Expiration Date

by Devon Delaney

  Nick turned and faced Kenny. “And welcome to you, Kenny Dewitt, or should I call you The Foody Dude? I’ve been following your blog all week.”

  Kenny squirmed in his seat as Nick’s expression morphed from jovial to sour.

  “Amber Sherman, one of my recipe demonstrators. Nice to have you back.” Nick delivered a smile across the table.

  Amber delivered a return smile that quickly faded.

  “And next to you, Ms. Barras. Welcome. Diana Stroyer, we’re thrilled you could join us.” Nick continued circling the table. “And, Mr. Sox, thank you for coming.”

  Jamie Sox bowed his head. “Hello. I wouldn’t miss it. I always see things through to the very end.”

  Nick floated by Patti’s seat. They mumbled an indiscernible salutation to each other before he continued on.

  “Has anyone seen Mac Stiles, our photographer?” Nick called across the room. “He should be here by now.”

  Sherry searched the room for Mac. Her gaze darted back to Nick. Without waiting for a reply, Nick spun on his rubber-soled, imitation-leather dress shoes, creating a noise that could be misinterpreted for passing gas. Disturbed by the twirl, Nick’s gold chain rose up and struck him in the mouth. He scowled then took his seat. Nick signaled to Mike, who stood just inside the doorway. Mike left the room. A moment later, he returned with a tray of salads.

  “Shrimp and avocado wedge salad for starters. My own creation. All organic, of course.” Nick stood and opened his arms wide. He sat down as Mike distributed the plates.

  Any discreet conversations died away as soon as the appetizer was served. The silence in the room was as heavy as day-old Béchamel sauce. Sherry took note of who began eating and who did not. Diana tackled her salad with vigor, while Jamie picked his apart and ate only the avocado. Kenny’s was gone as fast as he was served. Chef Baker nibbled at hers, all the while inspecting each element on her fork before it entered her mouth. It was only Sherry, Marla, and Amber who scraped their lettuce leaves from one side of the plate to the other, without ever raising their forks to their lips.

  Kenny broke the silence. “You must think you’re going to win, you’re so dressed up.” Kenny gestured toward Jamie’s three-piece tropical weight suit.

  “It’s the suit I wear sixty-six percent of the work week, usually Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays, so I weighed my options and made my choice to wear it here.”

  “I thought actuaries didn’t like choices or options. I mean, aren’t you supposed to base your decisions on fact, stats, and numbers?”

  “True. Past performance can certainly be a predictor of the future in many cases. I felt I should dress in my most successful outfit because with five cooks eligible for two prizes, I have a forty percent chance of winning fifty percent of the prizes, thanks to your disqualification. If I was to place an insurance value on my chances of winning, I would have to begin by setting the premium quite high because even though, statistically speaking, I have been a top prize winner zero percent of the time, this being my one and only cook-off, it will only take one win to make my winning record one hundred percent. So the premium must be high to cover the likelihood of a payout.”

  Sherry tapped Amber under the table with her shoe. “Did you hear that? Once an actuary, always an actuary.” Sherry winked at Marla, who winked back.

  “Did anyone else not understand the logic there?” asked Kenny. “Jamie, you were wacky at the cook-off, and you’re even wackier in real life.”

  “And the same goes for you.” Jamie said. “By the way, I would appreciate it if you kept me out of your blog.”

  Sherry extended her leg in Marla’s direction and kicked. Marla jumped in her seat when the aggressive foot landed on its mark.

  “Diana, do you like your salad?” Sherry leaned in toward the center of the table.

  Diana was checking her cell phone between bites. She continued scrolling until Sherry cleared her throat. Diana raised her head.

  “Do you like your salad?” Sherry pointed her fork at Diana’s salad plate.

  “Sure, it’s not bad.” Diana poked a shrimp and displayed it. “Same exact salad is offered at Chef Lee’s restaurant. I wonder if he gave Mr. Andime the recipe. And, someone should advise Mr. Andime there’s no such approved label for any seafood as quote-unquote organic.”

  “Interesting. There’s a possibility Chef Baker made the salad, isn’t there?” Sherry peered down the table at the chef. “Although, she’s not exactly dressed for cooking.”

