by Darci Hannah
“Lindsey!” Kennedy cried, heading for the nearest café table. “You are never going to believe this. Rory is a genius!”
For some reason, the way the words tumbled from her lips made me smile. “I already know he’s a genius.” Although the man in question was carrying a laptop, I wrapped my arm through his and led him to the table. “I’ve been telling you that for months.”
Kennedy, caught in her compliment, ran a scrutinizing eye over my boyfriend. “Don’t blame me for not believing you. The whole Paul Bunyan vibe”—she wiggled her hand at him as she spoke—“and the freezer full of wild meat confuses the senses. In general, the jury’s still out, but Rory dear has a knack for sniffing out information.”
After staring at her for a beat or two, he looked at me, shook his head, and opened his laptop. “What she’s trying to tell you is that we found something of interest. All day long we’ve been reading through a cache of articles written about or by Chevy Chambers. Then we stumbled across this.” Pulling up the article in question, Rory turned the laptop to me.
“What is this?” I asked, taking a seat.
“It’s an old article from the Chicago Tribune. We have a connection to Chevy Chambers.”
I took a deep breath. Kennedy added, “It’s a review Chevy wrote for a new restaurant on the Chicago food scene called Tall Ships.”
I cast her a questioning look. “Interesting . . . And why is this important?”
“Where’s the fun in telling you? Read it for yourself.”
I did, and the instant I began reading the article I regretted it. The review was mean-spirited and brutal; from the name of the restaurant down to the choice in cocktail straws, nothing was spared. Then, however, Chevy admonished the chef. I could feel the blood draining from my face as my eyes landed on the name. My head rang with dread as my hand flew to my mouth. Rory, taking that as a cue, reached across and placed his finger on the mousepad. There was little need to read the rest of the article. I had gotten the gist of it. But then he scrolled down the page for me and landed on the photograph.
What a proud day, I thought, looking at the young man who stood so confidently before the doors of his restaurant. As all great ventures do, it had started with a dream and a willingness to take a risk, one calculated against talent. Not a bad risk, I mused. But opening a restaurant was always a risky business. There were so many factors involved—soliciting investors, gathering capital, finding the right spot, signing loans and leases, planning the menu, finding a good manager, hiring an accountant, and then beginning the costly buildout. I knew from experience it was a labor of love. And that love was clear as day in the smile of a younger Bradley Argyle. Although his hair was thicker, his face slimmer, and his smile brighter, it didn’t take much to recognize him. At the time the picture was taken, he’d had no idea what the article would say, only that he and his restaurant had made it into the Chicago Tribune.
“There’s our connection. But it still doesn’t make sense. Bradley always seemed so composed around Chevy, and he never left the stage at the bake-off.”
“Maybe he didn’t need to.” Kennedy leaned over my shoulder and placed her finger on the screen. “There. Look at that woman standing off to the side. She barely made it into the photo. Her face is slightly turned, and it’s a little blurry, but . . . I don’t know, she just struck me as familiar.”
I looked at the image, then inhaled sharply. “I don’t suppose it’s any coincidence that she looks like the woman who locked me in the storage closet.”
CHAPTER 40
The discovery of the connection between Bradley Argyle and Chevy Chambers was the link we’d been searching for. They had a past, and I had a pretty good idea—due to the fact that Bradley was working at a hotel restaurant in Beacon Harbor, Michigan—that the damage done by that review had been devastating. That, however, was mere speculation. It was the image of the mysterious woman in the photo that I couldn’t stop thinking about. Although it had been taken many years ago, and the woman in question was slightly out of focus, there was a striking resemblance between her and the woman I’d chased at the Christmas Festival. It was so close that I needed a second opinion to be certain. That’s why a visit to the Candy Cane Cottage was in order.
Mrs. Nichols pushed her glasses higher on the bridge of her nose as she stared at the picture in her hand. Rory, not wanting to drag his computer all over town, had printed the article. “Oh my,” she exclaimed, taking a closer look. “That’s her! That’s the one who was being so rude in the bakeshop, asking if we had gluten-free products.” She shook her head, as if the thought of such products was still preposterous. Her owlish eyes then held to Rory’s. “But this little missy didn’t want gluten-free anything. She wanted to steal our cookies!”
