Meet Your Baker (7 page)
“That’s where I come in?”
“Exactly. You’re in the perfect position—everyone is going to come in to Torte in the next few days to get the gossip. Keep your ears open. People are more inclined to share their secrets at a bakeshop than at police headquarters. You’re a new face in town so you might be able to pick up something fresh, plus you’ve inherited your mom’s listening skills.”
“I have?”
“Jules, come on. You have to know that people are naturally drawn to you, and it’s not just because you make a killer croissant.”
Heat rose in my cheeks.
“Did the Professor really tell you he wanted my help?”
Thomas pretended to busy himself with his laptop bag. “Not exactly.” He stood and slung the bag around his shoulder. “Hey, do you have a cell phone?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“Let’s exchange numbers. That way if anything comes up you can call me directly.”
I reached to the bookshelf, found my phone at the bottom of my purse, and offered it to him. “You do it. I don’t know how.”
“Jules, this is the twenty-first century.”
“I’ve been on a ship for a while.” I thrust my phone into his hand.
Thomas clicked my phone on. “I seem to remember you were going to call me from your luxury liner back in the day.”
He cleared his throat and tossed me the phone. “All set. Just be yourself. If you hear anything you think might be significant, call me right away, okay?”
“Sure, I’ll keep my ears open.”
After all,
I thought,
what harm could that do?
Wow, was I ever wrong.
After Thomas left I spent a good chunk of time sliding my phone on and punching in Carlos’s number. Each time I started to hit “call,” I shut the phone off. I think I did it about fifteen times before I finally shoved the phone in the back pocket of my jeans and got up from the couch.
I made a promise to myself when I walked off the ship that I wouldn’t call him for at least a month. It had barely been three days, but it felt like I’d lived an entirely new life in the short hours that had passed. I’d give anything to hear his rich, gravelly Spanish voice whispering words of comfort in my ear right now.
Instead I decided to cook, my go-to form of distraction. The kitchen is the only place I can really lose myself.
Alas, the apartment kitchen reminded me of a glorified college dorm. Mom—love her—had stocked the cupboards before I arrived. I opened the fridge and to my amazement it was stuffed with fruit, veggies, meat, cheese, milk—you name it. I could definitely pull something together with this spread.
I knew exactly what I wanted to make—a summer pasta salad. If I sautéed a sauce and boiled some pasta now before it got too hot, I could serve it cold later. I took organic chicken breasts, tomatoes, two ears of corn, an onion, and a bunch of cilantro from the fridge and dug through the drawers to find a plastic cutting board.
While I melted a dab of butter in a frying pan, I went to work chopping onions and tomatoes. I added the onions to the butter and allowed them to caramelize. After they began smelling succulent I threw in the tomatoes and cooked them down to bring out their sweetness. Next, I searched for a Bundt pan to remove the corn from the cob.
It’s one of the million tricks I learned in culinary school. Stand the cob in the center of the Bundt pan, run a sharp knife in long strokes downward, and presto, all the kernels fall into the pan. Fortunately the tiny galley kitchen had a Bundt pan.
The smell of the onions and tomatoes cooking together invaded every inch of the small kitchen.
Once the juices gelled, I added strips of chicken, a few good glugs of boxed chicken stock I found in the cupboard, the corn, and a healthy twist of salt and pepper. I left that simmering and filled a stockpot with water. Mom must have gotten one of every kind of pasta in the store. I riffled through boxes of penne, elbow, linguine, and rigatoni noodles, before landing on angel hair.
With the promise of heat this afternoon, angel hair would be a light and delicate pasta to pair with my sauce.
I kept close watch on the pasta as it boiled. The noodles are so thin it’s easy to overcook them. Soggy pasta will ruin any dish.
While the kitchen filled with the soothing smell of onions, I thought about what Thomas said. Could whoever killed Nancy be someone I know?
Steam warmed my face. I clicked on the fan above the stove and thought about my bizarre interaction with Mia. What was she really doing in the park that early in the morning, and why were her hands covered in jam? What if it wasn’t jam? Could it have been Nancy’s blood?
Was she lying about dating Andy? Mom said she didn’t think they were dating. But why would Mia lie?
