Restaurant Weeks Are Murder

by Libby Klein

  There was a tap-tap-tap on the front window. Sawyer was waving wildly to me.

  I opened the door and let her in. She was giddy and out of breath. “Wait till you see what I found.” She took off her coat and draped it over a chair.

  “What is it?”

  Gia came in with a tray of cappuccinos. I ran to help him. He nodded to the cup on the end with a latte foam heart and a dusting of chocolate powder. “That one is yours.” Our eyes met, and he winked.

  I took the cup, and he put the tray down. The seniors dove into the coffees.

  Mr. Sheinberg asked, “Are there free refills?”

  Mrs. Sheinberg rolled her eyes and smacked him on the arm.

  “Whah? McDonalds has free refills. I just want to know what I’m in for here.”

  Gia’s lips twitched. “Everything is on the house tonight.”

  “Oy, in that case.” Mr. Sheinberg clinked his cup against his wife’s. “Keep ’em coming, Mario.”

  “Poppy, sit.” Sawyer patted the bench next to her. “You have to see this.” She started a clip on her phone. She had to start it three times because there was much grousing over who could and who couldn’t see the picture.

  Finally, Gia brought in his iPad, and Sawyer pulled it up to play on the bigger screen.

  It was the video of Philippe on the morning show. Philippe was demonstrating how to make a French onion tart.

  “Mmm, that would have been a good recipe too. I made one once from Mastering the Art of French Cooking. It was delicious.”

  Mrs. Dodson shushed me. “I can’t hear him.” Ashlee wasn’t interested in learning how to make the tart or letting Philippe talk about his restaurant. She was too busy trying to juggle the onions and talk about learning to juggle in camp when she was thirteen. A very exasperated Philippe asked why she had him on the show if she didn’t want to see him cook. Ashlee said, “Think fast,” and threw an onion at Philippe’s head. The onion knocked Philippe’s hat off, and he got so flustered that he stuttered through the rest of the recipe. Then his sleeve caught fire and Ashlee laughed while a stagehand had to run out and swat Philippe down with a towel to put him out. When it was finally time to taste the recipe, Philippe’s sous chef brought out a finished tart that had been made ahead of time.

  I jumped to my feet so fast that I knocked the coffee table with my leg and sloshed everyone’s cappuccino.

  Aunt Ginny yelped, “Poppy? What’s wrong.”

  I was pointing at the iPad. “Oh my God, back it up! Back it up!”

  Gia rolled the video back a few seconds.

  “Stop!”

  The video paused on the sous chef in dark braids smiling down at the finished tart.

  “That’s Vidrine!”

  The room erupted into a volley of questions and theories.

  “Is Vidrine secretly working with Philippe?”

  “Do you think she’s getting bad reviews on purpose to increase Philippe’s chances of winning?”

  “Maybe she’s competing against him to get revenge for putting her on that fakakta television spot.”

  I assured everyone that I did not have any secret backstage insider information, but I would be sure to fill them in if I got “the skinny.”

  Neither Gia nor I mentioned anything about Louie and Vidrine making out in the pantry. I wanted to get those details straight from Vidrine herself. Then I would be sure to pass them along to Sawyer and Aunt Ginny later.

  After several refills, a few pastries, and a handful of conspiracy theories, we finally said good-bye to Sawyer and packed the seniors up to send them on their way home. Aunt Ginny was the last one out the door. She gave me a pointed look as Gia was helping her put her coat on. “I know how long it’s supposed to take to go from here to our house.”

  “Message received.”

  Aunt Ginny narrowed her eyes through the last crack of the door before it clicked shut.

  We were alone. I turned to Gia to apologize for the invasion. He had me in his arms before I could get the words out. “Don’t make it so hard for me to leave.”

  Gia smiled. “I want to make sure you’ll miss me until tomorrow.”

  “That’s a promise.”

  We gathered up the cups and saucers and plates and took them to the kitchen. Gia helped me into my coat and handed the keys to the now tomato-pocked Spider.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Bella, please.”

