by: Ellie Alexander
Series: Bakeshop Mystery
Genre: Cozy Mystery
Release Date: June 30, 2020
Publisher: St. Martin’s Press
Amazon | Paperback | Barnes & Noble | IndieBound | Goodreads
This time, Torte's pastry chef and amateur sleuth finds herself coming out of the oven and straight into the fire in Ellie Alexander's Nothing Bundt Trouble: A Bakeshop Mystery.
Spring has sprung in Ashland, Oregon, and everything at Torte seems to be coming up buttercream roses. But just when Juliet Capshaw seems to have found her sweet spot--with her staff set to handle the influx of tourists for this year's Shakespeare festival while she moves back into her childhood home--things take a dramatic turn. Jules discovers a long-forgotten dossier in her deceased father's belongings that details one of the most controversial cases in Ashland's history: a hit-and-run accident from the 1980s. Or was it?
Now it's up to Jules to parse through a whole new world of details from another era, from unraveling cassette tapes to recipes for Bundt cakes, before an old enemy brings the Capshaw "pastry case" to a modern-day dead end.
After Lance left, I made quick work of the dishes. Then I returned upstairs to finish decorating my new bedroom. A fluffy tangerine down comforter and matching feather pillows softened the gray tones. Prints from my global travels framed the far wall. Mom had mentioned that she had left a few boxes of assorted vases, some artwork, and a set of lamps in the basement, so I went downstairs to see what I might be able to salvage. Otherwise, I had agreed to donate whatever I couldn’t use.
I squeezed my thick cabin socks into a pair of slippers and headed downstairs. The basement was accessed through a door off of the entryway. Unlike the rest of the house, where the old floors had been resurfaced and stained, the basement stairs were rickety with open slats at a steep angle.
I yanked a string that clicked on a dim yellow light to illuminate my way. Maybe at some point I would have to tackle a basement remodel. For the moment, I ducked my head to avoid smacking it on the beams and made my descent into the cool space.
The basement was partially unfinished. Half of the dark and musty space had dirt floors and exposed ductwork. Linoleum covered the remaining half of the floor. This section had also been sheetrocked and painted. The basement had been a great hiding spot for childhood games of hide-and-seek. Two large wooden shelves stood near the washer and dryer. I dug through boxes of old Christmas and Halloween decorations and tubs with dishes, towels, and silverware and found the two bedside lamps that Mom had left for me. They had dark walnut bases and cloth craft shades in a creamy offwhite. With a little dusting, they would work perfectly in my new bedroom. At this rate, I might not have to go furniture shopping at all.
I set aside the things I wanted and began to restack the boxes. The last box wouldn’t fit back on the shelf. I tried shoving it harder. No luck.
“Get in there,” I said aloud, trying to force the box into the narrow space. It was futile, so I tried a new tactic. I made space on either side to try and squeeze the box back into place. It still wouldn’t fit.
There was only one solution, I was going to have to restack the entire shelf. I carefully removed box after dusty box and set them on the dirt floor. Each box was labeled with old yellowed masking tape. There were boxes labeled, Juliet ballet, Thanksgiving decorations, and Torte. It was a walk down memory lane to see faded cardboard boxes containing trinkets from my childhood and stacks of family photos. Mom had promised to come spend a weekend sorting through the memorabilia with me. She had teared up when offering her services.
“I’m sorry to leave you with this project, honey. After Dad died, I couldn’t face the basement alone. It’s become a wasteland down there. I promise, I’ll come help you look through everything.”
At the time, I had told her not to worry about it. She and the Professor had gifted me the house, the least I could do was take a few boxes to the Goodwill and organize the rest. And, there was no time like the present to get started.
Once I had taken all of the boxes down, I realized why the box wouldn’t fit back in. A broken piece of wood had fallen from the shelf above and gotten lodged at the back of the rickety shelving unit. I tossed the wood on the dirt floor. Dust tickled my throat. I coughed and waved the tiny particles of debris from my face.
If I was already this far into reorganization I might as well give the entire shelves a good dusting. Thick empty patches where the boxes had been revealed deep layers of dust. It reminded me of an archaeological dig site, where years of evolution were apparent in each striation.
