The Apple Pie Alibi

by Doug Lutz

  You could hear the wheels in his brain, grinding to a halt by this unexpected turn of events. “But, well. I mean. Eh. Miss Kepler, let us agree that Wednesday will come soon enough. For today, however, we will have a light lunch served by George and an early dinner served by his dishwasher, Master Finnegan.” Drake had put a special, indignant emphasis on the word dishwasher. I assumed he was already trying to throw the contest to a new favorite competitor.

  As we walked through the grand foyer of the century–old home, I watched as Grimsby fawned all over Chef Windsor. I peered in the kitchen and saw George acting as the surgeon with Grimsby as his doting assistant. Every time the chef needed a pan or an ingredient from the new pantry, his nurse would run to get it for him. There was also an inordinate amount of whispering going on between the two.

  I wondered if this had been the plan all along. Get rid of the award–winning chef, gain invaluable and free advertising courtesy of the police investigation, and then twist the event so a local man wins. I made a mental note to see later if there was any business connection between the show’s producer and the B and B’s executive chef.

  As the ladies waited in the front parlor chatting about everything from the weather to what the most audacious outfit worn last Sunday, pots and pans clanged about in the kitchen. I smelled ham steaks frying on a grill; the hiss of the steam rising from the slabs of meat confirming my suspicions. Lunch was about to be served. Even though I would pass on the meat, I was still hungry.

  I made myself right at home, sitting in the midst of the panel of judges. The server was a young man—a teenager most likely, I thought—dressed in the typical server’s uniform of black trousers and a starched white Oxford shirt adorned with a thin black bow tie. The boy entered the dining room carrying the first course, a platter of warm sweet potato biscuits. Next came a gravy boat of clarified butter and a side dish of sliced Virginia ham stacked high like pancakes. Finally, he presented a casserole dish of pulled pork barbecue.

  Another server walked into the room. She was the boy’s sister, judging from the identical slopes of their noses, high foreheads, and identical blue–green eyes. She was an inch taller. In her hands was a long oval tray of condiment cups filled with white wine mustard, homemade basil mayonnaise, a vinegar–based barbecue sauce, and a side dish of sliced pickles of the bread and butter variety.

  The table setting looked tasty. My stomach reminded me again of how hungry I was. Thankfully, no one noticed. Either that, or the church ladies were just being polite.

  The ladies started in on the food like a ravenous band of coyotes let loose on a ranch full of three–legged rabbits. After I retrieved my biscuits, I counted my fingers to make sure there were still five on each hand. So far, so good.

  The sweet potato biscuit tasted heavenly, the light and fluffy texture melting in my mouth. There was no dough–like aftertaste, a common malady when biscuits need more oven time. Nothing is worse than eating a badly baked biscuit, the kind that sits in the bottom of your stomach like a wad of chewing gum. My mother had always told me that if I swallowed chewing gum, it would stay in my stomach for seven years. Nasty biscuits would top that by two or three more years. Disgusting.

  These biscuits were perfect—earthy, yet not overpowering. Many said the natural sugars from the orange spud gave their pork sandwiches just the right amount of sweetness. While others grabbed the condiments, I enjoyed the simple elegance of another sweet potato biscuit slathered in butter.

  The ham told a different story. The bluish–red meat was, by all accounts, too salty. In fact, my dining partners said it must have come from the Dead Sea. I almost apologized to my biscuit, telling the inanimate object I was sorry more of my companions weren’t vegetarian.

  I knew a true Virginia ham was salt–cured, and aficionados of the beast always soaked such slabs of pork in cold water for a few days before trying to do anything with them. Any less time would create crusty little hockey pucks ready to give your teeth a workout. There might even be a tad of ham–like flavor in them, but most people would not notice it. All you would taste is salt. George Harrison Windsor, a trained chef born and bred in Virginia, should have known enough to soak the preservatives out of his ham.

  I offered the ladies a possible solution: with enough basil mayonnaise, the inadequacies of the ham might be overcome. The ladies tried my suggestion, and after a few bites, confirmed that my cooking hack worked.

