Mom gave me a funny look when I returned. “You and Bethany were sure chatty.”
“I know. She’s a bit skittish. I hope I helped calm her down. I tried to give her a pep talk about the business, but I’m not sure how much she actually heard.” I intentionally left out the part about Carter. Not only had I made a promise to Bethany, but I didn’t want to worry Mom.
“If I know one thing about you, it’s that you have an innate gift for making people feel good. I’m sure that whatever you said to Bethany struck a chord, even if she might not realize it yet.”
“Thanks, Mom.” I smiled and squeezed hand sanitizer on my palms. The alcohol in the sanitizer immediately sucked all the moisture from my hands. “How’s it been going?”
“Great. People are devouring our samples. The only negative is that we are definitely going to run out of product. I think it’s going to be a late night or another early morning tomorrow.”
“That’s not a big deal. I can knock out another round of truffles tonight.”
Mom frowned. “We’ll discuss it later.”
A bell sounded overhead. We turned toward the main stage where Howard, of Howard’s Salt Company, took control of the microphone. “Hey, folks, I guess I’m here to talk to you all about salt. It’s pretty fitting because my wife calls me an old, salty dog.”
The crowd chuckled and pushed closer to the stage. A long table with rows of sparkling colorful salts had been set up next to where Howard was speaking.
“How many of you are familiar with Howard’s Salts?” he asked, holding up a clear glass of pink salt. He was wearing his waders again and a faded cap, both of which looked like they had survived many hours in the harsh elements.
A few hands were raised in the audience in response to Howard’s question.
“Good. Good.” He picked up another dish of salt as a large white screen lowered behind him. “I’m not up-to-date on this fancy technology but they assure me that while I talk you all are going to see photos of the process we go through to bring you our sea salts. Can you all see anything behind me?”
The crowd laughed again and shouted yes.
Howard tipped his cap. “Alrighty then. Let’s talk about salt. My family has been in the salt business for over forty years. We harvest the salt not far from here, right on the shores of Gold Beach.”
On cue, a photo of Oregon’s Gold Beach appeared on the screen. The photographer had captured the glowing sunset on the horizon. Light danced on the waves and made the long sandy beach shimmer like gold. I wondered if that was how the beach town had gotten its name. Howard went on to explain the process of procuring salt from the sea. Nostalgia welled as I watched pictures of foamy surf and sun-kissed dunes. My years on the sea were a part of me. I could almost smell the brine in the air and feel the cold mist of spray on my face. I didn’t want to return to my vagabond life, but there was something so restorative about the fresh salty skies above an endless ocean. Seeing Howard’s professional photos made me hungry for the sounds of waves crashing onshore and seagulls squawking overhead. Gold Beach was only a three-hour drive from Ashland. Maybe once things had settled down at Torte I could plan a little coastal getaway for Mom and me. I couldn’t remember the last time we took a trip together.
Howard captivated the crowd with his presentation and ornery delivery. He reminded me of a famous painting of the Old Man and the Sea with his weathered skin, chapped lips, and wiry white hair. When he finished he told everyone in a gruff voice that sounded as if it had been exposed to too much smoke over the years, to stop by the booth if they wanted a taste of his salt and chocolate pairings.
“Evan had to go and croak on me,” he said, twisting the cap on a glass jar of salt. “You better come get a sample while you can.”
“What did he mean by that?” I asked Mom.
“Howard and Evan teamed up two or maybe three years ago. They launched a sea-salt-and-chocolate line that has done really well.”
“Evan and Howard, wow. I can’t imagine those two working together.”
Mom smiled. “I know. The diva and the fisherman. They were an odd pair but they’ve been successful with the line. It’s gotten national attention.”
Our conversation was interrupted by another bride-to-be who gushed about our wedding cakes and signed a contract for a custom cake and a dessert bar, which was the latest trend in weddings. Brides looked to dazzle their guests with more than just the traditional wedding cake. They wanted dessert displays with macaroons, petits fours, tarts, pies, dainty cakes, and frosted cookies. It was the ideal project for us because we could create a gorgeous cakescape with a variety of our delectable treats.
