Restaurant Weeks Are Murder

by Libby Klein

  The most stunning woman I had ever seen got out of the back. Flowing mink-brown hair, eyes the color of emeralds, and flawless skin. “It’s about time!” She stamped her long, leather-clad, perfect leg and ground her lipstick-red stilettos into the grass. “My agent specifically said that it was in my contract that I’m to make a big scene at all times.”

  Ivy consulted her paperwork. “Do you mean a big entrance? That’s what I have here.”

  The woman tossed her hair with a flick of her head. “Yeah. A big entrance. You were supposed to come open the door for me. I was sitting there for like an hour.”

  Stormin’ Norman stuffed his cell phone in his pocket and stumbled over to the town car. “I’ll open your door for you . . . Miss?”

  “New Jersey.”

  “What?”

  “It’s Miss New Jersey. Like as in Miss America. Or Miss Placed. And my door is already open.”

  Ivy cleared her throat. “Poppy, I’d like to introduce you to Brandy Sparks, this year’s reigning Miss New Jersey.”

  Brandy took a big step to get her stiletto unstuck. “My bags are in the car.” She headed toward the house, stopping at Figaro, who was sitting tall and staring at her with big copper eyes. She looked at the giant fluffy cat and said, “Eeww,” then kept walking.

  Stormin’ Norman grabbed her suitcases. “Can I have the room next to hers?” He rushed after Miss New Jersey, past Figaro who again flopped over. Norman didn’t seem to notice.

  “Well, that just saves the best for last.” Horatio gave me a kindly smile. “You don’t get to be as old as I am without learning to look after yourself. Hop to, Ivy.” Ivy jumped and scooped up the dapper gentleman’s luggage. Figaro was still lying on his back when Horatio looked down at him. Figaro blinked.

  Horatio said, “Odd,” and stepped over the smoky gray cat.

  “Is that everybody?” I asked Ivy.

  The town cars started pulling away while we took the first load inside. “We’re missing two people, Ashlee Pickel and Tess Rodriguez, the co-hosts of Wake Up! South Jersey. It’s a millennial morning show out of Egg Harbor that airs from ten to eleven on weekdays. I don’t know what’s keeping them.”

  I made my second trip out to the yard for the rest of Bess’s luggage. The house was waking up with chitter-chatter as the guests got to know one another. Figaro and Stormin’ Norman had Miss New Jersey cornered in the sitting room. I put Bess’s luggage down in the foyer and stretched my arms. Who needs four bags for one week?

  Miss New Jersey was huddled in a chintz wingback chair. She cried out, “Eeww. Can you please make him go away?”

  I looked from Figaro to Norman and asked, “Could you be more specific?”

  “The cat. I’m allergic.”

  Oh dear. I shooed Fig from the room. He stood out by the stairway and wrapped his body around the door jamb, so he could still see Miss New Jersey with one eye. He stretched one paw just over the threshold of the sitting room.

  While Ivy gave the judges an overview of the week—the times they would be picked up by their cars and when they would get their hair and makeup done before taping—I opened two bottles of wine and set out a cheese tray.

  One by one, I showed the guests to their rooms. I put Bess Jodice in the Swallowtail Suite, where first she had to check the mattress for bedbugs. Then she had to check the pressure in the shower, and the windows to see if they opened easily or had a draft. Once those tests were passed, I was given instructions about breakfast. She required tea at exactly 185 degrees, served only in bone china. She needed no sweetener as she had brought her own honey from her personal hives. There were to be no flowers that had smells in her room, but orchids were fine. She will not eat eggs for breakfast unless they come from her own laying hens. No, she did not bring any eggs, or hens, with her, and I would do a much better job of decorating her room if I would add a chenille throw and a couple of beaded pillows for a pop of color.

  I wanted to ask her if she had any insider stock tips she could share with me, but I refrained. My trial bed and breakfast opening a few weeks ago had been a failure. I couldn’t afford to have another.

  I was going to put Stormin’ Norman in the Monarch Room, but at the last minute changed my mind and sent him to the Adonis Suite. Mostly because I knew it would make Aunt Ginny giggle later when I told her about it, but also because it was the farthest away from Miss New Jersey in the Scarlet Peacock. I made sure to show Brandy how to lock her door and chased Figaro from her room. Finally, I got the suave Horatio Duplessis settled in the Purple Emperor Suite, our nicest room with a king-sized bed and a view of Mrs. Pritchard’s rose garden. I was just going over how to work the electric fireplace when sounds of a fracas in the front yard got everyone’s attention.