  Two servers carried in large trays filled with individual ramekins of corn pudding. We served corn pudding at the Cat and Fiddle, too, so I was familiar with the sweet taste. I tried a little on another biscuit, sort of like using a gravy. Big mistake. The corn pudding, like the ham, was beyond too salty. It shouldn’t have been salty at all. Authentic corn pudding had a sweetness that surpassed the sweet potato biscuit.

  I was not alone in my reaction. Looking around at the other women, I could see they were all spitting out their portions into the linen napkins. Semi–polite grimaces gave way to bewilderment as everyone complained of how salty the sweet corn had been. That’s when I remembered what Francine and Tricia had to say about their own breakfast. Maybe George just has a heavy hand with his salt shaker?

  While my mind tried to rationalize why something like this was happening, my gut said I needed to usurp the power of the salt. I hoped a swig of iced tea might do the trick. The first server had mentioned the tea was un–sweet, meaning it was straight tea with nothing else added for flavor—no berries, no lemon, and no sugar. I picked up the nearest sugar canister and added three good shakes to my glass. After a few stirs with a long–handled spoon, I took a sip.

  Blech!

  I couldn’t take it any longer. Tapping on my glass, I announced, “Ladies, we know the ham biscuits are too salty, as is the corn pudding. But, it seems the sugar bowl has joined the crowd.”

  Lifting the white porcelain sugar caddy, I poured the white substance onto the table. Dipping my finger into the crystalline powder, I confirmed my statement. “This, ladies, is not sugar.”

  I could not believe George would allow such mistakes with ten thousand dollars on the line. This required taking the matter straight to the man with the beret, the executive chef himself. I walked straight past Drake, not–so–subtly bumping the man to the side, and soon enough found the chef. He was working on his dessert.

  “George, there seems to be an issue with salt being inside the sugar canisters out in the dining room. Do you know anything about it?”

  “Why would there be salt in the sugar bowl? That’s insane,” he said. “No one makes that kind of mistake.”

  He paused, looking toward the now vacant dishwashing station. “I don’t believe it.”

  Drake spoke up. “Chef, I always had a bad feeling about your dishwasher. This could be a matter resulting in his disqualification. I’ll let the judges know.” He moved back through the door toward the dining room to cause more commotion.

  George shook his head. “Hold on a minute, Grimsby. Our Cosmo may be a fellow competitor, but he would never stoop so low as to sabotage food being served to guests. It’s just not done. The food must always stand on its own merit. We may differ on style, but we agree on integrity. It’s a chef thing, you understand. Or, well, maybe you wouldn’t. No matter. It wasn’t Cosmo. I stake my reputation on it. Like I said, it’s just not done.”

  George’s ethical standards aside, the realist in me piped up, “Oh, Chef Windsor, when such a large prize is on the line, some things that just aren’t done, are done.”

  Space was at a premium, which is often the case in professional kitchens. There were warming tables and serving shelves in front. Off to the side there was a long wooden cutting board, where sandwiches and cold items could be prepared. Behind all of this were a set of gas–fired ovens and a flat–top grill with four deep fryers rolled next to it. The area was clean, yet still had the immutable smell of old grease imbedded in the porous ceiling tiles.

  In the back were more stoves, each with a
lower oven, and a nice stone pizza oven. Stuck in every nook and cranny were freezers, coolers, and spice racks. The glare from the long fluorescent lights hanging above reflected off every surface. I needed sunglasses.

  The taste of the salt had not yet left my chops. Ah, yes. The spice rack. Now there was a crime scene waiting for yellow tape.

  As I walked over to the set of spices, hoping to give the sodium chloride container a closer inspection, I stopped short to get a good look through the main oven’s glass window to see what was cooking. I had a sudden reminiscence of being a Girl Scout out camping, s’mores in hand.

  “I notice you have been working on dessert. Is that a graham cracker crust I see?”

  The pies were already in the oven, but George had left scads of semi–crushed graham crackers on the cutting board. Sitting next to them were several wrappers torn from sticks of butter, and a half–empty shaker containing a white powdery substance, presumably sugar. At least, I hoped it was sugar.

