Christmas Canapés & Sabotage: a Culinary Competition Mysteries holiday short story

by Gradowski, Janel

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  CHRISTMAS CANAPÉS & SABOTAGE

  by

  JANEL GRADOWSKI

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  Copyright © 2014 by Janel Gradowski

  Gemma Halliday Publishing

  http://www.gemmahallidaypublishing.com

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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  CHRISTMAS CANAPÉS & SABOTAGE

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  Experiencing how it felt to be an arctic explorer wasn't on Amy's to-do list for the day…or her lifetime. She shoved her hands farther into her coat pockets and decided to distract herself from thoughts of being stranded on an iceberg by studying the Christmas tree standing between the registration tables as she waited in the slow-moving line. The branches were tipped with cut crystal teardrops and spires that sparkled and bobbed every time the front door of Halo Restaurant opened. Frosty blue and matte silver ball ornaments were nestled on the branches. Tiny twinkling lights and a garland made of downy, white feathers completed the decorations. She dubbed the style North Pole Chic, and it would look perfect in her living room.

  She scooted forward as the line shifted, happy to be a little farther away from the door. The line of contestants now stretched outside, and the front doors of the restaurant were mostly being held open by the half frozen crowd. The wind, which had earned a dangerous wind chill warning from the National Weather Service, was free to torture the people crammed into the entryway. It ruffled the messy, loose curls that she had hoped would fare well in the wind. Her husband said she looked like a blonde angel before she left. He knew how to get on her good side. There would definitely be snow for Christmas—something that didn't always happen in southern Michigan—but it didn't need to be so cold in order for the white stuff to stick around for a few more weeks. The fabulously decorated tree had been studied and committed to memory, so Amy was more than ready to get through the check-in process and take shelter in what would hopefully be the warm interior of the restaurant. Trying to eat while wearing a heavy winter coat and mittens was about as practical as wearing sunglasses at night.

  A woman wearing a bulky cabled Fisherman's sweater tried to smile at Amy from her seat behind one of the registration tables. It looked more like she was gritting her teeth in frozen agony. "Name and division please."

  "Amy Ridley. Amateur division."

  A grunt that sounded like an Abominable Snowman mating call came from somewhere behind her. She turned to find the perennially pissed off Rayshelle Applebee smirking at her. Amy hadn't seen her for a few months, and for that she was grateful. Rayshelle's special variety of unpleasantness tended to linger long after encounters with her were over. Her hairstyles were difficult to forget, too. The skunk stripe hair color scheme that she'd sported at the Kellerton Summer Festival had been replaced by a red hue that made a holly berry look pale and washed out. Amy had been a hairstylist for twelve years before leaving the profession to concentrate on cooking competitions. Finding the perfect variety of honey to add to a cake recipe had replaced finding the perfect shade of honey blonde for a picky client, and she couldn't be happier.

  "You are not an amateur." Rayshelle waggled her pointer finger back and forth. "Go to the professional division where you belong, and leave us real amateurs alone."

  The gaze of the woman behind the registration table ping-ponged between Rayshelle and Amy. She wrinkled her nose and asked, "Do you own or work for a restaurant, bakery, or catering company?"

  "No."

  "Then you're in the correct division."

  Rayshelle huffed and grumbled as the second woman checking in contestants shuffled through a stack of envelopes. She pulled one out and handed it to Amy. "Welcome, Ms. Ridley. This is your copy of the contest rules, along with the numbers that need to be affixed to your sample boxes, which you can pick up when you leave. They'll be on a table near the exit doors. Please go into the restaurant and find a seat. Enjoy."

  "Break a leg. Literally," Rayshelle said as Amy maneuvered around the table. Word play? Not the usual, straight-to-the-point insults that Rayshelle often lobbed at people.

  Amy shook off the sour grapes comment and walked into the main restaurant area. The space was decorated for the holidays in the same white, light blue, silver, and sparkles theme as the tree in the entrance. Swags of pine boughs arced from the crown molding, and wreathes were hung on the white paneled walls. Flickering candles, housed in opaque white glass cylinders, sat in the center of the round dining tables. In the corner of the room, Bea Perkins waved to get Amy's attention. When had Amy made it across the labyrinth of tables, the owner of The Breakfast Spot pointed to an empty chair. "I saved you a seat."

  "Thank you for choosing a spot far away from the door," Amy said as she shrugged off her long, cream-colored wool coat and draped it over the back of the chair. "The poor women that are checking people in. I hope they wore long underwear."

  "Old Man Winter can ease up any time now. It isn't even Christmas, and I'm tired of the deep freeze. I think the girl who handed me my registration packet had blue fingernails, and the color wasn't from nail polish." Bea leaned closer as Amy sat down. Her pink rhinestone nose stud sparkled as she shook her head. "I don't want to catch any of the breeze from outside either, but the real reason I snagged this table is so we can check out the buffet."

