Book Retreat Mystery 07 - Murder in the Cookbook Nook

by Ellery Adams

  Butterworth flicked a disdainful glance in Sinclair’s direction. “Your use of zoomorphism is unamusing.”

  Sinclair grinned at his longtime friend and colleague. “Come now, Mr. Butterworth. It was meant as a compliment. The bear is a noble creature. In addition to being one of the most intelligent animals, the bear is known for its strength, protectiveness, and devotion to family.”

  Butterworth was about to respond when Sterling’s phone buzzed. “Time to get the bubbly ready, Paddington Bear,” he said. “Ms. Mallett is at the gates.”

  “Really? How do I look?” Jane leaped to her feet and smoothed imaginary wrinkles from her clothes. “Why am I nervous? Is it because I can’t speak in hashtags?”

  Sterling smiled at her. “Don’t worry about that. You’ll make this young lady feel at home. It’s what you do. You make all your guests feel welcome.”

  Butterworth also got to his feet. After giving his blue livery coat a sharp tug, he arched a brow at Jane. “And you’re quite positive that Ms. Mallett will abide by our technology restrictions?”

  “Yes. She signed an agreement stating that her staff would only use cell phones and tablets in the privacy of their rooms or during filming and prescheduled photo shoots. Mia has requested shoots in the kitchen, the Ian Fleming Lounge, Milton’s Gardens, and the Great Gatsby Ballroom.”

  “No reading rooms? What about the Henry James Library?” Sinclair was affronted. “I was under the impression that Ms. Mallett chose Storyton Hall because this season has a literary theme?”

  Jane shrugged. “I’m not privy to any details about the show. All I know is that Mia wanted to film at a posh country estate, and that she fell in love with the photos she saw on our website. According to her assistant, the library and reading rooms will be used to film chef interviews.”

  “I’ve studied Ms. Mallett’s social media accounts. She doesn’t use her celebrity status to promote literature or literacy. Perhaps that will change after her stay,” said Sinclair.

  Jane brightened at the thought. “Yes! She’s sure to realize that Storyton Hall is more than a picturesque mansion. Once she sees that it’s a respite for readers, she might grab a book and have someone photograph her doing what the rest of our guests do.” Recalling some of Mia’s posts, which featured designer clothes, makeup tutorials, and lush photographs of food, Jane’s face fell. “But can I convince a twenty-seven-year-old billionaire that books are the secret to a happy and fulfilling life?”

  “There’s only one way to find out,” said Lachlan, opening the conference room door with a flourish.

  Jane walked to the center of the lobby and took up her customary position in front of the round walnut hall table holding a magnificent floral arrangement comprised of birds-of-paradise, ginger lilies, Santana roses, Bells-of-Ireland, and protea.

  A bellhop opened the front door and Mia’s staff filed in. After accepting glasses of champagne from Butterworth, two of the three twentysomethings began assessing the lobby’s décor.

  “It has a vintage Versailles vibe,” said a young woman with short rose-gold hair. A baby-faced man in a straw fedora with a floral band flicked his wrist in dismissal. “Nah. If Downton Abbey and The Crown were Americans, this would be their summer house. Like the Hamptons, but in Virginia. Instead of water, you get mountains.”

  The woman nodded. “I see that. I can also see Mia coming down that staircase in her gold Versace. Now that’s Leo DiCaprio Great Gatsby level glam.”

  They turned to face each other, and in perfect unison, cried, “Straight fire!”

  Laughing, the pair wandered off to examine another part of the lobby.

  Jane said hello to the third staff member. Like her colleagues, she wore stylish clothes and a full face of makeup. After telling Jane that she was responsible for Mia’s wardrobe, she hurried away to check on the luggage.

  Finally, Mia Mallett walked through the doorway.

  She was a very slim, diminutive young woman with teardrop-shaped brown eyes, radiant skin, and dark brown hair that cascaded over her shoulders in soft waves. She wore a sleeveless white jumpsuit and stiletto sandals.

  As Butterworth bent to offer her champagne, Jane pictured Roald Dahl’s Big Friendly Giant and the sweet little girl Sophie.

  Mia Mallett might have been small in stature, but her smile was wide and winsome. After thanking Butterworth for the champagne, she asked if she should take off her shoes.

  “These heels are super pointy, and I don’t want to damage your floors.”