  “I’m not sure I would be up for cooking a dinner a few days after my husband unexpectedly died either,” whispered Diana, with hands cupped around her mouth.

  Amber’s dropped fork had a violent collision with her plate. All eyes shifted to her.

  “Oops,” Amber said, “Slippery devil.”

  “Wait.” Sherry’s body tilted so far forward in her seat, she put her elbow in her salad. “Whose husband died?”

  “Olivia was married to Tony Birns, or should I say, she’s his widow now,” Diana said. “Word is, their marriage was more of a business arrangement for the tax benefits than a union of love. They couldn’t actually afford to get a divorce.”

  “I’m so confused,” sighed Sherry. “Diana, why didn’t you mention that the day we had lunch together?”

  “I think I told you they were cozy at the first cook-off I saw them at and distant at the next. Come to think of it, I didn’t hear you ask if they were married.” Diana touched her hearing aid.

  “So Mr. Andime was duo-dating Brynne Stark and a married Chef Baker? Actually, I shouldn’t be surprised. I spent my professional life being paid by one-half of an unfaithful couple to explore the issue of infidelity. I’ve seen it all.” Amber arranged two shrimps side by side on her plate, before separating them to opposite ends of her salad.

  “I’m not here to judge, no pun intended. I’m just telling you what I know. With Nick Andime a principal backer of their restaurant venture, I guess he deserved special privileges, if you know what I mean.” Diana wiped the corners of her mouth with her napkin and then slid her empty plate toward the center of the table.

  With a swoosh and a bang, the double doors to the dining room flung open. The table conversation halted as all eyes were trained on a woman hobbling in. Sherry was stunned at the sight of a disheveled Brynne Stark holding one of her high heels in her hand. It appeared to be missing its heel. The bottom of her black cocktail dress was ragged and her knee was bleeding. Without saying a word, she limped around the table. As she passed each guest, they were provided a view of the back of her dress, which revealed her zipper was spread open a good four inches from the top of the dress. A hair extension on the side of her head was unclipped and dangled from her scalp like the feathers of a partially plucked chicken. Once at her chair, she appeared to be waiting for Nick to pull it out for her, but when he didn’t, she yanked it away from the table herself.

  “Would someone please pass the wine,” Brynne called out.

  Nick and Brynne huddled in a private tête-à-tête. When they were done, Brynne was all smiles and Nick appeared to be sulking. Brynne drained her glass of wine. She waved off the salad Mike offered and gestured for more liquid refreshment.

  When he seemed satisfied everyone was done eating, Nick motioned to Mike to clear the salad plates and bring in the main course. The dinner menu consisted of roasted Cornish game hens, wild rice, and caramelized Brussels sprouts. The wine was self-serve, but there were only two bottles on the table to be split among all the guests, and Brynne was hoarding one of them.

  Kenny nudged Sherry. “Kind of stingy with the alcohol, don’t you think? Brynne polished off the first bottle in no time. What’s her deal anyway?”

  “If my lip-reading skills are as good as they used to be, I gather Brynne didn’t get the word about this dinner until an hour ago. Also, she fell in the parking lot running from her car to get here on time. She thinks Nick needs to install more outdoor lighting. She couldn’t zip her dress by herself and
, finally, she was mad she didn’t get to make the introductions she was hired for.”

  “Wow, you should work for the CIA or something. You’re missing your true calling. You’d make a good detective,” Kenny said.

  “Thanks. I try.” Sherry kept an eye on Mike as he returned to his post at the door after making multiple trips to and from the kitchen.

  On his final trip, Mike carried a brown paper bag while balancing Nick’s dinner plate on his unbandaged arm. He left the bag by Nick’s side when he served him.

  “I’m really hungry, Sherry. I’m going to try my food.” Amber trapped a vegetable with her fork, sniffed it, then put the fork down. “Can’t do it.”

  “Hang in there,” Sherry said, “there’s plenty of time to eat later.”

  A hollow chime of an empty wineglass caught Sherry’s attention. Patti pushed back her chair and stood, a newspaper in hand. Sherry followed Patti’s line of sight to Nick, who was slumped in his chair.

