Let Them Eat Stake: A Vampire Chef Novel

by Sarah Zettel

  “Sounds like he’s trying to up his fee.”

  “He returned his fee.”

  “Oh.” I sipped coffee while the gears in my head ground hard to keep up with this new conversational turn. Part of the reason Oscar was so successful was that he was an Olympic-level penny pincher. “What about his staff? He must have a sous who…”

  “He told them he’d fire them all if they took over the job.”

  This was hardly reasonable, but at least it sounded like the Oscar Simmons I knew. “And you’ve really got no idea what brought this on?”

  “I swear, Charlotte. I’ve tried to find out, but no one will tell me anything.” Felicity leaned toward me, and I realized at some point in our conversation she’d stopped blinking. “This was supposed to be the biggest paranormal event since the vampires came out of the coffin. Now, the client’s talking about postponing, the bride’s talking about eloping, I’ve got no caterer and only ten days until the zero hour. You have got to help me.”

  “Felicity, I don’t know. Nightlife’s on shaky ground, and I haven’t got a full staff…”

  “Did I mention the hundred thousand dollars?”

  “That’s the food budget?”

  “That’s your fee.”

  It was a long moment before I could answer, because I had to concentrate all my energies on not leaping to my feet, or starting to drool. Felicity clearly found hope in my hesitation. She was blinking again, and color returned to her ravaged face. She was also jumping to conclusions, probably fueled by rapid caffeine intake. Something was missing in her story. It poked at me like a pinbone under my fingertips.

  “Felicity, tell me what this job entails. Exactly.”

  “Wedding day catering includes breakfast and lunch buffets, hors d’oeuvres, a sit-down five-course dinner, plated dessert, plus the cake. Besides that, you come out to the house and act as personal chef for the family and guests until the wedding.”

  I let all this sink in next to the internal spreadsheet all executive chefs carry deep within them.

  “One hundred thousand,” said Felicity again. “Over and above the budget for food and staff. Pure profit after taxes. You can plow it all straight into Nightlife.”

  I took a deep breath. “Felicity?”

  She leaned forward. “Yes?”

  “Two hundred thousand.”

  2

  This was how I found myself in a cab hurtling through the early-evening traffic, headed for Brooklyn Heights.

  I love Brooklyn. Brooklyn has texture, flavor, and color, and you shouldn’t turn your back on it for too long, because it will get up to something. A quick smartphone-aided Google on the address Felicity rattled off for the cab driver got me a real estate listing talking about the beauty of the “double-width Italianate mansion in the heart of one of the city’s most historic neighborhoods.” It left out the part about most snooty. Brooklyn Heights has families that re-member President Roosevelt back when he was still Little Frankie.

  All of this made me very glad I’d taken the time to grab a clean jacket.

  Felicity and I were not alone when we climbed out of the taxi in front of the sprawling brownstone. Much to Felicity’s consternation, I’d insisted we stop on the way and pick up another member of my team. Marie Alamedos—better known to one and all as Marie-Our-Pastry-Chef—stepped out of the cab with all the dignity of the Queen Mother stepping down from a carriage.

  In a kitchen well stocked with short, round women, Marie’s the shortest, the roundest, and the oldest. Her third grandkid had been born just six weeks earlier, but if you met her in a dark alley, you’d never peg her as anybody’s adoring abuelita. At sixty-five, she has arms like a longshoreman from hefting sacks of flour and masses of dough. Her jaw and neck are scarred down the right side from the time she took a direct hit with a spray of hot sugar. Years of watching apprentices has given her black eyes the hard glitter of a security guard at Kennedy airport. At the same time, concert pianists would sell their souls on eBay to have the delicacy and precision in her fingers.

  And, believe me, if Marie Alamedos ever gets called “the Cakeinator,” it happens where she can’t hear.

  Marie did not wear kitchen whites. She wore a black knit twinset and a single strand of matched pink pearls. With her personal portfolio tucked under her arm, she nodded to me and Felicity.