  How considerate, Jane thought as she moved forward to welcome her famous guest.

  “Ms. Steward!” Mia shook Jane’s hand with enthusiasm. “Wow, has anyone ever told you that you look like Evan Rachel Wood? You have the same creamy complexion and model-perfect posture. Thanks for hosting us. This place is amazing.” She gazed around the lobby, taking in the crystal chandeliers, the grandfather clock, the plush sofas and chairs, and the grand staircase.

  “Would you like to see your rooms?” Jane asked.

  Mia tapped her handbag, a massive Hermès tote that probably cost more than the contents of Jane’s house. “Actually, I was hoping I could pop by the kitchens. I’ll be super quick. I have something for Mrs. Hubbard, and I’m dying to give it to her.”

  A guest bearing gifts? This is a first.

  “Of course. Right this way.” Jane started walking, but when she realized that Mia’s entourage was scurrying over to join them, she stopped and looked to Mia for help.

  Mia winked at Jane and turned to her staff. “I have a personal thing now. Why don’t you get our space situated? And when I come up, we can grab drinks in that fab Ian Fleming Lounge. Cool?”

  Her staff members murmured in congenial agreement and headed for the front desk.

  When they were out of earshot, Mia released a soft sigh. “They’re great, and I couldn’t manage without them, but it’s a drag having to ask for me time. I miss the days when I could choose an outfit or cook a meal without wondering about how many likes I’d get. That’s why it’s been so nice to talk to Mrs. Hubbard. She helped me remember what I love about food. Not just the cooking part. All of it. The shopping, cooking, and plating. The story behind every dish.”

  Jane tried to conceal her astonishment. Mrs. Hubbard had been communicating with Mia Mallett? And she’d managed to keep that a secret? Mrs. Hubbard was terrible at keeping secrets.

  “She’s good at that—reminding people what matters most,” Jane said. “If books are the soul of Storyton Hall, then Mrs. Hubbard is its heart.”

  Normally, Jane would warn her head cook that a VIP wanted to visit her domain, but there was no time. She could only hope that Mrs. Hubbard wasn’t in the middle of a tirade. Her staff knew that she was all bark and no bite, but Jane didn’t want Mia to get the wrong impression.

  Luckily, Mrs. Hubbard was giving a sous chef feedback on his sauce when her esteemed guest walked through the smaller prep kitchen into the larger kitchen.

  The room was a frenzy of aromas and sounds. Steam hissed, sauces bubbled, steaks sizzled, and water gurgled as men and women in aprons chopped, fried, seared, sautéed, grilled, and shouted at one another. Servers hustled in with trays of dirty dishes and left again carrying clean trays loaded with chilled soup, shrimp cocktail, or a salad of summer greens.

  Mrs. Hubbard lowered her tasting spoon and told the sous chef to add a pinch of salt. When he didn’t respond, she followed his starstruck gaze and let out a squeal.

  “Mia Mallett! In my kitchen? After you add that pinch of salt, Jorge, pinch my arm. I must be dreaming.”

  Mia dropped her handbag on a stool and rushed over to hug Mrs. Hubbard.

  Mrs. Hubbard raised her hands in protest. “Oh, honey! I’m filthy and your outfit looks like Swiss meringue!”

  Mia gave Mrs. Hubbard a quick squeeze, stepped back, and pointed at her jumpsuit. “This isn’t the real me. I only look like this because four people won’t let me go outside until I’m photo ready. At home, I w
ear sweats and T-shirts. And aprons. Not that they help. When I cook, I get food everywhere. On my shoes. In my hair. On the ceiling.”

  She and Mrs. Hubbard laughed.

  Mia turned to Jane. “I’ve doubled my followers this year, which doesn’t mean much to people until I explain that my followers donate to the causes I care about. So the more I have, the more we can help other people. But lately, I’ve been so focused on numbers that I lost touch with the chef and food blogger I used to be. Mrs. Hubbard helped me find them again.”

  Jane slung an arm around her head cook’s shoulder. “And what wisdom did you impart, Chef Yoda?”

  “I told her to make a wild, wacky, colorful cake,” said Mrs. Hubbard. “A cake that a child would love. Something magical and silly. I told her to break a lot of eggs and throw the rules out the window. To forget about photos and focus on rainbows and sprinkles.”

