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

by Arlington, Lucy

  She sighed. “People love to dream,” she said. “My recipes are delicious. So what if they use expensive and rare ingredients? I’m sure I’m not alone when I say that one of my favorite kinds of books to read is a cookbook. Am I right?” She waved her hands at the audience. A brief burst of applause ensued, and she held up her palm to quell it. “But that doesn’t mean I try every recipe in the book. I just love reveling in the food descriptions, imagining the flavor combinations, and drooling over the photographs. My books are filled with culinary dreams. And sometimes, it’s good to step out of the box and try something new, even if it is a little more expensive than a plain bean soup or bland semolina. Decadent food makes life more exciting.”

  I glanced at Klara. Leslie’s comments were an obvious reference to our conversation at the chefs’ dinner and Klara’s famous-lovers dish. But Klara stayed quiet and merely glared at her peer. I hoped she’d be able to put on a positive face when it came time for her introduction.

  “Thank you, Leslie,” I continued. “Next we have Bryce St. John, owner of the famous St. John’s Bistro, with locations in both New York and Washington, D.C. His cookbook, Samplings From St. John’s, came out several years ago and continues to delight readers and cooks. Bryce, owning a restaurant provides its own challenges I’m sure, but I would imagine that it would also give you a unique perspective on food, as is evidenced in your cookbook. How do you balance a writing career with the demands of a restaurateur?”

  Bryce held up a copy of his book. His handsome face graced the cover, which was probably why it continued to sell. In my opinion, the book itself was like any other restaurant cookbook. “It is difficult, to be sure.” He grinned. “As you can see, my output as a writer has only culminated in one book so far. But I love food, and I love sharing it with others. How lucky I am to be able to do that with my restaurants and with my cookbook.”

  A few women in the audience hooted. One of them called out, “And you’re darn handsome to boot.”

  Bryce dipped his chin. “Why, thank you, ma’am.”

  “That is a sentiment I would agree with,” I said, glancing quickly at Sean before continuing. He smiled, understanding that I was putting on a show, and secure in the knowledge that I thought him the handsomest man around. “Last, but certainly not least, we have the gregarious Klara Patrick. Her newest cookbook, My Grandmother’s Hearth, has just been released to exemplary reviews. Klara, the influence of your Dutch grandmother is very prevalent in your book. Yet some critics have remarked that the recipes are simplistic and rustic. Would you like to comment on that?”

  Klara stroked the cover of her book. “My oma meant the world to me, and everything I know about cooking I learned from her.” She looked up at the audience, her television personality coming to the forefront. She clasped her hands over her heart and described her grandmother’s kitchen, recalling how large and strong her oma’s hands had been and how magical it had been to watch her crush herbs and knead bread with her soft, deft fingers. The audience was captivated and I saw several women dab at their eyes with tissues. If Klara had been at all affected by her husband’s discovery of her affair with Bryce, she didn’t let it show. She was as entrancing as always and I was amazed by her ability to cast a spell over the crowd. “If the recipes seem simple,” she concluded, “it’s only because that’s the Dutch way. Or at least it was in Oma’s time. And believe me, I work very, very hard to perfect the recipes in order to create dishes that satisfy even the most particular palate.”

  “Oh, give me a break!” A chair scraped loudly in the audience, and everyone turned to look. Dennis Chapman, Klara’s sous chef, stood. His face was red and the armpits of his shirt were wet with sweat. “You work hard?” he shouted, the crimson in his face becoming a darker shade. “You? Give me a break. Your staff works hard and you just lap up all the accolades. I’ve never worked like a dog for such an unappreciative boss in my life!” He made his way to the aisle, not caring about the people he stomped past. He jabbed his finger at Klara. “You continuously refuse to give me any kind of recommendation no matter how many times I ask. I know I didn’t get that head chef job at Austin’s because you badmouthed me to the owner. You and the other celebrity chefs have it in for me. You’re afraid of my talent, afraid I’ll be better than you. So to hold me back, you make me chop, chop, chop, without ever giving me a chance at the stove. You pay me peanuts, spit in my face, and have now ruined my life. Well, I quit. Chop your own vegetables from now on, you lazy, scheming bitch!” Breathing heavily, he marched his oversized frame down the aisle and out of the room. We were all struck silent as the door slammed behind him.