The Chocolate Fest was turning out to be even more lucrative than I could have imagined. As the afternoon began to wind down, Mom and I took stock of our tasting supplies and what we needed for tomorrow.
She was meeting the Professor for dinner so I volunteered to get a head start on truffle assembly. I wasn’t being entirely selfless, because I was dying to see how much progress the team had made and I wondered whether the Professor was finally going to pop the question. Maybe we’d have our own wedding to plan soon. We packed up our booth and I promised not to work too late.
On my way out of the ballroom I noticed Bethany talking to Carter at the Confections Couture booth. I wondered if she was telling him that she’d confessed their secret to me. Neither of them noticed when I passed by.
I was almost to the front door when I heard Lance’s singsong voice calling my name. “Juliet, over here.” I turned toward the sound of his voice and spotted him at Howard’s table. He waved with his long fingers.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
Lance pretended to be insulted. “How is that for a welcome? I happen to be one of Ashland’s most esteemed chocolate aficionados.” He licked his pinkie and dipped it into a taster of pink salt.
“Good to know. I wasn’t aware of that fact.”
He dabbed his pinkie into the corner of his mouth and tasted the salt. “Please, darling. You’re not the only one in this town with a refined palate. When they need an expert opinion they call on the best.”
One of Howard’s staff members held a stack of empty tasters in his hands. “Are you done with that, sir?” he asked Lance.
Lance pursed his lips and made a strange motion with his mouth, like he was swishing it with wine. “Am I tasting something spicy in this salt?”
The worker started to reply, but Howard stepped forward when he realized that Lance was at his booth. “How’s that tasting? You still selling out of our chocolates?”
Lance tossed his tasting sample at the kid. “Absolutely divine, Howard. As you know, our patrons demand only the highest-caliber products. I’m happy to report that your chocolate-and-salt pairings are satiating their demands.”
Howard gave him a curt nod. “Good.”
“Do tell,” Lance said in his most dramatic voice. “With the devastating and untimely death of Evan Rowe, will you continue the line?”
“Don’t see why not.” Howard shrugged.
“Excellent. Most excellent news. It would be such a travesty to lose such an upscale line.”
Howard cracked his knuckles. “Yep.”
Lance gave me a conspiratorial look. “Well, I must be off. Looking forward to our continued partnership,” he said with a nod to Howard. Lance looped his arm through mine. “Come, come, darling. I’ll walk you out.”
As we weaved through a handful of stragglers trying to sample as many chocolate offerings as they could before the festival closed for the evening, Lance shot a glance behind him to Howard. “I simply cannot wrap my brain around the fact that someone so rough and gruff can produce such delicate flavors. Have you tried his salts?”
I nodded. “Yes, we use them at Torte.”
Lance puckered his lips. “I can’t identify that pink salt but there’s something so spicy about it. I love it. Absolutely love it. You’ll have to get your hands on some of it and work your magic.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “I’ll put that right on the top of my priority list.”
“Don’t mock me. I might not be a professionally trained chef, but I know exquisite flavor when I taste it and that salt is absolutely to die for.” He held open the door for me. “Poor choice of words in light of yesterday’s tragedy, but sometimes I can’t contain my wit.”
Punching him in the shoulder, I scolded him. “Lance, you are absolutely terrible. Death is no laughing matter.”
“Darling, I know. We’ve had this conversation before. It’s my way of dealing with the horror of it all. You do have to admit that Evan and Howard are one of the worst all-time pairings. It’s like when Julia Roberts and Lyle Lovett had a fling. I’m still recovering from that one.”
“Who cares? That’s the food world for you, and trust me, nothing goes better with chocolate than salt, except maybe more chocolate.”
The skies had darkened outside. A light rain misted from the sky. The smell of wood-burning fireplaces and damp pavement filled the air. I buttoned my jacket while Lance opened a large black golf umbrella.
