Kale to the Queen

by Nell Hampton

  “Are all Americans so vicious?” he asked as he straightened.

  “Beats me,” I said and shrugged. “What are you doing here?”

  “Morning security checks,” he replied and crossed his well-muscled arms across his broad chest. “Saw a light on in the kitchen and came down to see what was going on.”

  “Nothing to see here,” I said and picked up my mug of coffee. “Just a jet-lagged chef putting together a weekly menu.”

  “Looked more like you thought you were at a disco.” He lifted one of his dark eyebrows.

  I felt the heat of a blush rush over my cheeks. “I thought I was alone.”

  “Were you singing? What was that song?”

  “Nothing,” I said. Uncomfortable, I glanced around to see if there was anything I could do to get his mind off my singing. I’d always been told I should only sing in the shower. My dance moves were on par with my singing. Crud, he’d seen those, too. “Do you want a cup of coffee? Freshly made.” I pointed at the half-empty French press. Then I frowned. “Or do you prefer tea?”

  “Coffee will do, thank you,” he said.

  I put my cup down and grabbed a thick white mug for him and poured in the coffee, careful to hide the trembling in my hand. It was all his fault. He was the one who had startled me. “How do you take it?”

  “Black,” he answered.

  I turned to find him close. The heat of his body radiated off of him. He smelled like spice and man. I closed my eyes and remembered how John’s brown hair fell over his eyes in that cute way I liked.

  “I’ll take that.” Ian lifted the mug from my hand.

  I grabbed my own cup and moved away to stand by the table. “You might want to strain it with your teeth,” I warned. “I like it thick.”

  “I’m sure I’ll manage without any trouble.” He took a sip, swallowed, and nodded. “This is very good coffee.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “It would be better with some whiskey in it.”

  “It’s always five o’clock somewhere,” I blurted.

  His right eyebrow rose even higher. “Indeed.”

  There was an awkward silence, the kind of uncomfortable emotion that always made me blurt out stuff. I racked my brain to come up with something that didn’t sound too idiotic. “Okay, well, I’ve got more work to do.”

  There, that wasn’t too bad.

  Except the man didn’t take the hint. He simply studied me and sipped his coffee.

  Fine. I made a show of putting my earbuds back in and turning back to my lists and menu-making. He kept watching me. I finally pulled out one earbud and turned back to him. “What?”

  He shrugged. “I was waiting to see if there would be any more dancing.” His dark eyes twinkled.

  “No,” I said. “No more dancing. I’m sure you have other rooms to check on.”

  “I do.”

  Again he didn’t move.

  I put my earbuds back in and did my best to ignore him. I hoped that eventually he’d go away. I concentrated on my menu and decided on pancetta and greens frittata for today’s breakfast. It would be simple and super healthy. Thankfully eggs were on the duchess’s good list. Frank had said last night that all the eggs came fresh from the palace’s own chickens and were kept on the countertop. The greens and leeks would be in the greenhouse.

  Oddly, when I looked up, Ian was gone. His mug of coffee was drained and sitting near the sink. I had to admit that I was attracted to him. Who wouldn’t be? But Penny said he didn’t date the household staff. Unlike most women, I didn’t take this as a challenge; I took it as a fact. Besides, I was in a relationship—even if we were on a break. It was why Ian studying me had been so awkward. I wasn’t used to it.

  I put on a white apron and slipped my phone into the front pocket. The greenhouse was still dark. I glanced at my watch. It was only five AM. Before turning on the lights, I noted that the sky had lightened a tiny bit. Dawn would come soon. I gave a quick flip of the light switch and waited a few seconds as the fluorescent lights warmed up to the task at hand.

  It smelled loamy, earthy, and, well, green, due to the fresh herbs and salad greens. I stepped farther in to find the kale, spinach, radicchio, and mustard greens I would need for the frittata.

  I hummed to myself as I picked radicchio. The kale was in the far corner. I did my best not to dance my way over. Someone somewhere in the palace might be watching. I wasn’t sure what kind of impression I was making.