  • • •

  BY THE TIME the question-and-answer segment was over, I felt more like a circus ringleader than a panel moderator. After Dennis Chapman’s outburst and theatrical exit, I’d tried my best to cajole the audience into quieting down. Finally, Jude had taken over, charming the crowd into submission long enough to allow the stunned panelists to respond to a few queries. Luckily, no one asked Klara about Dennis’s allegations. Even so, I was wound as tight as a spring until Jude thanked everyone for coming and invited the attendees to proceed to the lobby in order to buy books and have them signed by the esteemed panelists.

  As people streamed out of the room, tittering like a flock of high-strung hens, I saw Sean lingering in the back row. Ryan was close by and had taken a seat in one of the vacant chairs. He was bent over, his face hidden in his hands.

  Making my way over to Sean, I gestured for him to move a few feet away from Ryan. “The awful truth is sinking in, isn’t it?” I whispered.

  He nodded. “I think so. I can only imagine what he’s feeling right now, but I also can’t let him confront his wife about the affair at this time. I need to question her about Mr. Lang. Ryan’s kids might be accusing her of killing Mr. Lang purely out of spite, but they may very well be onto something and I need to discover the truth. One of my team has already taken Mr. Bruneau to the station for questioning.”

  I shot a glance at Klara. “She’s supposed to join the other authors in the lobby now. If she comes with you, she’ll look guilty.”

  Sean’s jaw hardened. “I’m not interested in how this affects her career, Lila. I’m interested in catching a killer.”

  “I’m sorry.” I was instantly contrite. “I’ve got this whole Books and Cooks agenda stuck in my head and I’m fixating on it as a way of feeling in control. But the more this weekend progresses, the more I realize how ridiculous that notion is. A man has been murdered, Klara and Bryce are having an affair, our new Arts Center’s been damaged, and members of the press are everywhere, waiting to dig up all the dirt they can.” From the corner of my eye, I saw Klara stand up and collect her purse. “You’d better move in. I’d rather she make a scene in a relatively empty room than in a packed lobby.”

  Sean brushed my cheek with his fingertips. “I’m on it. And Lila, if Ms. Patrick has nothing to hide, I’ll return her to you as soon as I can.”

  I smiled at him. “I’d rather have you back by my side, Officer.”

  “Keep your ears open,” he counseled. “People won’t edit their own conversations in front of you like they would around a policeman. Who knows what you might overhear as you continue to spend time with the chefs?”

  As my mother made a beeline for us, I quipped, “I can also ask Amazing Althea if she has any insights.”

  “Go for it,” he replied seriously, even though I’d been teasing. “She’s a skilled listener. A rare and useful talent.”

  I watched Sean approach Klara, touch her on the elbow, and gesture toward the exit. Her brows knit together in anger and she shook her head in defiance, but when Sean pointed at the handcuffs dangling from his utility belt, she quickly conceded to his request.

  “I don’t think she did it,” my mother said as Sean escorted Klara from the room.

  “Really? Do you know something I don’t?”

  My mother shrugged. “I know women. Most of my clien
ts are female. For more years than I’d care to name, I’ve been hearin’ about their triumphs and complaints, their hopes and dreams, their joys and trials. And this is what life boils down to for most of them: Women want to be loved for who they are. And when that doesn’t happen, they’ll change themselves on the outside over and over again to get folks to adore them. But it’s not real.”

  “What does that have to do with Klara?” I jerked my head to where Ryan was seated. “I believe her husband loved her for who she was, but that clearly wasn’t enough considering she’s been cheating on him with Bryce St. John.”

  “No surprise there,” my mother snorted. “Remember when we ran into that beefcake chef on the street? He was wearin’ those clingy runnin’ shorts and that tight, tight . . . oh, that’s neither here nor there. Anyway, there was enough electricity between him and Klara to fuel a power station. They tried to hide it, but I knew they’d swapped more than just recipes.”

