by Meg Benjamin
Darcy and Jorge stood just outside the door to the pantry. Jorge’s expression was thunderous. MG guessed the delay in finding the tomato paste was not a minor thing in his eyes. She reached toward the back of the shelf and took down a small can, handing it to him. “I’m sorry. Here it is.”
He took it without comment, turning on his heel to stalk back to his station. Darcy stayed where she was, watching Fairley, her expression stony. “You got some problem with my assistant?”
Fairley grimaced, but said nothing.
MG desperately wanted to ask Darcy what was happening, but she had a feeling now was not the time. Fairley stood with his arms folded across his chest. He looked a little like a prosecuting attorney in chef’s whites.
A moment later, Fishhead returned, followed by Joe. If Jorge had looked thunderous, Joe supplied the lightning. “Okay, Fairley, what the fuck is so important that I had to cut off a call to the main office?”
Fairley unfolded his arms. “This bottle of aged balsamic was hidden at the back of the shelf there, behind the canned goods. Dietz found it. Ms. Carmody claims she’s never seen it before. However, Ms. Carmody’s the one who’s responsible for putting deliveries away.” His voice at the end dripped with sarcasm.
MG took a breath to argue, but felt Darcy’s hand on her arm. She glanced up. Darcy shook her head slightly.
Joe was staring at Fairley, his forehead furrowed, his mouth narrowing to a thin line. “So you think Ms. Carmody here was planning to steal a bottle of balsamic?”
MG’s mouth fell open. For once she had absolutely nothing to say.
Fairley’s expression stiffened. He shrugged. “I’m just telling you what happened.”
“Well, it’s easy enough to find out.” Joe turned toward her, his eyes suddenly blazing. “So, Ms. Carmody, did you put that bottle of balsamic back there?”
MG felt her own temper spark. “No, Mr. LeBlanc, I did not. I came in here to get a can of tomato paste for Jorge. That’s the first time I saw the bottle.”
“When was the last time you were looking through the cans?”
She paused to think. In all the disruption over the vinegar, she hadn’t considered that. “Yesterday, I think.” She turned to Darcy. “Was that when you wanted the hearts of palm?”
Darcy nodded. “Hearts of palm salad. Lunch yesterday.”
Joe folded his arms across his chest. “Was the bottle there yesterday?”
MG shook her head. “I don’t know for sure. I don’t think so, though.”
Joe turned back to Fairley. “Okay, that takes care of it. Anything else?”
Fairley looked like he was gritting his teeth. After a moment, he sighed. “No. Not right now.”
“Good. Everybody stay out of my way for the next twenty minutes. I got calls to make.” He turned without looking at her and stalked out of the kitchen.
Fairley glanced at her, his eyes narrowed. “Get on with whatever you were doing.”
“Yes, sir,” MG muttered and headed back to the prep sink and her carrots.
Darcy leaned across the counter as she went back to scraping. “That asshole is after you, kid. Just like I said.”
MG sighed. “Which one?”
“Does it matter? I’d keep an eye on both of them, if I was you.”
MG grimaced. “I’d rather not watch Fishhead, but you do what you have to, I guess.”
“You do at that.” Darcy straightened and headed back to her station.
Surprisingly enough, Joe managed to get through the call to Resorts Consolidated without saying anything insulting. Of course, he also didn’t say much of substance, but he figured not snarling at anybody was a definite plus.
He was surprised at how angry he still felt half an hour later. The sight of MG standing there, flanked by Dietz and Fairley, had set off some primal reaction that made him want to punch somebody. Probably Dietz, who looked like he needed it.
When Fairley walked into his office, he managed not to snap his head off, but it was a near thing. “Yeah?”
“You want my resignation?” Fairley was trying to stare him down. Joe could have told him that never worked.
“You want to hand it in?” He knew he should care, but at the moment he didn’t. He didn’t have time for this crap.
“Not particularly, but I can’t work with you if you don’t respect my judgment.”