  “Yes, Miss Kepler. If you promise not to tell your grandmother any of my secrets, sometime I will let you know how to make my famous chocolate pecan pie. I think it’s so good, it has a more than decent chance to beat her apple pie.”

  “Well, I can’t make any promises, but there’s nothing better than a nice graham cracker crust,” I said. Deciding to drop a hint that the chef might want to double–check his ingredients, I added, “After all the salt I found out there in the dining room, I hope no one switched the ingredients here in the kitchen. That would be a disaster, wouldn’t it, chef?”

  George’s eyes widened. He had finally taken the hint and grasped the seriousness of the situation. Picking up his own sugar container, he dipped his finger in and took a taste. His cheeks turned red, and his eyes widened like a cat about to pounce. “Salt!” George slammed the point of his chef’s knife into the cutting board.

  Regaining his composure, George admitted he had been fooled. “Miss Kepler, it seems you are correct. If you’ll excuse me for a few minutes. I must pull my staff into the kitchen for a pep talk. If you would be so kind as to return to your table. Dessert will be served in just a few moments.”

  As I made way back to the dining room, I saw the chef motion for his young team to join him in the back of the kitchen, next to the pizza oven. George picked up the sugar shaker to show his staff. I had just sat down out in the dining room when we all heard the yelling and screaming begin. The two young servers claimed innocence.

  As Drake opened the door to see if everything was under control, the female server said, “But daddy, we would never have done it. We want you to win.” The young man chimed in, “Yeah, dad. We know you need the money, and we’re here to help you, not hurt you! We’re in this together.”

  George needed the prize money for something beyond the usual summer vacation. Maybe he had an outstanding bill to pay. Behind on his mortgage payments, perhaps. Hospital bills, or two kids who wanted to go to college. The possibilities were endless. Whatever the reasons, I decided no one in this trio wanted to sabotage the meal.

  After a long and awkward silence, Drake Grimsby checked on the chef. Moments later, the producer returned.

  “Ladies, the chef has resolved the salt issue, but I am afraid it affected the dessert. However, the last course will still be the best part of the meal today. Thank you for your patience. Give us a few minutes. Please.”

  Us? Since when was Drake part of the culinary team?

  True to his claim, a few minutes later, the kitchen door reopened and two smiling young adults gingerly stepped into the dining room, silver trays balanced on one hand. From what I could see, each tray held several large jelly jars full of light–and dark–colored ingredients layered about an inch thick each, but no one could quite figure out what the mystery meal could be. George followed his entourage.

  “Ladies, our original desserts were not of the highest standard of quality we here in the kitchen demand. Upon conferring with my staff, we came up with a unique alternative that may just be the next big thing in the culinary world!”

  “What is it?” one lady asked, holding her dessert jar up to the light, rotating it ever so slightly in hopes of identify the contents.

  “I’m not sure this looks right,” another said. She wouldn’t even touch her jar, instead poking it with a fork.

  The crowd pushed their chairs away from the table. I knew right away what George had done. And I salivated just thinking about it.

  “Very impressive, chef,” I said. “And on such short notice, too. I would have never thought to layer a chocolate pecan pie into a jelly jar. The graham cracker crumbs for the crust? Ingenious. No need to pre–bake the crust when you make the pie this way. I love it!”

  “And without the normal crust made with flour and lard, we can honestly say this sweet delight is a true lower–carb and lower–fat dessert, perfect for anyone trying to maintain their already perfect figures,” George said, pandering to the judicial panel.

  Once the church ladies heard the dessert was possibly healthy, the spoons flew. In a matter of seconds, the Jelly Jar Chocolate Pecan Pie was but a distant yet tasty memory.

  Drake was busy ordering his production assistant to change the position of the camera every few seconds to capture every aspect of the meal. As the camera operator stayed busy focusing on the licked–clean plates being stacked and water glasses being refilled, Drake took a second to catch his breath.

