by Libby Klein
He twirled his mustache. “This is just the scar you see. There are many more beneath the surface.”
“It can’t be easy to stand here and be reminded about the horrible way she treated you.”
“I don’t have to be reminded, dear, I think about it every day.”
I took a long look at the dapper older gentleman. What amount of pain would fracture the soul to where one would be willing to snuff out another’s life? “I get that she was horrible, but why would she go to this extreme over a bout of salmonella? It happens in the best of restaurants.”
“For one thing, Bess Jodice took pleasure in being cruel.” Horatio gave me a sad smile. “But, also because one of my classmates nearly died. He had a weak immune system from another disease and couldn’t fight off the bacteria. He was in the hospital for weeks. I was traumatized even without her vilifying me. It’s why I’ve spent my career being vigilant for proper food preparation when I review a restaurant. I never want another chef to experience the horror that I went through.”
“Do you know how it happened?”
“It was a momentary mistake that resulted in a lifetime of consequences. Bess ran the classroom like a drill sergeant. Always behind you, barking out orders. Nothing was ever good enough. You were always on edge, terrified to make a wrong move.” Horatio shifted his feet to lean on his walking stick. “She loved these timed tests, not unlike your competition upstairs. She said that in a restaurant kitchen you would have to move quickly or the whole line would fall behind. The demand was impossible. Fillet a sea bass in under two minutes. Trim a tenderloin in under five. On that fateful day, we were being timed on chicken fricassee, and I was behind. I was always behind. I forgot to flip my cutting board and wash my knife between deboning my chicken and chopping my finishing herbs.”
That is a surefire way to spread salmonella. I tried to keep the look of horror out of my eyes. I didn’t need anything flipping his switch. He’d already killed one person this week.
“Back in those days we had peer reviews. Within an hour of eating my fricassee, half the class was in the emergency room. The rest of the story is hanging there on the Wall of Shame before you.”
I looked at the portrait of a hopeful Horatio, not marred by the ugly title Bess had hung on him. “She called you Horace the day she died. I thought she was slurring her speech because she was drunk.”
Horatio tapped his walking stick on the floor. “That was the effects of the botulism taking hold. She knew who I was from day one, kept making offhanded comments about recognizing old students and knowing everyone’s abilities. I tried to play it off like I didn’t know what she was talking about, but she plunged that knife in my heart right from the start and twisted it a little every day.”
“I would have thought she’d be impressed by your standing in the restaurant community. Everyone else is awed by you.”
Horatio chuckled under his breath. “She knew I didn’t want to be a food critic. After I flunked out of school here, I tried to apply to other community colleges, but she sent them all letters of censure, blackballing me from admittance. She said I didn’t have what it took. I was too slow, too timid, and would never make a good chef. My family was poor. We didn’t have the money for a top-tier school. So, I changed my name and got a job as an apprentice under a head chef in New York for a couple of months.” He shook his head. “It was no use. My nerves were raw. I was frozen with terror that I would make another mistake and hurt someone else. After I was let go, I returned to New Jersey and went to night school for a journalism course. I thought maybe I could write about food, a little column discussing my own dishes. Today they call it food narrative, and it’s wildly popular.”
“Isn’t that basically what Bess did for Food and Wine Digest?
Horatio tapped his walking stick on the floor again. “Yes, ironic isn’t it? There she was—a chef—and she stepped down to do my backup plan. I hate being a restaurant critic, but I couldn’t get hired to write anything else. Editors pigeonholed me because of my culinary school background. I understood what I was eating—or was supposed to be eating. But I never wanted to be sitting at the table. I wanted to be in the kitchen.”
“A lot of people would love to trade places with you.”
“It’s not all they assume it to be. You’re always an outsider. Chefs hate you. Some belittle you, others send death threats. No one will cook for you because they think you’ll critique them. Eating out is going to work, and I am so sick and tired of truffle oil and molecular gastronomy, and pretentious chefs like Adrian Baxter who make mediocre food. They rely on big-school credentials, exotic ingredients, and plate designs—but what comes out of the kitchen is dry, tasteless, over spiced and under salted, and sometimes just plain weird. What I wouldn’t give for a really good grilled cheese.”
