After my conversation with the Professor, I returned to Torte with a new resolve. Tonight I would talk through possibilities with Carlos, and tomorrow I would start posting ads for new staff.
“Hey, boss, Mrs. The Professor is looking for you,” Andy called from behind the espresso bar as I stepped inside.
“Is she downstairs?”
“Yeah, can you take this to her? I made her a double vanilla latte with a little something special.” He passed me a creamy latte. “Do you need a drink?”
“No, I’m good, but I’m happy to deliver this.” I took the drink downstairs. Mom was chatting with a group of customers seated around the atomic fireplace.
I waited for her to finish her conversation. Her eyes lit up when she noticed me.
“Coffee delivery, courtesy of Andy.” I held up the ceramic diner-style mug.
“Lucky me.” She took the coffee and studied me with concern for a long minute. “How are you feeling this morning?”
“Much better.” I peered into the kitchen and lowered my voice. “I had a very sweet chat with the Professor, and I’m going to make some changes. I think it’s past time.”
Mom put her free hand to her chest and smiled with relief. “I’m glad to hear that, honey. The bakeshop is thriving. Carlos is expanding everything at Uva. I think this is a perfect time for you to focus on you.”
“Yeah, I guess I’ve sort of shifted away from what I love, which is baking. I mean, I do find time to be in the kitchen every day, which is good. But our chat made me realize how much time I spend thinking about all the other things—schedules, vendors, supplies, events, orders.”
She nodded knowingly.
“I don’t need to tell you this; you did it yourself for years.”
“Oh, but not like you, Juliet.” She inhaled through her nose and shook her head. “You’ve taken Torte to an entirely different level since you returned home.”
“Mom.”
“I’m serious.” She gave me her best mom look. “It made sense at first. The bakeshop was a distraction and something positive for you to focus your attention on. I’m forever thankful for that. Your arrival couldn’t have come at a better time for me, selfishly.”
“It was meant to be,” I interrupted.
“Yes, and things change and evolve.” She motioned to the wood-fired pizza oven. “You’ve expanded Torte and opened Scoops and completely revamped Uva. The business side of things is consuming all your time. I worry that you’re not able to do what you love the most—bake. Things are thriving, so this feels like the perfect time to add some new staff to be able to reduce your workload, especially because I’m not as much help these days either.”
“You’re always a help, Mom.”
“You know what I mean. Doug and I have plans to travel, and I’m quite happy to pop in without the responsibility of the day-to-day tasks, but you’re doing the lion’s share of the work.”
“That’s as it should be.” I pointed to the team, who were crumb-coating cakes and slicing pizzas.
“Spin that advice around to you.” She raised her eyebrows. “And do promise me that you’re also going to follow up with your doctor.”
“I’ll make an appointment tomorrow.” I made an X over my heart. I should have been more proactive about Torte’s growth and the empire I was building in Ashland. My head chef in culinary school had cautioned us that owning and managing a bakery was a very different beast from working as a pastry chef. The former meant that the vast majority of your time would be reserved for the business side of baking. The latter meant that the bulk of your days would be spent sculpting cakes and testing new recipes. I wanted a balance of both.
She gave me a thumbs-up. “Good, now it sounds like I have some baking to do.”
We went into the kitchen together. Mom sipped her coffee and caught up with Bethany and Steph while I washed my hands and tied on a fresh apron.
Sterling grilled onions on the stove with his left hand, while thumbing through a recipe with his other.
“What’s your day like tomorrow?” I asked, wafting the sweet aroma of caramelized onions toward my face.
“Umm, more of this.” He flipped an onion slice with tongs. “Why?”
“Can we do lunch? I have a proposal I want to talk to you about.”
Was it just my imagination, or did he look worried? His steel-blue eyes flickered briefly before he nodded. “Uh, yeah, actually, I have something I need to talk to you about.” He glanced at Steph.
“Let’s go to a late lunch at the Green Goblin,” I suggested. “After the lunch rush here. Maybe two-ish?”
“That works.” He turned the flame on the gas burner down and removed the pan from the heat.
“I’ll make a reservation.” I felt relieved knowing that I was taking a first step toward lightening my load. Sterling had proven his work ethic, cooking skills, and ability to be a team player. Hopefully the shift would be positive for both of us. I could scale back a bit, and Sterling could have even more autonomy and responsibility. Not to mention a bump in his salary.
I grabbed the next specialty order from the whiteboard and made sure no one else had started on the cake. It was my favorite kind of order—the chef’s choice. The only instructions were decadent flavors and a spring design. The cake was for an eightieth birthday party and needed to serve ten people.
I knew what I wanted to bake—a triple-layer cake with chocolate, banana, and white sponges. I would cover each cake with pastry cream and fresh bananas. Then I would frost it with our French buttercream, a dark chocolate drizzle, and pretty spring buttercream flowers.
For the first layer, I whipped butter and sugar in our industrial mixer; then I added eggs, mashed bananas, vanilla, and a touch of cinnamon. I greased baking tins and cut out parchment paper circles for the base of each pan.
