Chapter 8
STILL IN SHOCK, I RAN ALL THE WAY TO THE ARTS CENTER and only paused on the steps for a minute to catch my breath. As I entered the lobby, Jude grabbed my arm. “It’s about time you arrived. All the panelists are here except Klara. Do you know where she is?”
“Right behind me,” I said. “But I suspect she’ll be a little late.” I hurriedly told him what had happened at the pub.
“Such drama,” Jude remarked when I was finished. “Klara’s life is straight out of a novel. Perhaps she’ll pen a tell-all instead of a cookbook.”
I wasn’t as amused as he was by this notion and I was certain that Ryan wouldn’t be either. However, there was no time to brood over the Patricks’ marriage, so I followed Jude to the panel room. Right before we entered, I ran my fingers through my hair and straightened my skirt. “Do I look all right?”
“You look fabulous, as always.” He reached forward to reposition a lock of my hair.
I stepped back. “Don’t, Jude.” As charming as he could be, there were times when I didn’t welcome his invading my personal space.
“What? It was sticking up.” His smile was all innocence. “Let’s go.”
The room was buzzing with conversation, and it seemed that every chair had been taken. Jude and I made our way to the front where the panelists sat behind a long table, their books on stands in front of them. As I greeted my two cozy author clients, the food critic, and the other chefs, Klara came rushing up to the table and took her place beside Bryce St. John. I retrieved my index cards from my purse and settled into my seat.
Taking a moment to scan the audience, I saw Klara’s assistants, Annie and Dennis, in the front row. Beside them, Charlene Jacques was talking to Franklin. I was delighted to see my mother sitting near the back with Makayla. My mother was waving frantically and grinning from ear to ear. I wiggled my fingers at her and my friend, wishing I had arrived earlier so I could have chatted with them.
“May we have your attention, please?” Jude tapped his microphone. The hubbub quieted. “Welcome to our panel, ‘Killer Tales From the Kitchen,’ where we will explore the joys and challenges of writing about food,” he began. “Our illustrious panelists have a range of expertise and I’m sure you’ll come away from this event having been entertained and educated. I’m Jude Hudson, an agent at Novel Idea, the company sponsoring this event. And at the other end of the table is my lovely co-moderator and fellow agent, Lila Wilkins.”
I smiled at the audience and raised the microphone. “Good afternoon. Can you all hear me okay?” At the many nods and yeses, I carried on. “We are going to have so much fun this afternoon. Sitting before you are mystery authors, celebrated chefs, and a renowned food critic. Every one of these individuals writes about food from a different perspective. Let me introduce them. Directly beside me is Lizzie Abbot, author of the Vegetarian Murders mystery series. Her latest book, Tofu Terror, was just released. Lizzie, when I read your books and come upon a passage containing food, I almost want to become a vegetarian. How do you do that?”
Lizzie straightened and held her book in front of her. She was tall and thin, with long, strawberry blond hair. “Thank you, Lila. Well, when my protagonist, Andrea, makes a dish, it is always something I’ve prepared and enjoyed myself. I’ll often go through much trial and error to come up with a satisfying flavor, so I know the dishes intimately. When I describe them in my writing, I use my personal experience to express the joy I felt when I feasted on the dish.”
“That’s certainly reflected in your writing, Lizzie. Continuing on—”
“Sorry to interrupt.” Lizzie leaned forward toward the audience. “I just want to say that, contrary to the title of my latest book, tofu is a wonderful food. So versatile.”
“Thank you, Lizzie. I’ve never actually made anything with tofu before, but I will definitely consider trying it now.” As the audience chuckled, I smiled and indicated the woman sitting beside Lizzie. “Our next panelist is Judith Alain. She’s a cozy mystery author whose first book in the Delectable Desserts mystery series, Killer Sweets, was just released. Judith, your main character, Karen, seems to be an expert when it comes to desserts. Does that come from research or experience?”
Judith grinned widely. Slightly overweight, she wore a stylish multicolored sweater that brightened her face and emphasized her sea blue eyes. “A bit of both, I guess,” she replied. “But mostly experience. My mother was a Cordon Bleu–certified pastry chef, and even from a young age, I would be at her side as she created exquisite dishes. I learned a great deal from her, especially when it comes to appreciating quality ingredients and pure, rich flavors.” She smiled sadly. “My mom died a couple of years ago, and I think I wrote the Delectable Desserts series to honor her. My character Karen is a lot like her.”