“Your judgment?” Joe leaned back in his chair. “You mean your judgment that MG Carmody is a thief based on one bottle of balsamic vinegar being out of place? What the hell kind of judgment was that anyway, Fairley?”
Fairley pursed his lips, looking sort of like an outraged scout master. “You know as well as I do that theft is the reason a lot of restaurants go under. And pilfering expensive ingredients is one of the easiest ways to steal.”
Joe took a deep breath. Time to back off a little. “Agreed. But one misplaced bottle of vinegar isn’t proof that somebody’s stealing.” Of course, the losses that Kit Maldonado had pointed out to him were a lot closer to proof, but somehow he didn’t feel like sharing that with Fairley yet.
Fairley straightened. “Is there some reason I’m not supposed to suspect MG Carmody of being a thief?”
“I don’t know—logic maybe?” Joe snapped. “Think about it, Fairley. Assuming the damn vinegar was deliberately placed there by somebody who planned on moving it out of the kitchen and selling it, and I’m telling you that’s not exactly a dead certainty, but even assuming that’s true, MG Carmody’s the least likely person in the kitchen to be doing it.”
“Because?” Fairley’s jaw tightened.
“Because she’s an amateur, damn it! She’s the least likely to know aged balsamic vinegar is worth a fair amount of money. And she’s also the least likely to know who might buy it from her. Hell anybody else in the damn kitchen, including you and me, is a more likely suspect than she is.” Joe rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, telling himself to cool it. Another minute and he’d be firing Fairley just for the hell of it.
“All right, I’ll keep that in mind,” Fairley said stiffly. “But I’ll also keep more careful track of expenditures from now on.”
“Fine with me.” Joe sighed. “You got the staff meal ready?”
“Of course.” As usual, Fairley sounded like he had a sizeable stick up his ass.
“Great. Go ahead and get it out on the table. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Fairley turned on his heel, stalking out of the office.
Joe rubbed his eyes. He was guessing the rest of the day would be a wash. He only hoped the dinner service wasn’t as screwed up as he was afraid it was going to be.
Chapter Thirteen
By the time MG got home, she’d more or less calmed down from the encounter with Fishhead and the Beav. Fishhead had worn the same smirk for the rest of the afternoon, like he was congratulating her for putting one over on everyone. The Beav simply pretended she didn’t exist, which made things easier all around.
Joe hadn’t said anything to her, although in reality she didn’t exactly expect him to. If he pulled her aside in front of everybody, that would pretty much confirm that they were an item. Not that Darcy needed much confirmation.
She and MG took their bowls of squash bisque from family meal out onto the patio to eat at the picnic table, as far from Fishhead and Fairley as they could get. Darcy split the focaccia sandwich she’d brought along in two. “So have you told Joe about the gig yet?”
MG shook her head, grateful for once that her mouth was full.
“Why not? Afraid he’ll be pissed?” Darcy shrugged. “My guess is he’ll be more pissed that you didn’t tell him than he would be that you’re moonlighting as a singer.”
“I don’t think he’ll be pissed. I just don’t know how to bring it up.”
“How about ‘Hey, guess what, I’m singing in Oltdorf on Saturday’?”
“Yeah, I could do that I guess.” MG took another spoonful of soup. She could do it, but she probably woul
dn’t.
“Just sing for him. He’ll love it.”
“Maybe.” She wasn’t sure why she didn’t feel like telling Joe about the gig, but she knew she didn’t. Yet. Maybe they had a ways to go before she was ready to share everything with him. And maybe she was afraid of what he’d think when he heard her.
And maybe, most of all, she was afraid she’d screw up again. Yeah, I’m a singer. Not a very good one.
When she got home an hour later, she pushed herself to do her chicken chores before the last of her energy dissipated. She’d meant to let the hens out into the grass, but she found she just couldn’t face it. For tonight, they’d get commercial food and like it. Maybe tomorrow she’d ask Darcy about the carrot peels.
Theoretically, she should ask the Beav, since he was in charge of the kitchen. But clearly she wasn’t going to do that. For all she knew he’d accuse her of wanting to steal valuable peelings and sell them on the black market.
