After a night of tossing and turning, I woke long before the sun would rise. I didn’t bother trying to get back to sleep. I knew it was futile, so I pulled on a pair of jeans and my favorite hoodie, and tiptoed downstairs.
I didn’t want to wake Carlos or Ramiro, so I left them a note and headed outside to walk to Torte. I revered my morning walks. The air smelled damp from dew and sprinklers that had given backyard gardens an overnight soaking. I passed by the sprawling lawns of Southern Oregon University, where families of deer were huddled beneath redwood trees. The faintest hint of pinkish light tinged the sky. Stars flickered overhead, ready to make their retreat. Everything held the aroma of spring, fresh grasses, blooming bunches of flowers, and the crisp morning air. I drank it in and reminded myself that this was a new day.
I continued to Siskiyou Boulevard, passing the Carnegie Library and fire station, letting thoughts of Jimmy’s murder consume me. Maybe instead of trying to squash the images, it was better to embrace them.
I barely registered the historic houses with their grand porches and flowering baskets as I made it to the plaza, where the architecture shifted to Tudor-style buildings with welcoming façades and rows of antique streetlamps illuminated my path. Walking through downtown always felt like I was living in the pages of a storybook with the forested mountains tucking in the charming storefronts. London Station was decked out for the shifting season with buckets of sidewalk chalk, watering cans, terra-cotta pots, and seed packets. The record store displayed a collection of retro vinyl, and the vintage resale shop featured flowered sundresses for spring.
At Torte, I paused to admire Rosa’s window display with its dainty cherry blossoms and pretty pink cake stands filled with blushing macarons and miniature tarts. Next door, A Rose by Any Other Name was still dark, as were the rafting shop and Puck’s Pub. It would be another couple of hours before the plaza was humming with life. That was fine with me. I liked it this way. The bakeshop was my sanctuary—my happy place. Hopefully this morning it would provide respite. I needed to bake. Mom had always said that the easiest way to work out any problem was by kneading sticky bread dough, and that was exactly what I intended to do. There was nothing that compared with the calm of the kitchen, where I had to be fully present with my hands coated in flour, the aroma of caramelized sugar and cinnamon filling every room with a sweet, nurturing tranquility.
That’s just what the doctor ordered, Jules.
I unlocked the basement door, turned on the lights, and warmed up the ovens. The team had left the kitchen spotless last night. Custom cake orders and the wholesale delivery list were posted on the whiteboard. A new bundle of applewood was stacked next to the wood-burning pizza oven, and the countertops glistened. Everything was in its place and ready for the day.
The flutters in my stomach had returned, but that didn’t stop me from brewing a pot of coffee before gathering ingredients for two of my morning bakes. The first would be a sweet brioche filled with the first strawberries of the season. I also wanted to bake chocolate tahini cookies for our daily special.
For the brioche, I warmed milk, added a touch of sugar and yeast, and then set it aside to activate while I poured myself a cup of strong brew. Our signature Torte spring roast was a full-bodied coffee with notes of peaches and pomegranate and a spicy brown sugary finish. Andy had crafted the blend based on customer feedback. He spent two weeks perfecting the brew, taking copious notes, and making minor tweaks and adjustments to the roasting process. Admittedly, I was a fan of all his creations, but his spring brew was quickly becoming my new favorite.
After enjoying a few undisturbed moments with my coffee, I melted butter and whisked it together with the frothy yeast. I used a scale to weigh the dry ingredients. That would ensure accurate measurements for my strawberry brioche. Once a sticky dough had begun to form, I sprinkled the countertop with flour, rolled up my sleeves, and began kneading.
The tension I had been holding in my neck since discovering Jimmy’s body fell away as every muscle in my arms fired. The dough was warm and stretchy. I put my weight into it as I formed a ball, massaged it, and repeated the process again and again. I thought about how many problems I had worked out in the dough over the years—my angst about leaving Carlos on the Amour of the Seas and striking out on my own in Ashland, battles with Richard Lord over whether or not the town could support two ice cream stands, worries about the bakeshop’s future.
Mom’s advice was correct. Visions of Jimmy faded, too.
Customers often commented on how lucky we were to work in an artisan bakeshop and get to sample the fruits of our labor every day. That was true, but for me, the gift was this. I couldn’t imagine another career path that would allow me to spend time in a moving meditation every morning, just me and the bread dough.
It was cheaper and much more delicious than therapy.