“What a wonderful way to pay homage to your mother, Judith,” I said. A few members of the audience clapped. Looking over at them, I noticed Sean at the back of the room, standing beside Ryan Patrick.
Ryan looked like a specter. His face was gray with shock, and his eyes were dark and haunted. He stood with his arms pinned to his side, his shoulders slumped and his expression one of absolute dejection. I felt a rush of sympathy for Klara’s husband, but all I could do was offer him a compassionate smile before turning my attention back to the panel.
“Next to Judith is renowned food critic Doug Corby, whose book A Foodie’s Diary was on the New York Times bestseller list for several weeks. Doug, you have very high standards when it comes to food and those standards are reflected in your reviews. Do you find it difficult to criticize a chef’s work, knowing that they’ve put their heart and soul into their craft?”
I couldn’t help but feel that Doug’s pointy, ferret-like features reflected the personality that came through in his writing. He twirled his pencil-thin mustache. “Not at all. I write truthfully about what I taste, and I have no trouble whatsoever with being honest.”
“But you have a lot of trouble understanding good taste,” Klara sputtered as she rose from her chair. Both Bryce and Jude took an arm and persuaded her to sit back down. Bryce whispered something to her, and I couldn’t help but watch Ryan as his wife immediately responded to her lover. His face was a mask of anger and humiliation, and his hands had coiled into tight fists. Sean gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder, as if to say, “I feel your pain. Hang in there, man.”
Gazing around, I knew I needed to return the focus to Doug. “I believe you ruffled some feathers in the culinary world with your book, and you’ve probably made some enemies over the course of your career. Does that bother you?”
Doug grinned. “I love it when chefs hate what I write. Listen up people: Food is ambrosia and should be treated with respect. If I see that it’s not, I will call the erring chef to task.” He leaned his head toward the other end of the table. “Even you, Klara.”
Klara glowered at him, but Jude had a firm hand on her arm. The audience tittered animatedly.
“This should generate some interesting discussion,” I said. “But first, let’s introduce the rest of the panel. Next to Doug, we have the lovely television chef and author Leslie Sterling. Her latest cookbook is called Over the Top. Leslie, you’ve received criticism that your food is too rich and too expensive for the average cook. What is your response to that?”
She sighed. “People love to dream,” she said. “My recipes are delicious. So what if they use expensive and rare ingredients? I’m sure I’m not alone when I say that one of my favorite kinds of books to read is a cookbook. Am I right?” She waved her hands at the audience. A brief burst of applause ensued, and she held up her palm to quell it. “But that doesn’t mean I try every recipe in the book. I just love reveling in the food descriptions, imagining the flavor combinations, and drooling over the photographs. My books are filled with culinary dreams. And sometimes, it’s good to step out of the box and try something new, even if it is a little more expensive than a plain bean soup or bland semolina. Decadent food makes life more exciting.”
I glanced at Klara. Leslie’s comments were an obvious reference to our conversation at the chefs’ dinner and Klara’s famous-lovers dish. But Klara stayed quiet and merely glared at her peer. I hoped she’d be able to put on a positive face when it came time for her introduction.
“Thank you, Leslie,” I continued. “Next we have Bryce St. John, owner of the famous St. John’s Bistro, with locations in both New York and Washington, D.C. His cookbook, Samplings From St. John’s, came out several years ago and continues to delight readers and cooks. Bryce, owning a restaurant provides its own challenges I’m sure, but I would imagine that it would also give you a unique perspective on food, as is evidenced in your cookbook. How do you balance a writing career with the demands of a restaurateur?”
Bryce held up a copy of his book. His handsome face graced the cover, which was probably why it continued to sell. In my opinion, the book itself was like any other restaurant cookbook. “It is difficult, to be sure.” He grinned. “As you can see, my output as a writer has only culminated in one book so far. But I love food, and I love sharing it with others. How lucky I am to be able to do that with my restaurants and with my cookbook.”
A few women in the audience hooted. One of them called out, “And you’re darn handsome to boot.”
Bryce dipped his chin. “Why, thank you, ma’am.”
