Books,Cooks,and Crooks By Lucy Arlington
Chapter 1
AFTER A LONG DAY OF CONTRACT NEGOTIATIONS, PHONE CALLS to authors and editors, and a meeting with my fellow literary agents, the last thing I expected was to come home to find my kitchen on fire.
I knew something was wrong the moment I opened the front door. The acrid smell of burning meat assaulted my nostrils, and clouds of gray smoke plumed from the kitchen into the hall. I heard a man bark out a string of colorful expletives seconds before the downstairs smoke alarm blared.
Dropping my purse and briefcase on the floor, I rushed into the kitchen and took in the chaotic scene.
High flames were rising from a frying pan on the stovetop, police officer Sean Griffiths was holding a burning dishtowel, and a shower of sparks was spreading over the apron he wore. I quickly grabbed the fire extinguisher from the pantry, and though I’d never used one of the devices before, I let my instincts guide my hands. Yanking out the metal pin, I aimed the funnel-shaped nozzle and covered my boyfriend, countertops, and stove with a layer of white foam.
“Are you okay?” I shouted to Sean over the shriek of the alarm.
He looked down at the smoldering towel in his hands and nodded. “I think so!”
Now that the flames had been doused I had a chance to really look around my kitchen.
The table had been set for a romantic dinner for two. I glanced from the lit candles, folded linen napkins, and the vase stuffed with bright pink roses to the handsome man wearing my apron. It was embroidered with the text All Great Chefs Drink While They Cook. Apparently, he had taken the motto to heart. Not only was there was an open bottle of red wine on the table, but a cognac bottle had capsized on the counter next to the stove and had emptied its contents onto the cabinets and floor.
I set the extinguisher gently on the table and picked up the bottle of wine positioned next to the roses. Eschewing a glass, I raised the bottle to my lips and took several long swallows. In light of the mayhem in my kitchen, I figured that my less than impeccable table manners could be excused just this once.
“I’m so sorry, Lila!” Sean yelled over the alarm and moved to the sink. He dropped the dishtowel in the basin, turned the water on, and began to scrub his hands.
I took another swallow, dabbed my mouth with a napkin, and opened the back door. Smoke immediately rushed outside. I darted around the first floor of my little cottage, cracking windows and turning on ceiling fans.
Mercifully, the alarm ceased its deafening ringing as I made my way back into the kitchen.
Sean had dumped the dishtowel into the garbage can and was now stuffing my ruined apron in there as well.
I got a bucket and mop from the pantry and then paused for a moment, leaning on the mop handle and surveying the mess. “What happened?”
With a remorseful expression, Sean gestured at the table. “Today’s our nine-month anniversary, so I thought I’d surprise you with a delicious meal. I even bought a new cookbook from the Constant Reader. It’s supposed to help beginner cooks make gourmet meals that come out looking and tasting like they were made by a professional chef.” He shot a rueful glance at the book propped open near the stove. Its pages were charred and unreadable.
I couldn’t help but smile. “What was on tonight’s menu?”
“Chicken flambé,” Sean said. “But I was behind schedule and so I didn’t bother to measure the cognac. As it turned out, pouring liquor directly into the pan was a serious mistake. Cognac dribbled everywhere.” He pointed at the offending bottle. “I had the gas flame set too high and once the alcohol hit . . .” He trailed off and gave me a sheepish shrug.
He looked so forlorn that I couldn’t possibly be angry. After all, the only real damage was to the dishtowel, apron, and cookbook. The rest of the room could be returned to order in no time. Slipping on a pair of yellow latex cleaning gloves, I joined Sean by the sink.
“Why don’t you order us takeout from Wild Ginger? Maybe some sesame chicken or beef and broccoli?” I moved closer, doing my best to avoid the fire extinguisher foam still clinging to his pants, and kissed him on the cheek. “After all, we still have a lovely bottle of wine and I don’t want to waste the candlelight.”
Sean’s smile of relief was blinding. He cupped my chin in his damp hand and turned my face so that my lips would meet his. “I am a lucky, lucky man,” he murmured and kissed me tenderly.
A moment later, I wriggled out of his arms to fill the mop bucket with soapy water. “And take your pants off, Officer Griffiths,” I scolded lightly. “I don’t want fire extinguisher foam to get on the hall rug.”