  Amy nodded in appreciation of her friend's tactics. Ignorance was not bliss in cooking contests. It was always a good thing to know what and who you were up against. Bea had positioned them perfectly to check out the work of one of the competition's judges, the chef of Halo. The brunch buffet was bountiful and beautiful. The chef knew how to set up a gorgeous food display and could possibly be a harsh judge. The tables lined up in front of the restaurant's wall of French doors were crammed in a rolling landscape of skewered mini breakfast sandwiches, small bowls full of glistening fruit salads, and miniature muffins studded with chunks of chocolate. The theme for the Holiday Celebrations Competition was Finger Foods Fantasy. By presenting each brunch dish in two-bite individual portions, instead of in the more common, self-serve giant metal pans, the chef of Halo was quite effectively saying, "Game on! Show me what you've got." Amy didn't know about anybody else, but she was more than ready to compete. The prize money for placing well would pay for a lot of very nice presents for her friends and family.

  Soon the dining room was filled with the sounds of conversations and silverware clattering on plates. As Amy nibbled on a triangle of French toast filled with sweet cream cheese a
nd dried currants, she eavesdropped on some of the conversations around her. Almost everybody was impressed with how pretty and tasty all of the items were. She wondered how many people were contemplating altering their recipes. Not a good idea considering the samples that were to be judged for taste needed to be turned in just over twenty-four hours later.

  Once all of the competitors had filled their plates, the event coordinator, the director of the Presents For Kids charity that would benefit from the event, took her place behind the podium at the front of the room. Bridget Mahoney's red dress with a flared skirt and tiny rhinestones around the scoop neckline was elegant yet festive. A fashion concept that Rayshelle could use some help understanding. The clown-haired crank was sitting a few tables away and had garnered raised eyebrows from many people as they shuffled around her on the way to the buffet line. Her leopard-print gold lamé pantsuit looked like it came from a clearance rack, circa 1985, at the lingerie store where Rayshelle worked. Apparently the horrific outfit came with a force field, since no one else had dared sit at the table set for six. People snatched chairs and place settings to wedge themselves into friendlier tables.

  Amy multi-tasked by listening to the schedule of events and trying to figure out what spices had been used in the cream of tomato soup she was sipping out of a tiny espresso mug. By the time the speech was over Amy had decided on two things. One—she would need lots of coffee to get through the two-day competition and not fall asleep during the final judging stage on Saturday evening. Two—garam masala was the spice giving the tomato soup the slightly exotic flavor.

  Once the presentation was complete, the wait staff began clearing empty plates from the tables. The crowd noise roared again as people began collecting coats and purses. Everybody seemed excited to begin cooking. The first step would be setting up the non-edible parts of the tablescape that evening.

  As Amy pulled on her coat a scream silenced the random chatter in the room. "Fire!"

  She spun around. About ten feet away the table full of teapots was on fire. Each pot sat on a wire platform over a lit candle to keep the tea warm. A pool of fire on the white tablecloth grew larger by the second, originating from an overturned candle in the middle of the ring of pots. Bea pushed past Amy, grabbed a pot full of green tea, and doused the flaming tide. Everybody applauded as several waiters rushed out of the kitchen carrying fire extinguishers. Seeing that the threat had already been taken care of by cool-headed Bea, they decided to blow out the rest of the candles. There was now no need to cover the table and nearby people in fire-retardant foam. Bea calmly replaced the teapot on its stand and walked back to the dining table to stand next to Amy.

  "That was awesome!" Amy said as she patted her heroic friend on the back. "I was ready to run for the emergency exit along with pretty much everybody else. You have nerves of steel. You're like a foodie super hero, saving the masses with a pot of tea."

  Bea shrugged. "I tried putting real candles on the tables at my restaurant last Christmas…for about a week. I'll just say I have quite a bit of experience putting out little, unexpected fires." She bent and retrieved her purse from under the table. "This one was kind of weird, though. The candles under the teapots are in wide, shallow bowls, I'm sure to prevent them from being knocked over easily. How the heck did an overturned candle end up in the middle of the table?"

  Amy spent the rest of the day deciding on table props with a mental side dish of wondering if the fire was a malicious act instead of an accident. Once all of the table accessories were finalized, she packed them up and headed across town. There was a mini traffic jam ahead when she pulled Mimi the Mini Cooper, her car that was so adorable she gave it a name, into the turning lane. Several cars were stopped ahead of her. She could see a man with a fluorescent yellow safety vest, reflective stripes flashing in headlights, standing in the entrance to the K Hotel convention center parking lot. Darkness by dinner time was another downright depressing cruelty of winter. Amy turned up the heat, to counteract the invasion of cold air that would occur when she rolled down her window to talk to the guy. Living in a giant freezer all winter didn't exactly make her want to do a happy dance either. The car's interior was toasty, bordering on balmy, by the time it was her turn to chat with the man.

