The next day I felt much more like myself. I woke to the smell of sausage and grilled onions. After a long shower with a refreshing eucalyptus and peppermint shower soother, I pulled on a pair of capris, a thin rainbow-striped sweatshirt, and my tennis shoes and headed downstairs to find Carlos and Ramiro busy in the kitchen again.
“Buenas!” Carlos greeted me with a coffee and a kiss. “How did you sleep, mi querida?”
“Really well.” I breathed in the scent of the eggs sizzling in olive oil on the stove. “And suddenly, I’m starving.”
Ramiro sprinkled fresh parsley on the dish. “We’re making you my favorite—huevos rotos.”
“I should pass out more often,” I teased, sliding into the breakfast nook. Huevos rotos, or “broken eggs,” was a classic Spanish dish made by sautéing Yukon gold potatoes with garlic and herbs until they were soft and tender inside and crispy on the outside. The potatoes were topped with sausage and pan-fried eggs, and seasoned with salt, smoked paprika, and fresh herbs.
My mouth began watering the minute Ramiro served me a plate with a side of buttered toast. “This looks amazing.” I dug my fork into the soft yolk, letting it ooze over the potatoes.
Ramiro poured himself a glass of fresh squeezed orange juice and a coffee and sat next to me. “How is it?”
“Um, it’s pretty much the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”
He ran his fingers through his thick dark hair and scrunched his face. “You’re saying that to be nice.”
“Nope. Well, wait, let me check something.” I devoured another bite, sopping up the runny yolk with the potatoes and stabbing a piece of sausage. The potatoes were like a cross between French fries and oven baked wedges. My mouth tingled from the smoky paprika and spicy sausage finished with the silky, buttery egg. “Yep, I’m sticking with my statement. This is the best breakfast ever.”
“You’re going to give him a big head,” Carlos said, wiping the edge of his plate with a napkin. Even at home, he couldn’t take the professional chef out of himself, making sure the presentation was flawless.
“It’s a sign that maybe I will have to be a chef.” Ramiro scarfed down his eggs and went in for seconds before I had finished mine.
“Are you seriously considering culinary school?” I asked, adding a small scoop of whipping cream to my coffee.
Ramiro shrugged and tried to sound nonchalant. “Maybe. It’s a possibility, but I still have a year to figure it out.”
Carlos met my eye as he joined us at the table. “You must follow your own path. If it leads you to the kitchen, I will be very happy, but I do not want to you to do this for me.”
“You don’t have to worry about that.” Ramiro scoffed and rolled his eyes as he went in for another bite of huevos rotos. “You’ve told me this a million times.”
“We want you to do something you love, not something you feel burdened by,” Carlos added, looking at me for confirmation.
I bobbed my head in agreement. Living with us this year meant that Ramiro had spent lots of time at Torte, Uva, and Scoops. The topic of him pursuing a culinary career had come up fairly consistently. I didn’t get the impression that Ramiro felt pressure to follow in his father’s footsteps, but Carlos was adamant that Ramiro explore every possibility before deciding on a career path. I appreciated his concern and that he was being intentional about giving Ramiro space to make his own choice. I had also witnessed Ramiro come alive in the kitchen. Food was in his blood, and I had no doubt that if he decided to attend culinary school, it would be because of that passion, not pressure from his dad.
“I know this, Papa.” Ramiro ended the discussion by telling us about the theme for prom. “It’s enchanted forest. I don’t know what that means, and do I get my date flowers?”
Enchanted forest sounded quintessentially Ashland. Our little corner of the Rogue Valley was a mecca for artists, entertainers, outdoor lovers, and modern hippies. “Yes, to flowers,” I said to Ramiro. “I can pop into A Rose by Any Other Name and ask Janet what’s popular these days.”
“Thanks. That would be great. We don’t have prom in Spain.” Ramiro used his toast to scoop up the remains of his breakfast.
“It’s mainly an excuse to dress up and dance all night.” I thought back to my proms with Thomas. At the time, I never would have imagined that we would both end up back in Ashland with different people, and yet still remain friends. I appreciated having a friend in my life who knew me when I barely knew myself. It was a gift to have the shared experience of our youth and now meet each other as adults.
We finished breakfast. Ramiro headed out to meet friends for spike ball in the park. Carlos insisted that he drive me to Torte and made me promise that I would call him immediately if the dizziness returned.
At the bakeshop I made sure to switch to decaf. Hopefully, whatever had been ailing me was in the past, and I could concentrate on baking and digging deeper into Jimmy’s murder.
An opportunity arose shortly after we opened, when I bumped into Sophie—literally. She was huddled at the far end of the pastry counter with the hood of a Fair Verona Players sweatshirt draped over her head and her face buried in her phone like she was trying to stay incognito.
