“Let’s go have dessert over at the Seafood Emporium,” Marla suggested after she and Nicole had both finished a generous portion of moussaka. When their attentive waiter approached holding out a platter with a delectable array of sweets, she shook her head, declining the temptation of a syrupy slice of baklava. “We’re not far from the other restaurant, so we might as well stop in there to see Max. He’s next on my list.”
“Hey, girl, I’m going to get fat going out with you,” Nicole complained.
Marla pretended to scrutinize her friend’s narrow waistline. “I don’t think so. You’re one of those disgusting people who never gains weight.”
Max was preparing a sauce to go with grilled trout when they entered his kitchen. “Hey, ladies,” the lean young man said while he whisked cream into a boiling mixture of dry white wine, balsamic vinegar, and minced shallots. When the cream had blended in, he added diced tomatoes. Marla recognized the ingredients from her gourmet cooking days when she was married to Stan. Now she had little time to cook, let alone follow recipes.
“This is Nicole. We stopped in for some dessert,” Marla explained. “As long as we’re here, I’d like to confirm your arrangements for Taste of the World.”
Max cut a chunk of butter into the sauce, his wrist rotating with rapid, deft movements. “Everything is fine.” A curl of hair fell forward onto his forehead as he bent over to sniff the aroma emanating from the pan.
“You haven’t heard from anyone else about the event?”
“Nope. Been too busy.” He cast a furtive glance around the room. “You gals will have to excuse me, but I don’t have time to chat. We’re short one cook tonight, and I’ve got to do my own prep work. Y’all go on and enjoy your dessert.”
He walked away from them, ostensibly to get some ingredients to add to his dish, but Marla had the distinct impression they were being dismissed. Was he being less talkative than usual because others were present? Maybe she’d corner him another time when they could be alone.
After dropping Nicole off at home, she decided to make one more stop before turning in for the night. Saturday was too good an opportunity to miss since all the chefs were at work. Robbie from the Cajun Cookpot hadn’t responded to her latest inquiry. It was worth driving to Davie to ask why he hadn’t contacted her.
Too stuffed to order any more meals, she skirted the front door and headed for an employee entrance down a side alley. As she approached, the smell of garbage overwhelmed her. An open trash bin stood outside the kitchen door, its contents spilling beyond the rim. Insects flew in and out the open door to the kitchen, from which came the sounds of clanging pots and pans. Yuck, Marla thought. I wonder what else is crawling around inside there.
Squaring her shoulders, she marched inside. A spicy scent made her eyes water. Several workers looked up, their expressions startled. She braced herself to meet Robbie, who was bound to be displeased by her unexpected arrival.
“What are you doing here?” he thundered when he caught sight of her. He was stirring the contents of a giant pot, his thick neck veins bulging, biceps straining under his soiled white jacket. Dipping a spoon into the pot, he raised it to his lips and slurped the hot steamy liquid. He cursed, grabbed a fistful of cayenne pepper and tossed it into the pot. Stirring vigorously, he regarded Marla with a glower.
She smiled with a bravado she didn’t feel, uneasy at the leers from his employees. “I’m wondering why you didn’t return my form for Taste of the World. Have you selected your menu items? It’s getting near time when we have to send out new press releases.”
“Get me some more tomatoes, will ya?” he hollered to an assistant. The man glanced up but didn’t respond. “Whatsamatta, you no speaky English? Grab me a bunch of those red tomatoes,” he shouted as though the guy were deaf. “Christ, this help ain’t worth shit.” He got up and grabbed the items himself. Reaching for a long knife, he began slicing the plump tomatoes on a wooden cutting board.
“Well? What about the form?” Marla said, tapping her foot impatiently. Frustration made her breath come short, or maybe it was the lack of air-conditioning. A fan blew moist air around the kitchen, but it didn’t do much to pull in a breeze from the alley. The garbage-scented breeze, she remembered, wrinkling her nose. Her sweater stuck to her back, and she longed for a cool drink.
“I’ll get to it one of these days.” Robbie spied a roach scurrying away on the counter. He he leapt at it, steel blade slashing through the air. After he’d reduced the creature to pieces, he brushed the remains onto the floor and continued slicing the tomatoes.
