Death by the Dozen

by Jenn McKinlay

  A flash of movement near the stage caught Mel’s attention.

  “Speak of the devil,” she said.

  Jordan was coming toward them. Her long dark hair was pulled back in a casual knot at the back of her head. She wore jeans and a plum-colored blouse, which was wrinkled as if she had just thrown it on.

  A close glance at her face and Mel could see her lips were clamped tightly together, and she was without makeup, which seemed out of character for a young woman who appeared to get by on her looks.

  “Jordan,” Grace called out to her, and the young woman whipped her head in their direction. She didn’t look pleased to see them. “Have you seen Vic?”

  “No! I’m his intern, not his keeper,” the young woman snapped, and then she plowed past them back into the crowd.

  Mel frowned, but Grace patted her arm.

  “Vic is just going through a phase. It’ll pass. It always does, and I’ll still be here for him.”

  “But aren’t you . . .” Mel’s voice trailed off, realizing that this might be none of her business.

  “Angry?” Grace guessed and then shook her head. “To what purpose? Vic is my best friend. He’ll figure it out. He just needs some time and understanding.”

  “Or a swift kick in the patoot,” Mel suggested.

  Grace tipped back her head and gave a delighted laugh. “No wonder you’ve always been Vic’s favorite. You’re not afraid of him at all, are you?”

  “Not even a little,” Mel said. “And I am more than willing to offer my size nines to do the kicking.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Grace said with a chuckle. “Now get up there before you’re disqualified. I’m sure Vic will turn up any minute; he always does.”

  Mel gave her a quick hug and squeezed her way back up onto the dais.

  “And your mystery ingredient is . . .” The host paused for dramatic effect, while reaching into the plastic box, and then yelled, “Parsnips!”

  Angie turned to Mel and said, “Oh, yeah!”

  Mel nodded, and they exchanged the complicated handshake Oz had taught them but not nearly as coolly as he did it.

  “I wouldn’t celebrate yet if I were you,” Olivia said from across the kitchen.

  “You think you can beat us?” Angie taunted her.

  Olivia curled her lip, and her sous-chef mimicked her hands-on-hips stance of intimidation.

  “I could beat you with my whisk tied behind my back,” she said.

  “Isn’t that how you usually cook?” Mel asked. “Or maybe it just tastes that way.”

  Olivia snarled, and Angie spun Mel away from her before it got physical.

  “Game face,” Angie ordered, and Mel nodded.

  On Johnny’s count, they had to run to the cart and collect their parsnips. This was no time for squabbling with Olivia. They could save that for later, after they whipped her meringue in this competition.

  Nine

  It was almost too easy, which made Mel nervous.

  Their runner was an elderly woman named Joanie. She was short and skinny with gray hair that hung in a long ponytail down her back. She wore thick glasses, giving her a birdlike appearance, which was only enhanced by the two vivid circles of rouge she wore on her cheeks and the cherry red lipstick she wore on her lips, although her ability to color within the lines was questionable at best.

  She moved pretty quickly for a woman who looked to be shoving eighty back pretty hard. When Mel asked her to get them some candied ginger, Joanie took off for the special pantry with her head ducked low and her steps quick like the determined march of a badger.

  “I think she’s going to work out,” Angie said.

  “She is a spritely little thing,” Mel agreed.

  Angie pointed over her shoulder in the direction of Olivia’s station and said, “I’m not sure, but I think Puckett’s runner just peed his pants.”

  Mel glanced over to see Olivia sweating profusely while dressing down her sous-chef and her runner, as if she were starring in an episode of Hell’s Kitchen.

  “Lunatic,” Angie scoffed, and she went back to monitoring the cupcakes.

  Mel watched Dutch as he strolled amongst the different stations, pausing to watch the pastry chefs in action. She ignored him and set to work on her cream cheese frosting.

  The sound of a bowl shattering brought her attention up, and she glanced over to see Polly Ramsey, flushed with embarrassment, as Dutch grinned down at her.

