by Libby Klein
“That’s not so bad. I wonder why his reviews have been so critical during Restaurant Week.”
“Because now Tim is competing against top chefs.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Just that it’s easy to get good reviews when there isn’t any competition.”
Aunt Ginny put her magazine down.
I picked up my coffee. “There’s plenty of competition in Restaurant Week, and I think Tim is doing well.”
“Well sure,” Sawyer shot back. “So, would Adrian if he were cozying up to Miss New Jersey.” Sawyer started typing again, and I knew she was looking up Adrian.
“I’ve already got him.”
Her tapping silenced.
Aunt Ginny’s eyes shifted from me, to Sawyer, back to me.
“Baxter’s By the Bay has received multiple reviews in Horatio’s column.”
Sawyer took a deep breath.
“Six years ago, Horatio said that Baxter’s By the Bay has all the charm of a shopping mall food court, but half the class.”
Aunt Ginny said, “Oof.”
“Three years ago, Horatio said that Baxter’s Raw Bar was the perfect cure for constipation. Just one of Chef Adrian’s bad clams will cause an immediate evacuation of everything you’ve eaten for days. That nickel you swallowed when you were seven, get ready for change.”
Sawyer deflated.
“And four months ago, Horatio said, ‘Adrian Baxter’s cooking is showy and without substance. I was hesitant to review Baxter’s again, but I’m a firm believer in second chances, so I finally acquiesced to Mr. Baxter’s many pleas. Regret, thy name is Crab Imperial. The title of chef should be earned and not just handed out willy-nilly by teachers selling expensive diplomas. Until Chef Baxter can learn how to properly season a bouillabaisse, this restaurant critic will not be returning.’”
“Good heavens.” Aunt Ginny looked from me to Sawyer.
“Wow,” I said. “This kind of moves Adrian up to suspect number one on the Horatio-as-the-victim page.”
Sawyer crossed her arms on the table and leaned forward. “Whoever killed Bess is probably the same person who’s been sabotaging the other chefs, right? Well I happen to know for a fact that there was no way Adrian could have sabotaged the equipment, because he was out with me after the first round.”
“Did you spend the whole night together?”
Sawyer blushed. “No.”
“Then there was plenty of time where he could have snuck into the kitchen in the middle of the night.”
“Just how was he going to sneak into the community college after hours? They have a security guard.”
“I don’t know, but someone did.”
The kitchen door flew open and Miss New Jersey burst over the threshold. She held her arms straight out, a fuzzy gray ball squirming at the end of them. She sneezed. “Dis wab in my roomb again.”
“I’m sorry.” I took the ball of fur from her and offered her a dose of Benadryl. She looked terrible.
“Ip I can tade ady ob da pood tomorrow, I will make dure you ged a bad rebiew, no matter wad desserd you mate.” She sneezed two more times, then did a runway pivot and took her leopard print stiletto boots back out of the kitchen.
“I’ve told her not to leave her door open when she leaves the room.” I held Figaro out in front of me and glared at him. “Can cats smile? I think he just smiled.” I gave him a cuddle and a pet that he didn’t deserve, and put him down next to his water bowl. He stretched and gave himself a congratulatory bath.
Aunt Ginny picked up another magazine. “Maybe the person who sabotaged the kitchen isn’t the same person who killed Bess. Maybe the killer thought the sabotage would provide good cover for a murder.”
We searched the Internet in silence for a while longer. The words were starting to run together on my screen. “I can’t find anything for The Dawg Houz or Slap Yo Mamma! in Horatio’s reviews, good or bad. Of course, Slap Yo Mamma! is brand new. Vidrine has only been open a couple of months.”
Sawyer put her tablet down. “I guess that does open up the suspect list. Louie has the most mechanical ability to be able to sabotage all those appliances, and Vidrine was sneaking around the arena after the competition. Something just feels off with both of them.”
“That’s true,” I agreed, “but don’t forget that Adrian has the biggest window of opportunity since he’s the only chef who has every night off.”