Marla stifled an impulse to gag. Her gaze fixed on the pot of bubbling stew, circled by a duo of insects. “Maybe you should take your time. I might want to mention these unsanitary conditions to the restaurant inspectors.”
Straightening his back, Robbie glared at her. “You do and you’re dead.”
If your restaurant weren’t so popular, pal, I’d take you off my list right now. Dirty scumbag. Maybe she’d eliminate him anyway. He was never in a pleasant mood and ran his kitchen like a sewer. She’d have to be careful how she justified herself to Ocean Guard’s Board of Directors, though. Robbie wasn’t the type of person you wanted to cross.
“Time for you to leave,” he ordered.
“But we haven’t—”
He brandished his knife, stalking toward her with a menacing light in his eyes. “Get out.”
Marla stumbled into the alley. The chef slammed the door after her. It didn’t even shut properly; the warped wood prevented closure. Her limbs trembling, she recovered her wits enough to scramble to her car.
I’m just like that roach scampering away; only it had ended up getting diced to death.
Chapter Two
“Shmoe, you should have spoken to Pierre’s assistant. Instead, you’re talking to your dog.”
Sunday morning found Marla sauntering down the street with Spooks on a leash. Her mental wheels were still spinning about Pierre’s mishap. If she hadn’t been so afraid other celebrity chefs might cancel out, she would have remembered to follow through on that incident in his class.
She paused while the poodle did his thing on a neighbor’s lawn. Living in a townhouse community, she paid her homeowner’s fees for communal services like everyone else. Those services included lawn maintenance. The grass glistened with dew, and Spooks had just been groomed, so she urged him onward when he finished his business.
“If someone added a stronger substance to the bottle of rum, who had better access than Pierre’s aide?” she asked Spooks, continuing around a corner. “I wonder if anyone was smart enough to take that bottle to a lab for testing. Now that the chef is out of the hospital, I should ask him about it. At least his restaurant had minimal damage from the explosion. Regardless of the cause, we’ve lost a well-known chef from our roster. Do you think I can find a replacement at this late date for the fund-raiser, Spooks?”
She gazed at his uplifted face. “Actually, anyone in that class would have had the opportunity to alter the contents while we were introducing ourselves and stuffing down cheese and crackers. Do I really want to question so many people, including Pierre and his assistant?”
Spooks cocked his head, as though to query her sanity. Maybe she was just having last-minute jitters about the whole affair. After all, time was running out with six weeks to go for Taste of the World. Finding out what had caused that explosion was not her responsibility.
Her glance skittered across the street, where she noticed a blue sedan creeping along, almost as though keeping pace with her stride. It must have come up from behind. A man sat in the driver’s seat, facing away from her. His dark-haired head was tilted as though he was looking in the side view mirror. As she passed, the battered condition of his vehicle became evident. It wasn’t the sort of car normally found in the neighborhood.
The hairs on her nape rose, and she tugged on the poodle’s leash. “Move it, Spooks.” Quickening her pace, she chugged along until her racing heart
caused her to slow down. Good, she’d turned a corner, and the blue sedan was gone. Her house was just around the next bend.
Feeling foolish, she halted while Spooks sniffed around a fire hydrant, then lifted his leg. Barking sounded from inside a nearby house, but it was noise from an idling engine that brought her head up. Oh God, there it was again! Was she being totally paranoid, or what? Without waiting to see if Spooks had finished, she yanked him forward and speed-walked the rest of the way home. Her fingers trembled as she inserted the key into her front door lock.
“Remind me to get the alarm connected,” she said to Spooks, unhooking his leash once they were inside. Bending over to stroke his soft cream-colored hair, she debated whom to call first. Detective Vail? He’s out of town, you dolt. Tally? No, best to leave her friend alone on Sunday morning. Tally and her husband liked to sleep late, and Marla didn’t want to worry them. Besides, she might be just imagining things. She’d stick to her original plan and call Cynthia. Was eight o’clock too early? Probably, she decided, glancing at her watch. She could use the time to grab a bite to eat. Daring to peek outside, she noticed the blue sedan was gone. Maybe the guy had been looking for someone’s address.
