The Smoking Bun (Apple Orchard Cozy Mystery Book 10)

by Chelsea Thomas

“This place is breathtaking,” I said. “I can’t breathe. It’s stealing my breath.”

  “I’ve never taken you here?” asked Miss May.

  I shook my head.

  “I should have. Teeny and I have taken a few cooking classes up here over the years. And we’ve come to the restaurant a few times.”

  “The restaurants are so fun, Chelsea,” said Teeny. “They’re all run by the students here. So the cooks are studying cooking, of course. But the rest of the staff is comprised of Culinary Institute students, too. The hostess, the waiters, the dishwashers… The whole dining experience has this energy of youthful exuberance and experimentation and it’s so wonderful and vibrant. We have to come back sometime. I think there’s an Italian restaurant near the bottom of the hill. That’s my favorite.”

  “Mine too,” said Miss May. “And the prices are slightly more affordable than they would be elsewhere, probably because everything is prepared by students. But you would never know the difference. These kids are so talented… Their cooking is better than anything you can get in most of the country.”

  Teeny cleared her throat.

  “Except for at Grandma’s, of course,” Miss May said.

  “You two sound like a brochure for the Culinary Institute of America,” I said with a chuckle. “I love it! And I guess all that means Buck has real skill in the kitchen.”

  “Oh yeah,” said Teeny.

  “That’s so strange though,” I said. “Sounds to me like everyone who attends this school is a good chef. So how does someone from this revered institution turn out food that makes customers sick in his restaurant?”

  “Even the best schools have one or two dunces,” said Teeny. “You know, those kids who have to wear the big hats and sit in the corner while the teacher calls them dumb?”

  “I don’t think they do that in schools anymore,” I said.

  “Well that’s good,” said Teeny. “Those hats are itchy. And sometimes the teacher makes you wear it just for talking during class. You don’t have to be stupid to talk during class! Not that I would know.”

  Miss May laughed. “Either way, Buck didn’t strike me as a dunce. I bet he just got lazy over the years. Or sloppy.”

  “Sloppy sounds right,” said Teeny. “If you don’t practice what you learn, you lose it. I realized that when I was studying French. So many of my language skills went into my brain, out my ear, and around the corner never to be seen or heard from again.”

  I laughed and parked the car, ready for intense investigation. And maybe some good food.

  The three of us signed in as visitors at the big main building, then we hopped onto a tour that appeared to be populated by prospective students.

  The tour guide was a chubby, plucky young man wearing a chef’s coat over his jeans. The kid had a big smile and he beamed with pride when he spoke of the Institute and its rigorous curriculum in baking, sauce making, and all other forms of cooking.

  “I should have applied to come here,” said Teeny. “This seems like a real party.”

  “You still can,” I said.

  “Yeah, right.” Teeny raised her hand and the chubby tour guide called on her. “Excuse me! Hi! Yup. Back here. The short one. Great to meet you. My name is Teeny and I was just wondering… How old is the oldest student currently enrolled at the Institute?”

  “Great question, Tiny,” said the tour guide. “The vast majority of students here are college-aged but we do have one older student among us, a thirty-something lawyer who is hoping to change careers and open a restaurant after graduation. She is a magician with poultry and fowl.”

  “That’s what I thought, thanks,” said Teeny. “Also, it’s Teeny. Not Tiny.”

  The tour guide offered a quick mea culpa, then led our group further down the hall. Miss May leaned in toward me. “We need to find someone who might have known Buck when he was a student. A professor, probably. I’m thinking one of us should sneak into a class.”

  “You heard the tour guide,” said Teeny. “You and I are too old to be students here. If someone’s sneaking into a class at the Culinary Institute and posing as a student, it’s going to have to be Chelsea.”

  Miss May and Teeny loved shoving me into precarious situations and watching me flail. Typically, I hated their suggestions. Like, one time, they made me pretend to be a masseuse and massage some guy’s hairy back just to ask him a few questions. But in this case, I didn’t mind the ruse at all. I had loved my time at college, and I considered myself a master of pretending to know what was going on in a class even when I was deeply, deeply confused.

