“Gigging in this valley is tough. I’ve been living paycheck to paycheck, trying to work side jobs when I can,” Ed said, his gaze flickering, unable to meet my eyes. “When Tom told me about the key, I don’t know what got into me. I’d like to say that it’s the stress of this production and dealing with Jimmy’s ego, but that’s no excuse. I am sorry.”
“Why did Tom tell you about the key to begin with?”
Ed looked up in surprise. “I don’t know. It came up in conversation, I guess. He was drinking a bottle of private reserve and told me that there was more of it in the basement if I was interested.”
How thoughtful of Tom to offer our special collection to Ed. I wondered who else he’d told about the wine cellar.
Across the street at the police station, a cadet in training watered the window boxes and filled the dish they left out for passing dogs. “Have you told the police about being in the cellar? This could be critical information in determining exactly when Jimmy was killed.”
He scuffed his feet on the ground, sending a pinecone rolling out onto the street. “Not yet, but I will. I know I need to come clean. For you, for me, for them. I’m not proud of my behavior, and I can promise you that it won’t happen again. What can I do to make it up to you? Do you need someone to do dishes? Or I could bus tables.”
“I appreciate your honesty. The most important thing you can do for me is to go share this with the police right now.” I motioned to the blue awnings across the street.
“That’s fair.” Ed sounded like speaking with the police was the last thing he wanted to do, but he gathered the pastry box, slung his tool bag on his shoulder, and stood. “I’ll do that now. I know it probably sounds like lip service, but I am sorry for taking the wine. And thank you for being kind about this.”
I waited to make sure that he followed through on his promise before taking his dishes inside and heading downstairs. Was he consumed with guilt, or was taking wine from the cellar a convenient excuse to explain why he was seen right before I found Jimmy’s body?
I was also stuck on why Tom told Ed about the key. What was his motivation? Had he set Ed up to break into the cellar?
But why?
None of it made sense.
The kitchen was humming with activity. Bethany prepped brownie boxes at her station. She used carbon steel brownie trays to ensure that each square was identical. She dusted the first batch with a mixture of powdered sugar, cocoa powder, and warming spices.
“Those smell divine,” I said, stopping to appraise her work.
“These are my spiced dark chocolate. Next up is chocolate orange with an orange cream cheese frosting, and then a nutty caramel blondie, and finally a salted pretzel.” She tapped the edge of the sifter. “What do you think sounds better for the fifth option—tropical coconut or grasshopper?”
“Can I vote both?”
“That’s what Steph and Marty said.” She scowled and jutted out her neck, making her freckles pop. “You’re no help.”
“I don’t think you’ll get many complaints if customers get a bonus brownie.” Our philosophy at Torte had always been to overdeliver. Rosa would tuck a bonus cookie in with a pastry order. Andy and Sequoia offered customers complimentary “flubs” if they made a drink wrong or weren’t happy with their latte art. We circulated the dining room daily with tasting samples and shared anything left in the pastry case at the end of the day.
“Fair point. Grasshopper and tropical for the win. It’s going to be brownie boom for our weekly box subscribers.” Bethany gave me an air high five.
I tried to concentrate on lunch preparations, but my thoughts kept returning to the wine cellar. Whoever killed Jimmy had limited time to sneak downstairs, stab him, and vanish without being seen.
But that begged the question—were they seen?
The most likely answer was yes. I reviewed each of the suspects’ whereabouts. Ed admitted that he’d been in the cellar. Tom had been in the kitchen shortly before asking for the key, and Sophie had confessed that she and Jimmy were supposed to meet after the show. That left Olive and Bertie. I needed to find out where they both were. Ed claimed that Bertie took his tool bag, but I wasn’t going to take his word for it.
For the moment, it was enough to know that three of the suspects were indeed near Jimmy before he was killed. The question was, which one of them, if any, had done it?
The afternoon breezed by. Soon it was time for my lunch with Sterling. I felt oddly nervous. “You ready?” I asked as he ladled a bowl of minestrone meatball soup.
“Yep. Let me wash my hands and grab a hoodie.”
Sterling seemed nervous and jittery as we walked past A Rose by Any Other Name, where galvanized tins containing puffy pale pink peonies, sculptural purple snapdragons, and spring tulips offered a cheerful greeting. I made a mental note to stop in later and ask Janet about flowers for Ramiro’s prom date.
Sterling tied his hoodie around his waist and massaged his forearm with his thumb. “Have you given any thought to a Sunday Supper?”
“No, it completely slipped my mind. We’ve had so much other stuff going on. Do you have any ideas?”
Our Sunday Suppers were casual affairs where we served themed dinners, family-style, around a shared table. Sometimes we added bonus entertainment like open mic poetry or live music. They were a way to bring the community together for a simple evening of a delicious meal and lively conversation. Carlos and I were both big believers in the idea that food was the great equalizer. Our mission at Torte was to be a welcoming and safe space for anyone who entered our doors, and I loved that our Sunday Suppers provided a place for people to gather and form strong bonds over a plate of Bolognese and a loaf of rustic sourdough.
