The Lady Sleuths MEGAPACK ™: 20 Modern and Classic Tales of Female Detectives

by Catherine Louisa Pirkis

  An elfish man wearing bike shorts and no shirt stood on a stool in front of the longest counter I’d ever seen. The chef was done up in an apron that only partially covered his bare chest. The Citchen Critter logo was printed across its bib.

  “I’m put out that Ms. Turnbow is not here in person,” the chef said to the ceiling as if in prayer for divine patience. Then he turned to me. “My culinary assistant, Pilar Heinz, is missing.” He punctuated each syllable by stabbing the air with a fat knife. “Less than one week before the Gastronomic Gambles championship. I need you to find her. Now!”

  “My employer has sent me to do the initial interview,” I stammered, “since, as she informed you, she’s at a sensitive point in another investigation. If we get the basic details of your case to her right away, we can begin the background checks.” I liked the term background checks. Sounded so detective-speak.

  Loris Turnbow, my aunt, had been kind enough to give me a job with her P.I. firm after my husband embezzled his company’s largest fund, then fled the country. She served as my training officer, helping me meet the minimum requirements set by the state board to get my license. It was no secret that she hoped I’d make this temporary solution to my cash-flow problems permanent. She apparently thought I had promise.

  “Doesn’t she look like Pilar?” the chef asked as Emmett handed me a photo of the missing person.

  “I declare, she does.”

  “Ask your questions, girl,” the chef commanded.

  Even though he had to stand on a stool to be eye-level with me, I fought the urge to run. To cover my nervousness, I dug in my Fendi bag for paper and a pen to take notes.

  I dropped that pen when I noticed a dozen bird feet, toes up, on the countertop in front of Chef Clyde. The medieval-looking contraption hanging over us, where pots and unfamiliar implements of all shapes and sizes dangled, didn’t help.

  Thankfully, a sign above the stove, “No Road Kill Used in the Preparation of This Dish!” made me laugh and regain my composure. I picked up my pen and forged ahead with my questions, determined to do the job right.

  Before I’d left the office, my aunt had explained that this was a bad time for her to take a new case because of an issue with an employee. Since only her son and I worked for the agency, I took that to mean my cousin had stepped in it. Again. That left me. She explained that Emmett’s daughter, a client several years ago, had called in a favor. Sending me to do the light lifting would jump-start Chef Grumpy’s case.

  Emmett ferried a covered dish from the refrigerator to the counter. “I have a plan, Chef, to find Pilar. Young lady,” he said turning my way. “I think my idea will assist you as well.”

  “What idea?” My aunt hadn’t said anything about the clients having ideas involving me.

  “It will be far more difficult to find our culinary assistant than you imagine,” Emmett said. “Winning the Gastronomic Gambles is all to some people. They’ve worked hard for many years to get to the final round. Any attempt to snoop will cause suspicion. They’ll assume you’re trying to sabotage them, even if you explain you’re only trying to find Pilar.”

  “People take this stuff that seriously?”

  “She’s so naïve,” the chef said and climbed down from his stool. “No one will talk to a detective, or any outsider, during the run-up to the taping. I doubt you’ll even be allowed on the set.”

  “Why not let the police handle the investigation, then?”

  “The police,” Chef Clyde said, a sneer on his pointy face, “did a cursory investigation and found nothing irregular. Pilar isn’t a minor. Adults can disappear if they want to.”

  “Back to my idea,” Emmett said. “Ms. Pennington here can pose as our new culinary assistant.”

  “What?” The chef and I said at the same time.

  “Think about it, Chef. I’ll assist you, like in the old days, and she can assist me. That will provide the perfect cover. She’ll be assistant to the assistant, so no one will pay any attention to her. She’ll find out things we’d never be privy to.”

  “What about the release for Pilar’s recip—”

  Indicating the kitchen with a Vanna White sweep of his hand, Emmett silenced the chef mid-sentence. “We’ll practice preparing the menu here,” he said to me and gave his final pitch, “I have an old co-worker at the studio who will get you set up.”

  “I hope you know what we’re doing,” the chef said, sing-song, and turned back to his critters. He was through with me.

  “The only thing that matters,” Emmett said as he walked me to the door, “is that we get Pilar home safely.”

  I agreed to the scheme. I wanted to solve this case to show my appreciation to my aunt for offering me a job and for opening her home to me. I might be sleeping on a divan on her sun porch, its sheets falling way short of the thousand thread count I’d grown accustomed to during my high-end marriage, but on the bright side, I was getting exfoliation treatments for free.

  * * * *

  I was feeling a little cocky as I sped down the sidewalk. I’d survived my first interview on my first assignment. Then the heel of my shoe caught in a crack in the flagstone walk just outside the iron gate. As I bent over to ease the heel out of the hole without marring the delicate alligator leather, a man walking toward me from the yard next door called, “There you are. Thought you done run away.” The snowman-shaped gardener reached me. “Oh. Sorry. Took you for Pilar. Same color hair.”

  My shoe popped free.

  “So, I take it you haven’t seen Pilar recently,” I said brushing crumbled mortar off the hem of my pant leg.

