Restaurant Weeks Are Murder

by Libby Klein

  Tess yawned and fluffed her hair out. “Whachu want from me, chico? Those are the breaks.”

  Norman was enraged. “I provided certain services to you in exchange for the cohost position on your show.”

  Ashlee giggled and told Tess. “He performed the same services for me to get rid of you, too.”

  Tess snickered. “How was he?”

  Ashlee cocked her shoulder. “Eh.”

  “Yeah, me too. Besides, he’s too old to host a millennial morning show.”

  “Maybe he could be our weatherman. You can do that like, forever.”

  Norman was freaking out with primal cries of displeasure. He was finally able to form words. “This is sexual harassment! I’ll sue!”

  Tess shrugged him off. “It was your idea, dummy.”

  Ashlee rubbed her stomach and looked around the room. “What have you all got to eat in here? I’m starved.”

  Chapter Forty

  I woke up stiff and bloated with Figaro rumbling on my shoulder. My arm throbbed where I’d gotten stitches last night in the emergency room. Both Tim and Gia had insisted on going with me. Keeping things light and casual with the two men was starting to seem more like smoke and mirrors on their part. I hadn’t dated in twenty-five years, so I had no idea how to go about it. It seemed like there were a lot more games and innuendos than I remembered. Whatever happened to him standing on the lawn under her window with a giant boom box over his head playing “In Your Eyes.”

  I rolled to the side enough to tip Figaro onto the mattress. He was annoyed for two seconds then fell back to sleep. I let gravity spin me around to sit up. Why did everything hurt so bad? My hands and feet wouldn’t bend. My face itched. I shuffled to the bathroom scratching my cheek and looked in the mirror. Oh, this is not good. The dark circles had taken over my face. I was breaking out like prom night all over again.

  I stripped down, took off my rings, and stepped on the scale. I squinted because the number staring back at me had to be a trick of nearsightedness. I took off my earrings and tried again. The scale mocked me. Where was this thing made? Nazi Germany? I had to face the truth. I’d gained seven pounds in one week. Impossible, you say? I wish I could agree, but reality had a sharp stinger. I texted Dr. Melinda, asking if I could see her ASAP. I could tell something had gone very wrong, and I needed her advice.

  I tried to plan my day while I took a shower. Today was a Restaurant Week bonus round, although, it was less of a bonus and more of a make-up day because yesterday was incomplete. I think everyone involved was dragging themselves through it at this point. With Horatio in jail, and his accomplice in custody, there shouldn’t be any more sabotage or poisoning. One would hope, anyway. I was having trouble getting the shampoo and conditioner out of my hair. My wounded arm weighed a ton. That’s where the extra seven pounds is. It’s in the stitches and swelling. Hmm. Okay, probably not.

  I made a valiant effort to get it together. Some days you had to grade on the curve. I went down the stairs to the first landing. This is ridiculous. Bess’s door was wrapped in crime scene tape. Horatio’s door was wrapped in crime scene tape. Now Ashlee’s door was wrapped in crime scene tape. She’d learned the hard way that filing a fraudulent police report was against the law. You could read all about her arrest and upcoming community service on her blog.

  I put a breakfast casserole in the oven and made a pot of coffee. Aunt Ginny and I sat together in silence and let the caffeine force our eyes open.

  Aunt Ginny blew on her coffee. “That was some showdown last night.”

  “I think I pulled a muscle swinging that frying pan at Horatio’s head.”

  “I’m not talking about Horatio. I’m talking about those two boys fighting over you.”

  “I’m not sure what to think about that yet.”

  “That Gia means business.”

  I smiled. “Yeah.”

  “What about Tim?”

  I took a deep breath and stretched my shoulder. “I don’t know about him. I’m afraid he might only be interested because he doesn’t like to lose. Plus there’s the Gigi factor.”

  Aunt Ginny nodded. “You’ll figure it out.”

  Dr. Melinda texted me back that she could see me this morning before I had to be at the community college.

  Aunt Ginny and I served our remaining three guests an eggs Benedict casserole and strawberry sweet rolls. Norman refused to sit in the dining room with Tess, but she was happy to have the table to just her and Miss New Jersey. I carried in a couple of mimosas to celebrate the Restaurant Week finale.

