Restaurant Weeks Are Murder

by Libby Klein

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “Before we get started with today’s competition, I have good news. I’m so excited to announce that Roger is back. Please everyone, a round of huzzah for Roger!”

  Roger bounced into the arena and gave a big wave and a couple of bows. The audience cheered for the hometown boy who had gone up against the police department and, so far, had won.

  If both Roger and Horatio have been released, who do the police still have their eyes on as their prime suspect?

  Ivy gave the countdown to begin taping and Tess announced the mystery ingredients for the day. Whoever designed these baskets must have been working their way around the world. France, Italy, Asia, and tonight’s challenge—the British Country Dinner. My basket had Earl Grey tea, black walnuts, and treacle. I had watched enough episodes of Nigella to know that treacle could be used just like honey or corn syrup, so no problem there, but the only thing I knew how to make with black walnuts was Aunt Ginny’s Christmas cake, and one hour was sure not enough time to make a Bundt. I could try cupcakes. No, that would be far too pedestrian for Horatio, not to mention the fit Norman would have with it. We needed some “wow” dishes to bring our score up. I could do madeleines. Madeleines look fancy, but at the end of the day they’re really easy. They’re first cousins to the muffin, and they bake really fast. But no way would that be enough to win the day over Philippe’s pastry chef. I needed something lovely to dip them into. I don’t know what to make. Man, I need some chocolate. Ooh, chocolate. Earl Grey chocolate? That could be interesting.

  I searched in the pantry to find all the ingredients needed to make chocolate pots of cream. I backed into Philippe, who had his arms full of bacon, garlic, thyme, button mushrooms, and pearl onions. I knew the entrée basket contained squab because Tim was complaining about deboning it, so I had a suspicion about Philippe’s dish. “If you had a bottle of red wine I’d think you were making Coq au Vin.” I gave him a friendly smile. I’d seen it made on The French Chef a hundred times and had the recipe memorized.

  Philippe frowned like I’d caught him doing something naughty. Then he took the bottle of Merlot off the shelf and shoved it under his arm. He cut his eyes to me one more time before darting back to his kitchen. Did I just plant that idea or was that his plan all along?

  I steeped my Earl Grey teabags in heavy cream for five minutes while I set out all my ingredients for the two dishes.

  With Horatio back on the judges’ panel, Aunt Ginny was up in the Thunderdome shaking down the seniors to place their bets. The biddies were pointing to the judges and waving dollar bills and coupons in the air, and Sawyer was jotting down notes in a steno book. I wanted to be frustrated with them, but instead I found myself wondering what odds my dessert had today.

  Over at the judges’ table, Miss New Jersey was staring blankly into space. Stormin’ Norman and Ashlee were both making faces into their phones. They could save a lot of time if they’d just take pictures of each other. Only Horatio was paying attention, and he was avidly grilling the chefs in the kitchens. Probably looking for signs of poison or sabotage that could head his way. I felt sorry for him. Not only had he lost a friend, but he was also dealing with news that he might have been the original target for murder. Since the killer was still free, his life was in danger just by being in the room.

  I made my Earl Grey chocolate pots of cream first, since they would need thirty or so minutes in the oven. While they baked, I mixed together my black walnut madeleines.

  The room was filling with smells of roasting chicken and butter. Tess was working her way around the room, interviewing the chefs about their dishes. Roger was following along, taking pictures and tweeting updates.

  “What are you making, Chef Tim?”

  “I’m making breast of squab topped with honey aioli and cocoa nibs, with a side of fiddlehead fern and parsnip mash.”

  “Oh, nice. You’re the first chef who isn’t making sautéed fiddlehead ferns. Good for you. You hear that Brandy?” Tess called across the arena.

  “Can I have a sample, Chef Tim?”

  Tim flashed Miss New Jersey a huge smile and held up a spoon. She left her place at the judges’ table and slinked her way over to the kitchen. Then, without breaking eye contact with Tim, she leaned deeply over the counter and put her mouth around the spoon.

  Both Gigi and I had been frozen in place, watching the shameless display. We all waited for Ivy to yell cut, but she never did. Mrs. Dodson, however, called out, “Hussy is as hussy does.”