  “I am ready.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Alamedos.” Now that Felicity had an answer to her crisis, the Hysteric had been given her pink slip and a swift kick. The Felicity in front of us was smooth and sophisticated, and she didn’t waver even slightly as she mounted the broad steps of the brownstone mansion to ring the bell. Marie walked up beside her, equally at home. I, on the other hand, looked at the stained-glass fan light, the carved wooden doors, and the ornamented window frames, and tried not to feel as if I should be headed for the servant’s entrance.

  The door was opened by a tall, rail-thin woman in a neat black work dress.

  “Good afternoon, Ms. Lyons,” said Felicity. “Mrs. Alden’s expecting us.”

  “She’s in the living room.” Ms. Lyons’s gaze slid past Felicity to assess my and Marie’s status relative to the rest of the people in her house. “Wipe your feet. I just finished the mopping.”

  Marie narrowed her eyes. The effect was a little like a laser scope finding its target. Ms. Lyons narrowed hers back. I swear I heard that clack-clack sound you get in the movies when somebody’s working the pump action on a shotgun.

  I wiped my feet.

  Ms. Lyons led us up an oak staircase that would have done Scarlett O’Hara proud, down a narrow hall, and into a living room roughly the size of Nightlife’s entire dining area. Everything from the original artwork on the stark white walls to the Victorian-era mahogany furniture looked down on you from the perch of well-aged money. A tidy line of bell jars decorated a black marble mantelpiece, each covering a single antique; a gold knot work necklace studded with garnets, a silver pocket watch, a wrist cuff of etched bronze, and, at the far end, a tiny, oddly delicate-looking silver pistol.

  In the middle of it all sat a woman who could only be the mistress of the house. Felicity walked over immediately to shake her hand. “Mrs. Alden. As you can see, we have our new catering team.” With professional smiles all around, Felicity made the introductions.

  “How do you do, Chef Caine?” Mrs. Alden held out her perfectly kempt hand to me. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”

  It takes practice to achieve perfect simplicity of appearance, and Mrs. Alden had clearly put in her time. Not one detail was out of place, from her neatly coiffed black hair to her lavender twinset, tailored white slacks, and pristine white designer flats. She looked so much as if she’d been custom created for the house around her that I got this strange idea that if you took her out of there, she’d start to wilt. That, however, didn’t last past her handshake. As I met my new client’s blue eyes, I saw the other thing that comes to cool, poised, refined and elegant women of a certain income bracket—resolve. I also got a strong shiver of déjà vu.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Alden, but have we met?”

  Mrs. Alden gave me a long look before she replied, because she was the kind of woman who liked to be sure before she spoke. “I don’t believe so. I’m certain I would have remembered.”

  But her voice hit the DéJà VU button as hard as her eyes.

  “Thank you, Trudy,” she added over my shoulder. Trudy? The tall woman behind me didn’t look like a Trudy, but then, she didn’t look like a housekeeper either. She looked like an ex-Rockette who’d let her hair go gray and her attitude go bad. At that moment, she also didn’t look as if she really wanted to leave.

  “Oh, terrific, you’re here!” The words were accompanied by thudding footsteps coming down the Scarlett O’Hara stairs. The girl who owned them breezed into the living room. “Sorry I’m late!”

  “Hello, darling,” Mrs. Alden murmured. “Deanna, this is Chef Caine and Chef Alamedos.”

/>   “Fantastic!” Deanna grabbed my hand with both of hers and squeezed, flashing the square-cut diamond engagement ring straight at me. “Gabriel and I have been to Nightlife, you know. The food was fantastic. It is just so freakin’ awesome you’re here!”

  The bride-to-be had gotten her coloring from someone other than her mother. Deanna had an untidy mane of mahogany brown hair and deep brown eyes. Her skin was the kind that tanned to an even gold, leaving those of us prone to imitating lobsters every summer seething in envy. But there was a pallor beneath her natural warmth, and dark rings around her eyes. I didn’t have to try to sneak a look beneath the fold of her turquoise cowl-neck top to know she’d have the distinctive, two-puncture mark that got called the “red hickey.”

  Note to self: orange juice and cookies for the bride.

  “So now we know everything’s going to be all right.” Deanna plopped onto the love seat. “I mean, up until now it’s been, like, this total disaster!”