I went upstairs to grab a rag and cleaning supplies. Then I proceeded to remove every cardboard box and plastic tub. Mom had labeled most of them, but some of the labels were faded and hard to read, so I sorted through each box and placed new labels on them. A wave of nostalgia washed over me as I discovered pictures from Torte’s early beginnings, family vacations, and even some of my baby clothes. Mom had mentioned that she was leaving some token of my childhood for me, but I hadn’t seen many of the pictures in years. Tears welled in my eyes as I leafed through photos of my mom, dad, and me at the beach and Lake of the Woods. My favorite photo was of my parents in front of Torte on the day they opened the doors to the public for the first time. They were holding hands and beaming. My dad was tall and thin with light hair like mine. A trace of a mustache graced his upper lip. Mom looked much the same. She came to my dad’s shoulder and leaned into his body. Her hair was longer in the picture and her honey highlights looked as if they’d been kissed by the sun.
I squinted to get a better look at the grainy picture. Torte’s cherry red and teal blue logo was etched in the front window of the bakeshop. A vinyl sign hung above the front door announcing: Ashland’s first espresso machine!
I’ll have to frame this one and put it on my nightstand, I thought, adding it to my “keep” pile and returning the tub of memories to the shelf. I was about to call it a night when another box caught my eye. It was stuffed at the very back of the shelves and covered in a half inch of dust. This box clearly hadn’t been touched in years.
In order to free it, I had to move the shelving unit a few inches from the wall. The thin cardboard box dropped to the ground. I picked it up and peeled off yellowing masking tape. It wasn’t labeled, or if it had been the label had completely faded. At first glance, there didn’t appear to be anything in the box other than some old newspaper clippings, but when I removed the newsprint, I found a leather-bound journal inside.
My heart rate quickened as I unwound the leather string on the journal and let it fall open. I recognized my father’s handwriting immediately. It had been years since I had seen his cursive scroll. Seeing it made my eyes well again. I ran my finger over the words as if the touch of the ink on my skin would connect us again.
“Miss you, Dad,” I whispered, flipping through the pages of the journal. He had practically written a book. Every page was filled in completely. Were these his personal thoughts? Should I read it?
I didn’t want to violate his privacy, but he’d been gone for so many years now that the thought of reading his words in his voice was too enticing to pass up. Losing him in my formative years had forever changed me. Grief had defined and shaped my adolescence and set me on a course to see the world. Dad had always talked about traveling. He made up bedtime stories about Kathmandu and remote islands in the middle of the Bering Sea. His visions of wanderlust ignited my yearning for adventure. In part, I had decided to go to culinary school in New York because of him. He and Mom had never really traveled, since they were tethered to Torte and Ashland. Setting sail for tropical ports of call made me feel like I was paying homage to him.
I finished organizing the boxes and took my newfound treasures and Dad’s journal upstairs. It wasn’t terribly late, so I made myself a steaming-hot mug of apple cinnamon tea, put on my pajamas, and tucked myself into my new cozy bed with my father’s journal. Was it a bad idea to venture into his past?
What if the journal contained details about my parents’ relationship? What if he had intentionally hidden it in the basement? Maybe it contained a long-forgotten secret. Was it fair to dredge up the past?
In the same breath, I knew had to read it. Because my dad had died in my teen years, there were so many things I wished I could have asked him. So many questions left unanswered. Like, how did he silence the voice of worry in his head? Or what was his recipe for the perfect sourdough starter?
I had never questioned the big things. I knew that he loved me—deeply, unconditionally. I knew that he loved Mom too. Their story could have graced the pages of Shakespeare. On the rare occasion that they had fought, they quickly mended things with a love note left at the coffee bar or a bouquet of wildflowers on the dining room table. They had been steadfast supporters of each other. At least through my eyes.
What if my memories weren’t true?
There’s only way to find out, Jules.
I took a long sip of my tea and opened the journal to the first page. The leather felt heavy in my hands.
It was dated March 14, 1988. Some quick math informed me that I would have been five at the time.
Beneath the date were the words “Feeling conflicted.”
I almost flipped the journal shut, but I couldn’t stop myself, so I read on.
My heart thudded in my chest. Doug, as in the Professor, Doug? As in Mom’s new husband?
I had known that Doug was good friends with both my parents. He had said as much himself when he asked for my permission to marry Mom. I’ll never forget our conversation, when he had confessed that he had loved her from afar for many years. He had barely admitted it to himself at the time because he and my father were best friends. His revelation had made me admire him even more. To have never acted on his desires and stand by Mom in the years after Dad’s death, offering support and a comforting shoulder for her grief, was the true test of enduring love, in my opinion.