  “Let’s sit outside for a spell,” I suggested before my mother could elaborate on her metaphor. “I’d like to know what else you’ve observed.” Steering her through the lobby, I paused a moment to be certain that Jude had the signings well under control. He did, so I caught his eye and indicated that I was leaving by pointing at the exit. He gave me a thumbs-up before turning his attention back to a pretty young woman wearing high heels and a very short skirt.

  My mother and I sat on a bench situated between a pair of maple trees and listened as a blue jay scolded a squirrel for creeping too close to its nest.

  “It starts before the little one is even born,” my mother began. “A mama’s urge to protect her young.” She put her hand over mine. “Wish I could flap my wings and send the wicked creature who’s come sneakin’ into our town away, but I can’t. All I know is that when I touch the cards, I feel the presence of the person who killed that Joel Lang fellow. He or she is still hangin’ around and I don’t think they’re goin’ anywhere.” She sighed. “Wish I could tell you more, but all of my senses are tellin’ me that they’re not done yet. This is an angry person, Lila.”

  I studied her, hating to see the lines of worry tugging at the corners of her mouth. “What card reveals that kind of information?”

  “More than one, shug. I’ve turned over the devil, the tower, the four of cups. But I’ve also gotten the hanged man a bunch. That combo says that this person feels persecuted. They see themselves as a victim who needs to make things right for themselves. They’re burnin’ to exact their own brand of justice.”

  “So Joel was killed as an act of revenge?” I asked.

  My mother lifted her gaze to the maple leaves. The sun had painted them a golden green and they rustled gently in the breeze. It was perfect reading weather and I’d have liked nothing better than to throw a towel over a lounge chair and spend the rest of the day in my garden, absorbed in a novel. Alas, I had other things to do.

  “Things aren’t as clear as I’d like them to be, hon,” my mother said in answer to my question. “I’m seeing the star card in reverse, too. That tells me that this person’s goals in life are as warped as a fun-house mirror. No matter how they act, this man or woman is deeply dissatisfied with their lot.” She squeezed my hand. “They can’t stop, Lila. They’re empty inside and they wanna make someone pay for that emptiness. They think these acts will heal them, but they won’t.”

  “Everyone’s been hurt at one point or another,” I murmured to myself. “But which of the chefs has been truly wronged? Who could be viewed as a victim? Maurice probably could. And now Ryan could.”

  Faces flashed before my eyes. Klara’s, Ryan’s, Maurice’s, Bryce’s, Leslie’s, and so on until the features of the celebrity chefs, their assistants, and today’s panelists all morphed together to form a single, grotesque mask. “It’s all muddled, Mom. The people we’ve invited to this event seem decent on the surface, but I can’t tell what’s going on in their minds. I know they all want to be successful and I believe they’re fiercely competitive, but they’re so accustomed to putting on a show that I have no idea when they’re being sincere. How am I supposed to help Sean find a killer when I can’t trust any of the chefs that my own agency invited to Inspiration Valley?”

  “Keep hangin’ around them,” she advised. “I heard that Leslie woman say that she and Klara’s lover boy were gonna grab a coffee at Espresso Yourself after they put their pretty signatures in people’s books. Maybe you and Makayla can learn a thing or two while these high-falutin chefs whisper secrets to each other over lattes and scones.”

  I smiled at her. “That’s a wonderful idea, Mom. If nothing else, I can always work on solving the mystery of Makayla’s secret admirer. It’s a much more pleasant task than trying to discover the identity of Joel’s killer.”

  “She showed me one of the little notes in her tip jar. I know diddly-squat about poetry, but I know words of passion when I hear them.” My mother fanned her face. “Lordy, lordy. If Makayla doesn’t fall madly in love with this fellow after you finally track him down, send him on over to me. I could think of a few things to do with a man with that kind of fire in his soul.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  She winked at me. “Until he shows up at my door, I suppose I’d better mosey on home and work on my new banana bread recipe. At my age, trying a different recipe is as wild as some women can hope to be.”