Not that I was opposed to therapy—I’d benefited from it myself many times over the years—but I sometimes wondered if we should start our own version of baking therapy. Allow guests into the kitchen once a week for quiet contemplation and sensory healing.
I smiled at the thought as I smeared, rolled, and twisted strawberry preserves into my dough. I finished each loaf off with pearl sugar and set them in greased baking tins for another rise.
Next I gathered tahini, cocoa powder, maple syrup, flaxseeds, almond flour, sea salt, baking soda, vanilla, dark chocolate chips, and sesame seeds for my cookies. I wanted a gluten-free vegan option for the pastry case. I began by whisking tahini, cocoa powder, and the syrup. Then I sifted in the dry ingredients. Once a batter had formed, I stirred in the chocolate chips by hand. I rolled the batter into two-inch balls and coated them with sesame seeds before using a spatula to flatten each cookie. The cookies would bake for ten minutes and then need to cool before serving because after cooling they would develop a soft brownie-like texture.
I swiped a taste of the batter. The nutty flavor from the tahini and sesame seeds paired with rich chocolate created a lovely balance.
Andy showed up just as I was putting the first trays into the ovens. “Morning, boss. That was wicked last night.” His eyes were red and puffy, like he hadn’t gotten much sleep either. He ran his fingers through his hair and stretched his arms overhead, trying to wake up.
“I know. I think I slept a total of five minutes. By the way, I’m sorry I missed you. Kerry was taking my statement. Were you there long?” I checked the brioche, which had risen nicely and was ready to bake.
“No, Thomas interviewed me and Sterling and then said we could take off. Carlos told us to go, I hope that was okay.”
“Oh yeah, of course. I’m glad you left. It was already going to be a late night without having to stick around for a…” I trailed off.
“I know what you mean.” Andy caught my eye, then his gaze drifted to the coffeepot. “Are you drinking boring, regular coffee this morning, boss?”
“It’s your spring blend, so I wouldn’t exactly call that boring, but I guess if that fits your definition, then I’m guilty as charged.” I tried to wink, but my face contorted in a weird half grin. “I couldn’t wait for you, though. I needed caffeine ASAP.”
“I hear you on that.” Andy unzipped his SOU football sweatshirt. “I’ve got a couple of ideas for a special that I’ll bring down for you to try in a few minutes.”
“Hey, before you get started, I never had a chance to ask you about Tom last night, what with all of the police activity.”
“He’s a demanding dude,” Andy said. “I felt bad pulling you away from the party, but he insisted that he needed another bottle and would only take one from the private reserve.”
“Did you see him after he asked to get in the cellar?”
Andy considered my question. “No. Thomas asked me that last night, too. I wish I had been more observant, but it was controlled chaos at that point. You know how it is at the end of an event. We were bringing stuff in from outside. Everyone was running around, starting closing procedures, and Tom came into the kitchen basically demanding to be let into the cellar.”
“That’s when you realized the key was missing?” A blast of heat hit my face as I slid the loaves of brioche into the convection oven.
“Kind of.” Andy tilted his head back and forth, like he was trying to decide if that was true. “Tom was the person who mentioned that the key was gone. I didn’t give it much thought at the time because, like I said, we were busy and tired, and everyone wanted to clean up and get home, but I have a distinct memory of Tom standing next to the aprons and pointing at the empty hook.”
“Hmmm.”
“Right?” Andy swiped a taste of the cookie batter. “That’s crazy good, boss.”
“Thanks.” My timer for the cookies dinged. I turned on the oven light to check them. “And what did you do after that?”
“I told him I would check with you. I knew you had taken him to the cellar earlier for a private tasting, so I figured that you probably stuck the key in your pocket. I left him in the kitchen, went outside to get you, and then I never saw him again.”
I grabbed a silicone potholder and removed the first tray, resting it on the counter to cool. “He wasn’t in the kitchen after you came to find me?”
Andy shook his head. “Nope. I didn’t see him for the rest of the night. I don’t know where he ended up, but it is weird that he wanted in the cellar so badly and then he vanished, right?”
“My thoughts exactly.”
Andy went upstairs to fire up the espresso machine. I finished reviewing my to-do list until it was time to check the brioche loaves. They were a pale golden color, not quite done, so I returned them to bake a bit longer while I removed the cookies from the tray and put in the next batch.
I wasn’t sure what the rest of the day had in store for me, but I knew one thing—I was going to try and find Tom. Perhaps he’d had one too many glasses of wine and simply wanted to keep his buzz going. Or perhaps there had been another reason he was lurking in Uva’s kitchen.