It took us another hour to put the finishing touches on Torte’s booth. As Mom placed the last marzipan in a neat row on a silver tray, a voice sounded behind us. “Delivery.”
We turned to find Thomas carrying a giant box of flowers. Their fragrant scent filled the air. “Where do you want these?” He shifted his feet. Thomas covers the downtown beat for the Ashland police and was outfitted in his standard blue uniform. His blond hair was cut short and his freshly shaven face made him look more like an all-American football player than an intimidating cop.
“These are lovely,” Mom said, clearing a space on the floor for Thomas to put the flowers. “Your mom outdid herself this time. Be sure to send her my thanks.”
“Anything for you, Mrs. Capshaw.” Thomas gave her a half bow and handed her the first bouquet of flowers. Each bundle of flowers was tied with a satin chocolate ribbon. There were white peonies, cream roses, curly long-stemmed willow branches, and delicate cherry blossoms. The bouquets blended seamlessly with our booth.
Mom positioned the vases next to the trays of marzipan and alongside our wedding cake display. “Beautiful.” She stood back and surveyed her work.
“When does all the chocolate action start?” Thomas asked.
I checked my phone. “Soon. We have about thirty minutes before the vendor meeting and then the doors open to the public.” I pointed to a fading bruise on his temple. “Hey, how’s your head by now?” Thomas had been involved in a car accident while on the hunt for a killer and ended up with a concussion. The bruise appeared to be healing well, but I hadn’t seen him since he’d been discharged from the hospital.
He squeezed one hand into a fist and knocked on his forehead. “Solid as rock.”
Mom shook her finger at him. “Be careful. You don’t want to injure yourself more.”
“Not to worry, Mrs. Capshaw. I can’t feel a thing. My head is as good as new.” Thomas tucked the empty delivery box under one arm and scrutinized our booth. The police badge pinned to his chest reflected the light from the chandelier overhead. “Torte gets my vote! You guys did a great job. Do you need any help before I go?”
“Thanks, Thomas.” Mom squeezed his free arm. “I think we’re about done. Let me write a check for the flowers before you go though.”
While Mom wrote the check Thomas stared longingly at our display.
“Do you want a taste?” I handed him a marzipan.
“I don’t want to ruin your setup.” He gave me a sheepish look and popped the marzipan in his mouth. “But if you insist.”
“Right. Since when do you turn down chocolate?”
“I’ve changed my ways, you know. I’m an upstanding member of this community. Sworn to serve and protect.” He stood with his shoulders squared and saluted.
“Of course, Officer. I meant no offense.”
Thomas pretended to be offended. “I tell you, we get no respect around here.” He helped himself to another marzipan. “Just for that I’m taking my payment in chocolate.”
Mom handed Thomas a check. “You know that we will always pay you in chocolate. Don’t listen to her.”
“What is this, gang-up-on-Jules day?” I joked.
Thomas winked at Mom. “She’s such an easy target.”
“Hey!” I protested.
“I’m kidding.” He swiped one more marzipan. “And I’m getting out of here before I get in more trouble. Good luck with the fest. I’ll be rooting for Torte.”
With a final wink to Mom he headed for the doors. I was going to say something to her about not encouraging him, but at that moment an announcement sounded overhead that vendors should gather in front of the stage.
We made our way to the stage. Evan Rowe and his chocolate entourage held court near the center. Chef Garrison, who was at the helm of Ashland Springs’ award-winning restaurant, took the stage. Mom and Garrison had been friends for years. He caught her eye and waved.
“Welcome to the Chocolate Festival!” His jovial voice boomed into the microphone. He wore his black chef’s coat like a regal cape.
A young woman standing next to us wearing a pink T-shirt that read THE UNBEATABLE BROWNIE. #GET IN MY BELLY, let out a little yelp. She blushed and threw her hand over her mouth. “Sorry,” she said to me. “I’m so excited to really be here.”
“Me too.” I returned her smile.
