by Emma Belmont
Maris noted that Reggie didn’t join in the conversation. Although he’d clearly been enjoying his meal—his plate was clean—he’d let the others talk or ask questions. But now he turned to the chef as well.
“Maris tells us you taught at Le Cordon Bleu,” Reggie said, smiling. “In Paris?”
The chef quickly shook his head. “No, no, no. I trained in Paris. I taught in Sydney, Australia.”
“Another oceanside town,” Felix noted.
Fournier inclined his head. “Just as you say. Sydney is where my love affair with fresh seafood began.”
Maris had to smile. The chef’s romance with seafood was clearly evident.
“Is the fresh catch much different than what’s available here?” Cookie asked.
“Oh very,” he said, clasping his hands together. “The fresh prawns and oysters of Sydney are unlike any others.” His dark eyes sparkled. “And the Tasmanian Ocean Trout?” He gave two emphatic okay signs. “Less salty and much more subtle than salmon.” He rolled his eyes. “But the same beautiful texture and color.” Although he looked as though he’d go on, he noticed Reggie’s empty plate. “May I?” he asked, indicating it.
“Yes,” the big man said. “I don’t think I have ever enjoyed a meal so much.”
“Thank you,” Fournier said. He turned to BJ, indicating the plate, and the game developer nodded. “That was excellent.”
The chef inclined his head, picked up his plate, and took both to the sideboard. Then he returned with the cheese tray. “Local and farm fresh from Cheeseman Village we have a feta, a truffle Gouda, a Parmesan, and the Village’s version of Gorgonzola.”
“I love cheese for dessert,” Reggie said, reaching for the Gouda.
“No, no, no,” Etienne said, as he picked up Cookie’s plate. “This is not dessert. This evening we finish with an almond tart.”
Cookie smiled up at him. “The quintessential French classic.”
He grinned, lifting the sharp points of his mustache. “Precisely.” He gestured to Maris’s plate. “May I?”
Maris nodded. “I think you’d better if there’s an almond tart coming.” There was light laughter around the table, but she saw Reggie glancing at his murder mystery pamphlet. Rather than let him ruin the nice mood, she picked up her own game booklet, regarded it and then Reggie.
“Earlier you referred to a play test,” she said. “What exactly is that?”
Although BJ grimaced, Pammy only sighed and Felix reached for a piece of Parmesan. The chef took the tray of dishes from the room.
“It’s the last phase of production before a game is released,” Reggie told her. “Sometimes we send it out to play testers in the gaming community. They get a free game and we get honest feedback.”
“Back when we were really part of the community,” BJ said, cocking an eyebrow at Reggie.
“But since we’re here,” Reggie said, ignoring him, “in the most perfect of locations, we can play test it ourselves, and have it done.”
Maris noted the return of the sour looks across the table. She exchanged a look with Cookie, who nodded, before Maris glanced down at the game book.
“If it’d help,” Maris said, “Cookie and I can play.”
Felix looked up from his cheese. “It actually might.”
Pammy looked at Cookie and Maris. “Have you ever played a murder mystery game before?”
They shook their heads. “I’m afraid not,” Maris said. “I’ve never even seen one before.”
“Then that’s perfect,” Reggie said.
Etienne returned with a tray of six fluted white ramekins filled with golden brown pastries dusted with almond slivers and powdered sugar. “Tarte aux Amandes,” he announced. The delicate aroma of the sweet almonds filled the room.
“Dessert first,” Reggie said, beaming at the chef, “play test second.”
3
Maris carried the last of the insulated bags back to the Plateau 7 minivan. Etienne loaded the plastic storage box that held some of his tools into the back seat. As he took the carry bag from her, he said, “Thank you.”
He’d been upset ever since the appearance of the game pamphlets, and Maris could hardly blame him. The five course meal had not been easy to prepare or serve. After twenty-five years in the hospitality trade, Maris knew that the timing of meal service could be critical to the food’s temperature, texture, and even the flavor—and hence the enjoyment. The chef had adjusted magnificently, and the food had been amazing, but Maris knew he must have felt that the focus on the meal had been hijacked.
