Death by the Dozen

by Jenn McKinlay

  As they reached the grounds, she could see there were white-topped booths lining all twenty-one acres of the Scottsdale Civic Center Mall. Vendors including kitchen stores and local restaurants were all scurrying to unpack their assigned booths. The festival would be opening in just a few hours.

  Colorful burgundy booths lined one of the pathways around the fountains. Mel knew from their packet of information that this was where the challenge to the chefs would be taking place.

  “You know I always love attending the festival,” Angie said as they paused to survey their work area. “But it’s kind of weird to be in it.”

  “Agreed,” Mel said.

  “Melanie! Angela! Yoo-hoo!”

  Mel looked behind her to see her mother, wearing a lime green polo shirt and matching sun visor, waving at her from the volunteers’ booth.

  They both waved back.

  “I didn’t know your mother was volunteering,” Angie said.

  “Neither did I,” Mel said.

  They crossed over to the booth, which was stuffed to the gills with women and men adorned in lime green. A stout woman with a clipboard, wearing bright orange lipstick with her lime green uniform, was addressing the group.

  “Now, for every shift you work, you get ten free tasting coupons.”

  Mel sidled over to her mother’s side. “Who is that?”

  “That’s Millicent Penny,” Joyce whispered. “She’s in charge of the volunteers.”

  “What are you doing here, Mom?” Mel asked.

  “Ginny thought it might be fun for us to volunteer,” Joyce said. “She’s over there behind Millicent.”

  Mel glanced over the crowd. Sure enough, there was her mother’s best friend, Ginny Lobo. She was a tiny little thing with platinum hair and huge blue eyes. Ginny had come from poverty and married up when she snagged Monty Lobo.

  Now she was as rich as all get-out, but her elevator had gotten stuck somewhere between floors, and she spent a lot of time and money trying to convince the world that she was the love child of Elvis Presley and Marilyn Monroe.

  She caught sight of Mel and Angie and gave them a little finger wave over Millicent’s head. She was sipping on a bright pink water bottle that Mel would have bet her last cupcake did not have water in it.

  “Why would you want to do this?”

  Joyce’s face flamed red under her green visor. She had recently taken to streaking her naturally blonde hair with copper, and now it matched the color in her cheeks.

  “Ginny thought I might . . .” she mumbled with her head turned to the side, making it impossible for Mel to hear her.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that,” Mel said.

  “Me either,” Angie chimed in.

  “Now remember, people, you are the face of the festival. You must be smiles, smiles, smiles!” Millicent called out.

  Joyce ducked her head and repeated herself, but Mel still couldn’t hear her over Millicent bellowing out the roll call for the volunteers.

  “What?” Mel yelled. “I still can’t hear you.”

  “Meet a man!” Joyce yelled in return. “Ginny thought I might meet a man here.”

  Millicent had stopped calling the roll right as Joyce had shouted. Now the horde of volunteers swiveled their heads to look at them.

  “Oh, nuts,” Joyce said. Now her face flamed even brighter than her hair.

  One of the male volunteers stepped forward. Beneath his lime green shirt, he wore pink and green checkered polyester pants with a wide white belt and matching white shoes. He gave Joyce the once-over and then shifted his dentures in his mouth and winked at her.

  “No need to look any further, lovely lady, I do like a spicy redhead.”

  “Oh, gross! Do you want me to punch him in the face for you?” Angie asked Joyce.

  “Oh, heavens no,” Joyce said. “You just can’t go around punching people, Angela.”

  “Really? How unfortunate.” Angie leaned toward the paunchy oldster with the bad comb over and smacked her left palm with her right fist. He backed up in a hurry.

  Mel blew out a breath. She couldn’t shake the feeling that having her mother and Ginny volunteering here was going to be a titanic disaster.

  “People!” Millicent clapped as she addressed the group. “It is time to man your stations.” She fluttered her hands at them, and the group dispersed.

  “We need to go check in,” Mel said to Angie. “Mom, try to stay out of trouble. You, too, Ginny!”