Chef Garrison explained the timeline for the demonstrations and how judging would work for both the People’s Choice and Best in Show awards. There were three official judges: a food writer, a culinary instructor, and a corporate chef. He introduced each of them. I was shocked when he announced the name Sandi Kramer, and a woman wearing a black pantsuit and thick-framed oversized glasses joined him on the stage.
“Is that the Sandi Kramer of Sweetened magazine?” I asked Mom, as excited as the young woman next to me.
Mom nodded. “I heard a rumor that she was coming.”
Sandi Kramer was notorious in the foodie world. She was the editor of my all-time favorite pastry magazine, Sweetened, and had a reputation for making and breaking careers.
“Oh my gosh!” the woman standing next to me squealed. “That’s Sandi Kramer! She’s so stylish, isn’t she?”
I agreed. Sandi’s shockingly white hair was cut tight above her ears. Chunky black pearls dangled from her lobes and hung around her neck. She moved with graceful confidence as if she were walking the catwalk.
“Happy to be here,” she said in a posh East Coast accent as Chef Garrison introduced her. “Charming little town you have here. I’ve been hearing about Ashland for years, thanks to your very own Evan Rowe.” She gave a curt nod to Evan.
I watched as he glared at her and then intentionally turned to ignore her steely gaze. “That was an icy reception,” I whispered to Mom.
“What did you say, honey?”
I spoke louder and repeated what I had said.
Mom glanced in Evan’s direction. “I don’t think that Evan likes having someone with so much clout here.”
After the judges had been introduced, Chef Garrison went through the weekend’s agenda and invited the four showcase vendors to join him on the stage. I nudged Mom. “You go.”
She frowned. “I hope I don’t have to say anything.”
“You’ll be great.” I pushed her forward.
The four showcase vendors included Torte, Confections Couture, Melted Masterpieces, a drinkable chocolate company from Medford, and Howard’s Sea Salts. Chef Garrison raved about each of our businesses and encouraged everyone to make time to attend our demonstrations and to taste our fellow chocolatiers’ offerings. He sounded like he was done with his introductions, but Evan Rowe jumped forward and tried to grab the mic from his hands.
Chef Garrison looked unsure what to do. “Let me introduce Evan Rowe of Confections Couture.”
Evan addressed the audience. “What you’re not being told is the real history behind the Chocolate Fest. Many years ago when Confections Couture was a boutique chocolate shop—of course, even back then we were receiving accolades for our extraordinary work—I recognized that there was a need, a hole, in the chocolate community, if you will, which this festival has filled. I started the Chocolate Fest to shed light on the confectionery culture here in southern Oregon. Over the years, as my company has expanded and been named one of the world’s best chocolate producers, I haven’t had time to commit to running this kind of show, but I am committed to making sure that only the most exclusive and high-end chocolatiers are invited to participate. I’ll be taking it upon myself as a favor to the organizers to taste your creations.”
Chef Garrison’s mouth hung open.
Evan cleared his throat. “If your chocolate doesn’t meet my refined standards then I’m afraid you may be asked to pack up your things and leave.”
“Can he do that?” the young woman standing next to me asked.
“No,” I replied. “Look at Chef Garrison.”
The chef took the mic from Evan’s hands. “Thank you, Evan. We’re honored to have Confections Couture here with us again this year. If you’ve attended the Chocolate Fest in years past you may know that Confections Couture has been named People’s Choice and Best in Show many years running.”
“Five.” Evan pulled the mic back to his face. “And I have an exciting announcement that I’ll be making later today.” He glanced behind him. “Stick around, it’s going to get quite interesting around here.”
Chef Garrison took control of the mic. “Has it been five years, Evan?” As Evan returned to his entourage, he looked relieved and tried to reassure the crowd. “There’s no need to worry about packing up or being judged. I assure you our team here has procured some of the finest chocolatiers in the Pacific Northwest. We’re looking forward to a great show. Have fun, everyone.”
“Wow, someone has an ego,” I said to Mom when she returned.
“That’s nothing.”
