by Laura Durham
“I’m sure they can make wedding cakes with soy.”
The mother sucked in air. “If you won’t listen to me, then at least listen to an expert. The caterer said that one of the best wedding planners in the city would be here. She can settle it.”
I froze in mid-dollop and dropped the spoon back in the whipped cream. This was exactly the kind of wedding that would make me want to throw myself off Memorial Bridge within a week. I turned to Kate and motioned her toward the kitchen. I had to find Richard so I could kill him for giving my name to the Odd Couple.
“But I didn’t get any berries to go with my scone,” Kate argued as I pushed her down the hall and through the swinging door of the kitchen. A massive chef with salt and pepper hair stood behind a metal table singing an operatic version of the Green Acres theme song as he stamped out tea sandwiches with a heart-shaped cookie cutter. Several other cooks scurried around him in matching white chef jackets.
“You can eat as much as you want as soon as you help me murder Richard.”
“It’s always work, work, work with you.” Kate put a hand on her hip. “Fine, then. Let’s get this over with.”
I realized that the kitchen chatter had died, and I looked behind Kate at the row of cooks staring at us in silence. The head chef’s thick black eyebrows had become a solid line across his forehead as he scowled at us. He looked much more menacing when he wasn’t singing old TV theme songs, despite the red plastic cookie cutter in his hand.
“Oops,” Kate gulped. “Out of the frying pan and into a friar.”
Chapter 8
“I think there’s been a misunderstanding.” I backed away from the glaring row of chefs. “We were joking about killing Richard.”
“We could never catch him, anyway.” Kate laughed nervously. “He’s way too quick for us.”
I shot her a look. “Thanks. That helped.”
The head chef studied us for a moment, and then broke into a smile. “I know you. You’re the wedding planner friends.” His voice was a deep rumble that filled the room.
I breathed a sigh of relief.
The chef returned to stamping out heart-shaped sandwiches. “He talks about killing you, too. It must be an inside joke.” The other cooks smiled along with their boss before returning to work, and the kitchen filled with the sounds of chopping and clattering dishes.
Kate and I exchanged a look. That didn’t sound comforting.
“What else does Richard say about us?” I let out a long breath. “And how did you know who we were?”
“I’ve seen you at a few weddings when you run back in the kitchen for something, but we haven’t met officially.” He wiped his large callused hands on a dish towel and extended one for me to shake. “Chef Marcello.”
“Right. Sorry.” I shook his hand but felt like smacking myself on the head. Marcello. The renowned Italian chef Richard told me stories about. His moods were as legendary as his cuisine. “I get so focused when I’m working at a wedding that I don’t remember anyone.”
“Isn’t that how we all are? My cooks can tell you how I get on a job.” Marcello gave a deep belly laugh and looked at his staff. A smattering of nervous laughter followed, and he began humming the theme from The Addams Family. Marcello seemed friendly enough, but it didn’t bode well that Richard considered him moody.
Kate leaned over the counter and gave the entire line of chefs a flirtatious smile. “He can’t be as bad as the last chef we worked with.”
Marcello stopped humming and arched an eyebrow. “I know every chef in this town. Let me guess.” He grinned and continued cutting. “Someone in off-premise catering? The head chef at Ridgewell’s?”
“Nope.” Kate rocked back on her heels and shook her head. “A hotel chef.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t be talking about this,” I muttered so only Kate could hear. She ignored me.
“A big hotel?” Marcello held the red plastic heart in midair.
“Pretty big. Not one of the huge convention hotels, though.”
I cleared my throat. “I really don’t think this is a good idea.”
“I’ll give you a hint. It starts with an F.”
“Henri,” Marcello hissed, and slammed the heart down onto the counter. The room went silent.
Kate raised a finger in the air. “Technically that’s an H.”
“He means Chef Henri,” I whispered to Kate. “And from his reaction, I’d say he knew him.” “We all knew Henri.” Marcello’s voice rose several notches. “Everyone in this kitchen suffered under him at one time.”