  “What a relief that you’re not one of those women,” I said with a grin. Suddenly, I remembered the necklace I’d been given by the aspiring author. “You want to hear something weird?”

  “Naturally,” my mother answered.

  I told her about finding the gift bag on my scooter and produced the necklace with the purple crystal pendant. Taking it out of my purse, I handed it to my mother. She frowned and studied the piece of jewelry as it lay curled in her palm like a silver and plum snake. Surprisingly, she then asked for the query letter. Seeing no harm in having her read it, I passed it to her.

  Her fingers closed around the necklace as she read. “What do you think of this?”

  “Nothing about her query had me hooked,” I replied. “Vicky will mail her a form rejection letter on Monday. Why?”

  “This silly woman thinks she can influence you with her crystal. When she gets that letter, she’ll see it as you rejectin’ not only her book, but her powers, too. She could spell trouble for you, hon.”

  I reclaimed the piece of jewelry and shoved it into a dark corner at the bottom of my purse. “Just what I need. More trouble.”

  • • •

  MAKAYLA HAD HUSTLED back to Espresso Yourself as soon as the panel had ended, but the traffic at the coffee shop was fairly slow, so she was restocking her display shelves with muffins, scones, and biscotti when I arrived.

  “Grab a seat!” she instructed. “I’ll fix you something.”

  I didn’t argue. Makayla had a special gift when it came to knowing what her customers needed, even if they had no clue themselves.

  “I got another poem,” she whispered in excitement and placed a cup of hot tea and a white plate bearing two biscotti in front of me. “In honor of my secret admirer’s Japanese haiku, I’ve given you black tea and almond biscotti.”

  Thanking her, I asked to see the latest poem.

  “You’ll need two hands for this one.” Her face was radiant as she placed an origami butterfly in my palm. The delicate insect had been made out of a five-dollar bill.

  “How pretty!” I exclaimed. “And the poem’s inside?”

  “Look under its wings,” she told me.

  Complying, I spotted two tiny lines of poetry written beneath each wing in thick black marker and read them aloud:

  “Lady butterfly

  Perfumes her wings

  By floating

  Over the orchid.”

  Makayla pointed at a bud vase containing an orchid with bright pink petals and streaks of white leading from the center to its fragrant tips. “That gorgeous bloom was attached to the butterfly’
s body. It smells like heaven.”

  “So he gave you the poem as well as the butterfly and the flower described in its lines. You know, this might be our first tangible lead,” I mused and blew on my tea before taking a sip of the strong, soothing brew. “Someone at the Secret Garden must remember who bought this orchid. It’s not exactly a common plant.”

  “I will march right on down there after I close,” she assured me. I dipped my biscotti into the tea to soften it and took a bite, relishing the subtle almond flavor. As I ate, we discussed the panel and Dennis Chapman’s dramatic outburst. I told Makayla that both Maurice and Klara were at the police station in Dunston being questioned about Joel Lang’s murder.

  She listened as I recounted the scene from the James Joyce Pub and how Klara had broken her husband’s heart and then sat on the panel as if nothing extraordinary had happened.

  “Lord have mercy, that poor man.” Makayla made a tsk-tsk sound. “But is Klara so cold that she’d put cooking spray in an oven in hopes that another chef would get blown up? Is she a killer?”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “But I’m hoping that Sean will have someone behind bars before the day is out.”

  A gust of wind wafted in as the door opened and Jude entered the café. When he saw Makayla and me sitting together he grinned. “Sorry to interrupt you ladies, but could I get a skinny latte, please?”

  Makayla jumped up. “What size would you like?”

  I picked up the paper butterfly while Jude bantered with Makayla as she prepared his order. Absently fingering the wings of the paper insect, I pondered the concept of love. It could make someone glow, like Makayla with her secret admirer or me with Sean, but it could also shatter a person, as it had done with Ryan Patrick.

  “I figured you’d be here, Lila.” Jude interrupted my thoughts and placed a file folder on the table as he took the chair that Makayla had vacated. “Bentley and I have finally read through the twenty-seven entries for the short story contest, and we’ve narrowed the possible second- and third-place winners down to two writers of equal mediocrity.”