by Nell Hampton
Chapter 18
The next morning, George Rabe never showed. I called him but only got his voicemail. Worry filled me. Did another one of my assistants go missing? Or was he dead?
I texted security to keep an eye out for him. A few minutes later, I got a call.
“Chef Cole?”
“Yes?”
“George Rabe,” he said. “Listen, I can’t work in that tiny hellhole of a kitchen. I’m not coming back. You and Phoebe will do just fine. I’m taking a position with another restaurant.”
“But—”
“Good-bye, Chef Cole, and good luck to you.” He hung up. I stared at my phone, flabbergasted.
“What’s wrong?” Phoebe asked. “Was that George? Is he okay?”
“He’s quit on us,” I said and looked at her. “He didn’t like the test kitchen.”
“His loss, I say,” Phoebe said. “We don’t need him. Right?”
“Apparently not,” I said and was about to put my phone down when I got another text. This one was from Ian. It read, Something’s come up. Can’t meet today. Will contact you tomorrow about your concerns.
I blew out a long breath, trying to hide my sigh. So he had thought about my story all night and must have decided that I was wrong. That the threatening men didn’t need investigating after all. I chewed on my inner lip and stuffed my phone in my pocket.
It was going to be one of those days. I guess I’d just have to investigate myself.
“Phoebe, take the breakfast up now,” I said, my tone hurried. We were running out of time. The main kitchen was farther away from the family’s apartment, and we had to put in extra time and thought to get the food there on time and still warm.
“I have to admit, I’m glad George isn’t coming,” Phoebe said as she put platters of eggs, sausages, potatoes, and fresh fruits on the cart. “There’s barely room for two of us in here. If George were here, we’d be walking all over each other.”
“I suppose you’re right.” I added breads of all types, including cinnamon buns and banana bread, on trays to the cart. Finally, Phoebe placed carafes of hot tea, coffee, milk, and orange juice.
“Until they finish the construction in the greenhouse,” I said, “I hope you’re okay with it being just the two of us.”
“Oh, I’m fine with it.”
“Good,” I said with relief. “Today’s lunch is just for the children. We’ll make the organic tomato cream soup and cheesy teddy bear toasted sandwiches.”
“Sounds perfect,” she said.
“Now go. When you get back, start on lunch. I have to go run an errand. I’ll be back in time to make the tea menu. Dinner will be creamy mushroom chicken, fresh steamed vegetables, homemade bread, and poached pears for dessert.”
“Sounds grand,” Phoebe said.
“The duke and duchess have a state dinner later this evening, but the duchess said she wants to eat dinner with the children. We’ll make a third plate for her, but I don’t expect her to eat much.”
“Three plates it is,” Phoebe said as she pushed the cart through the door.
“Great.” I took my apron off and placed it on a hook on the backside of the door, grabbed a basket of food, and followed her out. “You have my phone number. If you need anything, text me. I’ll be running to market to get the freshest chicken.”
I left the kitchen in my assistant’s hands. Meanwhile, the main kitchen was slowly filling with workers. Chef Butterbottom was cooking for the state dinner. Beef was on the menu, which is why I chose chicken for the children. If the duchess wanted to eat with them, I wanted to give her a bit of variety.
I reminded myself that I wasn’t competing with Chef Butterbottom, but I still believed my dinner would be the tastiest of the two. Mostly because I could cook in small batches and add homey touches.
I pulled my purse strap over my shoulder and stepped outside into the rather bright sunlight of a spring day in London. I had yet to see the man who was talking in the closet. Perhaps he worked only during certain engagements. It didn’t matter; if I didn’t see him, that meant that I was safe.
The basket in my arms was full of cookies, a fresh berry pie, and cinnamon rolls. I was on my way to see Mrs. Deems. Perhaps she could help me understand what was going on with the money and why Frank might have been killed for it. At the very least, she needed to know that she and her boys might be in danger. It suddenly occurred to me that Meriam Deems had every reason to kill her husband. Especially if he had gambling problems. Now she had an insurance settlement and was free of him and his bad habits.
