The Apple Pie Alibi

by Doug Lutz

  “Not something I think a chef who wants to win the prize money would want to say within earshot of the contest sponsors,” I said.

  “A deal with the devil it is, but what can I do? Neither of us have enough money to move forward with our plans.”

  “You have a plan? I thought you wanted the trophy and the bragging rights over your boss.”

  “Who? Georgie? I am not worrying about Georgie. Right now I am more concerned with getting enough coal into this furnace. It powers the entire kitchen.”

  Cosmo picked up a spade and tossed a few more loads of coal into the red–hot belly of the stove. He had a good stash piled knee–high next to him, within easy reach to keep feeding the glowing monster. Judging by the amount of dust in the immediate area, though, the pile had been much larger.

  As Cosmo lifted each new load of coal, he made a grunting noise. I could hear the suck–it–up–and–do–it coming out of each utterance. I hoped he had enough moxie left to power the kitchen through the end of dinner. I was no mechanic, but curiosity forced me to look around to determine how this outdoor stove could power a kitchen, as Cosmo had mentioned. That’s when I noticed what looked to be a large keg sitting behind the oven.

  Cosmo had an interest in the keg, too. Steam hissed around its seams and pipe connections. With each puff of white vapor, I realized as long as steam kept escaping, we were safe. It was when the keg stopped spewing that we would need to run.

  After checking a few dials on the keg, Cosmo walked over to an old pitcher pump by the back door. The faded red paint on the handle told me the water well was probably an original fixture of the historic old house. I could see the sweat dripping from his face as Cosmo cranked on the handle, pumping water into a large carafe. However he designed his kitchen, this was a labor–intensive gig, and the poor man was not catching a break.

  With full pitcher in hand, he poured the water into a funnel protruding from the side of the keg. Cosmo then secured the lid on top, twisting clockwise the brass knobs whose shine had long since rubbed off through years—no, make that decades—of use. The alchemist–chef adjusted an air intake valve on the oven, allowing the yellow–blue flames inside to push the keg’s pressure gauge to its highest setting.

  Cosmo pointed to the red zone on the dial. He looked at me and mouthed the word bad. Like I needed to be told that?

  He pressed a few buttons on his electro–glove. Whatever he was looking at, it met with his approval. With a sense of confidence only a mad scientist could possess, he lowered the flames.

  “No,” Cosmo mused, “Georgie will win now that old Pierre is gone. I had a chance until I found out the judges were those prim ladies. For them, it’s deep–fried or nothing. My style of cooking just doesn’t mix well with such modern appetites, unless you have a more, how you say, worldly attitude?”

  “So you are telling me you don’t want to win? That makes no sense at all. You must have your reasons to want to win, don’t you? Everyone does. You said something about a plan?”

  “Unlike the others, I will never compromise my cooking philosophy just to win some stupid contest, but I do have a use for the prize money. Rings are not cheap, if you understand what I mean.”

  “I like the shade of lipstick you wore at the fairgrounds, Cosmo. I think I have something similar at home.”

  “You don’t miss much, do you?”

  “Oh, I do okay, but I’m kind of at a loss for the purpose of all this gear. It almost looks like your pressure cooker is connected to something from underneath an old pickup truck. And it all leads into the kitchen here.”

  “Every pipe has a purpose. Here, let me start at the beginning of the process. You’ll understand once you see how the energy transfers through the conduits. It’s all very molecular.”

  That was a head–scratcher for me. I had no clue what he was talking about, but didn’t want to let on. It was time to redirect the conversation.

  “All very interesting, but I’m hungry, so I am hoping food is somewhere in your mechanical blueprint.”

  Cosmo checked his pocket watch, its silver chain lashed to an anodized gold button on his coat. “Oh, hellz yah, baby. It’s just about time.”

  The man flipped a red switch on the keg and then sprinted into the kitchen, closing the back door and motioning me away from the window.

  “Is everything okay?” I knew little about mechanical things, but assumed a red switch was one you never wanted to flip.

  Cosmo looked at his watch again. After a few seconds, he exhaled. “Probably. These things have blown up before and there is no need for anyone to wear dinner.”