“You want me to take off my clothes? Now that’s an order I could get used to.” He grinned and reached for the take-out menus I kept in the drawer below the phone.
By the time the Wild Ginger deliveryman rang the doorbell, the kitchen was clean, the windows were closed, and Sean was clad in the sweatpants and sneakers he kept in his gym bag. He insisted on plating the Chinese food at the counter while I enjoyed some wine. After placing our supper on the table, he dimmed the lights and raised his glass in a toast.
“To not setting the house on fire when we celebrate our first year together.”
“Here, here!” I cried happily, clinking the rim of his glass with my own.
We dug into our meals, quite hungry by now. Both of us preferred to eat around six-thirty and it was nearly eight o’clock by the time I speared my first piece of beef with the point of my wooden chopstick.
“Learning to cook is harder than I thought it would be,” Sean said after his initial hunger had been sated. “I’ve been getting by with frozen dinners and fast food. Maybe I should watch that TV show you love so much.”
“The one with Chef Klara?” I attempted to shovel rice into my mouth using the chopsticks, but I couldn’t grasp more than a grain at a time. Surrendering, I grabbed a fork from the cutlery drawer and polished off the rest of my meal. “Tales From the Table is the best cooking show on television. It’s not just about food, but about the memories certain foods invoke.”
Sean refilled my wineglass and pushed his empty plate away. “Well, I was smart enough to buy ice cream for our dessert, so if you’d like to curl up on the sofa and find an episode on the DVR, I’ll bring you a big bowl of chocolate mocha chip, and we can watch Chef Klara together.”
“I am lucky, lucky woman,” I said, echoing his earlier sentiment. I tried to carry my dishes to the sink, but he refused to let me do the washing up. Instead, he uncorked a bottle of sweet and airy dessert wine, poured me a generous glass, and shooed me into the living room. By the time he joined me, I was feeling more than a little lightheaded.
Snuggled against each other, we ate ice cream and listened to Chef Klara talk about how invigorating it was to plant the first herbs of spring.
“To me, springtime represents the celebration of fresh colors and flavors. After a long winter, we finally get to crush some of the season’s first herbs—chives and oregano—between our fingertips. How I used to love to pick these for my grandmother and then watch her sprinkle them over a lamb roast.” Klara, a curvy, middle-aged brunette with sky blue eyes smiled at the camera. “Tonight, I’m going to walk you through one of my family’s favorite dishes: grilled tuna and spring herb salad with marinated tomatoes. And for dessert? Ripe, juicy apricots tossed with brown sugar and honey.” She grabbed a pot holder, opened an oven, and pulled out the middle rack, revealing a perfectly browned apricot tart. Karla described the heavenly smell in her kitchen and then added a conspiratorial whisper. “You don’t have to be Charlene Jacques to create wonderful pies and tarts. Let me show you some of her secrets.”
“Who’s Charlene Jacques?” Sean asked.
“She’s a famous pastry chef. Her show comes on before Klara’s.” I took another sip of the sweet dessert wine. “Klara is one of the agency’s authors, remember? I can’t believe both Klara and Charlene Jacques will be in Inspiration Valley in a few days. Our Taste of the Town is going to be amazing!”
Setting his empty ice cream bowl aside, Sean began to stroke my hair, starting at the crown of my head and pulling gently until he reached the ends. My entire body relaxed against him and I sighed in contentment.
“And how is Novel Idea involved in this festival of gluttony?” he teased.
I couldn’t keep the excitement from my voice. “We’ve arranged for some of the country’s top chefs to cook in Inspiration Valley restaurants, sign their cookbooks at the Constant Reader, and conduct classes at the new Marlette Robbins Center for the Arts. You should sign up for the ‘A Chef in Your Home’ class. It’s all about the fundamentals of shopping, preparing, and plating simple but delicious dishes.”
“If someone could teach me to scramble an egg, that would be a start,” Sean said, his hands traveling down my neck and across my shoulders, massaging out the kinks. I felt like a pat of melting butter.
On television, Klara illustrated the art of rolling out a pine nut tart crust. I was too focused on Sean’s touch to pay much attention, but I did hear her mention how she had seen Leslie Sterling, another celebrity chef, scorch a cream of asparagus soup once.
“This Klara woman must have a grocery list of enemies.” Sean stopped rubbing my shoulders for a moment. “She’s not very subtle, belittling her competition while boasting about her own skills.”
