Caught Bread Handed (27 page)

Mom glanced at the clock. “It's after midnight.” She motioned to her flannel pajamas. “I'm not exactly dressed for going out. What did you have in mind?”

“We could bake.”

She refreshed her cup too. “We could bake. A little midnight snack, perhaps?”

“It's better than sitting here worrying. Let's go see what I have.” I stood and kissed her on the cheek. “Thanks, Mom. I don't know what I would do without you.”

“I feel exactly the same way about you.”

It had been a while since I had restocked my kitchen. I'd spent the early half of January at Lake of the Woods Resort catering a board retreat for Lance and then Carlos had come home with me. We'd been eating all around town for the past week. Carlos loves to dine out and sample other chefs' cuisine. He says that it inspires him to expand his palate. Often he'll create a delectable mash-up after going on a tasting tour at port. Some of his best creations came from blending unlikely regional foods, like his Greek and Cuban street tacos that he stuffs with marinated lamb and tops with a pineapple pepper salsa.

I opened the fridge and found butter, eggs, and buttermilk. “How do you feel about a coffee cake?” I asked Mom.

She already had rolled up her sleeves and was washing her hands. “That sounds great. Put me to work.”

“Can you grab the dry ingredients?” I asked, preheating the oven. One trick that works like a charm is to rest chilled butter on the stove as the oven is heating below. It's a quick way to bring butter up to room temperature. It's imperative to keep an eye on it so that it doesn't melt.

With the oven and butter warming, I measured buttermilk and beat the eggs with a fork in a separate bowl.

“What are you thinking about flavor?” Mom asked. She pulled a jar of cinnamon from the cupboard. “A good old-fashioned cinnamon crumble?”

“My favorite. Remember when you used to make that for Dad and me on Sunday mornings?”

“Your father loved that coffee cake.”

“He had good taste.”

“That he did.”

“Speaking of good taste, did you and the Professor have a chance to have a heart-to-heart?”

She unwrapped a chilled cube of butter and began cutting it together with brown sugar, cinnamon, and oats. “What does that have to do with good taste?”

“He's in love with you. That's good taste—no, fabulous taste—in my book.”

“You're biased.”

“Maybe, but it's true.”

She flicked me with her fingers. “We did talk last night, but I'm not sure that I feel any better.”

“What did he say?”

“He admitted that he's stressed about the case. Not that investigating a murder is ever easy but this case has gotten under his skin.”

“Did he say why?”

She shook her head. “No, he didn't. I don't think he knows. He mentioned that he's seriously considering retirement.”

“Really?”

“He's been training Thomas.” As she spoke Thomas's name she put her hand to her heart. “I hope they find him soon.”

“Me too.”

“Anyway, as you know, that's why he's been working so closely with Thomas. I thought he was still a few years away from actually retiring.” She stirred the dry ingredients. Watching her bake in her pajamas brought a flood of childhood memories. Since she and my dad both worked long hours in the bakeshop, she would wake extra early on the weekends and prepare a special crumble or casserole that she would leave with a note and baking instructions for me. Sometimes the smell of coffee or eggs would stir me. I would pad downstairs to the kitchen and watch her bake in her pajamas.

She caught me staring at her. “What is it?”

“Nothing.” I shook my head. “A happy memory.” I did a quick turn. “Plus I was thinking about how funny we must look. You in your pajamas and me in a black cocktail dress.”

“Maybe this could be our new look at Torte.”

I laughed. “Does the Professor think that Thomas is ready for that responsibility?”

“He thinks Thomas is an excellent and smart cop.”

“Me too,” I interrupted. “I didn't mean that. I just mean that it's a big jump to go from being an apprentice to running a full investigation.”

“That's what Doug thinks too. Some of it comes with time. He said that when he was starting out, he had to learn on the job. He made plenty of mistakes along the way.”