As I slid the banana cakes into the oven, my thoughts drifted to Sterling’s response to my lunch invitation. What did he want to talk to me about? Did it have to do with Steph?
They had moved in together. Could he be thinking of proposing? She was done with school, and he had finally met her parents. Were they taking things to the next level? A Torte wedding—how amazing would that be?
Another thought came to mind.
They couldn’t have broken up, could they?
I tried to keep a subtle eye on their body language and interactions as I made the batter for my chocolate and white sponges. If they were on a break, neither of them gave any indication of animosity.
To be fair, Steph wasn’t the easiest person to read. She tended to keep her emotions in check and safely guarded. Sterling was equally private. He was a skilled listener. If he hadn’t had a passion for food, he would have made a fabulous counselor with his ability to hold space without needing to say anything, allowing his emotions to lead. They were both wise beyond their years and a good match.
They were acting normal, bantering every once in a while, but mainly keeping their attention on the tasks at hand—Sterling at the stove and Steph at her decorating station.
I sifted cocoa powder in with the other dry ingredients—flour, salt, and baking powder—and added them to the mixer in alternation with buttermilk, beating it into a smooth batter. I then used one of my favorite tricks to punch up the chocolate flavor. I added miniature dark chocolate chips to give a nice pop of chocolate in each slice. But before I incorporated them into the batter, I dusted them with flour. This would ensure that the chips wouldn’t sink to the bottom of the cake while it was baking. There’s nothing worse than a soggy, chocolatey cake bottom.
I placed the chocolate cakes in the oven and got more eggs from the walk-in for my white sponge. To keep the cake light and airy, I whipped egg whites until they formed soft, glossy peaks. Then I carefully folded them into my mixture. The egg whites would give the sponge an airy texture and make for a perfect top layer. I reserved the yolks for the pastry cream.
Not all white cakes were the same. When we took custom cake orders, customers often asked for clarification about the difference between a white and a yellow cake. The answer was easy—yolks. Yellow cakes used the entire egg, resulting in a slightly denser consistency and a custardy flavor. White cakes had less fat and more sponginess. They were our go-to cake for weddings.
With each of my cakes baking, I could begin on my pastry cream. The pudding-like cream would provide a nice base for the sliced bananas between each layer of sponge. Making a pastry cream involved whisking whole milk and sugar over medium-high heat and tempering a mixture of egg yolks and flour. If the eggs were added to the hot milk too quickly, they would scramble and turn out gummy. To avoid this, I slowly added half the yolk mixture while the milk was simmering, whisking constantly. Then I added the next half and kept whisking until the pudding thickened. The final step was adding butter and vanilla.
I dipped my pinkie into the batter, admiring its silky-smooth texture. The vanilla lingered on my tongue. As a chef, it was my responsibility to taste at every stage of the baking process. It was a practice I had passed on to my team.
I poured the warm pudding into a bowl, covered the top with a piece of plastic wrap to prevent a skin from forming, and set it in the refrigerator to cool completely. Once it had chilled, I would pipe it onto the cakes.
Bethany had already made French buttercream, so I went through our natural food gels to decide on a color palate for the cake. Gels brought out the clarity and brilliance of colors without adding extra liquid to the frosting. Officially called “icing colors,” gels consisted of a corn syrup and glycerin base that resulted in a much more intense color.
I opted for blues, greens, and purples. Once my cakes had cooled and the pastry cream had set, I stacked the layers and frosted a crumb coat in a sky blue buttercream.
Then I used a side sweep texturing method to create a swath of green, purple, and navy buttercream stars, shells, flowers, and dots. I finished the cake with fancy sprinkles and hand piped Happy Birthday on the top.
The party was taking place at Harvey’s, a wood and brass pub just up Main Street from Torte. I decided to deliver the cake myself. A little walk would do me good, and it was always fun to get to see customers’ reactions.
The moody atmosphere of Harvey’s, with its stained-glass table lamps, brick walls, wooden booths, and touches of brass throughout, was fitting to celebrate an eightieth birthday. Harvey’s was known for their mixology as well as for their Pacific Northwest inspired cuisine. Carlos was a huge fan of their halibut with sweet chili sauce and rosemary polenta, and I loved their chicken piccata.
“I’m here for a cake delivery,” I said to the hostess when I arrived. She pointed me to the back room, where silver and purple balloons were bunched on the back of chairs. Wild lilacs served as centerpieces along with printed photos of the birthday guest of honor from her early childhood to present day. I stopped to admire a collection of family photos framed on the wall, highlighting the restaurant through the years. It was a good reminder that I was making the right choice to restructure the business and free up more time to spend with the people I loved.
“Juliet, I didn’t know you were coming to the party,” a voice said from the banquet table.
I turned to see Tom Rudolph studying bottles of wine with Harvey’s sommelier. He looked like he was dressed for a funeral in his black suit, black shirt, and black tie.
“Not as a guest. I’m here with the cake.” I lifted the box in my arms.
Tom whispered something to the sommelier and waved me toward the bar. “I’m glad to bump into you. Can I bother you for a minute?”