  Miss New Jersey was waving a piece of casserole under the table. “Here kitty kitty. Come get an eggie.”

  Figaro looked at her hand, then turned his back to her and washed his face.

  “I don’t know what’s wrong with him today,” she said. “Why won’t he come to me.”

  I put the mimosas on the table in front of them. “Because you want him to. When did you notice he started leaving you alone?”

  “As soon as I got my antihistamine and could breathe again. I’ve been trying to hold him, but he won’t let me pick him up.”

  Figaro turned his head to look over his shoulder at me. He winked.

  You little devil. I smiled at Miss New Jersey. “I’m sure it’s not you. Cats are funny.”

  “I think I’ll get a cat when I start law school in the spring.”

  Say what now? “I didn’t know you were going to law school.” I might have guessed beauty school.

  “Uh, yeah. That’s why I do the pageants. Tuition money.”

  “My late husband was a lawyer. Law school was really hard. The course load is very demanding.” I waited to see how that hit her. She hadn’t struck me as someone who’d—let’s just say—venture down the path of higher academia.

  “I’m ready for it. My LSAT score was 171 and I have a 3.9 GPA in my undergrad studies at Princeton.”

  I was staring, and I knew it. I just couldn’t stop. “Well. That. Sounds. Fabulous.” I smiled at her. “Good luck with everything.”

  I asked Tess if she needed anything else. She gave me a knowing look like she’d seen right through me. “Oh no, I’m fine. Thank you.”

  “Okay then. Aunt Ginny will check you out when you are ready to call your Ubers to head out to the college. I have an appointment, but I’ll see you up there.”

  The girls said good-bye, and I made a hasty retreat past Figaro who was napping in a sunbeam, now that his evil plan was complete.

  * * *

  I thumbed through an issue of Paleo Magazine in Dr. Melinda’s cheerful waiting room. The sun was playing off the yellow walls and white bookshelves, setting the room aglow with morning light.

  The receptionist, George, a kind man with a gentle spirit, offered me a drink. “You want to try that green tea again?”

  “Nope.”

  George had a twinkle in his eye. “Come on, you know it’s an acquired taste.”

  “So is bourbon. You got any of that?”

  “Poppy?” The slim brunette in a red plaid skirt and tall black motorcycle boots was my holistic doctor. If you asked Aunt Ginny, alternative medicine was voodoo and magic potions, but Dr. Melinda was the first doctor to diagnose me with an autoimmune disease and set me on a path to health with natural supplements, yoga, and the Paleo Diet. “Come on back.”

  I made myself comfortable in her patient room, which looked more like a lounge in a trendy coffee bar, except for the exam table. She asked me what was going on. “You have me listed as your primary care physician, so I got an email from the hospital that you were admitted. What happened?”

  “Someone tried to kill me.”

  “Again?”

  “Do you believe in curses?”

  “I didn’t before I met you. I may have to start.”

  That made me laugh, and I relaxed. I filled her in on the last couple weeks of my life. It had begun with so much promise—I was on top of the world. But after a week of crazy sprinkled with sugar, gluten, an
d dairy, timed competitions, exploding ovens, and protesters throwing tomatoes, the stress had taken its toll.

  Dr. Melinda listened and nodded along. Finally, she sat back and put two fingers on her lips to think. “How have you been keeping up with your yoga?”

  “I haven’t had time. I had to be at the college every morning right after the breakfast service.”

  She nodded. “And how about your nutrition? How have you eaten outside the competition?”

  “Uhhhh.” The panzarotti was the first thing to come to mind. It was followed by plenty of other bad choices.

  “Okay. I think what you’re feeling right now is a bad-week hangover. You’ve had unhealthy food, too much stress, and a very chaotic week. That’s caused some flare-up of your symptoms and inflammation. Sometimes life just gets in the way. You don’t have to be perfect, but I want you to be committed.”

  “I think I am committed.”

  “You’re doing fabulous, and these are big changes. But I don’t want you to put your healthy lifestyle on the back burner when life gets hard. I want you to be healthy committed—not just healthy convenient.”