  What I saw next stopped me in my tracks. A sharp electric jolt of fear rushed down my spine, and I dropped the greens on the floor. I opened my mouth but nothing came out.

  There, crumpled under the kale bed, was Francis Deems. He was so pale it was as if all the blood had rushed out of his body. He wore the same clothes he’d had on when he had left the night before. His mouth hung open, and his eyes were blank. There was a pool of blood seeping out from under his shirt, staining it and the ground rusty red.

  I started to get lightheaded and realized I wasn’t breathing. After taking a deep breath, I could taste the metallic scent of blood for the first time. With oxygen flowing into my lungs again, I sprang into action.

  “Mr. Deems.” I went over, crouched down, and shook him on the shoulder like I was taught to do in CPR class. He was cold to the touch.

  His blank gaze was creepy, but I soldiered on. I felt for a pulse. He had none. Swallowing hard, I leaned back on my heels.

  I’d never found a dead person before. He was cold and had no heartbeat. There was a lot of blood. It was pretty clear that CPR would not be needed.

  Swallowing back the fear in my throat, I stood. What did I do now? How did I call security? What were the emergency procedures? Darn it, I hadn’t had time to go through orientation.

  I stumbled back through the greenhouse. My legs felt rubbery. There was a phone in the kitchen near the door where I entered. I stopped at the sink and took a moment to get a grip. Fearing that I wouldn’t be able to speak, I clung to the sink and closed my eyes a moment. My heart was in my throat and racing so fast my hands trembled. I opened my eyes, turned on the water, and washed my hands. There was bottled water in the refrigerator nearest the door. I opened it, grabbed one, twisted off the top, and gulped down half the bottle.

  My stomach protested for a brief second, but I forced myself toward the phone and picked it up. Pasted inside the body of the slim phone was a list of extensions. One was marked “Emergency.” I punched the numbers.

  “Operator, what is your emergency?”

  “Francis Deems is dead.” The words came out of my mouth in a raspy whisper.

  “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

  I cleared my throat and took a deep breath. “My assistant Francis Deems is dead.”

  “Right,” the female voice said. “How do you know this? Has his wife called you?”

  “No,” I said and cleared my throat again. “I found him in the duke and duchess’s private kitchen greenhouse.” That was a mouthful, but I didn’t know how else to explain where he was.

  “I see,” the operator said. Her tone was careful. “Are you in danger?”

  I glanced around, suddenly realizing that a killer might be in my kitchen. “I don’t think so.” I fought a new wave of fresh fear.

  “But you are not sure.”

  “I’m not sure,” I said, retreating until my back was against the cool wall. “Please send help.”

  “I’ve already done that,” she said. “With whom am I speaking?”

  “Oh, right, my name is Carrie Ann Cole. I’m the new family chef for the duke and duchess of Cambridge.”

  “One moment.”

  I heard her breathing and kept my eyes on the surrounding kitchen, trying not to panic. If the killer was here, I was not about to let him sneak up on me.

  “I found you in the system,” she said. “I see you have not gone through orientation yet.”

  “No,” I said. “It’s scheduled for later today. Is someone coming?”
/>   “Yes, security is on the way.”

  At that moment, Ian stormed through the door with two men I’d never seen before following behind him. All three had guns in their hands. It was one thing to see men with guns in their hands on television and another to be faced with them in real life.

  “What happened?” he barked.

  I dropped the phone and pointed to the greenhouse. “It’s Frank. I think he’s dead.”

  “Stay where you are, and don’t touch anything,” he ordered.

  I wrapped my arms around my waist as the three men quickly searched the kitchen and then entered the greenhouse.

  “Hello?” a disembodied voice called. The phone receiver twisted on its cord. “Hello? Are you there, Chef?”

  “Yes,” I said after I had picked up the receiver. The word came out in a strangled whisper.

  “Chef?”

  Clearing my throat, I tried again. “Yes, I’m here. So is security. I didn’t think you carried guns in England.”