He took off his chef’s hat and threw it down on the storage box with a sound of disgust. Then he slammed the sliding door of the van closed.
“Impossible,” he muttered. “They should have ordered burgers.”
She gave him an understanding smile. “I’ve never been treated to such a magnificent meal in my own B&B,” Maris told him. She quickly recounted the beautifully portioned canapé, the perfectly melted cheese over the flavorful onion soup, and the sweet and tender meat of the largest crab legs she’d ever had the pleasure to meet. With each description of the five courses, the chef seemed to relax a bit. By the time she got to the artful almond tart and how she hoped its fragrance would linger in the dining room all night, he seemed mildly pleased and somewhat placated.
“Truly,” she finished. “A masterpiece.”
“Well,” he sniffed, glancing back at the front door. “I am gratified that someone enjoyed it.”
Maris laughed a little. “Oh more than that, Chef, and more than me, I assure you.”
He hesitated a moment before he asked, “And Cookie, do you think she approved?”
Maris smiled to herself. Of course the chef would be most interested in what another chef thought. She nodded. “I have never seen her eat more at one sitting. She said more than once that the food was amazing.”
He put a hand to his heart. “Oh, I am…so relieved.” He glanced at the front door again. “Bon.”
As he climbed into his van, Maris waited and, as he pulled away, gave him a good-bye wave. She had to smile at the thought that an instructor for Le Cordon Bleu would be worried about what the B&B’s chef thought. It was more than professional courtesy. To be fair, though, Cookie’s breakfasts outshone anything Maris had ever encountered in any hotel. The French chef’s concern was well founded.
Maris went back into the B&B and was pleased to find that the Whiz Kid group and Cookie had moved to the living room. Reggie was explaining the rules.
He handed Maris a pamphlet as she entered. “You’ll be the B&B owner, a kindly Victorian widow trying to make ends meet by renting out rooms.”
“Mrs. Winter,” Maris read from the cover and opened it. “You are–”
“Don’t tell anybody about your character,” Reggie quickly interjected. “That information is just for you.”
“Oh,” Maris said. She looked around at everyone else’s pamphlet. Each had a different character name. “Okay.”
“Cookie will be the widow’s spinster cousin,” Reggie said, nodding to her. “Felix is the traveling salesman. Pammy is a lady of the night. BJ is the permanent boarder who works as a local carpenter.” Reggie showed her his pamphlet. “Mr. Orange is a gambler.”
BJ snorted. “No surprise there.” Although Reggie glared at him, the game designer glared right back.
Cookie had been studying her character information but looked up. “I see this takes place in Victorian England. Would your game players wear period clothing?”
Reggie nodded. “That’s part of the allure. They make dinner too, and sometimes try to be true to the period with the meals as well. The kit comes with invitations, recommendations for the costumes, and a background story.”
Maris scanned the information about her character. As Reggie had said, the B&B owner was recently widowed, with no children. But with no work skills and a new mortgage that needed paying, Mrs. Winter has had to take on boarders and guests in order to keep from going to
the poor house. It’s a tremendous amount of work, not made any easier by the presence of her spinster cousin, who doesn’t do anything to help.
Maris looked up from her pamphlet. “Does anyone know who the murderer is?”
“None of the players do except the host,” Reggie answered. “But of course, as the publishers, we know.”
Which is why, Maris supposed, that BJ had said it’d be perfect that neither Maris nor Cookie had played one of these games before. But as she glanced around the room, she saw the other members of Whiz Kid Games were decidedly uninterested. BJ had been looking at his phone the entire time since she’d returned. Felix and Pammy hadn’t seemed to hear anything that had been said, since they’d been whispering to each other non-stop.
Reggie cleared his throat. “Shall we begin?” He turned to Maris. “I believe the action begins with Mrs. Winter pouring wine for everyone after dinner.”
“Oh?” Maris said, looking at her pamphlet. “Yes, I see.” She looked around at the group, settling on Reggie. “And is that what I should do?”
“I could use a glass of wine,” Felix said.
“If you don’t mind,” Pammy added.