  “Good evening talented home cooks and those associated with the OrgaNicks Cook-Off.” Patti held up the newspaper. “It’s been my pleasure to cover the event for the Nutmeg State of Mind Gazette, and I’ve brought a final mockup of the article. It’s just missing the winners’ names, to be added very soon. The article will be out on newsstands tomorrow. Pay particular attention to the sidebar article on the OrgaNicks Company and its value in the organic-food industry. I, like the rest of you, remain saddened by the circumstances of the cook-off, and I dedicated the article to Chef Birns. I would also like to say—”

  “Patti, that’s enough,” Nick interjected. “If there’s more to say, and I don’t think there is, it can wait. Wouldn’t you all prefer to get right to the winners’ announcement?” Nick rose from his seat, walked over to Patti, put his hand on her shoulder and guided her down in her chair.

  Sherry pulled her phone from her purse and crafted a text message.

  “No electronics at dinner,” Amber called across the table. “Remember the Frazzelle family rule.”

  “Right.” Sherry forced a smile. “I’m almost done.” She hit the send button and set her phone down.

  “Okay, ladies and gentlemen, the time has come.” All heads turned Nick’s way. He stepped on the small podium under his portrait. The painting’s lights cast irregular darks and lights across his face, giving it the appearance of a slice of cinnamon swirl bread.

  “I’m just going to get right to it. You’ve all waited long enough.” There were numerous dings and clangs as forks and knives were put down in unison. “Without further ado, the winner of the OrgaNicks Cook-Off is . . .”

  Diana pushed her seat back with her knees and rose, catching the hem of her dress under the chair, fragmenting it with a loud rip. Sherry placed her hand over her mouth to stifle a gasp.

  “Jim Sox and his Chicago Style Bison Sausage and Greens Pizza on Whole Grain Crust.”

  Diana crashed back down in the direction of her seat.

  “Come on up and receive your prize.”

  Jamie curled his hands around his mouth. “The name’s Jamie Sox.”

  “Well, dude, all your crazy worrying paid off, big time. Congratulations.” Kenny reached across the table.

  “And the second prize goes to Sherry Frazzelle,” continued Nick.

  The back of Sherry’s neck prickled with discomfort. Bile bubbled up her throat like hot seltzer water. She couldn’t feel the tips of her fingers.

  “Step right up.”

  Sherry’s first attempt at standing failed when her knees buckled. She labored to propel her body upright.

  “They’re not the winners we chose,” Chef Baker called out. “When did the decision change?”

  “Good job, Sherry,” said Amber. “I think.”

  “This couldn’t be more ironic. I don’t believe it,” said Kenny. “You’re the one who should be disqualified for poisoning one of the judges.”

  The piercing screech of Jamie’s chair as it slid across the floor punctuated the room’s silence. As they neared each other, Sherry considered bracing herself on Jamie’s arm, but he was so slight and the feet she saw beneath her were so unsteady, she squashed the idea. It was then she realized the grayish brown stain on her pants had grown to the size of a dinner plate and was so wet her pant leg was stuck to her thigh. Throughout the dinner, Sherry had scooped small amounts of food into her napkin so it would appear she was eating. Halfway through the main course, her napkin had surpassed its capacity and leaked onto her pants. Sherry rushed back to her seat, grabbed her apron, and tied it around her waist to conceal the mess.

  “Well, that’s product loyalty for you.” Nick pointed to the OrgaNicks logo on Sherry’s apron as she neared.

  At the podium, Jamie and Sherry stood on the step below Nick.

  “Here are your trophies. Ms. Stark will present you with your checks,” Nick said.

  Brynne wiggled out of her chair and, with only one functioning shoe, stumbled to Nick’s chair. She pulled out two bank checks from the bag on the floor.

  After presenting the awards, accompanied by a subdued round of applause, Nick had one more presentation. “I have a special piece of cake for the winners.” He motioned to Mike.

  Sherry shivered as Mike approached Nick’s chair with a plated wedge of cake in each hand.

  Sherry waved both palms. “Very kind, but no thanks. Maybe I’ll doggie bag this for later.”

  “Cakes are my specialty,” Nick said. “I’ll be offended if you don’t try it.”

  “I don’t eat sugar.” Jamie angled his head away from Nick.

  “Yes,” said Nick, as he put down one plate of cake. “Your dietary restriction was brought to my attention, forgive me. Well, more for Ms. Frazzelle.”