  Probably?

  The chef lifted his gauntlet and pressed more buttons and turned knob after knob. The bank of lights imbedded in the leather glove flashed in sequence. It reminded me of Christmas lights wrapped around a tree. Within a few seconds, a rumbling and rattling sound started deep inside the outdoor pressure cooker.

  “You mentioned blow up. Shouldn’t you check the safety valve on your pressure cooker? Those things can make a nasty mess.” I related a story about how my grandmother had once splattered a good beef stew all over the kitchen when the safety valve on her pressure cooker malfunctioned. Cosmo ignored me.

  “Here’s the best part. Hang on,” he said, interrupting me.

  We watched from a distance as the needle on the pressure gauge rose well into the red zone on the dial. Without realizing it, I stepped back from the wall, unsure how this would end up, except badly.

  Cosmo pressed a red button on his sleeve–bound control panel. Within a few seconds, I heard a hiss behind me. It was the metal safety cover lifting off a deep fryer. A metal pipe descended from I don’t know where, its spigot dropping golf ball–sized globules of dough into the vat of hot oil below. My brain couldn’t fathom what was cooking; however, my nose told me it was hush puppies!

  Huzzah! Who doesn’t love hush puppies?

  Another click, and this time an electric grill arose from within a cube–shaped metal cabinet. The thick metal bars of the grill glowed red as Cosmo hit another switch. A ceiling panel opened with a gush of cool fog rolling down. Cosmo had a refrigeration unit above! One more tug on his switch caused a big slab of beef brisket to be lowered to an inch above the hot grill. I could see a set of cogs and wheels rotating the meat, evenly cooking the whole thing.

  The chef pressed a few more controls, activating a nearby steam hose. The increasing pressure sent the hose twisting like a snake caught by its tail. He grabbed the end nozzle, and after taming the wild beast, spritzed the meat with green–tinged shots of steam.

  My nose twitched; a sneeze erupted. I knew that now was the time to leave the kitchen.

  “Bless you. And sorry about that,” Cosmo said. “I should have warned you. You are smelling a mix of cumin and chili powder. Guaranteed to make you sneeze the first time you smell it. Happens all the time. And I think it happened to old Pierre at the contest, too. He had quite a case of sniffles at the start of the day, you know.”

  I agreed, saying I had heard something about Pierre’s problems with his nose. I wasn’t sure Cosmo’s spice had caused the issue, but I couldn’t rule it out.

  Cosmo stuck his finger into the mist and then gave it a taste. “Gives the brisket a great flavor. But the cool part is the entire surface gets coated with the seasonings, not just bits and pieces. And, it’s an instant marinade, since the steam is powerful enough to penetrate the meat.”

  “You picked a rather tough piece of meat, Cosmo. Wouldn’t a decent chicken give you more to work with? Everyone likes chicken.”

  “And that is why I am using this brisket instead of chicken. Everyone uses chicken. Pardon the pun, but it tastes like chicken, you know. Where is the challenge in that?”

  “Cosmo, I can see you have skills here. In the chef department and with construction, too. I’d even say your mechanical skills are far better than the handyman’s who stops by to fix the equipment at the café. But why go through all of this tr
ouble when you can just marinate the beef in a freezer bag for a few hours and get the same effect?”

  “That is the second part of the plan. In most restaurants, the dining experience is not about how the food gets cooked, it is almost always about how the food tastes.”

  “And your restaurant, assuming you want to start one with the leftover prize money, won’t have good–tasting food as the number–one concern? I’m not sure how well that will compete in this town.” I was thinking of George. His culinary school technique resulted in superb flavors. Not as good as Velma’s, but still, very good. Cosmo needed to step up his game.

  “In our restaurant, the dining experience will be just that—an experience. People will come for the food, but what will set us apart is the visual. No one else will have twenty–first–century food amidst nineteenth–century industrial–steampunk working decor. It’s a culinary show where, in today’s case at least, the final act is the food being served to the diner by way of a conveyor belt of sorts.”

  “Right out of Metropolis,” I added.

  “I love that film!”