I grabbed the remote control and turned the television off. Turning to face Sean, I slipped my hands under his shirt and pressed my body against his. “I think I’d rather focus on your skills, Officer Griffiths. After all, we’re supposed to be celebrating.”
Sean responded immediately by kissing me until I felt breathless. Then he stood up and lifted me off the sofa in a swift, powerful movement. “Speaking of skill sets,” he whispered. “I’m pretty good at starting fires.”
And with that, he pulled me toward the bedroom and shut the door.
? ? ?
THE NEXT MORNING, my short ride to work was magical. A flurry of white petals from the pear trees lining Walden Woods Circle had swirled around my yellow scooter and everywhere I looked, daffodils and tulips were bursting through the soil of my neighbors’ tidy gardens. Hyacinths and forsythia perfumed the air and the pink dogwoods at the entrance to my neighborhood looked like tufts of cotton candy.
I was humming as I stepped into Espresso Yourself, my favorite coffee shop.
“Girl, I do believe you’re floating on a rainbow this morning.” Makayla, the coffee shop’s gorgeous barista and my best friend, called out.
“I am, but I also need a serious jolt of caffeine. Sean and I celebrated our first nine months together last night and I stayed up way too late.” Hearing how silly this statement sounded, I rolled my eyes. “Listen to me! I’m talking like I’m in junior high school. My son’s a freshman in college and I’m going on about my nine-month anniversary.”
Makayla’s mouth curved into a wide smile. “I think it’s right sweet. Why shouldn’t a woman in her late forties have a boyfriend? Or two? Or three?” Her musical laughter was drowned out by the gurgle of the espresso machine.
I studied my friend, Makayla, who was in her mid-twenties, but had the poise and self-assurance of a much older woman. She was tall and thin with radiant skin the color of warm chocolate and the most dazzling green eyes I’d ever seen. Makayla worked long hours to keep her shop afloat and in her spare time, devoured every novel she could get her hands on. She was also tireless in her support of the local art scene. Every few weeks, she hung up a new set of photographs, paintings, drawings, etchings, or textiles created by an Inspiration Valley artist.
Now, as I took in a collection of black-and-white ink drawings of birds and butterflies, I felt a pang of sadness that my beautiful, intelligent, and generous friend had yet to find a man worthy enough of a second date.
“Hey, why’d you put on a long face?” Makayla asked, handing me a large caramel latte.
The bell above the door rang and an elderly man in a business suit walked into the coffee shop. Lowering my voice, I said, “I was just thinking that you deserve to be as happy as I am. I wish some dashing, bookish, coffee-drinking stranger would waltz in here and capture your heart.”
Makayla grinned and gestured at the café table where I normally sat. “Let me get Mr. Sheehan his cappuccino and cinnamon scone and then I’ll tell you about my secret admirer.”
“What?” I glanced at the impatient Mr. Sheehan. “Okay, but hurry up.” I checked my watch and decided that I could be a little late for work. After all, my office was right upstairs. I sipped my latte and flipped through the pages of Inspired Voice, Inspiration Valley’s free paper, and felt another thrill of excitement about all the Taste of the Town events I’d be attending as a representative of the Novel Idea Literary Agency.
“Read this.” Makayla perched on the edge of the table and handed me a scrap of paper. “This one’s from yesterday. It was folded inside a two-dollar bill and stuffed into my tip jar.”
I raised my brows. “You don’t see these in circulation anymore.”
“That’s how I know it’s the same guy. He always puts his notes inside a two-dollar bill.” She nudged my elbow. “Go on, girlfriend. Drink in the words.”
Complying, I read the following typewritten lines out loud: “I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride; so I love you because I know no other way.” Putting the paper on the table, I looked at Makayla. “Wow. Who wrote this?”
“Pablo Neruda, the Chilean poet. Lord, I got weak in the knees reading his stuff.” She touched my hand. “But Lila, they’ve all been this beautiful. My secret admirer has given me three bits of poetry so far. I didn’t want to tell you until I was sure it wasn’t a fluke, but this makes number four.”
I shook my head in wonder. “And you have no idea who this guy is?”
“None. And it’s driving me insane!” She gripped my hand. “I’m counting on your talent as a seasoned investigator to help me discover his identity. I need to find out soon, because I am not getting any sleep. I lie in bed and picture my customers’ faces one by one until they’re spinning around in my head like a merry-go-round on speed.”