  Nick held the remaining plate of cake closer to Sherry’s face.

  “Please. I’m very full.” Sherry’s eyes glistened as her head began to pound.

  “She says she’s not hungry,” a man called out from the opposite end of the room.

  “There you are.” Nick shouted to Mac Stiles, who was jostling past Mike. “Ever heard of punctuality? Why are you so late, and why the hell aren’t you taking pictures?”

  Nick turned back to face Sherry. “Just eat the cake.”

  “I brought some pictures you might be interested in, Mr. Andime.” Mac stayed in the back of the room, positioned near the door, just out of the security guard’s reach. He opened his portfolio and held up two enlarged photographs.

  “This isn’t a good time to be having a show of your work, Mr. Stiles.” Nick stomped his foot. “Go get your damn camera and do your job.”

  “Now is the best time, Mr. Andime.” Jamie swiveled his head around to face one of the contestants. “It has been brought to my attention I broke two cook-off rules on the day of the event. I shouldn’t be the winner.”

  Sherry followed Jamie’s line of sight to Kenny, who sat bolt upright.

  “Since the cook-off, I have spent numerous hours mentally reviewing the final moments of the event. I am blessed with an eidetic memory. I can recall numbers I have seen at any time throughout my life. That trait is both my blessing and my curse.”

  “What you’re telling us is all well and good, Mr. Sox, but ancient history as far as I’m concerned.” Crumbs flew off the plate of cake as Nick’s hand began to shake. “Can we get on with this so everyone can get home at a reasonable hour?”

  “Bear with me. Let me complete my thought,” said Jamie. “I was so nervous throughout the cook-off that near the end, when my printed recipe sheet became so stained with food spills it was unreadable, I had to recall my garnish amount from memory. But I couldn’t. The problem was, I had tested my recipe so many times, both with and without garnish, before I finally chose which version to enter in the contest. Both recipe versions were lodged in my brain. So when panic set in, I couldn’t come up with the proper garnish measurement. It wasn’t my memory for numbers failing me, but that the garnish wasn’t supposed to be there. The recipe I selected had n
o garnish. May sound trivial, but rules are rules, no adding or subtracting ingredients.”

  “Garnish on, garnish off.” Nick set the cake down. “I think we’ll all agree we can forgive your slight error.”

  “Please, Mr. Andime, let me finish. In my panicked state, I had wrongfully doubted my special gift. So when you, Mr. Andime, handed me storage bags filled with garnish labeled with my assigned plate, ‘Number four,’ it was such a relief. You were so specific about which bag to put on which plate, I didn’t question it.”

  “Jamie, did you even notice they weren’t the same greens in each bag?” Sherry made sure her voice was clear and powerful.

  The audience murmured in unison. Jamie shook his head no.

  Nick scanned the room. “Why does any of that even matter? You’d have to be obsessive-compulsive to notice these things, Ms. Frazzelle. Unless, of course, you were trying to transfer the blame of a terrible criminal act you committed onto someone else to get your neck out of the noose. Wasn’t it your recipe that sickened poor Chef Birns?” He panned the dinner guests with an icy gaze. “That was just a joke. Let’s get back to the awards, shall we?”

  With a crack and a crash, the doors to the dining room sprang open and two men, as intertwined as tossed spaghetti noodles, fell through. One of the men landed with a hard thud on the ground. Sherry sighed with relief when she recognized Detective Bease brushing himself off. At the detective’s feet, Mike was struggling to pick himself up off the floor, while cradling his bandaged arm.

  “Welcome, Detective Bease,” said Nick. “You’ve made quite an entrance.”

  Chapter 22

  “Detective Bease, you’re as persistent as ants at a picnic. And like those uninvited bugs, you weren’t on the guest list tonight. Since you’re here, please, have a seat so we may move this thing along.” Nick dabbed at his glistening forehead with his soiled apron, leaving behind a red smear.

  The detective stayed put. Sherry saw Brynne beckon Nick over with her index finger. Nick leaned in. During the subsequent exchange, he shook his head as Brynne spoke, just as she nodded hers when he spoke. Loosened by all the head bobbing, another of Brynne’s hair extensions cascaded to the table. Without hesitation, she brushed the hairy accessory onto Nick’s chair. The two separated then turned to face the guests at the table.