  “It totally worked.” Mia grinned. “I made this crazy roller-coaster cake, and it ended up being my most popular post of the year. It went viral within the hour.”

  Jane stared at Mia. “Wait. That’s your cake? With the chocolate cars that go in and out of each tier? And when they get to the erupting volcano top tier, they drop down into a rock candy lake before popping back through the bottom tier again? You created that?”

  Mia beamed. “Yep.”

  “My sons showed me a video of that cake,” Jane said. “I didn’t think it was real.”

  Mia shrugged. “Lots of people thought it was fake. And yeah, it had a few mechanical parts and battery-powered fairy lights, but 90 percent was edible. It was such a blast to bake, which is why I had to thank this lady in person.” Reaching into her handbag, she pulled out a gift-wrapped object and handed it to Mrs. Hubbard. “This is for your collection.”

  “For the cookbook nook?” Mrs. Hubbard asked, her face shining with excitement. “Would you like to see it?”

  When Mia said that she would, Mrs. Hubbard led her past the butler’s pantry, walk-ins, and the staff eating area to a narrow hall. At the next intersection, she turned right, leading Mia into a narrow space containing built-in shelves, a dainty love seat upholstered in floral chintz, a side table with a lamp, and a needlepoint footstool.

  This was Mrs. Hubbard’s hidey-hole. When she needed a break from the chaos of the kitchens, she’d retreat to the cookbook nook. Once there, she’d put up her feet, have a cup of tea, and peruse one of her cherished cookbooks.

  The space was small but cheerful. The combination of butter-yellow walls and white shelves filled with antique dishes, teapots, and books gave the room a homey feel.

  “Wow,” breathed Mia.

  Her admiration sounded sincere, and when Mrs. Hubbard opened her gift, revealing both volumes of Mastering the Art of French Cooking, Jane liked Mia all the more for putting such a huge smile on Mrs. Hubbard’s face.

  “There’s another surprise inside the first volume,” Mia said.

  Mrs. Hubbard looked like she might burst from happiness. “Sweet heavens! It’s signed by Simone Beck and Julia Child! This is too much. I can’t accept these just for giving you a bit of friendly advice.”

  Mia walked over to the shelves and carefully relocated a Wedgwood Jasperware teapot. “Looks like you have room for them right here.”

  Knowing it would be ungracious to protest further, Mrs. Hubbard slid the books into the space. Stepping back to admire them, she said, “Oh, my dear. I hope you can have more roller-coaster cake moments while you’re at Storyton Hall.”

  Though her smile didn’t waver, doubt flashed in Mia’s eyes. “I hope so too.”

  As Mrs. Hubbard showed their guest her prized first-edition cookbooks, Jane noticed that Mia sparkled less brightly than she had a few minutes ago. Was she tired? Worried?

  She’s a beautiful billionaire. What could a woman like that have to worry about?

  As Jane escorted Mia back through the kitchens, flames shot out from a sauté pan. They were gone almost as soon as they appeared, but Jane still quickened her pace. She didn’t want to see any more fires today.

  Does Mia know about the arson?

  On the elevator to the third floor, Jane decided to broach the subject. “I don’t know if you heard, but there was a fire near the tent today.”

  “Yeah. Ty sent me pics,” Mia said, unfazed by the event. “I’m kind of relieved because he wanted to shoot the opening outside, but I don’t. The winner of this competition gets a line of cookware named after them and a cookbook deal, so I want this season to open with a regular person following a recipe. A family recipe like the one I got from my nonna. That’s my Italian grandma. My Thai grandma wrote her recipes on cards and added little drawings to each one. Recipes will mean more to our viewers than a staged picnic scene.”

  The elevator stopped, and the doors whispered open.

  As Mia stepped out of the cab, Jane said, “I love your idea. You could even have a child in the kitchen. A budding young chef learning a recipe.”

  “From a grandparent!” Mia put her hand to her heart. “Those connections are really important. They were to me. I learned about Thai, Italian, Croatian, and French food from my grandparents. I bet every chef in this competition can name the family member who taught them about food. Well, almost every chef. There’s one who only says nice things about himself.”

  When the door started to slide shut, Jane stuck her foot out to keep them open. If Mia disliked a chef, Jane wanted to hear about it.

  She asked, “How well do you know the contestants?”