Finally, she was done in the chicken yard and came back into the house to collapse at the kitchen table. Dinner would be a bologna sandwich and a beer. She rubbed her eyes and wondered if she could just get by with the squash soup from family meal. Right now all she could think about was sleep.
Clearly, she was going to have to toughen up some over the next two days.
Saturday lunch was always a bitch. Konigsburg was full of tourists on the weekend and Saturday was the day they all decided to have lunch out in “the country,” or as close to the country as they could get without having to eat chicken fried steak.
Joe had described the Wine and Food Festival competition to the kitchen staff that morning before they started service. He still wasn’t satisfied with the menu he and Fairley had come up with, although it tested well when he’d tried it out one evening. It was okay, but conservative. He had a feeling this competition was going to be won by flash.
He was hoping Jorge or Leo or Darcy might have some suggestions. Fairley had given him a sour look, indicating his own displeasure with that idea, but Joe didn’t particularly care. Fairley was definitely beginning to grate.
If he hadn’t been a great sous chef, Joe might have moved him on. But the number of returned plates had dropped to a fraction of what they’d had before. Fairley might be a prick, but he was an efficient prick. As an expediter, he was first rate. And he could step in and cook on the line during a crunch.
Darcy suggested trying the produce from a new herb farm for an appetizer salad. Fairley sneered, Leo grimaced and Jorge went back to his station in silence. Par for the course these days. He stood watching MG for a couple of minutes just to take his mind off the crap around him. She’d told him she might be a little late getting back tonight because she had a couple of errands in town. But at least she hadn’t cancelled, which would have made it a perfect shitstorm of a day.
If lunch was busy, dinner was slower than usual. A lot of the tourists had headed back home and others were probably having dinner in town. The inn’s guests usually had dinner at the Rose either Friday or Saturday, but it looked like most of them had headed for town too. Joe worked sauté and grill, Fairley expedited, Jorge did pasta and cold plates, but none of them were all that busy.
Darcy wandered in a little after eight.
“What are you doing here?” Joe asked. Since she worked breakfast, Darcy was usually gone by four.
She shrugged. “Wanted to check on some stuff for brunch tomorrow.”
“Should be okay. Use the salmon from Thursday for kedgeree. And there’s country ham.” Normally he ran brunch himself since it was Fairley’s day off, but he figured Darcy might as well get her hand in. Eventually she’d be running a kitchen of her own somewhere.
“Right.” She nodded. “So you going to keep open tonight until nine?”
Joe sighed. “Probably not if it stays this slow. Might as well start cleaning up—maybe close at eight thirty if Kit’s okay with it. We got some cheese plates in the walk-in if the guests want anything later.”
“You ought to go over to Oltdorf if you get off early. Interesting club over there.” Darcy’s voice was bland—maybe too bland. Something was up.
He raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? Maybe we’ll go there later.”
“You need to go there before you pick up MG.” She gave him a level look.
What the hell? “Why?”
“Go now. Trust me. You’ll be glad you did.” She turned and headed for the walk-in.
He stood staring after her. Oltdorf was maybe fifteen minutes from the inn, a little wide spot in the road with a bar and a post office. He assumed she was talking about the bar, but why he was supposed to go before he picked up MG was a mystery.
Still, it was an intriguing mystery. And so little was going on, Fairley could probably cook and expedite at the same time. Joe stepped back from the stove, untying his apron. “I’m going to check with Kit, but chances are we’re going to close early. Better have Dietz start putting stuff away so Placido and the boys can clean up.”
Fairley barely nodded, busy at his computer.
Twenty minutes later, Joe was out the door and driving toward Oltdorf. When he got there, the club still didn’t impress him—a large open building that looked like it had been a lot of things over the years, none of them exciting.
The front part of the building held a couple of drinkers and several empty tables. He could hear music from the back. Either a jukebox or live, but given that it was the Hill Country on a Saturday night, he’d bet on live. He moved through the door and into the crowd.
