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

by Gradowski, Janel

  Even though it was cold enough outside to make a polar bear happy, Amy didn't need to stash any of her food on the patio. She had lined the super-insulated coolers with ice packs. The dips, winter fruit salad, and vegetables would stay perfectly chilled for hours.

  Amy grabbed the brass handles on the cart and tried to steer it toward the conference room. It was sort of like grabbing a stubborn bull by the horns and trying to move it backward as the swivel wheels sunk into the plush carpet. How did bellhops make it look so easy? The long-sleeved white shirts they all wore were probably hiding biceps that would make a body builder jealous. Finally she made it into the large room and maneuvered along the wall to an open spot near the mini kitchen at the far end.

  "Well this is a bit inconvenient," Bea said as she arrived dragging a cart behind her. "I guess I had better get these sample cartons back in a cooler."

  Amy nodded. In the chaos she had forgotten about her samples hanging out on top of the cooler. "It's pretty unusual to have all of the refrigeration equipment break at the same time, don't you think?"

  Bea shrugged as she unlatched the cooler lid. She had let her usual super-short spiked hairstyle grow out a bit. The pixie cut looked wonderful with her heart-shaped face. "If it was a power surge, those can do a lot of damage. At least people can stash food outside to keep cold if they need to. This would've been a disaster for quite a few people if it was held in the middle of summer instead of the winter."

  Amy surveyed the crowd. There were a lot of people heading outside. An almost constant glacial breeze puffed across the room as people walked through the French doors to deposit containers full of food in the snow banks along the sidewalk. The big windows that overlooked a garden in the summer were like glass doors on the makeshift refrigerator now. Hotel workers circulated through the crowd, offering masking tape and markers to people who wanted to label their containers. "I always make sure I have plenty of ice in my coolers to keep food cold, no matter what time of year it is. I'm not turning the heat off in my vehicle and getting frostbite so my trout dip won't spoil."

  "Common sense, but things like that probably play a good part in you winning so many contests."

  Amy wrapped a strand of hair around her finger, a nervous habit whenever she was uncomfortable. She was super competitive and proud of winning so many trophies and prizes, but it was difficult for her to take a compliment without wanting to pull her hair over her eyes and hide. How did she sometimes win against professional chefs? Often when she had a chance to look at other entries, after the prizes were awarded, it seemed impossible that she had won.

  Bea nudged Amy with her shoulder and said, "This is kind of fun despite the glitches. I should pick your brain for tips so I can enter even more contests besides this one and the Summer Festival baking contests. Hopefully I won't get my platters and tablecloths stolen in the future."

  "I would love to chat with you, but you have the biggest factor in winning down already. You are an excellent cook. You won second place in the pie contest in August." Amy frowned. "Have you heard anything else about the thefts last night?"

  "Nope. My guess is somebody is going to throw a nice party on the cheap."

  They continued to talk about food and general holiday craziness as the crowd in the ballroom grew. The center of the huge room was almost impenetrable between the people, luggage carriers, and coolers. A woman in a black chef's uniform dragged her cart past and stopped nearby. Amy recognized her as the contestant who had breezed into the ballroom half an hour before the prep time ended. The chef ran her fingers through the long swatch of black hair on the top of her head. The sides were shaved. Definitely a unique hairstyle, but maybe not ideal for Michigan in the winter. Amy decided the woman probably owned lots of hats and caps.

  The newcomer rolled her eyes and said, "Can you believe this? No refrigerators or freezers? The people who bought tickets to eat the food may get a sample of food poisoning along with their goat cheese canapés."

  "Things happen that are beyond anybody's control," Amy said. The Goth chef's attention had shifted to something behind her. Amy turned to find Rayshelle peering into the cooler perched on the end of her cart.

  "What are you doing?" Amy asked as she fixed an evil eye on the rude snoop.

  Rayshelle's cheeks flushed as she slammed down the cooler lid. "Looking for my cooler. I seem to have misplaced it in this madhouse. It looks just like that one."

