The Gourmet Girl Mysteries, Volume 1

by Jessica Conant-Park

  “Who’s Snacker?” she asked.

  What the hell was his real name again? Josh always called him Snacker. Oh, yeah. “His name is Jason. He’s Josh’s sous chef.”

  “Oh,” she giggled. “The really cute guy? Tall with dark hair?”

  “Yes.” I laughed. “That’s him. Tell him I asked him to take care of you today, okay?”

  “All right,” she promised. “Thanks again, Chloe.”

  It was midafternoon, and I was tired and hungry again. I started a pot of coffee and put the kielbasa on the stove to simmer for a bit so that the kale would cook through. As I waited, I checked on Ken and decided to give him a bath, as the Web site had advised. I found an old plastic bowl that would have to become Ken’s, since I wasn’t about to use the same container as a food-storage bowl and as a hermit crab’s spa. I filled it a third of the way full with water and carried the bowl over to his cage.

  I hadn’t counted on my inability to reach inside the cage, touch Ken, and—terrifying prospect—actually pick him up in my bare hands. I was overcome by visions of an irate crab sticking his claws out of his shell and gouging my hands. So what if his pincers were only a few millimeters long? I still put on winter gloves. After that, by squealing and stomping my feet in disgust, I worked up the courage to lift the little monster and plop him into the bowl. Just as the Web had promised, Ken emerged from his shell and made grotesque scratching noises in his effort to find traction on the smooth curves of the bowl. Thirty seconds of that revolting nonsense was all I could endure. I went to pluck Ken out of his bath only to face the challenge of grabbing him without touching his actual body, which was now halfway out of his shell. Stupid pet. With one eye shut, I mustered enough bravado to return Ken to his cage. There wouldn’t be another bath any time soon for that crustacean.

  The phone rang. I yanked off my Ken-handling gloves and picked up.

  “Happy New Year, Chloe!” Naomi greeted me.

  “You, too. What’s up?”

  “I called to talk about the list you’ve been working on.”

  Uh-oh.

  FOURTEEN

  The list, which I had e-mailed to Naomi, had evidently left her speechless. I waited out her long pause until the fear overcame me that she’d get me kicked out of social work school for my lack of aptitude for self-exploration.

  “Why don’t I pull up my copy on the computer?” I sat down in front of the monitor, opened the document I’d entitled crp.doc, and cleared my throat. “Okay. I’m ready to be analyzed!” I said cheerily. Last night I’d added a few last-minute items in an attempt to beef up my list. I scanned the computer screen to make sure I’d deleted the phrase psychotic supervisor.

  “First of all,” Naomi began, “why is the file called ‘crp’?”

  What had possessed me? Why hadn’t I changed the file name before e-mailing it to her? “Well …” I cleared my throat. “That stands for Chloe’s Real Problems.”

  “Hm. Okay.” Another long pause.

  I said nothing.

  “As I’m reviewing your list, I’m finding a general theme of irritation with daily life, and, um, I wonder if you could speak about why things like putting duvet covers on comforters cause you anger. And your intense hatred of shower-curtain hooks?”

  “I’ve been giving this a lot of thought,” I lied. “I’ve discovered that I tend to become angry with daily challenges that are preventable. There is enough needless red tape in the world, and with all the incredible technology and resources available in this country, I cannot accept the idea that no one has invented shower hooks that stay on the rod, or easier ways to make the bed, or some sort of little tool that would remove leaves from oregano stems. I mean, it’s the overwhelming number of seemingly small challenges that we face each day that add up to create hour after hour of frustrating experiences. So, at the end of a twenty-four-hour period, we have each come across a multitude of annoying hindrances that roll themselves up into a giant ball of anger. So, at first glance, my list may look like it’s made up of trivial things, but, really, it’s the effect of such a large number of preventable frustrations that lead me to a state of anger.”

  “Chloe, I’m sure that all the people waiting in long lines at food banks would sympathize with your being forced to endure Jessica Simpson’s rendition of ‘Let It Snow’ throughout the entire month of December.” Perhaps I should have left that one off the list? “Why don’t I forward you a copy of my list of things that cause me anger? And then we can compare.”

