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

by Arlington, Lucy

  “How are you all doing?” I asked the chefs.

  “Hanging in there,” replied Leslie Sterling, buttoning her chef’s jacket.

  Charlene Jacques finished tying a yellow floral apron around her waist. “I’m ready to cook. It always calms me.”

  “Me, too,” said Bryce St. John. “When I’m in the kitchen, the whole world makes sense.”

  Klara smiled at him. “That’s why your food is so amazing.”

  “Why, thank you, Klara. That means a lot coming from you.” Bryce winked at her.

  Klara’s husband, Ryan, put his arms around Klara’s shoulders. “Cooking soothes you, too, doesn’t it, sweetheart.”

  A commotion at the door made us all turn, and Klara’s assistants, Annie Schmidt and Dennis Chapman, came running toward us. Annie stopped short when she saw her boss.

  “Klara,” she said, her eyes wide. “You’re all right!”

  “Of course, why wouldn’t I be?” Klara frowned. “Where have you two been? Ryan’s had to do most of the prep.”

  Dennis looked petulant. “Our hotel is farther away from the Arts Center than your B&B. We had no idea the demonstrations had been relocated.”

  “When I heard about the explosion, I thought you—” Annie exhaled loudly. “I tried to reach you but the call went straight to voicemail. I was afraid . . .” She trailed off, surveying the group of chefs. “Was anyone hurt?”

  “Yes, Joel Lang,” I said. “The poor man died in the fire.”

  Dennis stared at me openmouthed. His eyes glinted. “I can’t believe it.” He glanced around and then seemed to come back to his senses. “But how is this going to work?”

  “Don’t worry, young man.” Vicky indicated the bar with a wave of her hand. “Everything you need is here.”

  Maurice dragged the blade of a large knife across a honing steel. “I’ve cooked in many kinds of kitchens, but never one like this,” he said as he pulled the knife across the metal rod again. To me, it sounded like the hiss of a serpent.

  “It’s ridiculous that we have to cook at a bar,” Klara grumbled. “How like Joel to ruin my demonstration.”

  Her callous comment rendered me speechless, but not Vicky. “He died in an accident, Chef Klara,” she said in a quiet but firm tone. “This was not his fault.” Vicky leaned toward me. “I’ll go find Bentley. She’s going to do the welcome and introductions.”

  Klara sighed loudly. “I know the explosion wasn’t Joel’s fault. But we’re here because of him.”

  Bryce St. John touched her arm. “Just be thankful that you weren’t the one who got caught in the kitchen during the explosion. It could have been you this morning, if Joel hadn’t tried to cook there last night.”

  “I suppose I should be grateful for that.” Klara nodded. “His insecurities got him killed. He was probably trying to tweak those ridiculous dishes of his before presenting them to the public.”

  Leslie Sterling stared at Klara. “I bet you’re also relieved that Joel no longer threatens your New York Times bestseller position, considering your cookbooks both release on the same day. He won’t be around to promote it now.”

  “That hadn’t even occurred to me,” Klara protested. She pointed at Maurice Bruneau. “Joel’s mishap is serendipitous for you though. You’ll be taking his place in the demonstrations, correct? And you weren’t scheduled to do anything before.”

  Maurice flushed. “That is true, Madame. Thanks to Joel’s unfortunate demise, I have this opportunity to show the world that I am the better chef.” He cleared his throat and added, “Not that I would have wished this misfortune on my former business partner. But it is my turn to shine.”

  I was having a difficult time listening to these people speak with so little compassion about the death of one of their colleagues. To think I had once admired them. Thankfully, at that moment Vicky and Bentley appeared.

  “All right, chefs, let’s get things under way.” Bentley proceeded to walk behind the bar.

  The chefs went to the seats reserved for them. There was only one empty chair left in the restaurant, and I indicated that Vicky should take it. I stood and leaned against the wall near the door, where I had a good view of the bar and the audience.