I stirred the softening pasta. It felt ready. I used a fork to pull one of the floppy noodles from the scalding water. Sure enough, it was tender with just a hint of an al dente center. Perfection.
As I dumped the noodles and water into a colander in the sink, I reviewed what Andy had told me about the Midnight Club meeting last night. It sounded like Nancy had once again angered the entire group, but could Andy have had something to do with her murder? He seemed cagey when I asked him about the evening. Was he just rattled by Nancy and Richard, or could he be lying about something?
I removed the lid from the sauce. It smelled fresh, like a slice of summer. I stirred the amber liquid, added a splash of cream and a handful of cilantro. Then I poured it over the cooling pasta and carefully mixed it together so as not to damage the noodles.
My cell phone rang, startling me. I wasn’t in the habit of hearing it ring. At sea we were almost always out of range until we came back to port.
Torte’s number flashed on the screen.
Mom’s voice was breathless when I answered. “Juliet? Honey, you better get back here quick.”
“What’s going on?” I balanced the phone between my neck and ear and opened the fridge. I’d have to shuffle things around to find a place for the pasta.
“It’s Andy—”
I accidentally dropped the phone. Oops. I hurried to squeeze the pasta in the fridge and picked up the phone.
Carlos’s face and number made me drop the phone again. One of the dancers on the ship had taught me how to assign a photo to a contact. I’d given Carlos’s number my favorite picture of the two of us together. It was taken at sunset under a serenely orange and purple sky. In the photo Carlos is twirling me on the top deck. We look really happy. Carlos’s head is thrown back in a laugh. The hemline of my black cocktail dress is swinging in the wind. My loose blond hair flows free—like it’s floating along with the ship. Carlos’s naturally tanned arm holds mine tight. As if he’s saying, “I won’t let you go.”
Only, he did.
I inhaled through my nose and let out a huge breath of air.
With trembling hands I picked the phone back up just in time to see Carlos disappear from the screen.
Mom’s voice came through, her voice unsteady. “Juliet? Are you still there?”
“Sorry. I dropped the phone.” I was glad she couldn’t see me. It looked like my hand was convulsing. “What did you say about Andy?”
“Juliet, he told me he wants to confess to Nancy’s murder.”
I shifted the phone on my ear. “Wait, Mom, it sounded like you said Andy wants to confess?”
“Can you believe it? Our sweet Andy.”
“What? I’ll be right there.”
I clicked off the phone. Nothing made sense. Why would Andy confess? How could the gentle, kind barista murder someone? I know I had just met him, but that seemed about as likely as him pulling a bitter shot of espresso.
The phone buzzed in my hand again. I looked at the screen. It read:
VOICEMAIL: CARLOS
Not now.
I left my phone on the kitchen counter, transferred the pasta into a large plastic bowl, and headed back to Torte.
The lunch rush was in full swing outside. The sun floated on a single cloud in the sky like a glass ball bobbing out to sea. Main Street was full of chattering couples and families browsing the shops, kids with dripping ice-cream cones and women toting expensive bags.
Tour buses navigated the narrow streets, stopping in the central parking lot to let off student groups and retirees in town for the show.
Torte would take a hit from missing out on all of these potential customers. I needed to take a look at the books. I was worried about Mom’s comment yesterday. What had she meant about money being tight? Hopefully Thomas and the Professor would be able to finish their investigation today.
This felt like déjà vu. Hadn’t I just been here a few hours earlier, preparing to open the bakeshop for an easy day of baking handcrafted pastries? A wave of dizziness washed over me. I reached for a black iron lamppost adorned with a bright red and yellow lion’s crest flag to steady myself.
When I arrived at Torte, I found Mom sitting next to Andy, whose eyes looked puffy and red. His baseball hat rested on his knee.
The kitchen was abuzz with police activity. Thomas and the Professor looked to be pacing off distances between the outline of where Nancy’s body had been and the front counter.
I put the pasta on top of the pastry case and made my way over to Mom and Andy. The bakeshop felt empty and cold. Police chatter crackled on walkie-talkies. The entire space was coated in fingerprint powder. A far cry from the cheery warm-scented vibe yesterday.
“Andy,” I said, with a firmness I’d learned on the ship. “What’s this all about? You want to confess to killing Nancy?”