He held the umbrella up so that I could duck underneath it and then we both started walking down the sidewalk.
“What are you really doing here?” I asked.
“Tasting chocolate like everyone else, darling.”
I couldn’t see Lance’s eyes in the dark, but I could hear the twinkle in his voice. “And…”
“And what?” Lance gasped. “All this time and you still don’t trust your most esteemed friend and colleague?”
“How are we colleagues? You’re an artistic director and I’m a pastry chef.”
“Simply two artists working in different mediums. Mine is the stage and yours is chocolate.”
“Fair enough.” I moved to my left to avoid a puddle. “But what are you doing here?”
“If you’re going to be like this I don’t even want to play.” Lance shifted the umbrella and stopped at the end of the sidewalk.
“For starters, I don’t know what we’re playing.”
“We’re on a case again, Juliet. How quickly you forget. Do you not remember our little tête-à-tête last night when we agreed to share whatever information we discovered.”
“Okay, and?”
The rain picked up. Fat, wet drops splattered on the umbrella. We hurried on toward the plaza.
“It so happens that I’ve heard a juicy bit of gossip that could be related to Evan’s mysterious demise.”
I waited for him to continue, but he kept his eyes forward and leaped over a storm drain clogged with soggy leaves.
“Lance.”
“Very well.” He sighed. “It seems that Evan and his assistant, Carter, had a very vocal and nasty disagreement.”
“Yeah. I heard that too.”
Lance stopped in mid-stride. “What? And you didn’t call dear old Lance right away?”
“I was working, Lance.”
“And your point is?” He raised his catlike eyes and stared at me.
While I had become accustomed to Lance’s over-the-top attitude, sometimes it drove me crazy. “My point is I had a job to do.”
“As did I, and I am quite proud of the info I dug up.”
“Do you know why they were fighting?” I didn’t want to say anything about what Bethany had told me.
“Not exactly. But I have it from a reliable source that this isn’t the first time the two of them have had words. Apparently, Confections Couture is no Willy Wonka Oompa-Loompa Land.”
“Was Evan fighting with his entire staff or just Carter?”
“My source didn’t say, but I got the impression reading between the lines that Evan’s attitude toward his staff bore no resemblance to the sweetness of his confections.”
“So if—and it’s a big if—Evan’s death was intentional, all of his staff could be suspects.”
Lance scooted to the curb to make way for a passing couple. He gave them a little bow, and when they were still within earshot the woman said to her husband, “That was the artistic director!”
We arrived at Torte and stopped in front of the entrance. The lights inside were off and the CLOSED sign turned outward.
“I’m working my sources. Let’s plan to reconnect tomorrow. What do you say, lunchtime, and see what we both discover?”
“Maybe, but I can’t promise anything. The fest was a mob scene today. I barely had a chance to scarf down half of a sandwich.”
Lance leaned in and kissed both of my cheeks. “Nice try, darling. I know you too well, and I know that once you’re on the case there is absolutely no stopping you. You’re like a dog with a bone, or better yet a pastry chef with a vat of buttercream. See you tomorrow. Ta-ta.”
His black umbrella and suit disappeared into the darkness. I hated to admit it, but Lance was right. I couldn’t stop thinking about how Evan had died and whether someone could have done it. As much as I wanted to let it go and focus exclusively on the Chocolate Festival, I felt a strange sense of obligation to Evan—a man I barely knew.
I unlocked the front door and was hit with the smell of paint again. Fortunately, this time the windows had all been left open a few inches so the scent wasn’t as overwhelming. I flipped on the lights and caught sight of the kitchen. It looked like a brand-new space. The walls had been coated in a satiny layer of teal, two or three shades lighter than the teal in the dining room. We opted for the lighter shade to help identify the two spaces and make sure the kitchen stayed bright enough to do intensive and delicate design work. Torte’s dining room walls are a cheery red and brilliant teal with corrugated metal siding acting as wainscoting and a giant chalkboard menu filling out one of the walls. The color combination matches Torte’s warm and inviting vibe and gives the space a regal feel.