We walked back to our booth. “Really?”
“The problem is that his ego isn’t exactly unfounded. He has built Confections Couture into one of the most famous chocolate companies in the entire world.”
“That doesn’t excuse his attitude, though.”
Mom rearranged a stack of brochures next to our chocolate pasta boxes. “Agreed. My point is simply that he has a reason for his attitude. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t approve of his approach, but he does produce some amazing chocolate.”
I had a feeling his chocolate would leave me with a bitter taste in my mouth. I’m a believer in the theory that our emotions come out in the food. Evan’s superior attitude had to have a negative effect on his chocolate. There was no doubt that he wasn’t going to win the fan favorite vote with the vendors.
While we put the finishing touches on our booth, I noticed Evan and Howard, of Howard’s Sea Salt, arguing at the Confections Couture booth. Howard reminded me of a fisherman, with his weathered skin and knee-high waders, which weren’t exactly necessary inside the ballroom. Although, if the rain continued, I might be changing my tune and asking Howard to borrow his boots. Howard caught my eye as he stormed away from Evan’s booth and gave me a half nod.
A few minutes later, Evan walked to the booth across from us—the Unbeatable Brownie. The table was completely covered in pink polka dots and chocolate stripes. An assortment of baskets with handwritten place cards were arranged in a whimsical pattern. There were cute pink signs tied with pink ribbon on each basket with hashtags like #GetInMyBelly, #TreatYoSelf, #EEEEATS, and #BrownieBatter.
“Are you familiar with the Unbeatable Brownie?” I asked Mom as we watched Evan stop in front of her table.
“Her name is Bethany. She’s a recent college graduate who has a food blog that’s been a big hit. She’s recently started delivering her brownies around town, but I believe she’s working out of her home kitchen.”
Sandi Kramer watched from the stage. She typed ferociously on a tablet and directed the photographer who was with her to take snapshots of Evan and Bethany.
“Get in my belly?” Evan scoffed. “What does that even mean?”
Bethany, the young woman in the pink T-shirt with whom I had been chatting, looked terrified as she replied. “It’s a hashtag for my blog.”
“You’re a food blogger? How did you get an invite?” He puffed out his chest. “You know in the food world, bloggers are considered pond scum.”
She gulped and caught my eye across the aisle. I felt terrible for her.
Evan picked up a sample brownie from one of her baskets. He tasted it and then proceeded to spit it into a paper napkin. Making a face of disgust, he spoke intentionally loud so that everyone around could hear. “This is terrible. Grainy and dry. Did you use cocoa powder?”
Bethany’s voice cracked as she replied. “Yes, all of our brownies are made with premium cocoa powder.”
“Big mistake. I think you might need to change your tagline to ‘Get out of my belly,’” Evan bellowed. “The cocoa powder dried them out and gives them a terrible sandy texture. You should have melted your chocolate instead.”
Her cheeks turned a bright shade of pink. “Thanks for the advice, Mr. Rowe. I’m a big fan of your work.”
“You should be. Let me give you a free piece of advice, learn to bake. Hashtags are not going to sell any brownies if they taste this bad.”
For a minute, I thought she might cry. Mom came to her rescue. “Evan, come on over.” She held up a box of our chocolate pasta.
Evan tossed his napkin at the young baker and stalked over to us. Great.
“Thanks a lot, Mom,” I said under my breath.
“I had to do something. We can handle him. That poor girl looks like she’s going to throw up.”
“What is this?” Evan scowled when Mom handed him a box of chocolate pasta.
“It’s our signature dessert this year.” Mom smiled broadly. “Chocolate pasta with cream sauce, pistachios, and fresh raspberries.”
Evan shook his head. “I have a nut allergy.”
Mom quickly pulled the tasting sample away from him. “Here,” she said, reaching for a slice of chocolate cake. “How about our signature chocolate cake instead? Definitely nut-free.”