  Amy channeled one of her ice packs and asked, "Your cooler has my name written on the lid in permanent marker?"

  "Now there's a fine question. Can't wait to hear the answer," Bea said as she tilted her head to the side, waiting for the response.

  Rayshelle didn't say a word. Just took a few steps backward and tried to disappear into the crowd, but the puff of process-damaged, unnaturally cherry red hair on her head stood out like the tip of a laser pointer as she pushed past startled people.

  The black-clad chef shook her head. "Some people just don't have a clue about what it means to play fair."

  Amy continued to make small talk with Bea while keeping a close eye on her coolers. After over half an hour of feeling like an anchovy crammed into the conference room, an announcement was made that competitors could line up to turn in their samples. She slowly inched through the luggage cart traffic jam until she ended up in the amateur cook line. She was surprised at how quickly it was moving forward since people were actually handing over sample containers this time, but she soon saw that there were now four women handling check-in duties.

  Amy stepped into the P through S lane and checked her boxes, making sure the ones that needed to be refrigerated were marked with a giant "R" on the lid. As the woman in front of her turned in her samples, Amy flipped open each box to make sure everything was still arranged perfectly, or as close to perfect as she could muster after schlepping the samples all over the conference center.

  The smile of the woman who checked her in looked like it belonged on a department store mannequin. Her lips barely moved out of toothy smile position as she spoke. Make that creepy living ventriloquist puppet. "Please take the rest of your food into the ballroom, and unload it near your table. Someone will be by to remove your empty cart. Don't begin setting anything up until the announcement to begin is made."

  "Thank you," Amy said as she grabbed the handle on her cart and leaned forward to get the momentum going. She needed to get more exercise, but pushing around a heavy cooler-loaded cart on thick carpeting wasn't on her workout agenda. When the wheels hit the hardwood dance floor in the ballroom, she sighed with relief. There was a rhythmic rumble from the hard, rubber tires as she picked up speed and found her table in the middle of the room. Everything was just as she had left it. There were no cries of frustration echoing through the cavernous room. Nothing funky or malicious seemed to be happening, except the fried refrigerators and freezers, but that was because of a random power surge. Or some creative mechanical tinkering.

  She kept an eye on the hotel employees dressed in black pants and long-sleeved white shirts as they shuttled empty carts up and down the aisles. The person she suspected to be the thief had worn a blonde wig and if anybody could spot a wig, she could. Being a former hair stylist actually was quite beneficial when it came to culinary competitions. She could perform with sharp instruments in stressful situations and spot fake hair from twenty feet away.

  Amy exercised a bit more doing dead lifts with the coolers, trying to get them off the cart without jostling the food inside. A steamy shower would be her best friend in the morning. A bit of heat to loosen up the muscles that were bound to seize up in her sleep. Once all of the coolers and boxes full of platters were on the floor she flagged down a helper to take away the cart. It was a guy, and he absolutely wasn't wearing a wig, considering his sparse, receding hairline. There were still quite a few tables without people standing near them, so she had enough time to find Bea to wish her luck.

  As Amy walked up the row where Bea's table was located, the i
ntimidating chef in all black roared past her. A woman on a mission, and it was clear that nobody should get in her way. Or risk getting barreled over. The black and more black clothing stood out among the standard, white chef jackets that many of the other professionals wore. Amy liked it, but she wasn't sure she could pull it off herself. She would feel like an impostor wearing one of the jackets, since she didn't go to culinary school. Maybe a black apron would work, since aprons, made of everything from frilly lace to leopard print fabric, were the standard uniform among the amateur competitors. The chef's modified mohawk hairstyle added to the intimidation factor. No way would Amy cut off her long hair and dye it that dark. Nope. Nature gave her honey blonde hair, and she would keep it that way. At least until she started turning gray. Then all bets were off.

  Bea was standing in front of her table, studying it like a battle map, when Amy finally arrived. It had taken longer than expected to reach her friend.

