by Nell Hampton
“Don’t tell Butterbottom that,” Penny said with a laugh. “I’m sure he thinks his recipes should be state secrets.”
“Speaking of Butterbottom,” I said, “guess who stopped by to ask me to participate in a charity cooking event this weekend?”
“No!”
“Yes,” I said with a grin. “I think the duchess put him up to it.”
“It certainly had to be someone higher up. He would have never come down himself.”
“And he came down himself, stood right in the doorway,” Agnes said, waving at the door we had just stepped through. “Didn’t so much as ask her to come as to tell her there was an opening, but she probably wouldn’t want to take it.”
“And did you take it?” Penny asked.
“Oh, I took it,” I said.
“What kind of competition?”
“It’s in Hyde Park this Saturday and it’s sponsored by one of the duke and duchess’s charities,” I said. “I got the approval to be a part of the competition and the budget to pay the entry fee. I’m going to be making pies!”
“Oh, no … not after you are under suspicion for poisoning a man with pie.”
“What? No,” I said. “This is perfect. I can prove that my pies are delicious and that I’m a good chef.”
“I don’t like it,” Penny said.
“Why not?”
“What if something happens to someone who eats your pie on national television? You will never work again.”
“Oh, please,” I said. “Nothing will happen. Trust me. None of the ingredients will leave my custody and I’ll taste the final pies before anyone else.”
“I don’t know,” She said with a shake of her head. “I don’t like it. It’s too coincidental that Butterbottom brought this competition to your attention.”
“I don’t think he had a choice,” I said.
“I still don’t like it.”
“Pish,” Agnes said. “I’ll be with her. It will be fine. She’s going to make my family’s secret pie.”
“Trust us, Penny,” I said. “I know you do. You eat my food all the time.”
“It’s good food,” she said with a sigh. “Listen, I have to go back to work and report on the meeting. I didn’t mean to put down what you’re doing.”
“I understand, you have concerns,” I said. “But it’s fine. Don’t forget to contact Heavington’s admin about his spending habits.”
“I won’t.” She snatched a cookie off the platter and ducked out of the kitchen.
“Don’t worry, Chef,” Agnes said as she patted me on the back. “You’re going to win that pie competition. We have my secret recipe.”
Chapter 12
I was not going to be late for my drink date. I stared at all the clothes in my closet. Ninety percent were white chef shirts and black pants. Unlike Penny, I didn’t have a closet full of party clothes. Not that I wanted to wear party clothes. I highly doubted a little red dress was appropriate for drinks after work.
So what was appropriate? It had been so long since I had a date, I wasn’t sure. I could ask Penny, but I didn’t want her sticking her nose into something this new. It might go nowhere.
I thought of Jasper and his winning smile. It also might go somewhere fast. I sighed and pushed the clothes in my closet around. It wasn’t producing anything more than what I’d seen before. Which meant I had to pick something I had and let that be that.
What did I have? I had a blue-and-white patterned midi fit-and-flare dress that buttoned up the front. It had short sleeves and a rounded neckline. Not exactly a little red dress, but not black pants, either.
I slipped on the dress and did a neat twirl. It was great if I was a nanny taking the kids to a park. It wasn’t the best for a date. I sighed. It would have to do. I wasn’t going to show up for drinks in my work outfits.
I twisted my hair up into a quick top knot, applied lipstick and slipped on blue flats and that was that. I didn’t have a moment to spare when someone knocked on my door.
“I’ll be right there,” I said and hurried to open it.
“Well, you look different,” Ian said as he studied me. “Are you going somewhere?”
“Hello, Ian,” I said, ignoring his question. “What brings you here?”
“I wanted to let you know that we finished our investigation into Beth Branch. She also has an alibi for the night of the murder.”
“So that’s a dead end?”
“Yes,” he said.
“What if Lord Heavington paid someone to kill Wentworth?” I leaned against the doorframe with my arms crossed. “He did like to pay people to get him what he wanted.”
