The door shut in her face, and Mel was left in the prep room alone. She had been leaning toward Bertie as Vic’s killer. It made the most sense. He was the one with the most to gain from Vic’s death. With Vic dead, there could be no more rivalry, meaning the studio couldn’t replace Bertie with Vic if they decided they didn’t like how it was going.
Of course, Dutch had a lot to gain, too, by joining forces with Bertie. But Bertie’s death was going to set him back. Without Bertie to give him another shot in front of the camera, how was Dutch going to get back into the spotlight ?
The door opened and Olivia Puckett entered. She had her usual sneer in place, and her eyes lit up at the sight of Mel.
“Well, well, well,” she said as she sashayed across the room. “Is poor little Melanie all alone?”
Mel felt her teeth clench as Olivia talked to her like she was a lost little toddler likely to burst into tears.
“Can it, Olivia,” she said and added with a smile, “Then it will taste just like your frosting.”
Olivia glared daggers at her but kept up the baby talk. “What’s the matter, don’t you have anyone to protect you from the big, bad world anymore?”
“I don’t need protecting,” Mel said, frowning. “What exactly is your problem with me?”
“You mean, other than the fact that you’re a spoiled little rich girl who pretends to work when really you just have your rich friend Tate Harper dump money into your business to make it look successful?”
“Let me get this straight: You’re mad because I have an investor in my business?” Mel asked. “For your information, I happen to work my butt off in that bakery. Those cupcake recipes are all mine, and I do most of the baking. Yes, Tate gave me start-up capital, but he also gets a cut of the profit, which given our success, is substantial.”
“Blah, blah, blah.” Olivia made a talking motion with her hand. “Try selling that somewhere else. I am not buying it.”
“You are such a . . .”
The door opened, halting Mel’s rant as Felicity Parnassus entered.
“Ladies,” Felicity greeted them with a bob of her head.
They barely had time to greet her in return as she trotted past them to Johnny’s door. She gave it a swift knock and then entered without even waiting to be invited.
Olivia was too much of a suck-up to continue their spat while an official was present, so they gave each other mutual looks of loathing before Olivia turned on her heel and headed for the coffee in the back of the room.
Mel glanced at her phone. She had another half hour of waiting at least. She was not going to sit in this room with Olivia. She felt weary all the way to her bones, and even though she would have given it her best, she was not up for another confrontation.
The festival was open, and the crowds were gathering. Mel noticed that the cooks from the restaurants that had booths looked as tired as she felt, and she wondered if the charm had worn off for them as well. Six days of cooking outside for gobs of visitors would do that.
“Mel!” a voice cried, and she turned, expecting to see Angie or her mother. Instead, it was Polly Ramsey, the cookie baker, who had also made the final four, running toward her.
“Hi, Polly,” she said. The young woman was breathless as she stepped into the shade with her.
“Can you believe the news about Mr. Grassello?” Polly asked, her breath still rasping.
“No,” Mel said, feeling suddenly sad for Bertie even though she had never been very fond of the old blowhard.
“It’s been such a crazy week,” Polly said. “Two judges dead and that mean Olivia Puckett giving me such a hard time. I can’t believe I made the finals.”
“Polly, come here!” an imperious voice commanded.
Mel looked past Polly to see her mother standing a few feet away from them, carrying an old-fashioned round cosmetic bag.
“I thought you weren’t going to let her in,” Mel said.
“I had to,” Polly sighed. “My dad asked me to, and he’s been working so hard during the competition, I couldn’t refuse. Now she’s going to have me wearing red lipstick and stinking of Shalimar.”
“Well, there’s no time like the present to tell her no,” Mel said. “If you don’t, she’ll be like this forever.”
“Forever?” Polly asked.
Mel nodded.
“Oh, gees, and I’ve just been offered an opportunity to test for a new television cooking show,” Polly said, fretting her lower lip.
“What?” Mel asked.
“I’m not supposed to say anything,” Polly said, cringing. “Promise you won’t tell.”