I looked around the room at the grim faces. “You all worked with Henri?” Nods and scowls.
“Almost every decent chef in Washington passed through Henri’s kitchen at some point,” Marcello explained, his face reddening. “And every one was grateful when they left. Henri was nothing but a tyrant.”
“If everyone hated him, how did he stay in business?” I asked. “Wouldn’t it be impossible to keep a staff?”
Marcello gave a rough laugh as low murmurs passed through the room. “He was ruthless. He would ruin anyone who crossed him or tried to leave.”
“My experience with Henri is starting to look almost pleasant,” I said to Kate.
“How did you know Henri?” Marcello’s face was starting to return to a normal color.
“We found his body.” Kate gave a small shiver.
Marcello paused and appeared to compose himself. “You were at the wedding where Henri was killed?”
“It was our client’s wedding,” I said. “And ice sculpture.”
“Our thanks to your client, then.” Marcello smiled out of one side of his mouth, and his eyes flitted back to his work. So much for an outpouring of sympathy.
Richard burst through the door holding a flowery pink plate and skidded to a stop. He gaped at us. “What are you doing in here? I have a roomful of brides dying to talk to one of the top wedding planners.”
“Yes.” I folded my arms across my chest. “About that, Richard—”
“No time to discuss.” Richard held up the plate of pale yellow cake to the chef. “Mr. Constantino insists that this isn’t real Italian cream cake.”
Kate jabbed a finger at him. “You tricked us. You didn’t tell us you were planning on inviting our clients plus a roomful of the city’s most dysfunctional brides.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Richard twitched his shoulders and avoided our eyes.
Marcello drew himself up to full height. “This Mr. Constantino thinks he knows Italian cooking better than I do?”
“Of course not,” Richard said. “Let me explain.”
“The granola and Tammy Faye?” I said, drumming my fingers. “Explain that.”
Marcello slammed his palm on the prep table. “I do not cook with granola. You tell Mr. Constantino that if he wants granola in an Italian cream cake, then he needs to find another chef.”
“Oh God,” Richard whimpered, putting his hand over his eyes. “I’m going to end up like Jimmy Hoffa. I can see it already.”
“Is Jimmy Hoffa in catering, too?” Kate whispered to me.
“This is too much.” Marcello threw his hands in the air. “First the talk of Henri, now someone is telling me how to cook. And with granola. My creative energy has been stifled.”
“No.” Richard dropped his hand from his eyes and his eyes grew wide with panic. “Not that.”
“I’ll be out back meditating.” Marcello turned and marched out the back door. The remaining cooks exchanged helpless looks.
Kate shook her head. “Is there anyone who isn’t New Age anymore?”
“What did he mean ‘the talk of Henri’?” Richard faced me.
“Nothing really.” I shrugged. “Kate may have mentioned that we were at the wedding where Henri died. Apparently Marcello knew him very well.”
Richard gasped. “You brought up Henri in front of Marcello?”
“Why is that a problem?” Kate asked.
&nb
sp; Richard began rubbing his temples. “Over ten years ago Henri and Marcello were best friends and worked as sous chefs together at the Willard Hotel. Until they had a falling out.”
My mouth fell open. “Why didn’t you tell us before?”
“It wasn’t relevant.” Richard narrowed his eyes at me. “I never thought you’d come marching into my kitchen and start chatting about the latest murder.”
“But that was over a decade ago,” I said. “Chef Marcello can’t still be upset. What was the falling out?”
“When the job as head chef opened up, Henri framed Marcello for stealing and got him fired.”
Kate swallowed hard. “I guess Marcello holds a grudge.”
“He is Italian,” I said. “Grudges get passed down for generations.” I wondered if the grudge had turned into more than that and Marcello had finally gotten his revenge.
“I resent that,” Richard said. “I’m part Italian.”
“Refresh my memory, Richard.” I put my hands on my hips. “What did you do when one of the other wedding planners made an unflattering comment about your food?”
