Books, Cooks, and Crooks (A Novel Idea Mystery)

by Arlington, Lucy

  “None taken, Maurice,” Franklin said. “Come, let’s catch up to the others.”

  I walked alongside them. “Chef Bruneau, we invited you to join us on the tour this evening so you’d be familiar with the facilities in case you need to fill in for someone. And I am truly thrilled that you are able to attend. I’m sorry there was no space in the festival schedule for your own demonstration, but we will certainly be able to highlight your cookbook during the signing sessions.”

  “Oh, non, non, non. I understand. Although I do believe I should be taking the place of Chef Lang, for his skill is clearly inferior to mine.” He stopped and leaned in toward me, lowering his voice. “You know, I taught Joel everything he knows.”

  “Really?” I had no desire to get caught in the middle of a chefs’ feud and was relieved to see several people milling about in the lobby. “Excuse me,” I said as I made my way toward Flora, who was talking to Bryce St. John. Although he had traded in his jogging clothes for khakis and a cream collared shirt, he looked just as sexy as when I’d first seen him on the street earlier that day.

  “Lila, dear,” Flora said when I approached. “Have you met Bryce St. John? He was telling me about different ways to cook eggplant. Bryce, this is Lila Wilkins.”

  “Hello. I saw you running near the B&B,” I said, smiling at him.

  “You did?” he asked quizzically.

  “Yes, I was with Klara Patrick,” I explained, a little chagrined that he hadn’t noticed me.

  “That’s right. Sorry, but I was in the zone—completely caught up thinking about my demonstration this weekend.” He reached out his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Lila.” Awareness suddenly brightened his eyes. “Say, aren’t you the lady who put together the program for Cooks and Books?”

  “Yes, I am. And speaking of which, we need to get this tour started.” I went to stand by the closed doors of the main presentation hall. Clearing my throat, I said loudly, “Could I have your attention, please?” When the din had dissipated, I continued. “Welcome to Inspiration Valley. We are honored and excited to have so many famous and talented chefs in our midst. For the first part of our evening, I will lead you on a tour of the facilities that will be available to you over the next few days, and then we will sit down to an exquisite supper prepared by one of our local chefs.”

  Standing by Marlette’s exhibition case, Zach clapped. “Woo-hoo!”

  “I think it might be a good idea if we introduced ourselves before we get started. I’m Lila Wilkins, a literary agent at Novel Idea, and the person who’s been chatting with you or your personal assistants over the past few months. And over there is Vicky Crump, our invaluable office manager, with whom you’ve also had the pleasure of working.”

  Vicky dipped her head in greeting.

  “I’m Zach Cohen and I’m in charge of media relations,” Zach announced proudly. “I’m also the most awesome agent when it comes to screenplays and sports writers. You can call me Mr. Hollywood.” He grinned. “Or just Zach Attack. Batta bing!”

  Flora giggled as she often did in response to Zach’s antics. “I’m Flora Meriweather, the agent representing children’s books.” She paused dramatically and placed her hands over her heart. “And historical and erotic romance as well.”

  “Wow,” Bryce said, smiling coyly at Flora. “I am Chef Bryce St. John, but you all probably know that.”

  Klara had been standing beside Jude when the introductions began, but had inched her way toward Flora and Bryce. Loudly, she said, “And I’m Klara Patrick, chef extraordinaire.” She pointed to a man by the watercooler. “That’s my husband, Ryan, my support behind the scenes.”

  He saluted and smiled. “Major Ryan Patrick, United States Army, retired.”

  Jude smiled. “I’m Jude Hudson, and I represent thrillers and suspense novels at Novel Idea. Welcome, everyone.”

  Behind him, Joel Lang introduced himself, followed by Maurice Bruneau. Franklin then stepped forward.

  “I’m Franklin Stafford, agent for most of the chefs gathered here today. I’d like to second what Lila said—that we are honored to have you all here to participate in our town’s first food festival.”