Maris smiled at the group. “It’s a normal part of the B&B’s evening actually.”
While Maris poured and served the wine, Reggie gave the other character’s their directions. For the next hour or so, they moved from room to room, sometimes together and other times alone, acting out their parts in the living room, the library, the parlor, and the dining room. Apparently the bed and breakfast served dinner and all of the characters had gathered for the meal at the end of the day.
While some knew each other, the rest had to introduce themselves. Maris and Cookie tried to be careful only to reveal what their booklets said could be revealed. A bored Pammy had her woman of the evening spend most of her time with Reggie, the gambler. Felix’s traveling salesman tried to sell Cookie’s character some gloves, while the permanent boarder that BJ played stayed in the kitchen waiting for the meal.
But at one point, Maris ended up with Cookie in the parlor.
“You’re doing very well,” Maris told her.
Cookie stooped and held her aching back. “You young people,” she said, making her voice tremble. “Always expecting too much from your elders.”
“Well, maybe you’d like to pay the mortgage,” Maris said sternly. “Then I could hire a housekeeper.”
The two of them laughed, until they heard Pammy yell, “He’s dead.”
Maris and Cookie exchanged an alarmed look and ran toward Pammy’s voice in the library. Although Reggie was lying on the floor, he raised his head and looked at everyone. “So far so good,” he said. Then he grunted as he sat up, grabbed his nearby wine glass, and took a swig. He seemed about to say something, when a tiny, tinny harmonica-like meow drew everyone’s attention to the door.
“Who is this?” Pammy exclaimed, as Mojo trotted over to Reggie.
The big man lifted his glass out of the way. “Well, hello there.” The little black cat climbed into his sizeable lap.
“This would be Mojo,” Cookie said, in her tremulous voice.
Pammy grinned at her. “What a perfect name for him.” She crouched down and gave his head a little scratch. “His eyes are gorgeous.”
Reggie stroked Mojo’s back and then took a sip of his wine. “Okay, so now the gambler is dead.”
Maris cocked her head at him. “But what do you do now? Do you have to lay there for the rest of the evening?”
Reggie grinned at her. “Not at all,” he said, continuing to stroke the back of a supremely satisfied looking cat. “Now I’m the ghost of the gambler. I’m not allowed to speak with you but I can–” The big man stopped, held his stomach, and hiccuped. “Scuse me,” he said, slurring a little. Then he hiccuped again.
“Try holding your breath,” BJ said.
But when Reggie tried, only to hiccup again, Felix said under his breath, “Try drinking less.”
Reggie moved Mojo off his lap, as he hiccuped yet again. “Here,” he said, giving his wine glass to Pammy. “Could you hold that for a second?”
He struggled to get up, but BJ finally held out a hand and—with some effort—tugged him up. Though the big man tottered for a moment, he managed to stand. He held out his hand for his wine glass, but Pammy hesitated. She looked at BJ and Felix.
“Oh come on,” Reggie said, just before he hiccuped so loud he surprised himself.
“Okay,” Felix said. “That’s it. I didn’t come here to work, and I certainly didn’t come here to play test with someone who’s drunk.” He dropped his booklet on the coffee table and picked up his own wine glass. “Thank you,” he said to Maris and Cookie. “Both for the wine and for your patience.”
Reggie scowled at him. “They’re having a good time and I’m not drunk.”
Pammy handed him back his glass. “I’m going to bed.” She turned to Maris and Cookie and added, “Good night.” Then she put her pamphlet with the others and followed Felix up the stairs.
“Good night,” Cookie replied.
“Sleep well,” Maris said.
Then she and Cookie exchanged a look and the B&B’s chef shrugged, placed her booklet on the pile, and picked up Pammy’s empty wine glass. She took it to the kitchen.
“Oh come on,” Reggie groaned. “It’ll only take…like half an hour. And I stopped hiccuping!” But the last phrase was slurred.
