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

by Catherine Louisa Pirkis

  Emmett had called to say he was on his way over to drop off overly large ingredients needing refrigeration, after which he wanted to show me around the studio kitchen. I needed to at least look competent. Later, we’d go do a dry run of the actual dishes back in Chef Clyde’s kitchen to ensure the recipes remained secret.

  I plopped down at the desk in the peachy Green Room, thinking for a second of tossing the drawers. Before I could act, Mare walked back into the room, handed me the documents, and turned to leave.

  “Wait,” I said. “I was hoping you’d answer a couple of questions.”

  “Why would I help you help Clyde? He never did anything for me but put me down, work me to death, and take all the glory for himself. Seems that’s a habit of his, so watch out.”

  “Nobody told me you used to work with Chef Clyde.”

  “Used to, and I’d cover the show of every prima donna chef on this network before I’d work one more minute for Shelbee.”

  “Look, I’m just trying to do a good job.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned her hip against the door jamb. “Hell, you seem like a nice person, but you are one soufflé away from a collapse if you don’t get out now. I’m deadly serious. Ask yourself why Pilar would disappear just days before a contest she worked her ass off to win.”

  Less than a minute later, Emmett came through the Green Room door, brushing right past Mare. At the sight of him she began to sidle out of the room.

  He saw her out of the corner of his eye. “Mare! Thanks for getting Nonni the releases.”

  “I don’t understand how you can still work with him, Em. And drag this gal into it.” Mare was scowling and shaking her head.

  Emmet set his packages on the counter. “We owe it to Pilar.”

  “Don’t hand me this ‘we’ crap. How sick is it if she’s not here to enjoy the triumph won with her dishes?”

  “We don’t know for sure that she won’t turn up before taping.”

  Mare held up her hand. “I don’t have time to go into this with you right now.” She looked at me and said, “Good luck. You’re gonna need it.” Then she was gone.

  “If everyone thinks I’m incapable of handling this,” I said as huffily as I felt, “why keep me on?”

  “We all want to find Pilar. I’m too visible, too suspect, to be of real use. We need you to poke around and uncover the truth.”

  In the back of my mind, I wondered if suspect might be the perfect word for Emmett. It had been his idea to step in as first assistant. How’d he put it? “Like back in the old days.” Did he maybe think he wasn’t visible enough?

  * * * *

  A couple hours later I had my first lesson in the chef’s kitchen: how to scrub my hands until they were raw and cram all my hair up under a hideous cap. The trouble began when they tried to teach me the difference between a utensil and a serving piece. If only the contest could be about the variable microwave warming times of say, frozen entrees versus leftover lo mein…

  “I’ve already removed the entrails, glands, the head, and the tail.” Chef Clyde’s face was as red as the carcass on the counter. “I don’t understand why you won’t look at the ’possum. How do you expect to pass yourself off as my assistant if you won’t even look at it?”

  Pissed, the chef charged out of the room. Emmett gave me a look of sympathy and then followed.

  With my lessons apparently over, I wandered over to some nearby shelves with cookbooks, awards, and framed photographs, including several pictures of Pilar and of Pilar’s culinary school roommate. Denise wore a chef’s hat and was holding up a trophy, posing with Chef Clyde in what looked like a studio kitchen. Why hadn’t she mentioned she did the same job as Pilar? Was being an insider the reason she knew the chef was guilty?

  * * * *

  The next morning, I went to the studio early, hoping to get comfortable enough with the set that I wouldn’t screw up later during rehearsal. I approached the door to the dark lobby of the studio. The security guard and his desk, however, were lit like the display window of an anchor store at the mall. He kept his head down even as I popped off my last acrylic nail jerking on the door handle. I rapped on the glass with my car keys, and he let me in.

  “The morning crew hasn’t come in yet,” he said as he returned to his seat and the electronic game he obviously found so enthralling. “They usually don’t turn on the lights until seven.”