“We can look into that,” he said. “But it’s highly unlikely that a hit man would use poison.”
“Unless they want to frame someone.”
“You feel as if you are being framed?” He raised an eyebrow.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“What? Someone used my pie plate and maybe my pie—”
“It was your pie.”
“To kill someone,” I finished. “They used me to cover up their crime. I won’t stand for it.”
“I see,” he said.
“Hello, darling,” Jasper said as he stepped down my hall. “Ian,” he nodded as men do to acknowledge each other. Jasper brushed a kiss on my cheek.
I felt a flush of heat rush up my cheeks. There was so much maleness in the hall that it threatened to take my breath away.
“Are you ready?” Jasper asked me.
“Yes,” I said. “Let me get my sweater.” I stepped into my apartment and grabbed my blue sweater and my purse.
“You two have a date?” Ian asked. I noticed that his eyebrows drew together slightly and his mouth firmed into a tight line. Was he upset by the news? He stepped to the other side of the hall out of the way and crossed his arms over his chest. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was jealous.
“Just drinks,” I clarified.
“Yes,” Jasper said at the same time. He looked at me. “Drinks,” he corrected himself with a smug smile and stepped into the space between Ian and me.
“Have fun,” Ian said and walked off.
“We will,” Jasper replied a little too brightly. I locked my door and we stepped out of the palace. “It’s a nice night. Do you care to walk?”
“Sounds great,” I said. I was glad to be wearing my flats and not Penny’s sky-high shoes.
“I know this little hole in the wall. It doesn’t look like much from the outside, but it’s cozy inside, and the bartender makes a fantastic Pimm’s cup.”
“A Pimm’s cup?”
“Oh, no, you haven’t ever had a Pimm’s?”
“No,” I said. “Is it a beer?”
“It’s a cocktail,” he said grinning ear to ear. “Oh, we need to educate you on good British cocktails.” He put his arm through mine. “My friends are going to love you.”
I felt the heat of a blush rush up my cheeks. “They are going to love making fun of a sadly undereducated American?”
“No, no, they are going to love you. We are going to have a blast tasting all the different cocktails.”
I put my hand up in a stop motion. “I have to work in the morning.”
“I’ll get you home safe,” he said with a wink. “Gordon will be watching me, I think.”
“No, it’s me he’s watching,” I said. “He thinks I’m involved in Wentworth Uleman’s murder.”
“I think there’s a bit more to it than that,” Jasper said as he steered me toward a door in the middle of an alley. The name above the door said Uncle Joe’s.
“Is this another relative of yours?” I asked. The last time I’d gone for drinks with Jasper I learned he’d taken me to his uncle’s pub.
“No relatives this time.” He flashed me a smile. “Just friends.”
The inside of the place was dark but very soothing. I heard cocktail jazz in the air. The interior was like something right out of Mad Men, witho
ut the cigarettes. Waitresses had beehive hairdos and boxy tops with body-hugging pencil skirts.
There were small tables and cool lines of chairs. The colors were orange and turquoise. The pictures were abstract cityscapes.
“Wow,” I said as he steered me to a small table in the left corner.
“Stay right here a minute and make yourself comfortable,” he said. “I’ll get Stephanie to come over and bring you a Pimm’s.”
I settled into the chair, certain that I wasn’t dressed nearly as stylishly as the rest of the people who sat in the tiny bar. Lucky for me Jasper was wearing jeans and a button-front shirt. I fit with him, if not with everyone else.
“Say, aren’t you that chef who made the pie?” It was a young guy in a plaid shirt, blue suit coat with thin lapels, and slim-legged blue slacks.
“I’m sorry?”
“The pie they found that guy face down in, you know. The dead guy,” a second man said. The second guy was dressed similarly to the first. It looked like they might be work buddies.
“Hey, bugger off,” Jasper said, pushing his way around the second young man.
“No, this is the chef, right? You’re the chef?”