“Absolutely,” Mel said.
“Well, Grace, you know the woman married to Mr. Mazzotta, she asked me if I had any interest in television,” Polly said. “I was shocked, but she seemed to think that with my youth and skill, I would have real audience appeal, so she wants me to come with her to Los Angeles for a screen test next week.”
“That’s exciting!” Mel said. “You must be thrilled.”
Polly frowned. “I don’t know. I’m not sure that life is for me.”
“Well, you won’t know unless you try it,” Mel said. Polly was cute. Mel could see an audience loving her big smile and genuine warmth. With Vic gone, it made sense that Grace was looking for someone else to represent.
“It’s lucky for her that she discovered you, given Vic’s passing and all,” Mel said. She knew her voice sounded sad. “It’ll be good for Grace to have a new talent on whom she can channel her management skills.”
Polly frowned. “I suppose. Although she asked me the day before he died when I was just touring the staging area to get my bearings. She seemed very excited to make the offer.”
“I’m sure she did,” Mel said. She felt her mouth curve into a smile while her stomach twisted into a knot. There was something about this that she didn’t like.
“Polly Alexandra Ramsey, come here right now!” her mother demanded.
“I’d better go,” Polly said apologetically.
“Say no to the red lipstick!” Mel called after her.
Polly shot her a grateful grin over her shoulder and walked away with her mother nattering behind her.
Mel turned and looked out over the festival. She could see people clutching their taste-testing coupons. She didn’t know what to make of Polly’s news.
Grace had approached Polly about testing for a show. She could certainly see why—Polly was perky enough to be the next Rachael Ray—but still it didn’t sit well with Mel that Grace had approached her before Vic passed away, almost as if she had known that Vic’s career was over . . . for good.
Mel thrust her hands into her pocket and found the letter that her mother had given to her. It was probably just junk mail, but she opened it anyway, as it gave her muddled brain something to do.
It was a letter from an estate attorney. It was short and to the point. The attorney represented Vic Mazzotta’s estate, and as per the deceased’s request, upon his death the enclosed letter was to be sent to Mel.
An envelope, looking to be a bit yellowed with age, was included. She carefully pried open the seal and pulled out a small sheet of matching stationary.
Vic’s characteristic squiggly script appeared on the page, and Mel felt a lump form in her throat, as she read.
Dear Mel,
If you are reading this, it means I have gone to the great kitchen in the sky. I promise your dad and I will stink up the joint with smelly cigars while we enjoy the finest wines.
Mel laughed and had to pause to wipe the tears off her face before she could continue reading.
As everyone knows, you have always been my favorite student. And so I share with you my secret ingredient. It is simply this: Always cook with love. It makes everything taste divine.
Your friend and teacher, always,
Vic
Sobs cut through Mel’s chest like her sharpest knives. Her tears dropped onto the paper, and she wiped them away, wanting to sa
ve this last bit of Vic so that she could keep him with her always.
Damn him, she would miss the old bastard so much, and as usual, he had managed to have the last word.
She stared at the letter in her hands. Vic had always joked that he would tell her his secret when he was dead. She had assumed it was a joke, but she knew he was serious. Vic did cook with love. His food was better than anyone else’s because he loved the food he cooked with and the people for whom he cooked.
She stared off into the crowd. Then what the hell had Jordan and Dutch been talking about? All the rumors that Vic left out seemingly insignificant but ultimately critical ingredients were just that—rumors. Vic didn’t leave out any ingredients in his recipes; he was just a better cook than the rest of them because he’d honed his skills and cooked from a place deeper inside himself than the rest of them.
So, what had Bertie given them to use on Vic’s scones? Mel felt fear’s chilly fingers creep up her spine in a scary tickle.
“Mel, where have you been?” Angie raced down the sidewalk, ducking around visitors in her hurry to reach her. “Didn’t you notice the time? We have to get to the staging area, like now!”
“Oh!” Mel stuffed the letter back into her pocket and wiped her face.
“What’s wrong?” Angie asked.
