Chapter 5
THE DEMONSTRATIONS WENT OFF WITHOUT A HITCH and the variety of succulent dishes created by our celebrity chefs captivated the audience. While the cameras were still rolling, Zach held out Klara’s cookbook and announced that she’d be signing copies of My Grandmother’s Hearth at the Constant Reader. He then produced a copy of Joel’s cookbook and, with a solemn expression, explained that Chef Lang had passed away in a tragic accident the previous night.
“Sadly, Fusing Asian will be his last book, but I think it’s his best work yet,” Zach said. “It’s available online and at a bookstore near you, so pick up a copy in his memory.” The cameraman zoomed in on the cookbook’s cover for a few seconds and then the show was over.
I cast a shocked glance at Bentley. Had Zach’s last segment been scripted? Was he deliberately using Joel’s death as a method for increasing the cookbook’s sales? Bentley’s face was unreadable, but I saw the immediate effect on the audience. Several of the women dabbed at their eyes with tissues while a few of the men declared that they wanted to hurry to the Constant Reader to check out the book for themselves.
Suddenly, people were scrambling to be first out the door of Voltaire’s.
I rushed over to Klara, who had her hands folded across her chest and was glowering at the departing crowd. “We’re going to have to hurry,” I told her. “It looks like you’re going to have quite a lineup of expectant readers.”
“For me or Joel Lang?” she snapped. “I deserve the New York Times list. If that man lands a spot on it just because he died, then I’m going to be furious.”
Stunned by her callousness, I looked to Ryan for help, but he merely shrugged and continued to pack his wife’s cooking utensils, makeup kit, and soiled chef’s coat into a box.
Annie came to the rescue. “You have a lifetime of book releases ahead of you,” she told Klara softly. “This one will be a huge success and the next one will be, too. Poor Mr. Lang won’t ever have another. And while you’re filming new television shows, people can only see him on reruns. You’re still the star.”
Klara gave Annie a fond smile. “You’re right. And I didn’t mean to sound crass. You all know how much of myself I put into this cookbook—how much of my precious family memories are in each and every dish. I’m sure Joel’s book was just as important to him and, truly, there’s room for both of us on the bestseller list.” She pointed at a garment bag draped over a nearby chair. “Dennis? Would you carry my black chef’s coat to the bookstore?” Turning to me, she said, “I get so tired of wearing white. It shows every little stain.”
I gestured for Klara and her entourage to follow me through the restaurant’s rear exit. Leading them down back alleys and side streets, I tried to get Klara to the Constant Reader before the majority of the crowd arrived, but she insisted on walking at a leisurely pace.
“It’s better if we make them wait,” she explained. “Trust me, I have experience with this sort of thing. If there’s a big line, it builds excitement. Besides, I need Annie to touch up my foundation and lipstick before I go inside. I’ll have to pose for dozens of pictures during the signing.”
“You’re the boss,” I told her breezily, but as we continued on I couldn’t help but wonder if I could tolerate Klara’s mercurial company all day long. I’d never met a woman who could behave with such warmth and sweetness one moment and then, in a flash, act completely selfish or cruel.
I glanced at Ryan out of the corner of my eye and considered what it was like for him, to be married to a successful, famous, and totally unpredictable person. I suppose there was never a dull moment for the spouse of Chef Klara, but I’d take my quiet, loving, and tender relationship with Sean over fame and theatrics any day.
Finally, we reached the bookstore’s back door, where we paused while Klara donned her black coat and Annie fussed over her hair and makeup.
“I could use a cup of coffee,” Klara said wistfully. “I didn’t sleep well after what happened last night.”
Ryan studied his wife sympathetically. “I knew it was bad when you left our hotel room in your pajamas and sneakers.” He looked at me. “When she’s upset or stressed, she’ll take walks in the middle of the night. And then she’ll get up the next morning and work a ten-hour day without breaking stride.”
“That’s show business,” Dennis grumbled and shifted Klara’s belongings from one arm to the other.
“Well, I’m sure we can find some coffee to perk you up. The Constant Reader is connected to the James Joyce Pub,” I told Klara, unsure if she remembered seeing the bookstore the night before.
The scene inside the Constant Reader instantly buoyed my spirits. Scores of customers were in the shop, occupying every aisle and cozy nook of the rabbit warren–like store. Most of them already had Klara’s cookbook in hand along with a few novels or how-to books on a host of subjects from making pottery to knitting to basket weaving. I also noticed that the section on regional gardening was nearly wiped out and I sensed that people were delighting in the temperate weather and, like me, dreamt of growing their own vegetable, herb, and flower gardens that could rival those in Monet’s paintings.
