by D. J. Lutz
“You are right. That doesn’t sound good.”
At this point, I didn’t think the lad was guilty of killing the arrogant old chef. Getting tossed from a restaurant wasn’t the end of the world, and certainly not enough to end a life. But there was still more evidence to find, more suspects to interview. And besides, I was still hungry. I gave Cosmo a light pat on the back and wished him well with his dinner service.
The spat Cosmo had mentioned, the one between Drake and his assistant, had subsided by the time I sat down. However, one lady whispered in my ear that she had overheard Grimsby mumbling to himself a few minutes earlier. He was planning on firing the woman after the finale. Whatever was going on, it was far from over.
The judge then pulled back her dinner napkin to reveal an envelope full of cash. Her peers, with all their impeccable credentials, were placing their bets on the green–eyed camerawoman. When asked, I declined to partake.
Cosmo did not have the same serving help as his boss; in fact, he was not much older than George’s two kids. But he looked in command. Cosmo wore the same paramilitary culinary uniform as before, but now had an admiral’s hat complete with the requisite scrambled eggs on the visor.
The chef entered the dining room carrying a tray of what looked like sushi, though I didn’t remember seeing anything aquatic in the kitchen. One thing was certain: Cosmo was a risk–taker. Who knew if the church ladies were fans of raw fish? I had my doubts.
My guess as to the judges’ reaction was correct. Complaints started before Cosmo could make it back to the kitchen. Soon there was a chorus of comments like, “I don’t think we could eat something like this, young man. Is it cooked?” and “It looks raw. Is it supposed to be like that?”
Cosmo heard the uproar and mounted a hasty defense.
“Oh, ladies, not to worry. This meal is made from vegetables straight from the garden out back, and real, honest–to–goodness beef brisket from cows, not fish.”
Cosmo continued his tap dance of words, trying to win over people who normally considered haute cuisine as any food that didn’t come in a basket handed out at a drive–through window. He was having a difficult time.
I don’t know what came over me. I guess I liked the kid. And seeing him outnumbered by so many obstinate personalities made me root for the underdog. I remembered the problem with George’s dessert. The solution popped into my mind and went straight out of my mouth with no filter. This wasn’t a culinary problem, it was a selling problem. And if my grandmother had taught me anything at the Cat and Fiddle, it was how to sell.
“Cosmo, seeing that most of these ladies are so health–conscious, and from the looks of it, doing very well watching their figures, did you remind them all that your food is low–calorie?”
Those were the magic words. As the ladies congratulated themselves on being such experts on the USDA food pyramid, Cosmo clicked the heels of his boots together and raised his hand to his eyebrow in a salute.
“Absolutely, Miss Kepler. This is typical of the food I will serve once we, ah, I mean, I have my restaurant. And watch out for the black beans. They are cooked in salsa to intensify the heat. That’s why you will find a cube of nice, creamy white goat cheese on the side to sooth your palate. As they say in Mexico, buen provecho! Happy eating!”
Centered on my plate were four domes of Spanish rice, each surrounded by a bevy of seasoned black beans and steamed vegetables. Pressed into the top of each mound of rice was a fork’s worth of tender brisket. I worked my way around the meat, but as I took my first bite of the flavorful chunks of zucchini, my nose twitched from the same cumin treatment Cosmo had used on the meat. The rice, beans, and vegetables were savory. We all agreed that the food was marvelous, and that Cosmo was a culinary genius.
Was he guilty of murder? Perhaps, but he was still a superb chef. Once the evidence played out, someone was getting a great culinarian. The only question in my mind was who. It would be Seaview or the state penitentiary. I knew my choice.
The brisket, a good substitute for shoe leather when cooked poorly, was so tender it fell apart on the ladies’ forks. They all agreed the seasonings were there, yet not one flavor overpowered the other. This was the best Asian–infused Tex–Mex food anyone had ever tasted. As good as it was, I was not sure if it was Tex or Mex. I knew it was not Asian. Whatever the name, it was good.
