The Billionaire Chef

by Kee Patterbee

  Finding paper and a pen in the desk drawer, Hannah left Hymn a note explaining her plans. She ended it with the words ‘if not back by 1:00, Boo Boo, send in the Ranger. Love Yogi.’ She then taped it to the television remote before returning to her room.

  She lay back on her bed and blew out a breath. She wanted to sleep, but kept thinking through all the elements of the case thus far. At the moment, she found everything muddled due to weariness. Then her mind drifted over to Hymn. A smile ran across her face and she drifted off into a pleasant dream.

  Hannah awoke with a start and to the sound of room service making a requested complimentary wake up call. After hanging up the phone, she looked over at the clock. 8:45, she read. Morning. Coffee. Need. She rose and opened the door between Hymn’s room and hers to check on him. He was still out, snoring, with an arm thrown over his eyes. She yawned through a smile and was ready to snuggle up next to him when she heard a knock on the door. A glance at the clock told her it was now 9:00 AM. When she opened the door, Ducky stood smiling with a cart full of food and a pot of coffee. Seeing the expression on Hannah’s face, he stiffened and took half a step back. Her hair was askew, her eyes bagged and droopy, and she smacked her lips together like a hungry beast. She still wore the clothes from the day before, only now, appearing wrinkled and disheveled.

  “Um, Ms. Starvling, you put in a request for breakfast yesterday at registration?”

  “Coffee,” Hannah uttered as she waved him in.

  Once inside, Hannah sat on the edge of the bed as Ducky poured her a cup of steaming brew.

  “Sugar and Cream?”

  Hannah held up two fingers and Ducky obliged. He poured in cream until she indicated for him to stop. After stirring, he handed her the cup. To his amazement, she turned up the piping hot liquid, gulping it down in one fell turn. She handed it back and indicated again. This ritual continued through three cups. Ducky stood stunned, but said nothing. Finally, Hannah stretched and asked what she had ordered. “Coffee. Two pots. Eggs, ham, biscuits and gravy, grits, milk, a muffin, and a banana.” Reading it, his eyebrows lifted up and his eyes widened. He looked at Hannah before preparing everything for her. Hannah took in the smell and smiled.

  “Do you have a minute?” she asked.

  “I guess.”

  Hannah indicated for him to sit down. As she ate, she asked him a few questions. “You always seem to be around.”

  “I try to keep busy. You know, make myself useful. It passes the time.”

  “What exactly do you do here?”

  Ducky threw his hands out in a bold gesture. “Just about anything and everything. Today, I’m delivering food. Later, I’ll drive the shuttle. Porter. Bellhop. Kitchen. All around slave. Whatever it takes. That’s my job.”

  Hannah nodded between bites. “You want some?” she asked, pointing to the food, but Ducky declined. “Yesterday, with my friend, did you see anything?”

  “No, ma’am. I was coming back from a shuttle to the airport run when I saw all the crowd. I thought I’d check it out. Mr. Babel was on the car when I got there.”

  “You know him?”

  “No, although I did meet him, Mrs. Babel, and a Mr. Wexler in the lobby a few days earlier. I carried their luggage up.”

  “All in the same room?”

  “Mr. Wexler is on this floor. Next door, as a matter of fact.”

  “Did Mr. Babel have a special container with him?”

  Ducky shook his head. “Not that I saw. How big though? Could it have been in their suitcases? They had three between the two of them. Usually, women have the two. The guys carry one. No offense.”

  Hannah smiled and wiped her mouth with a napkin. “The truth is the truth. I have three.” She pointed to the corner where two large and one bag sat.

  Ducky smiled, but it fell away. “That’s just it, though. Two were Mr. Babel’s. He was real particular about one.”

  This information caught Hannah’s attention. She sat up straight as she downed a bite of biscuit covered in gravy. “Can you describe it?”

  “It was heavy. Heavier than the other two, anyway. You know, enough to catch your attention. Black. So big.” Ducky indicated the size with his hands. He then studied Hannah for a moment. “Um, can you tell me what this is about?”

