by Libby Klein
JUDGED TO DEATH
It was time to judge my dessert.
Horatio praised me for thinking of something so clever and with a ten brought our score up to a respectable level.
I held my breath as Bess took one bite of my limoncello cannoli. She was so hard to please, and I hadn’t been able to win her over all week. I held my breath as her eyes rolled back in her head, then her face fell forward, and she passed out on her plate.
“Cut!” Ivy marched over to Bess. “Wake her up! She is going to have to be replaced with someone else. I can’t have this on camera.” Ivy shook Bess’s shoulder. She didn’t respond.
Horatio was dabbing a wet napkin on his woolen suit jacket where some of Bess’s mascarpone had squelched out and hit him. “Of all the unprofessional, drunken—”
“Bess!” Ivy shook the older woman a little harder.
Something didn’t feel right. I had a growing pit of dread rolling in my stomach . . .
Books by Libby Klein
CLASS REUNIONS ARE MURDER
MIDNIGHT SNACKS ARE MURDER
RESTAURANT WEEKS ARE MURDER
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
Restaurant Weeks Are MURDER
LIBBY KLEIN
KENSINGTON BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
JUDGED TO DEATH
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
RECIPES
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2019 by Lisa Schwartz
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
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ISBN: 978-1-4967-1307-0
ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-1308-7 (eBook)
ISBN-10: 1-4967-1308-7 (eBook)
For Aunt Ginny, my inspiration.
You fostered my love of comedy, taught me to cream my face,
and promised to knock me flatter than a flitter if
I misbehaved. I want to be you when I grow up.
A special thank you to Chef Ingrid Gustavson
of the Lightfoot Restaurant for generously giving me
a tour of her kitchens and answering my many questions.
Chapter One
“I don’t care how good Dr. Oz says it is, I’m not eating vegan cheese.” Aunt Ginny took the last stuffed pheasant off the Fraser fir, wrapped it in tissue paper, and placed it in an old Woolworth’s hat box to store until next Christmas.
I put the lid on the box of antique nutcrackers and placed it by the doorway for my handyman, Itty Bitty Smitty, to store in the attic the next time he was here to fiddle with his perpetual chore list. “But Aunt Ginny, you haven’t even tried it yet. It’s made from cashews.”
Aunt Ginny stuck her tongue out. “That might just be the most disgusting thing I’ve ever heard. I’d rather eat the plastic it’s wrapped in.”
Figaro made himself his usual nuisance and batted a sparkly red and gold ornament from a low branch across the floor and chased it out into the foyer.
“Come on. You said you’d do this diet with me. You know how much better I’ve been feeling since I went Paleo four months ago.”
“Yeah, I know. Everybody knows. Because you won’t stop talking about it. I’ve never heard anyone go on so much about gluten, inflammation, and free-range vegetables in my whole life. Back in my day you ate what you wanted and got old gracefully. You never complained that you were bloated, or your brain was foggy.”
I rolled my eyes to myself. If Aunt Ginny didn’t spend the better part of each day grousing about her aches and pains, her jaw would atrophy, and she’d need physical therapy. I picked up the three boxes of Belgian chocolates that she had received for Christmas from her “Secret Santa.” I suspected Aunt Ginny’s “Secret Santa” was a little redhead in her eighties with a penchant for caramels. “Where would you like these Saint Nick?”
Aunt Ginny snatched the boxes from my hand. “I’ll put them in my room with that bottle of Amaretto that mysteriously showed up under the tree.”
I threw my hands up. “It’s a Christmas miracle!” I followed the trail of glitter down the hall to the kitchen where I found a gold, sparkly Figaro peeking at me with one eye, the other side of his body hiding behind the trash can. I checked the time. Thirty minutes till the event of a lifetime: working side by side with Tim, my ex-fiancé, as his pastry chef in a real, professional kitchen. Just thinking about it made my scalp tingle. “Come on Liberace, let’s brush you out before I’m dealing with something gold and sparkly in the litter box.”
I plopped down on the floor in the sunroom and ran a brush through Figaro’s black smoke fur. He hummed like a Harley, his copper eyes slitty like two winter crescent moons reflecting on the Atlantic.
Aunt Ginny waved a pair of bright orange leather hands at me from the doorway. “What should I do with Georgina’s present? These must have cost your mother-in-law a fortune, but who in their right mind needs Italian calfskin car gloves just for driving five minutes to the beauty parlor once a week? And why in the world did she get this gaudy shade of orange?”
My eyes flicked up to the pumpkin-colored swirls atop of Aunt Ginny’s head. “I think she got them to . . . match.” I smiled.
