by Doug Lutz
“Oh, I’m just a poor college grad trying to make her first million one blue–plate special at a time. But don’t let the dirty dishwater fool you, I’m just hoping to serve up chicken on a stick and call it a night. It’s been a rough day,” I admitted.
“We all have our problems,” the woman said. She nodded her head toward the front of the house where her boss sat with his back to everyone as he played card games on his cell phone.
“Don’t I know it,” I said. “You know, once this is all over, I think you and I will have a much better understanding of each other.”
The oven’s warning buzzer sounded, letting me know there was no more time for small talk. That could come later in the guise of plotting the downfall of the camerawoman’s chauvinistic boss. Regardless of the fun in that, the first batch needed my attention. The cookie crisps were done, their tops browned with little reflective hints of sugar and cinnamon.
I removed the pan, trying not to burn my fingers. Once I transferred the cookies onto a wire cooling rack, I removed the steaming hot cans of condensed milk from the dishwashing machine. The bath of hot water had turned the sweet milk into a luxurious caramel sauce. After spooning the sauce across the baker’s dozen, I knew there was enough decadence in, and on, each cookie. No judge would complain today.
With chicken warming in the oven, and some bacon dressing coming to a simmer in a saucepan on the stove, I felt comfortable enough with the time remaining to arrange the cookies on a nice platter.
Seeing their pastors gathered in a conversational huddle, a practice universal whenever men and women of the cloth get together, I waved the cookies in their direction. The treats were as a beacon, lighting the way for them to find their chairs at the table.
I returned to the kitchen two more times to replenish the cookie platters. The plan was working. Several pans of cinnamon streusel–crisp cookies later, the chicken was ready for phase two. I walked over to the prep table and stabbed—well, maybe that was a bad choice of words? Perhaps something else? Thrust? Yes, much better. I thrust the sharpened chopsticks through the long, thin strips of boneless chicken.
Holding the oven–fried chicken stick up like a sword, I liked what I saw. Great flavor without the mess. Nothing gets on the hands; nothing to wash later. Almost the perfect food, but after a quick sniff, I realized it still needed something.
Heat and sweet. That would make a good dish even better. I knew my grandmother wouldn’t mind if I spiced things up. Perhaps I was bending the rules of the contest, but after the events of this week so far, what were the rules? Complaints could be addressed to the dead guy. I might have been cooking, but I was still on the case.
I threw together an Asian–style sauce made from a little soy sauce, brown sugar, minced garlic, and chopped pineapple. A few pulses in the old blender followed by a minute in a saucepan over high flame, and this sauce was ready for the poultry on a pole.
I soaked the oven–fried chicken strips in the warm sauce, leaving the handle end of the sticks up to help make removal a little easier. While they were marinating, I plated the potato salad Grandma had premade and cooled in the refrigerator. Hot bacon dressing would be added just prior to serving.
The only item left on my grandmother’s championship menu was the apple pie, sans pomme. I had eaten this pie at least once a year over the course of my entire life and never knew the pie plate had yet to see an actual apple. Was Velma more magician than cook?
I warmed the pie up by setting the plate on top of the shelf above the flat–top grill. The warmth from the pilot lights under the grill’s steel deck made for more than enough heat to take the chill away.
Timing was everything, and I knew it from watching my grandmother work the Cat and Fiddle day in and day out. I knew I should visit with the guests one more time before I put myself into overdrive putting the finishing touches on Velma’s contest entry.
As I walked out to the dining room, I saw a sullen crowd suffering from the constant rants of a crazed television producer. This would not do in my place. I had to do something.
I approached the judges and, freezing in mid–stride with my arms out, I asked the guests a question I am sure they had not expected.
“Is anyone here afraid of fire?”
The judges looked at me like I was a non–union cook who had crossed the picket line to save management from a service worker union’s strike. One woman raised her hand, unsure if she should, or if anyone would join her.
I now had their attention, which was the goal. “Not to worry, then,” I said. “You are probably safe. I’ll be right back with the best food you will have eaten this week.”
As I walked back to the kitchen, I poked my head out the swinging door one more time. “You girls in the front may want to scoot back about a foot. And one of you fine pastors may want to say a quick prayer. Never hurts, you know. But be quick about it; this will only take a second.”
I was trying to keep the ladies’ attention away from Drake and his self–imposed soap opera. And, seeing this was still a contest, I wanted to build culinary suspense without having another person getting stabbed in the back. A heightened sense of danger might keep everyone’s attention on how well the food would taste. At least, that was my plan.
