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

by Arlington, Lucy

  “It’s nice to see that there are members of the next generation who don’t spend all their waking time on Facebook,” I said to Jay.

  “Absolutely,” he agreed. “And I don’t believe the dire predictions about the future of the book. In whatever form it takes, the book will never disappear. Stories are too important to us. We can’t live without them.”

  I nodded, admiring Jay’s quiet passion. I felt exactly as he did. “Speaking of vanishing, do you have any more copies of Klara’s book? I hate to use a cliché, but they’re selling like hotcakes.”

  “Excellent. I’ve got another box tucked under the display table.” He was just about to slide past me when I touched his arm. “I know this isn’t the ideal time to ask, but do you recall anyone buying a book of love poetry recently?”

  He paused to consider my question. “I sold a few back in February. A couple of guys bought them as Valentine’s Day gifts, but I don’t remember selling any lately. Are you looking for something in particular?”

  I shook my head. “No, I was just wondering. Never mind me. I’m trying to help a friend solve a mystery.” As Jay moved off, I stood there for a second. The mention of Valentine’s Day made me smile and think of Sean, because he and I had already celebrated several holidays this year. I loved how we were slowly building memories together. And then, as if I had conjured him out of thin air, he was in the store, politely pushing his way through a knot of book browsers.

  His eyes locked on mine and all at once I felt like we were the only two people in that store. I could feel the intensity of his gaze, the pull of his body toward mine, and I wished we were alone so I could run to meet him. I wanted to throw my arms around his neck and tilt my face up to his so that he could kiss me. I wanted to forget about the chefs and last night’s horror and get lost in his embrace, but I could see from his grim expression that he wasn’t striding toward me out of desire, but out of concern. Or worse, out of fear.

  “What’s happened?” I asked the moment he drew alongside me.

  He slid an arm around my waist and pulled me closer, wordlessly steering us to the back of the shop. His fingertips were pressing hard against my flesh and I could feel the tension pulsing through them. Again, I whispered, “What’s happened?”

  Without answering, he led me into the storeroom and then closed the door behind us. In the cool, quiet space, populated only by stacks of cardboard boxes and wheeled carts loaded with books, he crushed me against him and then, just as abruptly, let me go.

  “How is it that you always end up in the middle of my worst cases?” He tucked a strand of my hair behind my ear.

  “Please, Sean.” I couldn’t take the suspense any longer. “You’re obviously upset. Tell me why.”

  He released a heavy sigh. “I’ve just come from a meeting with the fire inspector. We’ve been over his findings a dozen times, but no matter how often we review the evidence, it doesn’t change the fact that someone deliberately caused the explosion last night.

  “What are you saying?” My question was a form of denial. I knew perfectly well what he meant. I just didn’t want to believe it.

  “Joel Lang’s death was no accident,” he said. “It was murder.”

  • • •

  THE SHOCK OVER hearing the details about the explosion made for a restless night, causing me to arise later than I intended on Saturday morning. I was almost late for the “Food in Children’s Literature” session at the Arts Center. I hurried through the crowded lobby toward the Ladybug Room. Attendees milled about looking at the displays, chatting, and showing one another books they’d purchased. Other than the yellow tape blocking the way to the kitchen wing, there was no indication that a tragedy had occurred in this building the night before. It seemed incongruous that the Books and Cooks festival continued and that people were enjoying themselves when a man had been brutally murdered just beyond that tape.

  Quietly opening the door to the Ladybug Room, I let myself in, gratified to see groups of children immersed in the activities. In one corner sat author Caleb Herman, Flora’s latest success story, reading to a captivated circle of kids from his current picture book, Cookies for Critters. Plush bugs littered the floor and each child was munching on a cookie.

  “Oatmeal for the octopus,” Caleb read, and a small, African-American boy held up a fuzzy purple octopus.

  “Yum yum,” the boy said as he put the cookie to the mouth of the toy octopus.

  As I glanced over the titles of the books stacked on tables in the center of the room, Flora approached me. She wore a hat with long red woolen braids attached under the rim and was carrying a tray laden with plastic cups filled with red juice.