  I wanted to balk, but I realized she was right. In the four months I’d been on the Paleo Diet, I’d gone off it every time I was under pressure. I was a stress eater, a celebration eater, an entertainment eater, and an emotional eater. My ancestors were probably just survival eaters. I bet even Adam and Eve would have been fat and sick in the twenty-first century. I followed the Paleo Diet when it was convenient for me.

  Dr. Melinda took out a prescription pad and scrawled something on it. “I don’t want you beating yourself up about this. That’s only going to add stress to an already stressed system. You have an autoimmune disease we need to manage and heal. There’s a place in every healthy lifestyle for birthday cake and Christmas cookies and that special night out. But for the rest of the time, I want you to make your health a priority. You need to take care of your body, or you’ll have more autoimmune flare-ups like the one you’re having now.”

  We talked some more, and she made some good suggestions for how to manage different situations I tended to find myself in. Then she handed me the folded prescription and said to call her in a couple weeks.

  “I will, thanks.”

  She pulled me into a hug.

  Once I was outside her office I opened my prescription. It said, “You can do this. You’re stronger than you think you are.” I teared up a little. This was not time for condemnation. Today was a fresh start.

  Chapter Forty-One

  The kitchen arena was purring again. It was just like the first day, before the sabotage and accusations ruined the vibe of camaraderie. The storm had broken, and it was time to celebrate. Louie and Vidrine were huddled together, chatting it up. He had his arm draped around her shoulders holding her close. She saw me and gave me a big smile, blushing before she turned adoring eyes back to Louie.

  Using hand signals and universal grunting sounds, Momma was showing Philippe how to make fresh pasta. They were both covered in flour. Philippe looked like he was having the time of his life.

  Even Tim and Adrian were deep in amicable discussion. They had finally buried the hatchet. Sawyer was right. Once Tim apologized, Adrian got over it.

  Ivy grabbed my elbow before I made it to my kitchen. “I have some exciting news.”

  Her smile was infectious, and I felt the excitement bubbling inside me, right along with her.

  “Because of the way things were handled this week, the TV station has promoted me to assistant producer. They’re giving me the Annual Restaurant Week Competition to develop as my own, and I have you to thank for it.”

  “Oh, I’m so excited for you. Congratulations.”

  The lights dimmed and came back up, signaling the two-minute warning. I put on my black chef apron and we all took our places. Me next to Gigi next to Tim. Gigi in the middle. Always in the middle. I looked over to Momma’s kitchen. Gia was leaning against the counter, his arms crossed, watching me. He gave me a sexy smile. I felt the heat rise to my cheeks. I tried to look poised, but I smiled back in spite of myself.

  Ivy took her place in front of the camera and opened the day, even though the judges’ table was still empty.

  “Okay everyone. Welcome to the final, final day of our Restaurant Week competition. The inaugural event that those of us who lived through, will always refer to as Hell Week.”

  The chefs roared with applause. We’d been through the trenches, and it had formed a bond between us that none of us would ever forget.

  “Things have not gone smoothly for anyone this week. I know it’s not what you signed up for, so I’ve worked out a couple of ideas for damage control. First of all, while only one of you will take home the ten-thousand-dollar prize, all six head chefs will have their pictures on the cover of South Jersey Dining Guide.”

  The room erupted.

  “We’re calling it the “Real Chefs of South Jersey.” NBC has picked up our footage to turn it into a two-week miniseries. They said you can’t make up stories like this. Now, down to the business for today. You’re all aware that we lost another judge, and”—Ivy continued through the boos—“we’ve had to make some more substitutions. So, let’s dim the lights and start the music as we bring in our celebrity panel for today.”

  Oh boy.

  The club music started, and Tim came around Gigi to stand next to me. “This is new.”

  “Yeah, and I think I know whose idea it was.”

  “Stormin’ Norman Sprinkler from News Channel Eight.” Norman entered the room dancing, while recording himself with his cell phone. He took a lap around the room and pulled some fancy club moves before making his way to his seat.

  “Miss New Jersey, Brandy Sparks.” Miss New Jersey danced in the room and did a few runway twirls—an impressive feat in her gold stilettos.

  “Ginny Frankowski from CrimeSceneHouse.com.”

  I sucked in my breath and gripped the counter. “She’s gonna be what kills me. This is why I think I need an eclair—this, right here.”