“Of course I’ll help.” I paused and then looked into my friend’s green eyes. “But what if he’s not who you hoped he’d be? What happens then?”
Makayla sighed. “If he’s married, lives with his mama, or has been to jail, then I’m not interested, but if he isn’t Prince Charming, that’s fine by me, too. I’m no Cinderella. I want a man who appreciates stories, is a good listener, and laughs easily. It doesn’t matter to me if he’s black, white, bald, short, pudgy, or hairy.” She gave me a sly smile. “But he’s got to love books, especially since I just finished writing one.”
I’d been on the verge of taking another sip of my latte when she uttered this declaration. “What?” I asked through pursed lips. “I thought it was just an idea you were fleshing out.”
“I didn’t want you to feel obligated to read my work in progress,” she hurriedly assured me. “Besides, I wasn’t sure if I’d finish it at all, but these little lines of love in my tip jar really got me going, and The Barista Diaries is done and ready to be submitted to an agent. Know any good ones?”
Delighted, I listened as Makayla described her collection of short stories and then realized I was going to be noticeably tardy if I didn’t zip upstairs that second. After making her promise to email me a copy of her manuscript, I scooped up my take-out cup and headed for the lobby, hoping that Vicky Crump, our agency’s punctilious office manager, wasn’t at her desk yet.
? ? ?
I SPENT ALL Tuesday morning working diligently as I wanted the tasks out of the way before Taste of the Town began that Friday. I barely stopped for a coffee break and ate my lunch of leftovers from the previous night’s Wild Ginger dinner in front of my computer. Chewing on the last bite of cold broccoli beef, I placed the empty plastic containers in my tote and scooped up a package of washable markers along with my Taste of the Town folder. Thus supplied, I headed for the conference room.
As expected, no one was there, and I began to prepare for my meeting. On the whiteboard, I drew out a chart. Across the top row, I wrote in the agents’ names, and in the far left column, filled in an event for each subsequent row: Klara’s Book Release, Books and Cooks Signings, Short Story Contest, Food in Children’s Lit, Literary Banquet, TV Show. I was so intent on my task that I didn’t realize Jude had come into the room until he spoke.
“You look completely absorbed,” he said in a playful tone.
His voice startled me and my hand jerked, giving the “w” on the word “show” an upturned tail. I spun around. As always, my pulse sped up at the sight of Jude. His chocolate brown eyes held a glint of amusement beneath his long lashes. Smiling at me, he ran his fingers through his dark wavy hair. “I’ve been watching you for five minutes and you didn’t even notice,” he said. “Not that I didn’t enjoy the view.”
I refused to respond to his flattery. I was Sean’s girl, and my brief ill-advised fancy of being with Jude had dissipated long ago. Glancing at the time on the wall clock behind him, I said, “You’re early. The meeting doesn’t start until two.”
“I know. I just wanted to have a few minutes alone with you before everyone else comes in.” He stepped closer to me.
“Jude,” I cautioned. “You know Sean and I—”
“Not like that. I know that you and the policeman are tight. My loss,” he said, shaking his head. He held out a stack of papers. “I actually came here early to discuss the latest submissions for the Alexandria Society sequel. Not one of these has the same spellbinding, desperate voice that Marlette had, and I’m inclined to turn them all down. How did you fare with yours?”
Marlette Robbins, one of the agency’s authors represented by Jude, had written an intriguing suspense novel that became an immediate bestseller. Unfortunately, he didn’t live to see his masterwork in print. Now, with the book’s success, his publishers were eager to put out a sequel and Jude and I had been given the task of finding a ghostwriter for the book. So far, we hadn’t had any luck.
“Same here,” I answered. “I wasn’t impressed by any of the submissions I received. And some of them were from big-name authors.”
Jude sighed and plunked himself into a chair. “I thought this would be an easy project, but Marlette’s unique voice is proving difficult to replicate. Any suggestions?”
“What if . . .” I tapped the end of a marker on my chin. “Instead of focusing on seasoned authors, we expand the playing field. Go through our unsolicited queries, maybe put the word out to writers who may not have published a bestseller yet. Or published anything, for that matter. Look at Marlette. He was unknown and unpublished, and he still penned a winner.”
Jude nodded. “But how do we advertise what we’re looking for without seeming overanxious?”
