The Gourmet Girl Mysteries, Volume 1

by Jessica Conant-Park

  “Hello, Ms. Carter.” Noah grinned saucily.

  “Hello, asshole.” I kept walking. Noah showed no reaction to my usual greeting. I probably wasn’t the only woman who said hello to him that way.

  “I didn’t realize you were around,” he said. “My friend is parked in your space, but she’s leaving in a minute anyhow.” He flipped the paper over and let out a contented sigh obviously meant to suggest satisfaction with his morning romp.

  “Of course she is. God forbid she hang around too long, right? Tell her to move it now, or I’ll have her towed to Quincy.” I got to my back door and fumbled for my key. “Aren’t you supposed to be at work?” I yelled down at him.

  “Day off,” he called back.

  So I’d had a crappy night and crappy morning. Big deal, right? I’d spend the rest of the day in domestic bliss, baking away and listening to music.

  I walked into my living room to catch my cat, Gato, peeing in my yucca plant. “Get out of there, you freak!” I shouted at him. He finished his business, stared grumpily at me, and hopped off to find other mischief. Ah, domestic bliss.

  I turned on the oven and dumped the hazelnuts onto a baking sheet. First, you roast them, and then you peel off the skins. I set out the rest of my ingredients and put the store-bought piecrust into the oven to brown. I couldn’t be bothered to make my own piecrust, and the ready-made was always better than my homemade, anyhow. I changed into comfortable sweats and big fuzzy socks and pretended it was a cold New England winter day. I was grateful there wasn’t a bitter ice storm raging outside, but a gentle snowfall would’ve felt more festive than this unseasonable warmth.

  I mixed up the filling for the tart and tried to think about something other than that pain in the ass, Hannah, who was clearly going to keep running after Josh. He just wasn’t mean enough to tell her to buzz off and stay out of his life. In fact, he wasn’t mean at all. I, on the other hand, could tell her to go to hell, but I couldn’t exactly spend twenty-four hours a day driving her away from my boyfriend. And as long as she was caught up in Oliver’s murder, she’d take advantage of Josh’s kindness to try to lure him back into her life. Not that he’d fall for it, I assured myself. But I didn’t need the aggravation.

  Stupid Hannah, I thought. I measured out a third of a cup of corn syrup and whisked it in with the eggs. Was she officially a suspect? I hadn’t even asked if she’d been fingerprinted, and I’d been too busy launching produce into her cart to notice whether her hands were covered in ink. Anyway, she’d probably washed her hands. Had anyone else been taken to the police station along with Hannah? Gavin hadn’t spent much time in the gallery last night, but he still struck me as a good suspect. Although he had outbid the Full Moon Group for Simmer’s location, maybe he’d wanted to make sure that the group wouldn’t remain a threat; with one partner dead, the Full Moon Group’s ability to compete with him was weakened, wasn’t it? On the other hand, when Oliver was alive, Gavin had already had what he wanted: the ideal Newbury Street location for a restaurant that was about to open.

  I pulled the browned piecrust and the hazelnuts out of the oven, spread the nuts between two dishcloths, and rubbed them around to peel off the skins. These were exceptionally big hazelnuts, and, as I realized when I peeked under the top dish towel, they’d already been skinned. Dummy, I said to myself. I threw half of them into the blender and pulsed the machine to chop them coarsely. The chopping created quite a racket, and I worried that the blender would overheat and start emitting smoke signals. I didn’t remember such a violent noise erupting the last time I’d used it, but if this blender was on the fritz, I’d have a good excuse to buy a new, fancier one! I transferred the hazelnuts to the bowl with the other ingredients, mixed everything, poured the whole mess into the pie shell, put it onto a baking sheet, and gently carried the wobbly tart to the oven. I set the timer and started to clean the kitchen. Josh always cleaned as he cooked, whereas I usually made a disaster of the kitchen and ended up having to scrub every surface. This time, I was trying to follow his lead.

  Has Hannah called a lawyer? I wondered, as I loaded my tiny dishwasher. Maybe a lawyer could solve all my problems with her. He could advise her not to discuss the case with anyone—especially ex-boyfriends. Why were the police so interested in her, anyhow? And what had she been doing at the back of the gallery last night? Why had she even been near Eliot’s office? Had she been demanding even more expensive living accommodations from Oliver? And when he refused, she’d clunked him over the head with a Robocoupe?

