by Doug Lutz
I had picked up my grandmother from the hospital; now she turned to me and spoke.
“Quite the symphony of aches and pains coming out of that engine, Winnie. You bought this old car while you were still in high school, didn’t you? If I could ever talk you into accepting the job offer from that bank, you could upgrade.”
“As soon as the lady who owns the Cat and Fiddle gives me a $10,000 raise.”
We both enjoyed that little exchange. She had a point, though. I glanced at the lineup of much newer, much nicer vehicles as if I were shopping on a dealership parking lot. The best vehicle was a new European sedan parked in a reserved parking space. Grimsby’s, I thought. The little voice in the back of my brain reminded me I could have such a nice car, too, if I dropped all the Sherlock Holmes nonsense and just called Mint Street Bankers on my own.
“Grandma, why don’t we use the side door by that equipment van? The door seems to be propped open.”
She agreed, and we walked across the close–trimmed grass. After edging our way around the side of the van, its back hatch lifted high and almost flush with the short awning, we were soon inside the lobby.
“Grandma, you meet up with everyone. Tell the Captain I’ll be there in a minute. I want to get a better look at this van. I just had a thought.”
As she walked into the lobby, I took out my phone and took a few photos. An Internet search or two later and I was on my way to join the gaggle of suspects. I opened the door leading to the stage area and found the Captain. This time, his reception was much more pleasant.
“Winnie, everyone is here, just like you asked on the phone,” he said. “And though I did not ask them to be here, we have representatives from the VCID. But they know this is a matter for our local jurisdiction. We’ll get the credit.” He gave the boys from Richmond a quick glance. And a smile.
Captain Larson checked his notebook, checking off names on an attendance roster much like a teacher at the start of the school day. “I also took the liberty to ask the judges back, even Mr. Grimsby. I believe they have decided on a winner. Oh, and MegaFood sent a representative to award the prize money.”
That explains one of the nicest cars in the parking lot, I surmised. “Indeed, Captain, but I think solving the murder must be the first course served in this little culinary catastrophe.”
“So you know who did it?” Larson asked.
“Well, I think so,” I said. “Although it has been a struggle, since so many of the competitors have motives—almost honorable ones—to cause Pierre’s early demise.”
Captain Larson took out his pair of handcuffs and moved toward my grandmother. “I am very sorry, Velma, but—”
“Not so fast, Captain. You may want my grandmother out the picture, but she didn’t kill Pierre. Far from it.”
“Winnie, the man took all the apples. Your grandmother would lose. Not only would she lose the coveted Saucy Skillet trophy, she would lose the chance at being named the town’s first Chef du Cuisine Emeritus. I almost don’t blame her, as big an arrogant fool as Pierre had been acting.”
“Ah,” I retorted, “so you think the apples, or lack thereof, were the spark to this fire? Why, Captain, we can see that Velma did not even need apples for her picnic lunch.”
I opened my photo gallery and produced several photos I had taken with my cell phone camera that first day.
“Since we are here, and the old food is still in place, albeit more odorous, we can compare the snapshots to what we see today. There has been no change.”
The Captain’s face flushed red from impatience rather than embarrassment. “That’s obvious. Photos or not, what’s your point?”
I walked over to Grandma’s cooking station and opened the oven door. “Why, look! Here we find Velma’s apple pie. Pierre could have had all the apples in the world and it did not seem to matter to my grandmother. Hmm. There goes that motive. Too bad. And it was a good one, too. But then again, how, just how did Velma make her pie if Pierre had the apples?”
Grandma walked over and joined me at her work station. She reached down to a low shelf under the stainless steel prep table, retrieving a box. “That’s because I use plain old crackers for my pie, instead of apples. Always have. With enough sugar and spices, you can’t tell the difference.”
“A veritable apple pie alibi,” I said, swishing my hand at the Captain to put away his handcuffs.
The judges, as surprised as the rest with the revelation about the apple–less apple pie, made comments about how they would never fall for an old kitchen bait–and–switch tactic. All said they had spotted the substitution right away, but were just being polite.