  Aunt Ginny danced her way around the room wearing pink-leather hot pants and white go-go boots. She’d topped it with a pink-and-yellow geometric blouse that tied at the waist. I had a picture of her in that very outfit at my sixth-grade graduation. The whoops and hollers in the room weren’t coming just from the seniors. The chefs and culinary students had grown to love Aunt Ginny’s antics throughout the week. She gave me a twinkling finger wave as she passed my station.

  “And last but not least, one of L’École des Chefs very own pastry students, Joanne Junk.”

  “No. It can’t be.”

  But it was. One of the meanest girls from high school entered the room wearing camouflage cargo pants and a black T-shirt that had BEEF written across the front. Joanne hadn’t changed at all in twenty-five years. Same bad haircut, same surly attitude, same inexplicable hatred of me. From the moment I’d returned to Cape May, she’d been calling me names and making my life miserable. She stomped around the arc on a frown and fell into her seat. The music was timed for her entrance, so it kept playing. Aunt Ginny filled the time by taking a second lap around the room. She gave me another twinkling finger wave as she passed again.

  The music ended, and Ivy addressed the chefs. “Okay, based on the point system, there is a three-way tie between Chef Philippe, Chef Adrian, and Chef Tim. Today will determine the winner of the Restaurant Week Competition and the ten thousand dollars. Yesterday, we polled the audience as to what theme today’s baskets should be. The overwhelming response was gluten free.”

  My heart did a flip. Excitement coursed through my veins. After the past four months of baking for the coffee shop, this was my wheelhouse. My mystery basket ingredients were Marcona almonds, rose petals, and canned lychees. A smile broke across my face. I got this.

  “The results aren’t just surprising, they’re a mathematical miracle as one hundred and eighty votes came in from one hundred and six audience members
.”

  I zeroed in on Aunt Ginny who was engrossed in her charm bracelet.

  “As an added bonus, we’re giving you an hour and a half to make your dishes. Begin!”

  I rushed to the pantry for white chocolate, heavy cream, sugar, and eggs. Baby, I was making macarons. I’d spent hours practicing. Even though every third batch of shells still had something wrong with them, I was confident that I’d improved enough for today.

  Gia met me in the pantry and slipped me a kiss. “Your car is ready, Bella. Why don’t you come over tonight and pick it up?”

  I giggled. “Okay. I’m sorry Momma isn’t in the lead.”

  “Bah. I told you, Momma was only here to let me know if things were serious between you and Tim. Then Marco said not to worry, because Tim was already married to his restaurant and didn’t have room for you or Blondie over there.”

  Oh my God. Is that true?

  “Good luck out there, Bella. You own this one.”

  Gia had me thinking, and that thinking was slowing me down. I had to shake these fears out and reexamine them later.

  Gigi grabbed my arm, and I almost dropped my eggs. “Quick, where is the Dijon mustard?”

  “Girl, you’ve been in here for a week. How do you not know where things are by now?”

  Gigi looked over to where Tim was collecting chanterelle mushrooms. “I start out okay, but then I get flustered and can’t remember what I’m doing when he’s around.”

  I had a decision to make. Gigi was my competition for Tim, and she took every opportunity to make me look bad. Do I help her now, or let her fail? “The Dijon mustard is behind the olives.”

  I’m sure I’m going to regret that. I ran out to my station and started melting sugar for a caramel in one saucepan, and steeping rose petals in heavy cream for rose-infused white chocolate in another. Then I pulverized my almonds in the food processor.

  As I put together my macaron batter, I looked around the room. I had grown fond of these chefs, and I enjoyed working with them. I loved creating desserts and fancy pastries. I’d felt for so long that my life had taken a bad turn and gotten off track when I didn’t get to go to culinary school to become a professional pastry chef. But this past week, I’d seen firsthand that a chef’s life is hard. They’re on their feet all day. They work nights, weekends, and holidays. Gia was right, chefs are married to their careers. It’s a profession full of drama and risk. I love baking and creating, but after one week of making desserts for Tim, I was sick all over again. If my dream had come true to become a full-time pastry chef, with my autoimmune disease and food allergies, I’d be sick and miserable all the time. Not to mention double my size.