  I heard the clicking of her keyboard, and, thanks to high-speed Internet access, I got her e-mail almost immediately. “Great,” I said. “Here it is.”

  I skimmed Naomi’s lengthy list: “Lack of resources allotted to social services agencies. Continued tolerance of chauvinistic/abusive behavior in the workplace. Inequality in …” Okay, I got the message. I was a terrible human being.

  I said, “This is quite an extensive list. Perhaps you could share your insights into yourself with me, and I could use you as a role model for future self-exploration.”

  Thirty minutes later, which is to say, after thirty minutes of listening to Naomi express her passionate intolerance for social injustice, I hung up the phone feeling like a heartless moron. While I was infuriated by things like the reappearance of Josh’s ex-girlfriend and the ubiquity of sidewalks that hadn’t been shoveled, Naomi was driven to action by the unfairness of the world.

  Driven to action. More than ever, I was shaken by the fear that it was Naomi who had murdered Oliver. If I believed that Naomi was guilty, didn’t I have an obligation to turn her over to the police? I still had Detective Hurley’s business card. But if I called him, what could I report? I had no proof that Naomi had done anything wrong. Furthermore, I highly doubted that Naomi was in the midst of some crazed killing spree, so it wasn’t as if my silence were putting other lives in danger. At least I hoped not. For all I knew, though, she was so incensed at my frivolously subpar performance as an intern that she was loading a gun right now. And if I told Detective Hurley about my suspicions of Naomi, I’d have to share my suspicions about Hannah, Dora, and Sarka, too, wouldn’t I? And I had no evidence to implicate any of them, either. For the first time, however, as I mulled over the possibility of talking to Detective Hurley, it occurred to me that my suspicions fell mainly on women and that the murder weapon had been a Robocoupe. According to pop culture, poison was one kind of woman’s weapon. What about a food processor, even a gigantic one? Was it a woman’s weapon, too?

  FIFTEEN

  Having resolved not to call the police, I went on to formulate my New Year’s resolution, which was to become a social superhero: an individual selflessly dedicated to fighting atrocities on the planet Earth. Today, however, was December 31, so I could enjoy doing my hair and makeup and dressing up for dinner without feeling ashamed that I was already breaking the resolution, not to mention neglecting the world. I filled a bowl with the steaming kielbasa and sat down in front of the television. After all, Naomi’s high level of social awareness might have driven her to commit murder. To save myself from homicidal fanaticism, I had to counteract Naomi’s influence with some truly socially unaware Laguna Beach reruns.

  Doug showed up at five wearing a red T-shirt announcing: Gays Do It Better. Between that and the black leather pants and jacket, he wasn’t planning a don’t-ask-don’t-tell kind of night. He’d let the hair on his formerly shaved head grow back an inch, and I wondered whether his New Year’s resolution was to stop looking like Mr. Clean. Doug’s appearance made me hesitate to ask his advice about what I should wear tonight, but I took a chance and stood him in front of my closet.

  “No black,” I instructed. “I’m sick of always wearing black to dress up.”

  Posed there, Doug was staring at hangers full of black clothing. “Sexy but not rude, since Josh will be busy all night, and we don’t want him distracted by a plunging neckline, do we?”

  I disagreed. “Plunging and distraction are fine. Go nuts.
And don’t Mommie Dearest me about all the wire hangers.” I flopped onto my bed and flipped through Us Weekly while Doug plowed through my wardrobe options.

  “What about this top?” Doug suggested, waving around a sleeveless red top that tied at the back of the neck.

  “Have you lost all of your gay aesthetic?” I shrieked. “Doug, redheads have no business wearing red. Heather gave that to me after she had Walker and her breasts tripled in size and she got rid of all her clothes. Are you feeling ill?”

