This is my first time. It smells spicy.”

“You're in for a treat.” I took her and her friends to their seats. “We're serving authentic Spanish tapas tonight.”

“I can't wait.” Rosalind pulled out her chair, but hesitated before she sat. A look of pain washed over her face as she used her hands to steady herself.

“Are you sure you're okay?” I asked.

She grimaced for a minute and then lowered her body into the chair. “I'm fine. Creaky knees. That's all. It's no fun getting old, Juliet. Enjoy your youth while you still have it.”

Carlos came up behind me to fill Rosalind's wineglass. I scooted out of the way and headed to the kitchen to help Sterling plate the next round of tapas. If Rosalind had trouble sitting, how could she have possibly knocked Mindy over? But where had she gotten that bruise and scratch?

I didn't have time to think it over. Smoke was rising from the grill in the kitchen. I hurried to the back. Sterling was grilling shrimp. I suspected that he had used too much olive oil.

“Hit the fan,” I told him. I didn't want the kitchen and dining room to smell like smoke. Smell is a huge part of the tasting experience. If everything smelled like grilled shrimp it would overwhelm the other flavors that Sterling and Carlos had worked so hard on melding together.

He clicked on the fan and waved smoke from his face. “Why are they doing that?”

“It's probably the olive oil.” The fan started sucking the smoke up immediately. “Try turning down the heat a little too. They smell great. We just don't want to smoke out the guests.”

“Hey, that could be our next Sunday supper theme.” Sterling's shoulders relaxed.

“Not a bad idea.” I washed my hands. “How can I help?”

Sterling kept his eyes focused on the shrimp, and pointed behind him with his thumb. “Can you assemble the empanadas on the platters?”

“For sure.”

“This is weird,” Sterling said as he turned a perfectly grilled shrimp with a pair of tongs.

“What?”

“You're asking me what to do. That's not how it's supposed to work.”

I wiped the platter with a dish towel. “Come on, that's exactly how it works. We're a team around here. You know that.”

“Yeah. I know. You and your mom have been incredible. I guess I just feel really honored that you trust me to do this.” Sterling cleared his throat.

“You're the best.” I dabbed a spot on the tray. “Plus the real reason that we keep you around is because all the teenage girls squeal when they see you. Mom thinks we've doubled our cookie sales thanks to the fact that half the girls in town are in love with you.”

“Right. Great. Glad to know that I've got the fourteen-year-old-girl set covered.”

I arranged the empanadas on the platter. It was hard not to break into one of them. They were a golden brown color and stuffed with meat and veggies. Aromas of peppers and garlic hit my nose. If the smell was any indication, I had a feeling that everyone was going to be talking about this supper for weeks.

Carlos was pouring the second wine—a Brazilian chardonnay. I listened as he explained the wine's origin.

“You see this lovely light green color?” Carlos asked as he held up the bottle of wine for the guests. “It is because the grapes reflect the tropical flavors of the region. You will smell some melon and peaches. Even some banana. You taste and tell me what you think.”

That was my cue to bring out the empanadas. I picked up the tray and walked to the front. Carlos poured glasses of the chardonnay. “This is a very light and refreshing for your palate. It will go well with chicken and fish. I see that Julieta is bringing you some of our empanadas. These are very Spanish. We eat them all day long back home in Spain. Even for dessert with fruits and berries.”

Carlos had the same effect on our guests as Sterling did on teenage girls. I watched as the women seated at the table hung on his every word. One of them raised her hand. “Am I tasting apricots in this?”

He nodded enthusiastically. “
Sí, sí.
Good job.” He ran the bottle under his nose. “Just a hint of sweetness with the apricots, no?”

I thought the woman might faint at Carlos's praise. She batted her eyelashes at him and copied the way he swirled his wineglass. He gave her a nod of approval and continued on, completely oblivious to her advances.

Lance caught my wrist as I returned to the kitchen for the next platter of tapas. “Darling, your husband has done it again. This is absolutely charming.”

“Thanks, Lance,” I whispered.

“Wait, don't go. We haven't had a chance to talk yet. You know—
talk
.”

“Lance, I'm working.”

“So am I, darling. So am I.”

I knelt on the floor next to his chair. “Okay, two minutes. Go.”

Lance strummed his fingers together. “I knew you couldn't resist talking murder for long.”

“I'm serious. I have to work. If you want to dish, get started.”