Now the kitchen was an extension of the front. I smiled as my fingers skimmed the freshly painted walls. They were dry to the touch and had an opaque sheen. Andy, Sterling, and Stephanie had done a great job once again, although it did look like the walls would need a second coat. There were a few streaks where the primer showed through.
All easy fixes, I thought as I gathered everything I needed to make another batch of truffles. Rain pattered the windows as I melted chocolate and became lost in my thoughts. The sound reminded me of my time on the cruise ship. I used to fall asleep every night to the lulling rhythmic sound of waves lapping against the boat’s heavy hull. Was Carlos sleeping now or was he dancing in the galley kitchen blasting Latin jazz as he orchestrated dinner service?
I pushed the thought from my mind and concentrated on the oozing chocolate. It wasn’t until I began rolling the truffles in the cocoa powder that I realized the windows were open and potentially letting in the rain. Grabbing a stack of dishtowels, I hurried to assess whether any water had gotten in. Unfortunately, it had. Small pools of water filled the bottom of the windowsills. I mopped it up and made sure the windows were shut tight. The paint fumes had dissipated somewhat, and I was done with the truffles. I was also starving.
It was no wonder. I checked the time and it was after seven. When I’m baking I tend to lose myself in the experience. Carlos used to tease me about getting lost in the dough. He would tell staff that the time to play pranks on me was when I was up to my elbows in dough. “Julieta, she does not know what is happening around her when she bakes.” Once, he claimed that he had me paged on the ship three times before I responded. I knew it wasn’t true. Running the ship’s kitchen meant knowing exactly what every member of my staff was doing. The sheer number of white coats and pastry knives made it impossible not to focus. However, Carlos was right that when I had a kitchen to myself I could disappear. My problems and the world around me would fade away as I kneaded airy bread dough, activating the bubbles in the yeast. He had the opposite approach to cooking, in part because he spent the vast majority of his time teaching. I could picture him leaning over a line cook’s shoulder while plating rack of lamb with pork belly. Carlos would direct the cook to adorn each pristine plate with exactly seven dainty bursts of cranberry sauce and a dusting of fresh chopped mint. He would demonstrate and then lean back against the counter and watch. Young cooks would timidly present their plate for Carlos’s feedback.
“No, no, you must not have that look on your face.” Carlos spoke with his hands. “Do you like this plate?”
The cook would give a half nod.
Carlos waved his arms in the air. “No, this is no good. You must not fear the food. You must embrace it. This is a beautiful plate and when you come to me next time, you stand tall and you tell me that. Okay?”
Usually, the cooks would nod with relief and scurry away while Carlos maintained his casual commanding position as the kitchen’s captain. He was intimidating, but not in a mean way. Staff members respected his palate and ability to bring such artistry to each plate that came out of the kitchen. Many of them assumed that Carlos had always been at the helm of the galley, but nothing could be further from the truth.
He grew up in a small hillside Spanish village. His family wasn’t wealthy, but they shared a love of food. Throughout his early years he worked every job he could from scrubbing floors in a three-star Michelin restaurant to washing dishes in a street food cart. Those experiences helped mold him into the chef he is today. I remember one night after dinner service Carlos made us Spanish coffees and we drank them on the upper decks. Carlos stretched out on a lounge chair. The moonlight cast a glow on his bronzed skin.
“Can you believe this is our life, Julieta?” he said, drinking me in. When he looked at me like that with his dark eyes I could barely breathe.
“We’re lucky.”
“Sí, sí. I did not think I would ever get to this point. When I left my village in Spain and took my first job on the ship, my English it was so bad that the chef would point to what I needed to clean in the kitchen. I could have never dreamed to be here now. Every hour I had free I would study English and watch the cooks.”
I sipped my boozy coffee, feeling the alcohol rush to my head. “You were determined.”
