by D. J. Lutz
A few judges commented on how they loved Velma’s apple pie, but she could not overcome the fancy blue–plate specials a handsome man like that Mr. Windsor could produce. And when the judges, church ladies all, discovered he was an eligible bachelor, many asked if George had met their daughters. If not, they would be happy to bring them over sometime.
Ego and greed. Two main ingredients for any dish served up as murder. George, thankfully, was ever the gentleman, politely conversing but never committing. Now, with the contest moving in a new direction, he would have to concentrate on the food more so than the guests. He would be competing first, serving lunch.
The second chef from the Seagull’s Nest was considered a dark horse. Grimsby had invited the lad in hopes of adding a bit of shock value to boost ratings. The boy, who also happened to be George’s dishwasher, was one Cosmo Finnegan. And though he was just twenty–two years of age and lacked formal culinary training, the judges commented that “the kid” had shown flashes of brilliance during the first two rounds. Every time his name was mentioned, the judges recalled something he had cooked.
Cosmo’s culinary specialty was Euro–Asian cuisine. I didn’t know what the term meant, but as I found out later, Grimsby was correct in that Cosmo had a flair for the dramatic, and his food went right along with it. Cosmo’s face had two basic expressions: one of happiness as he silently communicated with the girl sitting on the opposite end of the row, and contempt for his boss, the self–appointed king of Southern cooking. I assumed it was an us–against–them animosity—class warfare behind the steam tables.
Velma motioned toward the leather–clad cook. A lifted eyebrow told me there was more to the story. Her shaking head spelled out that it was a sordid tale. I asked Velma about the history between the two chefs, and she said the problem stemmed from working together at the B and B. The men had been at odds ever since George refused to let Cosmo try any of his exotic dishes at work.
I gave them the old up–and–down inspection, hoping to gain some insight as to why and/or how one of them could have killed Pierre. At face value, the senior had on a pristine white chef’s jacket. Very professional, clearly at the top of his culinary game. On the other hand, the junior’s attire was sloppy, a mash–up of black leather clothing streaked with visible food stains, the residue of . . . well, I had no idea what they were from. Best not to know.
Cosmo’s disheveled look reminded me of this one evening when Velma and I were walking to the ice cream store. As we passed by the B and B, I saw bright flashes of light coming from somewhere behind the house. Poking my head around the corner, I discovered Cosmo working on something in a tool shed. The flashes had come from his welding torch.
The welding smelled terrible, the same bad smell you get when your toaster catches on fire. And that wasn’t my fault; I wasn’t aware it was safer to butter the bread after you toast. I was just trying to save time. But Cosmo? He was a strange one. Many of the judges were complimentary of his cooking. He must have had some skills. But did he have the skill to kill?
With two of the suspects cooking at the Seagull’s Nest Bed and Breakfast, I couldn’t let the opportunity to investigate go by. I told Velma I would tag along with the judges to help out; help my grandmother out of a murder conviction, that is.
There was, however, the logistical dilemma of two contestants working at the same establishment. It wasn’t my problem, really; it was more of a problem for Grimsby. He was the one who realized that he could save money by scheduling two events in one day. After a bit of scoffing by Windsor, and an immature but snarky retort of nanny–nanny–boo–boo from Cosmo, the show’s producer mediated a solution. It was agreed that the latter would cook for the judges at lunchtime so the former could use the afternoon to prepare for the dinner service. Each chef would allow the other to work without interference.
George snapped his head to the side, saying he could out – cook Cosmo any time of day, any day of the week, and with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir watching him from behind the sandwich board. I almost asked him how they would all fit, but Velma nudged me in the ribs before my sarcasm went public.
You could tell from George’s contorted face that he was not happy. On the other end of life’s bell curve, Cosmo could barely keep his huge smile from reaching his ears. So much for lessening the tension. Good job, Grimsby.