  “They are protectors of the duke and duchess and have the right to kill, if necessary.”

  I thought for a moment that Ian would make a good 007 agent and giggled.

  “Are you all right, Chef?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Then I will hang up now.”

  “Thank you,” I said and hung up the phone. I kept my back to the cold wall. I looked out the window and noted the sun had finally risen.

  The talking in the greenhouse was muffled. I tried not to think about what was inside. Michael came in through the same door as I had.

  “Good morning, Chef,” he said and then paused as he studied me. “Are you quite all right? You look a little green.”

  “No,” I said with a shake of my head. “Don’t come in any farther.” I held my hands up. “Frank is dead.”

  “What? Frank Deems is dead?” His eyes grew large.

  “I’m pretty sure,” I said. “I found him in the greenhouse under the kale bed.”

  “My God,” Michael said and sat down at the table. “Not Frank.” He looked at me, his eyes tearing up. “He was my best friend. That is tough news. Tough news indeed. Whatever shall we do?”

  “Nothing yet,” I said. “Security is inside the greenhouse now. They asked me to stay put. I haven’t moved an inch. If he was murdered, then the killer might still be close by.”

  Michael swallowed hard. “I see.”

  I took a deep breath and the clock struck six. “Oh, dear, the duchess is expecting breakfast for her family in an hour.”

  “What shall we do?”

  “Make it, I suppose,” I said. “Are you up to working?”

  “Yes,” he said and rose. “What is the plan?”

  “Pancetta and greens frittata.” I winced. “We won’t be serving anything out of the greenhouse for some time, I think. Would it be possible for you to run to a market and get fresh leeks and greens?”

  “Certainly, Chef,” he said, his gaze filled with concern. “You look as if you are still in shock. Are you able to do this?”

  “The family has to eat,” I said, trying to be as practical as I could. I wrote down the greens I needed and handed him the paper list. “Please hurry.”

  “Yes, Chef,” he said. “Do you want me to check with Chef Butterbottom first?”

  “No,” I said. “I’m sure there will be enough fodder for the entire kitchen today. No need to bring him in as if we can’t handle things. Go to the market. Hurry, please, we only have fifty minutes left.”

  “I won’t let you down,” he said, his hands tracing the brim of his chef cap. “And you’re sure it was Mr. Deems?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “It must be hard. We can talk about it after breakfast is served.”

  “Right.” He plopped his cap on his head. He glanced at me, his brown eyes filled with tears. “I can’t believe my friend is gone.”

  “I know,” I said and patted his arm. “Please, don’t tell anyone. I’m sure security would be very upset to hear about it on the news before they even get into their investigation.”

  “Mum’s the word.” Michael blew out a long breath, pulled a tissue out of his pocket, blew his nose, wiped his eyes, and headed out.

  I kept my place against the wall. There wasn’t much else to do until he got back. Raspberries, blackberries, and blueberries would be put in crystal fruit cups and given a dollop of yogurt on top. I could start that now, I supposed, but then I figured I’d stay where I was until Ian gave the all clear.

  My knees weakened and I slid down to the floor. Hugging myself, I wondered what else could possibly go wrong.

  * * *

  “The kitchen and greenhouse are clear,” Ian said when he finally stepped out. “I’ve called the medical examiner and an ambulance to pick up the body. Once they are finished, I’ll need a statement from you.”

  I stood. “I need to make breakfast for the family.”

  He frowned. “This kitchen is too close to a crime scene. You will have to go to Chef Butterbottom’s kitchen and work there.”

  “Won’t I get in his way?”

  “He doesn’t make breakfast. As long as you are in and out and clean up after yourself, I’m certain it’ll be okay.”

  Michael came in through the door with a grocery bag in hand. He stopped short and pulled the cap off his head. “Mr. Gordon, how are you, sir?”

  “What’s in the bag?” Ian asked.

  Michael handed it to him. “I bought greens for Chef Cole to use in the frittata.”