  “Isn’t this fun?” she said. “I just love all this youthful energy. It helps to keep my mind off poor Joel Lang.” She shook her head, swinging the braids back and forth.

  I wondered if I should brief Flora on what Sean had told me about Joel’s murder. Somehow, it didn’t seem right to weigh down the lighthearted atmosphere in the room by sharing my burden with Flora right now. The news could wait. I glanced at a table set up by the far wall, where a cluster of children was helping Big Ed make stone soup by throwing chopped vegetables into a pot while Ed stirred. “Soon, we’ll heat this up and you’ll taste the most delicious soup ever, you little munchkins,” he announced with a boisterous laugh. His audience giggled along with him.

  Turning back to Flora, I touched her arm. “The session certainly looks popular. What a great way to get the kids involved. Good job, Flora.”

  She nodded and held out the tray. “Would you like some of Anne Shirley’s raspberry cordial?”

  “Ah, so that’s why you’re wearing that hat. You’re Anne of Green Gables,” I suddenly realized. “I loved that book. But wait, didn’t Anne get her friend Diana drunk on raspberry cordial? Should we be serving that to minors?”

  “Oh no, dear,” Flora tittered. “She got Diana drunk on Marilla’s currant wine, which she thought was raspberry cordial. I would never give anything so potent to these children.”

  “I guess I should reread the book. I had forgotten that,” I said as I took one of the cups. “Although I do remember how Anne nearly lost her best friend because of her mistake. Anne was always so theatrical, but I used to quote her lines all the time.” I placed my hand on my heart. “‘My heart is broken. The stars in their courses fight against me, Marilla. Diana and I are parted forever.’” I sighed. “My teenage heart broke for Anne in that passage, even if she was given to dramatics.”

  Flora nodded. “When I was twelve, I emulated Anne as well.”

  Sipping the tart beverage, I followed the aroma of pancakes and frying eggs to the back of the room, where two food preparers from How Green Was My Valley, our local grocery store, were cooking up treats on large griddles on a counter. The counter was on a platform well above the tables at which their audience of kids and their parents were seated, ensuring that no little fingers could get burnt. A large mirror hung overhead so everyone could see what was happening on the counter.

  “I like green eggs and ham,” declared one of the cooks, a thin, tall man dressed in a raggedy yellow shift and a red top hat. Except for his face and hair, he was a perfect mimic of Sam-I-Am from the famous Dr. Seuss book. As he spoke, he carefully separated egg yolks from their whites and placed them in a bowl.

  “I do, too, but my pancakes are even better,” the other cook said as she removed several crepe-like pancakes from a special skillet and placed them on a plate. A petite young woman, she wore a red and white striped sweater, a blue jean jumper, and red and white striped stockings. Her long red hair, shaped into two braided pigtails, stuck out at wonky angles from the sides of her head. She looked as if she had stepped out of the pages of a Pippi Longstocking book. I wondered how she made her braids stick out like that. Wire, maybe? Or gel? She handed the plate of pancakes to Nell from Sixpence Bakery, who was dressed in her baker’s coat and chef’s hat.

  “Who wants to try some?” Nell
asked, holding up the plate.

  “Me! Me!” came the reply in a chorus from the audience, and Nell distributed pancakes to the eager children.

  Pippi turned back to Sam-I-Am. “So how do you make the eggs green?” she asked.

  “Yeah, how?” echoed a little blond girl at a table in the front.

  Sam-I-Am held up the bowl of egg yolks. “You see how I separated the egg yolks from the whites? Now I’ll add this basil pesto to the whites and mix it in and then we’ll pour these little suns back into the whites, being careful not to break them.” He proceeded to do as he described, and then slowly poured the concoction onto the griddle. I looked at the surface of the griddle in the mirror. A sea of green egg whites with bright yellow circles spread and sizzled. Sam-I-Am sprinkled what appeared to be dried parsley onto the yolks, speckling them with green. “And now we wait for them to cook and then we can cut them apart with this round cookie cutter. And let’s paint a bit of pesto onto these ham slices, too.”