Tuesday’s visit would be to the kitchen of the third contestant, an unusual establishment found at the old Shoreway Railroad, just south of the fairgrounds and within easy walking distance for the tourists meandering down Front Street. The rail yard, overgrown with tall grass and a daily resting point for flocks of seagulls and pelicans, was a relic of a much more prosperous time, decades ago. Now, only a few flatbed rail cars stood at the ready, poised to take on huge caissons made by Seaview’s one remaining industrial factory, a cement production facility built on the far side of the lot. On a side track sat an old steam engine with its accompanying coal carrier. Coupled to those two were a blue Pullman dining car and a classic red caboose.
The Pullman car had been converted into a coal–fired, mobile kitchen and was also the home of the next suspect, Miss Bailey Babbitt. I suppose I should have considered her a competitor first, suspect second, but at that point in the game, everyone was a suspect in my eyes.
Bailey stood up at the announcement of her day. I thought it was an innocent gesture–of respect to the producer, but soon learned otherwise. She waltzed over to her companion Cosmo and, bending over at the waist, whispered something into his ear. Bailey gave him a light kiss on the cheek, and then returned to her chair. Cosmo took out a handkerchief and wiped away the red lipstick. From the looks of the white cotton cloth, this had not been the first time he had done this.
Bailey was young, not quite my age, and like me, she was of restaurateur stock. At one time, her parents operated a popular family–style restaurant in town. But with the economic downturn a few years earlier, their business withered. When the nearby tractor company closed down, the assembly line workers left the area in search of other work. The tens and twenties in their wallets went with them, forcing the doors to close for good.
After a short foreclosure hearing, the Babbitts’ restaurant was sold plate, glass, and dishrag to an out–of–town investment group that gutted the place. From what everyone had told me at the café, it was a sad day in Seaview. No one liked seeing any local business go under.
The new owners packed up everything from the stoves to the saucers. The boxed contents were put in a rental truck and driven less than a mile away, to a building at the farthest end of Front Street. Then the building sat vacant.
According to newspaper reports, the investment group’s new building involved a business plan requiring an unobstructed view of the Chesapeake Bay. The amount of money needed was immense, but the investment group seemed to have enough cash. The whole idea was a gamble, but if it worked as planned, Seaview would have a new tourist attraction—a tiki bar on a fishing pier attached to the beachside restaurant. This was not in our little town’s character at all. It was all about a stampede for the tourist’s dollar.
While the buildings were constructed, the investment group looked for a new chef to help sell the sizzle. They knew publicity was needed, and it would be a challenge competing with the popular restaurants in the resort city of Virginia Beach just a half–hour away. The question became, Who could pull this off?
5
Pierre St. Pierre made a name for himself in Paris and left the City of Light to become Seaview’s first resident celebrity chef. The advertising flyers claimed Pierre would bring intercontinental cuisine to Seaview, though no one knew what that was. I asked Velma about it and she guessed Belgian waffles.
Regardless, Seaview’s first white tablecloth, fine dining restaurant opened under the name “P–Squared.” Who said chefs have no ego?
My family knew some of the Babbitts’ financial problems and could only watch as the Babbitts lost their house in the bankruptcy, forc
ing a move into an abandoned train caboose. A short time later, Bailey watched as her parents died of broken hearts—her mom passing first, her father the next week.
She moved on with her life as best she possibly could. She used her parents’ life insurance money to buy the three rail cars attached to the caboose, hoping to rehab them into a nicer home and a rolling diner. She dreamed of turning the short train into a different kind of tourist destination—Seaview’s first modern–day railway dining experience.
The judges tapped the new schedule into their smartphones as Grimsby and Larson conferred. Every time Grimsby asked to use something onstage, the Captain told him, “Nothing should be moved—and by nothing, I mean abso–frikkin–lutely nothing.”
Grimsby saved Wednesday for a visit to the Cat and Fiddle. In an offhanded comment, Larson announced, “Mark my words, Miss Kepler, I’ll have no problem enjoying your grandmother’s fried chicken on a stick in one side of my mouth while reading her Miranda rights from the other.”
