A Frying Shame

by Linda Reilly

  Vivian went first. She plumped up her curls again and waved at the crowd before accepting her instructions. Talia was next. Smoothing her linen slacks, she walked to the podium. She thanked Thurman quietly as she took her written instructions from him, then moved aside to stand next to Vivian. The last “sweet” contestant was Dylan McPhee. Instructions in hand, he strode, unsmiling, to stand beside Talia. Talia glanced over to wish him luck, but he was staring straight ahead with a closed expression.

  “In the savory category,” Thurman continued, “we have Harry Summers for his tangy tamale casserole, Crystal Galardi for her home-style meat loaf, and Norma Ferguson for her flaky-top chicken stew.”

  The man with the gorgeous eyes walked up to the podium and accepted his instructions. Was he the Handsome Harry that Suzy had mentioned? Crystal was next. She accepted the sheet of paper with an anxious smile and then scuttled over to stand beside Harry.

  Norma Ferguson went last. On worn leather sandals, she trudged toward the podium. She twisted her wrinkled fingers as if she were braiding a rope. Talia watched as the woman stumbled toward Thurman. In the next instant, Thurman’s friendly visage morphed into one of sheer revulsion. His eyes hard and blazing with hatred, he almost shoved the instructions at her. Norma clutched them timidly and then scurried away to stand next to Crystal.

  Whoa! That was strange, Talia thought. The man clearly had a problem with Norma. But surely he’d known she was a finalist, hadn’t he? Why had he acted so shocked to see her?

  Thurman recovered instantly, but his tone had a crisp edge when he dismissed the contestants.

  For a moment no one moved, as if they couldn’t decide who should go first. Finally Talia made a move to leave, and in that moment she saw someone else giving Norma the evil eye.

  Dylan.

  His thin lip curled, and his eyes were fixed on the elderly woman in a way that looked almost menacing. When he saw that she wasn’t making eye contact with him, he got up and stalked off the stage, but not without shooting one last hostile glance in her direction.

  Ferringer’s wife, Jodie, stood about ten feet from the edge of the stage. She beamed at Norma and clapped. “Go, Norma!” she squealed, as the elderly woman trod down the short steps to the ground.

  Norma gave Jodie an odd look and then shuffled away, in the direction of the parking lot. Was she bailing on the gig? Had the expression on Thurman’s face—and Dylan’s—frightened her enough that she was pulling out of the contest?

  Talia didn’t have time to worry about it now. Forging a trail in front of the others, she headed toward the cooking stations. On the way she passed Molly. Standing stock-still, Molly stared at the makeshift stage. Her expression was odd, as if she was trying to remember something. Talia waved at her, but Molly apparently didn’t see her.

  Talia hurried off to her own assigned station, the other contestants trailing behind her. She had exactly one hour to prepare her entry, and then she was done.

  She was starting to get the nagging feeling that entering the contest had been a very bad idea.

  3

  Talia placed the last mini-pie on her tray, the scent of cinnamon and deep-fried pastry swirling around her. During her trial runs, she’d tested out several types of apples. She’d ended up settling on Cortlands, which were juicy and slightly tart. Blended with the right combo of brown and white sugars, the result was near perfection.

  If she did say so herself.

  And she had used the Flavor Dial, although she could have accomplished the same thing with a couple jars of her standby spices. Still, she was obliged to use the wheel for the contest, so she’d followed the instructions to the letter.

  After tucking a layer of foil loosely around the pies, Talia stepped out of her cooking station and headed toward the judges’ tent. The judges’ identities were unknown, but the contestants had been assured that they were all from surrounding towns with no loyalties to Wrensdale.

  She was about twenty feet from the entrance to the tent when her toe caught the jagged tip of a large rock. She pitched forward, and in that single moment had a vision of her delicious pies flying off the tray and hitting the ground.

  Nooooo . . .

  In the next instant she felt a powerful hand clutch her arm in a vise, keeping her upright. Still grasping her tray for dear life, she turned to see the man with the gorgeous eyes. He kept his grip on her arm, while in his other hand he balanced a casserole that gave off a tangy aroma. “Don’t worry. I’ve got you,” he said in a soft voice.