  Polly’s father was standing in her kitchen with her, and Mel was surprised to see him there. He hadn’t struck her as being too much on the ball when he’d been in the shop, but maybe that was because Polly’s mother seemed to suck all of the air out of the room with her stage-mother histrionics.

  Mel watched him for a moment and noted that he seemed to move about the kitchenette as if he knew exactly what he was doing. When Dutch lingered with Polly, her father shooed him away, showing an awareness Mel wouldn’t have guessed he possessed.

  “Score another victory for Dutch,” a voice said from behind Mel.

  She turned to find Bertie Grassello standing there.

  “Hi, Bertie,” she said. “How are you?”

  Bertie Grasello had been Mel’s least favorite professor at the culinary institute. He was a poser, and she had no patience for him.

  Instead of working on his craft, he worked at making himself look like James Beard. Tall and stocky, he shaved his head bald and sported a gray mustache neatly trimmed over his upper lip. But that was where the resemblance ended.

  While James Beard had been one of the key persons responsible for giving America a gourmet food identity, Bertie Grassello was a publicity hound always looking for his next close-up.

  “Looks like Vic couldn’t be bothered to show up,” he said. “That’s a pity—for you.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Mel asked.

  “Oh, come on, you know you’re favored to win. Vic has all but guaranteed it. I saw your face when they announced the mystery ingredient was parsnips. You knew already, didn’t you? He told you, didn’t he?”

  “He most certainly did not!” Mel said. She saw several people glance their way, and she lowered her voice. “If you have any evidence of wrongdoing, by all means bring it forward; otherwise, I suggest you shut it.”

  Bertie stiffened. “Still Vic’s girl, aren’t you?”

  “Always,” Mel spat. She forgot her annoyance with Vic as she defended him to his archrival. Maybe Vic was behaving like a jackass lately, but that did not mean Bertie could talk trash about him.

  “Well, we’ll see how far that gets you in this competition,” he said. “Did you know I’ve been hired to replace Vic on his television show? I just got the offer this morning, and of course, my manager accepted. I imagine we’ll have to negotiate a few things like salary and my expense account, but you’re looking at the new host of World Chef.”

  Mel blinked in surprise. She hadn’t heard. Vic was leaving his show? Why hadn’t he said anything? Did he even know?

  “Yeah, apparently, good old Vic has been phoning it in, especially during his recent Southeast Asia tour. His viewership numbers are down. I think he should have paid more attention to his program and less to his protégée, if you know what I mean.”

  It galled Mel that she did know.

  “So, the network was looking for someone with a little more pizzazz, and they chose me. My star is on the rise,” Bertie said as he stuck his finger in her cream cheese frosting. “You might consider being nice to me.”

  He walked away licking his finger, and Mel had to fight to keep from launching the entire bowl of frosting at his head. Jerk!

  She wanted to talk to Vic, and she wanted to talk to him now. She scanned the booths, but she didn’t see him anywhere.

  She caught sight of Grace, standing below the dais talking to the festival chairwoman, Felicity Parnassus. Grace looked as if she were on the verge of tears, and Mel felt another spurt of anger toward her mentor.

&n
bsp; How could Vic be so callous and stupid? It made her want to find him just so she could shake some sense into him or kick his butt around the festival grounds for a few laps.

  Felicity looked none too pleased, and she stormed away from Grace, leaving her biting her lip and looking worried. Mel was about to jump down and find out what was going on when Angie rushed to her side.

  “Cupcakes are out of the oven and in the cooler,” she said. “The clock is ticking, Mel. Come on. Focus!”

  Mel glanced back at Grace, who looked as if she was pulling it together. Then she thought of Vic, who would murder her if she messed this up.

  “Okay, I’m with you,” she said.

  Joanie had delivered the ginger, and they quickly mixed it into the frosting. Using pastry bags with open tips, they piped frosting onto the cooled cupcakes in large swirls and then placed a toasted walnut on top. Sensitive to Vic’s opinion that their presentation had underwhelmed last time, Mel melted some caramel and drizzled it across the plate before placing a cupcake in the center, very artsy.