Decades earlier, the Captain and Velma had grown up together as classmates in school; despite their long history, Larson repeated the motive, opportunity, and verbal threat that made his case against her all the stronger. The proof was evident, in all its digital, hi–def, and surround–sound glory. The video playback would not go well for Velma in a courtroom, he claimed.
In spite of his personal conviction, Grimsby’s schedule was completed, and Larson followed the advice of the VCID to send everyone home. As the entire entourage was leaving, I turned to Captain Larson. “Excuse me, sir, but have you found the murder weapon?”
Larson said his so–called forensic technician, just a skilled patrolman wielding something akin to a high school science fair kit, had done a cursory test on all the competitors’ knives and found that the only one with human blood on it was from Cosmo’s workstation. However, seeing a fresh knife cut on Cosmo’s hand, Larson thought the blood might prove to be Cosmo’s. A quick check of the video showed Cosmo cutting his hand while cooking, so the benchmark for probable cause had not been met—at least, not yet. The Captain acknowledged that the VCID would need to decide, since the state forensic lab was certified and used much better equipment.
I reminded Larson that the security video showed no one walking into the break room, with or without a knife in their hand. I tried to put the man on the defensive, and I could tell by his bark that he now felt the need to prove me wrong. That was just how I wanted him to react.
To be extra certain he had not missed something, Larson did a recount of all the knives collected as evidence. None were missing.
“Amazing,” I said. “How does a corpse end up so dead if there’s no murder weapon?”
Puh–shaw—this case is mine to solve.
I gave Parker a quick wink. He responded by blushing a nice shade of red.
The next day, a pleasant Sunday afternoon, Seaview’s pseudo–upper–crust social elites crowded into the Cat and Fiddle for high tea. These housewives dressed in their finest, in direct opposition to their bait–stained–denim–and ripped–T–shirt–wearing husbands, who were out fishing. Although the ladies said they came for the little crustless sandwiches and dessert treats, the opportunity to hear juicy gossip was what kept them there.
Cups clinked and pinkies pointed as the smell of lightly warmed cinnamon pastries came fresh from the oven. Both sight and sound made for a most memorable ambiance. As much as the men loved to be out on their boats, the women of Seaview enjoyed their time away from them.
Grandma ran the register and greeted customers as I slapped tuna salad on bread and delivered the goods. I was still a novice cook and had plenty of culinary gaffes to my credit, but my grandmother had taught me the basics of sandwich–making. So far, I had yet to repeat another round of food poisoning. No one questioned why Velma was a perennial invitee to the Saucy Skillet competition. Me? If I entered, there would be questions—a plethora.
There was a low hum of muted conversation, muffled somewhat by the customers politely sampling the vegetable crudité. My grandmother pointed at me, gesturing for me to take over the cash register. High tea in Seaview was about to rise to a new level.
Velma left for the kitchen, and people noticed. My tuna fish sandwiches were good, but the ladies immediately stopped eating to clear away a space for the final course. They all knew about the hot hors d’oeuvres to be served next. The Cat and Fiddle Café become as silent as a church on Stewardship Sunday. Napkins were in hand, ready to go. Forks would not be needed.
The signature dish, a spicy crab popper, tasted great, and we sold out each week. Velma assumed her post in the kitchen, sauté pan in hand. She pan–steamed the vegetables used for the stuffing; the hiss of sizzling water was audible throughout the café. Velma added the crab meat to the vegetables and combined everything with a sauce. After wrapping the mixture up in puff pastry, she brushed it with egg wash. A few minutes in the 375–degree oven, and the light brown savory pastry burst with flavor.
Velma slid the spatula under each popper, removing them from the baking sheet. She arranged them in military formation on a silver serving platter garnished with brilliant turnip greens for an elegant presentation. As she prepared more poppers, I walked the still–steaming tidbits around the café, offering them to whoever wished to enjoy one. There were never any leftovers.