“Come on guys, let these two be,” a waitress pushed the young guys back to the front.
“I guess my reputation stretches back to the 1960s,” I said.
“They think they’re being cool,” he said. “Dressing like they are in some sort of movie. I asked Stephanie to see we’re not disturbed.”
“Hey kids,” the waitress came over. Her shirt was buttoned in the front, but curve hugging. Her blonde beehive was nearly eight inches tall. “I’ve brought the requested Pimm’s.” She put the glasses down in front of us. “Pimm’s cups are traditionally made with lemonade, lemon soda, and ginger beer. We add Créole Shrubb.”
“Créole Shrubb?” I asked.
“It’s an orange liqueur from Martinique,” she said.
“Stephanie scours the internet for all the coolest drinks,” Jasper said. “Pimm’s is the drink to order at Polo matches. Have you ever been to a Polo match?”
“No,” I said.
“Oh, Jasper,” Stephanie said. “You have to take her.” She leaned toward me. “I go just to people watch.”
“Sounds like fun?” I looked from her to Jasper.
“Taste the drink,” he said. “I ordered five more.”
“You ordered six drinks?” I was astounded. “I should have had more to eat.”
“Taste it,” he said.
I did what he asked. It was quite good.
“See? You should trust me.”
“I do trust you,” I said. His gaze warmed and he touched my hand.
“Good, because I only mean you the best kind of courtesy.”
We laughed and talked until the next drink came out. This one was a sidecar.
“I’ve heard of a sidecar,” I said and tasted it. “It’s pretty good. What’s in it?”
“Cognac, orange liqueur, and lemon juice,” Jasper said.
“I don’t think I’ve ever had cognac.” I drew my brows together. “Is it brandy?”
“Yes,” he said. “A French brandy. Do you like it?”
My eyes widened. “It’s very warm.”
His smiled widened. “I like how your eyes light up when you’re surprised.”
Maybe it was the drinks, but I truly enjoyed the complements of this handsome man. Next was a classic Daisy. Then a Mr. Stair which was a pear drink. About the time we hit the next few drinks I was smiling at Jasper and feeling warm. The flavors all blended together with the jazz music and the stress of my new job and the investigation slipped away.
Luckily the young men who wanted to know if I was the murder chef had left us alone. Jasper finally ordered tapas and we ate trying to calm down the effects of the alcohol. No, I didn’t drink all those drinks. I just tasted them, but six tastes could still knock me for a loop. I was used to working all the time not having evening drinks.
“I know a secret,” Jasper said as he leaned in toward me.
“What secret do you know?”
“Our Security Chief is pretty jealous of me right now.”
“What? Why?”
He took my hand and kissed the back of it. “Because I’m spending time with a beautiful chef and he’s not.”
“Don’t be silly, Ian doesn’t date anyone who works for the palace.”
“Wait, are you saying that you are only with me because you don’t think he wants to be with you?”
‘No,” I said. “No, that’s horrible. I’m not that horrible.”
He studied me for a moment. “No, you are not that horrible. But I had to check.”
“I think it’s time to go home.” I stood. Or, rather, wobbled up a bit. “We have to work in the morning and I have pies to practice for Saturday’s competition.”
He stood with me and paid the bill while I stepped outside. It was misting and cool. The streets were quiet after the music from the club. The weather damped everything, even sound.
“Hey, you are that chef, aren’t you?” It was the young man from inside. He came over to me.
“Do I know you?” I asked and peered at him. I used my best Chicago attitude. It’s the kind that you had to have when you lived in a big city. A sort of “stay back” vibe.
“Naw, Chef, you don’t,” he said. “I’m Nigel Bloom. I’m a reporter for an underground paper called Fake News.
“I don’t have anything to say to the press.”
“Not even Fake News?” He raised a well-manicured eyebrow.
“Especially not for Fake News,” I said.
“What if I tell you that I don’t think you did it?”
“Did what?” I hedged.
“You didn’t make that pie.” He crossed his arms over his chest.