I shifted my weight to look around Horatio at the door. Why is no one coming? His expression grew wary. He knew I was thinking about running. I had to keep him talking until help arrived.
“All this happened so long ago. Why kill her now?”
“It was her editorial on recipe development that caught my eye. Bess used Food and Wine Digest as her personal self-promotion column. She was boasting about the release of her new cookbook and her process for developing unique recipes. The recipe she used in the article was for pineapple bread stuffing. I knew the recipe instantly, because I’d made it up. It was the only time I’d ever gotten a B in her class. That’s when I decided to delay my retirement and started formulating a plan. I called the Chamber of Commerce and the television station and convinced them that my Restaurant Week event was a great idea. Who do you think bankrolled most of the basket items?”
“I thought they were donated by local vendors.”
Horatio gave me a patronizing look. “What local vendor in South Jersey would have Buddha’s hand fruit or monk’s beard?”
“Honestly, I was wondering that myself. Do the Chamber of Commerce and television station know that R. Snaarg is really Horatio Duplessis?”
“No, my dear. No one has called me by my given name for ages. It took me months to work out the details. Killing Bess by food poisoning would be poetic justice. I had confiscated a bulging jar of tainted peaches from a restaurant I’d reviewed. The ‘chef,’ a kid who’d turned himself into a human pin cushion and had a beard down to his belt, was so proud of the ‘craft beer’ that he’d distilled in a bathtub in his basement, that he offered me a tour of his ‘culinary workshop.’ He was so busy bragging about making sausage out of roadkill, that he failed to see the ticking peach time bomb in his artisanal pickle pantry. I was so irritated, I wanted to make him eat the peaches. But instead, I took them home with me to save his unfortunate patrons.”
“So, you clearly had the murder weapon, your peach jar full of botulism, but what I can’t understand is how you pulled it off. Bess was poisoned with your own spoon.”
Horatio tapped his walking stick on the floor again. “I was originally going to do it at the inn. Maybe slip some peach botulism into her orange juice. But then I met you, and I recognized a kindred spirit. A woman of your age, starting over. I said to myself, now here’s someone who understands regret and disappointment. I didn’t want you connected to this in any way.”
My stomach took a sudden drop. The murder almost took place right under my own roof.
“Then I went on the kitchen tour with the other judges and saw that some intern had set the place settings backwards. That’s when I knew how to get away with it. No one paid any attention to my activities during the tour. They were far too concerned about their lighting and what camera angles would be the most flattering. I stole my own spoon away in my pocket and brought it back to the B&B to marinate it overnight in the poison. I did it three nights in a row. I had no idea it would take her so long to die.”
“But how did you get her to use your spoon instead of her own?”
“Bess was frivolously petty, fussy to the point of tedium. She would only use the p
roper silverware in the right setting. All I had to do was poison my own spoon, put it back in the spot that should have been hers, and let her pick it up. Instant alibi.”
“I’ve watched the video footage. I saw you swap the name cards when no one was looking, to be sure she was next to you. But I never saw you put the spoon out. How’d you do it?”
“I was very clever about it. I carried the spoon behind my pocket square, and then when I mopped my brow I slid it down my sleeve before the other judges arrived.”
“Then why’d you have to edit the file? I know something was removed from the finished clip. I saw the video jump.”
Horatio’s eyes narrowed. “I paid that kid to make sure the video was a clean cut. The camera caught me moving my spoon closer to Bess’s plate. I wanted to be sure she thought it was hers. First, he botched the appliance sabotage—no one was supposed to get hurt. Then he was almost caught by Chef Vidrine sneaking around trying to peek in the baskets. That would have been a shame—she has a lot of promise as a chef, even if she is a cheater.” He sighed. “And now the video footage. These kids today do everything so slap-dash.”
“By that kid, do you mean Roger?”
