by Libby Klein
Horatio had successfully moved everything around and cut his items into little pieces. “A beautiful presentation. Well done.”
Tim stood in place not sure how to respond and shook his head. Before he could comment, Officer Amber walked in, and Ivy called a time-out.
“Good afternoon, everyone. If you could all just give me a moment of your time, please.”
Tim came back to our station and stood between me and Gigi. “If I’m arrested, please call my brother in Utica and ask him if he can repay me that loan I gave him in 1997.”
Gigi and I both said, “Okay.”
The room settled to a hush.
“I wanted to give you an update on the investigation. I received the toxicology report this morning. The victim’s blood alcohol level was zero.”
The room began to buzz, and Amber held up a hand.
My eyes immediately found Aunt Ginny and Sawyer in the stands, and we exchanged looks of shock and horror. We were convinced that Bess was the lush emptying my decanters. I’d accused her to Amber as such.
Horatio took out his pocket square and mopped his brow.
Amber waited for things to calm down again. “The victim had been given a lethal dose of botulism. The symptoms of botulism poisoning are very similar to that of being under the influence of alcohol. None of the foods the CSI team took into evidence were affected. Her special blend of tea was also free from contaminants. The forensics team found traces of botulism on the victim’s teacup and in her honey, however, the highest levels of the toxin were found on her spoon.”
Amber slowly made her way over to the judges’ table. “Now, I’ve been reviewing the tapes from the past three days in the media booth with the editing crew. And the recordings clearly show that the spoon the victim used every day was taken from the setting to her right.”
Horatio let out a high-pitched squeal like a baby pig, and covered his heart with his hand. “That’s my setting! My spoon was poisoned? Does that mean I was the target? Oh my. Oh my God, the room is spinning. Someone is trying to kill me. I knew this would happen one day. I just didn’t think it would be here.” Horatio’s face became twisted and pink. He mopped his forehead with his pocket square again.
Tim’s hand slid over and covered mine. He gave me a squeeze.
“We don’t know for sure that you were the intended victim, but I’d like you to come down to the station with me to answer some questions.”
Horatio was so overcome; his words came out strangled and unintelligible.
Ivy dropped her clipboard. “What? Now?! I’m in the middle of a taping. I can’t lose another judge.”
Amber was not swayed. “You’ll think of something. My team has already taken Roger in for questioning. I’m asking for anyone with information on the murder of Bess Jodice to come forward.”
No one moved.
“Look, I’m sure that someone here saw something this week. I’ll leave a stack of business cards on the table. Please call the station with any leads, even if you don’t think it’s anything important, it might be.” She took Horatio by the elbow and led him out of the arena, quivering and wringing his pocket square.
My cell phone went off in my back pocket. It was a message from Sawyer. “This changes everything.”
My eyes met hers. Don’t I know it.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“This is just awful.” Ivy paced back and forth talking to herself. “What am I going to do? First Bess, now Horatio. They were my anchors. They were the only judges who knew what they were talking about.”
Norman’s head shot up from his cell phone screen. “Hey!”
“Now they’re gone, and we haven’t done the judging yet. I have to fill that seat. I can’t do the show with just these three idiots.”
Miss New Jersey had been examining her manicure. “Who are you calling an idiot?”
“I need a new judge. Maybe someone from the audience. The viewers will never notice if I swap out one old lady for another.” Ivy looked into the stands where a hundred and six sets of eyes were held in rapt attention, taking in her nervous breakdown. “What lucky audience member wants to volunteer to fill in for Horatio?”
No one answered.
“Come on, it’ll be fun. You get to taste all these wonderful dishes before any of your friends.”
Itty Bitty Smitty called out, “You’ll get to be buried before your friends too.”
“No one is going to die,” Ivy implored.
“Are ya shuwar?” Mrs. Sheinberg asked.
Ivy’s eyes rolled up to the right. “Yeeeesss. I’m mostly sure.”
Well that is very convincing.
Nothing.
Aunt Ginny raised her hand. “I’ll do it. I’ve already lived forever anyway.”