Evan took the sample and stabbed a plastic fork into the cake. I couldn’t wait to see what his reaction was. I had dealt with my fair share of nasty customers while at sea. Some people are impossible to please, and I had learned that it was better to let them vent and smile politely. Trying to engage with antagonistic customers always led to disaster.
Mom must have had the same thought. Her smile was plastered on her face like the royal icing we used to construct gingerbread. We stood shoulder to shoulder as Evan chewed for an extended period of time.
“How quaint. An old family recipe,” he finally said after a long pause. I could tell that he liked it. He took three more bites in quick succession. Then he turned and motioned to Bethany “You should come try this. It’s moist and decadent. Exactly what a chocolate cake should be. If I made cake at Confections Couture, which I don’t, since they are much too common, this is the kind of cake I would bake. Tell me, Ellen, do you use cocoa powder in the cake?”
Mom nodded. “We do.”
“You must be kidding.” Evan looked surprised. Bethany walked from behind her booth and started toward us.
Evan scoffed. “I was speaking metaphorically. I didn’t mean you have to taste it right now.”
She stopped in mid-stride and looked to Mom and me for guidance.
“It’s, it’s…” Evan’s voice trailed off. He started to cough. I thought for a minute that he was choking on our cake. His face turned at least three shades darker than Bethany’s pink tablecloth. He dropped the cake sample on the ballroom floor and threw his hands to his throat.
I’d been trained in first aid and CPR. The kitchen can be a dangerous place and accidents are known to happen. It’s a required skill set when managing a kitchen. I recognized the signs of an allergic reaction right away. Evan wasn’t choking. His airway was closing.
“Call 911!” I yelled to Mom and raced toward Evan.
His lips were swelling so quickly they looked like balloons inflating. His hands puffed like red marshmallows. This was bad.
“Does anyone have an EpiPen?” I yelled to the crowd that had begun to circle around us. I grabbed Evan’s arm as he started to sway. His eyes were wide with panic and his cheeks were tinged with blue. He needed help immediately.
Someone hollered from the back of the crowd. It was Evan’s young assistant, Carter.
“He has an EpiPen. I’ll go find it.”
“Run!” I commanded.
Carter sprinted to the Confections Couture booth. Evan started slipping from my grasp. One of my fellow chocolate vendors grabbed his other arm. “Let’s get him to the floor,” he said.
We got Evan to the floor and rested him on his back just as he lost consciousness. “Benadryl! Does anyone have Benadryl?” I yelled. A woman in a white chef’s hat nodded. “I might.”
“Go check.”
Where was Carter? Why was it taking him so long? I scanned the crowd. Sandi and her photographer had pushed to the front of the growing crowd. I couldn’t see Carter. Where had he gone? Evan’s booth was only a few feet away.
The guy who helped me get Evan to the floor looked up at me. “He’s not breathing.”
I returned my gaze to Evan’s face and nearly lost consciousness myself. His face had expanded to the size of a pumpkin. His cheeks were turning a horrible purplish blue.
He clasped his hand around my wrist so tightly I lurched back in pain. Struggling for air, he tried to mouth something, but nothing came out.
“It’s okay, don’t try to talk. Just stay calm. Help is on the way.”
Evan’s head tossed from side to side. He squeezed my wrist tighter and yanked me toward his ballooning face. I could feel his urgent breath and see his pulse in his forehead.
He wheezed and tried to speak again.
“Try to relax,” I repeated in the calmest tone I could muster.
Evan shook his head violently and in one raspy final attempt whispered, “Murder.”
“What?” Had he said murder? “Evan, stay with me,” I cried.
The next thing I knew Evan released my hand, clasped his throat, and stopped breathing.
“What do we do?” the guy asked.
Without thinking I plugged Evan’s nose and started rescue breathing. My training and adrenaline kicked in. I didn’t even hear the EMS workers when they arrived. Finally, someone pulled me away from Evan’s body, and the paramedics took over. I watched with everyone else as they administered a shot in Evan’s thigh and warmed up the defibrillator. A sick feeling rose in my stomach. Their efforts were futile. Evan Rowe was dead.