“Are you sure it’s her?”
The spritely old baker nodded. “I only wish her name had been printed below the photo. Then we’d know who she was.”
“I do too,” I said, taking back the paper. “At least this time we have a man who might be able to help us with that.”
A troubled look crossed her face as she stood up from the kitchen table. “Do be careful, you three. And be sure to take a cookie for the road.”
A short while later, we were back in my Jeep, heading for the Harbor Hotel. Looking at the crowded parking lot, I realized it might not be the best time to pull the head chef aside for a quick chat. My fears were confirmed the moment we walked into the restaurant, where we were met by the hum of pleasant conversation, the soft clank of dishware, and the whiff of untold savory smells.
“Maybe we should come back,” I ventured, noting there wasn’t an empty table in sight.
“No time like the present,” Kennedy said, rooting through her purse. Her hand landed on something, and she smiled.
“Do you have a reservation?” Our attention was pulled away by a young woman standing behind the hostess station. She was looking at us, awaiting our answer. Before Rory or I could shake our heads, Kennedy, wearing black fashionista sunglasses—even though it was dark outside—pushed between us and marched up to the young woman.
In her most intimidating accent, Kennedy snapped, “No. We are not here to dine.” With a dramatic flourish, she removed her glasses and stared at the girl, who couldn’t have been more than eighteen. “My name is Lillian Finch. Perhaps you’ve heard of me? No?” Kennedy flipped her long black hair, leaned an elbow on the lectern, and smiled. “How about now?” The poor girl didn’t know what to make of her.
“Ah . . . no, ma’am.”
“No? Seriously? It’s just as well. I’m an investigative reporter here to follow up on a lead regarding the troubling matter of poultry smuggling.”
The girl’s jaw dropped, and so did mine.
Kennedy had pulled out her favorite alter ego, Lilian Finch—a name and a persona I had always found hilarious. But was she really going with poultry smuggling? Rory grabbed me by the arm to keep me from laughing. He was grabbing me, I realized, to keep him from laughing too.
The hostess backed away. “Ah . . . come again?”
“Poultry. You know—chickens, ducks, turkeys, Cornish hens, and the occasional gray goose? Sound familiar?”
I was nearly certain that last one was a nod to her favorite vodka brand.
“I . . . I know what poultry is, ma’am. Is this some kind of joke?”
“Are you asking if the health and safety of poultry is a joke?” The girl shook her head. “Good. That’s a start. Now, tell me, where are you hiding them?”
“I’m . . . I’m not hiding anything.”
“I can smell them,” Kennedy added, pointing to the dining room. “Chicken Marsala, Chicken cordon bleu, Cornish game hen, grilled chicken breast over a bed of greens. That’s how it starts. Everybody wants to serve free-range chickens. They think it’s humane, but, tell me, what is humane about plucking those little darlings from the range and smuggling them into your kitchen?”
“I . . . think we get ours from a delivery t
ruck,” the hostess informed her.
“Can you check?”
The girl stared at Kennedy, uncertain how to go about doing that. At last she said, “I could call the manager.”
“No. I think it’s best if you phoned the chef directly. Clever chefs can smuggle a live turkey right under a manager’s nose. Ring the kitchen. Tell Chef Argyle that I’ll meet him in the back hallway between the kitchen and the ballroom.”
“Um . . . yeah. Okay.” The girl picked up the phone and made the call.
“Poultry smuggling?” We were just out of earshot of the hostess when Rory looked at her as if she was crazy. “Did that just pop into your head, or is this something you’ve been cooking up for an episode of Kennedy’s Crusades?”
“Already covered it, darling. It is a thing, but not so much in this country. All fingers point to China on this one, I’m afraid. China ships poultry, live or frozen, to developing nations for a fraction of the price of producing it in-country. The practice not only hurts the local poultry farmers, but it can often transmit diseases to healthy poultry populations and humans alike. It was part of the reason the Asian avian influenza spread throughout the world in the late nineties and early two thousands. You really should be tuning in to my podcast.”