I felt a small flurry of panic jump in my chest. I wanted to call out “You better sit down, old woman!” But Adrian beat me to the complaint.
“No way! She’s working for Team Maxine! Unfair advantage.”
Ivy wouldn’t hear it. She was desperate. “You’ll be great, Mrs . . . Poppy’s aunt. Please come join the others.”
Aunt Ginny took Horatio’s seat. “Call me Ginny. Can I get clean silverware? Preferably without traces of botulism.”
Ivy jumped. “Oh my gosh, of course.” She clicked on her headset. “Roger, oh.” She clicked it off with a sigh and turned to the cameraman. “Frank, could you please go get four sets of silverware from the dish pantry?”
Frank came back a few minutes later with clean silverware and glasses.
Ivy filled the judges’ glasses with fresh wine, and the judging began again.
One by one, the chefs presented their dishes, and Norman took the first bites. When he gave the thumbs-up, everyone else nibbled at the food.
The chefs should have worried less about Aunt Ginny’s partiality, and more about her lack of a filter. “What’d you do to this shrimp? It’s tough as an old rooster. This bisque tastes like a dishrag. You ruined these scallops with that smelly sauce. I don’t care what was in the basket, no one wants to eat something called Buddha’s hand pie.”
The chefs waited in their kitchens, whispering amongst themselves about Bess and Horatio, how Norman was sure his food wasn’t poisoned, and the career-destroying competition they’d gotten roped into. After an hour of critiquing, the filming was finally a wrap for the day.
Aunt Ginny made a beeline for my kitchen. “So, I’ve been thinking. If Bess was the intended murder victim, it was probably because she gave such harsh reviews, right?”
I nodded my head. “I guess so.”
“So, everyone would be a suspect except Philippe.”
“Ahhh, okay. It’s true that Philippe received mostly praise from Bess.”
Aunt Ginny went on. “But if Horatio was the intended victim . . . that changes the suspect list entirely.”
The wheel in my brain fired off a spark and the thoughts started to line up. “I see where you’re going with this. Horatio was especially critical in his reviews of Philippe. If Horatio was supposed to be the victim, Philippe goes from being in the clear, to the prime suspect.”
Aunt Ginny snapped her fingers. “Exactly! Horatio was as brutal to Philippe as Bess was to everyone else. We need to find out how Philippe felt about the judges.”
Sawyer and Smitty made their way through the throng of culinary students who were gathering the dishes, and joined us. Sawyer picked up a spoon and dipped it in my last remaining panna cotta. “You’re missing one again.”
I looked at my counter where there were supposed to be two desserts. “Darn it! Who keeps taking my extras?”
One of the culinary students rolled a cart over to pick up the dishes. There were my four perfect little plates with piles of yellow zest swimming in puddles of melted ice cream. I pointed to the drippy mess. “Who made those?”
Sawyer looked from her panna cotta to the dish tray. “Louie’s team made the ice cream.”
“Those were my plates his pastry chef stole fr
om the walk-in.”
Smitty took the spoon from Sawyer and scored himself the last bite of my dessert. “I liked the goo design you put on your plates. I thought it was fancy.” He tasted the panna cotta before Sawyer could grab the spoon away from him. “Hmm. So that’s what those ugly yellow fingers taste like.”
Aunt Ginny grabbed my arm. “I have an idea. Come with me.”
She wound her way around the kitchens of Vidrine and Louie, and dragged me into the kitchen of Philippe who was locking his box of knives. “Chef Philippe, I really enjoyed your Coquilles St. . . . whatever you called them.”
Philippe’s eyes crinkled when he smiled. “Merci, madame. I am so pleased.” He waved a finger. “But you were not so happy with my sous chef’s appetizer, were you?”
Aunt Ginny stumbled for words. “Um . . . I believe that was the limp shrimp on a cracker, wasn’t it?”
“It was a shrimp canape.”
“Well, it was a nice try, anyway.” Aunt Ginny hurried along. “Chef, I was wondering, have you ever considered putting out a cookbook of your recipes?”
Philippe stammered. “Oh, I don’t think . . . m-maybe someday.”