  “We’re the ones who are honored, Franklin,” my favorite pastry chef spoke up. Charlene Jacques looked as sweet as her desserts. With voluptuous curves, a radiant complexion, and sparkling green eyes, she was beautiful. “If not for you, many of us wouldn’t have our cookbooks on the shelves.” She directed a pointed gaze at Klara for a second and then continued. “I’m Charlene Jacques, pastry chef extraordinaire.”

  Her echoing of Klara’s self-introduction struck me as odd, and I recalled Sean’s comment about Klara after she had criticized Charlene Jacques. I glanced around the room and began to wonder just how many of these chefs Klara had crossed in a public forum.

  “And last but not least, there’s little old me.” Leslie Sterling was impeccably coiffed, her tailored black dress neat and classy. “I’m sure I don’t need to introduce myself, but I want to declare how happy I am to be here. Although this little festival isn’t a competition, I am certain that by the end of it, I will be known as the best chef in America.” She raised her chin in defiance.

  “A rather lofty goal, Leslie,” Klara heckled. “Too bad you won’t reach it.”

  Leslie’s eyes darkened and she opened her mouth to retort, but I interceded before more could be said. “Now that we’ve all met, let’s tour the facility. I’ll show you the entire Arts Center and then we’ll end up at the wing behind the main presentation hall, where you can spend some time investigating the kitchen you’ll use for your demonstrations. Let’s start at the pottery studio.”

  I held open the door leading to the first corridor while the group filed into the hall. Jude hung back, and when everyone had gone past, he leaned in toward me.

  “Quite an egotistical bunch, aren’t they?”

  I nodded. “A little disillusioning from the personas they portray on the television screen.”

  Jude nodded and watched the chefs amble down the hallway. “We’ll have our work cut out for us in keeping the peace at supper tonight.”

  “And throughout the festival, I expect,” I said. I could picture the chefs at tomorrow’s demonstration, squabbling over pots and pans like children fighting over toys. I wondered if, in addition to my other responsibilities, I would find myself playing referee to a bunch of egotistical maniacs.

  Chapter 3

  AS IT TURNED OUT, THE TOUR OF THE MARLETTE Robbins Center of the Arts was quite entertaining. It didn’t hurt that we all carried glasses of champagne through the facility and as I showed the chefs the main auditorium, the pottery classrooms and kiln areas, the spacious textile workshop complete with weaving looms, the woodworking room, and the smaller spaces devoted to painting, drawing, and jewelry making, they became quite jovial.

  At first, I’d wondered if I should have stopped Bryce St. John and Maurice Bruneau from grabbing bottles of bubbly from two flummoxed Voltaire’s waiters as we left the Dragonfly Room. But when the good-humored men passed out glasses to their fellow chefs, I decided the sparkling wine might lend a celebratory air to our little trip around the building.

  “We’ve seen all of the other arts, no?” Maurice asked me, tipping the last of the champagne into Charlene’s cup. She thanked him in French and the two of them clinked glasses and exchanged companionable smiles. “Where does the culinary magic happen in this beautiful place?”

  I was pleased to hear him praise the center. The facility meant a great deal to me personally because of my connection to the man it was named after, but I knew that every Inspiration Valley resident was proud that our little town featured such a magnificent structure dedicated solely to arts education.

  “The architects devoted an entire wing to the culinary arts,” I told him and saw the chefs stand a fraction taller. In that brief moment, I realized it was unlikely that any member of this group had had a quick or painless rise to the top of their field. To beco
me a renowned chef, each one of them must have paid his or her dues working endless hours, enduring biting criticism, staying on the cutting edge of the latest food trends, and continually honing their skills.

  When we reached the cooking demonstration area, I turned to my followers and said, “Through the door behind me is a service kitchen where food is prepared for functions like tonight’s dinner. But this kitchen is where the culinary arts are taught. It’s not much bigger than some of your TV studio sets, but all the appliances are state-of-the-art. Klara, this gas stove has just been installed, and since you will be the first one presenting a demonstration, you’ll be the first one to use it.” I gestured at the rest of the gleaming equipment. “How different is this setting from the kitchens where you first learned to cook?” I asked, genuinely interested in how they’d gotten their starts.