  Ivy called to me from the bottom of the stairs. “They’re here.”

  They were making a ruckus over who would wear the pink minidress on camera. The whole house had joined to watch, including Figaro, who was standing next to Miss New Jersey. Miss New Jersey sneezed.

  Out on the front lawn, hair was whipping around, French manicures were being ruined, earrings were being pulled. It was like watching a honey badger and a wolverine go head-to-head.

  Aunt Ginny narrowed her eyes watching the two young ladies and tsk’d. “Squirrels!”

  Horatio stepped forward. “Ladies! Pah-lease.”

  The girls stopped scrapping and noticed they had an audience. They got ahold of themselves, and immediately did the most critical task that came to mind and reapplied their lip gloss.

  Ivy nudged me and rolled her eyes. Then she said, “Ashlee Pickel, Tess Rodriguez, this is Poppy McAllister, your innkeeper for the week. She will show you to your room. Then I have a limo that will take us to tour the Restaurant Week set before we go to dinner.”

  Ashlee and Tess were well matched in temper, but opposites in appearance. Ashlee was a pale and willowy wheat blonde, while Tess was olive skinned, brunette, and curvy. From eyelashes to toenails they were both highly glossed, and while their pink-shimmer lips smiled prettily, their eyes flashed mutual animosity.

  “Wait just a minute, chica. We have to share a room?”

  “Does that producer know who we are?”

  “Yeah. We’re Ashlee and Tess.”

  They sang their theme song in harmony, “Babes in the mor-ning.”

  I tried to apologize. “I’m so sorry ladies, but this is the only other room I have. You do have your own bathroom though. Only the Scarlet Peacock uses the one in the hall.”

  Stormin’ Norman came up the stairs as I was letting the girls into their suite. He made a big show of which room was his. “If you ladies don’t have a lot of space in yours, I have a suite.” Then he took his sweater off in the hallway and went into his room.

  The girls both looked at me in question.

  “I guess he was hot.”

  Tess watched the back of his door. “I’ll say.”

  I opened the girls’ room, and Figaro ran out.

  “How many cats do you have?” Ashlee asked.

  I stared at Figaro, dumbfounded. “Just the one.”

  Figaro flopped over.

  I showed the girls their room and how everything worked. They snapchatted the experience for posterity until Ivy called, “The limo is here!”

  Thank God. I ushered the girls back to the foyer where the other judges were getting their coats and wraps to leave. Everyone except for Bess Jodice.

  “I’m not going. I’ve seen the old place. I was Dean of Culinary Arts for twenty years before I transitioned careers to write my award-winning column for Food and Wine Digest. I think my portrait still hangs in the main lobby.” Her chest puffed out and she rolled her eyes shut and grinned.

  Ivy stood holding Bess’s coat, unwilling to adapt to the change in plans. “But, what about dinner? I have reservations for all of us at Barberini’s.”

  Bess shook her head. “Oh dear, no. I don’t go out to eat often. I just can’t stomach restaurant food unless
it’s five stars. I find it’s safer to just eat at home. That way I can control the quality of ingredients.”

  Aunt Ginny had snuck into the foyer by way of the dining room. “We got a McDonalds in North Cape May across from the strip mall. I like their Quarter Pounder.” Then after a glare from me, “I mean, I used to . . . before I was sentenced to the Paleo Diet.” Aunt Ginny backed into the shadows of the sitting room.

  Ivy shrugged and handed me the coat. “Okay, but if you change your mind, you’ll have to call an Uber, since the town cars won’t be back until checkout a week from now.”

  Miss New Jersey took her winter-white pashmina and draped it around her shoulders. “I’m starving, let’s go.” My heart lurched as she headed for the door, and her entire back was covered in tufts of gray cottony fur as if a very naughty feline had maliciously rolled around in the center of it. Figaro licked his paw and rubbed it on his ear. Miss New Jersey sneezed.

  It’s gonna be a long week.

  Chapter Seven

  “I told you this was a bad idea.” Aunt Ginny passed me the coffee so I could refill the carafe for the third time in an hour.