Carlos had a faraway look in his eyes. I wondered if I would have fallen for him as fast if I had known him then. “It is true. It is why I tell these young chefs they must be hungry for it. They must work and study and then work and study more.”
Our childhoods had been so very different. It was as if the seas had brought us together from worlds that were oceans apart.
“A month later after I was scrubbing the counters and mopping the floors they made me a prep cook, then a line cook, then I continue on to become a head chef. It is all a distant memory now, but the food knows. The food remembers where I have come from. I will never let it forget.”
I reached over and placed my hand on his forearm. He wrapped his arm around mine and we drank our coffees in silence staring up at the stars above and gliding over the waves.
* * *
That was a lifetime ago, Jules, I told myself as I grabbed my coat and locked the front door. Ashland is home now, and Carlos, well, who knows.
“Jules!” a voice called out as I stepped onto the soggy sidewalk.
I turned to see Thomas running down the sidewalk.
“Hey.” He was breathless as he caught up to me. “You are just the person I was looking for.”
“Perfect timing then. What’s going on?”
Rain dripped from his brow. His uniform was spattered with water and his shoes looked drenched.
“Where did you come from?” I asked.
Thomas pointed behind him. “The station.”
“And you’re that wet?” Ashland’s police station was right around the corner from Torte. It had a blue and white striped awning that blended in seamlessly with the rest of the plaza. Unless you looked closely at the word “police” etched in the glass windows, you’d never guess the small corner shop served as headquarters for the officers assigned to the downtown beat. Not that there was much of a beat to cover in the plaza. Most days Thomas’s responsibilities included giving visitors directions to the Oregon Shakespeare Festival and making sure that Ashland’s young hippie community didn’t panhandle in the square.
“It was coming down hard.” He pointed to Puck’s Pub. “Do you have time to grab a beer or a bite to eat?”
“Sure.” I waited while he opened the carved wood door. Tourists flocked to Puck’s during the season. It was the quintessential Ashland experience themed after Shakespeare’s most impish character. Giant kegs served as tables in the old-English pub. A wall of taps with ceramic handles lined the bar, where a friendly bartender served pints in ornamental beer steins. A cauldron of mulled wine sat on the edge of the bar with a sign reading GET IT WHILE IT LASTS. $3 A MUG.
During the off-season locals reclaimed the pub as our own. Thomas and I waved to a number of familiar faces as we passed a guy wearing a rainbow beanie playing the accordion on a small wooden stage. A group of college students with guitars and mandolins waited their turn for open mic night and swayed to the music at wooden booths near the bar.
The hostess showed us to a table in front of the bar and offered us menus. “We’re running a rainy day special tonight. Meat loaf and smashed garlic potatoes with a side salad for ten dollars.”
Thomas caught my eye. “We’ll both take the special, plus a couple pints of whatever your guest tap is tonight, right, Jules?”
“Absolutely.” Thomas and I had been friends since middle school. He knew my food preferences as well as anyone, except maybe Carlos. Don’t think about Carlos now, Jules, I told myself.
“Were you trying to scrounge chocolate handouts at the hotel or doing official police work?” I asked, unfolding my napkin and placing it on my lap.
Thomas followed suit, but dabbed his wet brow with his napkin. “I tried to pocket some chocolate, but everyone had already packed up. If I had been smart about it, I could have confiscated it all in the name of the law and gorged myself tonight.” He grinned and dried his hands on the linen napkin before placing it on his lap.
The waitress arrived with two frothy beers. “You guys having the Caldera pilsners?”
“That’s us,” Thomas said, taking a golden beer from her. “I’m off duty.”
Caldera was a local brewery that was known for their Northwest-inspired ales.
“Have you tried this one yet?” I asked, holding my pint to the light. The beer was crystal clear. I could see Thomas through the glass.
“No, I was at the brewery last week and the head brewer told me they were releasing it this week. Pilsners are my favorite.” He tapped his glass to mine and took a drink. I watched him sample the beer. A smile tugged at the corner of his smooth-shaven cheeks and his blue eyes glinted.