  I curled up on the couch and tried to distract myself with DVD episodes from season four of 24. When the timer went off, I pulled the tart out of the oven and admired its golden color. The smell was so yummy that I couldn’t resist pulling a small chunk of hazelnut goo off the top. I mean, I had to test it before serving, right?

  Something was horribly wrong.

  I bit down and practically cracked a tooth. Why were these hazelnuts so hard? Instead of a lovely, tender bite, I had just chomped down on what felt like bits of rock. I stared at my beautiful hazelnut tart in disbelief. What a complete idiot I was! No wonder the hazelnuts had looked so big!

  I had not removed the shells.

  I had chopped up and baked goddamn shells.

  My ridiculous error was clearly Hannah’s fault. If I hadn’t been so busy figuring out how to get rid of that fool, I’d never have made such a stupid mistake. I threw the tart into the garbage.

  What if I had gone ahead and proudly served the shell tart to Josh and my family? I’d have been mortified. Thank God I was alone and could simply make a new one.

  At least I had enough hazelnuts … if not enough common sense.

  SEVEN

  Josh picked me up that night, and we spent the ten-minute drive to my parents’ house in Newton trying to catch up. I confessed everything about the Hannah fiasco except the unflattering details about vegetable warfare.

  “I’m sorry you had to deal with her. She really wasn’t this bad when I was with her. I’m not even sure what I saw in her, but I guess sometimes you just end up in relationships and don’t even know how you got there.” We rode up a hill on Commonwealth Avenue and drove past the deserted Boston College campus and into Newton. “Thank you for taking care of her, Chloe. I really appreciate that. I won’t forget my cell phone again, I promise.” Josh winked at me.

  Adrianna and Owen, together with Heather and Ben and their kids, Walker and Lucy, were already at my parents’ Spanish-style house at the top of Farlow Road. “Whose car is that?” I pointed to a beat-up blue Chevy parked behind Adrianna’s car.

  “Snacker is here!” Josh’s face lit up. Snacker’s real name was Jason, but like most of Josh’s friends, he’d acquired a nickname that obliterated the need for an actual real name. Josh’s new sous chef, Snacker, had been visiting his family in Colorado for Christmas, so he had a lot of catching up to do in Simmer’s kitchen to get ready for the opening, which was only two days away. Snacker and Josh had gone to culinary school together, and Snacker had spent the past few years traveling from chef job to chef job all over the country. He’d been in Florida, Atlanta, Saint Thomas, Hawaii, and Seattle, among other places, and Josh had convinced him to come to Simmer and settle down for a while. Somehow, Josh and Stein were going to squeeze Snacker into their little apartment in Jamaica Plain.

  “I can’t believe he showed up!” Josh said excitedly. “He called the restaurant this morning and said he might not make it to the city by tonight. I told him where we’d be, though, in case he made it.”

  I’d never met Snacker and was happy finally to meet one of Josh’s best friends. We walked into the living room and were hit by the smell of fir. My parents (well, more specifically, my mother) had done their usual excessive holiday decorations. Once again this year, my mother had somehow managed to cram three Christmas trees into the house, each absolutely covered in tiny white pearl lights. Curly willow that she’d grown in their big garden last summer had been dried out, and
the stems were wrapped in thin red ribbon and arranged in silver vases throughout the house. Garlands with ornaments were draped across every available space, and candles were nestled in nooks throughout the room. No matter how overdone, the house always looked magical at the holidays, especially because the need to make room for Christmas decorations forced my mother to remove her vile little crafts projects from the walls. She suffered from some terrible affliction that caused her to knit, crochet, glue gun, and weave weird-looking materials into weirder-looking crafts projects that were prominently displayed on the walls of the otherwise lovely house. I was particularly relieved to see that her hand-painted birdhouses had been hidden away.

  Everyone was gathered by the fireplace in the living room.

  “There’s my friend Josh!” A dark-haired guy in his late twenties rose from his chair and threw his arms around Josh. Josh hugged Snacker back, a big grin on his face. Wow, Snacker was pretty cute! Tall and muscular, with olive skin and … not that I was looking.