  Mrs. Alden smiled with bland disapproval, and Deanna rolled her eyes. “You said the same this morning, Mother, and you were right.”

  Total disaster? Something’s gone wrong besides Oscar Simmons? But Felicity trained a laserlike glare on me in case I was tempted to step out of line and ask personal questions.

  The bride wasn’t pausing for breath in any case. “I’d be just as happy with something small, but Gabriel wants to have the big show.” As she spoke her fiancé’s name, Deanna filled with that special, misty sort of glow, that one that says the person has already passed corny-as-Kansas-in-August and is headed straight for high-as-a-flag-on-the-Fourth- of-July. It was the cue for a fond mother to smile indulgently, but Mrs. Alden just looked gracefully weary.

  “Perhaps we can get started?” Felicity gestured me and Maria to chairs and took up her position at Mrs. Alden’s side. Deanna curled her knees up under her chin.

  “So”—I pulled the rubber band off my battered kitchen notebook and flipped it open—“I understand there are nine people dining regularly at the residence at the moment, both dayblood and nightblood?”

  “Yes,” answered Mrs. Alden. “Myself, my husband, Deanna, of course, Karina…oh no, not Karina…” I felt Felicity’s gaze leaning hard on me. You’re not going to ask, it said. You are not even going to silently think about asking. “And two of the bridesmaids, Lois Markham and Peridot Shane-West.” Peridot Shane-West. Nobody should do that to a helpless infant. “Then there’s Gabriel, and his father…”

  “Sire,” Deanna corrected her.

  “Sire,” agreed Mrs. Alden. “Henri Renault, and the best man, Jacques. They’re staying with us until the wedding.”

  I scribbled down the nightblood names. Her ankles neatly crossed, Marie sat up straight on the edge of her chair, looking over us all as if we were unsatisfactory students at her finishing school, but I knew her mind was working through the situation methodically. Designing a menu for French vampires and very rich New Yorkers would present a world of challenges. We were all going to be earning our pay here.

  “And the wedding itself?” I turned a page. “Ms. Garnett said you were expecting five hundred…?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “And the event space is…”

  “The Carriger Hall,” said Felicity.

  I made a note. “Mel Kopekne’s still the manager there, isn’t he?” Mel and I were both refugees from the west side of the state. “He puts on a fantastic event.”

  “That’s why we’re using him,” said Mrs. Alden loftily. “Now, as for the food. I have the menu Oscar Simmons planned for us.” Mrs. Alden opened a folder on the end table and handed me a printout. I looked at it and had to struggle to keep my jaw from falling open.

  This was the best you could do? This?

  “Kinda sucks, doesn’t it?” Deanna yawned hugely.

  It kinda sucked? According to Oscar, the wedding of the decade was going to eat smoked salmon, beef tenderloin, spring vegetable medley, chocolate torte, and a selection of raw sauces. It was a menu you could get from any wet-behind-the-ears private chef pulled down at random off Craigslist.

  “You went over this with Oscar…Chef Simmons? Was there an issue with…tradition?” Some people do not like any food perceived as “too fancy,” even when they’re paying four-star prices for it.

  “No.” Mrs. Alden was clearly struggling to keep her voice calm. “As a matter of fact, when he presented this to us, we were…surprised would be putting it mildly. He said he had been informed that this was to be the menu and that he would not stand for being constantly…”

  “Jerked around,” said Deanna darkly. “Except I don’t think that was what he was going to say at first. Anyhow, when we wouldn’t play, he stormed off.”

  “And you have no idea where this came from?” I thought about the mountain of money, the wealth of PR, and the glorious challenge of providing the food for this kind of wedding. I thought about Oscar’s imperial-sized ego and the overhead at his restaurant, Perception, which was so close to that fourth star we all craved. It just didn’t add up.

  “I did ask a few questions,” said Mrs. Alden. “I must confess that not everyone in my family is happy with this wedding. There has been the possibility of…foolishness.”

  “No one’s admitted to anything.” At first I thought it was just my imagination that supplied a whiff of smoke behind Deanna’s words. Then I saw the white vapor leaking out of the bride’s fingertips.