He tossed her a sideways glance. “I hardly need to now. Do you really think Chef Argyle is going to bite?”
“Shh!” I pressed a finger to my lips and pointed to the door in question. “Let’s wait and see.”
A short while later, Bradley Argyle, dressed in his chef’s coat and hat, came bursting out of the kitchen door. He saw us, looked down both hallways, then looked at us again.
“I don’t understand? I was told to come out here regarding a matter of poultry juggling. I’m a little busy for games. Lindsey, Rory, and . . .” He looked at my friend, forgetting her name.
“Kennedy,” she supplied for him.
“Ah, yes. Kennedy. Now, what’s this all about?”
Rory handed him the printout of the Chicago Tribune article. Bradley, looking uncertain, took it. The moment he realized what was in his hand, his ruddy face turned the color of parchment.
“What’s this?”
“You never told us you had a connection to Chevy Chambers.” Rory held him in a probing gaze.
The name of the food critic caused a slight tremor to seize Bradley’s chin. He then took a calming breath and nodded. “This,” he said, shaking the paper, “was a long time ago. As you can imagine, this review did some damage. But I’ve put all that behind me.”
“Until Chevy Chambers came to Beacon Harbor,” I offered.
As if caught with his hand in the cookie jar, a guilty look crossed his face. “You can only imagine how I felt when I learned of it. I would have talked Felicity out of it had I known what she was thinking. Obviously, I didn’t learn of it until after the Christmas cookie bake-off had been announced.”
“You lied to the police,” I accused, knowing that he must have.
Bradley nodded. “The truth is, I didn’t think I had a choice. When Chevy was murdered, I grew afraid. I mean, how would that look? I didn’t like the man one bit. Yet there was something in me that wanted to compete in the cookie bake-off. I guess I wanted to show him that regardless of his scathing review of my restaurant, I had survived. No, I have flourished here. He might have been correct when he wrote that I wasn’t cut out for the big city scene. I can now admit that I had bitten off more than I could chew with that restaurant, and he called me out on it. I wasn’t happy. In fact, I was furious. But you need to realize that a lot has happened in both our careers. Chevy stayed in Chicago and made a name for himself on television. I moved to Beacon Harbor. I’m head of this kitchen, and I couldn’t be happier.” He shrugged, then offered a wan smile. “So, no poultry juggling?”
“They take to the air because they can,” Kennedy told him. “I bet you wish you were a bird right about now?”
“Are you accusing me of something?” He gave her a hard stare.
“Bradley,” Rory began, “you know how this looks. You have both motive and opportunity. Do you expect us to believe you didn’t murder Chevy Chambers?”
Bradley laughed. “The trouble is, I think we all wanted to kill him. But no. This time was different. Beacon Harbor is my town, not his. I decided not to care, and it worked. The poor bastard actually liked my cookies.”
“Because you baked a winning cookie,” I told him. I could tell the compliment pleased him. While his back was down, I gently continued. “I’m very sorry about your restaurant. Chevy’s review was mean, but this is a great picture of you at any rate. By the way, who is this woman?” I pointed to the woman in question.
Without much thought, he answered, “That’s my mother.”
My stomach lurched at the thought. It was a revelation! His mother had stolen my cookies! Dear heavens, what had compelled her to do that? Fighting to remain calm, I asked, “And, um, what’s her name?”
It must have been the tone of my voice. His head jerked up, and he shot me a look that chilled me to the core. “It’s none of your concern. And here’s a little advice for all of you. Stay out of this.”
He was turning to go when I blurted, “I would, but your mother and two of her friends stole all of the Beacon’s signature cookies.”
“What?” It must have been the first time he’d heard of it. His face fell as embarrassment struck him. “Oh, God. I’m sorry. I didn’t know. Look, my mother is a . . . a kleptomaniac. She’s a lovely person, but she can’t help herself. As you can imagine, it’s a huge embarrassment for me. How much did she take, Lindsey? I’d be happy to pay for whatever loss you incurred.”