  I took the keys, glad that Gia still trusted me with his car, but also glad that I didn’t have to walk at this time of night. “How will you get home?”

  “I’ll walk. I only live a few blocks from here.”

  “Do you want me to drive you?”

  He raised one eyebrow. “Definitely not. Besides, I have some paperwork to do here before I go home.”

  “Okay, I’ll see you in the morning.”

  He kissed me one last time. “I can’t wait.”

  I don’t know why the thought of him working late made my heart skip a beat, but it did. What was wrong with me? Turned on by paperwork? For a brief moment, I thought of Tim with Miss New Jersey and Gigi, and the jealousy wrapped around my neck like a noose. I was a big fat hypocrite, and I didn’t like it. Not one bit.

  Chapter Thirty

  I found Horatio sitting in the library reading a biography and drinking a glass of port by the fire.

  “Hi, how long have you been back?”

  Horatio consulted his watch. “A couple of hours. Officer Fenton wanted to assign me a security detail, but I don’t think that’s necessary. Everything that happens seems to be at the college. I feel safe here.”

  “I’m glad. How are you holding up?”

  “The stress is worse than having a deadline with nothing to write about.”

  “I don’t know what that’s like, but it sounds awful. I’m looking into things on my end to try to find whoever is responsible for these terrible attacks. Hopefully, I’ll know something that’ll help soon.”

  Horatio twisted his mustache. “Oh, please don’t do anything. I appreciate it very much, but I would hate to see you put yourself in the sights of a killer. Then they’ll come after you. I would so much rather you stay safely out of it.”

  That was very sweet of him. He reminded me a little of my Uncle Teddy with his white hair and dapper demeanor. I tried to reassure him. “Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine. I have a lot of friends looking out for me. “

  Horatio nodded, thoughtfully. “That’s good.”

  “I’ve been reading some of your restaurant reviews.”

  A wary caution crossed Horatio’s eyes. “Oh?”

  “You’ve been a restaurant critic for a long time. Is there anyone who would want to hurt you, maybe because of an unfavorable review?”

  “You make a lot of enemies in my line of work. It goes with the territory. I get at least one death threat a year. But this is the first time anyone has gone beyond empty words.”

  “Are there any chefs in the competition who could be serious enough to try to follow through on a threat?”

  Horatio looked at his hands in his lap for a moment. “There is one chef—he thinks I’ve been blocking him from getting a Michelin Star. I’ve reviewed his restaurant several times, and he just doesn’t have what it takes.”

  I suspected Horatio was talking about Adrian. Out of all the chefs competing, Adrian was the only one who’d had multiple reviews. “What do you mean by ‘what it takes?’”

  “Anyone can learn to cook. Cooking is a little science, a little art, and a lot of passion. But for some, it’s just a job. Then there are those who have the gift. They were born to be chefs. They feel it in their bones. They know by instinct what tastes will complement each other, and how to best bring out undiscovered flavors. They’re only alive when their hands are creating. Unless something happens to squash that gift, those are the ones who go on to greatness.”

  “And you don’t think this chef who wants the Michelin Star has this gift?”

  �
�He’s ambitious, but his menu is full of overpriced, deep-fried seafood. He offers nothing you can’t get from the freezer section of the grocery store. Yet he has a degree from one of the most prestigious culinary schools in the country. That’s just plain lazy.”

  “Could he be the one sending you threats?”

  “I don’t know. Threats are not usually signed. People like to hide behind screen names and anonymity. It’s rare for someone to own up to their words.”

  Thinking of Adrian and his erratic behavior this week, I asked, “I know people can be crazy, but do you really think this chef would kill you because of a bad review?”

  Horatio chose his words carefully. “If the ego is bruised deep enough, it can cause a regret that can’t be shaken as the years go by. Then, I think any one of us is capable of justifying murder.”

  That was such a grim thought, but it happened every day. There was so much senseless killing and pain in the world—and for what? The reasons ran far and wide, but it usually came down to the killer was hurting, so they wanted to hurt other people. I would never understand how someone could get twisted up enough to justify the horrific things that happened in the world today.