  I smiled. “OK. I’ll check out a class. We should try to find something about gourmet French cooking, I think. Buck was snooty about his food, so I think the professor of a snooty class is most likely to remember him.”

  Miss May nodded. “Good thinking. Keep your eyes peeled.”

  As the tour continued, I noticed that every student wore a chef’s coat identical to the one donned by our tour guide. I spotted one of the coats hanging over a chair in an empty classroom, darted inside, and put it on. When I returned to the tour group Miss May and Teeny smiled. “You look you’re ready for class.”

  “That’s the goal,” I said. “I’m going to split off from the group and see if I can find that French cooking class. Have fun on the rest of the tour.”

  As I finished my sentence a group of students drifted by like a school of fish. I slid into the middle of the group, anonymous in my white coat, and hurried along with them.

  Although it took significant searching, and I had to join two new schools of fish on my journey, I soon found a class on classical French cooking that was scheduled to begin in five minutes. I slipped inside and took a seat in the back. Perfect.

  Or, as they French would say, parfait!

  32

  French Lessons

  The classroom was equipped with a few rows of large desks that each had a small stove and sink built into the countertop. I selected a desk near the back and wiggled with excitement as I played with the faucet and twisted the knobs on the stove.

  Over the course of the next few minutes, the room filled with students, chatting, laughing, and prepping for class.

  Then an acne-scarred young man took the seat next to me. He cocked his head and looked at me with curiosity. “Hi. Sorry. Who are you?”

  “Hi. Great to meet you. I’m new here. I transferred from the… Culinary Institute of Canada.”

  “Is your name is Michael?” Tim pointed at the name embroidered on the chest of my chef’s coat. I hadn’t even noticed it until he pointed out. Sure enough, the name was Michael.

  I thought on my feet, which was impressive, since I had shoved them both in my mouth with my bizarre lie about the CIA’s Canadian corollary.

  “Technically it’s pronounced the French-Canadian way, ‘Michel.’ But you can call me Michael. Or Mike for short. It’s a pretty common name for girls in Canada. You’d be surprised.”

  “My name’s Tim,” said my classmate. “It’s weird that you’re starting here in the middle of the semester.”

  I let out a nervous laugh. “I had to pull a lot of strings to make that happen. But I’m so happy to be here and thrilled to meet you, Tim. How do you like this class? How’s the professor?”

  Tim winced. “This is the hardest class at the Institute. They say it separates the chefs from the cooks. A lot of kids drop out after they take this class and go home to work on their family farm or whatever. I get so scared before this class every week that I have to throw up in the hallway bathroom before it starts. No one warned you about Chef P?”

  I shook my head. Felt my palms begin to sweat. Oh no.

  “Apparently his name is so long and French that no one has ever been able to pronounce it, not even his parents, so people just call him ‘Chef P.’ He’s mean, Michael. Real mean. Try to stay under the radar if you can.”

  A tall, skinny man with a pointy chin entered and stood in the front of the class. Tim gulped
and sat up straight. The entire class greeted Chef P. Chef P honed right in on me.

  “Who are you, girl?” He spoke in a thick French accent and his chin got even pointier with each word he spoke.

  “Oh. I’m Michael.”

  “Michel?”

  “Yeah. I’m French-Canadian. So you can pronounce it either way.”

  Chef P smacked the counter in front of him with a spatula. “Your coat says Michael! I will call you Michael if your name is Michael.”

  I explained my story about being a transfer student and Chef P seemed to buy it.

  “Oh. Fancy Michael is from the Culinary Institute of Canada. I bet you think that makes you better than us, don’t you? OK. You think you’re so tough? Today we are learning how to cook an exquisite French ratatouille. Tell me how to begin.”