That day, however, I had the surprise of my life. Well, maybe not as surprising as Velma being charged with murder, but still, a surprise. I had finished taking the last of the crab poppers on their tour of the Cat and Fiddle when I felt someone tug at my apron.
I almost dropped the platter when I looked down and saw my old roommate, Francine, sitting at a two–top table with another woman. Both women were dressed smartly in matching business casual attire. I loved their shoes, but three–inch heels just wouldn’t work for me; at least, not for working in the café.
Francine grabbed my hand and pulled me over.
“Winnie? Winnie Kepler? What are you doing here? I didn’t know you worked here. Weren’t you getting a job at some bank? Wow, it’s so great to see you. What a coincidence!”
I tried not to show my embarrassment. How would I tell one of my best friends from college that my only goal in life—now, at least—was not letting the coffeepot boil down to a tar pit of sludge? This was going to be awkward.
“Francine, hi . . . um . . . hello. I didn’t expect to see you here, either. Bank? You must have been talking to my grandmother. She is dead set on getting me to leave this place to work in some stuffy old office full of sticky notes and broken red staplers. But look at you, all dressed up and ready for a board meeting. What brings you to our little town of Seaview?”
“Winnie, let me introduce you to my boss, Patricia Vandellan. She graduated from State a few years before us. Isn’t that awesome? And bonus, she’s Phi Delta Sigma, too! Tricia has her own consulting business specializing in corporate talent acquisition. It’s so awesome, and with lots of travel. The two of us work job fairs all over the country. I bet we can help you, too! That is, if you want our help. I mean, I am sure you have your situation here under control, but we might be able to move things along a little faster. Unless you like it here. And please excuse me, I am not saying this isn’t a nice place—love the kitsch?—but I envisioned you as an executive, not a server in a roadside diner. Uh, no offense. Sorry.”
Francine had a habit of babbling on and on, hardly taking a breath. People said she was worse than me, which I found hard to believe. Then we roomed together our sophomore year and my opinion changed. Still, I could hear my grandmother’s voice in Fran’s. My parents just wanted me to be happy. Was there anything wrong with that?
I could feel the tension throughout my body ratchet up as she kept on talking, mostly about their recent job fair in Richmond. I saw that her friend was trying, without success, to enter the conversation, so I decided to help out.
“Patricia, I did interview with a company called Mint Street Bankers. I receive
d a letter back from human resources, saying I was short–listed for a nice position in marketing. Right up my alley, if you consider my studies in college, but honestly I prefer the family business here. What do you think? Should I give them another chance?”
Tricia seized the moment, putting down her drink and fluffing her hair back as if to say she was taking charge of the conversation.
“Let me guess. They’ll send you an email once they have a decision, right?”
“Yes. How’d you know? That’s what they said in their letter, at least. I did, in fact, like their building. Nice offices with a cafeteria on site. I suppose if the offer was good enough, I could hang up my apron here and give it a shot. And the interview went well . . .”
My confidence waned as they faced each other. They didn’t have to say anything—the frown, the rolling eyes, the exasperated deep breath, stalling for time as they tried to figure out how to let me down gently. I felt like a kid caught sneaking a cookie from Santa’s plate on Christmas Eve. What did they know?
The silence was too much for me to handle. I broke the tension, saying, “At least, I think it went well.” The hesitation in my voice was unmistakable.
“Winnie, we’ve heard this song before. Plenty of times, in fact. If you were shuttled around from office to office in the C–suite, you were being played,” Francine said.
Tricia added, “That’s the problem with pretty college girls and new jobs. The old men in charge don’t need you for a meaningful job in their company; they just want something nice and young to flirt with before they go home to their old, trust–fund trophy wives. And by flirt, I mean sexually harass.”
As if they had practiced it, Tricia and Francine sang out, “Bless their pacemaker–powered hearts.” We all giggled, knowing what the bless–your–heart idiom really meant.
“And don’t forget, they also give extra points if the girl is someone who wouldn’t mind being hit on at the company Christmas party,” Tricia continued. “Sometimes we do ourselves no favors.”