  “Attention, everyone,” Bentley said and waited until the chattering had stopped before continuing. “I’d like to welcome you to Inspiration Valley’s first Taste of the Town festival. I am Bentley Burlington-Duke, CEO of Novel Idea Literary Agency, one of the major sponsors of the festival. Due to an unfortunate accident last night in the demonstration kitchen at our new Marlette Robbins Center for the Arts, we’ve had to relocate today’s demonstrations here. We would like to thank you for your patience and understanding—”

  “Psst, Lila.” A loud whisper at the door caught my attention. I glanced over and saw Sean beckoning me outside.

  “What is it?” I asked when I had joined him. “Chef Klara is about to start.” The sun shone brightly, and the Hillbilly Taxi Service trucks were dropping off more people. Sean took my arm and we moved away from the door.

  “I’m sorry to cut in on the demonstrations, but I thought you’d want to hear this.”

  My stomach clenched. “Do you have news about the explosion?”

  “The fire inspector told us that the cause of the fire was indeed gas related—”

  “The new gas line!” I interjected.

  “He won’t go into more detail at this point. Not until his report is finished.” He shook his head. “We managed to notify Joel Lang’s next of kin. That’s the part of my job that I hate the most.”

  I hugged him. “It must be really difficult.” Kissing his cheek I said, “And I didn’t mean to interrupt you. What did you come to tell me?”

  “The fire inspector has closed the kitchen wing while he completes his investigation, but he’ll allow the other events of the festival to continue in the rest of the building.”

  “So other than the kitchen, it’s safe?”

  Sean nodded. “Yes. Apparently the explosion was specific to that wing and there is no risk to the other parts of the Arts Center.”

  “Well, that’s a relief.” I squeezed his arm. “I’d better get back inside. Thanks for coming by to tell me.”

  “How’s it going in there? Is Chef Klara living up to your expectations?”

  “She is a great chef, but on a personal level, she’s a bit of a disappointment.” I reflected back on her conversation with the other chefs. “It’s when the chefs all get together. The mix doesn’t quite result in an explosion, but sparks do fly.”

  Chapter 5

  THE DEMONSTRATIONS WENT OFF WITHOUT A HITCH and the variety of succulent dishes created by our celebrity chefs captivated the audience. While the cameras were still rolling, Zach held out Klara’s cookbook and announced that she’d be signing copies of My Grandmother’s Hearth at the Constant Reader. He then produced a copy of Joel’s cookbook and, with a solemn expression, explained that Chef Lang had passed away in a tragic accident the previous night.

  “Sadly, Fusing Asian will be his last book, but I think it’s his best work yet,” Zach said. “It’s available online and at a bookstore near you, so pick up a copy in his memory.” The cameraman zoomed in on the cookbook’s cover for a few seconds and then the show was over.

  I cast a shocked glance at Bentley. Had Zach’s last segment been scripted? Was he deliberately using Joel’s death as a method for increasing the cookbook’s sales? Bentley’s face was unreadable, but I saw the immediate effect on the audience. Several of the women dabbed at their eyes with tissues while a few of the men declared that they wanted to hurry to the Constant Reader to check out the book for themselves.

  Suddenly, people were scrambling to be first out the door of Voltaire’s.

  I rushed over to Klara, who had her hands folded across her chest and was glowering at the departing crowd. “We’re going to have to hurry,” I told her. “It looks like you’re going to have quite a lineup of expectant readers.”

&
nbsp; “For me or Joel Lang?” she snapped. “I deserve the New York Times list. If that man lands a spot on it just because he died, then I’m going to be furious.”

  Stunned by her callousness, I looked to Ryan for help, but he merely shrugged and continued to pack his wife’s cooking utensils, makeup kit, and soiled chef’s coat into a box.

  Annie came to the rescue. “You have a lifetime of book releases ahead of you,” she told Klara softly. “This one will be a huge success and the next one will be, too. Poor Mr. Lang won’t ever have another. And while you’re filming new television shows, people can only see him on reruns. You’re still the star.”