  “Right. Ratatouille…” The word meant little more to me than any French word. I knew it was something about vegetables. I bit my lip and wished Teeny or Miss May was there to help. “It’s a French food. Lots of veggies. And there was a movie about it where a rat—”

  Slap! Chef P smacked the counter once more with his dreaded spatula. “Stop talking. No one shall reference that movie in my class. It is an abomination to French cooking and I will not have it spoken of. Now can anyone help Michael, who struggles so spectacularly to define even such a basic meal?”

  Tim raised his hand and spoke in a squeaky voice. “Ratatouille is a French Provençal stewed vegetable dish that originated in Nice. Recipes and cooking times differ but common ingredients include tomato, garlic, zucchini, eggplant, pepper, and a healthy combination of leafy green herbs.”

  Chef P gave Tim a sarcastic round of applause. Then the chef charged forward with his lesson, chopping vegetables faster than anyone I had ever seen and cooking almost on autopilot as he rambled about the varieties of ratatouille and the importance of cooking each vegetable separately and then combining at the end.

  Tim chopped almost as fast as Chef P. I, on the other hand, barely got through half my vegetables by the end of the hour-long course. But I managed to avoid more of Chef P’s ire, which I believe emanated from the tip of his diabolical chin, until the class ended.

  I waited for all the other students to trickle out and then approached Chef P with my head hung in deference. “Chef P?”

  The chef did not look up from his cleanup efforts at his station. “What is it, Michael? Don’t offend me with any stupidity. I will not tolerate ignorance in my presence. Nor will any French person.”

  “I just want to say it was great to meet you. I’m honored to be a student in your class. My friend, Buck Johnson, told me you’re the best teacher in the world for French cooking. He, uh, he actually wrote the recommendation letter that got me into this school. I just want to say I’m happy to be here. Thank you for everything you do,” I said, adding an “eh?” to emphasize my Canadian roots.

  Chef P put down his knife with a slow and careful motion. He made eye contact with me. “You know Buck Johnson.”

  It was hard for me to tell from the look in the chef’s eyes whether or not knowing Buck was a good thing or a bad thing. I gave him a tiny nod of the head.

  “He was a brilliant student here. Buck Johnson is a horribly ugly name. Grotesque. Saying it made my tongue writhe with the agony of the mundane. Buck Johnson. Uch. No elegance to it at all. But he was one of my star pupils.”

  “Yeah. I figured you would say that. Buck is a great cook… and I also admire that he always insists on safe food preparation. He has a lot of integrity when it comes to stuff like that. He’s never made a single person sick with his food. Not that I know of.”

  Chef P bristled. “Of course Buck Johnson hasn’t made anyone sick with his food. No graduate of the Culinary Institute of America sickens his or her diners. But why do you say such a thing?”

  “Sorry. I don’t know.”

  “Think before you speak, Michael.”

  “I will. So… Buck was a star student, huh? He always told me he did well here but I never knew how much of that was true.”

  “He did very well.”

  “I guess that’s why he’s had so much success as a chef over the years,” I said. “I would love to have a career like his. But Buck has never told me about the path he took after graduation.”

  “He was being modest,” said Chef P. “Humility is the worst of all American traits. What is the point of accomplishing great things if you neglect to talk about them? Buck Johnson was hired immediately after graduation at Hudgens restaurant in New York City. Manhattan.” Chef P stared into the distance with a faraway look in his eyes. “He was the envy of every student at the Institute. He started as a cook in the kitchen, I believe. But within one or two years he had risen to the position of head chef at Hudgens. That’s a magnificent achievement for anyone, let alone a recent graduate. Hudgens is unparalleled in the culinary world.”

  “Hudgens,” I repeated.

  “Stop repeating me, Michael. Now depart from my presence. Another class is about to start.”

  I gave Chef P a respectful bow of the head and hurried out of the classroom. I wondered how Buck Johnson had fallen from glory at Hudgens Restaurant and ended up in Pine Grove.

  And how had such a renowned and promising chef produced food that had made so many people sick?

  33

  Snake Oil Saleswoman

  Miss May, Teeny and I agreed we needed more information about Buck and his career as a chef. So we decided that on the following day, we would trek down to New York City to check out Hudgens and see what we could learn.