  Mother Gibson and her church group were shaking their heads. “Oh no, she didn’t. Child, that girl is trouble.”

  The other biddies shook their heads in agreement. “Mmmhmm.”

  Miss New Jersey purred, “I’m going to give that a ten.” She pulled Tim’s hand to her lips and wiped her mouth with his finger. Then she spun around and sashayed back to alight upon her perch.

  Gigi and I looked at each other, and an understanding passed between us. “The enemy of my enemy is my friend.” From that moment on, we were all about blocking Miss New Jersey from making moves on our chef.

  I put my madeleines in the oven and retrieved my plates. Roger was on his way to Vidrine’s kitchen to post pictures of her food. I intercepted him before he got away. “Hey, it’s good to see you back with us.”

  “Thank you. That was the scariest thing that’s ever happened to me.”

  “I can imagine.” Believe you me. “I wanted to ask you something. Bess was staying at my bed and breakfast, so the police have been questioning me, and I was wondering, from one innocent person to another, what did they ask you about?”

  Roger looked around. “I’m not really supposed to talk about it, but they were asking a lot of questions about Ms. Jodice’s tea and her honey.”

  “What did they ask about her tea? Have they tested it yet? Did they find something funky in it?”

  “No, they didn’t know anything as far as I could tell. They were more interested in what I did with it, and like—where did I get it? How did I make it? Did anyone else touch it? And of course, who set the tables?”

  Who sets the tables? Why didn’t I think of that? “Who did set the tables?”

  Roger looked like he might cry. “I did. But I used the flatware from the pantry. It was all clean. I’m a film student. I don’t know anything about table setting. I didn’t know it was backwards.”

  “No, of course not.” I patted Roger’s bony shoulder. “I believe you. And the culinary students, they broke it down every day and cleared the dishes?”

  “Yeah. They’re getting credits for attending the competition and helping with cleanup since they can’t use these kitchens for their own studies this week.”

  I nodded. “Uh huh, uh huh. And have you heard any of them talking about Ms. Jodice? Anyone claim to know her or dislike her?”

  Roger’s voice squeaked. “She was an old lady. Her name is all over this building, so they knew she was a big deal, but everyone here was in elementary school when she retired. No one had ever met her.”

  “How about Horatio Duplessis? You hear anyone talking about him?”

  “Oh yeah. Every kitchen I go to. These chefs all hate Horatio. Apparently, he’s ruined some of their lives.”

  “Mmm hmm. Who specifically said that?”

  Ivy hollered from across the room. “Roger! Keep it moving.”

  “I’m sorry, I gotta tweet. But it’s all the chefs. I’ve even heard . . .” Roger nudged his head and rolled his eyes toward Tim and Gigi. “You know . . . they aren’t his biggest fans either.”

  I couldn’t believe it. I hadn’t heard them say anything. I guess I don’t know everything that’s going on between Tim and his mentee. “Well, let’s both hang in there. And if you hear anything about that tea you’ll let me know, okay?”

  Roger gave me a timid smile.

  When I returned to my station, I heard Vidrine being interviewed by Tess for the camera. “Honey, I don’t use recipes. I got all my momm
a’s knowledge stored in my heart. When I cook, I cook by love.”

  The audience was eating it up. Rows of pink and white hair were nodding their approval.

  Mrs. Dodson hollered down to Aunt Ginny, “I bet she’s sleeping with Nick Nolte over there.”

  Mrs. Davis took out her wallet. “I’ll take that bet.”

  “Your restaurant is a new one to Cape May,” Tess was saying. “When can locals try your island cuisine for themselves?”

  “We’re open seven days a week right now. Monday through Saturday for dinner, and Sunday mornin’ for brunch. Y’all should come down and see us at Slap Yo Momma! You won’t be disappointed.”

  My head shot up so fast from embellishing my plates that for a minute I saw stars. I found Sawyer in the audience. Her eyes were as big as two cippolini onions. She’d heard that same thing I had. Vidrine only served brunch on Sunday. She’d lied about needing her knives for Sunday dinner. I was so mad I could just shake her. Why you gotta go and lie to me like that?