  Hannah considered his question. Her questions triggered a response from the young man, and she needed to be cautious in her response. Time seemed to freeze for her, as she ran everything she observed about Ducky until that moment. He was always around. He picked her and her grandparents up at the airport. He knew who she was. He was there at Elias’ landing point. Now, he delivered the food she requested the night before. Coincidence, she considered, or is he playing me? She twisted her nose back and forth. Could it be he was searching for the truffles as well? He did suggest he was in need of money for school. If he indeed wanted to go to culinary school, and read Food Critic, he would have been aware of Elias’ work and obsession.

  As recently as four months prior, the magazine contained an interview with the gourmet about truffles. It covered Elias’ meteoric rise to the top of the field. Hannah tried to recall if the article mentioned her friend carrying truffles on his travels. After a brief consideration, she found the specifics eluded her presently. She was certain even a small amount equated too valuable. Elias often carried large amounts, enough to serve exclusive dining events up to one hundred. He mentioned planning on preparing some for a special dinner in honor of the primary judges. There were fifty primary judges. He was going to be a judge, alongside her. Each judge could invite up to three guests. This meant a total of two hundred potential guests. While talking to the gourmet earlier in the week, he told her the recipe he planned called for two ounces per serving. The sleuth tried to calculate an amount in her head. Two hundred guests times two ounces, equals four hundred ounces. Sixteen ounces equals a pound. Elias’ special truffles sell for $3600 a pound. Hannah’s eyes shot open. The number she came to caused her to stammer, even in her mind. He’s carrying over $90,000 in truffles.

  Hannah eyed Ducky once more. The amount Elias carried was enough to pay for a lot of the young man’s future education if he’s telling the truth about wanting that. She then played out a scenario in her head. He knows or finds out about the truffles. Sneaks in after he sees him leave. Elias returns. They scuffle. Ducky pushes him out the door. He trips on the frame and goes over the balcony. A possibility?

  “Ms. Starvling? Are you okay?” Ducky asked.

  The would-be chef’s question caught Hannah off guard and brought her back to the conversation.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Did I drift off? Still tired I guess.” She finished off her muffin and peeled the banana. “To answer your question, I’m just trying to work out how and why anyone would want to hurt my friend.”

  “You don’t think he…” Ducky gestured a fall with his left hand.

  Left handed, Hannah noted. She added this to previous observations of the young man favoring the sinister appendage.

  “I suppose it’s possible, but I doubt it. You seem to be in the know around here. What’s the scuttlebutt?”

  Ducky twisted and made an uncomfortable face. It did not quite read as guilt to Hannah, but spoke of unease on the subject. Still, she waited for a response.

  “Well, that he fell. That’s what the police assume. At least that’s what they told my manager, but they’re still considering it. It seems there was a fight going on at street level at about the same time he took the fall. Theory goes that he heard the commotion, ran toward the window to see what was happening, tripped on the door seal and went over the edge.”

  “What do you think?”

  Ducky smiled as he rose. “I think I better go before I lose a job I can’t afford to lose.” He turned and headed toward the door but stopped. He turned back to look at Hannah. “Just leave the cart outside the door when you’re done. And for the record, from what I’ve read about him, Mr. Babel didn’t seem the type to get excited over street fight
s, unless, of course, it was about truffles. Call me if you need anything, Ms. Starvling.” Ducky exited and shut the door behind him.

  Hannah once more considered Ducky. The young man knew a lot more than the average hotel worker did. In truth, she compared him to herself at that age. Curious. Observant. Ever present. Although only six or eight years younger than herself by her estimate, he showed a great many similarities. He’d make a great detective, she decided. But what is his true path? Student? Criminal? Something else? How does he fit into all this? Does he even play a part?

  Hannah rubbed the bridge of her nose and sighed. She determined it would behoove her to keep an eye on Ducky. To date, the only thing that brought him to her attention was a knack for being where he was needed. That and being present at situations she was looking into. She wondered if she might be ‘jumping the gun’ as Papa Jay would say. It was not beyond her to do so as her friend Cate often noted. “When all the shadows move to the music, you see the one standing still. Then you ask why,” the beautiful, black haired, honey brown skinned librarian once told her. “Then you give a scenario where it’s planning on putting an end to the others, just to see if it plays out. You evaluate, analyze, and give it reason before asking it why?”