Mom looked at me. The bags under her eyes had returned. Even the gray streaks in her hair seemed more defined. She shook her head. “That’s my fault. When Andy said he needed to confess, I jumped to the wrong conclusion.”
She ran her hand up and down Andy’s arm. “I’m going to grab you a Kleenex. Would you be willing to tell Juliet what you shared with me?”
Andy flipped his baseball cap onto the table and gave Mom a half smile. “Thanks, Mrs. C. I’m really sorry.”
Mom squeezed his shoulder. “Don’t give it a thought. I’m not upset and I’m not going to fire you. We are going to call Detective Curtis over in a few minutes though, okay?”
Andy nodded. He twisted the cord to his headphones around his hand and didn’t meet her eyes.
Catching my eye, she put her hand on her heart in sympathy for Andy.
“Get me up to speed,” I said. “I know you didn’t kill Nancy, but what exactly did you confess to?”
Andy rubbed his temples and looked down at the table. “Look, boss, I know I should have told you this morning, but I freaked out when I learned Mrs. Hudson was dead because I’m pretty sure I know who did it.”
“Can you start from the beginning?”
He twisted the cord tighter. “I sort of left out a couple things that happened last night.”
“Andy, why don’t you put the headphones away?” I suggested.
“Huh?” He stared at his wrist.
“You look like you’re cutting off circulation.”
He unwound the thin white cord and stuck the headphones into the pocket of his cargo shorts. A red line was etched on his wrist.
“You wanna keep going?” I asked.
He nodded, still focused on the table. “I didn’t tell you that Mia was here. Do you know her?”
“I met her this morning, in fact.”
“Yeah, well, she’s a friend.” He turned as red as the walls. “Anyway, Mrs. Hudson hired Mia a few weeks ago to write her life story. Mia was excited to have a paying gig at first. She’s working her way through school like me, so every dollar helps. But Mrs. Hudson was horrible to her.” He looked up, meeting my eyes for the first time. His face looked sincere and boyish.
Mom returned with a box of tissues, three bowls, and my pasta. “She was horrible to everyone,” she said, handing Andy the tissue and setting the pasta on the table.
“This smells incredible, Juliet.” She scooped pasta into the bowls. “I think we could all probably use a little sustenance. Go on, Andy, I’ll dish this up.”
Andy blew his nose and balled the tissue in his hand. “Well, last night Mia was here, and when Mrs. Hudson came in—like I told you, she was plastered—she fired Mia in front of everyone. Told her she wasn’t fit to write a wanted ad, let alone a life story. Mia was really upset.”
Mom passed bowls of cilantro pasta to each of us. The smell of the pasta seemed to perk Andy up.
He twirled his fork in his bowl. “Mia needed that job. And she worked really hard too. She’d been doing a ton of research. I don’t understand why Mrs. Hudson fired her.”
He stopped and took a bite.
In my rush to leave the apartment, I’d forgotten to taste it. That’s rule number one in culinary school—always taste before the customer does.
I took a taste of the thick sauce. The tomatoes and corn popped with flavor. I know that butter gets a bad rap, but sautéing veggies in butter allows a richness to infuse the vegetables that you just can’t achieve with anything else.
I was pleased with the pasta and even more pleased to taste something fresh and alive.
Andy wiped the side of his mouth with the tissue and continued. “When I went to lock up last night, Mia asked me if it would be okay if she stayed for a while. She said she had some important information she needed to get down.” He glanced at the crime scene in the kitchen. “I know I shouldn’t have let her, but I never imagined something like this would happen.”
He set his fork on the side of his bowl. “The truth is”—he paused and looked me directly in the eye—“I didn’t lock up last night. I gave Mia my key.”
Mom raised her eyebrows at me. Were her lids dusted with gold shadow, or was it a trick of the light?
My mind raced, trying to connect all the dots. It all made sense, running into Mia at the park like that—she must have just come from killing Nancy. But what motive could a mousy girl like Mia have for murdering Nancy? I mean, getting fired seemed like a stretch.
“So Mia was here when you left?” I asked, twirling pasta around my fork.
“Yeah, but Mrs. Hudson wasn’t. She’d left about an hour earlier with Richard Lord. She must have come back for some reason.” Andy polished off his bowl and helped himself to more.