  You can believe I planned on bringing that up, too, just as soon as I was finished with today’s challenge. I plated two madeleines next to a warm, gooey pot of baked chocolate custard and watched Vidrine. Her entire team was finished and standing confidently behind their counter. I looked around. Team Louie was also relaxed behind three sets of finished dishes.

  “Five minutes!” Tess gave the warning, and the other kitchens continued to hustle. Everyone rushed to plate their dish and garnish it just right. Everyone except Teams Vidrine and Louie.

  I gave a final tap of powdered sugar through a sifter over my plates. I had six desserts. Four for the judges, and two extras just in case one was dropped, or . . . I wanted to eat it.

  I was finished two minutes ahead of time. I looked at Tim’s plates. His roasted breast of squab was beautiful, and the buttery turnip and fiddlehead mash made a nice bed for the golden-brown meat.

  Gigi had made gorgeous Cornish pasties. “Is the marmalade inside?”

  She blinked. “What?”

  “The marmalade. Is it inside the hand pies? It’s a basket ingredient you’re required to use.”

  The blood rushed from Gigi’s face. “Oh no.”

  “Quick, put a dollop on each plate like a dipping sauce.” I grabbed a handful of rosemary and plucked four tiny tufts. “Here, put this on the marmalade. It will cut the sweetness.”

  Gigi did as I said and didn’t question. She was rattled after that brazen display by Miss New Jersey.

  “Time’s up!”

  We stood back and waited for our turn to face the judges. Making a TV show took a lot longer than real life. Everything was spread out with breaks, so the camera could get just the right shot, or the host could deliver their line perfectly. Sometimes we had an hour between finishing our dishes and the food actually being tasted. Other than the hour we spent cooking, there was a lot of hurry up and wait. Today was no exception.

  All in all, we did very well at our turn before the judging squad. I was especially proud of Horatio’s comment to Tim about the dipping sauce for the Cornish pasty. “I really like the way the sous chef cut the sweetness of the marmalade with the addition of the herbs. Well done.”

  I tried not to gloat too hard, but come on—it was Gigi. Queen of the kitchen, ruler over every move I made. Criticizer of all things great and small. I had to gloat a little. Gigi wouldn’t look me in the eye. It was hard enough for her to say thanks through gritted teeth.

  Tim whispered, “Good job, chefs. Hopefully that pushes us ahead of Adrian.”

  Gigi clapped her hands together. “Louie was done early today. I hope that isn’t a bad sign for us.”

  It’s a bad sign of something.

  Adrian was up next, and he was telling the judges all about his bold use of Worcestershire, when Ashlee grabbed her throat and screamed.

  “Ack! There’s peanut butter in this! I’m allergic to peanuts! Someone poisoned me!”

  Horatio shot up from his chair. “Oh, good God!”

  Officer Birkwell called for an ambulance on his police radio.

  At first, we thought it was a stunt, but Ashlee was swelling up before our eyes.

  Tess just stood there holding the microphone. “Where is your EpiPen, you stupid cow?”

  Adrian started jumping around like a cricket in a frying pan. “I didn’t use any peanuts. Really, there are no peanut products in my food, I promise.”

  Ashlee pointed under the table. “I have an EpiPen in my purse.”

  Ivy ran back and forth screeching. “Roger! Roger! Call an ambulance!”

  Tess was still very calm. She rested a hand on her hip. “Someone get her her purse.”

  Norman grabbed Ashlee’s purse and rifled through it. He pulled out a long gold tube and handed it to Ashlee.

  Her whole face was swollen and blotchy and she was starting to gasp for breath. “That’s mascara, idiot.”

  There was nothing we could do. No amount of first aid was going to help. A peanut allergy only had one remedy.

  Adrian was on his knees, his head in his hands, pleading. “I . . . I didn’t use any peanuts. I don’t know where they came from.”

  Miss New Jersey grabbed Ashlee’s purse and dumped it out on the judges’ table. “There, find your EpiPen. I don’t know what that looks like.”

  Ashlee was holding her hands over her throat. Her face was bugging out like a toad. She pawed through the contents on the table, panic in her eyes. “It’s not here.”