  “That’s okay,” I said, “I just wanted to get more familiar with the equipment before…”

  I shut up and headed to the set because he was intent on the game again. I took this opportunity to slide into a couple of storerooms along the way, as well as some offices, but I didn’t turn up any clues to help me find Pilar. I hoped I’d find something on the set.

  The only light on the kitchen’s set was the wavy red glow of the exit signs and the LEDs of the electronics equipment. When Emmett had shown me around the day before, the lights had been blinding, coming at me from every direction, and they were hot, too. I preferred this low-watt mode, and only switched on a light above a sink.

  Separate areas of the kitchen had been assigned to each team. I went to stand at our deep stainless-steel counter with its sink, stove, cutting board, and so many sharp knives it looked like we were filming an Xtreme Autopsy show. Right behind me were the refrigerators. I had a cheat sheet with the locations of our ingredients in the open cupboards under the counter. I did a quick inspection then came back to turn the stove’s burners on and off, try the faucets, and practice controlling the high-powered hose attachment that could fill a large pot with water fast.

  Every sound I made seemed unnatural, echoing down low at first, then rising to be abruptly absorbed and dampened by the high ceilings, really rattling my nerves. It was dawning on me that the closer we got to taping without Pilar showing up, the more likely it was that I’d have to take the stage, risking exposure.

  Opening refrigerators required bracing myself. I couldn’t actually see Chip and Dale and Bambi inside the transparent containers, only imagined I did. Thankfully, Emmett had tasked me with prepping the produce and gophering things around, excuse the pun, giving me the perfect opportunity to question the film crew, all innocent-like. And if we actually had to take the plan down to the wire, Emmett would be the one to brave the critter carnage and the chef’s temper.

  Nearby, in the off-set darkness, something crashed to the floor with a metallic clang.

  “Emmett?” I called. Nothing. I looked down the hall, but I didn’t see anyone. “Hello? Does someone need to use the kitchen set?” I thought I saw a figure moving along the corridor leading to the lobby. I grabbed my purse and tried to catch up.

  As I approached the front, I heard Emmett chuckle and the guard say, “Hey, I’m almost outta here. Don’t be asking me for nothin’.”

  I stepped into the now fully lit space. “Emmett, did someone come from the direction of the set just now?”

  “No. Why?” Emmett crossed the lobby and peered down the hall.

  “I came in early to go over the layout one more time, and I thought someone—”

  “You’ll be fine,” Emmett interrupted, then greeted a man and woman entering the lobby.

  The three headed down the hall, turning on lights as they went. I followed, feeling anything but fine.

  * * * *

  Thirty minutes later, the studio was filled with busy culinary assistants, make-up people, and camera crew. Booms were raised overhead. I watched as a hand-held camera operator near our station, seemingly sporting a camera where her head should have been, paced off the space. After a while we were told to stand down while the show’s production crew went through their checklists.

  I hadn’t thought to bring breakfast and was starving, but not for some little forest-creature omelet. I knew better than t
o look for something normal in the refrigerators near the set, so I went to a break room offstage I’d noticed earlier. The room was empty and dark, but I didn’t turn on the lights—didn’t want to advertise to the staff that I was pilfering food. The hall was short enough to spill light in from the set anyway. Monitors, keyboards, old phones, and broken chairs filled the corners, but there were no desks to rifle. I could just make out motor sounds—the fridge was on. Maybe I’d luck out and find string cheese or some yogurt that wouldn’t be missed.

  I pulled open the door. It wasn’t a large refrigerator, but then it didn’t need to be because Pilar was so petite.

  I didn’t shut the door as I backed away and plowed into a pile of cast-off small appliances, sending it flying. Good thing. The racket silenced the entire studio for the split second it took me to get out a high-pitched wail. I added, “Help,” as I stumbled into the hall and slid down the wall outside the break room, my eyes bulging and glued to its doorway. From my seated position, I watched people move past me as if in slow motion. Their screams were strangely muffled.