“No, no. I don’t want your money. I just thought maybe you’d tell me her name?”
Pain flashed across his face. He tried to fight it, but it was a powerful emotion. “Please,” he said, “leave my mother out of this.” He hung his head and walked back to his kitchen.
CHAPTER 41
We were barely buckled into our seats when Kennedy remarked, “It just goes to prove the old adage, you can choose your friends, but you can’t choose your family.”
“He clearly has mommy issues,” I agreed.
“Did you see the look on his face when you mentioned the cookie-napping? Like a kid caught with his hand in the biscuit tin. I bet he knew but was too embarrassed to admit it.”
I gave this a thought as I drove out of the parking lot heading for the lighthouse. “I feel sorry for him,” I admitted. “First Chevy Chambers, a prickly ghost from his past, comes to town, and then his mother steals our cookies. Who knows what else she’s taken since she’s been here?”
“You think she’s here in this town?” Rory, riding shotgun, looked at me. He’d been rubbing the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, something he did when deep in thought or troubled. His hand came away. “Is she visiting? Do you think she’s at his house?”
“I don’t know what to think,” I told him honestly.
“Look, I consider myself to be a good judge of character.”
Kennedy leaned forward. “Wish we could say the same about our Lindsey.”
Ignoring her, Rory continued. “There’s something about that guy that sends up all kinds of warning bells. Think about it. He works at the hotel. Bradley would know all the ins and outs, all the hallways and sitting areas.”
I turned my head to look at him. “Go on.”
“Another point, the woman we now know to be his mother locked you in a basement storage closet. She stole your signature cookies. Big deal. It’s hardly the crime of the century. So, why lure you down there and get you out of the way?”
“I never thought of it like that. Do you think she was planning to lock me in the closet?”
Kennedy leaned forward, this time with a serious thought. “Doubtful she was planning it, but Rory’s correct—don’t gloat, darling—she was familiar with the hotel, so clearly it was an option.”
“Those are locked storage
closets,” Rory pointed out. “She would have to have had a key to open the door. The closet you were locked in, Lindsey, contained kitchen supplies. It’s not a huge leap of the imagination to think that the head chef would have had the key. Most likely a master key. Chad, unfortunately, didn’t have one. He had a key ring instead. If there is a master key, maybe it had been stolen.”
“She could have lifted it without him knowing,” Kennedy offered. “She’s a klepto, remember? Hardly a challenge to those with Sticky Finger Syndrome.”
I smiled at her made-up disease. “I agree. But what’s her real motive? Why steal my cookies? Why lock me in a closet? I don’t know her.” I paused to park the Jeep in the boathouse, turned off the ignition, and looked at Kennedy in the rearview mirror.
“Maybe she thought you were trying to steal her son?” She flashed a devilish smile. “Tit for tat. Mommy Sticky Fingers wants you out of the picture.”
Hardly, I thought. I barely knew Bradley. But I did know that Kennedy delighted in making wild guesses. I patted Rory’s hand, and told him, “I have all I need right here.” The approval in his bright blue gaze inspired me. On impulse, I yanked him closer for a kiss. Our lips were about to touch when Kennedy thrust her hand between us, blocking lip-to-lip contact.
“What?” I cried. Rory, kissing the fleshy side of her hand, made a sound packed with all the revulsion of a man being tickled with a dead, sand-covered fish.
“Save it for the mistletoe, you two. We’re in the middle of an investigation. Now, tell me, do we think Bradley Argyle or Mommy Sticky Fingers is our killer?”
The way Kennedy had clarified it, making it a choice between Bradley and his mother set the wheels in my head in motion. While it was true that every contestant in the live bake-off had a motive to cause harm to Chevy Chambers, Bradley Argyle and his failed restaurant seemed to stand above the rest. His mom had been there. She’d been in the photograph. And Bradley would not give us her name. Although he had claimed that he’d moved past all ill will toward Chevy, it could have been a lie. Certainly, his mother’s behavior had been very odd, even suspicious. I couldn’t quite put it all together, but I thought Kennedy had hit the nail on the head.