  Ginny lifted her mouth from the straw in her plastic cup and yelled, “Aw, don’t be a party pooper, Mel!”

  Mel opened her mouth to protest, but Angie half carried and half dragged her away. “Come on, we’re going to be late.”

  “She just called me a party pooper!” Mel protested. She tried to turn back and give Ginny a good zap of stink eye, but Angie pulled her inexorably forward.

  “Now is not the time,” Angie said.

  “You think she’s right, don’t you?” Mel asked.

  “Are you kidding? Heck no, you’re more fun than a barrel of monkeys,” Angie said.

  “A barrel of monkeys?” Mel repeated. “That’s the best you could do. How old are we, five?”

  “Hey, monkeys are fun and they’re cute,” Angie said.

  “They are not cute; they’re known for throwing their own poo,” Mel argued.

  “That could be cute, depending upon the target,” Angie countered.

  “Cute? Who’s cute, or are you talking about me again?”

  Mel spun around to find Dutch walking behind them.

  Angie sucked in a small breath and said, “I’ll go sign us in.”

  Dutch watched her go with a small smile on his lips.

  “Stay away from my sous-chef,” Mel said. “She’s vulnerable right now.”

  Dutch raised his eyebrows in an interested look, and Mel could have kicked her own backside. What an idiot she was. Here the shark was circling the water, and she pointed out the blood to him, you know, in case he missed it.

  “I thought you said she had a boyfriend,” he said.

  “He’s away on business,” Mel said. She didn’t dare mention that Angie was dating a rock star for fear that this might make her even more enticing to Dutch.

  He studied her and then shrugged.

  “The first round starts in an hour, you ready?” he asked.

  “As I’ll ever be,” she said. “It’s hard to prep when you don’t know what the mystery ingredient is.”

  “You’ve been practicing, haven’t you?”

  “Of course. I’m a pro,” she said. There was no need to mention it had been at Angie and Tate’s prodding.

  “Good, I’m counting on you to win,” he said.

  Mel gave him a quick glance. “What do you mean?”

  He gave her a careless shrug. “Nothing. I’m just hoping for the best for you.”

  He turned and walked away. He looked like the consummate superstar in his powder blue dress shirt with the sleeves rolled back to his elbows, his crisply creased coffee brown dress slacks, and brown Archdale loafers with the perforated skull and crossbones on the toes. His outfit probably cost more than Mel spent on clothes in a year.

  She glanced down and took in her pink Converse One Stars and olive cargo pants. Thankfully, she and Angie were wearing white chef coats, and they’d don their pleated toques before they started cooking. Mel had figured she only needed to look like a pro from the waist up.

  She felt her cell phone in the lower right pocket of her pants vibrate. She had shut off its usual Gone with the Wind ringtone so as not to be disturbed during the competition.

  She pulled out her phone and checked the display window. It read Fairy Tale Cupcakes. Oh, no!

  “Hello?” she answered.

  “So, I was thinking what you’re really missing here is a punk rock cupcake.”

  “Oz?”

  “Yep, it’s me,” he said. “You’ve got too much pink here. You need some balance. Punk rock cupcakes would
be the way to go. It could be a niche market.”

  “Because cupcakes aren’t enough of a niche?” Mel pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and her pointer finger.

  “I’m thinking black icing.”

  “You’re calling me with this now?” she asked. “I saw the bakery name pop up on my phone, and I thought it was Tony calling to tell me the place was on fire.”

  “How could it be on fire when you won’t let me use the oven?” he asked.

  “Oz, you and Tony are babysitting the shop until we get back,” Mel said. “There’s usually a lot of foot traffic because of the festival. Are you sure you two can handle this?”

  “Two of us?” he asked. “I have a DeLaura brother, and the T-man is hanging out.”

  “T-man?” Mel asked.

  “Tate,” Oz explained. “He’s kind of cool when he loses the suit.”

  “He’s okay,” Mel said, feeling cranky. “Aren’t you a little early for your shift? I thought you had school in the morning.”

  “Early release day,” he said. “So, picture this: a dark chocolate cupcake with smooth white frosting, possibly a fondant, with a black fondant skull on it.”