  Someone was at my elbow, urging me to stand. “Come on, Nonni, let’s get you away from here,” Mare said. She walked me to the far corner of the set. Skippy had produced a chair from somewhere, and they eased me onto it.

  “Put your head between your knees if you feel faint, honey,” Mare said.

  “Uh, uh.”

  “Shhh.” Mare tilted my head back and looked deep into my eyes. “You’re going to be okay. The police are on their way.” Then she and Skippy went to join the murmuring knot of people in shock outside the break room.

  I continued to process things in slow motion: Chef Clyde looking lost at the very back of the crowd, Emmett at the front, while our hand-held camera operator filmed everything. The camera was trained on Chef Clyde, but I didn’t think the chef noticed.

  “Everyone move back,” Emmett said as he gently pushed people. “The emergency crew will need to get a stretcher in there. The police will not take kindly to the way we’re trampling the crime scene.” Chef Clyde had already moved all the way over to where I sat.

  The camera operator continued to aim the lens at the chef, even though it required jockeying for position in order to shoot around the people filing back into the kitchen. I was about to say that something didn’t seem right about this, when someone in the lobby screamed, “Dead? Pilar’s dead?” startling everyone.

  The hand-held operator jerked her camera to the side for a fraction of a second.

  “Denise is a camera operator, too?” I inquired of no one in particular.

  But Chef Clyde heard me and backed up against the storage racks, shouting, “That’s not a cam—that’s Denise. Emmett! Who let her in here?”

  Denise threw the camera down, and the room full of people gasped as one. She was moving toward the set side of the counter. I followed her gaze, realizing she was heading straight for the arsenal of knives. When I saw that Emmett was trying to head her off, but wouldn’t make it, I jumped out of my chair, grabbed the hot water faucet handle, and turned it for all I was worth. As soon as Denise got to the opposite side of the counter from me and put her hand on a knife handle, I aimed the hose and spewed the steaming water right into her ear. She screamed and flailed and crawled into a cupboard under the counter to escape. My hand was frozen. I couldn’t let go of the nozzle until a police officer came up beside me and turned off the spigot. I stared, hypnotized, as water continued to flow and drip from surfaces high and low. I kept staring, craning my head over my shoulder, as I was led away.

  * * * *

  Much of what happened after that was a blur. Best forgotten anyway. I heard that the Gastronomic Gambles folks delayed the filming of the competition indefinitely out of respect for Pilar.

  At Pilar’s memorial, Chef Clyde took responsibly for her death, explaining that Denise had apparently committed the murder to make him suffer. When killing Pilar didn’t derail his quest for the trophy, Denise planned to end him with his own deboning knife during the competition. Knowing his murder would be taped was the icing on the cake.

  “Actions have consequences,” Chef Clyde said. “Six years ago, Denise Quay was a talented chef, and I was a judge for a major competition she’d probably have won. I disqualified her without grounds, and everyone went along with my decision. I was jealous, vain, and vindictive, and as a result, a very dear friend has paid the ultimate price. Please forgive me.”

  I never learned of a single person who did, but I’m sure the little chef felt better after baring his soul. I’m also sure network executives felt better after removing the chef and his show from their lineup.

  Emmett retired to work in his herb gardens full time. Denise’s scalded face healed, and she’s hoping to avoid prison by claiming temporary insanity.

  I learned many things in my first job—like solving a culinary case is tougher when murder’s on the menu. And I learned it’s not always true that crime doesn’t pay. My aunt split the fee with me. I’m on the way to Tootsie’s Boutique with my half to see if they sell sneakers in alligator.