  “Figured.” I pointed behind the chef, asking, “Cosmo, is black smoke supposed to come out of that cabinet?”

  Cosmo whirled around and, seeing the smoke, grabbed the salt shaker, hoping to put out a small fire in the warming cabinet with it. I thought about telling him about the salt and sugar mix up, but Cosmo was moving so fast, the show was over before I could say another word.

  The smell of burning bread permeated the air. Cosmo opened the back window and directed his seasoned steam spray at the approaching clouds of smoke. He was using the intense vapor to create a miniature high–pressure weather system. With luck, it would push the smoke out the window.

  I doubted his plan would be successful. Thankfully, no one told Cosmo it wouldn’t work. The smoke soon cleared, but left a smell that might last for days. Cosmo gave me a confident fist bump.

  The source of the foul cloud became apparent after the air cleared. I took a look at the chef, half–expecting him to quit the competition after seeing the burned food. It could have been worse, I suppose. At least the keg outside hadn’t exploded. At least, not yet.

  “I hope those rolls were not a key part of your dinner plan, chef. They look beyond help.”

  “Oh, that is where your traditional thinking is all wrong.”

  Holding up a charred roll about the size of a baseball, Cosmo explained. “You may see a burned roll, but I see a handheld, carbonized bread vessel suitable for holding a salsa or dipping sauce, or maybe even a homemade barbecue sauce. In fact, that’s a great idea. I can make my sauce in a few minutes.” Fueled by his new idea, the chef ran to the soft drink cooler and grabbed a Dr Pepper.

  Instead of drinking the soda, Cosmo put the liquid into a small saucepan on the stove, adding a few cups of brown sugar and a dash of spices. He whisked with verve until the batch of sweet–smelling sauce turned into a reddish gravy, one with just a hint of smoke.

  Cosmo walked over the pan of burnt rolls and carved out a small concave opening in the top of each, removing the most blackened bits. Using another hose, also connected to the jumble of pipes, the chef–inventor–mechanic–visionary siphoned the Texas–style sauce into the burned rolls.

  “That,” he said, “is my basic barbecue sauce. You can’t go wrong with something made with a hint of Dr Pepper. Better than plain ketchup, I say. This stuff works on everything from guinea hen to turkey.”

  “And with brisket?” I interjected. “Listen, Cosmo, I think it’s time I stop distracting you. I’ve learned almost everything I need to know here, and I think it is time I go see if old Drake still has a cameraman.”

  I clicked my heels together and gave Cosmo a salute, a respectful hail and farewell to the kitchen commander.

  Cosmo gave a quick gasp as if he had forgotten something, and then, with eyebrows raised, stopped me. “Wait a minute. Do you like cheese?”

  “I prefer nutritional yeast myself, but I know I am not the norm. Most people love the stuff. Why do you ask?”

  “Look over there—you’ll see. This will be so awesome!”

  Cosmo pressed another row of buttons on his leather gauntlet; a bicycle wheel mounted on the wall spun. A chain connected to a sprocket wheel rotated, powering a broomstick now pumping up and down into a wooden barrel.

  “Goat cheese, churned on the spot. It’s as fresh–made as you can get,” he said. “We have a small herd of goats out back.”

  The complexity of the machinery created by someone as young as Cosmo stunned me. He had an artist’s vision and an engineer’s mind for functional detail.

  “You have got quite a show going on here, Cosmo. But all of this showmanship has made me ravenous. I better get to my seat before the cameraman takes my place.”

  Cosmo raised his finger as if to tell me he had just one more bit of wisdom to impart. “Ah, look, Winnie. Do yourself a favor and call her a camerawoman, or person, or whatever. Anything but a camera man. I’ve seen that mistake with my own ears and I saw her response, today in fact. It was not a pretty sight, but then again, it was just typical Drake Grimsby. He never had a clue about the big picture. And such a shame, too.”

  Aha, Cosmo knew something. More than just cooking and welding. Even though no one liked Drake, I moved Cosmo higher on my list of suspects. At the least, Cosmo Finnegan was a person of interest. And not just his girlfriend’s interest.