“Oh, you should, shouldn’t he, Poppy?”
I nodded my head yes. Aunt Ginny was digging her fingernails into my palm, so I was afraid if I opened my mouth, I would cry out in pain.
“I think it would be a best seller. Bess had a lot of successful cookbooks, didn’t she?”
Philippe picked up his knife case. “It is something to dream about.” He tried to get away from us, but Aunt Ginny threw her hip into him. She jabbed me in the side.
“Oh! Um . . . did . . . did you know Bess very well?”
Philippe stopped and considered us for a moment. “No. I never met her before zee event. But then, I spent many years in Paree before I open La Maîtrisse.”
“Really?” Aunt Ginny tried to sound nonthreatening. “She certainly loved your cooking. I think you may be the only chef that she appreciated.”
Philippe cleared his throat and looked behind us for an exit.
“That’s true,” I said, “I was sure you were going to win the whole competition because of it.”
“That would be quite a boon for you,” Aunt Ginny added. “Do you have plans for the prize money? You know, if you do win?”
Philippe rocked back on his heels. “I want to expand my kitchen and have a walk-up coffee shop window open to the beach.”
Wow. That’s a really good idea.
Philippe took a big step to the side, so Aunt Ginny blocked him again. “Wasn’t that just terrible about Horatio this afternoon? You must be so glad to see him off the judges’ table. He was brutal with your reviews.”
Philippe narrowed his eyes. “I think the reviews by the judges are purely for television ratings and zee Facebook.”
“You don’t think we’ve been given honest reviews?” I asked.
“I do not. My recipes are tried and tested to be zee very best. It is why I have zee Michelin Star. The judges are imbeciles if they do not recognize that.”
Aunt Ginny goaded him further. “I don’t know. The pageant girl and the weatherman, maybe. But Horatio Duplessis is a well-known food critic. His column is in the New York Journal Food Digest for a reason.” Aunt Ginny nodded to me.
“I’ve heard his reviews can ruin a restaurant overnight. Have you ever been reviewed by Horatio? You know, for his column?”
Philippe’s lips tightened. He waved his hand in dismissal. “I do not believe so. I do not put much stock in restaurant editorials. The only people who read them are trying to impress someone. La Maîtrisse is very well regarded in South Jersey. We are listed as one of zee ten best restaurants at the shore, and we are booked several weeks out. It doesn’t matter what Horatio or any magazine says. It is all a bunch of nonsense written by people who were not good enough to become chefs themselves. Now if you ladies will excuse me, I must get to La Maîtrisse and prepare for dinner. Zat is, if I have a restaurant left after this disaster of a week.” He tucked his knife case under his arm and pushed past us.
Aunt Ginny gave me a look. “What do you think?”
“I’m not sure. He said he didn’t know Bess, and he seemed unfazed about his reviews from Horatio. And ten thousand dollars is a lot more money to someone who’s struggling to pay the bills than to someone who’s successful. Not much motive to poison either judge there.”
“If he’s telling the truth.”
“True.”
“You’re going to have to check out Horatio’s column on that doohickey in your office.”
“My laptop?”
“That’s it. We need to see who in this room has been reviewed by the high and mighty food critic.”
“And what about Bess?”
“Run a search on your doodad, and we’ll see what comes up.”
Note to self, search on my doodad.
I looked around the arena for Tim to say good-bye; he and Gigi were nowhere to be found. But there was my Italian, leaning against the counter in Momma’s kitchen, watching me with a mischievous grin in his eyes.
“Are you leaving, Bella?”
“Yes, I need to get Aunt Ginny home. I wish you’d let me give you your keys back. I feel silly driving your car when you’re coming up here every day yourself.”
He reached out and took my hand. “Momma doesn’t drive, and the Spider is only for two.” He pulled me closer and gave me a hug. “You did good today.”
“I almost didn’t finish on time. I ruined the first batch.”
“I never had any doubt. Do you feel better now that someone else was taken in for questioning?”
“I don’t feel like I’m in danger of being arrested tonight, but we’ll see what tomorrow holds.”