I took another deep breath and read on.
I squeezed my thick cabin socks into a pair of slippers and headed downstairs. The basement was accessed through a door off of the entryway. Unlike the rest of the house, where the old floors had been resurfaced and stained, the basement stairs were rickety with open slats at a steep angle.
I yanked a string that clicked on a dim yellow light to illuminate my way. Maybe at some point I would have to tackle a basement remodel. For the moment, I ducked my head to avoid smacking it on the beams and made my descent into the cool space.
The basement was partially unfinished. Half of the dark and musty space had dirt floors and exposed ductwork. Linoleum covered the remaining half of the floor. This section had also been sheetrocked and painted. The basement had been a great hiding spot for childhood games of hide-and-seek. Two large wooden shelves stood near the washer and dryer. I dug through boxes of old Christmas and Halloween decorations and tubs with dishes, towels, and silverware and found the two bedside lamps that Mom had left for me. They had dark walnut bases and cloth craft shades in a creamy offwhite. With a little dusting, they would work perfectly in my new bedroom. At this rate, I might not have to go furniture shopping at all.
I set aside the things I wanted and began to restack the boxes. The last box wouldn’t fit back on the shelf. I tried shoving it harder. No luck.
“Get in there,” I said aloud, trying to force the box into the narrow space. It was futile, so I tried a new tactic. I made space on either side to try and squeeze the box back into place. It still wouldn’t fit.
There was only one solution, I was going to have to restack the entire shelf. I carefully removed box after dusty box and set them on the dirt floor. Each box was labeled with old yellowed masking tape. There were boxes labeled, Juliet ballet, Thanksgiving decorations, and Torte. It was a walk down memory lane to see faded cardboard boxes containing trinkets from my childhood and stacks of family photos. Mom had promised to come spend a weekend sorting through the memorabilia with me. She had teared up when offering her services.
“I’m sorry to leave you with this project, honey. After Dad died, I couldn’t face the basement alone. It’s become a wasteland down there. I promise, I’ll come help you look through everything.”
At the time, I had told her not to worry about it. She and the Professor had gifted me the house, the least I could do was take a few boxes to the Goodwill and organize the rest. And, there was no time like the present to get started.
Once I had taken all of the boxes down, I realized why the box wouldn’t fit back in. A broken piece of wood had fallen from the shelf above and gotten lodged at the back of the rickety shelving unit. I tossed the wood on the dirt floor. Dust tickled my throat. I coughed and waved the tiny particles of debris from my face.
If I was already this far into reorganization I might as well give the entire shelves a good dusting. Thick empty patches where the boxes had been revealed deep layers of dust. It reminded me of an archaeological dig site, where years of evolution were apparent in each striation.
I went upstairs to grab a rag and cleaning supplies. Then I proceeded to remove every cardboard box and plastic tub. Mom had labeled most of them, but some of the labels were faded and hard to read, so I sorted through each box and placed new labels on them. A wave of nostalgia washed over me as I discovered pictures from Torte’s early beginnings, family vacations, and even some of my baby clothes. Mom had mentioned that she was leaving some token of my childhood for me, but I hadn’t seen many of the pictures in years. Tears welled in my eyes as I leafed through photos of my mom, dad, and me at the beach and Lake of the Woods. My favorite photo was of my parents in front of Torte on the day they opened the doors to the public for the first time. They were holding hands and beaming. My dad was tall and thin with light hair like mine. A trace of a mustache graced his upper lip. Mom looked much the same. She came to my dad’s shoulder and leaned into his body. Her hair was longer in the picture and her honey highlights looked as if they’d been kissed by the sun.
I squinted to get a better look at the grainy picture. Torte’s cherry red and teal blue logo was etched in the front window of the bakeshop. A vinyl sign hung above the front door announcing: Ashland’s first espresso machine!
I’ll have to frame this one and put it on my nightstand, I thought, adding it to my “keep” pile and returning the tub of memories to the shelf. I was about to call it a night when another box caught my eye. It was stuffed at the very back of the shelves and covered in a half inch of dust. This box clearly hadn’t been touched in years.