“Nothing,” Mel said as she snuffled. “Just an allergy attack.”
“Well, shake it off,” Angie said. “We have to go.”
Mel bolted up from her spot in the shade. She followed Angie as they made their way against the crowd toward the stage.
Now that it was the finals, the area seemed even more congested than ever. Mel and Angie took their spot in their kitchen. The chefs from Molly’s Moonpies were in theirs while Polly and Olivia hurried into their spots, too.
Mel looked out over the crowd. Her chest still hurt when she thought of Vic’s letter, but she saw Joe in the crowd and the sight of him bolstered her. His brothers, including the married ones with their families, and Mr. and Mrs. DeLaura were also there. She and Angie waved, and the whole group waved back, and one of them let loose an air horn that made everyone in the vicinity jump.
Mrs. DeLaura spun around and gave them her scarymama look. Mel didn’t think she imagined it when Tony got noticeably shorter.
Next to the DeLauras, Tate was standing with Mel’s mother, who gave them a thumbs-up and jumped up and down in excitement.
In no time, Johnny Pepper was taking the stage. His hair didn’t have a blond spike out of place, and he was carrying his usual large white box.
Mel leaned close to Angie and said, “I’m beginning to hate the white box.”
“Maybe he’ll let us burn it when this is over,” Angie said.
They exchanged a smile, and Mel was grateful to have Angie by her side for this final round.
“Many of you are aware that we lost a dear friend last night. Our judge Bertie Grassello, a legend in the food world and a close personal friend to many of us, passed away from a heart attack early last evening,” Johnny said. “Bertie, you will be missed. Let us observe a moment of silence for our friend.”
A hush swept over the crowd as Johnny lowered his head in a sign of respect. Mel noted that not a sound could be heard other than the trickle of the distant fountains and the twittering of the birds that inhabited the park.
“We are fortunate enough to have Grace Mazzotta taking Bertie’s place,” Johnny said, raising his head and addressing the crowd. “As we all know, Bertie would have wanted this competition to reach its natural conclusion with a winner.”
“Call me unsentimental,” Angie muttered to Mel, “but I really don’t think Bertie would give a rip.”
Mel felt her lips twitch. She had to agree.
“The challenge to the chefs, pastry division, is now down to its last four contestants,” Johnny announced. He introduced each of them in turn. Mel and Angie, in second place, were introduced second to last. When Confections was announced, the applause noticeably dimmed. Mel wondered if it was just her ego or if the crowd really had cheered louder for them. Then again they had the DeLauras on their side.
“And the ingredient is . . .” Johnny reached into the box and pulled out a long wiggling black thing. “Eels!”
“Ya!” Olivia shouted. In a blink, she jumped forward, grabbed the eel out of Johnny’s hand, and using one of the larger knives from her kitchenette, she whacked off its head.
In her peripheral vision, Mel saw Angie jump, but she couldn’t be sure if it was the eel or Olivia’s knife wielding that caused it.
“I am so out of here,” Angie said, and she made to leave.
“Um . . . it was rubber,” Johnny said. He picked up the remnants of the eel, looking worriedly at Olivia.
Angie glowered at him while Olivia slid the sharp edge of her knife against her thumb as if checking its post-eel beheading sharpness. Then she smiled.
Mel moved their set of knives away from Angie’s throwing arm—just in case.
“Okay, enough fun and games,” Johnny continued, “the final ingredient is . . . beets!”
“Oh, ish,” Angie said. “I hate beets. I think I’d rather have the eel.”
“No, trust me,” Mel said. “Beets are good. Beets are perfect.”
“What are you thinking?” Angie asked.
Mel covered her mouth with her hand and whispered, “Red velvet cupcakes.”
Angie’s eyes got wide. “You can do that with beets?”
Mel nodded. “Get ready. When they reveal the cart, try to get the best-looking beets you can find.”
The whistle blew, and Mel and Angie raced to the cart.