“You made it!” Makayla exclaimed when I’d finally managed to wade through the crowd with Klara, Ryan, Annie, and Dennis. “I told Jay not to worry—that you’d be here any sec.” She gestured at the man in the light gray sweater standing a few feet away from us.
Jay Coleman, owner of the Constant Reader, hastily finished assisting a customer and welcomed Klara to his bookshop.
“This is quite an honor,” he said. He spoke in a low, reserved voice, but behind his Clark Kent glasses, his sky blue eyes sparkled with enthusiasm.
I’d only met Jay a few times since he’d purchased the store from the previous owner—a charming older gentleman who’d decided to retire and relocate to Arizona—but I could see that he’d made several changes over the past couple of months. The most noticeable was that he was no longer selling used books. He’d also replaced the well-worn recliners with leather club chairs and had added track lights to the ceiling. The walls had been painted a soothing moss green and a pair of wall speakers was piping out upbeat instrumental music. Before, the shop had been dimly lit, musty, and wonderfully cozy. Now, it felt clean and comfortable without losing any of its coziness, like a favorite blanket that had finally been washed.
“I didn’t think the Constant Reader could possibly be improved,” I admitted to Jay. “But that was before you made changes. Now, it’s sheer perfection.” I pivoted to take in the whole shop. “And I see you’ve expanded your romance and mystery sections. That’s a wonderful thing for this literary agent to see.”
He smiled shyly. “You represent mystery and romantic suspense authors, right?” He glanced over to where customers were eagerly browsing through the latest mystery releases. “They’re my bestsellers. I read them all the time so that I can provide recommendations.”
“Even the bodice-ripping kind?” Klara asked, clearly surprised to learn that a good-looking man in his early thirties spent his free time reading romantic suspense novels.
“That’s a bit of a stereotype,” Jay answered with the utmost respect, little spots of color blooming on his cheeks. He obviously didn’t want to insult Klara, but I also guessed that he would champion any genre if he felt his beloved books were being slighted. “Personally, I like the historical romances. Those authors have conducted an incredible amount of research in order to transport their readers to another time and place and I’m always in awe of their talent.”
Klara’s eyes had glazed over. When Jay stopped talking, she made a big show of sniffing the air. “Is that the divine scent of coffee?”
“It is indeed. I’m Makayla, the proprietor of Espresso Yourself, a book-reading barista, and your angel of java for all the events scheduled at the Arts Center.” Makayla held out a book to Klara. “Lila’s told me so much about you that I just had to get you to autograph my brand-new copy of My Grandmother’s Hearth.” While Klara uncapped an expensive fountain pen, Makayla studied the celebrity chef’s face, undoubtedly noticing the bags under Klara’s eyes. “I’d love to treat you to the caffeinated beverage of your choice before you have to go up front and sign millions of copies of this fabulous cookbook. What’ll you have?”
Preening, Klara gave Makayla her order and then headed to the sturdy wooden table where she would sit, regal as a queen, to greet fans, pose for pictures, and write her name in a flourish of black ink on the title page of My Grandmother’s Hearth.
“You ordered so many of Joel’s cookbook,” she remarked to Jay ten minutes later. It didn’t seem to matter that people were scooping up her book as fast as they could. Her eyes kept straying to the glossy cover of Fusing Asian. For a moment, I felt sorry for her. She was so obsessed with her competitor’s possible success that she was unable to enjoy her own.
I chatted with a few of the bookstore patrons and then went behind the counter for a breather. Being near Makayla always improved my outlook and she didn’t let me down. After pushing a caramel latte and a two-bite cinnamon streusel muffin in my direction, she handed a customer his change, and then beamed at him as he stuffed a dollar bill in her tip jar.
“Any new notes in there today?” I asked her.
“I got one yesterday and it’s so gorgeous you’ll want to cry!” She opened the portable cash box she used for off-site events and gingerly removed a crisp two-dollar bill from beneath a small pile of twenties. “Look how tiny the writing is.”
The tidy print was too small for me to decipher without my reading glasses, so I slipped them on and murmured the lines of poetry aloud.
“A magic moment I remember:
I raised my eyes and you were there.
A fleeting vision, the quintessence
Of all that’s beautiful and rare.”
A small sigh escaped from between my lips and I looked up and smiled at Makayla. “Wow.”