“This was a bad idea from the start,” BJ said to him, pushing his bright green glasses up his nose. Then he headed after Felix and Pammy. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
In just moments it was only Reggie and Maris in the library. He looked at her. “Well, Mrs. Winter, I’m afraid the mystery of the Betrayal at the Bed and Breakfast is over.” He paused, looked at his wine glass, and then back at her. He glanced at the stairs as though he might call the group back. Then he shrugged. “Oh well.” He lifted his still half-full wine glass to her. “Thank you for a lovely evening, and…” He paused to grab the game books from the table. “For at least trying the game.”
“My pleasure, Reggie,” she said, giving him her booklet. “It was interesting and entertaining—and thank you for dinner.”
He nodded to her before he weaved his way over to the stairs. As Maris followed behind at a discreet distance, she watched him go up the steps, and waited. When she heard the door to his room close, she sighed with a bit of relief and turned away.
In the kitchen, Maris found Cookie loading the glasses into the dishwasher. The diminutive chef looked up at her, smiling. “That was fun.”
Maris grinned back. “I didn’t know you were such an actress.”
“Me either,” Cookie said chuckling. She closed the dishwasher. “But I guess I’m not a natural, because now I am just plain worn out.”
Maris nodded as they headed to the hallway, and Cookie turned off the kitchen light. At the end of the hall, they parted company. Maris peeked into her room and saw that Mojo had already found his place on the bed. Then she poked her head back out into the hallway. “Sleep well, Cookie.”
“Sweet dreams,” Cookie said, and they both closed their doors.
4
In the morning, Maris and Mojo found the previous evening’s aroma of almond tart replaced with the scrumptious smell of Cookie’s breakfast. As soon as she opened her bedroom door, Mojo trotted down the hall toward the kitchen—and Maris could hardly blame him. Not only had the B&B acquired a reputation for its beautiful location, Cookie’s breakfasts were becoming legendary.
As usual, Cookie stood at the stove, her back to the door. But as Maris entered, she glanced over her shoulder, smiling. “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” Maris said with her usual cheer.
For decades in the hospitality trade, Maris had known she was a morning person. Eager to get up and start the day, it didn’t matter if the sun was up yet or not. Whatever cares the previous night had carried, the morning always seemed to ease them. Bu
t as Maris looked at Cookie smiling down at her skillets, she realized that the older woman was always happy in the morning too. But Maris guessed it was more to do with the cooking than simply the start of the day. As far as she could remember, Cookie was happy at the stove.
Maris peeked over her shoulder. “Breakfast Quesadillas,” she murmured. “My favorite.”
Cookie grinned at her but drew her brows together. “I thought the Breakfast Pie was your favorite.”
“When there’s Breakfast Pie, it’s my favorite.” She eyed the skillet. “When there’s Breakfast Quesadillas, they’re my favorite. I’m very…egalitarian that way.”
Not only did the quesadillas have the fluffy scrambled eggs that Cookie was known for, but green peppers, local lox, and fresh jack and cheddar cheeses from Cheeseman Village. The quesadillas were cooked until the cheese was melted and the tortillas had turned a golden brown. Then they were folded over the already cooked contents that had been ladled onto one side of the tortilla. Once folded, Cookie expertly moved it to the warming tray and started the next.
Hash browns were cooking in another large iron skillet, and Maris saw that assorted Danish waited on the counter, along with fresh cantaloupe and mangos.
She had just been about to ask what she could do to help, when a harmonica-like meow drew her attention to the floor. Mojo sat next to his empty bowl in the corner near the dishwasher, staring at her with his big orange eyes. He meowed again, plaintively this time.
“You’d think I never feed you,” Maris said, heading to the oversized stainless refrigerator. She removed the plastic container with his food, the only thing he would eat: smoked salmon. There’d been a couple of times she was tempted to eat it herself. But instead, she forked some of the flaky fish into his bowl and watched as he dove at it face first. “Um, bon appétit.”
As Cookie transferred the hash browns to a warming tray, she said, “Speaking of which, Chef Fournier put on quite the meal.”
Maris nodded as she put away the salmon. “Beautifully prepared and served,” she said, and then raised an eyebrow at the cook. “But really, I think it saved the evening.” She picked up the warming tray full of quesadillas. “Be right back.”