  Tess walked calmly to the table. “What do you mean it’s not here? You aren’t supposed to go anywhere without it.”

  “I . . . can’t . . . breathe.”

  We all felt helpless and terrified.

  Mother Gibson waddled out of the stadium seating and fast shuffled over to Ashlee. Then, with her fist way up in the air, she called out, “Lord Jesus, take the wheel!” And her hand came down and punched Ashlee’s thigh.

  The panic began to subside in Ashlee’s eyes, and her breathing slowed to a less terrifying gasp.

  Mother Gibson slapped a used EpiPen on the table. “My grandson Oliver is allergic to peanuts. I never leave home without one.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The kitchen arena was a swarm of activity. Campus paramedics arrived first, followed by the rescue squad, and, bringing up the rear, the Cape May County Police.

  Office Amber arrived and took over like she does. “This room is under lockdown. Nobody leaves unless I say so.”

  Ashlee was wrapped in a blanket to prevent shock, something Adrian was also in great need of. He was off to the side of his kitchen sitting on an upturned crate smoking a cigarette with shaky hands. Roger tried to tell him that he couldn’t smoke on campus grounds, but Adrian had a crazed look in his eyes, so Roger wisely chose not to press the issue. The rest of us pulled up chairs, crates, and countertops wherever we could, to watch the drama unfold.

  “Someone tried to kill me.” Ashlee croaked out through swollen, alien-looking lips. “Probably Tess. She’s been trying to steal the spotlight for months.”

  Tess tossed her hair and exhaled. “How exactly would I poison you, chica? I’ve been busy interviewing the chefs this entire time.”

  “You could have poisoned my food from any kitchen. You’ve been in all of them.”

  Amber took out her flip book and a pen. “Your name, please.”

  “Teresa Maria Consuela Rodriguez.”

  “Did you know the victim was allergic to peanuts?”

  Tess examined her manicure. “Jes, I knew.”

  Ashlee flapped her blanket like wings. “I told you she did it.”

  “Did you slip a peanut product into the victim’s food?”

  “No.”

  “Did you at any time come into contact with the food in this arena?”

  “No.”

  “Did you see anyone working with or around peanuts or peanut products?”

  “No.”

  Ashlee whined. “She’s lying.”

  Tes
s stretched like a cat. “Watch the footage from today’s taping. You’ll see on camera that I haven’t touched any of the dishes.”

  Amber turned to Ivy. “I’m going to need access to all your tapes from today.”

  “Of course. Anything you need.”

  Amber let the paramedics take Ashlee to the hospital to be checked out. Then she asked all the chef teams to gather close together in the center of the arena. One of the officers took out a cell phone and held it up like he was filming us.

  Amber asked the chefs collective questions. “Were any nuts used in today’s dishes?”

  The chefs were stunned into silence, so I answered for all of us. “The dessert baskets contained black walnuts, but they aren’t in the same family as peanuts.”

  Amber sighed. She pointed to her other officer. “Go collect all the remnants of the walnuts.” Then over to Ivy. “Anything else?”

  Ivy shook her head no. “Not in the baskets.”

  “Whose food was the victim eating when she came into contact with the allergen?”

  Everyone in the room pointed to Adrian.

  Amber’s eyebrows shot up. “Okay. Name please.”

  “Adrian Baxter.”

  “Mr. Baxter, did you use any peanuts or peanut products in your cooking today?”

  “No ma’am.”

  “Perhaps in a sauce or a seasoning packet? Sometimes allergens are hiding in other foods.”

  “No, everything was cooked fresh from whole ingredients. Nothing came into contact with peanuts while in my hands. I can’t vouch for the purity of the ingredients in the pantry after the situation last Saturday.”

  Amber took notes. “Right, the ingredient sabotage. Did anyone notice any sabotaged ingredients in their foods today?”

  Everyone murmured no.

  “Did the victim mention that she had a peanut allergy?”

  We all answered more emphatically this time. “No!”

  “It isn’t a crime to cook with peanuts. The burden is on the one with the allergies to protect themselves. I just need to know where the peanuts came from so I can rule out malicious intent.”

  No one moved.

  “Really? Nothing? All right, people. This is officially a crime scene.”