Restaurant Weeks Are Murder

by Libby Klein

  “Is that why you left La Maîtrisse? You couldn’t stand the hypocrisy?”

  “Not exactly. Philippe wants to publish a cookbook, but you need recipes to do that. I left when I caught him taking credit for some of my original recipes in his file. That’s when I knew I had to get out of there. And if you ask me, he’s doing the same thing to his new pastry chef.”

  Ivy popped her head in the locker room. “Oh hey, there you two are. We’re about to get started. Five minutes.”

  Vidrine and I snapped to attention like we’d been caught with contraband.

  “We’ll be right out,” Vidrine called. Then after Ivy left she said to me, “Now remember your promise to me, chér.”

  “I will. You have my word.”

  I headed to my station to begin the Restaurant Week challenge for day six. Only one more day of the competition remained. I was glad to see the back of it. But if I didn’t hurry up and clear Tim’s name, he might not ever recover from the damage that was done this week.

  What I’d learned in the past twenty-four hours was that Philippe was a fraud who swore he’d get revenge on Horatio. Adrian had made death threats to Horatio because of bad reviews blocking his ambitious plans. And Louie had a restaurant shut down because of Horatio’s accusations of food poisoning.

  I loved Vidrine to pieces, but she’d already lied to me a few times. Maybe everything she just told me about Philippe was a lie. How did I know I could trust her? Not to mention that little scandal about Louie and Vidrine cheating with the baskets. They had something going on, and it was more than just cooking.

  It seemed everyone had something they wanted to keep hidden. Maybe something they were willing to kill to protect.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Ivy stomped around the stage having a fit. “What is going on, people?! We have a show to do!” Neither Tess nor Norman had shown up yet. Ashlee was still in the hospital. Bess was still . . . dead. We had a packed audience and six teams of chefs at the ready. But no one to host, and we were short two judges. “Poppy, where is your aunt? I called her last night and asked her to fill in today. She said she’d be here.”

  I looked in the stands. Sawyer and Itty Bitty Smitty had an empty seat in between them. I had a moment of panic. Not that anything had happened to Aunt Ginny, but that Aunt Ginny was about to happen. She didn’t want to ride in with me this morning. What didn’t she want me to see?

  The lights dimmed, and overhead, music started to play—the theme song from Chariots of Fire. The stage spotlight danced in circles, and everyone looked around waiting to see what was going on. But I knew. I knew what was going on. And there was nothing I could do to stop it.

  Aunt Ginny entered the arena dressed like Norma Desmond, in a gold lamé kimono over a black pantsuit with a matching gold lamé turban. She held her arms up to her adoring fans. The seniors cheered and roared along with the display while Aunt Ginny took a slow lap around the stage and the judges’ table—pausing and spinning in front of the camera.

  She walked past my kitchen, and I threw out the question, “How much did this cost you?”

  She tossed me a grin over her shoulder. “Twenty bucks to the kid in the control booth.”

  Ivy stood slack with her clipboard and headset forgotten at her side; her round, rose-colored glasses sat crooked on her nose.

  Not a word was spoken until Aunt Ginny finally took her seat next to Horatio, the music stopped, and the house lights came up. She turned to Miss New Jersey, who was mesmerized, and said, “That’s how you make an entrance, honey.”

  Ivy looked at me.

  What could I do? I don’t control Aunt Ginny.

  Tim was holding his sides, laughing. I threw him some shade, and he laughed even harder. “I hope you’re going to be just like her when you’re that age.”

  Ivy clicked on her headset. “Roger, could you come here please?” Then she took off the headset, put her clipboard down, and attached the wireless microphone to her black sweater. “Testing one, two. Testing. Okay. I will fill in for Ashlee and Tess today. Roger, you’ll be me. Who wants to be Norman?” Ivy looked around the audience. “I need a man.”

  Mrs. Davis put her hand down, disappointed. “Don’t we all.”

  Mrs. Sheinberg nudged her husband in the side and he jumped. “What?”

  Ivy headed over to the stands where they were sitting. “Fantastic. Thank you so much Mister—?”

  “What? What’s happening?”