Grandma reminded everyone that the judges had fallen for the cracker bit last year, when she did the same thing. “And each of the ten years before that, too.”
I was proud of my grandmother. I knew she was not one to be pushed around for her cooking.
“Ladies,” I said, “I imagine Velma learned how to make apple pie from her own mother not long after the Great Depression. Fresh fruit was scarce, so people just made do with what they had.”
“You knew about the switch, though, didn’t you?” Grimsby asked.
“To be honest, I had eaten her apple pie for years without a second thought. Then I saw her make it one day. I assumed everyone made pie that way. Regardless, there goes the motive, right Captain?”
“Well,” Larson said, not allowing himself to be so quickly dismissed, “there is the matter of her public threat. We have that on tape, and you cannot deny it.”
“It’s digital.” I replied. “There isn’t any tape; but that’s not the important thing right now. Let’s take a look at the video feed, shall we?”
I asked the technician to start the video playback. “Pay close attention to the date and time stamp in the bottom right corner of the screen.” As the time elapsed, my grandmother could be seen working at her table. Drake Grimsby then walked into the frame. The producer could be seen whispering something into Grandma’s ear, but it was too quiet for the microphones to pick up.
As he was turning away from my grandmother, Drake stopped and said one more thing, then lifted his handheld microphone up to record her reply. My grandmother’s words were as clear as they could be. She said she wanted to kill Pierre St. Pierre.
“I guess this proves Velma Kepler can be charged with making a public threat,” Larson said, reaching for his citation book. “Like you said, Winnie, the tape proves it.”
“You weren’t listening, were you? Like I said, first off, it’s digital. There’s no tape in the machine, anywhere. Second, the date and time stamp at the bottom of the video tells the true story.”
Turning to the technician, I laughed. “Men. What can you do?”
She laughed for the first time since she took the job working for Drake Grimsby. We had a bond going. I asked her to play the feed again, but this time at half–speed.
“Now please, notice the time here,” I said, pointing to the small white digits in the lower right corner of the screen. “And now, as my grandmother speaks, look what happens.”
The Captain maneuvered to get the best view of the screen. As the moment went by, he pressed stop on the machine, and then reversed the feed to see the verbal exchange one more time.
“Now I see it, Winnie. There is an eighth–of–a–second jump, making this evidence corrupted. Grimsby, what do you have to say about that?”
The producer looked at the Captain. “I would say . . . I would say . . . that I won’t say anything else until I get a lawyer. But I still didn’t kill Pierre. This only proves I was trying to build the ratings of the show. And that’s all.”
“Mr. Grimsby, you need to rethink your concept of remaining silent,” I said. “And while this proves you were not always the most ethical of show producers, you are correct. The mismatched time means nothing. All it proves is that my grandmother’s so–called threat wasn’t one. And since she did not leave the stage at all, she was not anywhere near the m
urder scene. In my book, she is innocent. Time to look elsewhere.”
Parker, who had been silent up to this point, asked, “What about the other cooks? The video showed none of them left the stage area, either. Are you saying none of these people are suspects?”
Parker, Parker, Parker. Well, at least he stepped up. Good for him. It was about time. I was sure someone would call him out for using the pedantic term cook when these professionals were anything but. Even Bailey could be considered a chef, given her culinary vision.
“The competitor with the most to lose was George Harrison Windsor,” I said. “He had revenge as a motive, plus a huge need for the prize money. All worthy reasons to consider perpetrating a crime and taking the risk he could end up spending a life behind bars. A fine plan, except for the fact that he would never get to see his kids again.”
I gave George a quick wink. “Your ex–wife would just love that, wouldn’t she?”
Before he could answer, I continued, “I am sure she would. In fact, she’d get the kids, but they wouldn’t be too much a bother for long. They would both soon be in college, but the tax deductions in the meantime wouldn’t hurt. And with George convicted, he would spend years behind bars. Just long enough for the ex’s lawyer to convince the court to lower or eliminate the alimony payments.”