After bringing out a second round of brisket, Cosmo explained the proper technique for eating his entrée. The process involved spooning some of the barbecue sauce from the roll onto the bite–sized serving of brisket. Then, using the same spoon, one was to scoop up the entire glob of rice and eat everything at once.
The judges dove in for round two. Every plate on the table was clean; there were no survivors and no regrets. I settled for a second round of vegetables, my favorite being the wedges of steamed parsnips so tasty they made potatoes jealous.
Cosmo again flipped switches on his gauntlet as he announced the dessert course was about to begin. I had only seen the brisket being prepared, not the dessert. This final course would be a total surprise.
After Cosmo cleared a double load of empty dinner plates from the dining room, the chef returned to address the final course. I noticed right away the eccentric culinary strategist walking in without a serving tray in his arms. What surprise he would have in store for us now? The answer came straight away.
“Ladies, please indulge me for a few moments while I start things in motion. The finale to your dining experience tonight begins!”
He moved a coat rack to the side, uncovering a large lever, three feet long, attached to a steel plate affixed to the wooden floor.
“Does George know about this?” I asked.
“Not yet,” he answered. “Hence the coat rack camouflage. But I think he will grow to appreciate it and the opportunities my culinary vision can bring to the restaurant. If he’ll ever see things my way.” With a look of mischief, Cosmo pulled the lever.
“Goodness,” said one judge. “I hope this doesn’t open a trapdoor or anything.”
Cosmo gave a maniacal laugh. “No, far from it, ma’am. Just wait. We should see dessert in about five, four, three, two . . .”
Everyone in the dining room ducked, slumping in their seats when train whistle started its peal from within the kitchen. Our attention focused on a dumbwaiter panel in the wall as it opened with a puff of white steam. A toy train, something about the size you would expect wrapped around a Christmas tree in December, appeared in the opening; a diminishing hiss of pressurized steam bursting from underneath the wheels.
“Cosmo, there’s no track. How is the train supposed to move?” I asked.
Before he could answer, the sound of the train engine began a slow crescendo, getting louder and louder. Cosmo ran back inside the kitchen, only to reappear with a preassembled train track mounted on an ironing board. He adjusted the board’s height, leveling it with the table, and bridged the gap between us and the dumbwaiter. The train chug, chug, chugged onto the ironing board and headed in our direction. I lifted my fork as I saw the last car, a caboose labeled Whipped Cream. Before the train reached the end of the board, Cosmo stopped it with a flip of a switch on his gauntlet.
Cosmo ran back into the kitchen. This time? He had a tray full of waffles! These weren’t just any waffles—they were thick, Belgian–style squares, each about three quarters of an inch thick.
“You will love these waffles,” Cosmo said. He restarted the train, guiding it onto the table. Once the caboose arrived at the center of the table, he shut down the engine.
Cosmo lifted a small hose from the tanker car and pointed it toward the tray. The inventor–chef then sprayed a fine mist of maple syrup, covering the waffles. After spooning a snowfall of powdered sugar over each stack, Cosmo finally topped each off with an elegant dollop of whipped cream.
“Please, help yourself,” he said. “If you would like cinnamon or clarified butter, just open the two remaining box cars, the ones in front of the t
anker. All aboard, have fun, and again, happy eating!”
The judges and I found ourselves delighted with the interactive food and the presentation. If I had to pick a winner, it would have been Cosmo and his HO gauge railway cuisine. When I mentioned my thought to the chef, he took a deep bow.
As I finished eating, I could feel the telltale buzz of my cell phone. Looking at the screen, I excused myself. Something had come up at the Cat and Fiddle requiring my attention.
14
By the time I made it back to the Cat and Fiddle, Velma had already cooked up some of her famous chicken and dumplings. The smell of the savory aromatics, little gems like garlic, thyme, and oregano, filled the air. If I hadn’t already sampled the wonderful food cooked by Cosmo, I would have whipped up a tofu version before taking off my coat. Just because I didn’t eat meat, didn’t mean I didn’t love the smell of memories.
