Curried Away

by Gail Oust

  I made a mental note to thank Sylvia for the recommendation. Vanilla, next to saffron, happened to be the highest-priced spice in the world. “Let me suggest vanilla from beans grown on Bourbon Island, now called Réunion Island, in Madagascar. It sets the standard when it comes to pure vanilla flavor.”

  Sandy wandered over to a coatrack I’d discovered in Yesteryear Antiques on which I’d hung a collection of chef aprons with catchy slogans. “Bread pudding is a favorite of Craig’s.”

  “What a coincidence!” Vicki exclaimed. “It’s my favorite, too. My recipe makes far too much for one person. Why don’t I wait until Craig returns home? I’ll whip up a pan, then bring some over. I know how busy you are, Sandy, with the play and what-have-you. Something homemade will be a nice treat.”

  “Have you heard from Kenny?” I asked Vicki, reaching for a four-ounce bottle of pure vanilla extract. She and her husband had split months ago. Since then, she’d been trying to woo Kenny back with gourmet meals and Victoria’s Secret. I had it on good authority the breakup was the result of Vicki’s fling with a local chef, now deceased. Also on good authority, Vicki missed her American Express Gold credit card even more than her estranged husband.

  “Not a single word from Kenny since he hopped on his Harley and headed for Fantasy Fest in Key West.” She gave a head toss, flinging glossy, dark locks over her shoulder. “He told me that his lawyer would contact my lawyer—or words to that effect.”

  “Sorry.” I busied myself ringing up the sale. Vicki’s announcement didn’t sound promising for a Vicki-Kenny reconciliation.

  “Did I hear someone mention Fantasy Fest?” Melly inquired as she returned downstairs. “Is that anything like a Star Wars convention?”

  Sandy ceased riffling through aprons. “Ha!” she snorted. “Melly, dear, I can’t believe you’re so naïve. Fantasy Fest makes New Orleans’s Mardi Gras seem like a child’s tea party. Fantasy Fest is ten days of parades and parties—sans clothing but lots of body paint.”

  “Ohh…,” Melly murmured.

  I chuckled at seeing Melly’s cheeks turn rosy as Sandy’s description sank home. Fortunately, further discussion of body paint and naked bodies was forestalled by the arrival of Doug Winters with Casey, my mutt of many breeds, under his arm, and his daughter, Madison. Seeing him instantly brightened my day.

  Beneath a mop of prematurely silver hair, Doug’s boyishly handsome face broke into a grin at his spotting a cluster of women. Chocolate brown eyes behind rimless eyeglasses twinkled with good humor. “Ladies,” he said.

  I smiled back, feeling a bubble of happiness well up inside me. Many folks in town regarded us as a “couple.” Truth is, I’d even begun to think of ourselves that way for lack of a better term. Our coupleship, however, had suffered a serious setback since his daughter, Madison, had arrived from Chicago to live with him. Madison demanded all his free time, and Doug—out to acquit himself as father-of-the-year—gave it willingly. Every weekend, father and daughter ventured far and wide. To the best of my knowledge, the father-daughter team had thus far shopped in Atlanta, taken carriage rides in Savannah, and toured historic homes in Charleston. He’d let it drop that Hilton Head Island was the next place of interest to be explored. While I applauded the fact that Doug wanted to bond with his daughter, I wouldn’t be totally honest if I didn’t admit to being a little hurt by his defection.

  Upon spotting me, Casey started to bark in short, excited yaps. Doug set the squirming little dog on the floor. “There you go, boy.”

  Casey bounded across the shop, leaped into my outstretched arms, and lathered my face in doggy kisses.

  “All right, already!” I said, laughing. “Let me see how you look after your day at a spa.” Doug had recently leased space to a dog groomer from a neighboring town who came into his clinic once a week. This had been Casey’s first visit to the groomer. He’d been washed, brushed, trimmed, and styled until I hardly recognized his usually scruffy self.

  “I adore animals.” Vicki gave Casey a tentative pat on his head, then batted her lashes at Doug in a coy gesture that predated hoop skirts. “I’m so looking forward to your cooking demo tomorrow. I plan to sit in the front row and take notes.” She turned her attention to Madison. “This pretty young lady must be the daughter I’ve heard so much about.”