  I leaned against the wall and watched him create his version of green eggs and ham. As interesting as this was, my mind inadvertently left the culinary world of Dr. Seuss and began to process my conversation with Sean.

  Joel had been murdered! The details Sean had divulged from the fire inspector’s report made it a certainty. The inspector concluded that the wall oven had exploded and killed him. The oven was installed at Joel’s height and the force of the eruption threw the oven door into his sternum. It flung him, no doubt in terrible agony, ten feet away.

  “So there was something wrong with the oven?” I had asked, clinging to the distorted hope that it was the fault of the equipment and not the maliciousness of another human being.

  Sean shook his head. “No. Someone had placed several cans of nonstick cooking spray inside the oven, which provided more than adequate combustion. Nobody would store them in an oven unless they were trying to cause an explosion. Apparently, Mr. Lang had turned the oven to broil, and in a matter of minutes, it got hot enough to detonate the cans.”

  “So if he had checked inside the oven before turning it on, he would have noticed them and still be alive?” In the back of my mind, I recalled my mother once drying a pair of damp hiking socks in her oven, using the heat of the pilot light, and forgetting she’d put them in there. The next day she preheated the oven to bake banana bread and burned her socks. Ever since that incident, I have always checked my oven before turning it on.

  Sean shrugged. “It’s possible, but the saboteur also tampered with the gas connection inside the oven. Therefore, for a period of time, gas was flowing into the oven, and it would have exploded anyway once it got hot enough. Between the aerosol cans and the gas, the killer was taking no chances at failure.”

  “But gas has such a noticeable odor. Wouldn’t Joel have smelled it when he walked into the kitchen?”

  Sean shrugged. “The oven door was closed. And these newer models seal quite efficiently. Maybe Mr. Lang was so focused on what he was doing that he didn’t notice.”

  We stared at each other for a few minutes without saying anything. I envisioned Joel’s last moments—his anxiety about his dishes following Klara’s criticism and his determination to prove himself with his food. He could easily have been distracted enough to simply turn the knob on the oven before rubbing his tuna with Szechuan pepper. And then, while he prepared his food, the oven exploded, ripping off the door, throwing fire at Joel and hurling him to the floor in excruciating pain.

  I flinched, as if the flames had been surrounding us.

  Sean had put his arms around me and hugged tight. “Just be careful,” he whispered in my ear. “Someone in this group of egotistical chefs bore enough of a grudge against Joel Lang to want him dead and had the boldness to carry it out. Someone at this festival is a murderer.”

  A tugging on my sweater pulled me away from Sean and back into the Ladybug Room. The little boy with the plush octopus held his toy up to me. “Thee my otoputh?” he lisped. His large brown eyes were wide with innocent delight. “My mama bought him for me.”

  “Come on, Matty. Don’t bother the lady.” His mother, standing behind him, held out her hand.

  “Oh, he’s no bother,” I said as I crouched down to his level, glad of the distraction from my distressing recollections. “Does he have a name?”

  “Uh-huh. It’th Thilly Otoputh.” He giggled and ran to the door, waving his eight-armed toy in the air. His mother followed, and as I watched them head into the hall I felt an overwhelming urge to hug Trey, who’d had the same adorable lisp when he was young. Unable to do so, I’d have to settle for a phone call.

  As I pulled my cell phone out of my purse, Franklin appeared at the door, stepping aside to let Matty and his mother through, and then entered, scanning the occupants until his gaze rested on me. I waved.

  “Did you hear?” he asked as he approached. “Joel’s death was intentional. Someone deliberately caused the explosion.”

  “Sean told me. But I’m having a hard time coping with the news. Who would want him dead? Who hated him enough to blow him up? And why?” As I asked the questions, the faces of the chefs and their assistants crowded my head. I slipped the phone back into my bag, no longer wanting to call Trey. He would only worry and become distracted from his studies.

  “I don’t know. I find it difficult to imagine that anyone could be so vindictive and inhuman.” Franklin squeezed his temples, as if to push away a headache. “The police are going to question everyone, including all the agents.”