Larson approached George, handcuffs open. He kept stopping and starting as he internalized what I had said.
“Captain, hold on another minute,” I said. “I know it looks bad for George. Atrocious, in fact. You notice that if we let the video continue, he and Pierre even had words at one point. Judging by the body language, they were not asking about their last family vacations.”
George banged his fist onto the table; his face red with anger. “He cheated to win my scholarship,” George said. “We had just finished our final exam at the culinary school, a four–course meal suitable for any decent dining establishment, and the judges spat my food out of their mouths, it was so bad.”
“Let me guess,” I said. “Pierre had switched the sugar with the salt, making all of your food taste like a salt lick.”
“Exactly,” he said. “He ended up with the higher score and finished first in our class. With the high ranking came a full scholarship to the French culinary school and advanced training I could not afford. By the time he returned to Seaview, he had changed his name from Peter Babbitt to Pierre St. Pierre. Such a pompous—”
“George, tell us the real reason you had the feud. It wasn’t all about the scholarship. Was it?”
“No, there was more. Plenty more. Pierre found a few investors willing to set him up with a nice restaurant that had come up for auction. He was dealing with millions of dollars. Me? I had to take the only decent cooking job in town, spooning out grits at the bed and breakfast for only fifteen dollars an hour. And to think, Pierre took advantage of his own family.”
“So there’s new information for some,” I said. “What a shock to the entire family, having a relative purchase the family business out from under them. Bailey, how did you handle all of this?”
Young Bailey Babbitt stood up and crossed her arms in front of her torso, a last act of defiance. “We were not thrilled Uncle Peter changed his name, but angry was an understatement when we learned he took advantage of my parents. My father, Peter’s own brother, asked him to buy into our business as a partner—a majority partner, in fact—but the high and mighty Pierre would have none of it.”
I noticed she sidled up next to George. I had a quick thought that they might be in on the murder together. But the evidence didn’t support collusion. Maybe it was coincidental; maybe I was just being paranoid.
“So back to you, George. Losing all the potential earnings gave you a motive,” I said. “And I know many divorces are caused by money. And we know, as you have told us, you are no longer married. Your motive to kill Pierre is getting stronger now.”
George stood like a defendant on trial. “You got that right, Winnie. I married the woman who I thought was the love of my life, thinking she would be happy with an up–and–coming chef destined to have his own restaurant. When I ended up being just an employee, the shiny glimmer of the food and beverage business wore thin.”
“So your paycheck didn’t cover the bills?”
“My wife wanted nice designer clothes and got her hair styled almost every week. That added up to money we didn’t have and were not likely to get. No, the good life of being married to a celebrity chef was what she wanted. And we could have had it, if it weren’t for Pete.”
“So she left you for some big shot she met down in Florida, right?”
“Yeah, the guy worked for MegaFood, of all people.” George looked at the industry giant’s spokesman. “I doubt you know him. He transferred away from the Shore a while ago. It’s all water under the bridge now, though. I don’t see her at all; she hasn’t expressed an interest in the kids except for claiming half the tax credit each year. I’ll give her credit, though: she is funding their school costs. If it weren’t for the monthly alimony check she sends me each month, I would not even know that she existed. And with her new stable of hairdressers and stylists, she’s changed her look so often I wouldn’t recognize her again if she walked right up.”
“Maybe we’ll get back to that sometime, George,” I interrupted. “In the meantime, I don’t think you killed Pierre.”
Captain Larson spoke up. “Not so fast, Miss Kepler. Windsor here could have switched the sugar and salt himself, just to throw us all off his trail.” The police captain reached back around his sport coat, again palming his set of handcuffs.
“No, I don’t think the honorable Chef George Harrison Windsor would have switched anything in his own restaurant on the day judges would taste his food. He is too self–respecting a professional chef to do such a thing,” I proclaimed.