  HILDA WADE, by Grant Allen

  A WOMAN WITH TENACITY OF PURPOSE

  PUBLISHERS’ NOTE

  In putting before the public the last work by Mr. Grant Allen, the publishers desire to express their deep regret at the author’s unexpected and lamented death—a regret in which they are sure to be joined by the many thousand readers whom he did so much to entertain. A man of curiously varied and comprehensive knowledge, and with the most charming personality; a writer who, treating of a wide variety of subjects, touched nothing which he did not make distinctive, he filled a place which no man living can exactly occupy. The last chapter of this volume had been roughly sketched by Mr. Allen before his final illness, and his anxiety, when debarred from work, to see it finished, was relieved by the considerate kindness of his friend and neighbour, Dr. Conan Doyle, who, hearing of his trouble, talked it over with him, gathered his ideas, and finally wrote it out for him in the form in which it now appears—a beautiful and pathetic act of friendship which it is a pleasure to record.

  CHAPTER I

  THE EPISODE OF THE PATIENT WHO DISAPPOINTED HER DOCTOR

  Hilda Wade’s gift was so unique, so extraordinary, that I must illustrate it, I think, before I attempt to describe it. But first let me say a word of explanation about the Master.

  I have never met anyone who impressed me so much with a sense of greatness as Professor Sebastian. And this was not due to his scientific eminence alone: the man’s strength and keenness struck me quite as forcibly as his vast attainments. When he first came to St. Nathaniel’s Hospital, an eager, fiery-eyed physiologist, well past the prime of life, and began to preach with all the electric force of his vivid personality that the one thing on earth worth a young man’s doing was to work in his laboratory, attend his lectures, study disease, and be a scientific doctor, dozens of us were infected by his contagious enthusiasm. He proclaimed the gospel of germs; and the germ of his own zeal flew abroad in the hospital: it ran through the wards as if it were typhoid fever. Within a few months, half the students were converted from lukewarm observers of medical routine into flaming apostles of the new methods.

  The greatest authority in Europe on comparative anatomy, now that Huxley was taken from us, he had devoted his later days to the pursuit of medicine proper, to which he brought a mind stored with luminous analogies from the lower animals. His very appearance held one. Tall, thin, erect, with an ascetic profile not unlike Cardinal Manning’s, he represented that abstract form of asceticism which consists in absolute self-sacrifice to a mental ideas, not that which consists in religious abnegation. Three years of travel in Africa had tanned his skin for life. His long white hair, straight and silvery as it fell, just curled in one wave-like inward sweep where it turned and rested on the stooping shoulders. His pale face was clean-
shaven, save for a thin and wiry grizzled moustache, which cast into stronger relief the deep-set, hawk-like eyes and the acute, intense, intellectual features. In some respects, his countenance reminded me often of Dr. Martineau’s: in others it recalled the knife-like edge, unturnable, of his great predecessor, Professor Owen. Wherever he went, men turned to stare at him. In Paris, they took him for the head of the English Socialists; in Russia, they declared he was a Nihilist emissary. And they were not far wrong—in essence; for Sebastian’s stern, sharp face was above all things the face of a man absorbed and engrossed by one overpowering pursuit in life—the sacred thirst of knowledge, which had swallowed up his entire nature.

  He was what he looked—the most single-minded person I have ever come across. And when I say single-minded, I mean just that, and no more. He had an End to attain—the advancement of science, and he went straight towards the End, looking neither to the right nor to the left for anyone. An American millionaire once remarked to him of some ingenious appliance he was describing: “Why, if you were to perfect that apparatus, Professor, and take out a patent for it, I reckon you’d make as much money as I have made.” Sebastian withered him with a glance. “I have no time to waste,” he replied, “on making money!”

  So, when Hilda Wade told me, on the first day I met her, that she wished to become a nurse at Nathaniel’s, “to be near Sebastian,” I was not at all astonished. I took her at her word. Everybody who meant business in any branch of the medical art, however humble, desired to be close to our rare teacher—to drink in his large thought, to profit by his clear insight, his wide experience. The man of Nathaniel’s was revolutionising practice; and those who wished to feel themselves abreast of the modern movement were naturally anxious to cast in their lot with him. I did not wonder, therefore, that Hilda Wade, who herself possessed in so large a measure the deepest feminine gift—intuition—should seek a place under the famous professor who represented the other side of the same endowment in its masculine embodiment—instinct of diagnosis.