  He ducked down to peer at her. "Are you a Holiday Celebrations competitor?"

  "Yes."

  He pointed to the right. "You can park in that lot then take your things inside yourself. There are carts available at the door. Or, if you would like to wait a bit, the hotel is offering a valet service. Under the entrance awning there are people to help unload your supplies and then park your car, free of charge."

  "Okay. Thank you."

  Fancy schmancy. A valet service. But the line almost stretched into the street. She had hauled stuff around competitions by herself many times. So she came prepared and dressed to stay warm in a bulky, down coat that made her look like a troll, complete with crazy hair courtesy of the wicked wind, in anticipation of a hike across a parking lot. Most importantly, she just wanted to set up the table and get back home. The ballroom was open to all competitors from six to eight p.m. to set up props and decorations on their tables. She looked at the motionless valet line and calculated that it would take much longer than fifteen minutes, the time until the setup session began, to make it through.

  Amy veered to the right and found an open parking spot next to a light pole. It was getting darker by the second, and a bit of extra light would help make sure she got everything out of Mimi. She wouldn't be happy if she got inside, took off her coat, and then had to bundle back up again because she forgot a container of props. Amy got out and pulled her coat zipper all the way up to her chin. The evening wind was even more brutal than when she'd left the house. She opened the rear door of the car and began pulling out bags of props. Two cross-body messenger bags full of scarves and ornaments went over her head in opposite directions. She swung the bags around so they were positioned behind her. Then she stuck her arms through the handles of two tote bags and hung them from her elbows. Last came the box full of clear, Lucite stands. She set the plastic storage bin on the ground while she shut the hatchback. Then she began the careful shuffle through the parking lot, while trying not to drop or break any of her holiday decorating cargo.

  Ten minutes later she arrived at her assigned table near the center of the ballroom. The first task was to un-bundle herself. Carrying an extra twenty pounds of gear through a toasty warm building while wearing a coat designed to keep a person comfortable in temperatures up to thirty degrees below zero left her feeling like a steamed figgy pudding. After shedding her winter gear she deposited all of the bags on the floor around the generic, five-foot long folding table and took a deep breath. There would be time to refine the layout the next day when all of the food and containers were present. For now she just needed to place everything in its spot. Of course, she had already worked out the configuration, so it was just a matter of getting everything out of the bags and onto the table. She smoothed a white cotton cloth over the scratched plastic table then covered it with a sheer square of silver tulle. The feather garland on the tree at Halo Restaurant would've fit perfectly with the items she had chosen for her table, but feathers were not a good thing around food. Flyaway, inedible fluffs weren't a good garnish. She opened one of the messenger bags and pulled out the cardboard cutouts of the platters she would be using for the food the next day. No need to risk breaking the actual dishes when silhouette stand-ins would do the job. After those were arranged it was time to add some height. Her shoulder bumped the edge of the tabletop when she bent to pick up one of the clear cubes that some of the platters would be perched on. The table wobbled like a newborn colt.

  She lifted the tablecloth and peered at the legs underneath. Two of the brackets that were supposed to hold the legs in place were dangling in mid-air instead of being attached to the bottom of the tabletop. Not good. She stood and looked around for someone to help. The table needed to be replaced. Th
ere's no way it would hold up the weight of glass platters, ice, and food.

  "Excuse me," she said to a convention center employee hurrying up the aisle. "My table is broken. Do you know who I can speak with to get a new one?"

  The woman shook her head. A swath of tangled blonde hair swept over her shoulder from the movement. She was wearing a wig. A cheap wig. Amy cringed to think of what kind of hair disaster the poor woman was experiencing if she preferred wearing a wig that looked like it belonged to a well-used life-sized Barbie doll.

  "I don't know," she whispered as she practically sprinted away from Amy. What was that about? Yes, her hair looked strange, but she didn't need to run away like a spooked rabbit. Everybody had bad hair days at some time. Considering the gale force winds outside, only the women who bought hairspray by the case had made it into the ballroom that evening sporting hairstyles that looked remotely normal.

  Amy hurried up the aisle, searching for a person carrying a clipboard and wearing a stressed-out, teetering-on-the-edge-of-sanity expression. That usually signified the person was part of an event's management team. It felt like it took forever to track down someone, and the woman spoke like her voice track was stuck in fast forward, but within twenty minutes the broken table had been replaced with a stable, all screws intact one.

  As Amy arranged the cardboard placeholders on her table for a second time there was a muted thump, accompanied by the crash of breaking glass and quickly followed by a scream. Two rows away another table had collapsed, its legs splayed out like a squished, 4-legged spider. A pile of glass shards glittered on the carpet near one corner. As people rushed up the rows to see what had happened, there was another crash and anguished scream. Talk about bad juju. A tablescape contest using rickety tables?