  “Halloween isn’t for six months,” she said.

  “Okay, I can see where it might appear seasonal,” he said. “How about we spell out Black Flag or the Ramones?”

  Mel was watching Angie sign in when all of a sudden Olivia Puckett appeared beside Angie and hip-checked her out of the way.

  “Oz, I’m kind of busy here,” Mel said.

  “It’s cool, just think about it,” he said.

  “Right, don’t use the oven or the mixer,” Mel said. “Keep Tony from eating everything, and call me if there’s trouble!”

  She snapped her phone shut and hurried over to the table, where Angie looked like she was going to launch herself at Olivia. Mel slid into the gap between them and smiled at the registration lady, who was looking decidedly alarmed.

  Eight

  “Problem?” Mel asked Angie.

  “Not yet,” Angie said. She glared over Mel’s shoulder at Olivia.

  “I’m going to frost your cute little butt right out of round one,” Olivia growled as she sauntered by Mel.

  “We’ll see,” Mel said.

  She refused to take the bait, mostly because if the situation escalated, she’d have a hard time controlling Angie and her temper. Angie was known to swing first and talk later, which was why she’d had her own personal desk in the detention room in middle school. Mel couldn’t afford to lose her assistant chef this close to competition time.

  “Challenge to the chefs competitors, please report to the conference room,” the registration woman called through a microphone, which let loose a shriek of piercing feedback, making Mel jump.

  Once the competitors had all packed into the room to don their chef clothes, a skinny woman with a big head, sporting a highly teased hairdo of vibrant red hair, addressed the group.

  “I am Felicity Parnassus. I am the chairwoman of this year’s festival.”

  She paused as if to give them a chance to applaud. There was a smattering of claps, and she nodded her head in acknowledgment. Angie caught Mel’s gaze and rolled her eyes. Mel looked away before she laughed.

  “Welcome, chefs,” she said. “Now we need to quickly go over the rules. You will wait onstage in your kitchens while our host announces the mystery ingredient. You will then have an opportunity to gather your mystery ingredient off of the cart we wheel out. That is your only chance. Back onstage at your designated station, you will find it fully stocked with all of the kitchen staples you’ll require, such as flour, milk, sugar, and eggs. Also, assigned to your station will be your designated runner. This is your runner for the duration of the competition. It will be their duty to acquire whatever special items you need to make your culinary creations from the pantry that we are maintaining in the corner of the conference room. This is where we will be keeping unusual spices and other possible ingredients.

  “The judges will be in attendance for the duration of the contest, and while they will be judging you primarily on creativity, presentation, and taste, they will also be watching to see how you manage your kitchen. Professionalism is always appreciated. The contest will begin in half an hour. I suggest you go familiarize yourself with your kitchens.”

  As they made their way out of the conference room back to the festival, Mel felt her stomach clench. She was nervous. She couldn’t believe it. She was never nervous about cooking. She always looked at it like an adventure. But she’d never had scads of free publicity and ten thousand dollars riding on it before.

  “What’s the matter?” Angie asked. “You look a little sweaty and pasty.”

  “Do I? It must be something I ate,” Mel said.

  “Hi, Mel!” Polly Ramsey darted in front of her. “Isn’t this exciting? It’s actually starting.”

  Mel frowned at her. She was a kid running a cookie business out of her apartment, and she didn’t look nervous at all.

  “Angie, you remember Polly—she came by the bakery the other day?”

  “Oh, yeah, you’re the one with the Sherman Tank for a mom,” Angie said.

  Polly had the grace to look embarrassed. “I’m sorry about that. I did take your advice,” she said. “I banned her from coming here until the finals, assuming I make the finals. Truly, I’m just happy to be a part of all this.”

  She gestured around at the hordes of people now filling the walkways, the vendors hawking their wares, and the general happy chaos that filled the place.

  Mel felt her shoulders drop. Polly was right. This was supposed to be a fun event, not do or die. Sheesh. She had to get her priorities straight.

  “Come on,” she said with a smile. “Let’s go find our stations.”