  “My oma’s kitchen was messy and wonderful,” Klara answered. “She had knickknacks everywhere and her recipes were written in chicken scratch in a battered old notebook.” She seemed to quickly get lost in the memory. “Food stains were on every page and she always put on this silly ruffled apron even if she was only boiling water. Oh, that woman could make anything! That’s why my cookbook is called My Grandmother’s Hearth.”

  Bryce St. John was listening raptly and when Klara was finished he ran his fingers through his golden hair and said, “I think your relationship with your grandmother comes through in your food, Klara. Me? I don’t have any heartwarming stories to share. I learned to cook in the Navy and my skills have come a long way since the slop I used to serve to those poor sailors.”

  I hate to admit it, but after having seen Bryce St. John jogging earlier in the day, I spent a few pleasant seconds imagining how he’d look in uniform.

  Leslie Sterling disturbed my fantasy by sliding a hand across one of the pristine butcher blocks and saying, “I got a job working for a catering company so I could pay for college. I loved the work so much that I dropped out of school and became the company’s manager.”

  Joel Lang examined his reflection in the metal blade of a carving knife. “I was born in China. My parents were poor farmers and their dream was for me to be the first Lang to escape a life of backbreaking manual labor.” He put the knife down. “When I decided to become a chef, they told me I’d dishonored my ancestors—that I should have become a successful businessman.”

  Everyone was silent, caught up in Lang’s raw emotion.

  “That’s why I try to use something Chinese in every dish,” he explained. “I want to pay my respects to my family’s heritage and to my country whenever I cook. Thankfully, my parents lived long enough to attend the grand opening of the Purple Orchid and to see me fulfill their dream of me as a businessman, but sadly, they died shortly afterward.” He dropped his gaze.

  I turned my attention to Maurice, who’d once been Lang’s partner at the Purple Orchid. He was staring at his former friend and co-chef with a wistful expression and for a fleeting moment, I thought I caught a glimpse of longing in the Frenchman’s blue eyes. I couldn’t help but wonder what had caused the rift between Joel and Maurice, his former mentor. “Although I taught Joel many, many things, he also educated me,” he said after a lengthy pause. “I didn’t fully appreciate the way a great chef can blend two seemingly opposing flavors to create an entire new experience for the palate. We French have great skill with the artistry of presentation and I was born with a raw talent for dreaming up beautiful dishes, but when Joel and I worked together, we made meals that had even the toughest critics swooning at our feet.”

  Charlene glanced at Maurice with admiration. “For me, most flavors are coaxed forth using flour, butter, and sugar. My parents owned a small café in Nice. They were famous for their light-as-air croissants and their chocolate pot de crème. My passion for all things sweet began at a very early age. It was always my dream to be the pastry chef at a famous restaurant.” She dropped her arm and turned to Joel. “I’m sure your parents were just as proud of you as mine are of me.”

  Joel bowed stiffly in gratitude, but as he straightened, his gaze met Maurice’s and I saw a shadow of hurt in his eyes.

  Maurice’s expression of wistfulness instantly disappeared. “They would have been more proud if you hadn’t ruined everything by trying to have your finger in every pie. You should have left the finances to me. But no, you did things behind my back because you thought your way was better.” His mouth tightened into a thin line of anger. “See where that got us! That’s how you decided to repay me for all I’ve done?”

  Wordlessly, Joel Lang walked away and Maurice watched him go, his fists clenched and a look of venom on his face.

  “There’s always a flare-up of testosterone when a bunch of chefs get together. It’s like two roosters squaring off in the henhouse,” Klara announced with false gaiety. I appreciated her attempt at levity and realized that there was far too much tension in the room. Before I could alter the atmosphere by reviewing Saturday’s lineup, Klara’s cell phone rang. The absurd sound of her yodeling ringtone made everyone giggle, successfully diffusing the tension. Klara excused herself and strode off to a corner to answer the call.

  Meanwhile, Leslie and Charlene busied themselves by opening and closing drawers. Joel was also trying to become familiar with every utensil, pan, and pantry item before tomorrow’s demonstration.

  “That was Annie Schmidt, my assistant,” Klara informed me once she’d dropped her cell phone back into her Chanel purse. “I wanted her and my sous chef to join us so they know the lay of the land. Annie keeps me organized and looking good, and Dennis is my second pair of hands in the kitchen.”

