Caught Bread Handed (12 page)

Carlos noticed that I was worried, probably because I kept wrapping my ponytail around my finger.

“Julieta, do not worry. It is only fog. We will be okay. We will weather through and soon you will see the sun.” He kissed my head. “You must bake. It will take your mind off of these clouds.”

I followed his advice. He was right. Baking helped relieve my fear, and we did sail into the sun.

Could we find our way out of the fog we were in now? Could we sail back into the sun? I wished it was as simple as navigating a ship out of the clouds.

I made it to Torte through the gravy-like fog. Time to focus on baking, Jules, I told myself as I unlocked the front door and quickly locked it again once I was inside. The fog was so thick I couldn't see across the plaza. Maybe that was a good thing.

I turned on the heat and the kitchen lights. It was just going to be me for the next hour or so. Stephanie had the day off, and Mom and Andy wouldn't arrive until sometime after five.

Thanks to having some time to myself yesterday afternoon, all the prep work was done for the morning's wholesale accounts. The order sheets were exactly where I'd left them on the island in tidy stacks. I preheated the oven, and started my yeast rising. Like my morning coffee ritual at home, my morning routine in the bakeshop rarely changes. With yeast rising, I got another pot of coffee started and assembled flour, sugar, salt, and sourdough starter.

It felt like déjà vu. At this time yesterday, I'd been following the exact same steps, only I never imagined that I'd find a dead body on my morning delivery routine. While I kneaded bread dough and formed it into soft balls to rise, I thought about everyone who might have wanted Mindy dead.

There was Mathew. He was the most obvious suspect, but what was his motive? I couldn't think of a reason that he would want Mindy dead. He and Richard Lord had been arguing about something yesterday. Could their fight be connected somehow? I wasn't sure. I was never sure when it came to Richard. And I certainly didn't want to have another conversation with him.

Alan Matterson definitely had motive, but he was such a laid-back and fun-loving guy. I couldn't imagine him hurting Mindy, even if he was upset about losing his restaurant. Could that be it? Could Mindy have killed his fun, so he killed her?

Then there was Rosalind. I would have to ask around today and see who else had witnessed her and Mindy fighting. Was it possible that she loved our town so much, she would kill to preserve it? I loved Ashland too, but not enough to kill for it.

The only other person I could think of who had a relationship with Mindy was Reggie, the cook who I'd met yesterday. He had been hanging around the plaza when Mindy was killed. His demeanor was less than friendly, but that didn't make him a killer.

I sighed and brushed flour from my hands. Perfectly round balls of bread dough lined the island. I placed them in greased bread pans, covered them with thin dish towels, and placed them on the industrial steel rack near the oven to rise. The heat emanating from the oven would give the yeast a boost.

Sundays tend to be a later start for our regular customers. Unlike the early morning weekday rush, our busiest hours on Sunday are around brunch. Locals come in for a late-morning coffee and pastry with the Sunday paper. I wanted to make something hearty and comforting to serve this morning, and I knew just the thing.

On cold winter mornings, my dad would bake a creamy potato casserole. With the bread rising, I gathered all the items I needed to recreate his casserole, with my own spin. I started by scrubbing russet potatoes. Once they were cleaned I pricked holes in them with a fork and dropped them into a pot of boiling water. They would boil until tender.

Next I chopped yellow onions and sautéed them in butter. I heated cans of cream of chicken soup with our homemade chicken stock, and added the onions and butter to the milky mixture. I let that simmer for a few minutes while I checked on my rising bread dough.

The round balls had stretched in the bread pans. I poked each one with my finger. The dough sprang back with every touch. My bread was ready to bake. I slid the pans into the oven, set the timer, and returned to my casserole.

Steam funneled from the pot of boiling potatoes. It reminded me of the fog outside. I turned the heat off and drained the potatoes. Once they had cooled I would peel and grate them. The kitchen windows began to drip with sweat and the smell of bread baking made me smile. This is how Sunday mornings should start.

I grabbed a cup of coffee and a block of sharp cheddar cheese and two pints of sour cream from the refrigerator. This casserole was not low in fat or milk products, but if it turned out the way I remembered, it would be a savory and creamy accompaniment to our sweeter offerings.