  “No, I’m not feeling ill. Redheads can totally pull off red if it’s the right shade, like this is. It’s not like it’s stop sign red or anything. This is a gorgeous deep red, and the material is just right for a holiday—sort of linen with a shimmer thing. Try it on. But you’ll have to wear black pants. Oh, leather ones! We’ll match!” Doug grinned and tossed me my pair of leather pants that I’d worn only once before, to my five-year high school reunion, where I’d hoped to run into Andy Peyton, who’d stood me up for a spring dance and left me single while all my friends were making out with their dates to Savage Garden and Chris Isaak. And he didn’t even bother to show up at the reunion. I was still pissed about that.

  I made Doug turn around while I squeezed into the pants, which after about forty-five knee bends, I decided would stretch out enough to fit. I put on the red top and said, “Okay, turn around. What do you think?”

  “I told you. You look hot. High-heel boots and some earrings, and you’ll be good to go.”

  Good thing we’d be sitting down most of the night, since the odds of my successfully walking too far in the tight pants and heels were slim to none.

  “Is Owen coming with Adrianna?” Doug called to me as I was in the bathroom fiddling with my hair.

  “Yup. And, no, he’s still straight.”

  “Damn.” Doug and Owen had met a few months earlier, and Doug was still harboring a secret crush on Ade’s boyfriend. “Anyway, how did your semester end up?”

  “Fine, I guess. But I need some advice. Come in here and keep me company.” I filled Doug in on my list, on the conversation I’d had today with Naomi, and on my general inability to take to the streets to riot for justice. I didn’t want to involve him in my obsession with Naomi as a psycho killer. For one thing, he might decide that I was crazy. For another, the more I talked about my obsession, the worse it would become, which is to say, the more possible and even likely.

  “Chloe, you’ve got to relax. This Naomi character has got her own style, her own niche in the world of social work. You’ve just got to find yours. And your professional style will probably be very different from hers, but you can be equally effective in working with people. Naomi is totally dedicated to fighting sexual harassment, but I don’t think that is your calling. I know you care about the women you’ve been working with, but don’t feel bad that you aren’t Naomi. The field placements are designed to give you insight and experience into social service agencies in general. It’s part of a process of learning about yourself and what you want to do. Look, when you graduate, you might want to work for a nonprofit, but you might want to try to get into private practice, or work for a large corporation doing organizational psychology work. Whatever you want. There are a million different opportunities.”

  “So I won’t flunk out of school? Go look at my list. It’s on my laptop in the kitchen.”

  “No, you won’t flunk out,” he said from the other room. “But I agree that your list was pathetic.” Doug returned to the bathroom and looked at me with well-deserved irritation. “I know you’re a more caring person than that list suggests. I mean, come on, ‘People who stand too close to me in line,’ is not what Naomi was looking for.”

  “It’s an infringement on my personal space, and I find it highly upsetting!” I snapped back.

  “And, ‘Mail that comes from Delaware because it will be a credit card offer with ridiculous interest rates’? You don’t like the way Naomi pushes you, right? Instead of letting your interests and concerns come out naturally, she expects you to voice your outrage at the world the same way she does. Why don’t you try giving her a little more on a daily basis, and maybe she’ll lay off these stupid exercises.”

  “Yeah, you’re probably right. She just expects me to walk around constantly proclaiming my opposition to sexual harassment. Like I should be carrying banners and protest signs with me everywhere I go!”

  “Why did you go to social work school?” Doug asked.

  “You know why! I had no choice!”

  “Yeah, I know your uncle’s will required you to get a master’s degree in something. You could have picked anything. Business school, broadcasting, art history? But you didn’t. You chose social work. Why?”

  “I don’t know. It seemed like it would be, uh, okay,” I stammered.

  “That’s not a reason, and that’s what you need to think about. You’ll work it out. But for now”—Doug pushed me aside to get a glimpse of himself in the mirror—“remember that even negative experiences are part of learning. It’s important to know what you don’t want to do so that you can figure out what you do want to do. Hurry up so we can go. It’s already six, and it’s going to take forever to get downtown tonight. I’m a gay man, and I get ready faster than you.”