Momma came in from the locker room, her purse in her hands, her coat over her arm. She threw me a scowl and rolled her eyes up to Gia. “Andiamo.”
“Gia, before you go, has Mia Famiglia ever been reviewed in Horatio’s column?”
Gia turned to his mother and asked her my question.
She shook her head no and said something that I interpreted as she didn’t think so.
“She said she never heard of Horatio or his column before this week.”
“Come on Poppy, get the lead out!” Aunt Ginny was waiting on the other side of me, her purse in her hands, her coat over her arm. She and Momma made a pair of matching old lady bookends. I had a fleeting vision that this could be my future. I shook the thought loose before it could get comfortable.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.” Gia kissed my forehead.
I helped Aunt Ginny put her coat on, and, with a final nod to each other, we readied ourselves for the dash through the angry mob of Facebook activists.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Aunt Ginny, Sawyer, and I were assembled in the kitchen over a pot of decaf. I’d taken some of Aunt Ginny’s black walnut Christmas cake out of the freezer and gently warmed it, wishing the gluten-free cake could act as an antidote to all the gluten I’d eaten this week working for Tim. My face itched, I had heartburn, and I was so bloated I was back in my yoga pants.
I had set up my laptop and was researching New York Journal Food Digest articles. “Horatio’s column goes back almost thirty years. That’s longer than some of these chefs have been alive.” I typed La Maîtrisse in the search bar.
Sawyer dropped the stack of Food Digest back issues she’d picked up at the library onto the kitchen table.
Aunt Ginny took one from the stack. “You girls mess around with your hickeys. I’m going the old-fashioned route.”
Sawyer and I made funny faces at each other at Aunt Ginny’s mention of hickeys, one of her random words when she couldn’t remember what something was called. We giggled silently before falling down our Internet rabbit holes.
“I remember when everything on the Internet was free. Now everyone wants you to pay for subscription access to see it,” I groused.
Aunt Ginny flipped thr
ough her magazine looking for Horatio’s column. “Oh, if only those two girls you got staying here could have heard that. They’d think you’re as old as I am.”
“I think they already do.... Oh! I found something. Six months ago, Horatio reviewed Philippe’s restaurant.” I scanned the review. “He said the food was bland and derivative and lacking imagination.”
“No!” Sawyer swung her head around to read over my shoulder.
“Chef Philippe’s choice of wine does nothing to elevate the boeuf bourguignon which comes out of the kitchen both tough and overly salted. The vichyssoise was not chilled, but served room temperature. It’s a careless chef who does not properly clean the sand out of the leeks, resulting in an unpleasant gritty experience and showing a lack of proper training.”
Sawyer puckered her lips. “Ooh, ouch.”
“There’s a rebuttal printed. A couple weeks later Philippe wrote the paper saying, “Mr. Duplessis’s review of La Maîtrisse is so far off the mark that I can’t help but wonder if he was in the right restaurant. Perhaps his palate is not as refined as he thinks. He should stick to what he knows, fast food and failure.”
Aunt Ginny sucked air in through her teeth. “That old frog bold-face lied to us. He said he didn’t think he’d been reviewed by Horatio.” She got to the end of her magazine, closed it, and picked up the next one.
Sawyer went back to her tablet. “I’m going to look for reviews on The Dawg Houz.”
“Okay, I’ll look for Adrian.”
Sawyer stopped typing. “Why are you looking for Adrian?”
“Because we have to look at everyone.”
“Fine. Then I’m going to look up Tim.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“We have to look at everyone.”
“Fine.”
We both started typing furiously. I prayed that Sawyer wouldn’t find anything bad about Tim, but she hit pay dirt first.
“Ha! Maxine’s Bistro. Tim was reviewed two years ago.”
I held my breath while Sawyer read the review, Aunt Ginny peering just over the top of her magazine.
“Actually, it looks like Horatio gave Tim a semi-decent review. He says his crab cakes were dry and tasteless, like they’d been made out of sawdust, but his lobster bisque gave meaning to the crustacean’s premature death. And his chicken piccata is tangy and tender, everything you’d want it to be.”