  Horatio was also deep in thought, probably about the same thing.

  “I’ll leave you to your book. Rest well tonight.”

  He gave me a weak smile. “I’ll try. Thank you.”

  I headed up the guest stairs to check on Bess’s door, to make sure the crime scene tape was still in place. I found Figaro scratching at Ashlee’s door. “Are you lost, sir?”

  Merrrow.

  “I believe your usual victim is in the other room over there.” I bent to pick up the furry smoosh-face. “Or have you decided to terrorize everyone equally now?”

  Figaro swatted my hand and wriggled out of my arms. He went back to sniffing at Ashlee’s door and scratching to get in.

  I don’t know how we are ever going to get the Butterfly Wings B&B successful with this pest in residence. I need to find some kind of distraction to keep Fig away from the guest rooms.

  Norman’s door on the Adonis Suite opened, and Tess poked her head out. She stopped short when she saw me. “Oh. Hi.”

  “Hi there. I hope Figaro hasn’t been bothering you.”

  Tess shook her head no.

  “Well that’s good. I heard tonight that Wake Up! South Jersey was having some trouble.”

  Tess came out into the hall and quickly shut the door behind her. “Jou can’t believe everything you hear on TV, and I would know.”

  “Do you think the show will get a replacement for Ashlee?”

  Tess wobbled her head when she talked. “I don’t need a replacement. I can do the show on my own.”

  The door flew open, and Norman, a towel wrapped around his waist, glared at Tess.

  Tess shrugged. “What are you looking at?”

  Norman slammed the door shut, leaving Tess in the hall with me and Figaro, who was now moaning at Ashlee’s door for someone to let him in.

  Tess sighed and let out a string of profanity. She jiggled the knob on Norman’s door. Norman had locked her out.

  I scooped up my squirmy cat again. “Well, I’m going to turn in. Sleep well.”

  I carried Fig up the stairs to our attic apartment and scolded him for being so naughty. Then I nuzzled him for being so cute. He patted me on the mouth.

  Downstairs, Tess had gotten back into the room, and I could overhear pieces of a hissy fit.

  Norman was obviously angry about something. “You promised!”

  “You’re loco! I never promised you anything!”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “I said you’d be interested.”

  “That isn’t what we agreed!”

  “I don’t care what we agreed.”

  “I did everything you wanted!”

  “Shhh, keep your voice down. Someone will hear.”

  The voices got too muffled after that. Then Fig and I heard a door slam, followed a few minutes later by the bell in my room signaling the front door being opened and shut.

  “What do you think that was about?”

  Fig blinked his bright orange eyes.

  “You’re right. It can’t be good. I wonder what she asked him to do.”

  Figaro jumped out of my arms onto the bed.

  “Fig, I think you’re right again.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  I got to the college early looking for a chance to corner Vidrine. Aunt Ginny was driving up with Mrs. Dodson and Mrs. Davis, so I was alone. The same uniformed officer stood guard at the front door, and I wondered if the increased security was because of events that happened inside, or outside. The protesters were gone, so I felt safe enough to park near the front. Hopefully that wouldn’t be an epic mistake.

  I said hello to Officer Birkwell and went straight to the locker room to stow my purse and coat. Then I waited. Twenty minutes later, Vidrine finally arrived.

  “Mornin’.”

  She flinched hard. “Wha! What are you doing?”

  “What do you mean what am I doing? I’m waiting for you.”

  Vidrine quickly looked around me in every direction. “Why?”

  “I need to talk to you. Relax. No one else is in here this time.”

  Vidrine covered her heart with her hand and took a couple of breaths.

  I held up my cell phone. “I want to show you something.” I hit play on the video I’d queued up.

  Vidrine’s eyes swelled as soon as Philippe said “French onion tart.” “Where did you find that?”

  “A friend.”

  Vidrine rolled her eyes and sighed. “So, I used to apprentice for the great Philippe Julian. So what?”

  “Don’t you think it’s strange that you didn’t mention this before? It makes you look guilty.”