“Sorry,” I said, repositioning a tray of raspberry cream croissants. “I didn’t see you there.”
She looked up and realized it was me. “Oh, hi, Jules. No, it’s my fault. I’m trying to avoid being seen.”
“By anyone in particular?” I checked around us. There was a short line for coffee and pastries, and a handful of tables were occupied. Sundays tended to be slower. Things would pick up for brunch, but the first few hours of opening usually brought in a steady trickle of customers needing a coffee or cardamom bun fix after a morning run or mountain biking session through Lithia Park.
“The entire troupe.” She gnawed on her thumbnail.
“Let me put these pastries away.” I pointed to one of the window booths. “Why don’t you grab a seat? Did you already put in an order, or can I bring you something?”
“That’s so nice of you, but you don’t need to go to any trouble.”
“It’s no trouble. It’s my job.”
She gave a half nod. “Okay, if you’re sure. I was just going to get a coffee and an egg sandwich.”
“Great. I’m on it.” I ducked behind the counter, placed the fresh tray of filled croissants in the case, and warmed up an egg sandwich. This was the opportunity I had been hoping for. I wanted to get a better sense of whether her grief was legit.
Sophie tugged off her hood as I slid into the booth and handed her the egg sandwich with melted Monterey Jack cheese, sliced avocado, and thick heirloom tomatoes. “This smells so good.” She cradled the coffee with her hands. “I need something—anything—to make me feel real. Everything feels so wrong right now.”
“I understand.” I hoped my tone sounded soft. “For what it’s worth, our philosophy here at Torte is that coffee and pastries might not be able to solve your problems, but sometimes having coffee with a friend is as good as therapy.”
“That’s good because I could use some therapy. I’m not sure this is even reality.” She pressed her finger into the breakfast sandwich, leaving an indent in the top of the biscuit. “Like, is this real? It smells real. It probably tastes real, but my mind can’t comprehend much right now.”
“Do you want to talk about it? I’m not a therapist, but I’m happy to lend a listening ear.” I wondered if the Professor had put her in contact with a trained psychologist.
She tugged on the strings of her sweatshirt. “It’s impossible to believe that he’s really dead, you know? I keep thinking I’m going to see him walking through the plaza or get a text from him, and then every time that happens, I have to remind myself.”
“That’s very normal. You’re in shock and likely will be for a long time. My dad died when I was young, and still to this day, I’ll have moments where I see a flash of someone from behind or smell someone wearing his cologne and have to stop myself from running up to hug them.”
“Really?” Sophie’s voice wavered. “I don’t know if that makes me feel better or worse.”
She was so young. I wanted to wrap her in a hug, but I had to remind myself that it could be an act. She could be a killer.
“There’s no escaping grief. It evolves and shifts with time, but loss stays with us,” I said, feeling a familiar tightness in my throat. “I think in some ways it’s beautiful. It’s a reminder that we loved and were loved. I never thought I would say this, but there are days now where I welcome grief. I know it sounds strange, but it helps me feel connected to my dad. I’ve learned to make space for my sadness and find ways to celebrate him, like baking his favorite cake on his birthday. Things might feel out of balance now. That’s normal. Give yourself time.”
She bit into the egg sandwich. Melty cheese dribbled down her fingers. “That’s a good way of looking at it. Although I’m not sure I was loved. I loved Jimmy, but I don’t think he was in love with me.”
Her demeanor and words made me question Olive’s perspective. Unless Sophie was a stellar actress, her grief felt raw and authentic. If I didn’t know anything about Jimmy’s murder, I would have pegged her for a young woman with a broken heart.
“Did he know how you felt?” I asked, handing her a napkin. “Were things serious?”
“Yes, of course. Not that things were serious, but that he knew how I felt.” She wiped her fingers and then fiddled with the string on her sweatshirt. “I mean, it’s no secret that everyone had a little crush on Jimmy. His charm was captivating; it would be pretty impossible not to fall under his spell.”
I wasn’t sure that was how I would categorize his personality, but then again, Jimmy Paxton was not my type. It was clear everyone in the troupe had struggled with Jimmy’s abrasive personality. One of the reasons I’d fallen hard for Carlos early on was his tender heart and lack of toxic masculinity. Carlos wasn’t afraid to be vulnerable or express his love for me, Ramiro, and everyone in his sphere. I couldn’t imagine falling for someone as brash and self-absorbed as Jimmy, but then again, I wasn’t in my early twenties.
“People think that he had an ego, but that comes with being on the stage. He was really kind and totally different when we hung out alone.”
This was an interesting revelation. She and Jimmy had spent time alone.
“Did you hang out often?” I asked.