  Even Adrianna, who rarely took a second look at anyone but Owen, seemed to notice how hot he was. Ade removed her lavender mohair cardigan to reveal a simple, sleeveless black dress. As usual, she looked like she’d just come off of a Vogue photo shoot; her blonde hair cascaded onto her shoulders in soft waves, her nails were manicured, and a hint of makeup highlighted her natural beauty. There was a tiny, evil part of me that hated her for looking so damn gorgeous all the time.

  “Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad,” I said, giving them each hugs. My parents both looked half their age, cause to hope that I had a genetic predilection for a youthful appearance. Mom had pulled her hair back with a ribboned barrette I’d made for her at camp fifteen years ago, and Dad wore pressed jeans with sharp creases. Thank God I had Adrianna in my life to counteract the defective fashion gene that ran rampant in my family.

  I greeted everyone and then scooped up my adorable nephew, Walker. “Hi, buddy.” I spun him around and then hung him upside down, a trick that never failed to make him laugh.

  “Is he going to throw up?” Adrianna asked over Walker’s giggles.

  I laughed at her horrified face. Adrianna thought of children the way most people thought of nuclear bombs. “No, he’s not going to throw up. But if he does, I’ll be sure to aim him in your direction.”

  She moved her feet out of the way.

  “Come on, Ade.” Owen snuggled up to her on the couch. “He’s a cute little guy. Aren’t you, little man?” Owen was dressed in his usual quirky attire. As fashion-forward as Adrianna was, she had somehow paired up with the most fashion-backward guy. Tonight, Owen was clad in bright red pants and a matching jacket over a T-shirt I recognized. It was unfortunately emblazoned with the words Beaver Liquors. I hoped he’d keep the buttons on his coat done up. With his ruffled black hair and blue eyes, he was as adorable as ever, even with the inappropriate shirt.

  Walker marched sternly over to Owen. “I’m not a man, and I’m not little. I’m a boy. I’m three, and I have a penis. Want to see?”

  “Walker!” Ben lurched out of his seat in time to stop his son from yanking down his Jimmy Neutron underpants. “Sorry, guys. He’s been interested in, well, his manhood, so to speak.” Ben looked down at Walker. “Kiddo, remember how we talked about the fact that some things are private? This is one of those things.”

  “You have a penis, though.”

  I seriously thought Adrianna might faint.

  An hour and a half later, everyone except Walker was seated at the dining room table. He was in the living room watching Thomas the Tank Engine and eating macaroni and cheese.

  “I can’t believe I have a child that won’t eat anything interesting,” Heather complained as she returned to the table after checking on her son.

  “Ha!” My mother said to the rest of us. “This from a child who drove me crazy the year she was eight and would only eat Middle Eastern food! I sent her to school every day with baba ghanoush and tabbouleh rolled in pita. He’ll grow out of it, Heather. You did. Pretty soon he’ll be demanding you make him Armenian food every day for lunch.”

  Despite the garish and unappetizing porcelain elves that occupied most of the dining space, my parents’ guests enjoyed the delicious dinner: pork loin stuffed with fresh apricots and sage, sautéed spinach, and roasted fingerling potatoes. Josh had advised them on the menu for tonight, but they were both excellent cooks in their own right.

  “Who needs more wine?” my dad asked everyone.

  “Not for me,” Heather said sadly. “One more month of nursing, and I’m done,” she sighed. Lucy was in her lap at the table, passed out asleep after nursing for what seemed like hours. “Eight months of this is more than enough, right?” She looked around for reassurance.

  “Absolutely,” Ben said, leaning over to kiss her on the cheek. “You’ve done great.”

  “So, to Josh and Snacker!” My mother raised her wineglass. “Best of luck with your new job.” We all drank to their success. “So, now, tell us everything. Is the menu set? Is the kitchen finished? Are you both going to become rich and famous and start your own television show?”

  Josh laughed. “Well, I don’t know about rich. I had to take a small pay cut from my last job to work at Simmer.” Heather gave me a knowing look, and I willed her not to say anything. “But,” Josh continued, “it’s costing Gavin a fortune to renovate this place. And he did a stupid thing, which is to pay his contractor by the day instead of getting a price for the entire job. He’s getting royally screwed, if you ask me. But at least, as of today, we have electricity, and the stoves and all the other equipment are hooked up and working.”