I tilted my head and kept my thoughts to myself.
“Someone else made the pie,” he said. “Someone with more to lose. Someone who needed Wentworth Uleman dead.”
“And who would that be?” I had to ask.
“That’s what I’m trying to find out,” he said. “Maybe you can help me with that?”
“Help you with what?” Jasper asked as he stepped out of the bar.
“Find out who really killed Wentworth Uleman,” he said.
“Who are you?
“Nigel.”
“He’s a reporter from Fake News,” I said as Jasper put his hand on my waist and pulled me protectively toward him.
“I think you need to leave us alone,” Jasper said.
“Fine, but I’m on your side, chef.” He pulled out a business card. “Here’s my card. Call me if you need anything.”
I took the card. “How do I know you won’t make me look bad?” I asked.
“He’s the press,” Jasper said. “He’ll make you look however it takes to sell papers.”
Nigel shrugged and walked off. “You never know when you might need a friend in the papers.”
I looked at Jasper.
“Don’t mind him,” Jasper said. “He works for Fake News. How important is that?”
I grimaced. “I’m learning how important tabloids are.”
“You’re going to get a lot of that just because you work at the palace. Don’t let them in. It’s the way to madness.”
I glanced behind at Nigel’s retreating back. “He said he wanted to prove my innocence.”
“Trust me,” Jasper guided me toward the palace, “people will say anything to earn your trust. The guy is looking to make a buck.”
In my heart I knew that Jasper was right, but I was curious to know who Nigel thought killed Wentworth and why. Maybe when I got home, I’d search for the Fake News site on the internet and see what kind of journalism Nigel practiced.
Chapter 13
All the next day I couldn’t help but think over the exchange with Jasper. The one where he accused me of liking Ian more than him, but settling on the man I could get. I didn’t like the implication
and worse, I hated that there was a ring of truth to it.
“I’m heading home,” Agnes said. It was after teatime and she was done for the day. “We’re all set for tomorrow’s competition. Everything is boxed and bagged and ready to go. You have the recipes ready, right?”
“Yes,” I said. “I’ll practice a couple more times tonight. That said, I’m ready to go right now.”
“You’ll do great, Chef,” she said. “I’ll be here bright and early in the morning.”
“Yes, we need to be at the site and set up by eight AM.”
“You can count on me.” She lifted the pie I had made for her family. “They’re going to love this.”
“I hope so,” I said with a smile. After she left, I went over all the details of the coming competition one last time. I saw there was a line about notifying the security chief of your intention to compete. It seemed they needed to know to ensure there was plenty of security for each chef attending. I glanced at the clock. It was seven PM. Supper was done, and I was able to run out for a bit. I figured I’d check and see if Ian was in his office.
The secretary was out for the day. I could hear the dispatches in the next room. It was strange to be in the office after hours. I saw that Ian had his light on so I popped into the doorway and knocked.
“Ian, I need to—” I suddenly noticed that there were two people in the room. Ian had been kissing a lovely young woman. She was my height and tucked up against his heart. “Oh, I’m sorry—” I held up my hand and took a step back into the hall.
“It’s all right,” Ian said. “Come in, Chef.”
The woman looked at me curiously. She had an oval face with big China-blue eyes and long blonde hair that flowed around her shoulders in soft waves. She wore a sapphire-blue shift dress and sparkly flats. “Is this Chef Cole?”
“Yes,” Ian said. “Chef Cole, Carrie Ann, this is Lana McMann. Lana, Chef Cole.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said and gave her a wry smile. Why was my heart beating so hard? It was clear Lana was Ian’s girlfriend. I swallowed hard and concentrated on Ian. “I’m so sorry to interrupt. Also I forgot to let you know that Agnes and I will be at a pie-baking competition in Hyde Park tomorrow.”
“That’s the one Chef Butterbottom is attending.” Ian didn’t seem to be embarrassed that his hand hadn’t moved from Lana’s waist.