  “I’ve met three of them before, so I know them well enough. The other three I know more by reputation. I can tell a lot about people by how they treat Bentley, my assistant. A certain chef has been super rude to her—and to me—in the past. I hope he’s evolved since then.” For a second, she looked concerned, but then she smiled and said, “I’d better put my party dress on.”

  “And I have to don my apron and figure out how to make spinach irresistible to my sons.”

  “Do they like spaghetti and meatballs?” Mia asked. At Jane’s nod, she went on. “Replace the meatballs with fried spinach balls. I’ll text you a recipe.”

  By the time Jane crossed the Great Lawn and entered the former hunting lodge that was now her home, Mia had sent three recipes. In addition to the fried spinach balls, there were also recipes for crispy fried spinach and spinach dip served with carrot stars.

  Her final text said, I love using dip to get kids to eat their veggies. Hide a different veggie (like a radish slice) at the bottom of the dip bowl and make your sons guess what it is. They’ll be so focused on finding the mystery food that they won’t notice how fast they’re eating their veggies!

  Jane made the spinach dip and hid an olive at the bottom of the bowl. The twins loved the game and the dip so much that they asked if they could have it again the next night.

  Later, as Jane settled down on the sofa with a glass of wine and Notes from a Young Black Chef, the memoir she’d be discussing with her book club in a few days, she wondered how she could thank Mia for her thoughtfulness. Not only had she gotten Fitz and Hem to devour spinach, but she’d also brought joy to Mrs. Hubbard—a woman who devoted herself to others’ happiness.

  And then, an idea struck her. Smiling to herself, she reached for her phone.

  “Your timing couldn’t have been better,” Edwin said by way of greeting. “I was just about to murder a Posh Palate contestant. Have you met the chefs?”

  “I said hello to four of them when they checked in, but I was tied up when Chef Michel and Chef Pierce arrived.”

  “Chef Pierce.” Edwin’s tone was scornful. “What an insufferable cad. If he weren’t your guest, I’d have tossed him out on the sidewalk before he could put his napkin on his lap. You know me, Jane. I can handle prickly customers. You can’t last in the restaurant business if you get upset every time customers complain about the number of ice cubes in their water glass or the presence of bones in their Korean short rib dish, but I’ve neve
r wanted to stuff a napkin down a customer’s throat until tonight.”

  Jane took a fortifying swig of wine before asking, “Did Chef Pierce complain about your food?”

  “Indirectly. He masks his insults as questions. For example, he asked one of the female chefs if she thought yellow was a good color for her. Considering she was wearing a yellow blouse, she obviously liked the shade. I bet she never wears that shirt again.”

  Jane drank more wine. “What else?”

  “He asked Chef August if he thought the color of his skin was the main reason he’d been invited to the competition. Chef August is Black.”

  Jane was too shocked to reply.

  “Chef August turned it around by asking Chef Pierce the same question. Instead of apologizing or backing down, the oaf launched into a monologue about the oppression of the straight white male, which I immediately interrupted by announcing the daily specials.”

  “I almost hate to ask, but what did Chef Pierce say to you?”

  “He wanted to know if my Ethiopian spicy fish stew was flavored with cayenne pepper or berbere. He then had the gall to ask if I’d ever heard of berbere.”

  Since the word was unfamiliar to Jane, she said as much.

  “Berbere is an Ethiopian spice,” Edwin explained. “The dish wouldn’t be authentic without it. Implying that I’d used a substitute was an insult, as was the implication that I was too backwoods to know about the spice in the first place.”

  “I’m sorry, Edwin. He sounds like a total jerk. I feel terrible for the other chefs too. Is Chef Pierce ruining their meal?”

  Edwin said, “No, thank goodness. After the entrees were served, Pierce and that Botoxed director started talking movies. That left the rest of the party free to eat, drink, and be merry. But if I want them to stay merry, I should get back out there. Otherwise, Magnus might serve Pierce a small bowl of chocolate mousse with a large dollop of cyanide. Call you later.”

  After wishing Edwin luck, Jane put down her phone and carried her empty wineglass to the kitchen for a refill.

  As she listened to the glug, glug of the wine moving from the bottle to her glass, she wondered why Mia Mallett had invited such a distasteful person to be on her show. And then, she remembered what the director had said earlier that day.