The Diva Says Cheesecake!

I love baking cheesecakes. They’re so much less work than layer cakes. But they always crack! What am I doing wrong?

Pass the Cream Cheese, Please! in Cheeseville, Wisconsin

Dear Pass the Cream Cheese, Please!,

There are a number of reasons. The first is over-baking. You may be leaving it in the oven too long. Or you could be cooling it too fast. Try leaving it in the oven after you turn off the heat. Or you could be baking at a temperature that is too high. Try adjusting these things one at a time and see what works for you.

For just a few seconds, I stopped breathing. Had Spencer killed his dad? Was he about to confess? I gazed at him surreptitiously. He wore large running shoes. His feet probably hadn’t stopped growing yet. I knew he towered over me, probably over Tate, too. He would have been strong enough to move Tate. He was intimately familiar with the restaurant. And he knew the Eklunds weren’t home. I wondered if Spencer was on Wolf’s suspect list.

Speaking softly, I asked, “What would you like to undo?”

“Everything. I wish I hadn’t been a jerk. I wish I had been kinder and spent more time with him. I wish my last words to him hadn’t been so ugly.”

I assumed he meant the argument they had. “What did you argue about?”

He snorted. “Advanced placement classes for next year. He was pushing me to do them, but I didn’t want to.” Spencer sighed. “He was right. I knew he was right all along. I just didn’t want to have to work that hard.”

I silently let out a long breath of relief. I hoped that was all and he hadn’t been angry enough to bash a bottle of champagne over his father’s head. Even if he hadn’t, I feared Tate’s death would force Spencer to grow up very fast. It was a painful way to mature. He deserved a couple more years of thinking like an aggravated kid. But those years were taken from him when the bottle hit Tate over the head.

“Pierce is driving me crazy. He acts like he thinks he’s my father. Like he can just step in and take over. But I remember. Why do people always think kids are too stupid to understand what’s going on? Maybe I don’t remember the day he left, but I will never forget growing up without him. Tate was more of a dad to me than Pierce ever could be. Hanging around now won’t make up for the years when I needed him. I had a great dad and a coach. I didn’t need Pierce.”

“I’m really sorry about the pain you had as a child. But I’m glad Tate came along and filled that void.”

“I’ve been talking to him. Is that weird? Like, have I gone mental or something?”

“I think it’s very normal and that a lot of people talk to those they’ve lost.”

“Are you just saying that to make me feel better?”

“No. I’m being honest.”

“That’s a relief. None of my friends have had a parent die yet. Much less be murdered.”

“You worked for your dad, right?”

He nodded. “The restaurant is opening back up today, but Mom doesn’t want me working there anymore.”

“Dunno.” He frowned. “I swear it’s like they never let me out of their sight since Tate was killed. They’re probably freaking out right now.”

“Can you blame them?”

“I don’t know if Mom would survive losing me or Jo.”

“That’s probably why she’s keeping tabs on you.”

“They’re going to send me away.”

“Are you serious?”

Spencer took a deep breath. “I overheard Mom and Pierce talking about it.”

Had that been discussed between Tate and Bobbie Sue after the big argument over advanced placement classes? It might have already been in the works. I tried to soften the blow. “Maybe they think it will be easier on you if you’re in a new environment instead of feeling Tate’s absence every day. In a few years you’ll be off to college anyway.”

“How do I know that the guy who murdered my dad isn’t going to knock off my mom, too?”

His question stunned me. It had never even crossed my mind that anyone would also want to murder Bobbie Sue. “Why would you think that?”

Spencer shrugged. “I figure Dad must have ticked off somebody big-time. Maybe a business deal went bad or something? If that’s what happened, my mom was probably involved, too.”

I tried to press him. “Do you know of anything like that? Anyone who was angry with your parents?”

He seemed to think about it. “No. But they didn’t tell Jo and me everything. Especially about the businesses.”

He stood up, towering over me. “How long does it take to get over someone’s death?”

“You never get over it. You learn to live with it.”

He turned abruptly and ran, which I gathered he did quite often. It was his way of dealing with pain and sorrow.

Later that afternoon, Mars drove me to the dealership to pick up my car. On the way home, I stopped at a couple of big box stores to replenish supplies and visited a grocery store as well before heading home. It was dusk when I pulled into my detached garage. A covered outdoor dining area and walkway connected it to the French doors in the living room.

I carried in a load of bulky items and set them on the kitchen floor so I could pet Mochie and Daisy. When the welcome home had subsided, I returned to the car for groceries, accompanied by Daisy. It was dark by then. I switched on the outdoor light over the French doors but it didn’t extend far into the yard. Carrying more bags than I should have, I left the garage and was walking toward the house when someone grabbed me from behind.