  Klara gave Annie a fond smile. “You’re right. And I didn’t mean to sound crass. You all know how much of myself I put into this cookbook—how much of my precious family memories are in each and every dish. I’m sure Joel’s book was just as important to him and, truly, there’s room for both of us on the bestseller list.” She pointed at a garment bag draped over a nearby chair. “Dennis? Would you carry my black chef’s coat to the bookstore?” Turning to me, she said, “I get so tired of wearing white. It shows every little stain.”

  I gestured for Klara and her entourage to follow me through the restaurant’s rear exit. Leading them down back alleys and side streets, I tried to get Klara to the Constant Reader before the majority of the crowd arrived, but she insisted on walking at a leisurely pace.

  “It’s better if we make them wait,” she explained. “Trust me, I have experience with this sort of thing. If there’s a big line, it builds excitement. Besides, I need Annie to touch up my foundation and lipstick before I go inside. I’ll have to pose for dozens of pictures during the signing.”

  “You’re the boss,” I told her breezily, but as we continued on I couldn’t help but wonder if I could tolerate Klara’s mercurial company all day long. I’d never met a woman who could behave with such warmth and sweetness one moment and then, in a flash, act completely selfish or cruel.

  I glanced at Ryan out of the corner of my eye and considered what it was like for him, to be married to a successful, famous, and totally unpredictable person. I suppose there was never a dull moment for the spouse of Chef Klara, but I’d take my quiet, loving, and tender relationship with Sean over fame and theatrics any day.

  Finally, we reached the bookstore’s back door, where we paused while Klara donned her black coat and Annie fussed over her hair and makeup.

  “I could use a cup of coffee,” Klara said wistfully. “I didn’t sleep well after what happened last night.”

  Ryan studied his wife sympathetically. “I knew it was bad when you left our hotel room in your pajamas and sneakers.” He looked at me. “When she’s upset or stressed, she’ll take walks in the middle of the night. And then she’ll get up the next morning and work a ten-hour day without breaking stride.”

  “That’s show business,” Dennis grumbled and shifted Klara’s belongings from one arm to the other.

  “Well, I’m sure we can find some coffee to perk you up. The Constant Reader is connected to the James Joyce Pub,” I told Klara, unsure if she remembered seeing the bookstore the night before.

  The scene inside the Constant Reader instantly buoyed my spirits. Scores of customers were in the shop, occupying every aisle and cozy nook of the rabbit warren–like store. Most of them already had Klara’s cookbook in hand along with a few novels or how-to books on a host of subjects from making pottery to knitting to basket weaving. I also noticed that the section on regional gardening was nearly wiped out and I sensed that people were delighting in the temperate weather and, like me, dreamt of growing their own vegetable, herb, and flower gardens that could rival those in Monet’s paintings.

  “You made it!” Makayla exclaimed when I’d finally managed to wade through the crowd with Klara, Ryan, Annie, and Dennis. “I told Jay not to worry—that you’d be here any sec.” She gestured at the man in the light gray sweater standing a few feet away from us.

  Jay Coleman, owner of the Constant Reader, hastily finished assisting a customer and welcomed Klara to his bookshop.

  “This is quite an honor,” he said. He spoke in a low, reserved voice, but behind his Clark Kent glasses, his sky blue eyes sparkled with enthusiasm.

  I’d only met Jay a few times since he’d purchased the store from the previous owner—a charming older gentleman who’d decided to retire and relocate to Arizona—but I could see that he’d made several changes over the past couple of months. The most noticeable was that he was no longer selling used books. He’d also replaced the well-worn recliners with leather club chairs and had added track lights to the ceiling. The walls had been painted a soothing moss green and a pair of wall speakers was piping out upbeat instrumental music. Before, the shop had been dimly lit, musty, and wonderfully cozy. Now, it felt clean and comfortable without losing any of its coziness, like a favorite blanket that had finally been washed.

  “I didn’t think the Constant Reader could possibly be improved,” I admitted to Jay. “But that was before you made changes. Now, it’s sheer perfection.” I pivoted to take in the whole shop. “And I see you’ve expanded your romance and mystery sections. That’s a wonderful thing for this literary agent to see.”