  “And I remember reading somewhere that your husband has never missed a taping,” I said. “That’s so sweet.”

  She sighed happily. “I’ve got it good, don’t I? I never imagined that I’d have an entourage. And it’s going to be even bigger this weekend because Ryan’s kids from his first marriage are flying in from New York to be here.”

  I was going to need a personal assistant to keep all these people straight!

  Annie arrived a few minutes later, pressing a phone to her ear with one hand and holding an appointment book with the other. A slim blonde with delicate hands and fine features, Annie wore stylish cat-eye glasses and a cotton dove gray dress. Everything about her was meticulously tidy. Concluding her phone call, she showed Klara the entries she’d made in the appointment book.

  “Excellent.” Klara rubbed her hands together. “I expect the new cookbook to sell out. But I’m surprised that the bookstore owner ordered so many of Joel’s Fusing Asian. I thought I was the headliner at the signing.” She studied Joel Lang with displeasure. “I don’t know why our two books are being released on the same day anyway.”

  Speaking in soothing tones, Annie assured Klara that she was the true star of the event. “Your dress is laid out in your hotel room. You’re going to look beautiful at tonight’s dinner.”

  That got Klara’s attention. Checking her watch, she gave a little gasp and hustled over to where I stood. “Lila, are we finished here? I need time to primp before our little get-together this evening. You and Annie can show Dennis where everything is, right?”

  I nodded. “Sure.” I cleared my throat and spoke loudly enough for all the chefs to hear. “I just wanted to make sure everyone was comfortable with the space, so if you’d like to change before dinner, you can head out whenever you’d like.”

  Most of the chefs were finished examining the space, and it wasn’t long before Annie and I were the only ones left in the kitchen. She asked me a few questions about when the taped segments would air and on which television stations. As we talked, I was impressed by her thoroughness. Klara had found a real gem in Annie Schmidt.

  Her sous chef, Dennis Chapman, was another matter. He stormed in the room and, without even bothering to introduce himself to me, started to complain to Annie about all the work he had to do.

  “Klara barely lifts a finger.” he grumbled. “And
she never gives me enough time to prepare! Tonight, while she and Ryan enjoy a free meal, I’ll be crushing spices and labeling bowls of ingredients.”

  Annie gave him a sympathetic look. “One of the head chef jobs you’ve applied for will come through, you’ll see.”

  “It’d better! These high and mighty chefs—and I’m not just talking about Klara—aren’t the be-all and the end-all of cooking. I have talent, too, and they know it!” Dennis growled, yanking the waist of his pants over his substantial paunch. With pallid skin and deep-set beady eyes, I couldn’t help but picture the thirty-year-old man as a two-legged pig. The more he complained, the more his voice sounded like a squeal. I knew I had to say something before I threatened to blow his house down.

  “Dennis, everyone at Novel Idea wants this experience to be a pleasant one. If there’s anything I can do to help, let me know.” I gave Klara’s sous chef an ingratiating smile, though I’d taken an instant dislike to him.

  Finally remembering his manners, he reached out and shook hands with me. “Sorry,” he said without the slightest indication of remorse. “I get grumpy when I’m hungry.” He turned to Annie. “Wanna grab a bite before we review her majesty’s menu one more time?”

  Annie hesitated and I got the sense she’d rather eat alone. “Let’s do it now and be done for the night. Then we’ll meet back here at six tomorrow morning to prep for Klara’s demo.” She looked at me. “That’s okay, isn’t it Ms. Wilkins? The kitchen will be open then?”

  “Absolutely.” I watched Annie take Dennis through the kitchen, showing him the equipment and food supplies. I again marveled over her people skills—how she was able to diffuse Dennis’s foul mood as they discussed what he needed to do in the morning to get ready for Klara’s demonstration.

  When they had finished, I turned off the lights and shut the kitchen door. Without a key, I was unable to lock up, but assumed the security guard would do so on his rounds after our dinner tonight. I led Annie and Dennis through the corridors and back to the front lobby.