“That is a sentiment I would agree with,” I said, glancing quickly at Sean before continuing. He smiled, understanding that I was putting on a show, and secure in the knowledge that I thought him the handsomest man around. “Last, but certainly not least, we have the gregarious Klara Patrick. Her newest cookbook, My Grandmother’s Hearth, has just been released to exemplary reviews. Klara, the influence of your Dutch grandmother is very prevalent in your book. Yet some critics have remarked that the recipes are simplistic and rustic. Would you like to comment on that?”
Klara stroked the cover of her book. “My oma meant the world to me, and everything I know about cooking I learned from her.” She looked up at the audience, her television personality coming to the forefront. She clasped her hands over her heart and described her grandmother’s kitchen, recalling how large and strong her oma’s hands had been and how magical it had been to watch her crush herbs and knead bread with her soft, deft fingers. The audience was captivated and I saw several women dab at their eyes with tissues. If Klara had been at all affected by her husband’s discovery of her affair with Bryce, she didn’t let it show. She was as entrancing as always and I was amazed by her ability to cast a spell over the crowd. “If the recipes seem simple,” she concluded, “it’s only because that’s the Dutch way. Or at least it was in Oma’s time. And believe me, I work very, very hard to perfect the recipes in order to create dishes that satisfy even the most particular palate.”
“Oh, give me a break!” A chair scraped loudly in the audience, and everyone turned to look. Dennis Chapman, Klara’s sous chef, stood. His face was red and the armpits of his shirt were wet with sweat. “You work hard?” he shouted, the crimson in his face becoming a darker shade. “You? Give me a break. Your staff works hard and you just lap up all the accolades. I’ve never worked like a dog for such an unappreciative boss in my life!” He made his way to the aisle, not caring about the people he stomped past. He jabbed his finger at Klara. “You continuously refuse to give me any kind of recommendation no matter how many times I ask. I know I didn’t get that head chef job at Austin’s because you badmouthed me to the owner. You and the other celebrity chefs have it in for me. You’re afraid of my talent, afraid I’ll be better than you. So to hold me back, you make me chop, chop, chop, without ever giving me a chance at the stove. You pay me peanuts, spit in my face, and have now ruined my life. Well, I quit. Chop your own vegetables from now on, you lazy, scheming bitch!” Breathing heavily, he marched his oversized frame down the aisle and out of the room. We were all struck silent as the door slammed behind him.
? ? ?
BY THE TIME the question-and-answer segment was over, I felt more like a circus ringleader than a panel moderator. After Dennis Chapman’s outburst and theatrical exit, I’d tried my best to cajole the audience into quieting down. Finally, Jude had taken over, charming the crowd into submission long enough to allow the stunned panelists to respond to a few queries. Luckily, no one asked Klara about Dennis’s allegations. Even so, I was wound as tight as a spring until Jude thanked everyone for coming and invited the attendees to proceed to the lobby in order to buy books and have them signed by the esteemed panelists.
As people streamed out of the room, tittering like a flock of high-strung hens, I saw Sean lingering in the back row. Ryan was close by and had taken a seat in one of the vacant chairs. He was bent over, his face hidden in his hands.
Making my way over to Sean, I gestured for him to move a few feet away from Ryan. “The awful truth is sinking in, isn’t it?” I whispered.
He nodded. “I think so. I can only imagine what he’s feeling right now, but I also can’t let him confront his wife about the affair at this time. I need to question her about Mr. Lang. Ryan’s kids might be accusing her of killing Mr. Lang purely out of spite, but they may very well be onto something and I need to discover the truth. One of my team has already taken Mr. Bruneau to the station for questioning.”
I shot a glance at Klara. “She’s supposed to join the other authors in the lobby now. If she comes with you, she’ll look guilty.”
Sean’s jaw hardened. “I’m not interested in how this affects her career, Lila. I’m interested in catching a killer.”
“I’m sorry.” I was instantly contrite. “I’ve got this whole Books and Cooks agenda stuck in my head and I’m fixating on it as a way of feeling in control. But the more this weekend progresses, the more I realize how ridiculous that notion is. A man has been murdered, Klara and Bryce are having an affair, our new Arts Center’s been damaged, and members of the press are everywhere, waiting to dig up all the dirt they can.” From the corner of my eye, I saw Klara stand up and collect her purse. “You’d better move in. I’d rather she make a scene in a relatively empty room than in a packed lobby.”