Horatio waved his hand. “Oh heck, no. That one’s a straight arrow. Thinks he’s going to be the next Steven Spielberg of all things. No, I paid some tattooed kid I found hanging around the media booth.”
“Is that who you got to rig my oven? You know I could have died from that explosion.”
Horatio tossed his walking stick back and forth between his hands. “Actually, I did that myself. I thought for sure you heard me leave the bed and breakfast the night before. I waited for the distraction of Tess and Norman arguing to slip out. I did warn you to stay out of it. I told you that you’d force the killer to have to come after you. I didn’t want to see you hurt, but a few days in the hospital would have done you some good. You really should have stayed there.”
That sick twisted little man. An evil gleam was forming in his eyes. He was reminding me less and less of my Uncle Teddy and more like a deranged Monopoly Man about to go on a killing spree.
Horatio pushed a button on the handle of his walking stick and a switchblade shot out the bottom. “I like you Poppy. I really do. But I can’t just let you walk out of here and turn me in. I’ve already suffered enough, and there’s no way I’m going to spend my golden years rotting in prison.”
Horatio lunged to stab me with his blade. His face twisted with bitterness, his mustache standing straight out across his lip.
I dodged the first swipe, but the second swipe sliced my upper arm. Searing pain shot down to my fingertips and my chest spread with wet heat. I instinctively grabbed the wound with my other hand. It came away warm and sticky. He was really trying to kill me. I looked for somewhere to run.
Horatio lunged back to strike again.
I tried to run, but I was backed against Bess’s Wall of Shame. My foot caught on the edge of the table Bess had used to display some of her trophies of humiliation, and I stumbled, banging my knee on the cold concrete floor.
Horatio caught my shoulder this time. He’d narrowly missed my neck. I had to find a way to fight back before he overpowered me. I threw my wounded arm behind me and grabbed a rusty cast iron frying pan from the display and conked him on the side of the head. He cried in agony and crumpled to the floor. The weight of the cast iron was too much for my injured arm and the pan slipped from my grasp and clanged loudly on the floor.
I watched Horatio writhe in pain and then all movement stopped. He lay still, but his chest was rising and falling. He was alive. I kicked his cane out of reach and pulled my cell phone from my pocket. I dialed the cell number for a certain blonde police officer that I knew.
“Amber, I’m in the boiler room of the community college. You aren’t going to believe this. Horatio Duplessis is Bess Jodice’s killer. I have him disarmed. Can you send a cruiser and an ambulance?”
Amber replied, “Aww crap!”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Officer Birkwell got to the basement almost before I hung up the phone. He cuffed Horatio and called an ambulance. Soon after, Amber arrived with half the police force, and everyone upstairs had made their way downstairs. Ivy had been in a panic that Horatio was missing. Aunt Ginny had been in a panic that I was missing. And Adrian had been in a panic that he was going to be blamed for my disappearance.
Philippe, Gia, and Tim were fighting their way to the boiler room. I could hear Tim arguing with Philippe all the way down the stairs. “Why would you tell her about this room? She has a nose for trouble. She’d better be alright. If she’s hurt in any way, I’ll kill you.”
Gia was giving Philippe what for with the Italian version of Tim’s rebuke.
The boiler room doors flew open and the three men burst in shoulder to shoulder. Their panic was quickly followed by relief and then anger when they saw my bloody arm.
Before any of them could take a step to help me, a loud “YAAAAAAH!” preceded a tiny red head in a glorified harem costume flying through the air, her little gold bells tinkling in the breeze she created. Aunt Ginny ran straight up to Horatio and kicked him in the side as hard as she could with her soft gold slipper.
“I appreciate the effort Princess Jasmine, but he’s unconscious and handcuffed.”
Aunt Ginny looked from me to Officer Birkwell to Horatio’s still form curled on the hard floor. “It never hurts to be sure.”
Gia pulled me into his arms. Then Tim shoved Gia and pulled me into his arms, with my face smashed against his chest. Gia pulled a fist back and was ready to start swinging.
I wriggled around and yelled, “Whoa! Okay, let’s everybody just settle down.”