“I take it you like it?”
He took another drink. “Oh, yeah. It’s good stuff. Aren’t you going to try it?”
“I was enjoying watching you.”
Thomas’s cheeks flamed. I hadn’t meant anything by my words, but he had obviously misinterpreted their meaning. I didn’t want the conversation to take the wrong direction, so I quickly took a sip and swished the beer around in my mouth. There’s nothing romantic about tasting anything—beer, wine, food. I exaggerated, puffing my cheeks out like a fish and making a slurping sound. It broke the moment.
“Not bad,” I said after swallowing.
Thomas laughed. “You look ridiculous, Jules.”
I folded my arms across my chest and gave him my most serious face. “I’ll have you know that I have been professionally trained in the art of tasting. If we were being legitimate about this process, we should have a spit bucket. The most revered chefs in the world taste wine and beer like that. Swirling the liquid stimulates your taste buds. After you spit you should have some residual tingling in your palate.”
“Got it, chef.” Thomas mimicked my tasting actions. He looked equally ridiculous as he inflated his cheeks and made a goofy face. His ability to poke fun at himself was one of things that I appreciated most about him.
“What’s going on with investigation?” I asked, trying to direct the conversation.
He set his beer on the table and leaned closer. “I have to tell you, Jules, that this is one of the weirder cases that the Professor and I have investigated.”
“What do you mean?”
At that moment our food arrived. The waitress balanced two steaming plates of meat loaf and potatoes. As she placed them in front of us, the scent of garlic and herbs sent my stomach into a series of rumbles. I was famished.
The second she walked away I picked up my fork and cut into the tender meat loaf. The chef had seared it so that it had a sizzling crust. It was slathered in a hearty red wine and tomato sauce. I didn’t care that it burned my tongue as I bit into the juicy meat. The meat loaf was sublime. I was impressed, especially for pub fare. Meat loaf is hard to do well because the beef has a tendency to dry out. I guessed that Puck’s chef had used a trio of meats, probably a high-fat beef, pork, and top sirloin.
“Easy there, Jules.” Thomas chuckled as I dove into another steaming bite. “You look like you’re attacking your plate.”
“This is so good,” I replied from the side of my mouth. “Do you know how hard it is to make a good meat loaf?”
Thomas blew on his. “Nope. I just know that your mom’s is some of the best I’ve ever had.”
He was right. Mom had an old family recipe for meat loaf that reminded me of this. As soon as our remodel was complete I was going to have to make her famous recipe and serve meat-loaf sandwiches on our homemade buns as a lunch special. I could barely reply because I shoveled another bite of meat loaf and scoop of the garlic potatoes in my mouth.
“What were you going to say about Evan?” I mumbled.
Thomas looked over his shoulder before leaning closer to me and lowering his voice. “I don’t know. It’s weird. We got the preliminary test results back from the lab in Medford and every single sample came back clear of any trace of nuts.”
“Really?” His words made me pause from devouring my plate.
“Yeah. The Professor was convinced that we’d have a pretty clear answer about what happened when we got the results back, but now we’re at square one again.”
“No one’s samples contained nuts?” I repeated. I was as surprised as Thomas was with this news.
He rubbed his temples. “Nope. Not a single one.”
“Does the Professor have a new theory?”
“We’re working every angle at the moment. The most likely scenario is that Evan ate something that his body reacted to, but because of what you said and a few other witness reports we’re looking into the possibility that someone intentionally swapped a sample with nuts or found a way to slip nuts into something that Evan ate. We’re waiting for the coroner’s analysis of his stomach contents. As soon as we get the results back we should have a definite answer.”
Who were the other witnesses? My mind raced as I considered his theory. I took a bite of the salad that accompanied the heavy winter dish. It was composed of a medley of greens and topped with shredded carrots, shallots, thinly sliced tomatoes and cucumbers and dressed with an Italian vinaigrette. My mouth thanked me as I took a bite of the tangy acidic greens. Puck’s chef had succeeded in finding the harmony of flavor and textures in this plate. When Thomas and I were finished, I planned to thank him and share my compliments.