  Talia regained her balance and smiled at him. “Oh gosh, thank you. For a second I thought these pies were goners.”

  His smile was timid, but his eyes lit up. “Oh heck. Then I’m glad I was here to help. We don’t need any culinary disasters right before the judging, do we?”

  “We sure don’t.” Talia laughed, instantly liking this man. “You’re Harry, aren’t you?”

  He nodded. “And you’re Talia. I’ve heard so much about your wonderful eatery.” His smile faded. “A number of times I wanted to try it out, but my wife won’t eat there. She says the fried food will wreck her diet. Or her figure. Or whatever.”

  Talia started gingerly toward the tent, careful to watch where she placed her feet. “Well, if you ever decide to try it on your own, I’d be glad to let you sample some of the goodies before you pick what you want.”

  “That’s very kind,” he said.

  They walked the rest of the way together until they reached the tent. A bright-eyed senior with a blond bun accepted their entries, then checked off their names on her clipboard.

  “Good luck, Harry,” Talia said.

  He wished her the same, and they parted ways. Talia saw him glance toward the now-empty stage. At the foot of the stage, the woman named Sandra—who she assumed was Harry’s wife—was standing close to Wes Thurman with her hand on his arm. If Wes was pleased by her proximity, his face sure didn’t show it.

  If anything, he looked anxious to get away.

  • • •

  “So how did they come out?” Suzy squealed.

  Talia grinned and reclaimed her seat next to Ryan. “I tested one, and I think they came out pretty good, although I almost lost them.” She related how she’d nearly taken a tumble, only to be rescued by Harry Summers.

  “So, Handsome Harry came to the rescue, huh?” Suzy winked at Talia.

  “Suzy,” her husband said quietly.

  “Oh, I was just teasing,” she said.

  Ryan squeezed Talia’s hand. “So when will they announce the three finalists?”

  Talia looked at her watch. “Anytime now. Yikes.”

  Right on cue, Wes Thurman stepped back onto the stage. The spring in his step that he’d sported earlier was gone, and his wide smile looked pasted on. Though he stood at something of a distance, Talia saw from his flat expression that his enthusiasm had waned.

  Wes tapped the mic a few times, and the crowd quieted. “I’m happy to announce,” he said in his low voice, “that the judges have narrowed their choices down to the final three. After I call your names, please step up onto the stage and take a seat.” He indicated the three folding chairs that were set up behind the podium. “As I speak, the judges are consulting to choose the first-prize winner. We’ll have their decision shortly.”

  Arthur looked at Talia with an eager smile. “Oh, I do hope they call you,” he whispered.

  Thurman began reading from the sheet of paper in his hand. “Crystal Galardi, for her home-style meat loaf . . .”

  Talia looked around. Where was Crystal?

  “Dylan McPhee, for his cinnamon-swirl brownies,” Wes went on. He hesitated for several seconds. “And last of all,” he said through clenched teeth, “Norma Ferguson for her flaky-top chicken stew.”

  A tiny zing of disappointment shot through Talia. Not that she’d counted on winning, but it would have been nice to be a finalist.

  Ryan leaned over and hugged her. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re still the be
st cook and baker in the world.”

  “Thanks.” Talia grinned. “Hey, look, it’s not a big deal. Crystal made it to the final three, and that’s fabulous!”

  Molly smiled. “She must be so excited.”

  Audrey pursed her lips but said nothing. Instead, she stared out over the bleachers with a faraway expression.

  “Hey,” Molly suggested, “why don’t we all trot over and get closer to the stage? It’s hard to see everything from here.”

  “Good idea,” Ryan said. He took his dad’s arm, and they all strolled across the field toward the staging area. A few stray clouds blotted the sky, and a warm breeze kicked in. People were moving closer to the stage, moms and dads gripping the hands of their little ones and teenagers shoving one another good-naturedly as they thumbed away at their phones.

  A sudden gust ruffled the cap sleeves of Talia’s lacy blue tee. A pale green slip of paper, caught by the wind, danced across the grass in front of her. She rushed to snatch it up before the wind took it again, but Audrey came from behind and jolted her aside, beating her to it.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to bump you like that,” Audrey said, her cheeks pink.