  Madison stepped closer to her father’s side. From the pinched expression on her heart-shaped face, I could tell she wasn’t happy with Vicki’s flirtatiousness. Madison was a pretty girl, or least she would be if she smiled more often. She’d inherited her father’s eye color, but the resemblance ended there. She was petite with delicate features and wore her long, golden-brown hair scraped back in a ponytail.

  “Madison is a natural onstage.” Sandy idly examined packets of recipe cards displayed on a nearby shelf. “I’d initially cast Brittany Hughes, Trish’s daughter, for the role, but the girl didn’t take it seriously. She was too young, too immature.”

  “And too interested in boys,” Vicki added. “I ran into Trish at the club the other day. She’s madder than a wet hen that the apple of her eye isn’t going to be in Steel Magnolias.”

  “Well, she’ll just have to get over it,” Sandy said briskly. “Unlike Madison, Brittany never came to rehearsals prepared and constantly missed her cues. I had no choice but to replace her.”

  I glimpsed the self-satisfied smirk on Madison’s face before it vanished beneath her perpetual petulant expression. “Daddy,” she whined, “how much longer? We need to pick up my car before the garage closes.”

  “Right, right,” Doug said, digging into his shirt pocket and pulling out a folded piece of paper, which he handed me. “I added a few more items to the checklist I e-mailed yesterday. I want my first cooking demo to be glitch-free.”

  “What are you making?” Sandy asked.

  “Spicy chicken curry.” Doug took off his rimless eyeglasses and polished the lenses on the sleeve of his sport shirt. Satisfied they gleamed, he slipped them on again. “I like to experiment with Middle Eastern cuisine.”

  “I wasn’t going to attend, but I changed my mind. As Vicki reminded me, all work and no play isn’t good for a person. I’ll encourage some of the cast and crew to come as well. A get-together outside of the theater will help create a sense of camaraderie.” Frowning, she consulted her wristwatch. “Are you ready, Vicki?”

  I set Casey down on the floor and handed Vicki her purchase, then watched the two friends depart.

  Madison hitched the strap of her purse higher on her shoulder. “If Sandy thinks Daddy’s cooking will turn the cast and crew into one big, happy family, she’s sadly mistaken. If the curtain goes up before someone kills someone, it’ll be a miracle.”

  Doug frowned at his daughter’s words. Melly hugged her cardigan closer. I felt the hairs at the back of my neck prickle. Only Casey, who lounged near my feet, seemed oblivious of the tension.

  CHAPTER 3

  AFTER JOGGING THE next morning, I’d scarcely had time to shower and down a cup of coffee before I heard someone pounding on the front door downstairs. Leaving Casey in my apartment where he wouldn’t be underfoot, I raced down the steps to see who was making all the racket. I hurried through my shop, switching on lights as I went, and peered through the glass. The first thing to catch my attention was the shiny black hearse parked curbside. Next Ned Feeney’s face popped into view. Startled, I took a half step back. I should’ve known with a glossy black hearse out front that Ned wouldn’t be far. Irked at myself for being jumpy, I twisted the dead bolt and let him in.

  “Too early?” He smirked, pleased with himself at having frightened me.

  “No, not at all,” I fibbed as Ned pushed through the door with aluminum chairs tucked under each arm. Tall and lanky with a prominent Adam’s apple, Ned was probably somewhere between fifty and sixty years of age. Jack-of-all-trades-but-master-of-none, he worked part-time at the Eternal Rest Funeral Home, where I’d rented the folding chairs from the owner—and county coroner—John Stric
kland, for a modest fee.

  Ned gave me his characteristic loopy grin. “Where do you want ’em?”

  I motioned toward the kitchen area in the rear of the shop. “If you’d set them in rows in front of that table at the back. I want everyone to have a clear view of Doug’s cooking demo.” When planning Spice It Up! I’d installed a compact, but efficient, kitchen area. My single splurge item had been a double oven. A double oven was a must-have in every Food Network episode I’d ever watched. Giada. The Barefoot Contessa. Bobby Flay. Rachael Ray. All my favorite cooks had a second oven from which to pop out the finished product. Since I planned to hold cooking demonstrations, I wanted to be able to do the same.

  “All righty, then,” Ned said. “I’ll hop to it.” He leaned the first load of chairs against the counter and scurried out for more.