“The Taste of the Town will bring lots of people in—maybe we could have a contest in conjunction with the first event held at the Marlette Robbins Center for the Arts.”
“I like that. A ghostwriting contest to honor Marlette.” Jude started writing on his notepad. “However, since we already have the Stories About Food writing contest underway, it might not be such a good idea to have two contests going at once. Should we run it by Bentley and see what she thinks?”
“Maybe we can talk to her after this meeting. Right now I have to finish this.” I turned back to the whiteboard and completed the chart.
A few minutes later, the rest of the staff were seated around the conference table, gazing expectantly at me. I felt a little self-conscious standing at the front, especially with Bentley Burlington-Duke, the founder and president of Novel Idea Literary Agency, sitting to my left. She peered at me over her diamond-studded reading glasses but said nothing.
I cleared my throat and began. “I set up this meeting because the day after tomorrow the chefs arrive in Inspiration Valley and the Taste of the Town festival begins on Friday. As you know, our agency’s portion of the festival, Books and Cooks, commences at the same time. And I wanted to ensure that everything is in place so that it all runs smoothly, especially for our chef clients.” Pointing at the chart on the whiteboard, I continued. “If I could get your status on the areas for which you are each responsible, we can move on from there.”
Vicky spoke first. With her ramrod-straight posture and direct approach, she gave the impression that she was much taller than a mere five feet. Straightening her blue-rimmed glasses she began. “I’ve booked rooms for all of our celebrity guests and their entourage at the Magnolia Bed and Breakfast, although a few of the underlings have rooms at Bertram’s Hotel.”
“It’s a good thing our Bertram’s Hotel isn’t like the one in the Agatha Christie story,” Zach Cohen, our “Mr. Hollywood” agent for screenplays and sportswriters, interrupted. He waggled his black eyebrows. “If it was, we’d be sending those people straight into a group of criminals.”
Jude chuckled. Vicky stared at Zach for a brief minute, and then continued. “I made sure that Klara Patrick’s room is on an entirely different floor from Doug Corby, Leslie Sterling, and Charlene Jacques.”
“Hoo boy, that was smart, Vicky!” exclaimed Zach. “The Magnolia B&B would see some fireworks if they were sleeping down the hall from Chef Klara.”
“Whatever do you mean, Zach?” Bentley asked. “Aren’t they all professionals?”
“Supposedly, but Klara is always undermining the other chefs, especially Charlene Jacques, who has a show on the same network. And the food critic, Doug Corby, wrote a scathing review of a meal Chef Klara prepared for the Food Fair in Baltimore last month.” He feigned a throat-cutting motion with his pointer finger. “Talk about the pen being mightier than the sword. Ouch!”
“I remember that review.” Flora leaned forward on the table. “He called her veal ‘leather-like’ and her sauce ‘as heavy as cement.’ Said he wouldn’t feed her dish to a stray dog. Created quite an uproar at that food fair.”
Bentley frowned. “Well, let’s hope these people can manage to control their animosity toward each other at our events. Carry on, Lila.”
I scanned my notes. “Vicky, will the chefs all be here for the introductory tour and Bentley’s catered supper? Have you confirmed the pickup arrangements?”
She nodded. “Klara and her people are driving up in their limo, and three of the chefs are coming in on the train. Doug Corby will be on the Inspiration Express on Friday morning. The television crew for Klara’s TV show arrived earlier this week to set up.”
“Speaking of which,” Zach interrupted, “the setup crew made some trouble about the stove at the Arts Center. It was wired for electric, but not for gas, and several of the chefs, including Chef Klara, insist on cooking only with gas. Her majesty also insisted that a stove be reserved for her use only until she has finished with her demonstration. So to keep the culinary kings and queens happy, we installed a six-burner gas stove. That cost a wad of dough.” He rubbed his thumb over his fingertips. “Lila, can we bill Klara’s company for that?”
I shook my head. “I doubt it. And I can certainly understand a chef preferring a gas stove to electric. Especially one as talented as Chef Klara. I find the heat on a gas stove easier to control. Franklin, is everything in place for the release party for Klara’s new cookbook?”
Franklin rubbed his chin while considering my question. “Sure is. It will kick off after the filming of the television show. There’ll be delectable food for people to sample and a display table for her new cookbook as well. She can sign books for her fans for as long as she likes.”
“That’s not to be confused with the signings scheduled at the Constant Reader,” Jude interjected.