  “That’s okay.” Talia smiled, a bit baffled by Audrey’s behavior. “What is it? Is it important?”

  “Heavens, no. It’s just my to-do list for later today. I have a lot on my plate right now, and if I don’t write it all down, I’ll end up forgetting something.”

  “I know what you mean.” Talia glanced around and finally spotted Crystal scurrying across the field toward the staging area. “Oh, look—there’s Crystal. I wondered where she was.”

  “The bathroom, probably,” Audrey said, with a distinct roll of her eyes. “When she gets nervous, she goes every five minutes.”

  More than Talia needed to know, but she was relieved to see Crystal hurry toward the stage and mount the shallow stairs. Chairs had been set up, and she plunked down on the one next to Dylan, her face looking flushed.

  Norma trudged along last. She climbed the few steps shakily, as if she’d been sentenced to death by guillotine and was heading toward the blade. Her thin face wore a look of alarm as she took the seat next to Crystal.

  “Why, that poor elderly woman looks terrified,” Suzy said. “Think she has stage fright?”

  “Maybe,” Talia said doubtfully. More likely the woman was afraid of Wes Thurman, who was studiously pretending she was invisible. Or was she afraid of Dylan? At this point it was hard to tell.

  Wes spoke for a bit longer, his words clipped and toneless. His earlier zeal for the event was clearly gone. Finally, he thanked everyone again for participating and then turned his attention to a teenage girl with an auburn ponytail who was striding up to the stage. With a brilliant smile and a wave at the crowd, she went over to Wes, handed him an envelope, and then scooted back down the steps.

  “It appears the judges have made their decision.” Wes ripped open the envelope and pulled out a slip of paper. His expression stormy, he spoke into the mic. “Ladies and gentlemen, the moment we’ve all been waiting for. As our third-place winner, the judges have chosen Dylan McPhee, for his cinnamon-swirl brownies. Dylan, would you stand, please?”

  Amid a round of clapping and a few cheers, Dylan slowly rose from his chair. His face was a mixture of surprise and dismay. After a quick nod, he sat down again.

  “He’s bummed,” Suzy said, stating the obvious.

  “Thank you, Dylan. And in second place,” Wes went on, his expression growing stormier, “is Crystal Galardi for her home-style meat loaf.”

  Crystal clapped her hands to her chest and jumped off her chair. She pranced over to Wes and took the mic from his hand. “Oh my, thank you. Thank you all! This is such an honor.”

  “Yeah, an honor that doesn’t come with twenty-five grand,” Martha muttered.

  “But it’s still a feather in her cap, Martha,” Talia said. “Be happy for her.”

  Talia, too, had been cheering for Crystal to win the big one. Crystal seemed pleased with second place, but she had to be at least a teensy bit disappointed.

  Crystal returned the mic to Wes and sat down. She whispered something to Norma, who looked as if she wanted to shrink into the temporary staging and disappear.

  “And first place”—Wes ran his hand over his chin—“and the twenty-five-thousand-dollar prize, goes to Norma Ferguson for her flaky-top chicken stew. Norma, would you please step up and claim your prize?”

  Someone off to the side squealed out a loud “Yay,” but Norma didn’t get up. She sat, frozen, shaking her head. Crystal nudged her gently, and finally the woman rose from her chair. Head down, she went over to Wes and accepted the prize money.

  “Oh my, Mr. Thurman doesn’t look too thrilled, does he?” Suzy said.

  No, he doesn’t, Talia thought. Nor does the winner. It was all so bizarre.

  Some weak clapping and a few fake-sounding cheers erupted from the crowd. Norma didn’t seem to have much of a fan base. Wes posed for a few unsmiling photos with her and then stalked off the stage. Norma continued gawking at the check as if someone had just handed her a packet of poison.

  After that, the crowd dispersed. People started moving toward the bleachers. The softball game was scheduled to begin at four, and everyone wanted to grab the seats with the best view possible.

  Jodie Ferringer, meanwhile, had woven her way through the throng and was headed up the steps to the stage, the magenta ribbons of her floppy hat trailing behind her in the breeze. A huge grin on her face, she went over to Norma and hugged her. Talia watched curiously as Jodie squeezed Norma’s shoulder with a bejeweled hand and then led her off the stage. The whole scene smacked of drama—a lame act written by a bad playwright.