  "Are you ready?" Amy asked as she squeezed between two tables to let a harried-looking woman pass by. Maybe it was the timing of the contest, but the competitors just looked more intense and stressed out than in any other local cooking contest Amy had entered.

  "I am. Just going through my plating sequence." Bea bent and pried open the lid of a storage bin under her table. "And checking to make sure I didn't forget anything. Thought I left my big platter at home for a second. Thank goodness I'm a serving ware hoarder, so I could replace what was stolen last night."

  "I packed extras if you need something."

  Bea shook her head. "I hope not, but thanks for offering."

  The sound system crackled to life. "The setup portion of the competition will begin in five minutes. Please report to your table, and make sure the aisles are clear of carts."

  The frenetic energy in the room escalated. People began bouncing around like excited neutrons. Wasn't that what happened in a nuclear reaction? How long before everything went kaboom? Considering there could be a saboteur in their midst, Amy tried to shove that unwanted thought to the back corner of her brain. It could hang out behind the list of presents she still needed to buy since she had been busy developing recipes and planning the tablescape for the competition.

  "It may take me five minutes to get back to my table," Amy said as she patted Bea on the forearm. "Good luck, and I'll see you after it's over."

  "Good luck to you, too!"

  The wide aisles were clogged with people, coolers, and carts that had about the same effect as semi trucks driving on a walking path. So Amy began cutting between tables. She had sort of been joking about needing the five minutes to make it back to her table four rows away. The joke was on her as the two minute warning announcement came. She could see the Lucite boxes on her table, but three luggage trolleys and two seemingly impenetrable knots of people blocked the aisle ahead. It took some creative moves that would've made a dance aerobics instructor proud, but she made it to her table with a minute to spare.

  "Competitors you have thirty minutes to set up your tables. Please remember there will need to be at least ten servings of every item. Time starts…now."

  Clapping, cheers, and a couple banshee yells punctuated the start of the frenzy. Amy took a deep, supposedly cleansing, breath. The extra oxygen didn't help. She still felt like she had chugged a bottle of caramel syrup along with her afternoon latte, but she dove into her tasks anyway. The cardboard cutouts she had arranged on the table the previous evening were replaced with sparkling crystal plates and silver platters. Then she began arranging the foods that didn't need to be refrigerated. Blocks of ice went into the clear plastic columns Alex had made for her. He had even built the ice trays with tiny holes to let the water drip into hidden reservoirs as the ice melted. Her husband was handsome and handy, a pretty perfect set of attributes.

  Big electronic countdown clocks were positioned on the walls at opposite ends of the ballroom. An announcement, by someone who sounded impossibly calm, was made every five minutes to let competitors know how much time was remaining. Amy arranged sweet shortbread crackers on a tray then piped snickerdoodle dip on them in cute rosettes. The smoked trout dip was in another piping bag so it could be neatly swirled onto cucumber slices. After that she spooned jewel-toned diced fruit salad into shot glasses. With five minutes left she dumped the container of large, two-inch square ice cubes into the elevated drink dispenser. The ice was made of coconut water studded with apricot halves, so it would add flavor to the punch as it melted, along with looking pretty. She had just poured in the punch and adjusted the garland around the base of the dispenser when the buzzer went off.

  "Competitors…step away from your tables. Time is up. Please make sure all storage boxes and coolers are stored underneath your table then exit the ballroom immediately so the judging can begin."

  Amy nudged one of her coolers farther under the tablecloth then joined the procession toward the doors that had been opened at the far end of the ballroom. A team of judges who would decide which tables looked the best stood on the elevated stage, waiting to begin their duties. Amy had been to the conference center enough to know there was a large waiting area that all of the competitors were funneling into. Friends and relatives would be waiting there, along with ticket holders who had paid to attend the event. Once the judging was over, people would be able to check out the tables and sample the foods. In the past the tables with the most quickly disappearing food had turned out to be the winners. When the paid crowd was unleashed, Amy hoped to find a group of satisfied people hanging around her display.