“I know,” she replied. “The poem’s ‘A Magic Moment I Remember’ by Alexander Pushkin. I’ve read it over and over again.” She smoothed the paper currency with her fingertips, her eyes full of longing. “Whoever this guy is, he has exquisite taste.”
“Obviously. He’s in love with you, isn’t he?”
Giving me a grateful smile, she stepped away to make a café au lait for a woman who’d bought three copies of Klara’s cookbook. Taking a sip of my sweet and deliciously creamy latte, I glanced to the front of the shop to see that Klara was still holding court and finally seemed to be enjoying herself. Jay’s supply of My Grandmother’s Hearth was rapidly disappearing. I decided I’d better see if he had more copies.
Jay was in the science-fiction and fantasy section, engaged in an animated conversation with a young man holding a copy of J. R. R. Tolkien’s The Return of the King. Jay showed the enthusiastic reader a book called The Dragonbone Chair by Tad Williams and the young man nodded happily, grasped the book to his chest, and marched off in the direction of the checkout counter.
“It’s nice to see that there are members of the next generation who don’t spend all their waking time on Facebook,” I said to Jay.
“Absolutely,” he agreed. “And I don’t believe the dire predictions about the future of the book. In whatever form it takes, the book will never disappear. Stories are too important to us. We can’t live without them.”
I nodded, admiring Jay’s quiet passion. I felt exactly as he did. “Speaking of vanishing, do you have any more copies of Klara’s book? I hate to use a cliché, but they’re selling like hotcakes.”
“Excellent. I’ve got another box tucked under the display table.” He was just about to slide past me when I touched his arm. “I know this isn’t the ideal time to ask, but do you recall anyone buying a book of love poetry recently?”
He paused to consider my question. “I sold a few back in February. A couple of guys bought them as Valentine’s Day gifts, but I don’t remember selling any lately. Are you looking for something in particular?”
I shook my head. “No, I was just wondering. Never mind me. I’m trying to help a friend solve a mystery.” As Jay moved off, I stood there for a second. The mention of Valentine’s Day made me smile and think of Sean, because he and I had already celebrated several holidays this year. I loved how we were slowly building memories together. And then, as if I had conjured him out of thin air, he was in the store, politely pushing his way through a knot of book browsers.
His eyes locked on mine and all at once I felt like we were the only two people in that store. I could feel the intensity of his gaze, the pull of his body toward mine, and I wished we were alone so I could run to meet him. I wanted to throw my arms around his neck and tilt my face up to his so that he could kiss me. I wanted to forget about the chefs and last night’s horror and get lost in his embrace, but I could see from his grim expression that he wasn’t striding toward me out of desire, but out of concern. Or worse, out of fear.
“What’s happened?” I asked the moment he drew alongside me.
He slid an arm around my waist and pulled me closer, wordlessly steering us to the back of the shop. His fingertips were pressing hard against my flesh and I could feel the tension pulsing through them. Again, I whispered, “What’s happened?”
Without answering, he led me into the storeroom and then closed the door behind us. In the cool, quiet space, populated only by stacks of cardboard boxes and wheeled carts loaded with books, he crushed me against him and then, just as abruptly, let me go.
“How is it that you always end up in the middle of my worst cases?” He tucked a strand of my hair behind my ear.
“Please, Sean.” I couldn’t take the suspense any longer. “You’re obviously upset. Tell me why.”
He released a heavy sigh. “I’ve just come from a meeting with the fire inspector. We’ve been over his findings a dozen times, but no matter how often we review the evidence, it doesn’t change the fact that someone deliberately caused the explosion last night.
“What are you saying?” My question was a form of denial. I knew perfectly well what he meant. I just didn’t want to believe it.
“Joel Lang’s death was no accident,” he said. “It was murder.”
? ? ?
THE SHOCK OVER hearing the details about the explosion made for a restless night, causing me to arise later than I intended on Saturday morning. I was almost late for the “Food in Children’s Literature” session at the Arts Center. I hurried through the crowded lobby toward the Ladybug Room. Attendees milled about looking at the displays, chatting, and showing one another books they’d purchased. Other than the yellow tape blocking the way to the kitchen wing, there was no indication that a tragedy had occurred in this building the night before. It seemed incongruous that the Books and Cooks festival continued and that people were enjoying themselves when a man had been brutally murdered just beyond that tape.
Quietly opening the door to the Ladybug Room, I let myself in, gratified to see groups of children immersed in the activities. In one corner sat author Caleb Herman, Flora’s latest success story, reading to a captivated circle of kids from his current picture book, Cookies for Critters. Plush bugs littered the floor and each child was munching on a cookie.