  Ivy took Mr. Sheinberg by the elbow. “Great. Come with me.” She led him down to the judges’ table and sat him in Norman’s seat. “You’ll be our fourth judge today.”

  Mr. Sheinberg bowed his head and started praying the twenty-third Psalm. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil . . .”

  Mrs. Sheinberg assured the concerned seniors, “His life insurance is paid up.”

  Ivy stood in front of the camera and opened the segment. “Welcome to today’s event, everyone. We have some special guests on our esteemed panel of judges.” Then as an aside she said, “We’ll do the introductions while the chefs are preparing today’s dishes.”

  Frank, the cameraman, gave her a thumbs-up.

  “Chefs, open your baskets. Today’s theme is Latin Love. Too bad Tess isn’t here. This basket was picked for her. Our mystery ingredients in the appetizer basket are Iberico ham, jicama, and salt and vinegar chips.”

  Aunt Ginny must have forgotten that she was on camera for the entire day. “I threw up after eating a bag of salt and vinegar chips when I rode the Wild Mouse rollercoaster on the boardwalk years ago. The vinegar burnt all my nose hair when it came back up.”

  Miss New Jersey crinkled up her nose. “Eww. I don’t want the chips on mine.”

  Ivy paused, and took a deep breath. “The entrée basket contains skirt steak, plantains, and poblano peppers.”

  Mr. Sheinberg raised his hand. “I can’t eat the peppers. They give me the toots.”

  Mrs. Sheinberg hollered from the audience. “If you eat those peppers, you’re sleeping in the basement.”

  “Oy, whaddayathink I told ’em for already, eh?”

  Ivy closed her eyes and drummed her fingers on her thigh. Blowing out her breath long and low she said, “And finally, the dessert baskets contain passion fruits, dulce de leche, and lemon drop chilies.” She paused and looked at the judges’ table, as though waiting for commentary.

  Four sets of eyes blinked back at her.

  She turned back to the camera, and Mr. Sheinberg said, “Why is she looking at us? Are we supposed to say something?”

  “Chefs, you have one hour. Just go.”

  I ran to the pantry looking to corner either Louie or Philippe. Philippe darted around me like I had the plague. He grabbed some shallots and herbs, tried to hide them from me, and dashed back out to his kitchen.

  Vidrine caught my eye and gave me an “I told you so” look. She grabbed her ingredients and followed Philippe out.

  Louie was standing in the walk-in, scratching his head. I sidled up next to him. “Whacha lookin’ for?”

  “Dude, I can’t find the sour cream anywhere.”

  I reached up to the shelf on the right, next to the eggs, and handed him the red container. “Some of my friends were talking about one of their favorite places the other day, a little place on the point called The Seaside Café.”

  “I can’t believe anyone remembers that old place. We had some good times there.”

  “They said you had the best crab cakes.”

  Louie grinned and rocked back on his heels. “The crab was fresh, and the secret was Ritz Crackers instead of bread crumbs.” He winked.

  “So, what happened? How’d you go from prime real estate at the point to a food truck?”

  A shadow cast over his expression. “It was the bum’s rush, man. The Health Department shut me down because of a rumor started by the great Horatio Duplessis. One phone call that I was serving bad clams, and they slapped me with
a mondo fine. They never even sent an inspector.”

  “They just shut you down based on his word?”

  “Horatio Duplessis was a god around these parts. He was one of the first restaurant critics at The Shore, and mean as a snake. I’ve never seen a more uptight and bitter chef wannabe in my whole life. Once word went out in the paper, warning against the ‘food poisoning danger’ at The Seaside Café, my clientele dried up, man. In the middle of the summer! Once we were allowed to reopen, we couldn’t get customers no matter what special we ran. We missed the whole season. I couldn’t make enough money to cover the dumpster fees, so I had to shut ’er down. I sold the place for less than it was worth just to get out from under it, and bought my food truck. By the next summer, the place was busier than a one-legged man dancing a jig. And guess who the new owner was close personal friends with?”

  I was afraid to say it. “Horatio?”

  “You got it, dude!”

  Louie’s sous chef poked his head in the pantry. “Your grill’s ready, Chef.”