  “What do you mean by that? Why such a shame?”

  “Look. Grimsby’s mom was an excellent cook. She taught me how to cook when I was a young man of fourteen. One day, she let it slip that years ago she tried to teach Drake, too. Apparently, he did not get along well with his mother telling him how to be patient in the kitchen. Rejecting the discipline she required, Drake began coming up with screwy scheme after scheme. Get rich quick. The oldest dream in the world, he had. Get the money without doing the work. Who wouldn’t like that?”

  “Nice dream, Cosmo, but you and I know the reality of life. Nothing’s free.” If there was anything I could relate to, it was that nothing is served on the house on the dinner plate of life.

  “What I mean is that he never took the time to learn a decent, marketable skill. Now his mom is gone, and I think he is regretting many of his past choices. Probably why he has it out for your grandmother.”

  “I see. He’s trying to make up for lost time. Is that is what you are saying?”

  “All I’m saying is the food and beverage industry is full of two–faced crooks either out to get your money or prevent you from making it. I won’t accuse the man of murder, but I’m not saying he’s innocent, either.”

  “What about Pierre St. Pierre? Would you have trusted him?” I plied the young chef for information that might lead to a motive in Pierre’s demise.

  “Well, it’s no secret he and I had a public argument last month. But, I didn’t kill him, if that’s where you are going with this.”

  “It depends on who said what to whom. What was the argument about?”

  Cosmo ignored the question, instead opting to insert a large screwdriver into a slot in the wall. Twisting the tool clockwise, he set off a steam–powered engine powering a bevy of gears and wheels. As the puttering from the engine increased tempo, Cosmo dropped the screwdriver and ran to a control switch on the wall. As he pulled the switch down, I could hear the hiss of steam escaping from the now–opened valves. The engine and gears both came to a halt.

  “Phew! That was almost a huge mistake,” he said. “Timing is everything in my business and I almost ruined the surprise. Look, I’m sorry, Winnie, but I need to concentrate a little more on food and less on your inquisition.”

  “Apologies are due from me, I’m afraid. Not your fault at all. I thought you might want an opportunity to explain your relationship with the murder victim. The more I know now, the more I could help you later when the true story comes out in the official police investigation.”

  Cosmo looked resigned t
o spending a few more minutes with a nosey neighbor.

  “I see your point. Well, George here is primed to take over the bed and breakfast, though he needs a little more money. The owner wants to sell it to him at a price well below market value, but his kids are going off to college, so he’s got to hire more staff. It all takes money. I offered to become a partner with him but he has no desire to veer away from his own style of cooking—and he clearly does not like mine.”

  “Sounds like professional jealousy,” I added.

  “I think the real issue is that George knows he can either manage or cook, but he can’t do both. He’s a Southern gentlemen chef, through and through. He’ll never change culinary style, nor will he allow someone under his charge to change it, either. But he can’t run both the front of the house and the kitchen. It’s a trust issue, and he doesn’t trust me.”

  “That’s not what he told me. But how does this play into your argument with Pierre?”

  “The day George turned me down as a partner, my potential for success at the Seagull’s Nest dropped. I needed to go somewhere new, a place where my new ideas of combining modern cuisine with retro techniques would be welcome.”

  “Somewhere upscale, where a more modern chef would welcome your ideas?”

  “I went to the new restaurant in town, P–Squared. I figured Pierre, being trained in Europe, would have a broader perspective, a friendly attitude toward the diversity of my cuisine. He had traveled; I assumed he at least knew all the latest trends. If anyone, the mighty Pierre St. Pierre should have been open to a different culinary viewpoint.”

  “It didn’t work out that way, I assume? And so I guess that’s where you had it out with Pierre?”

  “Yes, we argued. But it was less than a minute of loud and spiteful words. My words were not much better.”

  “Sounds awful. What did he say?”

  “I went into the restaurant and presented my ideas to the chef, and do you know what he did? He laughed me right out into the street. Pierre had the audacity to say I was a ’lost little cook, looking for my broken–down food truck.’ And he said it in front of all of his customers. They all got a good chuckle at my expense.”