Sean brushed my cheek with his fingertips. “I’m on it. And Lila, if Ms. Patrick has nothing to hide, I’ll return her to you as soon as I can.”
I smiled at him. “I’d rather have you back by my side, Officer.”
“Keep your ears open,” he counseled. “People won’t edit their own conversations in front of you like they would around a policeman. Who knows what you might overhear as you continue to spend time with the chefs?”
As my mother made a beeline for us, I quipped, “I can also ask Amazing Althea if she has any insights.”
“Go for it,” he replied seriously, even though I’d been teasing. “She’s a skilled listener. A rare and useful talent.”
I watched Sean approach Klara, touch her on the elbow, and gesture toward the exit. Her brows knit together in anger and she shook her head in defiance, but when Sean pointed at the handcuffs dangling from his utility belt, she quickly conceded to his request.
“I don’t think she did it,” my mother said as Sean escorted Klara from the room.
“Really? Do you know something I don’t?”
My mother shrugged. “I know women. Most of my clients are female. For more years than I’d care to name, I’ve been hearin’ about their triumphs and complaints, their hopes and dreams, their joys and trials. And this is what life boils down to for most of them: Women want to be loved for who they are. And when that doesn’t happen, they’ll change themselves on the outside over and over again to get folks to adore them. But it’s not real.”
“What does that have to do with Klara?” I jerked my head to where Ryan was seated. “I believe her husband loved her for who she was, but that clearly wasn’t enough considering she’s been cheating on him with Bryce St. John.”
“No surprise there,” my mother snorted. “Remember when we ran into that beefcake chef on the street? He was wearin’ those clingy runnin’ shorts and that tight, tight . . . oh, that’s neither here nor there. Anyway, there was enough electricity between him and Klara to fuel a power station. They tried to hide it, but I knew they’d swapped more than just recipes.”
“Let’s sit outside for a spell,” I suggested before my mother could elaborate on her metaphor. “I’d like to know what else you’ve observed.” Steering her through the lobby, I paused a moment to be certain that Jude had the signings well under control. He did, so I caught his eye and indicated that I was leaving by pointing at the exit. He gave me a thumbs-up before turning his attention back to a pretty young woman wearing high heels and a very short skirt.
My mother and I sat on a bench situated between a pair of maple trees and listened as a blue jay scolded a squirrel for creeping too close to its nest.
“It starts before the little one is even born,” my mother began. “A mama’s urge to protect her young.” She put her hand over mine. “Wish I could flap my wings and send the wicked creature who’s come sneakin’ into our town away, but I can’t. All I know is that when I touch the cards, I feel the presence of the person who killed that Joel Lang fellow. He or she is still hangin’ around and I don’t think they’re goin’ anywhere.” She sighed. “Wish I could tell you more, but all of my senses are tellin’ me that they’re not done yet. This is an angry person, Lila.”
I studied her, hating to see the lines of worry tugging at the corners of her mouth. “What card reveals that kind of information?”
“More than one, shug. I’ve turned over the devil, the tower, the four of cups. But I’ve also gotten the hanged man a bunch. That combo says that this person feels persecuted. They see themselves as a victim who needs to make things right for themselves. They’re burnin’ to exact their own brand of justice.”
“So Joel was killed as an act of revenge?” I asked.
My mother lifted her gaze to the maple leaves. The sun had painted them a golden green and they rustled gently in the breeze. It was perfect reading weather and I’d have liked nothing better than to throw a towel over a lounge chair and spend the rest of the day in my garden, absorbed in a novel. Alas, I had other things to do.
“Things aren’t as clear as I’d like them to be, hon,” my mother said in answer to my question. “I’m seeing the star card in reverse, too. That tells me that this person’s goals in life are as warped as a fun-house mirror. No matter how they act, this man or woman is deeply dissatisfied with their lot.” She squeezed my hand. “They can’t stop, Lila. They’re empty inside and they wanna make someone pay for that emptiness. They think these acts will heal them, but they won’t.”
“Everyone’s been hurt at one point or another,” I murmured to myself. “But which of the chefs has been truly wronged? Who could be viewed as a victim? Maurice probably could. And now Ryan could.”