  “You didn’t say any such thing,” I hissed back.

  Aunt Ginny refilled the basket of assorted muffins for the dining room. “Well you better believe I thought it. We tried this with free guests a few weeks ago, and they left us bad reviews. Now you’ve brought in celebrities, with high expectations and higher demands. They’ve about run me off my feet. How do you think this is going to end?”

  “I’m not sure the hosts of a local cable access talk show classify as celebrities.”

  “Well they’ve been ordering me around like they think they’re Kathy Lee and Hoda.”

  I put another pitcher of cream and bowls with sugar cubes and packs of stevia on the tray. “I know, I’m sorry. Thankfully, they are just here for nine days.”

  “Governments have been overthrown in less time.” Aunt Ginny picked up her tray and together we headed into the formal dining room, where our six guests were leisurely enjoying their bottomless refills and the late-morning sunshine.

  Figaro lay on the floor at Miss New Jersey’s feet; he swatted at her fringed boot. The woman’s eyes were red and puffy.

  “Are you feeling well?”

  “It’d my allergies,” she snuffled. “I think dat cat wath in my roomb last night.”

  I placed the coffee service on the buffet. “I’m sorry. He doesn’t usually go into the guest rooms.” I tried to discreetly nudge Figaro with my foot to move him away from Brandy. He smacked my foot with his paw. “I can’t imagine how he got in there.”

  Aunt Ginny put the muffins in the center of the dining room table. “We’ll be sure to keep a close eye on him today.”

  Horatio held up a little silver dish. “Would you have any more of that delightful fig jam?”

  I took the silver bowl from the restaurant critic. “I’m sure that we do. I’m so glad you like it.”

  Aunt Ginny scooped up Figaro, who protested with a powder-puff swat to Aunt Ginny’s hand.

  Back in the kitchen Aunt Ginny told Figaro, “You need to leave that girl alone or I’ll lock you in my room all day.”

  He squirmed out of her arms and landed with a soft thud.

  Aunt Ginny washed her hands. “Menace.”

  I refilled the silver bowl with Aunt Ginny’s homemade fig jam. “I can’t believe they’ve eaten most of the jar in one breakfast.”

  “I can’t believe they raided the kitchen last night and ate a week’s worth of fruit and cheese.”

  “Remind me to ask Smitty to make us a STAFF ONLY sign for the kitchen door.”

  “Sure. You’ll probably get it by next Halloween, but sure.”

  The kitchen door swung open and Bess poked her head in. “Poppy, is that pasture-raised bacon on the buffet or the low-budget stuff?”

  “It’s organic, pasture-raised, antibiotic-free bacon.”

  “With or without nitrates?”

  “Without.”

  “Oh good. I think I’ll have some after all.”

  She returned to the dining room, and Aunt Ginny stuck her tongue out behind her.

  “Eight days to go.”

  * * *

  I tied my hideous yellow apron around my waist and looked at my reflection in the locker-room mirror. “It looks horrible.”

  Vidrine shook her head side to side. “Mmh-mmh-mmh. Well, it’s not horrible. Just hard to coordinate with that mess’a red hair.”

  “You know how long it took me to pick an outfit this morning? I had on black, I looked like a bee. I had on red, I looked like I’d be serving a dollar menu.”

  “Well, honey, blue was the way to go.”

  “I look like a Minion.”

  “Yeah. But not in a bad way. And you’re rocking those skinny jeans.”

  Ivy stuck her head in the locker room. “Ten minutes, ladies.”

  Vidrine gave me one last smile. “See you out there, chérie.”

  “Good luck today. Or . . . break a leg . . . I don’t know what chefs say.”

  I joined Tim and Gigi in our kitchen, the one straight in front of the camera that Tim had chosen at my suggestion.

  Gigi gave a sly smile, more to herself than to me. “Good, it fits.”

  “Of course it fits. Each tie is a yard long.”

  Tim reached around Gigi to squeeze my arm. “You look adorable.”

  Well that wiped the smirk right off Gigi’s face. I looked around the stage. Vidrine gave me a wave from the kitchen next to ours. Then there was Hot Sauce Louie around the bend next to her, followed by Philippe, standing at attention in the spot he requested next to the judges’ table. On the other side of us, to our right, was Momma’s team, er, Chef Oliva’s team, from Mia Famiglia. Marco gave me a finger wave. I waved back, and Momma gave me such a deep scowl that her eyebrows had time to braid themselves together. Then, lastly, on the other end of the horseshoe, was Adrian, next to the audience. He was standing spread-eagle with his arms crossed in front of him, flexing his tattoos, and shooting threatening looks straight at Tim.