  Heather adjusted Lucy in her lap and reached for her water glass. “I would’ve thought any chef job on Newbury Street would guarantee a high salary.” Heather had the nerve to act all innocent while pointedly criticizing Josh’s career!

  “You’d think, huh?” Josh wasn’t easily thrown by my sister. “Once the restaurant starts doing regular business and making money, Gavin is going to give me bonuses every three to four months based on my food cost. If I keep that under control, I’ll get a percentage of the profits. And once Simmer takes off, which I’m sure it will, I’ll get a raise.”

  “Really?” I said, surprised. “I didn’t know that. That’s excellent. Do you have everything in writing?” Naomi had taught me the importance of a paper trail in practically everything you did. I noticed my mother glaring at Heather and me for discussing money at the table, behavior she found rude and classless.

  “Nah.” Josh shook his head, evidently not minding our lack of manners. “Chefs don’t usually have contracts and formal arrangements, unless they’re working for a larger corporate facility, like a hotel or a chain restaurant. Gavin is a good guy, though, and he’s got the attitude that if he does well, I do well, too. He knows what I can do for Simmer, and he’s going to keep me happy. But I have to earn his respect. I can’t just ask for too much without proving myself. It’s an investment. I take a pay cut now, and it’ll come back to me later. But the food is all mine, and he’s trusted me to pick out everything from the kitchen equipment to the plates and serving dishes. Not that I could do this without Snacker, though.” He and his friend did some mysterious little handshake that involved funny finger waves accompanied by what sounded like yodeling.

  “When you were interviewing with Gavin, did you have to cook for him?” my dad asked. “Or did you just show him your résumé and old menus from other jobs?”

  “No, I had to audition. Some employers will hire you without having you cook, but that always makes me worry about what kind of place it is. Most restaurant owners have you audition with a mystery box.”

  “What’s a mystery box?” Ben scooped the sleeping Lucy from his wife, who had been struggling to transfer food to her mouth while holding the baby in both hands. I gestured to Ben to hand the little bundle over to me. I needed a good baby fix once in a while, and there was nothing like holding a warm, blissful sleeping baby. I snuggled Lucy in my ar
ms and gave her a soft kiss on her forehead.

  “Oooh, I know what a mystery box is!” piped up Adrianna, who’d been unusually quiet tonight. “That’s where they put secret ingredients together for you to use in dishes. You have to use whatever’s in there, even if it’s gizzards or something, right?”

  “You got it,” smiled Snacker. “Tell ’em what you had, Josh!”

  “Oh, God, it was a weird mix. Pumpkinseed oil, a whole leg of lamb, a whole salmon, foie gras, veal cheeks, and something called farrow.” Josh looked at our confused faces. “Yeah, I didn’t know what farrow is either. I think it’s some kind of hulled wheat. And because the restaurant wasn’t open when I auditioned, I went to Gavin’s house and cooked, so I didn’t have that many fresh vegetables and herbs to use. Usually you’re cooking a mystery box with more traditional items and enough other supplies around, but I had, like, parsley, chives, potatoes, carrots—just your basic staples. To make matters worse, Gavin watched me pretty much the whole time.”

  “Don’t they always?” asked Owen.

  Snacker answered for Josh, who had his mouth full. “No, not very often. Usually they give you the mystery box and say, ‘See you in three hours.’ Gavin did the smart thing, which is to watch how your potential chef uses his time, how clean he keeps the kitchen as he works, his culinary skills, and all that. For instance, that’s why Gavin gave him a whole leg of lamb and a whole salmon. Not because he expected Josh to cook all of it, but because he wanted to see him break them down.”

  “So what did you make?” asked Owen.

  “I used the veal and lamb for one dish. I cut the lamb into steaks, grilled it, and served it with a warm corn and fava bean relish and a caramelized onion polenta. The veal cheeks, I seared those in the pumpkinseed oil and then braised them in verjuice and chicken stock. Verjuice is like a grape juice, and you can use it instead of vinegar. I put the polenta in the center of the plate, the veal on one side, and the lamb on the other, and I ran the corn and fava bean relish across the top.”