Faces flashed before my eyes. Klara’s, Ryan’s, Maurice’s, Bryce’s, Leslie’s, and so on until the features of the celebrity chefs, their assistants, and today’s panelists all morphed together to form a single, grotesque mask. “It’s all muddled, Mom. The people we’ve invited to this event seem decent on the surface, but I can’t tell what’s going on in their minds. I know they all want to be successful and I believe they’re fiercely competitive, but they’re so accustomed to putting on a show that I have no idea when they’re being sincere. How am I supposed to help Sean find a killer when I can’t trust any of the chefs that my own agency invited to Inspiration Valley?”
“Keep hangin’ around them,” she advised. “I heard that Leslie woman say that she and Klara’s lover boy were gonna grab a coffee at Espresso Yourself after they put their pretty signatures in people’s books. Maybe you and Makayla can learn a thing or two while these high-falutin chefs whisper secrets to each other over lattes and scones.”
I smiled at her. “That’s a wonderful idea, Mom. If nothing else, I can always work on solving the mystery of Makayla’s secret admirer. It’s a much more pleasant task than trying to discover the identity of Joel’s killer.”
“She showed me one of the little notes in her tip jar. I know diddly-squat about poetry, but I know words of passion when I hear them.” My mother fanned her face. “Lordy, lordy. If Makayla doesn’t fall madly in love with this fellow after you finally track him down, send him on over to me. I could think of a few things to do with a man with that kind of fire in his soul.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
She winked at me. “Until he shows up at my door, I suppose I’d better mosey on home and work on my new banana bread recipe. At my age, trying a different recipe is as wild as some women can hope to be.”
“What a relief that you’re not one of those women,” I said with a grin. Suddenly, I remembered the necklace I’d been given by the aspiring author. “You want to hear something weird?”
“Naturally,” my mother answered.
I told her about finding the gift bag on my scooter and produced the necklace with the purple crystal pendant. Taking it out of my purse, I handed it to my mother. She frowned and studied the piece of jewelry as it lay curled in her palm like a silver and plum snake. Surprisingly, she then asked for the query letter. Seeing no harm in having her read it, I passed it to her.
Her fingers closed around the necklace as she read. “What do you think of this?”
“Nothing about her query had me hooked,” I replied. “Vicky will mail her a form rejection letter on Monday. Why?”
“This silly woman thinks she can influence you with her crystal. When she gets that letter, she’ll see it as you rejectin’ not only her book, but her powers, too. She could spell trouble for you, hon.”
I reclaimed the piece of jewelry and shoved it into a dark corner at the bottom of my purse. “Just what I need. More trouble.”
? ? ?
MAKAYLA HAD HUSTLED back to Espresso Yourself as soon as the panel had ended, but the traffic at the coffee shop was fairly slow, so she was restocking her display shelves with muffins, scones, and biscotti when I arrived.
“Grab a seat!” she instructed. “I’ll fix you something.”
I didn’t argue. Makayla had a special gift when it came to knowing what her customers needed, even if they had no clue themselves.
“I got another poem,” she whispered in excitement and placed a cup of hot tea and a white plate bearing two biscotti in front of me. “In honor of my secret admirer’s Japanese haiku, I’ve given you black tea and almond biscotti.”
Thanking her, I asked to see the latest poem.
“You’ll need two hands for this one.” Her face was radiant as she placed an origami butterfly in my palm. The delicate insect had been made out of a five-dollar bill.
“How pretty!” I exclaimed. “And the poem’s inside?”
“Look under its wings,” she told me.
Complying, I spotted two tiny lines of poetry written beneath each wing in thick black marker and read them aloud:
“Lady butterfly
Perfumes her wings
By floating
Over the orchid.”
Makayla pointed at a bud vase containing an orchid with bright pink petals and streaks of white leading from the center to its fragrant tips. “That gorgeous bloom was attached to the butterfly’s body. It smells like heaven.”
“So he gave you the poem as well as the butterfly and the flower described in its lines. You know, this might be our first tangible lead,” I mused and blew on my tea before taking a sip of the strong, soothing brew. “Someone at the Secret Garden must remember who bought this orchid. It’s not exactly a common plant.”