  Alex was somewhere in the crowd, but even though she wanted to see him, there were more pressing things to take care of. Like finding a bathroom. Coffee was great fuel for short bursts of energy, like setting up a buffet table in thirty minutes, but there were drawbacks. Amy skirted the perimeter of the crowd, searching for Alex's short cropped ginger hair and the restroom signs. She found the signs, but a line of anxious women stretched out the door and along the wall. Okey not dokey. Amy turned to the left and started up the hallway that ran along the side of the ballroom. The mission to find her husband needed to be temporarily abandoned. There were more restrooms—she just needed to find them and hope not too many others had the same idea.

  There were barely any people in the hallway. A good sign. Most were gathered in the grand reception area she had just fled from. She picked up her pace when she spotted the stick-woman sign pointing to the right. She veered down a narrower hallway lined with doors. Placards designated them as smaller conference rooms. Happy day! There wasn't even anybody else in the hallway and more importantly, not a line stretching out of the restroom.

  When she exited the stall someone was walking out the entrance door. Amy caught a glimpse of long, brown hair just before the heavy door thumped shut. The wigged trouble-maker was in the building and on the move. So much for fussing with her own hair and touching up makeup. Amy washed her hands in record time, silently thanking the conference center for providing paper towels instead of just air dryers or she would've been drying her hands on the forest green apron she was still wearing. The woman who had just left hadn't wasted time primping either, but she probably should've at least run a comb through the tangled, synthetic hair.

  Amy slowly pushed open the restroom door. She looked both ways and spotted the woman as she turned right onto the main hallway, away from the crowd. The thick carpet had been awful for pushing around heavy carts, but it was perfect to hide the sound of footsteps. Amy sprinted to the corner then stopped. Walking at the YWCA every other day had stopped her from gaining weight over comfort food season, and it had prepared her for chasing mysterious women. Hurrah!

  She peeked around the corner. At the end of the hallway a pair of swinging doors flapped shut. The entrance to the kitchen for the ballroom. Amy padded up the hallway and stopped. She was too short to see through the round windows on the set of doors. The "Employees Only" sign was at her eye level. So she wasn't an employee, but she was a competitor. Close enough. Sh
e pushed open the doors just in time to see Wig Woman exiting through the doors at the other end of the industrial kitchen.

  There wasn't carpet in the kitchen, so Amy tried to tip-toe run across the hard tiles. Of course, her rubber-soled, ergonomically correct, super-comfortable shoes squeaked. Hopefully the woman was so focused on her nefarious plans she wasn't listening for footsteps or giant mice following her. Amy pushed open the second set of swinging door a few inches and blinked to adjust her eyes to the dimmer light in the hallway that ran along the other side of the ballroom. The woman was about ten feet away and focused on a task. Distracted was good. If the woman accomplished her apparent mission of pulling the fire alarm, everything and everybody would be drenched. Amy certainly didn't want to walk through the parking lot while dripping wet, and nobody else in attendance probably had any aspirations to become human icicles either.

  Amy took a step back into the kitchen and smacked the palms of her hands on the doors. They swung open with thunderous booms. "Stop, thief!" Amy yelled as she sprinted toward the woman.

  Amy shoved Wig Woman away from the fire alarm box, and the woman screeched. Playing football with Alex's sports-obsessed family at reunions had finally come in handy for something more than collecting odd bruises. The other woman stumbled, but she regained her balance by impersonating a twin propeller plane. She glared at Amy as she yanked open the door to one of the conference rooms and disappeared inside.

  Hotel workers rushed down the hall toward Amy. The organizer of the event burst out of one of the ballroom doors, followed by two uniformed security guards. Amy pointed at the conference room door. "The woman who I believe stole the supplies last night just tried to pull the fire alarm. She went into that conference room. We need to find her before she gets to another alarm."