  An air horn went off, and all of the chefs were ordered to step back from their stations. Angie had just placed the last cupcake onto a plate, and she and Mel stepped back together.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Mel saw Polly look crestfallen, as if she just hadn’t been ready yet. She also saw one of the volunteers shoo Olivia back from her table to keep her from continuing now that the siren had sounded.

  Angie looped an arm around Mel’s neck and gave her a big squeeze. They were both hot and sweaty, but Mel felt as if they had done their best and now it was in the judges’ hands.

  The panel of judges had taken their seats at the table under the canopy adjacent to the dais. Professional waiters were now in charge of serving the judges the competitors’ offerings.

  Bertie and Dutch were both seated as well as a woman Mel did not recognize but assumed was the editor from Food and Wine magazine. There was also an empty seat, which indicated that Vic had yet to show up. Mel watched as Felicity Parnassus escorted Jordan Russell, Vic’s protégée, to the empty seat.

  “Where the heck is Vic?” Angie asked Mel.

  “No idea,” Mel said.

  “They are not having that bimbo fill in for him, are they?” Angie said.

  “Looks like it,” Mel said. She frowned as she watched the brunette toss her hair over her shoulder and smile coquettishly at the photographer who was snapping a picture for the local newspaper.

  “You know, this is so typical,” Mel scoffed. “It’s always beauty before ability. If anyone should be taking Vic’s place, it’s Grace. They met in cooking school, you know, and she was really talented. If she hadn’t put her career on hold to manage Vic’s, I’m sure she’d be famous in her own right.”

  “There she is.” Angie pointed. “Should we go keep her company?”

  Mel followed the direction of Angie’s gaze and saw Grace huddled with one of the festival officials beside the stage. She was nodding at him while holding her cell phone to her ear.

  “She looks busy,” Mel said. “I can imagine the fallout from this is going to be huge. From what Bertie Grassello told me, Vic is already on the outs with the network. I can’t imagine what he’s thinking not showing up in time for this.”

  Mel and Angie trooped off the stage with the rest of their competitors. Because there would be two sessions to today’s cooking competition, the results would not be in until after the next group.

  “So, how did it go?” Tate asked as he popped up in between them.

  “You’re never going to believe what the mystery ingredient was,” Angie said.

  “Eels?” he asked.

  “Ew, no,” Angie said. “Parsnips.”

  “No way,” he said.

  “Way,” Angie countered.

  “Well, you two should have this sealed up, then,” he said. “Hey, maybe I’ve missed my true calling. Maybe I should be a mystery-ingredient food scout for cooking competitions.”

  “I think you’re looking at a bit of a dip in salary,” Angie said. “Hey, what are you doing here anyway? Aren’t you supposed to be at the bakery, helping Tony and Oz?”

  “Your brother Sal took my shift for me. They all look stunning in the pink aprons, by the way. You might want to consider giving them those for Christmas,” he said.

  Mel and Angie chuckled as they tried to picture the brothers in the pink bib aprons that the bakery was known for.

  “Besides, I can’t miss this. I have a vested interest. So, where’s your buddy Vic?”

  Mel was watching as the judges sampled the first round of parsnip-based desserts.

  “I don’t know. He never showed up.”

  “That’s odd, isn’t it?” he asked.

  “Well, Vic’s always been a tad arrogant,” Mel said. “He may have thought they’d wait for him.”

  “A tad?” Angie asked. “That’s like saying a habanero pepper is a little hot.”

  “Okay, so he’s an egomaniacal, narcissistic butthead. Still, he was very good to me after my dad died, and I’m fond of him.”

  “Understood,” Tate said. “Do you two want to stay here or go do some sampling while the judges get through all of those desserts?”

  “Let’s go sampling,” Angie said.

  Mel realized she was starving, so she let them pull her in the direction of the rest of the festival.

  The first thing that struck her was the smell. The perfume of mesquite smoke from a grill blended with another booth’s Mexicali lattes, causing Mel to salivate. There were more than fifty restaurants represented, and as participants in the challenge to the chefs, she and Angie had free tasting coupons to use at any booth they chose.