  Cate, Hannah thought, I need to call you. She pulled out her cell, but glancing down, saw the battery was low. Crud. Digging through her luggage, she retrieved her charger and plugged it in. She then checked the time to find she needed to ready herself for work.

  Chapter Seven

  Though having only gotten a few hours’ sleep, she found herself more awake than usual. The thought of Hymn being next door invigorated her, and just knowing he was there for her, made her face light up.

  After a brisk shower, she dried her hair and pulled it back into a ponytail. She put on a black pantsuit with a black jacket. Underneath, she wore a black blouse with a priest collar neckline. She slipped on black pumps and picked up her trademark black Victorian top hat to finish everything off. Before putting it on, she studied it for a moment. She missed having the goggles that once adorned the brim. But once destroyed in a foot chase several months back, she had not found the time to replace them. Now, the new look had grown on her. Hannah checked in on Hymn once more. She woke him long enough to get a kiss and tell him to call her if he needed anything. Struggling, he said, “More sleep.” After another light kiss, he leaned back on his pillow and once again fell into a sound sleep. Hannah ran her fingers through his dark hair and struggled with words that played through her mind. She left with yet another smile on her face.

  On her way down to the lobby, she made a call to the hospital. Reaching the lobby, she headed toward the hotel’s event area. Hannah paused long enough to make another call to Gran and Papa Jay and give them her itinerary for the day. Answering, Papa Jay put the phone on speaker.

  “How did y’all sleep?” Hannah asked.

  “Not too bad. Gran sweet-talked the nurses into cots for Janine and Wexler. We cozied up on that big lounger thing in the waiting room. Just us in there for the night.”

  “How’d you and Hymn sleep?” Gran asked from the background.

  Hannah could almost see the mocking grin on Gran’s face. She rolled her eyes.

  “Fine, Gran, and in our own beds in our own rooms.” She wasn’t sure, but Hannah believed she heard Gran comment, “What a shame.” What she definitely heard was Papa Jay make a ‘humph’ sound before asking, “What do you have going on today, Sweetness?”

  “Judging,” she informed her grandparents, “Pasta dishes. Original and traditional creations.”

  “How do you stay so thin?” Gran asked.

  “My mind is always running,” she quipped. “What do you plan on doing?”

  “Well, Johnny’s up. He picked up breakfast for everyone. We’re headed back now to get some more sleep and shower. If you don’t mind, we figured we would check you out in action. Then maybe we would look around the town a bit before heading back to the hospital. I take it with all the food you are getting, lunch is out?”

  “I do a lot of tasting and a lot of spitting.”

  Papa Jay frowned. “Hmm. Because it’s so bad?”

  Hannah laughed. “No, because if I ate every bite I’d be sick after thirty minutes.”

  “Well, I suppose we’ll check you out, dear,” Gran affirmed.

  “Come on then. You can find me out on the floor before judging. Call if you need me.”

  Hannah tried to refocus her mind on the task at hand. The festival sought her out and was generous in their compensation. As a culinary consultant, she maintained a stellar reputation. She travelled the world advising on menus, overseeing culinary competitions, and judging them. In her work as such, she gained the reputation of being the most honest, brutal, yet respectful of judges. Though pasta was a passion, pastries were her field of specialty. People saw her as the quirky American with exquisite taste and a peculiar sense of fashion. But more so, she held a reputation within culinary circles for being inquisitive. Wherever Hannah Starvling went, trouble was soon to follow. Often she contemplated why anyone would ever hire her to do her job. She wondered if sometimes, it was more for her skills outside the kitchen than those she maintained within.