  Ian reached in and pulled out one of each type of green and tasted a corner of it. “This will do,” he said as he handed back the bag. “I told Chef Cole that you will have to make breakfast in Chef Butterbottom’s kitchen this morning while we complete our investigation.”

  “But—”

  “There is no but, Mr. Haregrove,” Ian said. “If Chef Butterbottom has any problems with the situation, have him call me. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good,” Ian said and turned his hard gaze on me. “Take what you need from the other kitchen. We can’t take the chance that things were disturbed in your area.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said and turned to follow Michael out.

  “Oh, and Chef Cole,” Ian said.

  “Yes?”

  “I still will need a statement from you and Mr. Haregrove. Please return to this area after breakfast to answer a few questions.”

  “Okay,” I agreed and grabbed my chef coat off the hanger and my menu tablet off the counter and followed Michael.

  “I hope you know where you’re going,” I said, “because Chef Butterbottom’s kitchen was not on my tour.”

  “Certainly, Chef,” Michael said. “Both Mr. Deems and I worked there for two years before we got promoted to the duke and duchess’s private kitchen.”

  “How was it, working for him?” I asked. I wondered if Michael would be happier working for me or in the big kitchen.

  “Frank and Chef Butterbottom didn’t get along. But then, Chef rarely gets along with anyone. He’s always in a snit these days. Rumor is he thinks only he should be cooking for the future kings.”

  “But before me, the duchess did all the work. Surely he understands that a personal chef is less important than the estate chef.”

  “Apparently it doesn’t matter much to him,” Michael said with a shrug. “He’s a bit of a petty despot.”

  I laughed at the description. “Aren’t we all when it comes to our work space.”

  We hurried through winding servants’ hallways, up and down staircases. The palace was a hive of work spaces tucked in behind the elegant apartments and tourist places. There were security guards everywhere. Some walked the halls; others stood at the top or bottom of staircases. All of them checked our badges and frowned at my visitor badge. They had handheld scanners and scanned the badges so that security practically followed us all through the palace.

  “Is it always like this?” I asked.

  “N
ever, Chef.” Michael wrinkled his forehead. “It must be because of your finding Mr. Deems.”

  “Right.” I kept walking, trying not to gawk at the muscular men in black suits, white shirts, and navy ties.

  “This is it,” Michael said and opened a door. A flick of a switch brought the room into full view.

  “Wow,” was all I could say as I stepped inside and looked around.

  The kitchen was huge. In fact, you could probably put four of my kitchens inside of it. Everything was either stainless steel or black-and-white. Pots hung from pot racks located over vegetable sinks. There were four Viking stoves with six burners each. The stoves had wide ovens under them, but there was also a proofing box the size of my old apartment refrigerator, three different areas with double ovens in the walls, four double-door subzero refrigerators, butcher-block counter tops, and marble pastry counter tops.

  The entire room sparkled as if a million cleaning ladies had spent the entire night wiping away all the kitchen grease and grime. I had a thought that I should take my shoes off before I left a mark on the black-and-white tiled floor. The entire back wall was windowed to let in natural light. The windows overlooked the Orangery, an adjacent building where tourists came to have tea. Clearly Chef Butterbottom must be a true master to be given this palatial kitchen.

  “Over here, Chef,” Michael called to me. “This is the best spot to get our meal made without bothering Chef Butterbottom.”

  “Okay.” I walked to the oven in the farthest corner from the door and the lovely windows. “Let’s get started then.” I put on my chef coat and Michael put on his apron. “I need the greens thoroughly washed and then finely chopped. Also, make a percolator of coffee and a pot of breakfast tea. Prep the sugar and creamer.”

  “Yes, Chef.” He went straight to work as if his life depended on it.

  A quick glance at the clock above the sink told me we now had forty minutes to get our meal cooked, plated, and then back to our part of the palace while it was still warm. It was good to have a problem to solve to keep me from thinking about what had happened to my staff member.

  “We’ll need a serving cart and some warmers to keep everything fresh until it gets to the dining room,” I said.

  “I’ve already got a plan for that,” Michael said.