  “Deanna,” murmured Mrs. Alden. Deanna glanced at her smoldering fingertips as if checking out a chip in her nail polish, and shook her hand. The smoke dissipated. So, the bride was in fact a witch—one with control issues. Good to know.

  “What Mother’s trying not to tell you is Karina, my sister, is one of the ‘not happy’ people”—Deanna paused to make the air quotes—“and she’s perfectly capable of screwing—”

  “I’ve spoken with Karina,” Mrs. Alden said, cutting her daughter off. “And she had nothing to do with Chef Simmons’s departure.”

  “Well, she lied to you. As usual.” The shrug and its accompanying slump spoke of years spent refining the sulking skills.

  “That’s enough,” Mrs. Alden informed us all, and it would have taken more nerve than I possessed to contradict her.

  I must have telegraphed my readiness to ask another question, because Felicity spoke up, her words rich with meaning and import.

  “So, Chef Caine, what are your thoughts on altering the menu?”

  There was only one possible answer to that. With deliberate motions, I tore the printout into strips. Felicity stared at me, horrified, but Deanna applauded. I handed the strips to the bride-to-be. Deanna—sulk averted—let the pieces rain down into a wastepaper basket.

  Now that we had Deanna firmly on our side, Marie leaned forward, ready to hook us Mrs. Alden.

  “How very trying this has all been for you, señora,” my pastry chef murmured to the mother of the bride, urging her to confide, matron-to-matron. “If this is the dinner menu, I can only imagine what an embarrassment the proposal for the cake must have been.”

  I did not imagine the flash of relief behind Mrs. Alden’s eyes.

  “The cake was totally pathetic, that’s what the cake was,” growled Deanna. “It was about eight miles past tacky and…”

  “We do not need to discuss the cake,” said Mrs. Alden. “Not the previous cake.”

  “No, no, of course not, señora.” Marie’s English is actually better than mine, except when she’s being soothing. “We will make it gone. Dismissed entirely. Now, por favor, you might look at these.” Marie opened her portfolio, pulled out three sketches, and laid them on the coffee table. “We will, of course, make adjustments depending upon Señorita Alden’s choice of colors and flowers.”

  I was going to have to give Marie a raise. No glitzy, contest-style cakes had been allowed in there. These were stately creations, festooned with flowers and ribbons in delicate pastel shades. The best of all was a white-on-white cake
with oval tiers, piping like antique lace, and a single perfect, peach-colored lily lying at the base as if it had been left behind from the bride’s bouquet.

  That was the one Mrs. Alden picked up. She passed the sketch to Deanna, who gave a little shriek. “Oh. Em. Gee! That is awesome!” To emphasize this, she whipped out a smartphone and snapped a picture. “I’ve got to show Peri and Lo!” Her thumbs flew across the keyboard. For the moment, the rest of us ceased to exist.

  “Can you do this? In time?” Mrs. Alden asked Marie. Marie gave me a long, sideways, she’s-mine-now kind of glance and straightened her shoulders.

  “Unfortunately, with the plated dessert and other aspects of the dinner, I’d require extra staff…”

  “Whatever you think you will need.” Mrs. Alden gazed raptly at the sketch. “There’s some room in the budget still, isn’t there, Felicity?” Felicity was making notes on her BlackBerry, and I could practically hear the cash register ring.

  “Thank you, señora. I will do my very best for you.” Marie smiled. Now she also knew I had to give her a raise. “We will schedule a tasting as soon as possible.” Deanna gave a thumbs-up to this without looking away from her phone.

  “When can you start?” said Mrs. Alden, looking from Felicity to me. “The out-of-town members of the wedding party are arriving Saturday. We’re supposed to be having a welcome dinner, and absolutely nothing is done. It’s a mixed party…”

  “There’ll be vampires,” translated Deanna a shade too quickly. “Gabriel, Jacques and Henri, and some friends. Say fifteen all together.”

  “Any allergies I should know about? Any particular preferences?”

  “Something simple?” said Mrs. Alden. “My husband might appreciate a nice steak…”

  Which settled the question of whom I was going to bring in to back me up on this job. For a beef-loving household, I needed Reese.