  “Yes, but you practically don’t have any hair,” I pointed out. “Anyhow, I’m ready.”

  I realized that I was fussing over my hair and makeup more than usual tonight, probably because that stupid Hannah had reappeared in Josh’s life and I was feeling threatened and insecure—dumb of me, because until she showed up, everything between Josh and me had been going great, and there was no reason to imagine that Hannah could come between us. Right? Even so, I double-checked my lip gloss and added another spritz of eucalyptus spearmint body spray to my wrists.

  Boston’s chronically nightmarish traffic always became unbearable on New Year’s Eve, so Doug and I had ruled out driving ourselves or taking a cab. We left my condo and walked the short distance down the hill to reach a T stop in the middle of Beacon Street. This section of the Green Line ran above ground and descended to become an actual subway as it approached Kenmore Square. Public transportation ran for free tonight, and, even at this relatively early hour, the cars were jammed. We pushed our way to the middle, grabbed onto a pole, and clung to it as the car lurched forward. As I’d neglected to mention in my list of anger-inducing items, the unflattering lighting in the subway cars irritated me. Under the fluorescents, Doug looked positively jaundiced. When we dove underground and reached the Kenmore stop, a mass of people attempted to board the already crowded car, and I found myself smashed up against Doug in a position that under other circumstances might have been considered pornographic.

  “I’m not enjoying this any more than you are,” Doug assured me.

  The two of us practically gasped for fresh air when we emerged from subterranean Boston. “Thank God I used extra deodorant.” Doug sniffed his underarms. “What a revolting form of transportation!”

  “Funds were running low for my private limo service,” I said, winking at Doug. “Sorry.”

  I pulled my date along the sidewalk toward Simmer. Lights were strung up on lampposts, wreaths hung suspended over the streets, and everywhere were large signs wishing everyone a happy New Year. The sidewalks were full of families and students eagerly admiring ice sculptures and applauding street performers, and the whole city had a wonderfully magical feel to it. Tonight was going to be so exciting! Josh was going to astound everyone with his superb culinary skills. By midnight, he’d be on his way to fame and glory as Boston’s hottest new chef!

  “There’s Simmer,” I said excitedly, pointing out the restaurant to Doug.

  “Good. I’m dying for a drink. Do you think they’ll comp our drinks for us?”

  “They better.” I laughed. “Because after enjoying an incredible dinner, I plan on getting happily wasted on expensive cocktails. And then dragging Josh home to make drunken love all night long!”

&n
bsp; We crossed the street and opened Simmer’s front door. Just inside the entrance, Gavin was welcoming a couple and directing them to the hostess. He was dressed in a formal suit and practically oozed pride at the opening of his restaurant. Tonight was the result of months, if not years, of dreaming and planning. Furthermore, Gavin had sunk a tremendous amount of cash into Simmer. He deserved the pleasure he was radiating.

  “Welcome, welcome, Chloe! Can you believe it’s happening?” Gavin enthusiastically shook my hand and introduced himself to Doug.

  I said, “Congratulations, again. This is wonderful. I can’t believe all of that work got done on time. You’ve really pulled it off.” Looking around, I saw that the installation of the ceiling light fixtures was complete. Now, everything basked in exactly the kind of flattering glow that would have boosted the morale of T riders throughout the city. The lighting brought out the earth tones of the textured walls and the tiled floors. Behind the bar, the bottles shone. The glasses in the racks and in people’s hands twinkled. The tables were covered with linens in a shades of cream and pale rust. Best of all, people were everywhere. Customers! Diners here to enjoy my Josh’s genius!

  “You know,” said Gavin, “I really think this place was meant to be—that Simmer was meant to be mine. Somehow we got the lease and everything just came together. I thank God for that! So let’s get you two to your table.”

  “We’re meeting a couple of my friends here. Are they here yet?” I looked around the room, trying to spot Adrianna’s blonde hair in the almost full dining room.

  “You have a whole table of people waiting for you.” Gavin gestured to a large table in the front of the room, right by the window.