Sterling stopped to listen to a busker playing guitar and covering Ed Sheeran. “Uh, no. That’s one of the things I want to talk to you about.”
“Sure, go for it.”
He tossed a couple of dollars into the busker’s guitar case as we passed Puck’s Pub. “Maybe we should wait and talk at the Goblin. I think this is going to be a bigger conversation. I have something else I need to share with you.”
“Okay.” I didn’t like the sound of that. Neither did my stomach.
Fortunately, the Green Goblin was close. The funky restaurant sat at the far end of the block from Torte, directly across from Lithia Park. It was themed like a forest from Shakespeare’s Midsummer Night’s Dream, with ivy snaking up the walls and twisting through the dangling golden overhead lights. Wooden tables carved out of trees served as seating, and tiny goblins and fairies were tucked along the bar and in the ceiling, watching over diners with glowing little eyes.
Sterling didn’t bother with small talk as the hostess seated us and took our drink order. He massaged the hummingbird tattoo on his forearm with his thumb like he was trying to work up the courage to speak.
I didn’t want to stress him out, so I broke the silence first. “I have a lot to talk to you about, but I get the sense you might have something you want to discuss first.”
He brushed a strand of dark hair from his eyes. “You know me too well, Jules.”
“Right back at you.” My mind spun with wild possibilities. Were he and Steph breaking up? Was he upset with me? With someone else on staff?
Our waiter delivered fresh mint and muddled strawberry lemonades and took our order. When they were gone, I waited for Sterling to speak.
“I don’t think I can help with Sunday Suppers this summer,” he said, continuing to massage his tattoo.
A sense of relief washed through me. That was what he was worried about? Sunday Suppers? We could scale those back, too. It was time to reinvent Torte, and I was open to any and all ideas on the best way to do that.
“Okay, that’s fine. Don’t even give it a thought.” I plunged the sprig of mint into my drink. “I feel like we have so much going on that it’s probably best to table Sunday Suppers until the fall anyway.”
“It’s more than that, Jules.” He shook his head and stared at the tabletop like it was the most interesting piece of art he had ever seen.
My nerves resurfaced. Was he quitting?
“I don’t think I’m going to be here next month.”
I gulped.
Play it cool, Jules.
Sterling lifted his head. His steel-blue eyes were glassy and wide. “I hate saying this to you. I hate having to watch your face, but I’ve had another offer.”
I didn’t want to burden him with my sadness. If he was ready to leave Torte and move on to the next evolution of his career, I would support his decision. I would hate losing him, but I couldn’t hold on to him if he was ready to stretch and expand. That was the crux of life in a commercial kitchen. It was my job to mentor and nurture my young staff. It was also my job to encourage them to leave the nest and fly away when they were ready.
I just hadn’t expected it to be this hard.
Tears threatened. I forced them back by blinking and clutching the ice-cold lemonade.
“There’s been an opportunity that’s come up,” Sterling continued in a soft voice. “Do you know Whaleshead Resort on the coast?”
I nodded. Whaleshead was a sweet seaside community of family-owned cabins nestled cliffside in Brookings, Oregon. The resort wasn’t fancy, but the cabins were well stocked. Many had decks with hot tubs that offered stunning views of the rugged coastline and the tidepools below.
“The owner of the restaurant reached out to me. Their head chef is leaving next month. They want me to come to do a one-month trial…” He trailed off and let out a long sigh. “I don’t know, Jules. I’m torn. I love Torte, and I love working with you and Carlos and the entire team, but this is also a huge opportunity for me. It would be my first head-chef position.”
“That is huge,” I agreed, forcing a smile—actually if I was being honest, it wasn’t forced. I was genuinely happy for him, though losing him at Torte was like a punch to the gut.
“I don’t know how I feel about living in Brookings. It’s small and on the coast. The good thing is that if I take the position, Whaleshead will provide housing for me, so that’s a pretty sweet deal. You know what rent is like in the Rogue Valley. It’s hard to turn down free housing.” He cleared his throat and continued. “You’re not going to like this part, but they’re talking to Steph, too. They are interested in having her join me as the head pastry chef. It’s really tempting, but there are equal pros and cons. Am I ready to run a kitchen on my own? It would be my menu and me in charge of everything. They’ve got a line cook, but otherwise everything is up to me. Same for Steph. She’ll be responsible for dessert, bread, any breakfast pastries. It’s a big change. What if we bomb? And then there’s also the piece about me and Steph feeling bad about leaving you in a lurch after everything you’ve done for us.”