Aunt Ginny narrowed her eyes. “Well then, you take them. They match your hair, too, smarty pants.”
“Hey, don’t blame me for Georgina’s gaudy taste. At least you didn’t get a custom-monogrammed barbecue brand to sear your initials onto your steaks. I can’t even regift that.”
> Aunt Ginny sat in her rocker and wound a ball of twinkle lights into a hive for me to figure out next Christmas. “I’m glad things are going better between the two of you. Especially since it looks like she’ll be visiting regularly, now that she and You-Know-Who are an item.”
We gave each other a look and shook our heads. The memory of Georgina locked in a passionate embrace with a certain little bald handyman was a disturbing image.
Figaro swatted my hand and tried to bite me, signaling the grooming event was over. I took the ball of lights Aunt Ginny had painstakingly knotted up and put them in another storage bin.
I hiked up my skinny jeans, which were drooping over my hips. I giggled to myself. I hadn’t worn anything that could be classified as too big since I played dress-up in Aunt Ginny’s petticoats when I was six.
I boxed up the penguin mafia and the Nativity Scene, which somehow always managed to merge into one display, and checked the time on my phone again. Ten more minutes.
Aunt Ginny toddled around the corner heaving a giant light-up gingerbread house onto the stack. “Is it time?”
“Almost.” I grinned and took the Sweetie Shoppe from her.
“You’ve been bouncing around here like a grasshopper on a hot pavement.”
“I can’t help it. I feel like my fairy godmother finally showed up and said you’re going to an all-you-can-eat pie buffet, and everything has negative calories. I’ve waited my whole life for this day. I thought I had greater odds of fitting into a size seven again.”
Aunt Ginny put a papery hand on my arm. “I know how much this means to you, Poppy Blossom. I wish you had just gone to culinary school instead of that fancy college. I want you to slow down and enjoy every minute of it. Even working with Gigi.”
I groaned. The thought of Gigi, Tim’s cute, little, incessantly perky mentee, was irritating enough to blister a melon. “I will. I’m not going to let Gigi get to me this time. I feel like my life is finally taking a good turn, like I’m going to make something out of myself after all. If I had a beret, I’d throw it in the air.”
Aunt Ginny cocked her head. “You’ve made plenty out of your life. What do you call the Butterfly Wings Bed and Breakfast? You’ve turned this old Victorian into a beautiful inn.”
I taped up a box and glanced at the chipped crown molding and the scuffed baseboards. “We’re almost there. We’ve had a rocky start, but I think in the spring we’ll be ready to officially open for guests. If I can ever get Smitty to finish up.”
Aunt Ginny crossed her arms. “Thank God for the off-season. Lord Jesus help us come Easter.”
I took one last look around. Christmas was packed away for another year. It was time to turn some daydreams into reality. Today I become a chef, even if it’s only for a week. I looked at my phone again.
“It’s time.” I gave Aunt Ginny another hug. “I’ll see you in a few hours after the meet and greet.”
A shaking rumble to our left caused me to pause and listen. “Did you hear that?” It happened again.
Aunt Ginny let out a loud sigh and pointed to the box by my feet. It was moving.
I ripped the tape off, and Figaro popped out like a deranged jack-in-the-box covered in tinsel.
“This is why pastry chef Pierre Hermé doesn’t have a cat.”
Chapter Two
I hopped in my car and cranked up first the radio, then the heat, and took off for Mays Landing and the Cape Community College. The Restaurant Week Competition was being held in the brand new culinary school kitchen arena. Even though it had been twenty-five years since my unfulfilled acceptance to the Culinary Institute of America in New York, I was simmering with excitement like it was yesterday. I had thought my chance to wear the starched whites was deader than banana clips and shoulder pads, but for the next week it was like I was Mr. Roarke’s guest on Fantasy Island.
Tonight was the Chef Meet and Greet, a little kickoff social event for Restaurant Week competitors. It was a chance to get to know the other teams and be briefed about the event from the director. I thought it was a nice gesture, kind of a preemptive olive branch of sorts, since these chefs could go from professional courtesy to bitter rivals in less time than it takes to make toast. Tim and Gigi were meeting me there. Gigi’s idea, I’m sure, since she had her claws sunk into Tim like a seagull with a soft pretzel. After the social we were going back to Tim’s restaurant, Maxine’s Bistro, to discuss our team strategy.