Aunt Ginny took another magazine from the stack.
Sawyer took a bite of her cake and tried to shift the suspicion off of Adrian again. “Well, I don’t believe that flimsy excuse that Vidrine gave you about retrieving her chef knives. She was up to something.”
“I get the feeling it involves Louie.”
Sawyer nodded. “Only Louie and Vidrine don’t have any connection to Horatio that we’ve found.”
“None of Horatio’s bad reviews mean anything if Bess was the intended victim.”
“Yes,” Sawyer went on, “but they could be the key to finding out who the killer is if Horatio was the target after all.”
“Ah ha!” Aunt Ginny tapped her open magazine.
“What did you find?” I asked her.
Aunt Ginny spun her magazine around, so Sawyer and I could read it. The article was from five years ago and it was titled MIA FAMIGLIA, A ONE TRICK PONY. “The only thing that makes this restaurant so successful is the lack of other good Italian eateries at the shore.”
“Oh no. I have to show this to Gia. Either Momma lied, or this is going to be the first time she’s heard about this.”
Aunt Ginny cut herself a piece of cake. “If Horatio wasn’t the intended victim before, he will be now.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
I heard Horatio come in sometime late last night. I guess the cops were considering him a victim and not a suspect. Of course, I’d been a suspect before, and I was released on bail. Bail that Tim had paid for by putting up Maxine’s as collateral.
On my way down the stairs I heard Miss New Jersey scream, “Oh no you didn’t! That is my best pair of leggings!”
I knocked on the door. It opened enough for two hands to thrust a squirmy gray cat at me.
I took Fig down the stairs to the kitchen and opened a can of gourmet mutilated fish guts. “Your breakfast, my lord.” Figaro smashed his face in the bowl and went to town. Then I made the coffee. Aunt Ginny and I shared a philosophy. Coffee first. Coffee second. Then we get on with the day. After my second cup of coffee, I made a gorgeous blackberry crumble and a batch of fluffy pancakes for the morning meal.
The guest breakfast was a quiet affair, each one taking their plate to a different room of the house to eat. Miss New Jersey went out on the sun porch. The door opened a minute later, and Figaro was booted into the kitchen. Tess and Norman took their plates to the library, and Ashlee sat alone at the dining room table. I’d made her the avocado on toast that she’d requested, so she was happily taking pictures of it.
Horatio retreated to his room. No one saw him again until we all arrived at the community college, where he was standing out front holding a press conference.
“I’m sorry to say, the dire reports of my person being in jeopardy have not been exaggerated. An attempt was made on my life that was unintentionally thwarted by my dear friend and colleague, Bess Jodice. She was a champion of quality in the world of epicurean education, as well as an inspiration and a mentor in the field of culinary journalism. Her effusive words of assessment will never be forgotten by the eager students who were fortunate enough to learn from her. This week I’ve seen ingredient tampering, equipment vandalism, and now a heinous murder. A most wretched person is going to great lengths to sabotage this restaurant week competition. And for what? All to win an award for making dinner. Something most mothers do seven nights a week without ever receiving a bit of praise. When did the art of cooking become elevated to celebrity status? Instead of saving lives, protecting the innocent, or teaching the next generation,
chefs are being lauded like superheroes for frying chicken. Somewhere in that room is a chef who should be ashamed of themself. I don’t have any information about the investigation, but I certainly hope the police are able to bring to justice”—Horatio teared up and had to take out his white pocket square and dab his eyes until he composed himself—“to whoever is responsible for this hateful atrocity.”
Too overcome with emotion to answer questions fired off by the yoga-pants cartel, Horatio excused himself and ducked into the college.
Aunt Ginny and I pushed our way through the crowd and followed his footsteps to the kitchen arena. A muscular, red-haired officer stood guard at the entrance. I recognized him as one of the officers that had stood watch at my house a few weeks back. “Hi. I see you’re back from your time off.”
“Yep, Doc says I’m ready for the field again.” He turned to see Aunt Ginny and flinched.