Most of the benches beside the long tables were full, with a line of standees along the wall, drinking longnecks. Some kids were playing in the yard at the side, their shrieks occasionally floating through the open windows. A singer was propped on a stool at the front of the room, her guitar balanced on one knee. The crowd wasn’t entirely quiet, but they seemed to be paying attention to her, and from what he could hear, Joe decided they were right to do that. She was good.
He grabbed a longneck out of a tub of ice and passed his money on to the bartender, then found a spot to lean where he could watch. So far he couldn’t see any reason why he shouldn’t have brought MG along—she’d probably have enjoyed it, given that the singer knew what she was doing.
He leaned back to take a swallow, turning his full attention on the stage, and almost choked on his beer.
For a couple of seconds he wasn’t entirely sure it was MG, although in reality there wasn’t too much doubt. She didn’t look like the version of MG he knew. Her green eyes seemed huge, her lips a bright coral. She looked like she was wearing more make-up than usual. Her red-gold hair glowed in the lights. Even her clothes looked like a costume—black jeans, shiny black shirt with red embroidery, white tank underneath. Her hand moved across the guitar in a wild open-handed strum. And then there was her voice.
He’d only heard her sing once, when they’d been dancing. And that hadn’t been singing so much as sort of glorified humming. Now her voice filled the hall. She was singing a song he vaguely recognized, about going back to “my same old used to be.” A couple of people up front were dancing, a kind of slow two-step. MG grinned at them as she sang. Some people in the crowd seemed to be singing along, at least on the choruses.
He stood transfixed, his beer hanging limply from his fingers, trying to figure out what the hell was going on and how he felt about it. If she could do this, why was she raising chickens? Why was she working in his kitchen? Was it all some kind of stupid joke?
He blew out a breath. Maybe she was just starting out. Maybe she’d never performed before. But as he watched her move her fingers over the guitar, he knew that wasn’t true. She knew what she was doing—exactly what she was doing, in fact. She played to the crowd. She handled her guitar like a pro. She was clearly doing something she’d done before, and done lots of times at that.
She was a singer. A very good one.
The song ended and the crowd burst into applause. Someone whistled from the back of
the room and he heard stamping feet. A short guy in a cowboy hat walked out on stage, grinning as he clapped along. “MG Carmody, everybody,” he yelled. “Ain’t she great?”
MG smiled at the crowd and at the short cowboy standing beside her. Something tightened in Joe’s chest.
“She’s gonna be back next week,” the short guy crowed. “Y’all come back and hear her next Saturday night. Now I’m gonna pass that bucket around one more time, and y’all just show her how much you appreciate her music.”
One of the kids who’d been picking up empty beer bottles from the tables reappeared with a galvanized tin bucket. Joe watched the crowd drop in dollar bills and fought the urge to peek at how much the take was. At least she wasn’t performing for free. He pushed himself to his feet and headed for the parking lot, dropping his almost-full beer bottle on a table as he passed.
He found MG’s battered Kia sitting under a light pole in the parking lot. Sooner or later he’d have to try to figure out why the hell Darcy had decided to blow the whistle on her, but at the moment, he needed to talk to her himself. He tried to figure out exactly how he felt right now. Pissed? Hurt?
No, more like confused. Once he got it all sorted out, then he could figure out how else to feel, but right now confused was it.
He leaned back against the car, folding his arms across his chest. He figured it wouldn’t be long before MG finished up her business inside and headed to her car. After all, she had a date tonight.
MG stuffed the roll of bills into her guitar case. She didn’t bother to bring a purse when she played at Dewey’s place, and there was no way she could cram the money into her pocket, not the way these jeans fit.
By a rough count, she’d made around one-fifty tonight. Not bad, although not as much as she’d made in Nashville. Of course, the Nashville kind of money depended on her being able to pretend to be someone else, and it hadn’t lasted very long. Now she needed to figure out how she could go on balancing a career as a singer with a career as a kitchen slave without either falling asleep in the kitchen or being too tired to perform well late at night.