  At least poor Norma had one friend, Talia thought. Her FERRINGER button had apparently earned her the devotion, whether sincere or not, of the candidate’s wife.

  Talia was glad the contest was over, but she felt bad for Crystal. It had finally struck Crystal that she hadn’t won. She looked sadder than ever as she wended her way toward them.

  “I feel like such an idiot,” Crystal whined, “grabbing the mic the way I did when I was only second place. I really thought my meat loaf was going to make it. Of course, Dylan and I will each get a five-hundred-dollar gift card toward Steeltop Foods products, but still . . .”

  “Five hundred?” Lucas gasped. “That’s, like, a fortune!”

  Crystal smiled at him. “I guess it is a pretty nice consolation prize. I thought Mr. Thurman was going to announce that part, but maybe he didn’t have time.”

  Didn’t have time? Talia thought. How long would it have taken to make such an announcement? Thirty or forty seconds at the most?

  Molly leaned over and gave Crystal a long hug. “We’re all proud of you, Crystal. Second place is nothing to sneeze at!”

  Wes Thurman reappeared on the stage, but at that point no one was paying attention. Was he going to make an announcement?

  Talia watched as he stood there, hands on his hips, his gaze skimming the thinning crowd like that of a hawk on the prowl for an unwary mouse. He turned to his right, the hard line of his jaw outlined against the bright blue sky. Something about his profile made Talia’s pulse quicken. What was it?

  Then his eyes swerved suddenly to where she was standing. She got the weirdest sensation that he was staring directly at her. Until she turned and saw Audrey Feldon threading her way through the stragglers.

  “Where’s Mom going in such a hurry?” Molly said, strolling along next to Lucas.

  “I don’t know,” Crystal said with a sigh. “I’ve all but given up trying to figure her out.” Her face drooped. “Hey, look, does anyone mind if I skip the game? I’m not much of a sports fan anyway.”

  “Of course we don’t mind,” Molly said distractedly.

  “Go home and relax,” Talia said to her. “You deserve it.”

  Everyone murmured in agreement. Crystal said her good-byes and left.

  “I
feel so bad for her,” Molly said. “I think she was really counting on first place.” She lowered her voice. “Truth be told, I think she needed the money, too.”

  Talia squeezed Molly’s shoulder. She loved the way Molly looked out for Crystal, who had no kids of her own. Divorced, Crystal lived with her aging mom in the two-family home she’d grown up in. Audrey had mentioned once that Crystal’s ex had left her with a ton of debt. She’d had to borrow a sizable sum to get her and Audrey’s cooking store up and running.

  “I think Ken and I are going to leave, too,” Suzy said, clasping her husband’s hand. “We’re not much for softball, and Kimberly gets fussy if we stay away too long.” The Satos waved good-bye to everyone and went across the field toward the parking lot.

  Martha blew out a breath. “I hate to jump on the bandwagon, but I like watching softball about as much as I like cleaning the grease trap in the kitchen. Actually, I’d prefer to clean the grease trap in the kitchen.”

  Talia laughed. “I’m glad you came today, Martha. Take good care of that umbrella.”

  Martha tipped her ragged straw hat at the group and shuffled off.

  The game was scheduled to start in about ten minutes. Talia was just slipping her arm through Arthur’s when she spied another slip of paper on the ground. It looked similar . . . no, exactly like the one Audrey had lost earlier. She bent and picked it up.

  The paper was actually a sticky note with the words Steeltop Foods Corporation imprinted across the top. In bold block letters, someone had written, WE NEED TO TALK.

  Interesting. Was this the same note Audrey had pocketed earlier? If so, then Audrey had lied about it being her to-do list. Talia slid it into her own pocket.

  “I’m going to cheer for the police,” Arthur said. “How about you, Talia?”

  Talia chuckled. Over the past year she’d had a few unpleasant encounters with the police. Mostly because of huge misunderstandings, but everything had eventually worked out.

  She winked at Arthur. “I’m with you, Arthur. Let’s grab a seat on the bleachers so we can root for the police.”