  “Thanks man, I’ll be right there.”

  I grabbed some cream cheese and eggs while I was standing there. “You must be furious with him.”

  Louie shrugged. “Whatever. Life’s too short to dwell on the past. Now I got my little hole in the wall, and we’re doing great. No one even follows restaurant columns anymore. They only care about Yelp and Google.”

  “Do you miss having a big restaurant?”

  Louie leaned his forehead down to mine. “Don’t worry, I have a plan.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “I’ll be expanding my operation by next summer.” Louie put a finger over his lips and backed out of the walk-in.

  I wondered if that plan involved Vidrine. She admitted she’d been cheating. Could they be in it together to win the prize money for their joint venture? Would they go so far as to kill one of the judges?

  “What are you doing?” Gigi hissed from the pantry threshold. “You’ve been in there for five minutes! You’d never make it in a real, professional kitchen.”

  “I’m coming.” What do you think I do at the coffee shop every day? She probably thinks I’m sitting around eating chocolates and watching soap operas.

  I grabbed a lime and a pack of lady fingers and went back to my station. I was making miniature passion fruit-chile cheesecakes. The cream cheese would dull the heat from the peppers and let the citrus flavor come through. Thank you, Nadia G. The surface area-to-mass ratio would enable them to bake very quickly. Thank you, Alton Brown. I was able to crush the lady fingers with my hands because I was full of unhindered rage. Thank you, Gigi.

  I tossed the crumbs with a little melted butter and pressed them in the bottom of six mini springform pans. Even though I’d tasted everything along the way, I’d yet to taste my finished desserts—the extras kept disappearing on me.

  I capped the bottom of each springform pan in foil and set them aside in a roasting pan. I whipped the cream cheese until light and fluffy and added the dulce de leche and egg yolks. Then I added the zest and juice of a lime. I finely chopped my bright lemon chile peppers and folded them into the creamy mixture then dolloped it into my mini cheesecake forms. I gently filled the roasting pan with an inch of water, and very slowly and carefully, took it over to the oven.

  BOOM!

  There was a blinding flash, and I was thrown backwards. The high-pitched ringing in my ears had me disoriented. I was in a room made of intense white light. The noise was deafening and silent at the same time. What happened? Am I dead? I slowly became aware of pain. My head was throbbing. I felt like there were needles poking me behind my eyes. I tried to shut out the light, but it wouldn’t be extinguished. It was coming from inside me. I was woozy like my head was detached and bobbing in the ocean. A shadow hovered over me. The white light slowly started to fade, and the shape took on form. It was Aunt Ginny, and she was yelling something I couldn’t understand. She sounded like she was in a tunnel a mile away.

  Then there was nothing.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  My head is killing me. Did somebody punch me in the face? I tried to move my hand up to my forehead, but it was attached to wires and tubes. A machine next to my shoulder beeped.

  “Shh! I think she’s waking up! Aunt Ginny, she’s moving.”

  I could hear Sawyer’s voice, but I couldn’t see anything. Oh my God! I’m blind!

  “Here, Bella. Let me help you.” Gia’s warm hands touched my face and lifted the covering off my eyes. Light started pouring into my head.

  “Ow.”

  Aunt Ginny’s face dropped down nose to nose with me. “Yeah, that’s gonna hurt for a while. You got a concussion.”

  “From what?” The shadows started forming shapes that I recognized. Aunt Ginny was on my left, holding my hand. Sawyer was jammed up next to her. Gia was on my right holding my other hand. Where is Tim?

  “Don’t you remember?” Sawyer asked, concern in her voice. “Your oven exploded. It threw you clear over to Vidrine’s kitchen.”

  “My oven exploded! Are you freakin’ . . . somebody. . . who tried to kill me?!”

  Aunt Ginny patted my hand. “Okay, settle down. Don’t get yourself all worked up.”

  I tried to sit up, but the pain in my head sent a shock of blinding light. “Was anyone else hurt? Why are my ears ringing?”

  Gia adjusted the pillow behind my back. “Just you. And that can happen with an explosion. It’s only temporary.”