  Mel and Angie found themselves in a well-appointed spot with plenty of shade. The day was beginning to heat up, and Mel was grateful for the cool breeze that blew across the grounds, keeping the desert sun from becoming oppressive.

  The challenge to the chefs, pastry division, had been divided into two groups of twenty-two. Mel was relieved that they were in the first group as the second group had to go cool their heels in a conference room nearby so as not to be tipped off to the mystery ingredient.

  Mel and Angie studied their mini-kitchen, and Mel felt reasonably sure she could function in it. She was used to baking in bulk, so it would be weird to use the miniappliances that they’d been supplied with, but then they only had to cook for the four judges—Bertie Grassello, Dutch Johnson, Vic Mazzotta, and Candace Levinson, who was an editor with Food and Wine magazine.

  Spectators gathered to watch as their host arrived with a large white plastic box. Mel and Angie exchanged a look.

  “If it’s eels, I am so out of here,” Angie said.

  “It’s not going to be eels,” Mel said. “At least, I don’t think so.”

  Their host, celebrity chef Johnny Pepper, bounded onto stage, exploding like a firecracker and drawing the crowd to him like moths to his flame.

  “Are y’all ready?” he addressed the crowd with his charming Southern drawl and engaged them in guessing what the mystery ingredient could be. As he shouted back and forth with the gathering throng, Mel took the opportunity to study him.

  He had spiked, bleached blond hair that shone almost white in the midday sun, a nose ring, and a sleeve of tattoos running up both of his arms. He wore combat boots and fatigues under a black chef’s coat that sported flames shooting up from the bottom hem. He looked too punk rock for the kitchen, and Mel suspected Oz would love him.

  Johnny was a veteran of the Food Channel and had made his fame and fortune by being a badass grill man. His face was now on everything from charcoal briquettes to bottles of BBQ sauce. He was as close to a rock star as a chef could get.

  Angie leaned next to her and said, “Is it just me or is he hot?”

  “En fuego,” Mel confirmed.

  As if he heard them, Johnn
y glanced over at their station and gave them a wicked grin.

  “Dutch better watch it,” Angie said. “I think Johnny could eclipse even him.”

  Mel had to agree. She pulled her gaze away from Johnny and glanced at the crowd. She saw Grace Mazzotta wedged between a family and a young couple. Grace was standing up on her toes and scanning the faces of the people around her as if looking for someone. Mel glanced over at the judges’ booth to see Dutch and Bertie and a woman taking their seats, but there was no sign of Vic.

  She frowned. She didn’t see Jordan either. Was Vic off dallying with his bimbo protégée? Mel felt a hot spike of anger rush through her. If Vic wanted to be a two-timing lowlife, that was his choice, but here was Grace, his counterbalance of kindness, and she deserved to be treated better than this.

  “I’ll be right back,” Mel said.

  “But . . .” Angie began, but Mel shook her off.

  She slipped off the dais, feeling Olivia’s gaze upon her as she went. She really wished the other baker had been put into the second round.

  “Grace,” Mel called to her friend. “Are you all right?”

  “Oh, Mel, hi there.” Grace gave her a beaming smile.

  Mel reached past the young couple and pulled Grace toward her. “You look like you’re about to be trampled.”

  “Oh, no. I’m fine, dear. Shouldn’t you be up there listening to your instructions?”

  “My partner has it under control,” Mel said.

  “Well, then you’ve chosen well,” Grace said. She went back to scanning the crowd. “Now, if I could just find Vic.”

  “He’s not here?” Mel asked.

  “If he is,” Grace said. “I can’t find him.”

  “Grace, is everything okay?” Mel asked. It was as close as she could get to saying that she thought Vic was cheating on her.

  Grace turned to look at her. Her eyes crinkled in the corners, and she tipped her head in understanding. “All marriages weather storms, even when they’re named Jordan.”

  Mel scanned Grace’s face. It was still a pretty face, softened just a little bit with wrinkles and the toll of gravity. She was in awe of the acceptance in Grace’s eyes. If Joe ever pulled a stunt like this, why she’d . . .