Olivia looked wild eyed and tried to muscle Mel out of the way. Polly looked very focused while her father yipped and stayed out of the fray. The other two bakers were the first to beat it back to their kitchenette.
Mel mentally composed a list and gave it to Joanie, who shot off for the supply cupboard. Mel set to work on the beets while Angie gathered the dry ingredients.
The judges walked amongst their kitchens while they worked. Mel noticed that Grace lingered at Polly’s station, and she wondered if Grace was watching her with a mind toward her future career as a celebrity chef.
Mel glanced at the other judges. Dutch and Jordan were not circulating; they both looked tired and stayed huddled in the judges’ booth as if they could not wait for this to be over.
Candace Levinson, the judge from Food and Wine, passed by Mel and Angie and gave them an encouraging smile while she paused to watch them work.
Mel added the wet ingredients to the dry and let the mixer take over. Angie started prepping the cupcake pan, while Mel began to make the cream cheese frosting.
Grace passed by and Mel looked at closely at her. “How are you holding up, Grace?”
The older woman gave her a wan smile. “I’ve been better, but Felicity is not exactly someone you can say no to. Besides, I think Vic would have wanted me to see this through to the end for him.”
Mel nodded. “Yeah, he was like that. He finished what he started.”
Grace moved on to Olivia’s station. Olivia was red-faced and sweaty, and she stopped chastising her sous-chef in order to give Grace an ingratiating smile.
Mel wondered what Vic would have made of her. For the millionth time, she wished he were there, and she felt a surge of rage at the killer who had taken him away.
“Mel, psst, Mel!”
She glanced up to see Uncle Stan by the side of the staging area.
She hurried over to him. “Kind of busy here, Uncle Stan, what’s up?”
“Well, first, good luck,” he said. Mel nodded and motioned with her hands for him to hurry. “And I wanted to warn you to be careful. We got a preliminary tox screen on Grassello. It’s not conclusive yet, but it looks like the same poison used on Angie was used on him.”
“Really.” Mel sat back on her heels with a thump.
“Be careful,” Uncle Stan said. “There’s a nut job mixed up in th
is food competition, and I won’t be happy until you’re out of it.”
“Mel, clock ticking!” Angie shouted. “Come on!”
Mel raced back over to her kitchenette. Her hands were shaking. The secret ingredient that wasn’t.
Dutch was finally circulating, working his way around the kitchenettes. When he got to Mel’s, she grabbed him by the shirtfront.
“Hey, easy on the silk,” he said.
Mel leaned her head close to his and hissed, “Who gave Bertie Vic’s secret spice for pastries?”
“What?” he asked.
“The one that you had Jordan use on Vic’s scones—who gave it to you?”
“I told you,” he said. “Bertie wanted us to use it to bring Vic down, to humble him.”
“I know that, but where did Bertie get it?” she asked.
Dutch frowned. “I don’t know. He never said, so I assumed he stole it from Vic.”
“Did he tell you what it was made from?” she asked.
“No, I badgered him, believe me, but he refused to tell me. All he would say was that it was a very rare spice from Southeast Asia.”
Mel released his shirt and nodded. She hadn’t known she’d been clinging to the hope that stress had done Bertie in until Uncle Stan took it away. She had almost convinced herself that guilt had caused Bertie to have a heart attack, but she’d been wrong. So wrong. They’d all been wrong.
She glanced up and looked around the stage. They’d all played a part. Unbeknownst to one another, they’d all played a significant role in the death of Vic Mazzotta, and it hadn’t been suicide—it was murder, and Mel knew exactly who had orchestrated the entire thing. The question now was how to prove it.
She and Angie placed red nasturtium blossoms on top of the cream cheese frosting. She did not know where Joanie had found them, but she suspected one of the flower beds in the park had been denuded just a touch. If the Food and Wine lady liked edible flowers, these would be sure to get her attention.
Mel had to admit the red color from the beets was stunning. She only hoped they tasted as good as they looked. If they did, she fully intended to make these at the bakery and lose the ones that used too much bottled dye.
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