  Indeed, the onetime agent acquired an odd skill set. This began with her upbringing by genius parents and down-to-earth grandparents. She attended college on a scholarship where she studied criminology and psychology. After graduating, she pulled a brief stint in the FBI, which ended with an injury. She went on to attend one of the top culinary schools in France, L’Académie Gastronomique de Paris. This led to an internship under one of the world’s foremost pastry chefs, Tasha O’Brien. It was at this point her reputation as a detective and culinary expert began. During her training, her pastry gourmet/mentor met her demise. Peculiar circumstances led to Hannah investigating, and she cracked the case. Thereafter, her career took on a life of its own.

  Everywhere she went, the case came up. At the Pasto di Elmo in Italy, she cleared the head chef from a charge of attempted poisoning. As a guest chef at the Hotel Rojo in Mexico City, she disclosed an assassination attempt on the Ambassador of Côte d’Ivoire. Most recently, she uncovered the true killer of one of America’s top chefs, Julia Karas. Among culinary circles, Hannah Starvling was sought after, and an unofficial security benefit. The go-to person in the event of the unforeseen. The Culinary Detective.

  The thought of the name given her in Louie’s article for Food Critic Magazine on the top culinary consultants, made her groan. While she adored her journalist friend, that particular name made her wince. Unlike Gran, who reveled when people called her the Gumshoe Gal, Hannah shied away from her moniker. To her, detective work was something she tried to keep at bay, especially when she was on the job. However, her innate curiosity and superb instincts, coupled with her FBI training, made it impossible for her to do so. More and more individuals referenced it since Louie wrote his article. Like it or not, she huffed to herself, it’s yours to live with.

  Hannah made her way until she came to the eighth room on the left. She was about to step in, when the sound of something thumping in rapid succession, caught her attention. Also heard were gasps and the shuffling of people moving away from something. She turned in the direction of the sound, staring down the hall through a parting crowd of individuals. A large, tan form ran straight toward her. Hannah stood her ground, but braced herself. The suddenness of everything made it hard to focus. Her eyes widened when a hound came into sight, tongue wagging, and a loose leash flopping around. The beast leapt straight for her as she reinforced her position. Upon impact, she tumbled to the ground, the creature on top of her. She cried out, “Critic!” Slobbery licks and love followed. The dog hopped about, tail wagging at high speed. He made a noise that sounded as if he were saying ‘love you’. As the initial shock of the event wore off, the crowd began snapping pictures of the happy reunion.

  Seconds later, a man came running. “There you are. Heel. Heel.” With re
luctance, the canine followed orders, taking a sitting position in front of Hannah. She repositioned herself in front of the hound and scratched behind his ears. The speed of his wagging tail told her the attention was much appreciated.

  “Good boy. Good boy.” She stood and smiled. “Louie!” she exclaimed as both moved in for the greeting.

  After releasing him, Hannah stepped back. She scanned over her friend, drawing up her memory of him. His hair still showed as graying and faded reddish, and his brown eyes and big smile were the definition to her of the word jolly. In his late forties, Louie Woolridge’s demeanor left everyone with the impression he was a friend of sorts. Hannah tugged at his oversized t-shirt with the Birmingham Tornadoes logo on the front. She glanced down at his usual faded jeans and worn out running shoes. She smiled, and thought to herself, good to know some things don’t change. Remembering Janine’s father, she added, “Good to see you. Boy, do I have someone you have to meet soon.” She tapped on his chest in an excited voice. “What are you two doing here?”

  “We got in last night. Last minute kind of thing. And…” Louie thumbed toward the hound, whose tail kept up its steady pace. “Believe it or not, you are looking at the new, official spokes-dog slash mascot for Food Critic. So many people loved the picture, and the write-up of you and him in my article that they inundated the editor with fan mail. So much so, they had to work overtime just to sort it.” He motioned toward the event rooms. “He’s not allowed in where they prepare the food, but we have a booth down the way. He’s pawing autographs for publicity pictures and what not. Food Critic is eating it up and so is the public. So, from now on, I get to take him along wherever I go. It’s kind of like we’re married in a way. Wither thou goest, I will go.” Louie patted the dog’s head. “Or something like that. I left him with a friend while I went with Vera for two weeks back to France. He was miserable, and I was miserable. We were just meant to be together, I suppose.”