  No sooner had Ned disappeared out the front when a thumping noise commenced from the back. Casey heard it, too, and increased the decibel level with his frantic barking. “I’m coming, I’m coming,” I called out, and opened the door.

  Doug grinned at me over a large, cherry-red-enameled Dutch oven that he held in both hands. A mesh shopping bag dangled from one arm. “Too early?”

  “You, too early? Never,” I countered, returning a warm smile. I eyed the box he carried. “What’s with all the stuff?”

  Doug followed me through the storeroom and into the shop. “I brought the finished product so I could take it out of the second oven at the appropriate time. You know, voilà! Like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat. I also thought it might be a good idea to have extra … just in case,” he said.

  “In case of what?”

  “Fire, flood, famine. You never know what disaster might befall a poor, helpless veterinarian with aspirations of becoming a culinary superstar.”

  “Maybe you should consider working for FEMA or some disaster preparation agency such as the American Red Cross? Just sayin’,” I added, shoving aside the basket of vegetables I’d placed at one end of the table to make room for Doug’s supplies.

  Doug paused when he saw my handiwork and let a low whistle. “Guess my worries were unfounded. I should’ve known you’d have all the bases covered. The place looks great!”

  The place did, indeed, look “great.” I gave myself an imaginary pat on the back. My efforts hadn’t been in vain. I’d filled a wicker basket with ingredients in Doug’s recipe—onions, tomatoes, garlic cloves, lemon, red chilies, and a knobby rhizome of ginger—and set it on a long, cloth-covered table. At the opposite end rested two cans of coconut milk and a carton of chicken broth. Various spices were lined up like cadets awaiting inspection at a military academy.

  “Guess I don’t need this stuff after all.” Doug set the oven temperature on low, then slid the pricey cookware inside to keep warm until his “aha” moment. “Where’s your pooch?”

  “Upstairs. After a day at the doggy spa and an early-morning run, the poor little guy needed a rest.” I slipped on a canary yellow apron, with a fiery red pepper and “Spice It Up!” embroidered on the bib, and tied the strings. It pays to advertise, or so I’ve been told.

  Doug removed a Ziploc bag filled with boneless, skinless chicken strips from his reusable shopping bag and placed it in the refrigerator. He shoved the bag of emergency supplies under the table out of sight and looked around, frowning. “Are you sure women are interested in learning Indian cuisine? What if no one comes?”

  “Stop worrying.” I laughed and gave him a peck on the cheek. “Wait and see; we’ll have a full house. By the way, where’s Madison? I thought for sure she’d want to witness her father’s debut as a chef.”

  Doug rearranged the coconut milk and chicken broth, studied the effect, then switched them back to their original positions. “Madison reminded me someone needed to man the clinic. She promised to call my cell in case of an emergency.”

  The clank of metal against metal heralded Ned’s return. “Hiya, Doc!” he said. “Ready for the big show?”

  “Ready as I’ll ever be,” Doug replied good-naturedly.

  “I’ll have these babies set up in a jiff and get out of your hair.” In Ned’s haste several chairs slipped from his grasp and clattered to the floor. “Sorry, sorry,” he muttered, bending to retrieve them.

  “Take your time, Ned. There’s no need to rush. The demonstration isn’t until ten o’clock.”

  “Fact is, Miz Piper, I’m kinda in a hurry. I got myself a new gig.”

  “A new gig, eh?” I hoped his new employer realized Ned came with a warning label: Hire at your own risk. Wherever Ned went, trouble was sure to follow. Not long ago, he’d tried to install a new garbage disposal in my kitchen and wound up in the hospital with a concussion.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Ned lined the chairs in a haphazard row. “You’re looking at the new custodian of the Brandywine Creek Opera House.”

  “‘Custodian’ sounds pretty impressive.” Doug pulled a checklist from his pant pocket and gave it a once-over.

  “Yes, sirree, it sure does.” Ned’s head bobbed in vigorous agreement. “It’s a fancied-up name for ‘janitor,’ but Miz Granger says ‘custodian’ has”—he scratched his head, searched his memory—“more class.”

  “Well, she should know,” I replied. As unobtrusively as possible, I put a little more separation between the chairs.