  He smiled shyly. “You represent mystery and romantic suspense authors, right?” He glanced over to where customers were eagerly browsing through the latest mystery releases. “They’re my bestsellers. I read them all the time so that I can provide recommendations.”

  “Even the bodice-ripping kind?” Klara asked, clearly surprised to learn that a good-looking man in his early thirties spent his free time reading romantic suspense novels.

  “That’s a bit of a stereotype,” Jay answered with the utmost respect, little spots of color blooming on his cheeks. He obviously didn’t want to insult Klara, but I also guessed that he would champion any genre if he felt his beloved books were being slighted. “Personally, I like the historical romances. Those authors have conducted an incredible amount of research in order to transport their readers to another time and place and I’m always in awe of their talent.”

  Klara’s eyes had glazed over. When Jay stopped talking, she made a big show of sniffing the air. “Is that the divine scent of coffee?”

  “It is indeed. I’m Makayla, the proprietor of Espresso Yourself, a book-reading barista, and your angel of java for all the events scheduled at the Arts Center.” Makayla held out a book to Klara. “Lila’s told me so much about you that I just had to get you to autograph my brand-new copy of My Grandmother’s Hearth.” While Klara uncapped an expensive fountain pen, Makayla studied the celebrity chef’s face, undoubtedly noticing the bags under Klara’s eyes. “I’d love to treat you to the caffeinated beverage of your choice before you have to go up front and sign millions of copies of this fabulous cookbook. What’ll you have?”

  Preening, Klara gave Makayla her order and then headed to the sturdy wooden table where she would sit, regal as a queen, to greet fans, pose for pictures, and write her name in a flourish of black ink on the title page of My Grandmother’s Hearth.

  “You ordered so many of Joel’s cookbook,” she remarked to Jay ten minutes later. It didn’t seem to matter that people were scooping up her book as fast as they could. Her eyes kept straying to the glossy cover of Fusing Asian. For a moment, I felt sorry for her. She was so obsessed with her competitor’s possible success that she was unable to enjoy her own.

  I chatted with a few of the bookstore patrons and then went behind the counter for a breather. Being near Makayla always improved my outlook and she didn’t let me down. After pushing a caramel latte and a two-bite cinnamon streusel muffin in my direction, she handed a customer his change, and then beamed at him as he stuffed a dollar bill in her tip jar.

  “Any new notes in there today?” I asked her.

  “I got one yesterday and it’s so gorgeous you’ll want to cry!” She opened the portable cash box she used for off-site events and gingerly removed a crisp two-dollar bi
ll from beneath a small pile of twenties. “Look how tiny the writing is.”

  The tidy print was too small for me to decipher without my reading glasses, so I slipped them on and murmured the lines of poetry aloud.

  “A magic moment I remember:

  I raised my eyes and you were there.

  A fleeting vision, the quintessence

  Of all that’s beautiful and rare.”

  A small sigh escaped from between my lips and I looked up and smiled at Makayla. “Wow.”

  “I know,” she replied. “The poem’s ‘A Magic Moment I Remember’ by Alexander Pushkin. I’ve read it over and over again.” She smoothed the paper currency with her fingertips, her eyes full of longing. “Whoever this guy is, he has exquisite taste.”

  “Obviously. He’s in love with you, isn’t he?”

  Giving me a grateful smile, she stepped away to make a café au lait for a woman who’d bought three copies of Klara’s cookbook. Taking a sip of my sweet and deliciously creamy latte, I glanced to the front of the shop to see that Klara was still holding court and finally seemed to be enjoying herself. Jay’s supply of My Grandmother’s Hearth was rapidly disappearing. I decided I’d better see if he had more copies.

  Jay was in the science-fiction and fantasy section, engaged in an animated conversation with a young man holding a copy of J. R. R. Tolkien’s The Return of the King. Jay showed the enthusiastic reader a book called The Dragonbone Chair by Tad Williams and the young man nodded happily, grasped the book to his chest, and marched off in the direction of the checkout counter.