After downing a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice and a bagel with cream cheese and chives, she took a quick shower and threw on a pair of jeans. For November, the weather was still warm, so she chose a short-sleeved ribbed sweater in rust. Tally would snicker at her choice. As owner of Dressed To Kill boutique, Tally urged Marla to jazz up her style. But Marla felt the proper image was important to project. Her staff expected her to set an example, and she preferred the classic look to Tally’s flamboyant fashion sense. She felt women would rather have a hairdresser who outfitted herself conservatively than someone dolled up like an oversexed teen. If you take care with your clothes, you’ll take care with my hair. She figured that’s what her clients believed.
After an hour spent at the computer catching up on bookkeeping for her salon, she decided to check the website for Taste of the World. Babs Winrow, a member of Ocean Guard’s Board of Directors and a client of Marla’s, had graciously created the site. A business executive, she had her office staff maintain it. Marla thought it was eye-catching with colorful graphics and up-to-date information, but her gaze widened as she scanned the latest news. Pierre Chevalier’s name had been dropped from the list of participating chefs. How the devil did Babs know this when Marla hadn’t told anyone? An instant later, the answer popped into her mind. Pierre must have spread the word himself. Or had he? Her heart sinking, she phoned Cynthia.
“Did you know Pierre pulled out of Taste of the World?” she said as soon as her cousin’s voice answered.
“Marla, is that you? I’ll have to call you right back.”
“No wait. I need to see you today.”
“Not possible. Hold on.” A clunking sound followed, then Cynthia’s distant voice shouting. “Annie, don’t you dare meet that boy at the beach. He’s taking advantage of you. Dammit, give me the car keys!”
Muffled noises followed, and then Cynthia’s voice boomed into the phone: “I can’t believe this girl. She’s driving me crazy. Marla, don’t forget the board meeting tomorrow. We’ll talk there.” Click. She’d hung up.
Drat. Marla placed the receiver down, wondering what was going on between Cynthia and her daughter, Annie. She supposed she’d find out soon enough. Cynthia had asked her to attend the Monday meeting even though she wasn’t on Ocean Guard’s Board of Directors, and Marla was eager to give her report as chef liaison. Maybe she was being silly to be alarmed by the recent spate of incidents affecting their chefs, but she’d be interested to assess the others’ reactions. At the very least, she’d make it a point to find out who had wiped Pierre’s name off the slate of participants.
****
“I changed the information on the website,” Babs Winrow confessed at the meeting the next day. Marla was seated along with eight board members in an elegantly appointed conference room at the top floor of a bank building in downtown Fort Lauderdale. “I’d received a message on voice mail giving me the news. I didn’t recognize the speaker.”
Babs was a savvy businesswoman, married without children, who traveled frequently and gave generous gratuities. She wore her blond hair in a short wavy style that was appropriate for her forty-some years. “What did the message say?” Marla asked, her gaze admiring Babs’s finely cut black Armani suit.
The woman’s clear hazel eyes met hers. “Just that Pierre had withdrawn from Taste of the World. I called him to confirm it. I’ve never heard him so disgruntled. He muttered something about an accident at his restaurant.”
“I’m not so sure it was an accident.” Relating the details, Marla glanced at her cousin for reassurance. Cynthia appeared distracted, her gaze distant. She hadn’t said much so far.
“Poor lady, you must have been upset,” Digby Raines said in a soothing tone. Seated on Marla’s right, the politician settled his hand over hers and gave her a smarmy smile. His heavy-lidded blue gaze roamed over her dressy pantsuit. With his white hair and even teeth, he could have been called distinguished, but Marla thought his expression more suitable to charming snakes than convincing voters.
She smiled sweetly, swatting away his hand. “I’m more upset by the idea that someone might be trying to sabotage Taste of the World. Why else would so many of our chefs be having mishaps?”
“If you ask me, I think you’re overreacting,” sniffed Dr. Russ Taylor, straightening his striped tie. “Maybe this job is too much for you to handle.”