The coffee wasn't quite as strong as the pot I brewed at home. I'd used a breakfast blend. It's a customer favorite—a light roast with a bright finish.

I sipped it as I began peeling the potato skins. I shredded them into a large plastic bowl in the sink. Mom uses most of our fruit and vegetable waste for her garden at home. She takes home a container every night and dumps it into her composting bin. As Torte's menu continues to expand, her garden might have to as well.

After the potatoes had been skinned, I grated them and the cheddar cheese into another bowl. Then I poured the soup mixture over the top. I incorporated the cheese, soup, and potatoes and added both pints of sour cream, a handful of chopped fresh chives, and sprinkled in pepper and salt. The dish smelled exactly like I remembered it.

I poured the potatoes into two ceramic casserole pans and slid them into the oven with the bread. When Sterling arrived, I would have him fry some thick-cut bacon and breakfast sausage links to serve with the casserole.

My mouth watered as the cheesy potatoes began to bubble in the oven. The timer beeped to alert me that the bread was done. I pulled on oven mitts and removed the loaves of bread. They had nice golden crusts and had risen a few inches over the top of each pan.

As I was placing the bread on cooling racks, the front doorbell jingled. Sterling and Mom arrived together.

Mom flipped on the dining room lights. “Good morning, honey. It smells amazing in here.” She shook of her puffy white coat.

Sterling, not surprisingly, wasn't wearing a coat, just a gray hoodie with a skateboard design on the front. “Hey, Jules,” he said as he tugged an apron from the rack. “What do you want me to do?”

I pointed to the coffeepot. “There's coffee if either of you need a cup.”

Mom tucked her hair behind her ears and greeted me with a kiss on the cheek. “Have I told you lately how much I love having you home?”

I grinned. “You'd say that to anyone who offered you coffee. You should check it though. It's been sitting for about half an hour.” Coffee is the one thing that I admit I'm a snob about. I prefer my coffee scalding hot and freshly brewed. That's how we serve it at Torte. If a pot has sat for more than thirty minutes we'll refrigerate it to use in our dark chocolate cakes and coffee muffins but we won't offer it to our customers. Coffee turns to sludge, loses its flavor potency, and develops an acidic taste when it sits for more than thirty minutes. We pour all of our coffee into preheated carafes at the bakeshop to preserve its taste a little longer. If kept on the heating element, the oils that give coffee its rich taste will continue to burn off, making it bitter.

She elbowed me and winked. “I'm sure it's fine.” She grabbed a mug from the cupboard and turned to Sterling. “Do you want one too?”

“That would be awesome.” He watched me place the last loaf of bread on the cooling rack. “When did you get here, Jules?”

“Not that early.”

Mom shook her head. “Don't believe her, Sterling. She's a terrible liar. Have I ever told you the story of when she tried to convince her dad and me that she hadn't been swimming when she was soaking wet?”

“Mom, stop. You'll ruin my professional reputation.”

Sterling's bright blue eyes looked even lighter. “No way, I have to hear this now.”

Mom handed Sterling a cup of coffee. “It's true. Juliet was maybe seven or eight at the time. It was summer break and she was spending the night at a friend's house. They went swimming in the lake.”

“Ooh, busted,” Sterling teased.

“No, that was the funny thing,” Mom continued. “Her friend's mom took them swimming, but for some reason Juliet was worried that her dad and I would be upset, so when she arrived at the bakeshop with dripping wet hair she told us they got caught in a rainstorm. It was ninety degrees and sunny outside.”

Sterling laughed. “I can't imagine you doing that, Jules.”

“Me neither.” I frowned. “I remember that. I felt so bad because Dad wanted to take me to the lake. The city had installed a waterslide and he was so excited about it. I didn't want him to know that I had gone without you guys.”

Mom caught my eye and smiled. Her eyes looked misty. “You had to miss out on a lot of things. That's the drawback of owning a business. Your dad and I talked about it all the time.”

“No, Mom, I loved being part of Torte as a kid. I didn't feel like I was missing out.”

She sighed and smiled again. “But you did. Your dad and I felt bad about that.”