She gave him a toothy smile. “Remember me?”
He reached up to his collarbone and clicked on his radio. “Officer Birkwell requesting the situation at the college to be upgraded from Code Yellow to Code Orange, with a possible 10-96.”
Aunt Ginny narrowed her eyes. “That better not be about me.”
He gave a crisp nod in my direction. “What can I do for you ladies?”
“I’m competing in the event. I’ll be here all week. Are you on duty?”
“The department has agreed to allow the event to proceed, as long as an officer is present at all times.”
Aunt Ginny poked him in the arm. “Very smart. Keep all the perps in one place so you can keep an eye on them.”
I sucked in a lungful of air. “Aunt Ginny! I’m sure that’s not what they’re doing.” I looked at Officer Birkwell. “Is it?”
His neck blushed in patches. “Actually, yeah.”
Aunt Ginny gave me a smug look. “See. You can learn a lot from watching CSI.”
Office Birkwell cleared his throat. “The captain thought it would be a good way to observe and report while we collect evidence and complete our investigation. All the suspects are in this room, so one of us will be nearby at all times.”
Aunt Ginny grabbed my elbow. “Come on, you gotta get that ugly yellow apron on, and I’ve got to get my lead sheets”—she rolled her eyes up to Officer Birkwell—“I mean crossword puzzles, ready for the day.”
She started to pull me away from Officer Birkwell, but I managed to turn back and whisper, “What’s a 10-96?”
He answered under his breath. “Psych patient.”
Yeah, I get that. I let Aunt Ginny make her way into the arena, but I veered off to the locker room. I stored my purse and grabbed my hideous yellow apron. Horatio’s words had rung deep in my heart. Perhaps we do put too much praise on certain careers. Athletes, movie stars, musicians, and, I guess, chefs. At the end of the day, how much do they improve the quality of the lives around them by being able to smoke a rack of ribs? Or make a fudgy brownie. Or a vanilla-scented strawberry shortcake. Where am I going with this? I guess each one of us has something near and dear to our hearts. I know that if the world were ending, I would ransack the Hostess factory long before I would try to save my DVD collection. Priorities.
Entering the arena, I considered the other chefs and wondered which one could be Bess’s killer. The problem was, there were two possible victims with two very different suspect lists. Throw in the sabotage, and we might be dealing with two different perpetrators entirely.
We’d passed the midway point of Restaurant Week. We were all so hopeful and excited in the beginning, now desperate for it to be over. The current standings were posted, and Team Maxine’s was in third place just behind Adrian, with Philippe in the lead. Leaving out the basket ingredient really hurt us on day three. But at least we weren’t in last place. That spot was reserved for Momma, who had received zeros on two of the four days for ignoring the theme and making what she wanted.
I walked past Sawyer, who was being regaled by Adrian with stories of his success.
“We were so busy last night, I was turning people away at the door. Everyone wants to try my award-winning coconut scallops after yesterday’s high score.”
“Thank goodness you’re opening a second restaurant right away.” Sawyer reached out and touched the dragon on Adrian’s arm. “That way no one will have to be disappointed.”
I felt my eyes roll of their own volition and kept walking.
Louie was talking to Philippe. “I haven’t had a single customer all week, dude. Not even Fat Betty for her daily deep-fried macaroni and cheese burger, man. And she loves those. If business doesn’t pick up soon I might have to sell The Dawg Houz and buy my food truck back.”
“La Maîtrisse is slower zan we have ever been.” Philippe covered his heart with his hand. “Where are all my loyal customers? What will happen to Philippe?”
Gia’s greeting warmed me from the inside out. “Hey, beautiful.”
I gave him a bright smile and held in guffawing like a hillbilly. Hey, Sexy. Okay, I didn’t really say that, but I thought it. “Hi. I have to show you something.”
“What is it?”
I handed Gia the magazine with Horatio’s review of Momma’s restaurant. He scanned it quickly, his expression clouding over. “I have to tell her.” He gave me a tight smile and tapped me on the arm with the magazine, then went off to deliver the bad news.