Aunt Ginny nudged me in the side. “Wait a minute, let’s see where this goes.”
Amber saved me from finding out. “Everybody who is not connected to the events that took place down here, please return to the arena above us.”
Nobody moved.
“If you don’t return upstairs, I’ll have to charge you with obstruction of justice.”
Most everyone left after that. Aunt Ginny stayed, daring Amber with eyes of fire to make her leave. Tim and Gia stayed. Neither one was about to leave my side. Gigi stayed to keep her eyes on Tim. And Philippe stayed because he felt responsible for sending me here in the first place. “I would never have let Madame come by herself if I had known zis killer would be in zee room.” Philippe gave me a raised eyebrow to see if I would out him for having his fake French accent back.
I gave Philippe a wink and a slight nod, and he grinned in return.
Paramedics bandaged my arm until I could go back to the hospital to get stitches, while Amber took all of our statements, and by all, I mean mine. Philippe and Horatio, who was now conscious and handcuffed, gave brief answers as to their part in the matter, but Amber soon learned that no one else in the room had been involved.
Horatio was arrested and charged with the murder of Bess Jodice and the attempted murders of Marco Ubruzzi and myself. I felt a little sorry for him. Not a lot, because, you know—he tried to kill me. Twice. But a little, because he had been bullied and tortured by Bess. And I know what that feels like and how it can cripple a person to live a mediocre life of feeble effort.
We made our way back to the kitchen arena. Tim told me that the day was a bust. “When you and Horatio didn’t return, Aunt Ginny refused to go on with the taping until you were found.”
I smiled at Aunt Ginny and she waved me off.
“Then the old people in the stands started making bets about where you were and if you’d been attacked again.”
“What odds did they give me?”
Aunt Ginny shrugged, making her bells tinkle. “I don’t know, but they were in your favor.”
The seniors cheered when we entered the room. Ivy rushed over and grabbed my hands. “I’m so glad you’re okay. Who would ever have guessed that Horatio killed Bess? That’s crazy, right?”
“You know what
else is crazy? Horatio’s real name is Horace R. Snaarg.”
Ivy’s mouth hung open and her arms dropped to her sides. “Oh. My. Gawd. Are you kidding?”
“It’s true. He’s your exec.”
Ivy clicked on her headset. “Roger, have I got a Snapchat update for you.” Ivy ran off to let the rest of Cape May County know what was going on.
I was being greeted by Mrs. Dodson and Mrs. Davis when an unexpected visitor returned to the scene of her Emmy-worthy performance.
Ashlee flashed a big smile to no one in particular and waved to the room. “It’s true everyone, I’m back. I know you’ve all missed me, and everyone has probably been so worried . . .”
Tess folded her arms and shook her head. “Wait for it.”
Miss New Jersey tapped Ashlee on the shoulder. “Uh, yeah. The police were just here. They have evidence that you fed yourself the peanut butter.”
Tess said, “And there it is.”
The audience gasped. Mr. Sheinberg yelled, “Dun dun duuun!”
I watched the biddies check their lead sheets. “Well, who bet that Ashlee poisoned herself? I know one of you must have.”
Mrs. Dodson tapped her cane. “That’s mine. Pay up those Marie Callender coupons, Thelma.”
Ashlee tried to act innocent. “I don’t know what you’re all talking about. I didn’t—”
“I found the evidence under your bed, or rather, Figaro found it. You had to use rubber gloves, so you didn’t dose yourself prematurely.”
Ashlee nervously looked around the room. “I didn’t put that there.”
“I’ll bet you put the gloves on after you carried the peanut butter and knife up to your room. That means the police can pull your fingerprints off the jar.”
Ashlee knew she’d been had. She laughed it off. “Oh well, at least it was good for ratings. Wake Up! South Jersey gained a few points in the ratings because of my hospital stay. They’re talking about sending me and Tess to cohost a dating show for Valentine’s Day.”
Norman threw a hissy fit. “What? She’s going to stay on the show? This blows! I was promised her job! What gives, Tess?”