Not a hair on his gray-streaked head was out of place, Marla noticed idly. Even his suit was perfectly creased. She wondered how he could maintain his fastidious manner in the operating room. “Excuse me, but I think I’ve been doing a damn good job. I got chefs to replace the others who dropped out, and I’ll find someone to take over for Pierre. Now tell me, is this year’s event more significant than others for some reason?”
Benjamin Kline, the attorney with wiry black hair, spoke in a gravelly voice. “We need the proceeds from Taste of the World to secure the transfer of property to Ocean Guard.”
Marla frowned. “What do you mean?”
Steepling his hands, Ben leaned forward. “I’m amazed your cousin didn’t brief you on our situation. Bordering Cynthia’s estate is a mangrove preserve being managed under a trust created by our benefactor, Popeye Boodles, who died five years ago.”
“Shut up, Ben,” snarled Stefano Barletti. The gray-haired funeral director’s piercing gaze emanated hostility, but he wasn’t the only one whose tension permeated the room. As soon as the attorney had begun to speak, Marla could feel malevolent vibrations prickle the back of her neck. It felt as though someone had raised the temperature in the room several degrees.
“Why, we all know about this. No reason not to tell her.” Ben grinned wickedly. “Under the terms of the trust, Ocean Guard will receive full ownership of the property next year, but only if it’s been maintained as an unpolluted nature preserve. The other stipulation is that Ocean Guard must contribute twenty thousand dollars a year to a certain political lobby. If either condition isn’t met, the property and any remaining funds revert to the bachelor’s heir in January.”
“So Ocean Guard has been raising at least twenty thousand dollars from Taste of the World each year?”
“You got it. Explain it to her, David.”
David Newberg was the board member in charge of Ocean Guard’s finances. She’d been mildly surprised to meet the man because he didn’t fit her image of a staid accountant. His easygoing manner was reflected in a set of twinkling blue eyes, friendly grin, and relaxed posture. Unlike his stiff associates, his attire included a colorful tie with dancing fish. She’d liked him on sight and felt he would offer an honest opinion.
“We sell one hundred fifty tickets at two hundred dollars each,” he said in a pleasantly resonant voice. “That comes out to thirty thousand. It doesn’t leave us much after the con
tribution, but the rest pays for flyers, postage, and other operating expenses. Ocean Guard doesn’t maintain an office, so it’s no big deal.”
“Who inherits the property if the quota isn’t achieved?” She directed her inquiry to the attorney.
“Client privilege. I’m not at liberty to say,” Ben replied.
“You use that excuse for everything,” Cynthia snapped.
“Yeah, and then you turn around and stab your clients in the back,” muttered Digby, clicking a ballpoint pen.
“Only those who have gotten their shoes dirty.” Ben’s weasely gaze surveyed the room’s occupants. “And most of you better keep those shoes in the closet where they belong.”
Digby’s lip curled. “I wouldn’t talk if I were you.”
“Right on. We all know who not to trust in this room.” Dr. Taylor’s voice dripped with disdain as his cool gaze flitted from the politician to the lawyer.
Ben and Digby exchanged glances, then Digby’s brows furrowed. “You’d better watch what you say, doc.”
“Why? Is Ben going to sue me?” He laughed, a harshly resonant sound that sent a chill down Marla’s spine.
Instinctively, she didn’t care for him. Dr. Taylor didn’t seem to regard anyone else with the same value he placed on himself. She had no use for people who viewed themselves as royalty; in her opinion, respect was something you earned by kindness and civility.
“Ben only takes cases that thrust him in the limelight. Or at least, that’s where he puts forth his best efforts.” Cynthia glared at the attorney, her blue eyes glittering like two ice chips.
What a bunch of clowns. Marla exchanged glances with David, whose lips quivered as though he were suppressing a grin. The sides of her mouth quirked in acknowledgment. At least she wasn’t the only one in the room ducking the darts.
Actually, Darren Shapiro, vice president for the bank where they were meeting, hadn’t said a word. Her gaze flickered over his respectable suit and solemn demeanor. The guy’s hair was suspiciously dark for a man in his late forties. No wedding ring, either. Did that mean he was on the prowl? If so, he was a lot more subtle than Digby Raines.
Hair Raiser Page 2