  Tim noticed him too. “God, just look at him there, acting like he has a personal vendetta.”

  Gigi put one hand on Tim’s arm. “Don’t worry about him. You got this.”

  Aunt Ginny waved from the stadium seating, where she was sitting next to Sawyer. The gorgeous, chestnut brunette with the heart-shaped face had been my best friend since elementary school. If anyone in the room could make Miss New Jersey feel insecure about her looks, it’d be Sawyer. I gave her and Aunt Ginny both a big smile and waved back. They were my plus one and plus two. I was glad to have someone in my corner. Wait. Who was that making their way through the crowd over to them? Ooooh no. This can’t end well. Mrs. Dodson was leading a group of pink and white-haired biddies and cronies into the stands. They were all there, Mrs. Davis, Mother Gibson, Mr. and Mrs. Sheinberg. Ivy must have given tickets to the senior center to boost audience attendance. One by one, they all found me.

  “Where’s Poppy? I don’t see her.”

  “Over there.”

  “Where? I don’t see a redhead anywhere.”

  “There, in the hideous apron.”

  “Oh, I thought that was the mascot. Hiya Bubala!”

  I gave them a little palm side-to-side wave.

  “You look like Raggedy Ann.”

  I gave a little smile, and a thumbs-up.

  The house lights dimmed and brightened, signaling that we were about to begin. A skinny boy wearing thick glasses and a bright yellow headset led the judges to the table on the far right of the last kitchen—over by Chef Philippe. They each found their name cards.

  First was Horatio Duplessis, who tipped his hat to the audience. “Thank you for extending the invitation.”

  Next in line, Bess Jodice give a little unsanctioned speech. “It is so good to return home to my alma mater. I know you all have been missing me as much I miss these hallowed halls.” Bess turned and loo
ked around the audience. “I have so many good memories here, molding the minds and hands of tomorrow’s chefs. In fact, I see some of my former students in this very room. You can be sure that you’ve left an impression on me that will never be forgotten. Thank you.”

  Bess sat down next to Horatio and the audience gave a timid clap.

  Stormin’ Norman Sprinkler gave a bow, blew kisses into the audience, and took a selfie with some culinary students in the audience. He tapped out a message on his phone, then put his hands in a prayer position and bowed again.

  Miss New Jersey hadn’t taken her place. She was waiting by the camera, watching Ivy.

  Ivy motioned for her to come take her seat, but Miss New Jersey threw her hands up to her hips and stamped her foot.

  Ivy rolled her eyes and huffed. Then she consulted her clipboard and picked up the microphone. In a flat tone she read, “Ladies and gentlemen, it is my pleasure to introduce the woman New Jersey has voted the most beautiful woman in the state . . . and one day the world . . . an honor that will be determined at the upcoming Miss America Pageant later this year. Ivy quirked an eyebrow and paused. Please welcome, Brandy Sparks, Miss New Jersey.”

  Techno club music piped in overhead, and Miss New Jersey made her big entrance. She did a runway walk down in front of the kitchen stage then down in front of the audience seating. She stopped, threw out a hip, waved, did a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree pivot, threw out the other hip, waved again, then finally walked to her seat.

  Ivy muttered, “I don’t know who all that was for, the camera isn’t even rolling yet.”

  I found Aunt Ginny in the audience, and we shook our heads at each other.

  Ivy took her place at center stage to address the room. “Can I have everyone’s attention please? I want to welcome you all . . . again . . . to our first Annual Cape May County Restaurant Week Competition. Wow, that’s a mouthful.”

  Everyone laughed politely, and the audience applauded.

  “This event is being sponsored by South Jersey Tourism and the Chamber of Commerce. As you can see, the event is being recorded for WSJL Channel Eight during the six o’clock news, and then an hourlong special will air on the same channel at nine PM. Everything the chefs do, the dishes they create, and their scores each day, will be tweeted, instagrammed, snapchatted, and uploaded to Facebook throughout the event by our social media team, aka Roger.”