  “Today’s my first day on the job. I want to make a good impression.” Ned took off his ever-present ball cap that bore the University of Georgia logo and wiped his brow. “Miz Granger said it was up to me to keep the opera house shipshape. I’m gonna give the place a good goin’ over from top to bottom, startin’ soon’s I return the hearse.”

  “Well, I’m certain you’ll be very conscientious.”

  Ned’s brow wrinkled. “I’m a bit flummoxed,” he admitted. “I don’t want to make any mistakes. Think I should start on the third floor and work my way down? Or start down and work my way up?”

  Doug stopped scanning his list and grinned at Ned. “When in doubt, do what I do. Flip a coin.”

  “Great idea, Doc. I’ll give that a try.” Relief spread across Ned’s face as he hurried off, eager to begin his new career.

  Soon after Ned had left, Melly arrived with a container of bite-size cranberry-nut muffins. While Doug read, then reread, his recipe, I started coffee brewing. The finishing touches had no sooner been completed when women began filing in.

  “Nervous?” I whispered to Doug.

  He wiped his palms on the sides of his pants. “A little,” he confessed. “It’s one thing to prepare a meal in your own kitchen, another to cook with everyone observing your every move.”

  “Well, if it’s any consolation, your demonstration—regardless of how flawed—will be far superior to the one I attempted at my grand opening. It culminated with me drinking wine that was supposed to be used in the recipe. To make matters worse, the leg of lamb skidded off the table and landed on the floor.” I could laugh about it now, but at the time I wanted to disappear.

  Doug chuckled. “I’ve heard half-dozen variations of that story. Everyone might not agree on the exact details, but no one disputes your demo wasn’t highly entertaining.”

  Soon the shop was filled with noisy chatter. Vicki Lamont was among the first to arrive. Flashing a bright smile in Doug’s direction, she claimed a seat front and center. For some reason that I didn’t choose to examine more closely, this irritated the heck out of me. Vicki liked men—attached or unattached—and made no bones about it. She was a shark on the hunt for fresh meat. I made a mental note to warn Doug.

  I smiled at seeing Gerilee Barker help herself to a muffin and coffee before wedging herself between Dottie Hemmings and Bunny Bowtin. Precious Blessing, the afternoon dispatcher at the Brandywine Creek Police Department, gave me a thumbs-up as she entered and settled next to Mary Lou Lambert. Precious was accompanied by a man I assumed was Junior, one of her five brothers. Junior, she’d explained, aspired to become a chef at a four-star restaurant. The Bless
ing boys, I’d heard tell, were all excellent cooks. Just this past July, Bubba Blessing had won top honors at the annual barbecue festival.

  “Showtime,” I said in a low voice when the hands of my regulator clock indicated the hour of ten. Taking my place in front of the group, I beamed a smile. The women stopped chattering and looked attentive. The sight of all their expectant faces caused my pulse to quicken and my mouth to go dry. I recalled advice I’d once heard about public speaking and tried to picture the audience naked. Eeuw! That only made matters worse.

  “Many of you know Dr. Doug Winters as a competent veterinarian, but he’s here this morning to show he’s equally skilled in the kitchen as when he’s spaying or neutering your pets.”

  That didn’t come out exactly as I’d rehearsed. Some women tittered at hearing this. Melly scowled. Out of the corner of my eye I caught Doug’s grimace and felt my cheeks grow warm. Public speaking, I’d heard, is one of the most common phobias. Public cooking, for all I knew, might be another.

  I cleared my throat and tried again, “What I meant to say was he’s quite clever when it comes to slicing and dicing.”

  “Piper, dear, why not skip the introduction and let Dr. Winters show us how to prepare spicy chicken curry,” Melly suggested from her post near the counter.

  “Excellent idea, Melly.” Grateful for the reprieve, I stepped aside, and Doug stepped forward.

  “I hope I won’t disappoint you, ladies,” he said with a disingenuous smile guaranteed to win admirers.

  “Not in the least,” Vicki cooed. She crossed, then recrossed shapely legs, tanned and toned from hours on the tennis court. “I’m sure we’ll be fascinated by everything you say.”

  “Then let’s get started.” Doug approached the stovetop, then proceeded to unscrew the lid of a small glass jar. “This is ghee. Add about three tablespoons into a heavy-bottomed pot.”

  “Ghee…?” Gerilee—winner of Best Pimento Cheese Award at the county fair, three years running—repeated. “Never heard of it.”