  The man continued to look me over, all five feet of me, plus my three-inch cheat heels and said, “If I was her, I’d stay gone.”

  Trying to follow my aunt’s instructions not to discuss a client’s case while being nosy and chatting people up at the same time (wha?), I tried my hand at questioning the witness.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “‘Cause everyone knows she’s the real artist in that kitchen. Chef Creepy Critter makes use of her recipes and talent, then he takes all the credit.”

  I was out of questions. This looked so easy on TV. Luckily for me, it appeared the guy took my hesitation as skepticism and added, “You think I’m full of it? I wasn’t always wider than I am tall. Pilar brought me her practice dishes, sometimes two or three a day.” He kissed the fingertips of one hand.

  “If what you say is true, why would Pilar work for a man like Shelbee?”

  “She gets to develop her dishes, and when the time is right, make her move to get her own show.” He headed back toward the neighboring yard, then turned. “I don’t know how she does it. I got ambitions. But I ain’t got the patience to put up with an asshole like Shelbee. Maybe she just reached her limit. Hope not, though. Sure would miss being her guinea pig.”

  * * * *

  When I got back to the office, I explained the plan. After my aunt finished laughing, she struggled to put away her snarky face and put on a mentoring one.

  “Whew. Sorry. The picture of you in the kitchen even pretending to cook was too much.”

  “Your approach to confidence building could use some work,” I said.

  She shrugged. “So if you go in as the replacement assistant, we could get onto the set before the rehearsal and filming?”

  “That’s right. Evidently, there’s always camera crew, company reps, and assistants running around the set. Since I’d be the new girl, it’d be only natural for me to have questions. And I’ll have two days after rehearsals to see what we can uncover before the actual taping.”

  “You’ll need to bone up on the production of a cooking show and the duties of a culinary assistant, or you’ll never pass as someone hired for competition. Ask Emmett to email the dishes, recipes, and ingredients they’ve planned
. Study those.” She got her cell phone out of her pants pocket.

  “You’ve seen me try to boil water. This is going to be a disaster.” I moaned. “All of TV land is going to see me crash and burn.”

  “Man up, girl.” She thumbed her phone. “I just emailed a couple of websites to you.”

  There was her famous empathy again. “Can’t I just do the paperwork that’s piled up around here? Until I’ve gotten a few easier jobs under my belt?” I’d be real good at billing. I handled my own credit card accounts when I was married.

  “You need to learn the business. How to work undercover. Plus, being out there will give you the client contact you need.”

  “But I don’t like clients—or even people, for that matter.”

  “Exactly. On that note, someone claiming she’d been Pilar’s culinary school roommate called. Said she’d heard that Chef Clyde hired us, and she wants to help. I didn’t confirm that we have the case, but check her out—see what her angle is. Perfect opportunity to get real-world experience. Here’s the address.”

  I researched the Gastronomic Gambles competition and checked all the social media for something on the roommate. The cooking show even had its own Facebook page, but I found no e-presence for the roomie whatsoever. Looked like Auntie would get her way and I’d have to actually make contact with the staff at the cooking school as part of the roomie’s background check.

  When I checked my email, Emmett had already sent the requested information. The dishes:

  First Course—Cajun Turtle Stew

  Second Course—Fig-Glazed ’Possum Kabob on a bed of Quinoa

  Main course—Squirrel Ravioli and Truffles on a bed of Poke Salad

  with a side dish of

  Asparagus Wrapped in Poached Alligator Tail

  God. A person should get a warning before opening a message like that. At the very least, there should be some kind of gross-out filter that captured unsavory email until you can face it.

  Holding my breath, I sat down to read the rest of the nightmare that was to be my life for the foreseeable future. When I got to the phrase “mince the squirrel meat,” I closed my eyes and let the held-breath out slowly. Eventually, the universe stabilized enough for me to continue reading the distasteful document, even though I skimmed it like gravy.

  At “scald, dress, and pick the hair off the ’possum,” however, I headed to the bathroom, hanging my head over the toilet bowl until the wave of nausea passed. The office toilet—which the public used. Where does one go to recover from that?

  Gumshoes grumbling their way across television and movie screens suddenly made sense. The monosyllabic responses of down-and-out private eyes, the drinking, the bitterness. Call me a house dick, I’d be surly too. Knock me in the head with a gun butt, and I’d be cranky. Already, getting people to tell me things they never meant to tell anyone, snooping into matters that weren’t any of my business, and pretending to be someone I’m not had frayed my last nerve.

  * * * *

  I’d never been on this side of town, with its boxy little houses, all the same, all in a row, and it took getting lost twice to find the address. The driveway ended in a ratty hedge instead of a garage. Behind the glass of the front door, a dark-haired woman nearly filled the frame, and didn’t speak until I was on the porch right in front of her.

  “You must be Ms. Pennington from the Turnbow Agency.” She moved aside and opened the door to let me in. “I’m Denise Quay.” We sat down on a settee in the foyer.

  “You called our agency to voice a concern about—”

  “The disappearance of Pilar Heinz. My friend did not just wander off, no matter what the police say.” She sounded angry instead of concerned.

  “You mentioned to Ms. Turnbow that a Gastronomic Gambles chef might be involved.”