  Sawyer handed me the bed control button to raise my head. “The doctors said you were very lucky. That heavy roasting pan full of water took the brunt of the blast.”

  “Oh no! My cheesecakes!”

  Gia chuckled. “That’s the least of your worries right now.”

  “Knock, knock. You decent, boss?”

  Sawyer pulled the curtain aside to let Itty Bitty Smitty in. “She’s just come to a few minutes ago.”

  “Whoa, you been out for an hour?”

  “What happened after we left, Smitty? Did they find out how this happened?”

  Smitty took off his ball cap and stuffed it in his back pocket. “What do you want first, the good news or the bad news?”

  “The bad news, always the bad news,” Aunt Ginny said.

  “Someone cut the gas line from your stove, and used it to rig your oven to explode when you opened it.”

  “Jiminy Christmas.” Aunt Ginny whistled.

  “Police found a hacksaw in the back of Louie’s truck. He denied knowing anything about it, but was taken in for questioning.”

  “Chef Louie tried to blow me up?”

  Smitty nodded. “It looks that way.”

  “What’s the good news?”

  “That ugly apron you were wearing caught fire from the blast. The material melted into an impenetrable shield. Once they put you out, it was ruined beyond repair.”

  I weighed that against the reality that I could have been in the morgue instead of the emergency room. “That does make me feel a little better.”

  Smitty grinned. “I knew it would.”

  Aunt Ginny sat on the edge of the bed. “Was anything else tampered with? Who else was sabotaged?”

  Smitty turned sad cow eyes back to me. “It was just Poppy’s kitchen.”

  “So, Louie was really trying to hurt me.”

  Aunt Ginny made a face. “Do you think he’d be dumb enough to just toss the evidence in the bed of his pickup and come on inside to make his burger of the day?”

  “You think someone else planted it there to frame him?” I asked.

  “Louie’s a little burned out,” Aunt Ginny said, “but he’s not a fool.”

  “Everyone suspected him of tampering with the equipment a few days ago.” Sawyer patted my hand. “He’d be a good scapegoat.”

  “Or,” Gia added, “he’s clever and he knew hiding it in plain sight would make a good alibi for being framed.”

  “Either way,” Aunt Ginny said, “someone doesn’t like you asking questions.”

&nb
sp; The emergency room doctor pulled back the curtain to the medical bay. “Hey, there you are. I’m glad to see you’re awake. You have a mild concussion, but I still want to admit you overnight for observation.”

  “No, I don’t want to stay overnight. I feel fine.”

  Aunt Ginny pushed me back on the bed. “You aren’t going anywhere, missy. You will stay here the night as the doctor says.”

  “But I have things to do. We have the guests, and I have to make breakfast tomorrow.”

  Sawyer raised a hand. “I’ll do it.”

  Aunt Ginny muttered. “Oh, God help us.”

  “You’re going to cook breakfast tomorrow? Is this going to be a Charlie Brown Thanksgiving-style breakfast of toast, popcorn, and jelly beans?”

  “Hey! I know how to make a couple of things.... Aunt Ginny will still be there, right?”

  Smitty pulled his hat out of his pocket and pulled it down over his bald head. “I could get doughnuts.”

  Aunt Ginny stood and stretched. “Don’t worry. We’ll do an overnight oatmeal. They’ll be happy to have something hearty and simple after a week of heavy meals.”

  “But . . .” I started to protest.

  Aunt Ginny narrowed her eyes and jabbed her finger at me. “You’re staying!”

  “Okay,” I said, “but just for one night.”

  Aunt Ginny blew me off. “We’ll see.” She kissed me good-bye.

  Sawyer leaned down for a hug, and I whispered, “Where is Tim?”

  Sawyer turned up one side of her mouth and shook her head. “He stayed at the competition. He said he’d check on you later.” She squeezed my shoulder in support. “I’ll check on you later. Get some rest.”

  Then it was just me and Gia. He gave me a big smile, but he couldn’t hide the concern from his eyes.

  “You left in the middle of cooking?”

  “Some things are more important.” He pulled my hand up to his mouth and kissed it.

  “So, I’m not saying this is a relationship competition or anything . . .” I trailed off.