Sitting at the counter were two weary but familiar travelers. I saw empty salad bowls next to empty bread baskets scattered with crumbs. The dumplings came next.
“You two look happy,” I said. “Is it the appetizers, or something else?” What a loaded question. I knew it wasn’t the food.
I picked up a clean towel and wiped down the counter. The guests were still eating as if it was their first meal in months.
Tricia spoke first. “Winnie, I don’t know how to say thanks. I was at my wits’ end and the only thing I could think to do was leave. When Fran showed up in the taxi, I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was a sign, I was sure of it.”
“Yes, Winnie. Once the hug was over, we looked at each other and said the same thing. We knew then everything would be just fine with you having our back.” Fran was trying to speak and eat. It was not going well. She was stabbing at the chicken and dumplings, watching pieces fall from her fork as she was speaking. I decided against laughing for the moment.
“Slow down, you guys,” I said. “I am getting tired just watching you. Anyway, I am glad my hunch about the train paid off.”
“Us, too, believe me,” said Tricia. “But, once MegaFood finds out we didn’t finish their little plan, I am afraid things might get a little sketchy for everyone.”
“How so? And what plan?” I asked.
“You don’t just take two thousand dollars in cash and then not do what you are told,” Tricia said. “The MegaFood guy didn’t give us a choice. He said he knew people who would be happy to convince us if we balked at his direction.”
Shaking her head, Francine offered a countering opinion. “But we don’t have to worry now. Soon enough these idiots will learn they can’t use our relationship as a blackmail threat. That’s all done now.”
“Are you sure? Going public may run off some of your customers.” Seaview was still a conservative town. So much so, that when the café added a vegetarian section to the menu, it was the talk of the hardware store for months. Who would want to eat such a meal, they asked? No bacon, either? Sacrilege, they said. A few months later, people requested the tofu chili. I was amazed. Some ate the chili, liked it, and then found out it was tofu. Regrettably, I haven’t seen them come back.
But it might take years for a few of our residents to accept that some women were fine with being lesbian in public. And that they might live in Seaview. As if there weren’t others already. People are so stupid.
I continued my benevolent interrogation of Tricia by asking, “And what about those goons you mentioned? MegaFood is a huge corporation with deep pockets. They didn’t seem to have a problem coming up with a few bucks to pay you. More cash paid to some thugs could prove their point. Are you sure you are up to taking on the risk?”
Putting my feelings on the line, I admitted something to myself at the same time I spoke the words out loud. “Fran, I just found you again; I don’t want to lose you.” It was all I could do to not cry at that point.
“Gangsters aside,” Fran said, “you were right in that our biggest concern was the business. But on the way home we had an interesting chat with your taxi driver. Did you know he was from Sicily? Anyway, now the question of the impact on our business has been answered.”
Tricia continued. “We asked the taxi driver what he missed the most since he moved here. He said decent pizza. He told us all about how back home, his mother made them from scratch.”
Fran spoke up with enthusiasm. “And he was so nice. He gave us his mom’s recipe for the dough. And with all the fresh tomatoes being grown here on the Shore, pizza was a natural choice.”
“So you’re opening a pizza joint?” All I could think of was hundreds of little kids running around screaming and playing silly games for paper tickets—all to buy a stuffed toy worth less than the cost of a side salad. Harried parents cowered in the corner booths, attempting to eat a cold, stale slice of pepperoni pizza pie.
“Absolutely,” Tricia said. “But we want to make it a nice place to take your date. We also wanted to provide convenience so we thought a delivery service would be nice, too. And now we know a taxi driver who likes pizza! I’m sure a deal could be made.”
Fran put down her spoon and asked, “You haven’t said yet, Winnie. What do you think?”
I thought about the unintended consequences of their decision. “And the guy from MegaFood? He’s okay with this deal of the century?” As exciting as it was to hear of their new business venture, and their new commitment to each other, I reminded them about the reality of corporate greed and corruption.