“I will march right on down there after I close,” she assured me. I dipped my biscotti into the tea to soften it and took a bite, relishing the subtle almond flavor. As I ate, we discussed the panel and Dennis Chapman’s dramatic outburst. I told Makayla that both Maurice and Klara were at the police station in Dunston being questioned about Joel Lang’s murder.
She listened as I recounted the scene from the James Joyce Pub and how Klara had broken her husband’s heart and then sat on the panel as if nothing extraordinary had happened.
“Lord have mercy, that poor man.” Makayla made a tsk-tsk sound. “But is Klara so cold that she’d put cooking spray in an oven in hopes that another chef would get blown up? Is she a killer?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “But I’m hoping that Sean will have someone behind bars before the day is out.”
A gust of wind wafted in as the door opened and Jude entered the café. When he saw Makayla and me sitting together he grinned. “Sorry to interrupt you ladies, but could I get a skinny latte, please?”
Makayla jumped up. “What size would you like?”
I picked up the paper butterfly while Jude bantered with Makayla as she prepared his order. Absently fingering the wings of the paper insect, I pondered the concept of love. It could make someone glow, like Makayla with her secret admirer or me with Sean, but it could also shatter a person, as it had done with Ryan Patrick.
“I figured you’d be here, Lila.” Jude interrupted my thoughts and placed a file folder on the table as he took the chair that Makayla had vacated. “Bentley and I have finally read through the twenty-seven entries for the short story contest, and we’ve narrowed the possible second- and third-place winners down to two writers of equal mediocrity.”
“Jude!” I cut in. “Those writers have put a lot of themselves into their stories. They deserve some respect.”
“You know what I mean,” he protested. “You come across queries like that all the time—acceptable writing but not outstanding.” He tapped the file folder. “They’re decent stories, and better than the majority, but comparable in writing and quality. Bentley and I gave these two equivalent ratings, so you can decide on the second and third placements for them.” He pulled a printed document from the folder and handed it to me. “However, for first place we have a clear winner. It’s a story about a chef in a bistro. The author hooks you in right away with a description of an osso buco that the chef is preparing. The opening paragraph makes your mouth water. But the plot becomes more and more intricate as the author weaves in tension, humor, and suspense. The chef is not who he seems.” He took a sip of coffee. “But I don’t want to give anything away. I need you to read this story without any spoilers.”
I leafed through the pages of the typed document, feeling the rush of anticipation. “Do you think this author has the potential for more than winning a few cookbooks?” I asked. “Do you think he or she might be a prospective client for other works?”
Jude beamed. “Better than that. The spellbinding voice in the story is remarkably similar to that of Marlette’s novel.” He grabbed my wrist. “Lila, I think we’ve found our ghost writer for the Alexandria Society sequel.”
Pulling my hand away from his, I smiled. “Do you really think so? It would be fantastic if this person could solve that problem for us. We haven’t had much luck with the project, not that we’ve been spending a lot of time on it.”
“There have been a few distractions,” he said sardonically.
“But writing a short story is very different from writing a novel. Not everyone has the stamina to produce a work of that length. I suppose we could coach them if they need it.” I envisioned meeting with the author. “Can you imagine how excited this person will be if we tell them that they have not only won the short story contest, but that we’re considering offering them a chance at a major book deal?” The thrill I always experienced about a prospective client coursed through me, and I suddenly wanted to be at my desk. “The contestant list is in my office, so I’ll find out who the author is and we’ll proceed from there.”
“Sounds good,” said Jude as he picked up his coffee “Oh, by the way, Doug Corby left Inspiration Valley right after the signing, so we need to cancel his hotel room and his seat for the banquet. He said there was too much drama with the murder and the presence of so many chefs in one place.”
“Just as well,” I remarked. “The fewer fireworks the better.”
“I’m with you there. See you upstairs.” Jude pushed back his chair and left the coffee shop.
“Back to work for you two?” asked Makayla, who had tactfully occupied herself while Jude and I discussed business. She gathered the trash from the table.
I nodded and stood. “I need to go upstairs and read a story about a chef who is not who he seems. Be sure to let me know what you find out at Secret Garden,” I said, handing her the origami butterfly. Our fingers touched and an unsettling thought entered my mind. What if Makayla’s poetic admirer was not who he seemed? What if, instead of a love-struck admirer, he was something far less romantic? Something darker? Something to be feared?