The culinary school was at the back of the campus with L’ÉCOLE DES CHEFS lettered across the brown and white bricks. The center backdrop of the grand foyer had the words HALL OF HONORS written in silver. Underneath, there were portraits of various chefs wearing their double-breasted uniforms, in their high hats and medals. Each one had a plaque listing their achievements and where they went after graduation. A row of neon-pink posters that read RESTAURANT WEEK EVENT lined the center corridor and had arrows pointing to the left for the kitchen arena.
I took a peel and stick name tag from the welcome table, wrote POPPY MCALLISTER—MAXINE’S in red marker, and stuck it on my emerald silk blouse over my heart. I fluttered between excitement and nerves just from walking in the door. I had the giddy-terrors.
I was immediately greeted by a brunette in pink glasses. She was a little on the chunky side, wearing a tight black dress. She grabbed my hand and shook it. “Hi, welcome to Restaurant Week, Poppy. I’m Ivy, the director.” She consulted her clipboard and made a notation. “It looks like you’re the first one here from Maxine’s, but Chef Louie is just over by the hors d’oeuvres, and Chef Vidrine . . .” She looked around the room. “Well, she’s here somewhere. You’ll know her when you hear that Southern drawl.”
“This is quite a setup.”
“It is, isn’t it? They plan to host renowned visiting chefs for intimate demonstrations. At least that’s what the course brochure said.” She laughed.
“Intimate demonstrations? That looks like seating for a hundred.”
She raised her forefinger. “A hundred and six exactly. I know that because I had tickets printed up for that many audience members for each day. Which reminds me.” She pulled the tickets from her clipboard. “Each chef gets two tickets for friends and family.”
“Thank you.”
“And I’ll tell you a little secret, just between us girls.”
I leaned in. “Okay.”
“There are six kitchens at the front of the room laid out like a horseshoe. See? Two-by-two-by-two.”
I nodded.
“Chef Phil-eep Julian has requested the one on the far right, to be closest to the judges. Kiss-up. And Chef Adrian Baxter has requested the kitchen on the far left, to be closest to the audience. Show-off. I recommend taking one of the two kitchens straight ahead under the projection screen. The camera will have the best views there, and the angles will be the most flattering.” She cocked her head to the side and lifted her eyebrows.
From one chunky girl to another. “Ivy, you’re my hero.”
Ivy flashed me a brilliant smile. “Make sure you check out the pantry so you know where everything is come Saturday morning. And help yourself to a cocktail. I’ve had three.” She laughed, spotted someone else coming in behind me, and took off with her hand outstretched. “Hi, welcome to Restaurant Week . . .”
I helped myself to some sparkling water with a lime wedge and headed into the communal pantry. The room was floor-to-ceiling aluminum shelves with rows and rows of storage bins, bottles, and jars containing various ingredients every chef would have on hand, and then some. We would all have to pull supplies from this small space during the competition. With my phone, I took some pictures of the spice rack, the dry goods, and the glass door refrigerator and freezer. I would blow these up later to study, so I could make strategical strikes for my ingredients and not waste time wandering helplessly while on the clock.
I came back into the main kitchen area and looked around. A middle-aged Nick Nolte lookalike in an orange Hawaiian shirt was spearing somethi
ng with a toothpick and flicking it into his mouth. He saw me watching and gave me a thumbs-up. Across the room from him, a severely dignified gentleman wearing a monogrammed starched chef coat was holding a glass of champagne. He was in conversation with a petite mahogany-skinned girl with a 1,000-kilowatt smile. Her hair was done up in an intricate series of braids swirled around her head. She caught my eye and waved me over. I had just started toward them when a passive-aggressive, high-pitched needle pierced my eardrum.
“Hi-yeee.”
Tim and Gigi strode in together, Tim looking a little guilty about something. Gigi was the sock that slid down your foot into your shoe when you walked. She was the underwire that busted out of your bra and poked you in the armpit. Now she was here, holding a shopping bag close to her chest.
Tim pulled me into a hug. He had the very slightest puff of love handles straddling his flat stomach. That’s new. “I tried to call you, but you’d already left.”
“Oh, what for?”
“I know we said we’d drive up separately, but Gigi’s car wouldn’t start so I had to pick her up.”
Gigi grinned and shook her perky little blond bob.
“I’m sorry to hear that. Do you think it will be fixed in time for the first challenge on Saturday?”
Gigi put her shopping bag down to reveal . . . whoa! Either someone got herself a new pair of boobs for Christmas or Victoria’s Secret is selling their bras prestuffed.
“I’m not sure when it will be fixed, but probably not until Restaurant Week is over. But you shouldn’t feel burdened to be chained to us. You should keep the freedom of driving yourself.”
Uh huh. That’s about what I expected. “What’s in the boobs? . . . I mean bag! What’s in the bag?”