  With all the flair of a circus showman, Drake then announced, “George, I think you prepared an awesome meal, even under such trying circumstances. And judging how these prominent and lovely ladies took to your fine, Southern style of cooking, I imagine you have just set the standard for your competitor to beat.”

  “You mean competitors, plural, don’t you, Mr. Grimsby?” I had caught the producer’s intentional choice of words. “The judges still need to see my grandmother and Bailey, right?”

  “Of course.” Drake hesitated, squirming like a mouse caught trying to get away with the cheese. “Competitors, as you say, but don’t you need to be up the road at your cat and dog café, serving scraps from a can?”

  Drake was using his body to loom over me and herd me toward the front door. But as he was moving, a well–placed shoe tripped the producer, throwing him off balance and causing him to fall into the tray of iced tea pitchers.

  “Gosh, Mr. Brilsey, you should be more careful,” one judge said.

  “Yes, Brilsey,” Chef George said, moving his foot back. “You should be more careful.” Turning toward me, the chef smiled. “Thanks, again, Miss Kepler, for offering your expertise in the kitchen. I’m afraid without it, dessert would not only have been a disaster, but we would never have come up with this new offering. And the best part is that my two kids helped. You may have saved my family, too.”

  “It’s always nice when families can come together,” I said. “And yes, I should check in on my grandmother. But have no fear, sir. I should be back in time for dinner, assuming the dishwasher returns.”

  George, always the true Southern gentleman, walked me to the front sidewalk. He wanted a moment away from the cameras and microphones. “Miss Kepler. Winnie, if I may. I can see you are trying to prove your grandmother innocent. Very commendable. Look, I appreciate you noting the facts and not making any prejudgments. With my history with Pete—or Pierre, as most people know him—I know by all rights I should be the prime suspect.”

  “Well, if not you, then who would have enough cause to stab the man in the back?”

  “My guess is Grimsby, but only the competitors wielded knives up on stage. Still, it is obvious Grimsby has it out for your Velma. Please tell her to be careful. I don’t know who killed Pete, but I don’t think it was any of us up on the stage. We were focused on our cooking. In fact, the only time I talked to Pete once the cooking started was when I offered him a tissue.”

  “A tissue? Why did you do that?” I asked.

  “Poor guy was sneezing like crazy for over an hour before t
he contest started. I thought he had walking pneumonia or something. It stopped after we got going, though, so I forgot all about it.”

  “You bring up some valid points, chef. Thanks for your insight and a big thank–you for the meal. It was delicious, even with the extra sodium. But you were oh so right; I loved the dessert. I may have to borrow that one.”

  “Since you saved the day by figuring out the salt and sugar problem, you deserve the reward. You have my permission to use the jelly jar pie; just give us credit for inventing it, will you?”

  I had enough information on my first suspect. I gave George a wave, saying, “I will give you credit for everything you deserve, sir. Consider it done.” And with those parting words, I wondered which salt mine had fugitive dishwasher Cosmo Finnegan’s name on its mailbox.

  11

  I returned to the Cat and Fiddle to find my grandmother filling one of her antique white porcelain tea diffusers with dark black tea leaves. Most customers would be served a generic tea brewed using large paper satchels of leaves soaked in twenty–gallon cylinders of water. Every morning I filled those tanks, throwing the large tea bags in afterward. Velma’s use of a diffuser and leaves from her personal stash were for customers with discriminating palates.

  “Who ordered the special tea?”

  “I did, but it’s not for me. It’s for the girl sitting in the corner. She seemed down on her luck so I figured a nice relaxing tea would be just the thing for her. I’m adding a few cinnamon sticks, too. They’ll help soothe her wounded spirit.”

  I glanced across the dining room and saw the woman in question. My expression changed, from the smile of a successful morning to an uncertain frown. This was a bad omen.

  “Grandma, that’s Fran, my old college roommate! Here, let me take the tea. She looks terrible. I think she’s been crying.”

  Normally a put–together woman, Fran’s lack of makeup spoke volumes; she’d spent a troubled few hours. Recent hours, I assumed.