Franklin shook his head. “No, those are separate. Although, Klara expressed a desire to do a signing at the Constant Reader after her panel on Friday morning. Can we schedule that in for the early afternoon, Lila?” At my nod, Franklin continued. “The Cooks and Books chef signing session on Saturday afternoon at the Arts Center is for all the chefs other than Klara, and their latest cookbooks. The other Constant Reader signings are for books about food, but not necessarily cookbooks.”
“Like Doug Corby’s A Foodie’s Diary: Meals Worth Remembering (and some not so much),” Vicky said. “I found that an intriguing read.”
Flora giggled. “That man can be nasty,” she said. “In a funny kind of way.”
“I just hope Joel Lang’s new Asian fusion cookbook won’t be too overshadowed by all the focus on Klara.” Franklin sighed. “It releases the same day, you know. I don’t know why publishers do that.”
Zach vigorously shook his head. “No way, man. There’s been as much buzz about his cookbook on TV as Klara’s. He’s booked solid on the area morning shows for the next couple of weeks. Even with all of the prepublication hype Klara’s been getting, Joel will still be a very popular dude. He might even steal her limelight.”
Franklin raised his eyebrows. “Nobody needs to steal anyone’s limelight, Zach. We want the pair of them to do well. Remember, they’re both clients of Novel Idea.”
“Then let’s get two clients on the New York Times list at once.” Zach snapped his fingers in sequence. “Batta bing.”
“How about your ‘Food in Children’s Literature’ session, Flora?” I asked after I’d updated the whiteboard data. “Is that on track?”
“Yes, dear, it certainly is. It should be a tasty exhibition, to be sure. Ed from Catcher in the Rye and Nell from Sixpence Bakery helped with the sample list. Even How Green Was My Valley got on board. Let’s see.” She perused her notes. “On the menu we have Stone Soup from the famous folk tale, Marilla’s Raspberry Cordial from Anne of Green Gables, Pippi’s Pancakes from Pippi Longstocking, Dr. Seuss’s Green Eggs and Ham—”
“Whoa! How are they making those eggs green?” Zach interjected, cutting short her recitation.
Flora’s cheeks flushed pink. “I’m not exactly sure, Zach. We’ll have to ask the chef. Should I continue?”
“Let’s leave the rest for us to discover at the event, Flora. It all sounds great.” I glanced at the chart. “That about covers it, except for the short story contest, Stories About Food. We received several submissions by last week’s deadline. Jude and Bentley, are you on track with the reading?”
“Of course,” Bentley replied. “I’ll have my assessments to you shortly.”
Jude nodded. “Me, too.”
“Good. Thanks for volunteering to be judges for the contest, by the way. It takes some of the pressure off me.”
Bentley inclined her head in acknowledgment.
“My pleasure,” Jude said. “There’s always a chance we’ll find a gem.”
“Everything is set for the banquet as well.” I passed pages around the table. “Here is the menu. And thanks for all your suggestions on which literary foods we should serve.”
“Sweet!” Zach hit the table with gusto. “My suggestion to add the clam chowder from Moby Dick was picked as the first course! The Zachmeister rules.”
“I’m glad, too,” Franklin said. “I enjoy a good clam chowder. But I’m surprised you’ve read Melville’s masterpiece thoroughly enough to remember that soup,” he added with a twinkle in his eye.
Zach leaned forward. “Are you kidding? I love that book. Melville goes on and on for almost a whole chapter about that chowder.”
“Ahem,” Bentley interceded. “Back to the banquet?”
I shot Bentley a grateful smile. “We have ballots for people to guess what literary works they believe each menu item is from, and there will be door prizes, too. Should be a great evening. And at the closing ceremony we’ll award the Novel Idea Best Cookbook Award as voted on by all the attendees. Vicky, you’re handling the ballots, right?”
Vicky nodded. “It’s all under control.”
“Good. Other than that,” I looked around the table, “we’re good to go. The first wave of chefs arrives tomorrow and then Taste of the Town and our Books and Cooks will be underway.”
“Well, Lila, you seem to have everything under control. Remember, people, you are expected to come into work on Saturday as if it’s a regular workday,” Bentley said, gathering her papers together. “Let’s hope that these capricious cooks behave themselves. After all, we’ve filled the Arts Center kitchen with an array of very sharp knives.”