I walked over to her and put my arm around her shoulder. “Don't feel bad, I promise that Torte has always been the place for me.”

She smiled again, but there was a real sadness in her eyes. How had a funny conversation turned so heavy? I started to say more, but she clapped her hands together and pointed to the dry-erase board. “Okay, put us to work. What's next?”

We would have to revisit this conversation later. Maybe Mom didn't want to talk about our past in front of Sterling, but I wondered why she was so upset about my childhood. I had had an ideal lifestyle as a kid. Sure, I hung around Torte a lot, but it wasn't as if they forced me into slave labor. I loved sitting on a bar stool at the counter and watching my parents work. They would always offer me tastes of new recipes and seemed genuinely interested in my feedback.

Sterling pushed up his hoodie sleeves. “Yeah, what do you want me to do first?”

“Actually I was kind of hoping that you might be willing to do the deliveries this morning. Are you okay with that?”

“Not a problem.” He and Mom exchanged a look. I knew they both probably suspected that I didn't want to do the morning deliveries due to what happened yesterday. They were right.

“Will you tell Craig at the Green Goblin that I'll be over later with some tasting samples for him? I meant to stop by yesterday, but the day—well, you know.”

Sterling loaded bread into the delivery box. “No prob. I'll let him know.”

“Thanks, I really appreciate it.”

“I know.” Sterling hoisted the box into his arms and headed toward the front. “See you in a few.”

Mom took the cap off a dry-erase pen. She made a checkmark through the bread orders. “Wholesale orders are out the door. What's cooking? Something smells amazing, but I don't see anything up here.”

“I made Dad's potato casserole. I thought we could serve it with bacon and sausage for brunch.”

“I haven't had that in years. Yum.” Mom walked over to the oven and flipped on the light. She bent over to take a peek inside. “Oh, it's oozing with cheese and goodness. I can't believe you remember how to make it.”

“I don't—at least not exactly. I kind of pulled it together from memory and put my own spin on it.”

“You always were watching us, weren't you?”

“I was, and that's what I was trying to say a few minutes ago. I loved being a part of Torte, Mom.”

She turned the light off. “I know you did, honey. I feel bad sometimes that you didn't have a real childhood. I wonder how that affected you.”

“Mom, what's going on?”

“Nothing.” She walked back to the whiteboard and tapped on the list of baked goods we needed to fill the pastry case. “How about if I start on the scones and muffins?”

I could tell that she didn't want to talk about whatever was bothering her. I decided to drop it for the moment, but she and I weren't finished with this conversation. Growing up in Ashland and Torte had ignited my passion for food and travel. I didn't understand why Mom was suddenly nostalgic and blaming herself for ruining my childhood. Something else had to be going on with her, and I had a feeling it had something to do with the Professor.

 

Chapter Thirteen

Mom cubed butter for scones. I started on cookie dough. One of my favorite things to do with cookies is to combine unexpected flavors. I decide to make my chocolate-molasses crinkles.

The cookie dough I use for this recipe is a basic molasses base. I creamed butter, sugar, vanilla, molasses, ginger, and cinnamon together in a mixing bowl. I cracked in eggs, and then I sifted in flour, salt, and baking soda. The dough was a dark brown color. I tasted it with my pinky. It had a nice bite from the ginger, and the cinnamon and molasses gave it a spicy-sweet finish.

I shook a bag of dark-chocolate chips into the dough and mixed them in by hand. Molasses cookie dough does best if it's chilled. It's easier to work with and will make the cookies bake flat with a nice crisp on the outside and a chewy center. I chilled the dough and checked on my potato casserole. The potatoes had baked with golden brown edges. The cheese and soup mixture had melted together, creating a rich, thick, and creamy glaze.

It smelled divine. I removed the casserole dishes from the oven as Andy walked in the front door.

“Whoa. What smells so good, boss?” he asked, taking off his ski hat. His shaggy hair was naturally messy. The look worked for him. It matched his laid-back and easygoing style.

“It's a potato casserole,” I replied.

Andy came into the kitchen and stuck his head over the piping hot casseroles. “I could eat one of these myself.”