  Sean had told me that, too. It was ludicrous, of course. He knew that none of us had any motive to kill Joel. “I guess the authorities can’t afford to overlook anything or anyone who’s been in contact with Joel since the festival started.”

  “True. I just hope they catch whoever did it quickly.”

  “Me, too. Joel’s killer not only took the life of another human being,” I said, suddenly feeling angry. “They also affected the festival, damaged the Arts Center, and cast a shadow of evil over Inspiration Valley.”

  Chapter 6

  AS SOON AS THE CHILDREN’S PROGRAM WAS FINISHED, I planned to retreat to the peace and quiet of my office at Novel Idea. Flora told me that she also intended to head over to the agency after grabbing something for lunch. She kindly offered to pick up a sandwich for me and I accepted, though in truth I wasn’t very hungry. I’d been surrounded by food most of the morning, but my appetite had been quelled by the news about Joel Lang.

  I had two hours until I needed to return to the Arts Center and moderate a panel called “Killer Tales From the Kitchen.” Two of my clients, a pair of gregarious cozy mystery authors, would be joining three of the celebrity chefs (Klara Patrick, Leslie Sterling, and Bryce St. John) and a renowned food critic to address the joys and challenges of writing about food. This would be followed by a lengthy question and answer session in which the members of the audience could query the panelists about their professional experiences.

  It would take a great deal of energy to moderate this panel, and even though I’d be sharing the responsibility with Jude, I was grateful to have a brief respite before it started. I stayed to help Flora clean up after the kids program, waved good-bye to the guest author, and then headed for the front door.

  A swarm of laughing children burst past me, racing toward the main entrance of the Arts Center while their parents shouted for them to wait. Watching them made me smile and when I stepped into the spring sunshine, I felt lighter and more hopeful. Yes, Joel Lang had been murdered and there was a killer on the loose, but I had to decide how to handle myself in the face of these dire truths. Was I going to spend the future glancing over my shoulder in fear, or was I going to do my best to ensure that the rest of the festival was a resounding success?

  “I have to be tough for my town and my agency,” I said, addressing the Taste of the Town banner hanging from the nearest streetlamp.

  Strong and determined, I walked briskly to where I’d parked my scooter. Just the sight
of its bright yellow paint gave me a zap of positive energy, and yet, even from a distance, I could see that something was hanging from the Vespa’s handlebars. Something that hadn’t been there before.

  “What the—?” I murmured to myself, feeling slightly anxious.

  Drawing alongside the scooter, I could see that the mystery object was a paper gift bag—the kind sold in any stationery or grocery store. This one, however, was covered in what looked to be hand-drawn stencils of an old-fashioned quill pen.

  Inside, I found a tissue paper-wrapped bundle. I carefully unfolded the small package, revealing a necklace with a purple crystal pendant. The crystal, which winked in the midday sunlight, was held in place by delicate silver wire. Attached to the wire was a dainty stainless steel chain that felt cool in the palm of my hand. Intrigued, I peeked inside the bag again and noticed a sheet of paper tucked into a corner. It was rolled up into a tight cylinder and tied with an indigo ribbon.

  Sliding the ribbon free, I unfurled the letter and began to read.

  Dear Ms. Wilkins,

  This is my own unique way of delivering my query to you. Everyone in town knows that you drive a yellow scooter and so I thought that instead of sending this with a boring stamp and plain envelope, I’d tell you about my novel in a more creative way. The whole process will work better if you wear the crystal. It’s an amethyst and the regal purple crystal represents creativity, imagination, and intuition. I know that your intuition is amazing because of all the wonderful authors you represent, but everyone could use a special boost now and then. So now that you’ve got your energizing necklace on (you have it on, right?) you’re properly centered and energized and ready to hear about my book.

  My novel is called The Crystal Color Wheel Witch and it’s about a woman named Jade who’s studied the powers of crystals but decides to use them to make herself beautiful, younger looking, and richer instead of helping other people develop their spiritual selves. Jade is a yoga teacher and she’s tired of making a crummy salary and spending all of her free time sanitizing other people’s dirty yoga mats. One day, she decides to kill another instructor by making a hot yoga class really hot. Deathly hot.