Richard opened and closed his mouth a few times, then mumbled out of the side of his mouth, “I paid a voodoo priestess in New Orleans to put a hex on her.”
“I rest my case.”
Kate turned to Richard, her mouth gaping open. “Did it work?”
He suppressed a smile. “She looks awful. Her hair has gotten so thin it looks like cotton candy.”
“Remind me not to make you angry.” Kate put a hand to her own fluffy blond bob. “I didn’t know there were hair thinning hexes.”
Richard began to turn red. “It wasn’t supposed to be a hair thinning curse, but apparently I wasn’t specific enough.”
Kate turned to me, looking thoroughly confused. “You think Marcello put a hex on Henri?”
“No.” I lowered my voice so the other cooks couldn’t hear me. “I don’t think he hexed him. I think he may have murdered him.”
Chapter 9
“Everyone is talking about the murder.” Georgia Rhodes downed her champagne cocktail in one long gulp. The blond Fairmont catering executive had shoulder-length flipped-up hair that any Texas debutante would envy and curves that would make Marilyn Monroe jealous. Like Marilyn, she drank only champagne. Today she’d already had two glasses, and we’d just given our lunch orders.
“Any idea who did it?” I’d grown accustomed to asking Georgia for advice and insider information since I’d moved to Washington. Being a few years older than me, she’d taken me under her wing when I decided to start a wedding planning business. After my brief stint planning events for a high-powered D.C. law firm, I thought weddings would be a breeze in comparison. Little did I know that brides make lawyers look like Mother Teresa.
I sipped my iced tea and waved a bee away from my leg. Because of the almost summery September weather, we’d opted for a table in the Fairmont’s courtyard under a green market umbrella that shaded us from the midday sun, but not from the local insect population. Kate dodged as a bee flew across the table to where she and Georgia’s assistant, Darcy O’Connell, sat.
I glanced past Kate at the garden courtyard, which had looked completely different only two days ago. The red paper lanterns that we’d suspended from the trees on Saturday were gone, and a single red rose bobbing in the fountain was the only reminder of the wedding. You’d never have guessed there had been a murder only steps away from where we sat.
“Has anyone been arrested?” Kate asked.
“No.” Georgia dangled her high-heeled mule off her foot and smiled. “The talk’s been about who’s going to plan the celebration.”
“Georgia, you’re awful.” Darcy shook her head at her boss and gave her a disapproving look over her wire-rimmed glasses. Darcy was one of those girls who never showed an inch of skin or wore a speck of makeup but managed to attract looks anyway. Kate called it the naughty librarian look, and she couldn’t believe that anyone could be as prim and unassuming as Darcy appeared. She thought it must be a ploy to attract men through reverse psychology. She hadn’t appreciated when I suggested she try reverse psychology sometime.
Georgia and Darcy were the perfect example of opposites who worked well together. Georgia reeled in clients with her Southern charm, and Darcy attended to all the behind-the-scenes details so the events came off without a hitch. Since Darcy didn’t like too much attention and Georgia loved to hog the spotlight, it worked perfectly.
“I’m only telling the truth.” Georgia signaled to the waiter for another drink. “No one in this place liked Henri, including us.”
“I feel bad saying things about Henri now that he’s dead.” Darcy twisted a piece of her long dark hair into a spiral with her finger. Her hair was stick straight except for the wispy bits in front that she constantly twirled. I wondered how she fought the urge not to put her hair up. I couldn’t go ten minutes without pulling mine into a ponytail.
“At least you’re not being hypocritical.” Kate shrugged off her suit jacket and revealed a nearly translucent white blouse. She slipped the jacket on the back of her chair. I gave a cursory glance around the courtyard and breathed a sigh of relief that no men were sitting near our table.
“I’ll admit that I hated him.” Georgia crossed her legs and jiggled her foot in circles. “He never let me change a thing on his menus and he insulted all of my ‘pinch-me cute ideas.’ Would it have been so hard to match the food to the linens just once?”
“Sounds like he didn’t make many friends around here,” I said.