I held my hand out to cut him off. “Stop right there. You wouldn’t be leaving me in a lurch. Two weeks’ notice is standard in the industry, and if you aren’t starting until next month, that gives me time to hire new staff, so please don’t let that factor into your pro and con list. You don’t owe me, or Torte, or anyone anything. This is your future and your career. You need to do what’s best for you.”
He started to stay more, but I stopped him.
“Wait, let me finish. This is an important life lesson. I mean it, you don’t owe me anything. My job was to train you. You’ve been an invaluable asset to Torte and have become like family to me, but that shouldn’t in any way, shape, or form mean that you’re tethered to the bakeshop or Ashland forever.”
His eyes misted. “Thanks, Jules. That means a lot.”
“It’s the way this business works. I want you and our entire staff to continue to push yourself and pursue your own dreams. Trust me, I’m going to sob a little—well, probably a lot—but I’m also going to be the first in line to make reservations and come visit you at Whaleshead. I hope that you know that you always have a friend in me and can call whenever you need support, whether that’s in the kitchen or in your personal life. I also want you to know you are more than ready for this. Steph, too. You’re both among the best chefs I’ve worked with. And that’s not an exaggeration. You’re already doing it. Now you just need to do it on your own.”
“Why do you have to be so great?” Sterling sighed and shook his head. “It would be easier to take the job if I hated Torte. Could you be a horrible boss for a couple of weeks?”
“Sure. I’ll channel my inner Richard Lord for you if that would help.” I intentionally contorted my face as I winked, hoping to lighten the mood.
Sterling laughed. “What do you think, though? Is it crazy? What if we hate it? I appreciate your confidence, but what if we’re not ready?”
“What if this is what you’re meant to do next?” I countered. “What if this leads you to open your own restaurant? What if it gives you an entirely new experience in a different kitchen? What if the very best happens because you take a chance on you?”
“Steph said the same thing. It’s not that I’m not open to new adventures, it’s just scary, and I feel safe and comfortable with what I’m doing here.”
I pressed my lips together. “Then it’s probably time for you to go.”
He leaned against the high-back chair. “Do you think?”
“I do. I wish I could lie and tell you otherwise, but we only grow by pushing ourselves. You know that. You’ve lived that.”
“It’s just hard to think about actually doing it.”
“I felt the same when I left for culinary school and again when I took the job on the ship. I even felt terrified when I decided to come home, but each new experience has shaped me.”
“Jules, you’re so wise and way too good of a boss. This is making me feel worse.”
“It shouldn’t.” I held his gaze. “Listen, I wanted to have lunch with you because I was going to talk to you about taking on a new role at Torte, but I feel like the universe is giving you a strong nudge that it’s time for a new direction.”
He sat up straighter. “What kind of a role?”
“Carlos and I have decided that it’s time to bring in a kitchen manager and scale back a bit. We’re also going to hire some additional part-time staff.”
“That’s smart. You’re constantly running on fumes, Jules.”
“I know.”
“Can I take a minute to consider it?”
“Yes, but as much as I’d love to have you in the new role, I think that Whaleshead is an amazing opportunity for you and probably an important next step in your career, even more so than a promotion at Torte.” I couldn’t believe I was talking him out of taking the job, but I knew at my core it was the right thing to do.
“How so?” He swirled the ice in his glass and took a small taste. Like a true chef, he let the aroma of the lemonade hit his nose first, then he closed his eyes briefly while letting the liquid linger on his tongue. I’d seen Carlos do the same move at least a hundred times.
“Running a full restaurant like Whaleshead is going to give you a vastly different experience than what you’ve had here. It might help you decide whether you want to open your own restaurant, or it might lead you to determine that working as a head chef is the path for you. You won’t know that until you’ve tried something new. As much as I’d love to keep you at Torte and have you stay in Ashland forever, I understand that it’s my collective experiences that have shaped who I am as a pastry chef. I want that for you, and I promise that you’ll always have a spot in my kitchen. If you do this for a month and hate it, you can always come back.”
“Really?” His eyes widened with relief. “Are you being serious? Because that would be amazing. But are you sure? That’s a lot to ask.”
I held up my pinkie. “I pinkie promise. You forever have a home at Torte or any business I own.”
“Yeah, but if you go to all the work of hiring replacements for me and potentially Steph, I will feel terrible about coming back.”
“No way. Are you kidding me? You know better than anyone how many projects we have in the works. If it’s not a match and you want to come back, we’ll make a new role just for you and Steph, too.”
“Thanks, Jules. You really are the best.” Sterling reached across the table and squeezed my hand.
I squeezed his back, not wanting to let go.
Our lunch arrived, and we spent the remaining time talking about his ideas for refreshing the Whaleshead menu. His enthusiasm was contagious. There was no question in my mind. This was the right choice for Sterling and another reminder that things at Torte were shifting. It was going to be hard to watch him go, but I was confident in our connection and sure that even if our paths diverged, we would stay in touch.