In order to free it, I had to move the shelving unit a few inches from the wall. The thin cardboard box dropped to the ground. I picked it up and peeled off yellowing masking tape. It wasn’t labeled, or if it had been the label had completely faded. At first glance, there didn’t appear to be anything in the box other than some old newspaper clippings, but when I removed the newsprint, I found a leather-bound journal inside.
My heart rate quickened as I unwound the leather string on the journal and let it fall open. I recognized my father’s handwriting immediately. It had been years since I had seen his cursive scroll. Seeing it made my eyes well again. I ran my finger over the words as if the touch of the ink on my skin would connect us again.
“Miss you, Dad,” I whispered, flipping through the pages of the journal. He had practically written a book. Every page was filled in completely. Were these his personal thoughts? Should I read it?
I didn’t want to violate his privacy, but he’d been gone for so many years now that the thought of reading his words in his voice was too enticing to pass up. Losing him in my formative years had forever changed me. Grief had defined and shaped my adolescence and set me on a course to see the world. Dad had always talked about traveling. He made up bedtime stories about Kathmandu and remote islands in the middle of the Bering Sea. His visions of wanderlust ignited my yearning for adventure. In part, I had decided to go to culinary school in New York because of him. He and Mom had never really traveled, since they were tethered to Torte and Ashland. Setting sail for tropical ports of call made me feel like I was paying homage to him.
I finished organizing the boxes and took my newfound treasures and Dad’s journal upstairs. It wasn’t terribly late, so I made myself a steaming-hot mug of apple cinnamon tea, put on my pajamas, and tucked myself into my new cozy bed with my father’s journal. Was it a bad idea to venture into his past?
What if the journal contained details about my parents’ relationship? What if he had intentionally hidden it in the basement? Maybe it contained a long-forgotten secret. Was it fair to dredge up the past?
In the same breath, I knew had to read it. Because my dad had died in my teen years, there were so many things I wished I could have asked him. So many questions left unanswered. Like, how did he silence the voice of worry in his head? Or what was his recipe for the perfect sourdough starter?
I had never questioned the big things. I knew that he loved me—deeply, unconditionally. I knew that he loved Mom too. Their story could have graced the pages of Shakespeare. On the rare occasion that they had fought, they quickly mended things with a love note left at the coffee bar or a bouquet of wildflowers on the dining room table. They had been steadfast supporters of each other. At least through my eyes.
What if my memories weren’t true?
There’s only way to find out, Jules.
I took a long sip of my tea and opened the journal to the first page. The leather felt heavy in my hands.
It was dated March 14, 1988. Some quick math informed me that I would have been five at the time.
Beneath the date were the words “Feeling conflicted.”
I almost flipped the journal shut, but I couldn’t stop myself, so I read on.
What should I do? I should have told Doug no when he asked for my help, but he’s a trusted friend and I never would have imagined that a small favor would lead us here.
My heart thudded in my chest. Doug, as in the Professor, Doug? As in Mom’s new husband?
I had known that Doug was good friends with both my parents. He had said as much himself when he asked for my permission to marry Mom. I’ll never forget our conversation, when he had confessed that he had loved her from afar for many years. He had barely admitted it to himself at the time because he and my father were best friends. His revelation had made me admire him even more. To have never acted on his desires and stand by Mom in the years after Dad’s death, offering support and a comforting shoulder for her grief, was the true test of enduring love, in my opinion.
I took another deep breath and read on.
Purchase Nothing Bundt Trouble from:
The Bakeshop Mystery Series:
On Thin Icing ~ Review
Caught Bread Handed ~ Review
Fudge and Jury ~ Review
A Crime of Passion ~ Review
Trouble is Brewing ~ Review
Another One Bites the Crust ~ Review
Till Death Do Us Tart ~ Review
Live and Let Pie ~ Review
A Cup of Holiday Fear ~ Review
Chilled to the Cone releases December 29, 2020
Meet the characters of the Bakeshop Mystery Series here.
You can read Jules’ profile post here.
When not writing, you can find her testing pastry recipes in her home kitchen or at one of the many famed coffeehouse or brewpubs nearby. You’ll also find her outside exploring hiking trails and trying to burn off calories consumed in the name of “research”.
Ellie loves hearing from readers and interacting on social media. Be sure to follow her to learn about her writing process, upcoming books, special events, giveaways, and more!
Places to find Ellie Alexander:
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