“That would be putting it mildly.” Georgia cast a glance over her shoulder, and then continued in a hushed voice, “I think Henri’s death was the best thing that could have happened to this hotel. Even the housekeepers were afraid to go to the employee cafeteria because they had to pass the kitchens. He tormented everyone.”
“Do you think the police suspect anyone in the hotel?” I asked, matching her whisper.
Darcy and Georgia exchanged a brief glance, and then Georgia stared at her empty champagne flute. “We were all questioned, of course. But they questioned me a second time. I don’t have a convincing alibi.”
“Weren’t you here in the hotel?” Kate asked. She sat up as a pair of waiters brought four oversized salads in wide-lipped bowls to the table. One of them almost dropped a bowl in Kate’s lap when he got a glimpse of her blouse.
“That’s right,” I remembered. “I didn’t see you much when we set up for the wedding.”
Georgia pinched her eyes together, and her forehead creased into deep furrows. She picked up a white ramekin of dressing and drizzled a thin stream onto her salad. “I was in my office with the door closed. I needed to catch up with paperwork.”
The table fell silent as we began eating. Georgia hated paperwork and loved being in the middle of an event. I didn’t buy it.
“You never do paperwork.” Kate shifted to the side and winked at Georgia as a waiter attentively refilled her nearly full water glass. “Are you sure you didn’t kill him accidentally?”
I rolled my eyes. “How do you accidentally impale someone on an ice sculpture, Kate?”
“I’m telling you, I was in my office doing paperwork,” Georgia insisted, a flush creeping up her neck. “I didn’t have a choice.”
Darcy cleared her throat. “Our general manager gave Georgia a deadline for all of her financial reports. She had to turn them in by the end of the weekend or she’d get a bad review. I would have helped her but I don’t know how to do all the reports yet.”
“Mr. Elliott has it in for me.” Georgia’s eyes flashed with anger. “He’s wanted to fire me ever since I took this job. He’ll use any excuse to write me up.”
“Write you up?” Kate stopped eating and held her fork in midair.
“They can’t fire you without cause,” Darcy explained. “They have to keep track of your mistakes, then when they get enough they can fire you.”
“Yikes.” Kate cringed.
I looked at Georgia over the top of my iced tea. “Why does Mr. Elliott want to fire you?”
“I refused to go out with him when I first started here.”
“I thought dating someone in the hotel is forbidden,” Kate said. Leave it to Kate to know the ins and outs of dating protocol in any D.C. locale.
“Who cares about that?” Georgia burst out. “Have you seen him? He has more hair in his ears than on his head. At least before he got the plugs.”
I cringed. Not a pretty picture. “So you were a little behind in your work and he put the screws to you?”
Kate leaned over toward me. “She said she wasn’t dating him.”
I decided not to even attempt to explain and turned back to Georgia. “How far behind were you?”
“I hadn’t even started. I told Darcy to make sure no one bothered me, and she promised to check on the wedding. I explained all this to the police, but they didn’t seem too convinced. Darcy was the only person who can vouch for me, and even she didn’t see me for a couple of hours.”
“I wish I could give you an alibi.” Darcy nibbled the edge of her lip. “If I’d come back up to check on you, the police wouldn’t have any reason to consider you a suspect.”
“Don’t be silly.” Georgia smiled weakly. “If only I’d dated our general manager, I wouldn’t be in this mess.”
“Just because you don’t have an alibi doesn’t mean you’re an automatic murder suspect.” I waved a forkful of greens. “The police have to have motive and evidence. If you weren’t anywhere near the murder, there’s no way they could link you to the crime.”
“And if you were in your office then you were nowhere near the murder scene,” Kate said. “Annabelle, on the other hand, spent half the day with the dead body and they don’t consider her a suspect, even though she had more opportunity to kill Henri than anyone. And a pretty good motive, too.”
“Remind me not to call you as a character witness,” I said out of the corner of my mouth.
“What’s your motive?” Darcy readjusted her glasses. “You barely even knew Henri.”