That thought made me wonder if I should ask her straight out if she was the killer. No, maybe it would be better to take a more roundabout tact. I got to the Deems’s house unscathed, certain that no one had followed me. I guess it was paranoia that made me constantly look over my shoulder, but I didn’t feel as if it was a coincidence that I had heard the big man talking about Mr. Deems two times now.
I walked up the short concrete steps to the door of the row house and knocked.
Mrs. Perkins swung the door open. “Hello,” she said. “What are you doing here?”
“Hello,” I replied. “Is Mrs. Deems home? I brought her and the boys some treats.” I lifted the basket in my hand.
“Meriam is here,” Mrs. Perkins said, “though I’m not certain she’s taking visitors. Please come in. I’ll go upstairs and see.”
She waved me into the small foyer and closed the door behind me. The house was suffocating. The air barely moved. All the curtains were pulled and there was black everywhere. This time the boys didn’t come down to see me. I glanced at my watch. It was just before noon. Perhaps they were back in school.
“She’ll be right down,” Mrs. Perkins said as she came down the stairs. “Do go into the parlor and have a seat.” She took the basket from me. “I’ll get some tea. You do drink tea, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I replied and stepped into the parlor as she headed down the small hallway to the back kitchen. The parlor had an old sofa, two small round occasional tables that were topped with white doilies, and ceramic lamps with matching shades. I sat down on the edge of the couch. The room felt cozy with its rugs on top of carpet and two small wingback chairs flanking the fireplace.
“Hello,” Mrs. Deems said from the doorway. “Have we met?” She stepped in and held out her hand.
I stood and shook it. “Carrie Ann Cole,” I said. “We met at the wake in the pub the other night. There were a lot of people there, so I wouldn’t be surprised if you don’t remember.”
“Yes,” she said. She spoke softly and slowly as if she had taken something to calm her nerves. “Yes, I do remember now. Please have a seat.” She sat in one of the wingback chairs opposite the couch. “I’m sorry I didn’t see you when you stopped by the other day. Things have been a bit crazy.”
“I imagine they have,” I said with sympathy. “I brought you a basket of cookies and breads. It’s what I do in this kind of situation. Feed people.”
“You’re a chef,” she stated. “I imagine you always feed people. I know Frank did.”
“It’s a thing in my family. If someone dies, we bring food. If a baby is born, we bring food. If it’s your birthday, we bring food. If someone gets a raise—”
“You bring food.” She lifted the corner of her mouth in a half smile. “Please forgive me if I don’t eat. It’s the chemotherapy. It makes me nauseous.”
I blinked. She was small and thin with a thick blonde bob that only now did I realize was a wig. She had taken the time to put on baby-pink lipstick and some blush, but her eyelashes were gone. Her eyebrows were drawn on with a light-brown pencil.
“Don’t be embarrassed,” she said and touched my knee in kindness. “I don’t tell people about the cancer. It’s breast cancer. They tell me it’s curable, but this is my second go-around. The first time, I had a lumpectomy. Two months ago, I found another lump. This time in the other breast. So I had them both removed.”
“It’
s been a struggle keeping up her strength,” Mrs. Perkins said as she entered with tea and a plate of the cookies I made on a tray.
“I’m so sorry,” I said and put my hand over Meriam’s. “You’re right, I didn’t realize. What an awful time to lose your husband.”
“It’s the boys that I’m worried about,” Meriam said and took the cup of tea that her mother gave her. “With Frank gone, I was counting on Michael to see to the boys’ welfare should the cancer progress too far.”
“I told her I can raise them,” Mrs. Perkins said and handed me a cup of tea with no sugar. “But she won’t let me.”
“My mother is sixty-five years old. The last thing she needs is to raise teenage boys in her seventies.”
“With Michael on trial, I am your only option,” Mrs. Perkins said. “Drink some tea, dear.”