  “Clyde Shelbee. He’s gotten away with so many things in the past, why not murder this time?” The woman was wringing her hands as if a neck was between them.

  “Murder is a very serious accusation,” I said as softly as I could so I didn’t rile her any further.

  “If you’d had dealings with the famous Chef Clyde in the past… Pilar finally saw him for the jealous and petty little man he is. She wanted something in writing this time guaranteeing she’d get credit for her contributions.”

  “If he refused, maybe Pilar finally said enough is enough and took off.”

  “No. Pilar might quit, but not until after the competition. She believed if she could get Shelbee to acknowledge that the recipes were hers, it would launch her career.”

  “It’s my understanding that Chef Clyde is going ahead with using Pilar’s dishes in the competition.”

  “What? And the network is going to let that bastard get away with it?”

  “With what? If you have evidence that a crime has been committed, you need to go to the police.”

  She stood abruptly and marched to the door. “You have more than enough evidence already to get the police to swear out a warrant on Shelbee. Instead, you’re going to allow a killer to cover his tracks.” She shoved the door open with her foot. I guessed our chat was at an end. Seemed my detecting skills were shaping up nicely.

  * * * *

  I called my aunt’s cell to report what little I’d learned.

  “Where are you right now, Auntie?”

  “Angelina hired us to tail Brad,” she replied. “I’m at the Four Seasons having a mojito, waiting for him to come out of the bathroom with the barmaid.”

  “Ha ha. Do you want to hear what I learned from Pilar’s friend?”

  She sighed. “Not now. I’m still dealing with the case your cousin screwed up. The client wants that boy’s head on a plate.”

  “I thought it was just a misunderstanding.”

  “My son’s description of the problem as a misunderstanding was a bit of an understatement. I’d give you other choice words, but not over the phone. At any rate, you’ll have to keep handling the Heinz case.”

  “Handling? As in making decisions?”

  “Don’t panic.”

  “Don’t panic? It’s a little too late for that!”

  “Listen, I love you and want to be supportive. I just can’t deal with your drama right now. Come back to the office and type up your report.”

  “I was going back to your house to soak my feet. They’re killing me.”

  “Well, maybe tomorrow you’ll wear sensible shoes.”

  * * * *

  When I returned to the office, I found a woman with ash blond hair, clad in a tan running outfit sitting alone at my desk. She clutched a huge khaki purse.

  I asked the beige lady, “Does Ms. Turnbow know you’re here?” My aunt didn’t want me to call her aunt in front of clients. Said it wasn’t professional.

  “Are you Nonni?”

  “Yes. Do I know you?” I sat on the edge of my desk and looked down at her.

  “No, but you’ve met my father. Emmett.”

  “And?”

  “He and I haven’t seen eye to eye these last few years. Not since he decided to keep working for that tiny tyrant, Chef Clyde. But he’s still my father. If something has happened to Pilar, my father might be in danger, too.”

  “Are you suggesting that Pilar’s been hurt, or worse? And your dad might be next?”

  “It’s common knowledge that Clyde sabotaged competitors in the past in order to win cooking competitions. Who’s to say he didn’t take his shady behavior to the next level?”

  Emmett’s daughter was looking down at her cradled purse. When she raised her eyes to meet mine, they were glossy with tears. “Pilar would not leave before showcasing her family recipes on national TV. It doesn’t make sense. Why not wait until after the Gastro Gambles to leave?”

  She smothered her face i
n a wad of tissue and came up blowing her nose, then disappeared into my aunt’s office.

  This P.I. stuff sure involved a lot of emotional roller coasting. Thank goodness Emmett’s daughter had brought her own tissue because I wasn’t equipped to offer my shoulder to every weepy person I encountered. Wasn’t too many weeks ago I was on my own amusement park ride to hell.

  * * * *

  The Gamble’s studio was in a section of mid-town Atlanta lousy with warehouses and wholesale storefronts. At the end of a string of concrete-block clones, it stood out as the only two-story structure in the queue.

  The lobby’s appointments were spare and its glass abundant. The security officer looked like security officers everywhere. I had to sign in and show ID, then I was instructed to wait. After a few minutes, a girl in her late teens bopped up to me with her hand out, blue nails sparkling, to shake mine.

  “Are you Nonni Pennington?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m the production assistant. Come on down to the Green Room, and I’ll get the staffer handling support cast to go over the waivers with you.”

  With that, she nearly skipped out of the room. I followed, trying to avoid the cables snaking this way and that, and to process what I was seeing as we sped through the hallways. Open crawl spaces and exposed duct work made the place look more like an electronics warehouse than the prestigious venue of a renowned cooking competition.

  The Green Room was pale peach. A woman at a desk, hunched over a laptop, turned to us with an annoyed look that she didn’t bother to wipe off, even after Skippy the P.A. introduced me.

  The sourpuss staffer’s name was Mare. “I’ll get you a copy of the script and some releases you need to sign,” she said. “Emmett emailed me that he’ll be the primary assistant and you’ll be the second. Hope you can take pressure.” She and the young girl walked off discussing the problem of teams poaching one another’s shelf space in the refrigerators.