  Vidrine threw her head back. “Uhck! I’m not allowed to talk about it, okay?”

  “What in the world does that mean?”

  “Have you ever heard of a non-compete?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, before Philippe took me on as his apprentice, I had to sign a contract that stated if I ever told certain . . .” She gave me an exasperated look. “Certain trade secrets about Philippe or La Maîtrisse, that I could be sued for a huge amount of money.”

  “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

  “Yeah, well, me neither. But I wanted to apprentice under Philippe in the worst possible way, so I signed it.”

  “How did it go?”

  “In the worst possible way.”

  “Oh.”

  Vidrine moved in close to me so no one else could hear if they happened to be lurking inside a locker. “Look, do I have your word that this will go no farther than your ears?”

  I held up two fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

  Vidrine considered me for a minute. “I tried to tell you this the other day, but Philippe’s pastry chef ran in here cryin’ like a baby, bless her heart, and I couldn’t spill it.”

  “Okay, well tell me now.”

  “Working with Philippe started out good. Real good. It was a dream come true to work in the most popular restaurant at the shore. But after a couple of months, it all started to fall apart.”

  I nodded for her to keep going.

  “For one thing, he’s miserable in the kitchen. He’s on his best behavior here because he knows the cameras are on, but he has a wicked temper. It wouldn’t surprise me if that’s why he picked the station on the end instead of right in front of the cameras.”

  “I thought he wanted to be closest to the judges’ table.”

  “Doubtful. He’s probably using cheat sheets in the kitchen and he’ll want to hide those.”

  “Cheat sheets?”

  Vidrine took a deep breath and slowly let it out. “The great and mighty Chef Philippe doesn’t know how to cook anything from scratch. He doesn’t have any of his own recipes. Haven’t you noticed? Everything he makes is from Julia Child’s cookbooks.”r />
  “Holy macaroni! How did I not put that together?”

  Vidrine counted off on her fingers. “Day one, Julia’s quiche Lorraine using chip steak instead of ham. Day two, he made Julia’s duck à l’orange using lemon. Day three, blanquette du veau—he didn’t even alter the recipe. He just made the other basket ingredients on the side.”

  “You know, I figured out that he was making coq au vin with the squab yesterday. When I teased him about it he got real cagey, like he was trying to hide it.”

  “Philippe wants to protect his image at all cost. He doesn’t want this secret getting out.”

  “I bet that’s what Horatio meant when he said he was seeing a pattern in Philippe’s dishes. Horatio really knows his stuff. He probably recognized the recipes.”

  “Philippe hates Horatio. With a passion. If he applied that much passion to his food, he’d be a completely different chef.”

  “He hates Horatio that much because of one bad review?”

  “When he saw that review he went nuts. He wrote this rebuttal to the paper about how his recipes were perfect and time honored.”

  “Well, I mean, technically they are.”

  “Yeah, but they aren’t his. And Horatio called him out for it. The hostess at La Maîtrisse was told that if she ever saw him at the door, she was to call the cops immediately. Philippe vowed to get even one day.”

  “Even how?”

  “I don’t know. But you can bet your grits I’ve been thinking about that all week, chér.”

  “How does someone graduate Le Cordon Bleu in Paris, and still not know how to cook?”

  Vidrine tipped her chin back and raised both her eyebrows. She laughed. “Honey, there is no way on God’s green earth that that man went to Le Cordon Bleu. I doubt he’s been to the Paris Casino in Vegas. For one thing, Chef Philippe doesn’t speak French.”

  My mouth dropped open. I tried to snap it shut. Then I remembered when Horatio told Philippe he’d rather eat a cat over his food. Philippe had said thank you. My mouth popped open again. “That does explain some things.”

  Vidrine leaned back against the lockers, crossed her arms in front of her chest and nodded. “One night, we had a guest from Quebec who tried to order in French. The waiter came and got Philippe. He had no idea what she was saying. He said he was too busy and the waiter would have to work it out. I had to translate for him, and my Haitian French is rusty.”