Meriam pretended to take a sip and put the cup down. “The boys are a handful. I’ve been sick for the last three years. They’ve quite gotten used to running wild, I’m afraid.”
“I can handle them,” Mrs. Perkins said. “I always wanted a boy.”
“Boys are much different than girls,” Meriam said. “They need a strong hand and a good male role model.”
“We’ll get your Uncle Henry to come over every now and again. My brother is good with boys,” Mrs. Perkins said to me.
“He’s also seventy-five years old,” Meriam lamented. “The boys are full of mischief, and I’m afraid Uncle Henry will just encourage it.” She turned to me. “They are bright boys. Too bright for their own good. That’s what the teachers tell me anyway.” She leaned back against her chair and closed her eyes for a moment.
“If it helps, I don’t think Mr. Haregrove killed your husband,” I said. “And I intend to prove it.”
“What on earth makes you think that?” Mrs. Perkins asked. “Are you an inspector? A private detective? Do you have credentials to examine these things better than the inspector on the case?”
“No,” I said softly. “I have no credentials. But I’ve met Mr. Haregrove. He doesn’t seem like the type who would do such a thing. Besides, I think he’s protecting whoever did.”
“Why would he do that?” Mrs. Perkins asked me.
“I have no idea,” I said. “I think it has something to do with money. You see, when I walked back to the palace after attending the wake, I saw two men accosting Mr. Haregrove in the alley. They said that, dead or not, there was a debt to be paid. Did Mr. Deems owe anyone money?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” Meriam said. “But it’s possible. You see, I’ve been out of work for years. The hospital bills are covered, but with two growing boys, we really needed two incomes.”
“I moved in as soon as Meriam left her job,” Mrs. Perkins said. “I help with the bills and Meriam’s care. There was no reason for Frank to owe anyone money. Are you sure it wasn’t Michael who owed the money?”
“No, I’m not sure,” I said with a shake of my head. “But what I heard made it sound as if Mr. Deems’s death was only the beginning of what would happen if the money wasn’t paid.”
“Well, that certainly sounds worrisome,” Mrs. Perkins said and rose. “You are wearing Meriam down. Perhaps you should go.”
“Mother, I’m fine.” Meriam closed her eyes, but I noted that she had gone pale, and tiny beads of sweat dotted her upper lip. Was it the chemo or was my suspicion that she knew something about the murder causing her to be upset? Did she know about her husband’s gambling? If so, Meriam had access to the palace. She could have confronted him.
I looked at her closely. Yes, she was recovering from chemo, but she might not be as frail as she looked. If Michael was a suspect, then I also couldn’t rule out Meriam. After all, the last thing she needed was a husband who gambled away her children’s future.
“I’m so sorry, how rude of me. I didn’t mean to add worry to your illness and loss.” I stood and gathered my purse. “Thank you for seeing me and telling me about your illness. I want you to know that I intend to help Mr. Haregrove prove his innocence. Then you won’t have to worry about your boys. You will get well, and they will have you, your mother, and Mr. Haregrove in their lives. They will be lucky boys.”
A half smile moved slowly across her face. “Thank you for the visit and the food.”
“One more question,” I said, growing brave. “When was the last time you were at the palace?”
“A few days before Frank died. I took Michael his cell phone. He left it on our table. Why?”
“Just curious if you had seen Michael and Frank working together.”
“I did.”
“Was there any animosity between the two?”
“No, they seemed fine.”
“Thanks.”
“I think you should go now.” Mrs. Perkins hustled me toward the door.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “You should have told me about her illness.”
“Meriam doesn’t like to worry people.”
“I’ll bring more food by. I cook only organic, and I’ll wash and peel all the vegetables and fruits. It’s best if she can eat during chemotherapy. What does she like?”
“She likes oxtail barley soup.”
“Good, then I’ll make sure she has a pot of it once a week. I heard if you can get her to keep eating, it helps in the healing.”
“Thank you,” Mrs. Perkins said. “I may have misjudged you.”