  “It’s past lunchtime,” Angie said. “I feel the need for something solid in my belly.”

  “How about a Southwestern burger?” Tate asked. He was consulting the list of restaurants. “The Barrio Bistro makes a juicy burger with jalapeño cheddar and guacamole.”

  “Lead the way,” Angie said. “And we’d better wash them down with margaritas. My nerves are shot.”

  They wound their way through the booths. More than forty thousand people would be visiting the festival during the week, and Mel had a feeling that most of them were here right now.

  They passed a stage with a Native American group performing. The steady beat of the drum gave rhythm to the hoop dancers, and Mel paused to watch for a moment before Angie grabbed her arm and dragged her along.

  “Later,” she said. “I’m so hungry I could eat overcooked Brussels sprouts.”

  They stopped at the margarita booth first. Mel ordered three, which Tate graciously paid for since he had a wallet and Mel and Angie had only their looks to get by on, which after toiling in the competition for an intense hour, were not up to getting them anything for free.

  Mel was trying not to think about how their cupcake had stacked up against some of the other desserts. It wasn’t that she was competitive; it was just that she really wanted to beat Olivia into the ground, repeatedly.

  While they were waiting, the bartender barked at his bar back that he needed more ice. Mel tried not to let her impatience show, but she was hot and cranky, and a frosty beverage would have really hit the spot.

  “I always pick the bad one,” Angie muttered. “Always. Here I pick the bar that has no ice, at the grocery store, I choose the line with the oldster who writes a check, and on the highway, I get in the lane with the texter in it. You name it, I am a slowpoke magnet.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” the bartender said. His badge read Daniel.

  “No, it’s not you, Dan, it’s me,” Angie said.

  “She’s just a little wiped out from competing this morning,” Tate said. “Challenge to the chefs, you know.”

  “Nice,” the bartender said. “Good luck.” Then he glanced behind him and yelled, “Pete, what’s the holdup? I have people waiting here.”

  “It’s the door,” Pete snapped. “It’s stuck.”

&nb
sp; Mel glanced over the bar to see Pete yanking on the back door of what appeared to be a refrigerated trailer.

  “Excuse me, our store of ice is in there,” the bartender said, and he jogged over to where Pete was still trying to yank open the door of one of several trailers.

  The bartender pushed him aside, braced his foot against the side of the trailer, and pulled with all of his might. The door wouldn’t budge.

  “Maybe we should go someplace else,” Angie said. “This could take a while.”

  “I don’t know,” Mel said. “Our barman seems determined.”

  She gestured back to the trailer, and they watched as Daniel got a crowbar from a nearby truck and wedged it into the door. Both he and Pete pushed on the crowbar, and with a loud crack, the door popped open and out came a tumble of ice and a body.

  Pete shrieked like a girly-girl, while Dan let loose a string of curses that could have barbequed meat without flame.

  Mel glanced at the body and felt all of the blood drain from her face as she recognized the burly build and thick head of gray hair. Vic!

  Ten

  Tate pulled his phone out of his pocket as Mel ran forward to check on Vic. His skin was as white as paper, and his lips were tinged with blue. He was, not surprisingly, ice-cold to the touch. She pressed her ear to his chest. He wasn’t breathing, and she couldn’t hear a heartbeat.

  Mel knelt beside him and cradled his head in her lap, thinking, No, Vic, no!

  It couldn’t end like this. Vic Mazzotta was larger than life. He couldn’t be dead. She couldn’t accept that, because if he was, she was losing not just her mentor but also her friend.

  The crowd, alerted to the drama by Pete’s shriek, pressed forward, but Angie spread her arms wide and pushed them back.

  “Give the man some room!” she shouted.

  Dan and Tate joined her, and together they made a human chain that was impossible to breach.

  One of the volunteers from the festival came running along with several of the festival’s security staff.

  Tate sent one security man to greet the paramedics who were on their way and told the volunteer to get over to the challenge to the chefs’ staging area and bring Grace Mazzotta there immediately.