The kitchen door opened with a bang as it hit the side of the wall. Before anyone could register what was happening, I was upon them, pushing the large stainless steel prep table. This was known, on a much smaller scale in fine dining restaurants, as table service. I had to improvise, going one step further by bringing in the entire table. This was beyond big. I was pushing a twelve–foot long, stainless steel, squeaky–wheeled table. I needed the space in the kitchen, anyway.
“The main course is Velma’s famous chicken on a stick, à la flambé.”
I needed to make this a show to remember. With one hand, I removed the chicken–laced chopsticks from the marinade, laying them flat on a wire tray to allow the extra sauce to drip into a catch pan. Having borrowed a butane torch from the kitchen’s tool kit, I lit the flame and seared the chicken, turning the smoldering chopsticks every few seconds. If the wooden chopsticks burned, my day, and the meal, would be over.
“Ladies, please don’t try this at home. Gentlemen, be sure to call the fire department before you attempt it, since I know you will try it.”
Nothing like playing the genders against each other to liven up the party. The ladies found the humor; the men checked their cell phones to make sure they had the right phone number for the nearby firehouse. One younger pastor started to record my performance with his phone’s video camera. We were going viral.
The brown sugar in the sauce had soaked into the deep–fried breading. When the blue flame caramelized the sugar, a crisp and sweet shell formed around the tender fried chicken. At least, I think that was the case. It was rather difficult to tell, what with all the smoke. There were times I couldn’t see the chicken. Didn’t matter, though. The clapping from the judges told me everything I needed to know. They would not soon forget today’s meal.
The judges cheered like kids on a playground when I tossed the chicken like a set of horseshoes, chopsticks flying across the table and landing on their plates. As the last one hit the center of the farthest plate, the judges raised their hands, giving my Olympic delivery a ten–fingers–up sign of approval.
“Please, hold your appreciation until the end. There is more to come.”
As the crowd scarfed down the flame–broiled yard bird, I went from guest to guest, serving the cold potato salad. After spooning hot bacon dressing on top, I could see the smell of seared pig wafting up to each judge’s nose. One almost stopped eating the chicken to switch to the side dish when she smelled the bacon dressing. She thought better of it, instead opting to finish the chicken on a stick. She sucked the chopstick clean. Twice.
It was time for the pie. I had cut a big slice for each of the judges, garnishing the top of the crust with a dusting of powdered sugar and a mint leaf, just for the
color. A few whole apples were added to the tray, positioned around the dessert plates. I was hoping they would all taste the flavor of the apples with their eyes. If they thought they were seeing apples and powdered sugar, they would assume the flavor would match—my biggest gamble of the day.
“Well, folks,” I said, “You have had chocolate pecan pie in a jelly jar, brownies in a box, and even waffles steamed in by train. But now, we have saved the best for last. Of course, I am referring to Velma Kepler’s world famous apple pie! And, to give it that extra sweetness, I have taken the liberty of dusting each slice with a light snowfall of confectioner’s sugar. I am sure you would agree Velma would have done that herself, had her weak heart allowed it.”
I placed a piece of pie in front of each guest. The edges of each slice maintained its triangular shape, and the crackers mimicked the apples to perfection. Just when the judges were about to dig in, I stopped them.
“Oh, but ladies and gentlemen, please wait for just one more moment. The pie may look good enough to eat, but there is one thing missing. A little secret sauce, if you will. I’d describe it, but I think you would rather I show you.”
I pulled a red ketchup bottle out of my back pocket. You could hear the gasps. Head fake! Instead of ketchup, I had boozed up the sauce from the cookies. To everyone’s delight, a caramel–brandy sauce made its way onto the pie. It may have been a little over–the–top, but I tried to scribble the initials of each judge on top of their respective piece of dessert. I had more ideas flowing through my head, but decided enough was enough, and besides, the crowd was still hungry.
The happy mumblings from the judges confirmed that I had made the right choice. Even the pastors were silent, a marked feat given that they were of that rare breed of people who were paid to talk, and most enjoyed every penny of time they could get to do it. Everyone was trying to sop up as much sauce as possible.
I considered Velma’s entry in the Saucy Skillet contest a rousing success. But as I cleared the dishes away from the guest table, I noticed several of the judges going back to the prep table to snag a few more pieces of chicken.