Thomas was a great cop. I'd seen how meticulous he was about following the letter of the law and recording every piece of evidence at a crime scene. However, I wasn't sure if
he
thought he was ready. He deferred to the Professor on every case. The Professor was more than Thomas's boss, he was a friend and a mentor.

Mom added the softened butter to a mixing bowl. The muscles in her forearm flexed as she stirred it with a wooden spoon. I measured level cups of packed brown sugar and granulated white sugar and added them to the butter.

“How soon do you think the Professor will retire?”

“I'm not sure. I advised him not to make any decision now that he might regret later. If he can close this case then hopefully he can take some time to think about what he wants to do next.”

“You don't you think he should retire?”

“Not necessarily.” She reached for the eggs and incorporated them into the batter. I alternated adding dry ingredients and the buttermilk. “Doug's work has defined him for a long time. I'm worried that if he quits without a plan, and without thinking it through, that he'll be lost.”

“He has his theater gigs.”

“That's a hobby,” Mom said, reaching for the vanilla extract. Her arm was too short. “Can you grab that?”

I leaned over her and pulled the vanilla from the top shelf.

“Dabbling in community theater and lecturing on Shakespeare's work around town every once in a while isn't the same as working full time. He's used to long hours—days and nights on the job. I know that we're getting older. Doug wants to travel while he's still young enough to enjoy it.”

“That sounds good.”

“Well, yes.”

I suddenly realized what was happening. I understood why Mom wasn't fully on board with the idea of the Professor retiring. It wasn't about him. It was about her. The Professor wanted to retire and take Mom on adventures around the world. Could it be that as I was beginning to put roots down in Ashland that Mom was thinking about leaving?

 

Chapter Thirty

“Mom, are you thinking about retiring too?” I asked as I greased an eight-by-eleven-inch pan.

“Not exactly.”

“What does that mean?”

She used to a spatula to scrap the creamy coffee-cake batter into the pan. I was acutely aware of the fact that she wasn't meeting my eyes. “You know that I love Torte and I especially love it now that you're home and we're working together. This has been one of the best times in my entire life.”

“I feel a ‘but' coming on.”

“You sound like your father.”

“Do I?”

“He used to say that all the time. I can hear his voice right now.” She sprinkled the butter, cinnamon, and oat mixture on top of the batter and slid it into the oven. Then she noticed me staring at her with an expectant gaze. “Don't look at me like that, Juliet.”

“Like what?”

“That forlorn face. You inherited that from your father too.”

“Mom, I'm not forlorn. I want to know if you're thinking of retiring, that's all.”

“It's complicated.”

“Is the Professor pressuring you to retire?”

She frowned. The lines on her forehead creased. “No. He's not pressuring me. He wants to travel and he made a good point that neither of us are getting any younger.”

“And if he retires then he wants you to join him, right?”

“In a perfect world, yes. But we've talked about many options. For example, if you're here and running Torte I could leave for a few weeks at a time and take longer trips with Doug.”

“Mom, yes, of course. You should go! You should travel. You've taken care of Torte, me, and everyone in town for decades. It's your turn now.”

She brushed cinnamon crumbs from her hands. “I know that you feel that way, Juliet, but your life is in flux too. I don't want to put pressure on you. You don't know that you're going to stay in Ashland forever. Torte was your father's dream and my dream. It wasn't yours. I would never ask you to give up your dreams.”

I set the timer on the oven. “Mom, I'm not going anywhere and you're not asking me to give up my dream. Torte is my dream now. I'm not saying that to make you feel better. I'm saying that because it's true.”

She unrolled her sleeves. “We are a pair, aren't we?”

“We're a perfect pair.” I pulled her toward the living room. “Let's go sit. I'm so exhausted.”

“Sounds good, but we're not done with this conversation, you know. You're not kicking me out of the bakeshop that easily.”

“We'll see about that.” I grinned. My grin quickly evaporated. The living room looked like a disco. White, blue, and red lights flashed through my front window and off the walls in a sinister rhythm.

We ran to the window. Mom shielded her eyes with her hands. “What's going on down there?”