“I doubt it was misjudgment,” I said and pressed her hands between mine. “You simply didn’t know me, and I didn’t know about your daughter. Don’t worry. Things will work out for the best.”
“They always do,” Mrs. Perkins said. “They always do.”
“Question before I go. Does Meriam come to the palace often?”
“She comes to have lunch with me once a week. Why?”
“I wasn’t sure family was allowed inside.”
“They ran a background check on Meriam, if that’s what has you worried.”
“No, no worries. Just curious.”
“Huh. All right, now off you go. I know you have dinner to make for the children. Make it spectacular. Sunday dinner is important family time for the duchess.”
“I’ll do my best,” I said. Then I huddled into my coat and walked down the busy street toward the tube station. It was May and, although the temperatures were in the sixty-degree range, London had a dampness that made me shiver.
Chapter 19
Early afternoon in London wasn’t as crowded as the beginning and end of the day. Rush hour is what we called it back home; crush hour is what I would describe it here in England. Of course it being Sunday meant that mostly tourists or service workers rode today.
It was nice to walk through the tube station with room to swing my purse if I so desired. I didn’t, of course, as that would be rude. I think I was halfway to the platform when I realized that I was being followed.
It started off as a creepy sensation at the back of my neck. I tried to brush it off by telling myself it was the damp that made me shiver. But it was warmer in the station than outside. The elevators and hallways were tiled and smelled old and well used. Ahead of me, someone was playing the guitar and singing. I reached into my purse and pulled out some change to drop into her case. She was a young woman and her voice filled the space with a sweet melody. It should have been comforting, but the sensation of being watched stayed with me. I glanced back and saw a man walking behind me. He wore a trench coat and carried a briefcase. He was blond and looked to be in his midthirties. A plain man in a nondescript outfit. Why, then, was he giving me the willies?
I sped up my pace as the hallway opened up to the platform. The announcement said there were still four minutes until the train arrived and to mind the gap.
The platform was deserted. A lot could happen in four minutes, so I turned on my heel and headed back into the hall, only to run right into the man.
“I beg your pardon,” he said and put both of his hands on me to steady me from the brunt of his bod
y weight. It seems he had sped up when I did.
I stepped back out of his reached. “My mistake,” I said and sent him an insecure smile. “I just realized I forgot something.” I shrugged. “I guess I’ll catch the next train.”
“You have four minutes,” he said without looking at his watch. “Time enough to get back and make this train.”
I tried to get around him, but he seemed to take up all the room. Which was a silly thought; the hallways could fit four to six people across. “I’ll have to hurry then,” I said and ducked around him.
“You do that,” he said. There was something familiar in his voice. I couldn’t place it. I don’t know why I was so paranoid, but I had learned to trust my gut. It had never steered me wrong.
I hurried back through the halls and up into the damp street air. When I got around the corner from the station, I finally stopped and took a deep breath. The humidity was climbing with the temperature. I felt sweat break out on my forehead and although I was no longer near the tube station, I still felt watched.
A cab turned the corner and I held out my hand to flag it. Taking a cab to Kensington Palace would be expensive, but at least I would make it back safely in time for tea.
* * *
“Ian Gordon was looking for you,” Phoebe said when I arrived back at the kitchen. “He said to have you go see him the moment you came back.”
“Oh,” I said as I tied on my apron. “Well, he will have to wait. It’s time for dinner prep.”
Today’s dinner was comfort food and mostly served in the winter, but I felt the need to create something soothing.
Dessert was poached pears. I poached the pears while Phoebe made the crusty artisan bread that would be served with the chicken. It was a casserole, really, but sometimes simple and homey were the perfect fit for a day of revelations.
Not that the duke and duchess had any knowledge of what I learned. But the dish was on the approved list and so it seemed to serve me at the moment.
I got lost in cooking. It was a way for me to soothe myself. I kept thinking about how horrible it was that Mrs. Deems had cancer. That Mr. Deems was murdered and her boys may soon be without any family except for Mrs. Perkins, who wasn’t the most comforting of personalities.