“Cosmo Finnegan, then?” Larson asked. It was obvious Captain Larson would find his killer, even if it meant going down the line of people sitting in the room until he found him or her.
He continued his improvisatory accusation, saying, “The dishwasher had the motive to screw up his boss’s chance at winning the big money. Maybe he killed Pierre to eliminate the main competition, and then, to make certain he would be declared the winner and get a little dig into his boss, he sabotages George’s contest entry by switching the salt and sugar.”
Seeing the young lad’s face turn ashen, Larson’s smile spoke volumes of a self–inflated ego, confident in his own thought process. “Not a bad plan, trying to resurrect a little history to throw us off your trail. You, sir, are under —”
“Um, excuse me, Captain,” I said. “I don’t think Cosmo did it, either. Or Bailey. True, he was a competitor trying to win the ten thousand dollars. And that is more than enough money to make people consider murder, but not him. You see, Cosmo has two passions in life: one, cooking by way of steam–operated mechanical devices, and two, his girlfriend. And we’ll want to reverse the order there, I am guessing.” Cosmo and Bailey joined hands and gave each other the look of two young lovebirds ready for the world.
“And Captain,” I continued, “I’m sure your investigation discovered that Cosmo and Bailey became engaged today. Right?” I pointed to the two cooks, now both sporting shiny new promise rings on their left hands.
Cosmo hugged his new fiancé. “We never liked Pete, either, after he took advantage of his own brother’s misfortune. But we wanted to win the contest through our cooking, and by no other means. She entered first, and then talked me into entering because with two of us competing, it increased our chances of winning. And, just like Velma and George here, we never went to the break room after the opening toast. We couldn’t have killed the man.”
Captain Larson put down the handcuffs and reached for his ticket book. “Speaking of the toast, I’m glad you brought that up. Someone is getting charged with something today, or I’ll eat my hat. And it may only be a misdemeanor case of underage drinking when she participated in the t
oast, but Miss Babbitt is getting a citation. That, I can assure you.”
Larson scratched his pen on the back of the ticket book to get the ink flowing. “Winnie, you said you knew who killed Pierre St. Pierre. Please get on with it before I reach mandatory retirement age. In the meantime, I should present Miss Babbitt with a citation for the misdemeanor of underage drinking. However, without a blood test or a breathalyzer reading, I’m afraid my citation would not stand up in court. I could give one, however, to her fiancé for contributing to the delinquency of a minor.”
“Captain,” I replied, “Bailey isn’t a minor. She just isn’t old enough to legally drink. But don’t let facts stand in the way of a well–written citation.”
If looks could kill.
19
Both the Captain and now Parker held open pairs of handcuffs. I needed to regain control.
“Before you cite anyone, let us recreate the crime from the beginning,” I said. “We know everyone was in the break room at the start, having their celebratory toast to begin the final round. This was recorded; no one disputes this part of the day.”
I walked over to Pierre’s work station, picking up a chef’s knife in one hand, a sauce pan in the other.
“Now the contest has begun. The chefs have spent ten minutes looking through the pantry, deciding what they might cook to make for a great all–American picnic. The whistle blows and they can be seen scrambling back to the pantry and the walk–in cooler, grabbing the materials they need. Here is where Pierre snags all the apples.”
I thrust the knife point into the cutting board so the blade’s handle wobbled in mid–air. “Time to count the knives in the set.”
I had everyone’s attention, which was just as I had wanted it. By going through the sequence of events, I hoped to draw a clue or two out from the crowd, hoping to solidify my hunch. I couldn’t let on that I wasn’t positive about who done it. I picked up a wooden spoon, just in case things got sketchy.
“Everyone is cooking and the cameras are recording,” I said. “Nothing out of the ordinary. Oh, and it appears, by my count at least, that everyone had their own knife set—make that their own complete knife set. And while no one is drunk, the chefs who were closest to Pierre have all had at least one glass of red wine, and now they are toiling like crazy under these horrendous stage lights. Everyone remember?”