I had no idea that Ashland had so many police officers. Sirens wailed as three more squad cars sped to screeching halts in front of the Merry Windsor. Cops with their guns drawn had surrounded the hotel. Between the blinding lights and officers spilling out of the cars that had just arrived on the scene, I couldn't tell exactly what was happening except that I was very glad not to be at the Merry Windsor at the moment.

“It looks like something out of a movie,” I said to Mom.

She nodded and yanked me away from the window as a loud boom sounded.

“What was that?” My heart lurched in response.

Mom ducked. We both crouched on our knees and peered out the base of the window. Someone was shouting in a bullhorn. Was it the Professor? “Come out. We have you surrounded. Let's bring this to a peaceful resolution.”

“Is that the Professor?” I whispered to Mom.

“Yes,” she whispered back, and then gave me a funny look. “Why are we whispering?”

“I don't know.”

Another bang sounded. Mom and I flinched and scooted closer together. The Professor shouted the command, “Move” into the bullhorn. Pandemonium broke out below. Police officers with flashlights, guns, and batons spread in every direction around the hotel. It was so surreal I almost expected Lance to stroll over, take the bullhorn out of the Professor's hand, and yell, “Cut.”

Only this wasn't a staged production. Mom's fingernails dug into my skin as the sound of gunshots reverberated through my tiny apartment. “Was that close?” I asked.

“No. I think that was across the street.” She loosened her grip on my arm and sat up a bit to get a better look.

Another shot fired. We both ducked again. It was impossible to tell if the cops were shooting or being shot at.

I could feel my heartbeat in my head. Where was Carlos? Please don't let him be in the middle of this, I prayed silently.

Mom sat up and took another look out the window.

“Can you see anything?”

She shook her head.

Heavy footsteps thudded up the stairs and on the landing. Someone pounded on my front door. I let out a little scream. Mom clutched my arm. “Don't move.”

Was it Mathew? Could he have a gun?

“Police!” a voice called from outside.

Mom squeezed my arm tighter and put her other finger to her lip.

My heart beat so fast I couldn't catch my breath.

“It could be anyone,” Mom hissed. “Don't answer it.”

Another knock pounded on the front door. “Police! We have an active shooter outside. Do NOT leave the premises.”

Mom put her hand to her heart. I tried to breathe through my nose.

“Should I answer it?”

“No.” She kept her voice low. “They told us to stay inside. That's what we're going to do.”

I nodded. The officer didn't knock again, but I didn't hear footsteps heading back down the stairs either. Mom was right. We needed to stay where we were and to stay quiet. The person outside was probably a cop, but it could also be Mathew in a ploy to trick us into opening the door.

More shots were fired. Someone was on the ground. Someone shouted, “We got him!”

A group of officers surrounded the man on the ground. It was too dark to make out anyone.

Another bang sounded on my door. “Stay inside. Keep your door locked until further notice.”

“I think he left,” Mom said as footsteps thudded down the stairs.

“It sounds like it.” I glanced out window again. Someone in handcuffs was being led to a police car. “Do you think it's over?”

“We can only hope.” She squinted. “I can't see Doug or Carlos. It's too dark.”

I'm not sure how much time passed. It felt like everything was happening in slow motion. My body began to quiver. I grabbed a blanket from the couch and wrapped it around Mom and me. We huddled together trying to figure out what was happening.

Mom's purse, which was hanging by the front door, began to vibrate and buzz. “My phone!” She jumped to her feet and hurried to answer it. “It's Doug,” she said.

“Answer it,” I said, tossing the blanket off. My foot bounced on the floor. Please let Carlos be okay.

I couldn't sit still as Mom listened to whatever the Professor was saying. Her face stayed passive and serious as she nodded and inserted a “mmm hmm” every so often.

She held up her index finger when I whispered, “What's he saying?”

“Okay, then. We'll be here, yes,” she said and hung up.

“What did he say?” The floor vibrated as I continued to shake my foot.