“Not as much as I would have liked, but his schedule was always busy with rehearsals, side gigs, and auditions.” She nibbled on her sandwich.
“I didn’t realize he was auditioning.” My eyes drifted outside to the plaza where a volunteer crew watered the hanging baskets overflowing with colorful geraniums.
“Yeah, he had a big break. He was heading to LA soon to shoot a pilot.”
She had mentioned this at Uva, but I had forgotten to ask Lance whether he or the rest of the staff knew about Jimmy’s potential departure. I made a mental note to ask Lance about it when I saw him next, but I wanted Sophie to keep talking.
“He was so excited. I was there when he got the call from his agent. He was like a little kid at Christmas, bouncing off the walls. This was the real deal. If the pilot went well, the show had a good shot of being picked up for network TV.”
“That would have meant he would have to leave Ashland, though, right?” A new thought entered my mind—could Jimmy’s departure from Taming of the Shrew give anyone a motive for killing him? It seemed like a stretch, but it was something to consider. Could the killer have benefited in some way from Jimmy remaining in the production and in Ashland?
Someone like Sophie, who was desperately in love with him?
“Yeah. He was planning to tell leadership after opening.”
“Do you know when he was going to leave?”
She shook her head and ripped off a piece of the breakfast sandwich. “I don’t know, probably in a couple of weeks. He mentioned that he’d be able to do next weekend’s performances too, but he wasn’t sure after that. Depending on the timing, he was looking into the possibility of flying up to do the show on the weekends. It’s not a long run, so it seemed like there might have been a way to make it work if Bertie, Tom, and Lance were on board.”
“But you don’t think he had spoken with them before he was killed?”
“No.” She circled her shoulders like she was trying to loosen the tension in her neck. “I know he hadn’t, because he wanted to work the angle of doing both the pilot and keeping the lead in the show. He’s a working actor, like most of the troupe; he needed the money.”
“Do you have the sense that anyone would have been resistant to the idea? Jimmy was so good in the role. I can’t imagine that Lance and the rest of the executive team wouldn’t have done everything in their power to try and find a way to make it work.”
“You would think, but there were a few members of the company who were out to get him. I told you about Ed. I’m still convinced that Ed was behind the accidents, but he’s not the only one.”
“Anyone else in particular?”
She rested her elbows on the table. “I told the police about this, but I don’t trust Olive.”
“Olive?” It was interesting that the two women were putting the blame on each other. “Why?”
She leaned closer and darted her eyes toward the Lithia bubblers in the center of the plaza. “Olive and Jimmy had a huge falling out. He caught her doing something she wasn’t supposed be doing.”
That was about as vague as possible. I waited, hoping Sophie might expand and say more.
“The police know, so I think it’s okay for me to share this.” She paused and looked around the dining room.
Was she worried that someone was listening to our conversation?
“Jimmy caught Olive reselling costume pieces.”
That wasn’t what I expected her to say. “Like underground costume trafficking?” I chuckled, imagining Olive sneaking down a long dark alleyway with a pile of fluffy rainbow tulle skirts in her arms.
“Basically, yes.” She gestured with her palms open, like she was trying to convince me. “None of the costumes or props are to leave the set or dressing rooms. That’s standard across all productions. Sure, there are always actors who will pocket a memento, and occasionally they’ll speak with wardrobe and the costume designer to arrange to keep a piece, but that’s a rarity. Most of the costumes get repurposed. It’s an expensive part of the budget, and everyone in the company knows that. It was made clear to all of us from day one of table reads that anything used on set stays on set.”
I was aware of this practice. Often audience members assumed that when sets were taken down, they were destroyed, but the reality was that many elements in sets and costumes were reused in future productions. Generic set pieces like tables, chairs, fake swords, and candelabras could be in a variety of different shows. Similarly, costumes were often altered and repurposed. Every item from a performance, whether it was a prop plastic apple or organza gown, was itemized and tracked. Reselling pieces was a violation of Olive’s contract.
“She’s been making a ton of money on the side, illegally selling pieces that OSF lent to the Fair Verona Players. Jimmy caught her in the act, confronted her, and warned that he was going to alert the executive team.”
“Did he tell the team?” I asked.
“No. They got into a wicked argument about an hour before the show. That’s how I found out. I overheard them backstage. He never had a chance to go to the police or tell anyone else because he was killed. At first I thought maybe Ed did it, but the more I think about it, I’m sure that Olive killed him to keep him silent about her secret side gig.” Her voice grew shriller. “It makes perfect sense. She realized that Jimmy was going to spill her secret, so she killed him to keep him quiet. It had to be her. She’s ruined everything. I was going to marry Jimmy Paxton, and now my life is over.”