Tricia picked up her cell phone and after a few taps, showed me the electronic record of a phone call made a half hour earlier.
“Far from it,” she said. “Once we had sold our business, his money was of no use to us anymore. On the way here, we found a grocery store with a Western Union desk. Two minutes later, the money was returned. And MegaFood has already posted a receipt online. We are free!”
“And it’s all because we are now about as out of the closet as you can get, and did that news make the man upset,” Francine said. “But there may still be one problem. Winnie, have you heard anything new about your job offer? It was from a bank, wasn’t it?”
“Sort of, yes. From a financial management company called Mint Street Bankers. A project of sorts designed by a well–intentioned grandmother. Why do you ask?” I noticed my hands were twisting a napkin into a crooked magic wand thanks to the tension building throughout my body. In all the excitement, I had pushed thoughts of my being cajoled into accepting an executive career back into the far reaches of my mind, waiting for a better time to be brought forth. Or not back at all.
“Well, there was a newspaper in the back seat of the taxi. It was today’s edition of the Seaview Times Herald. On the back page, next to all the vacation rental ads, there was a small article about how your company, Mint Street Bankers, had just became the major shareholder of three or four big companies. And MegaFood was one of them.”
I shrugged my shoulders. My anxiety level subsided with the news, much to my surprise. “Mint Street isn’t my company. And I don’t think I need to be concerned about a transaction at such a high level. MegaFood is one of the biggest companies around, and if Mint Street could buy them, I doubt they would know a little girl like me even exists. Thanks for the concern, though. But are you sure this is over?”
Tricia explained. “All he wanted us to do was cook up a phony job fair at your place. And do whatever it takes to use up your time.”
So, MegaFood had something to do with Pierre’s murder. This was a new turn of events. A turn for the worse.
Fran added that she thought the man was just a lower–paid henchman. “Someone’s pulling the string on his back, telling him what to say and what to do. He looked kind of, I don’t know, kind of sheepish at the Richmond event. An order–taker, not an order–giver. But that’s just my opinion. Tricia did a good job of telling him off.”
“Tricia, did you threaten him?” I asked.
“I reminded him that we never shook hands and did not sign a contract. And I may have mentioned t
here were customers in your diner who not only liked you and your grandmother, but they could also shoot the tail feathers off a duck at three hundred yards and field gut a deer in a matter of minutes,” Tricia said.
Fran interjected. “We heard guys talking about their hunting trip. As long as they and their friends like your grandmother’s barbecued venison pizza, I think we will always have support if we need it.”
Tricia concluded, “He hung up after that comment. I would be surprised if he ever crosses the bridge to our little sliver of Virginia.”
I had underestimated the bond these two women had with each other. When I complimented the couple on their honor, courage, and commitment to each other, they said it wasn’t as much a sense of duty to each other, as it was just love.
I raised a glass of ice tea and offered a toast. As the words about love and commitment were flowing, in the back of my mind I was hoping I could find the same feeling someday. I was thinking about Parker.
Velma came over to our table, hoping to clear away the dishes. She asked the girls if they wanted anything else. Velma held out a small plate showcasing a slice of her apple pie. She bragged a little, saying it would be the crowning touch on her picnic meal tomorrow.
“Grandma, you have to cook for the contest tomorrow?” I asked. “I thought it was the next day.”
“Drake Brigsly, as I heard a customer refer to him today, called and said the judges wanted to do two meals in one day. They had such a good time with George and Cosmo that they wanted to try the same format again. So lunch is at the rail yard with Bailey cooking, and dinner is here at the old Cat and Fiddle with yours truly behind the frying pan. And they mentioned something else, too. Do you know anything about extra guests? Pastors, I think they said.”
Ignoring her comment on the extra diners, I offered, “You know, grandma, instead of apple pie for dessert today, we could save it for tomorrow and try something new. Something like a chocolate pecan pie in a parfait glass? Don’t worry about your apple pie. It’s a winner; you don’t need our vote.”