“Sure. Just let me get this set up,” I said, nodding to a small round table near the end of the bar with a silver cake stand and gold-rimmed cake plates. I carefully unpacked the cake, centered it on the stand, and made sure that the buttercream didn’t need any touch-ups. Once it was in position, I returned to the bar.
It was fortuitous to run into Tom. I wanted to ask him about where he had been the night of Jimmy’s murder. Why had he vanished after asking Andy to come find me?
He swirled a glass of red in his left hand like he was rocking a baby to sleep. “Would you like a drink?”
“No, thank you. I’m still on the clock.”
“Sounds like you’re in the wrong profession. I’ve always said only take a job that allows for day drinking. Isn’t that why you own a vineyard?” He held the glass to the Edison style lights hanging above the bar and tilted his head to one side to inspect the wine’s legs.
I had met a handful of restaurant staff over the years who subscribed to Tom’s philosophy. None of them lasted long in a professional kitchen. We adhered to strict rules about imbibing while operating heavy industrial mixers or using filet knives. The same was true for Uva. None of our staff or volunteers consumed while pouring our wines. They were welcome to linger with a glass and take in a sunset at the end of a shift or after closing, but serving was a job that required being sober and coherent.
“You might think so,” I said to Tom, not wanting to get into the litany of liability issues.
Tom shrugged.
“Does your job allow for day drinking?” I wasn’t entirely sure exactly what Tom did for a living other than invest in startup theater troupes.
“My job is to wine and dine clients.” He tipped his glass, which was a generous pour, to say the least.
That didn’t answer my question, so I tried a new tactic. “How do you know the birthday guest?”
“She’s my aunt.” His words slurred ever so slightly as he spoke. “My beloved and extremely wealthy aunt, who makes it her mission to have me and every other member of our family pander to her needs. Has anyone mentioned that blending family and business is a terrible idea?”
I didn’t respond, since I had the opposite perspective on working with Mom and a team who had become like family to me.
“I don’t recommend it,” Tom said, with a snigger. “My aunt likes to task me with investing her money and then gets on her high horse about the quality of my investments. She was the one pushing to diversify her investments into the arts and wanted in on the early stages of the Fair Verona Players. She absolutely adores live theater, and yet all I’ve heard for the last three months is complaints about the company. Maybe I should start investing in horses. That will make her happy.”
There was something off-putting in his tone.
“I promised her I would pick the perfect wine for the party. Harvey’s has one of the better selections in the Rogue Valley, thankfully. The sommelier was trying to convince me that the Rogue Valley has a burgeoning viticulture scene before you arrived. I wish that were true. The valley is seriously lacking. We’re nowhere near on par with Napa. Those marketing materials and glossy posters around town, touting us as the ‘new Napa,’ are a joke.”
I couldn’t tell for sure, but it sounded like he meant that as dig against Uva. We’d already established that he wasn’t impressed with our wine, so he was either trying to get a reaction from me or completely oblivious.
“How are things going with the Fair Verona Players?”
“Fine. Why?” He bristled. “Why would you ask that?”
“You mentioned your aunt complaining, and then of course, with Jimmy’s death, I wondered how morale is with the troupe.”
“It’s better than it’s ever been if you ask me. Everyone is relieved to have Jimmy gone, and his understudy was phenomenal last night.”
That wasn’t the reaction I expected. “Did you see anything strange the night he was killed?”
Tom sucked in his cheeks. “Like what?”
“I wondered if maybe you saw the killer. Andy mentioned that you had been in the kitchen shortly before I found Jimmy. It’s a good thing you didn’t go downstairs. You could have run into the killer yourself.”
Tom stared at me with ice-cold eyes while guzzling his wine. “I did go down to the cellar. Why do you keep asking questions?”
“You did? I thought that my staff said you were looking for the key.” I didn’t want to call out Andy, and I didn’t like the way Tom’s eyes narrowed in anger. Had I hit a nerve?
“I was looking for the key. I needed another bottle of wine to schmooze a potential investor. The theater needs ongoing patron support in order to grow, and my role is to bring in financial backers. I couldn’t impress them with a twenty- or thirty-dollar bottle of wine, could I?”
Another slight against Uva. I let it slide because I wanted to hear what else he had to say about the cellar.
“The key wasn’t in the kitchen?”
Tom’s response was monotone. “No. It wasn’t on that hook. I warned you that leaving a key to the wine cellar out in the open was a terrible idea. You should really consider more safety protocols. In any event, since the key was missing, I took a chance that meant whoever had it was in the cellar, so I went downstairs to get a bottle myself.”
I ignored his lecture. “Did you see Jimmy while you were down there?”
He shook his head. “I didn’t see anyone. The cellar was locked, and there was no one around. The entire house was empty.”
I nodded, but internally I was confused. How did this work in the timeframe of Jimmy’s murder? Andy said that I had missed Tom by minutes. How could Tom have missed seeing Jimmy if I found his body shortly after? Either he was lying or the timeline for Jimmy’s murder was wrong.