“Slipping Evan nuts is a pretty impossible undertaking, don’t you think?”
Thomas nodded. “That’s what’s so weird about the case. One of the Professor’s thoughts is if, and that’s a big if, someone intentionally killed Evan, they could have made a special brownie, cake, candy—whatever—laced with nuts. They could have stashed it away and brought it out only when he came to their booth to taste. It’s a pretty good theory if you think about it, because the rest of their products really would have been nut-free.” He pushed his potatoes around his plate with his fork. “But this one might be impossible to prove.”
“So the Professor thinks it could be murder?”
He hesitated. “Not for sure. Like I said, we’re still waiting for the coroner’s final report, but at the scene the coroner said he estimated that Evan had had an immediate and deadly reaction to whatever he consumed.”
We paused our conversation when the waitress came by to ask how our dinners were and whether or not we were ready for another round of drinks. We declined drinks, but we both gushed over the food. “Please tell the chef that this is amazing,” I said. “It’s one of the best meat loaves I’ve tasted.”
The waitress looked pleased and went off to share our praise with the chef. Whenever I eat a meal that I enjoy I make a concerted effort to pass that on to the staff. Sadly, the loudest customers in the food world tend to be the complainers. I think it’s important for servers, cooks, and chefs to hear from diners who love their experience.
“Is there any chance it was a reaction to something else entirely?” I asked Thomas after the waitress was out of earshot.
“Maybe. It’s possible, but we won’t know until we get the coroner’s report to see what was in his system. There’s documentation in Evan’s medical records of his allergy, and we recovered his EpiPen at the scene, so I’d say the odds are definitely in our favor that nuts were the cause of death.”
My brain spun. Nuts were not exactly an easy substance to slip into a product. They were chunky and crunchy, the only way they could have been incorporated without Evan knowing would have been to grind them into a fine powder. I thought back to my training in culinary school—was there a technique I was missing? Could the killer have found another way to taint their chocolate with nuts?
“It’s a puzzler, isn’t it?” Thomas practically read my mind. “I’m worried, and I think the Professor is too, that this might be the perfect murder weapon if it turns out that he was killed. Unless we can dig up a solid motive, someone may have gotten away with murder and there might not be any way that we can prove it.” He sounded dejected.
“I’m guessing that means you haven’t uncovered any clear motives?”
He sighed. “No. So far it’s a lot of hearsay. As you know, Evan wasn’t well liked and there have been some rumors about his kitchen staff at Confections Couture, but none of that is admissible in a court of law.”
We finished our meals in silence. The head chef came out a few minutes later to thank me for my kind words. Both Thomas and I shared our rave reviews of the dinner. I told the chef he had inspired me to craft a meat loaf sandwich for our lunch menu, and offered him the first taste. He beamed with pride and agreed to stop by next week to sample my creation.
Thomas walked me to my apartment. “Sorry to burden you with this, Jules. I didn’t mean to drop my stress on you. You’re such a good listener and I guess it’s like old times.”
“That’s okay.” I touched his arm. “I want to find out who did this to Evan as much as you do.”
He waited while I unlocked my front door.
“You know, I can ask around a little more tomorrow if you think it would be helpful. I’m going to be at the fest all day.”
“Like you haven’t already been doing that, Jules. Come on.”
“What? Me?” I grinned.
Thomas rolled his eyes.
“Okay, maybe I asked around a little. I couldn’t help it. I watched Evan die.” The memory made my stomach lurch. “No one deserves a death like that. If there’s anything I can do to help bring his killer to justice, I have to—for myself and for him.”
Thomas’s face softened. “I know, Jules. Trust me. I know. But I have a bad feeling about this case.”
He said good night and left me with a thousand thoughts spinning through my brain. I hoped he was wrong, but I had a sinking feeling that he was right. Had someone pulled off a perfect murder?