  We had so many questions they were hard to track.

  Had Buck made people sick with his cooking while working at Hudgens? Better yet, had he angered anyone? Had he created any enemies? And was there someone at his previous job who may have wanted to kill him?

  The idea of doing investigative work in New York City shot an electric tingle through my fingers and toes like a burst of static. Our visits to New York for past investigations had always been strange and wonderful and I was confident our upcoming visit would be more of the same.

  Something about the city smells like intrigue. Maybe it’s the steam that rises from the sewer grates or the anonymity of the crowds or the mere fun of being someplace new. I couldn’t say for sure. But I barely got any sleep that night as images of the Big Apple looped through my mind.

  I got out of bed the next morning to find the farmhouse quiet and empty. Steve the dog was lying beside the fireplace where a few remaining embers crackled and died. I crouched beside him. “Hey Steve. Looking pretty sharp with your new haircut. Like you’re ready for your first day on Wall Street.”

  Steve wasn’t in the mood to talk. In fact, he didn’t bother to wake up at the sound of my voice. So I patted his haunch and headed onto the front porch. I could see Miss May and KP out in the orchard, pointing at the trees and gesticulating to indicate excitement. I pulled on a pair of shoes, teetering as I tried to stand on one leg, then the other. Then I trudged out to see what the two of them were talking about.

  “What’s with the meeting of the minds?” I asked.

  “Nothing, according to me,” KP grunted.

  “What about according to you?” I said to Miss May.

  Miss May shook her head. “The second weekend of October is the best weekend of the year for picking Red Delicious and Golden Delicious apples. This whole section of trees here consists of Red Delicious and Golden Delicious. So we planned well. Although I didn’t plant the trees, my great-grandfather did, so I can’t take much credit.”

  “Yeah now tell her the problem,” said KP.

  Miss May plucked a Red Delicious from a tree and held it out for me to see. “I don’t think this apple looks plump enough.”

  “It’s plump,” said KP. “You just don’t remember. This is what they’re like every single year. We can’t change it now, anyway, so who cares? The apples aren’t gonna get any fatter just ‘cuz you’re mad at ‘em.”

&nb
sp; “I don’t want to get a reputation for having apples that are small and lacking juiciness,” said Miss May. “If they’re not plump, we should take note of it and figure out how we can change things next year.”

  “How about we let the people decide?” said KP. “That’s what I say. If the apples are too measly and skinny, we’ll hear about it. The customers at this place complain more than a reindeer in the desert.”

  “Why would a reindeer…” KP shot me a look and I changed course. “I agree with KP. Also, Miss May, we’re supposed to go down to the city this morning, remember? Not that I don’t respect your diligence on the farm, that’s very admirable… But we’re supposed to go to Hudgens.”

  “I heard that place is good,” said KP. “Too swanky for me. Me and fancy don’t mix.”

  “How have you heard about a five-star New York City restaurant?” I asked.

  “Food Network, thank you very much,” KP retorted. “Me and TV get along just fine.”

  “We’ll go soon,” Miss May said to me. “I only have a few more issues I need to discuss with KP.”

  Miss May dragged KP further out into the orchard, listing off her concerns as they walked. He threw a glance back at me over his shoulder, like, “Please help,” and I laughed.

  As the two of them disappeared into the trees, I watched my hot breath form in the cold air. At that moment, Miss May’s attention to detail on the orchard was delaying our much-anticipated trip to the city. It would have been easy for me to begrudge her that, except that the same attention to detail had proven useful in so many cases… Just as it would in the case of the murdered chef.

  We finally got on the road at around noon, picked Teeny up from Grandma’s, and headed down to the city. It was a beautiful ride, as it often is. Miles and miles of trees, dressed in their fall plumage, eventually gave way to the big, brown buildings of the Bronx and then the enormous skyscrapers of Manhattan. Miss May had insisted on driving her Volkswagen bus, so I feared we wouldn’t be able to find parking. But we got lucky on that front and found a spot just a few blocks away from Hudgens.