by Hillary Avis
“Enough with the taking of the turns. We are all adults here.” Monsieur Adrian stood, brushing breadcrumbs from the front of his chef’s coat. “I’m Thierry Adrian, I’m a French chef, and I’m the best chef in this town. I entered for honor, because without me, this is no competition at all.” He resumed his seat.
Chuck Bolton put down his soup and gave him a slow clap. “Way to throw it down, Frenchy! I like your style!”
“Can we take a break for minute?” Ned asked, his shoulder sagging under the weight of the camera.
“Breaks are for wimps! Stick it out, Nedster.” Bolton shifted on his bench so he could put his feet up on it. “This is your job.”
“We’ve only got a couple more contestants to cover,” Milo said apologetically. “Think you can manage?”
Ned nodded tersely and repositioned the camera, but Bethany could tell he was struggling to keep it together.
Olive must have noticed, too. “I wonder if he needs to visit the little boys’ room?” she whispered. Next to her, Garrett stood up.
“Garrett Underwood here. Everyone thinks my wife’s the cook in this family, but I’m not so shabby myself. I like things the way they’re supposed to be.” He sat back down.
“What do you mean by that?” Milo asked, and Ned moved closer to Garrett to capture his response.
Garrett shooed the camera away like a pesky fly. “I mean that chili should taste like it did when you were a kid, cooking it over a campfire. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. That’s my ‘culinary point of view,’ as you’d put it.” He didn’t sound like he held much stock in culinary points of view, but Bethany noticed Olive beaming with pride.
No one can doubt they love each other.
“Last, but not least!” Milo looked in her direction, and at first Bethany thought he was staring at her, but then she realized he was indicating the person behind her. She turned and saw someone she recognized—Clementine, one of the cooks behind a local eatery called Toast with the Most. She was a slight, pale woman with freckles and blonde hair fixed in two braids like Heidi of the Alps.
“I didn’t know she could cook,” Bethany said under her breath to Olive. “Don’t they just put stuff on bread?”
Olive giggled. “Toast, dear. And toasting is technically cooking, isn’t it?”
Bethany made a face. “If we’re going to get technical, baking the bread is cooking. Toasting is just warming.”
“Well, they get their bread from me, so I’m not complaining.” Olive winked at her.
Clementine awkwardly got to her feet and stood twisting her hands. “I’m Clementine Gourd,” she began softly.
“Amp it up!” Chuck called.
Ned rubbed his throat, turning slightly green. “If you could just speak up a bit? That’d be helpful.”
“OK.” She flushed, looking down at her hands. “I’m Clementine Gourd, but my friends call me Clem. I’m a vegan chef here in Newbridge, but usually I work as part of a collective. This is the first time I’ve done anything on my own. I guess I want to give chili an update for this century—take out all the garbage and replace it with ethical, healthy foods. Sorry,” she added, looking at Garrett.
“Go ahead. You’re digging your own grave,” he muttered, his mustache twitching.
Olive smacked him lightly on the shoulder. “Be nice. She’s young.”
Clementine flushed, her lower lip trembling. “I think the judges will like it. Or I hope so.”
“I’ll be sure and let you know!” Chuck laughed loudly from across the room. “That’s my job—telling it how it is.”
“Thanks, Clem.” Milo smiled broadly at Clementine, and Bethany felt a tiny ping of jealousy.
Is he into her? Maybe that’s why we haven’t made our date yet.
But his attention didn’t linger long. He turned to Chuck. “What do you think of our contestants here in Newbridge, Mr. Bolton?”
Chuck stood up and scanned the room, hands on his hips. Then he faced the camera directly. “Not too bad for a little town like this, but everyone needs to step it way up for the competition on Sunday. Bring your A-game, bring your championship attitude, bring your big guns to the battle! No more excuses. And no more apologies!” He glared at Clementine and slammed his fist into his palm for what seemed like the hundredth time that morning.
“I’m sorry, but—” Ned said faintly, as he set the camera down on a bench.
“No apologies!” Chuck yelled at him, his voice echoing up to the cavernous ceiling of the concourse.
Ned clutched his throat and crumpled to the floor.
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Books by the Author
The Death du Jour Series:
Crime Chowder (Book 1)
Risky Bisqueness (short story, Book 1.5)
Rest in Split Peas (Book 2)
Chili con Carnage (Book 3)
Lentil Death Do Us Part (Book 4, March 2019)
OTHER BOOKS BY HILLARY Avis:
Kernel of Doubt (A Neela Durante Mystery)
The Season for Slaying (short story)
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