“Oatmeal for the octopus,” Caleb read, and a small, African-American boy held up a fuzzy purple octopus.
“Yum yum,” the boy said as he put the cookie to the mouth of the toy octopus.
As I glanced over the titles of the books stacked on tables in the center of the room, Flora approached me. She wore a hat with long red woolen braids attached under the rim and was carrying a tray laden with plastic cups filled with red juice.
“Isn’t this fun?” she said. “I just love all this youthful energy. It helps to keep my mind off poor Joel Lang.” She shook her head, swinging the braids back and forth.
I wondered if I should brief Flora on what Sean had told me about Joel’s murder. Somehow, it didn’t seem right to weigh down the lighthearted atmosphere in the room by sharing my burden with Flora right now. The news could wait. I glanced at a table set up by the far wall, where a cluster of children was helping Big Ed make stone soup by throwing chopped vegetables into a pot while Ed stirred. “Soon, we’ll heat this up and you’ll taste the most delicious soup ever, you little munchkins,” he announced with a boisterous laugh. His audience giggled along with him.
Turning back to Flora, I touched her arm. “The session certainly looks popular. What a great way to get the kids involved. Good job, Flora.”
She nodded and held out the tray. “Would you like some of Anne Shirley’s raspberry cordial?”
“Ah, so that’s why you’re wearing that hat. You’re Anne of Green Gables,” I suddenly realized. “I loved that book. But wait, didn’t Anne get her friend Diana drunk on raspberry cordial? Should we be serving that to minors?”
“Oh no, dear,” Flora tittered. “She got Diana drunk on Marilla’s currant wine, which she thought was raspberry cordial. I would never give anything so potent to these children.”
“I guess I should reread the book. I had forgotten that,” I said as I took one of the cups. “Although I do remember how Anne nearly lost her best friend because of her mistake. Anne was always so theatrical, but I used to quote her lines all the time.” I placed my hand on my heart. “‘My heart is broken. The stars in their courses fight against me, Marilla. Diana and I are parted forever.’” I sighed. “My teenage heart broke for Anne in that passage, even if she was given to dramatics.”
Flora nodded. “When I was twelve, I emulated Anne as well.”
Sipping the tart beverage, I followed the aroma of pancakes and frying eggs to the back of the room, where two food preparers from How Green Was My Valley, our local grocery store, were cooking up treats on large griddles on a counter. The counter was on a platform well above the tables at which their audience of kids and their parents were seated, ensuring that no little fingers could get burnt. A large mirror hung overhead so everyone could see what was happening on the counter.
“I like green eggs and ham,” declared one of the cooks, a thin, tall man dressed in a raggedy yellow shift and a red top hat. Except for his face and hair, he was a perfect mimic of Sam-I-Am from the famous Dr. Seuss book. As he spoke, he carefully separated egg yolks from their whites and placed them in a bowl.
“I do, too, but my pancakes are even better,” the other cook said as she removed several crepe-like pancakes from a special skillet and placed them on a plate. A petite young woman, she wore a red and white striped sweater, a blue jean jumper, and red and white striped stockings. Her long red hair, shaped into two braided pigtails, stuck out at wonky angles from the sides of her head. She looked as if she had stepped out of the pages of a Pippi Longstocking book. I wondered how she made her braids stick out like that. Wire, maybe? Or gel? She handed the plate of pancakes to Nell from Sixpence Bakery, who was dressed in her baker’s coat and chef’s hat.
“Who wants to try some?” Nell asked, holding up the plate.
“Me! Me!” came the reply in a chorus from the audience, and Nell distributed pancakes to the eager children.
Pippi turned back to Sam-I-Am. “So how do you make the eggs green?” she asked.
“Yeah, how?” echoed a little blond girl at a table in the front.
Sam-I-Am held up the bowl of egg yolks. “You see how I separated the egg yolks from the whites? Now I’ll add this basil pesto to the whites and mix it in and then we’ll pour these little suns back into the whites, being careful not to break them.” He proceeded to do as he described, and then slowly poured the concoction onto the griddle. I looked at the surface of the griddle in the mirror. A sea of green egg whites with bright yellow circles spread and sizzled. Sam-I-Am sprinkled what appeared to be dried parsley onto the yolks, speckling them with green. “And now we wait for them to cook and then we can cut them apart with this round cookie cutter. And let’s paint a bit of pesto onto these ham slices, too.”