Things were dire for everyone’s restaurant. Well, everyone’s except Adrian’s. Curious.
I found Tim and Gigi in the corner discussing possible basket themes based on what we’d seen all week. “What about a Japanese theme? I could do sushi. Or Russian. Do you know how to make borscht?”
“Tim, can I ask you something?”
Gigi turned on me. “Poppy, if you would spend more time preparing for the event and less time running your mouth, we might actually be in the lead.”
“I beg your pardon, I don’t remember anyone accusing my panna cotta of being flabby and without excitement.”
Gigi huffed. “My summer rolls were delicious! They are just holding the real chefs to a higher standard, and they know you’re an amateur.”
“Well this girl’s amateur desserts helped cover for your coffee-dusted hot pockets.”
Gigi’s face burned crimson. “They were empanadas.”
“Yeah, well Horatio called them ‘empa-nadagoods.’”
Gigi spun around and stormed off.
Tim watched her go and chuckled. He leaned down and kissed me on the forehead. “Don’t worry about Gigi. You’ve been a real trooper this week, and I appreciate all your help with the competition. If anyone can sniff out the saboteur and save Maxine’s, it’s you.”
My stomach did a little flip and my breath caught. I reached up and curled that lock of blond hair at the base of Tim’s neck around my finger. Our eyes met, and seventeen-year-old Poppy’s emotions came flooding back.
The moment was interrupted when across the room we heard “Gyaaahhh!”
Momma broke into a fit and was head down rushing at Horatio. Her pastry chef caught her by the spandex of her girdle through her flowered dress and spun her around toward Gia who wrapped his arms around her voluminous waist to restrain her.
Tim had worked in professional kitchens for a lot of years and wasn’t as fazed by the sight of a chef losing their cool. “What’d you want to ask me?”
“How important are reviews for a restaurant?”
“It depends. Some people never read reviews, so they won’t know how you’re ranked. They’ll come to your restaurant to try it out, and if they like the food, they’ll come back, period. Others will check out Yelp and Trip Advisor, and only go to restaurants that have the highest ranking. No matter who those reviews come from or how many reviews that person has left. You could have twenty glowing reviews by real customers who loved your food, and the guy next door has fifty reviews all written by himself under different accounts. Some people will only try the restaurant next door because of a ranking that was
built on lies and ambition.”
“What about restaurant critics’ reviews, like Horatio’s column?”
Tim shrugged. “Not everyone follows restaurant critics. Some people would rather follow a favorite blog or Instagrammer. But, bad critic reviews can dissuade influential clients like foodies, celebrities, and wealthy customers looking to celebrate a special occasion. They can even influence rankings with the Michelin Guide or Forbes Travel.”
Hmm, now who told me they were up for a Michelin Star? Philippe maybe?
“Places, everyone!” Ivy called out from the front of the arena.
Tim grabbed his apron and tied it around his waist. “Some critics have built their fan base from writing scathing reviews. The worse the review, the better the fame. People love to read about chefs getting ripped apart.”
“Have you seen your review by Horatio?”
Tim shrugged the question off. “Yeah, getting a bad review by Horatio Duplessis is like a rite of passage. But you can’t let it bother you.”
“So, you don’t remember what he said?”
“It wasn’t important, but I think it was something about my crab cakes being dry and tasteless like they’d been made out of sawdust.”
For someone who doesn’t remember, that was word for word.
Tim looked around and gave me a quick kiss. “Good luck today, Mack.”
We took our places, and the baskets were brought out. While Ivy hooked Tess up to the microphone, I pulled out my phone and looked up Baxter’s By the Bay on Yelp. Adrian had twenty-eight five-star reviews left since last night. All from new accounts with no other reviews. All written in the same style with the same bad grammar. The night before he’d had twenty-seven one-star reviews left from various accounts around South Jersey. A couple of the faces I recognized from the protest line out front.
Tim said bad reviews were a rite of passage, but these guys cared more than they let on.