I leaned against the wall and watched him create his version of green eggs and ham. As interesting as this was, my mind inadvertently left the culinary world of Dr. Seuss and began to process my conversation with Sean.
Joel had been murdered! The details Sean had divulged from the fire inspector’s report made it a certainty. The inspector concluded that the wall oven had exploded and killed him. The oven was installed at Joel’s height and the force of the eruption threw the oven door into his sternum. It flung him, no doubt in terrible agony, ten feet away.
“So there was something wrong with the oven?” I had asked, clinging to the distorted hope that it was the fault of the equipment and not the maliciousness of another human being.
Sean shook his head. “No. Someone had placed several cans of nonstick cooking spray inside the oven, which provided more than adequate combustion. Nobody would store them in an oven unless they were trying to cause an explosion. Apparently, Mr. Lang had turned the oven to broil, and in a matter of minutes, it got hot enough to detonate the cans.”
“So if he had checked inside the oven before turning it on, he would have noticed them and still be alive?” In the back of my mind, I recalled my mother once drying a pair of damp hiking socks in her oven, using the heat of the pilot light, and forgetting she’d put them in there. The next day she preheated the oven to bake banana bread and burned her socks. Ever since that incident, I have always checked my oven before turning it on.
Sean shrugged. “It’s possible, but the saboteur also tampered with the gas connection inside the oven. Therefore, for a period of time, gas was flowing into the oven, and it would have exploded anyway once it got hot enough. Between the aerosol cans and the gas, the killer was taking no chances at failure.”
“But gas has such a noticeable odor. Wouldn’t Joel have smelled it when he walked into the kitchen?”
Sean shrugged. “The oven door was closed. And these newer models seal quite efficiently. Maybe Mr. Lang was so focused on what he was doing that he didn’t notice.”
We stared at each other for a few minutes without saying anything. I envisioned Joel’s last moments—his anxiety about his dishes following Klara’s criticism and his determination to prove himself with his food. He could easily have been distracted enough to simply turn the knob on the oven before rubbing his tuna with Szechuan pepper. And then, while he prepared his food, the oven exploded, ripping off the door, throwing fire at Joel and hurling him to the floor in excruciating pain.
I flinched, as if the flames had been surrounding us.
Sean had put his arms around me and hugged tight. “Just be careful,” he whispered in my ear. “Someone in this group of egotistical chefs bore enough of a grudge against Joel Lang to want him dead and had the boldness to carry it out. Someone at this festival is a murderer.”
A tugging on my sweater pulled me away from Sean and back into the Ladybug Room. The little boy with the plush octopus held his toy up to me. “Thee my otoputh?” he lisped. His large brown eyes were wide with innocent delight. “My mama bought him for me.”
“Come on, Matty. Don’t bother the lady.” His mother, standing behind him, held out her hand.
“Oh, he’s no bother,” I said as I crouched down to his level, glad of the distraction from my distressing recollections. “Does he have a name?”
“Uh-huh. It’th Thilly Otoputh.” He giggled and ran to the door, waving his eight-armed toy in the air. His mother followed, and as I watched them head into the hall I felt an overwhelming urge to hug Trey, who’d had the same adorable lisp when he was young. Unable to do so, I’d have to settle for a phone call.
As I pulled my cell phone out of my purse, Franklin appeared at the door, stepping aside to let Matty and his mother through, and then entered, scanning the occupants until his gaze rested on me. I waved.
“Did you hear?” he asked as he approached. “Joel’s death was intentional. Someone deliberately caused the explosion.”
“Sean told me. But I’m having a hard time coping with the news. Who would want him dead? Who hated him enough to blow him up? And why?” As I asked the questions, the faces of the chefs and their assistants crowded my head. I slipped the phone back into my bag, no longer wanting to call Trey. He would only worry and become distracted from his studies.
“I don’t know. I find it difficult to imagine that anyone could be so vindictive and inhuman.” Franklin squeezed his temples, as if to push away a headache. “The police are going to question everyone, including all the agents.”
Sean had told me that, too. It was ludicrous, of course. He knew that none of us had any motive to kill Joel. “I guess the authorities can’t afford to overlook anything or anyone who’s been in contact with Joel since the festival started.”
“True. I just hope they catch whoever did it quickly.”
“Me, too. Joel’s killer not only took the life of another human being,” I said, suddenly feeling angry. “They also affected the festival, damaged the Arts Center, and cast a shadow of evil over Inspiration Valley.”