“Ma’am, if you’ll give me a minute, I’ll light the torch and fix those up for you,” I said.
The old woman ignored me, sparking to life the butane flame using a matchbook she had dug out of her purse. Using an old bar trick to light the match, she used one hand to maneuver a single matchstick out from the rest of the book. Her thumb dragged the match head against the thin garnet strip, igniting the sulfuric yellow flame.
My curiosity must have been obvious. She played her act off like it was a common occurrence. “I used to weld aircraft carriers at the shipyard, honey. I can handle a little toy like yours.”
Another judge joined her. “Yep. She’s not what she seems. It’s the old book–and–cover routine, kid. Don’t judge us by our appearance just because most of us are over seventy.”
We all had a good laugh, but their words made me think. Which volume in this shelf of book covers had committed the murder? Drake? One of the chefs? Heck, did Captain Larson do it? What about me? At this point, who knew?
As for Grandma’s contest entry, I considered the effort worth the time, even though it may not have been how my grandmother might have presented it. The judges were happy they had tasted all the food, even under circumstances that they had once said were suspect.
As they finished their deliberation, one judge asked me to take a group photo. I positioned the camera so I could see the entire group, and then Drake tried to weasel his way into the picture like an obnoxious drunk uncle. The unwanted photo–bomber was elbowed out of the group by the welder, allowing me to click the shutter on the camera. Once the mob dispersed, I knew who killed Pierre St. Pierre. Just not why.
18
As I watched one judge use an extra chopstick to skewer her last piece of fried chicken, the entire murder case flooded my brain like gravy on biscuits. The solution to the problem of who killed Pierre—and the reason why—was now as clear as one of the ice cubes in my tea glass.
“I’ve got to call Captain Larson,” I said out loud to no one in particular. “I know who did it.” A few ladies standing next to me gave me a quizzical look but went back to nibbling on the remnants of the dinner.
In my effort to keep my alternative diet hidden from the meat–and–potatoes crowd, I dropped a piece of granola. After searching about the small cubbyholes in the desk under the cash register, I came upon my grandmother’s cell phone. It was improbable she had saved the personal phone number of an obstinate old crab like Captain Larson, but I held out hope, sliding my finger across the glass cover.
As expected, the Captain’s personal cell number was unlisted. I considered making a call to the police station, but I didn’t want the entire force swooping down on the Cat and Fiddle like a SWAT team on a drug bust. Parker could only do so much to protect us. Better to call Velma and hope she would be well enough to answer the hard–wired phone sitting on the nightstand next to the hospital bed. Hopefully she would have forgiven me for making off with her wardrobe.
The phone rang several times before a feeble voice answered. We spoke for a few minutes, and I learned the test results had come back proving that Velma indeed had suffered a cardiac event. A “widow–maker,” she called it. I guess we owed Doc Jones once again. The stent had saved her life.
As my grandmother’s inquisitive nature showed through again, I could hear the tension in her voice elevate. This conversation would not be good for a heart patient. One dead body was enough. Once she had settled back down I related the success of her culinary offering to the judges. Hoping to not raise any more suspicion, or her blood pressure, I brought up Captain Larson’s cell phone number. “Winnie, why would you think I might have his personal cell phone number? He’s a nice–enough guy, but he doesn’t tip well, you know.”
“I don’t know, Grandma. It’s just I think I have solved the murder and I need to speak to him. When I looked in your phone’s contact list, I couldn’t find it. Maybe you misfiled his entry?” The last thing I needed right now was a grandma experiencing the onset of dementia.
Grandma was silent. As I was about to apologize, the answer came through the speaker.
“Look under I.”
I? That was unexpected. “Shouldn’t it be under L for Larson? Possibly under J, for his first name?”
“No, child. I filed his phone number under the letter I on purpose. He’s there because he is and always has been an idiot.”
That brought out a good chuckle, at least from me and the judges who had overheard the conversation.
Even Drake Grimsby laughed, an occurrence I had not seen from the man since this whole affair began a few days ago. The only stone–sober face in the Cat and Fiddle was the poor camera operator, who was once more struggling to keep her shot steady in all the commotion.
I said goodbye to my grandmother and then placed the call of every amateur sleuth’s dream. “Captain Larson? Miss Winnipeg Kepler here. If you have a moment, I’d like to ask you for a favor.”
“And what,” he replied, “might that favor be? I suppose you have solved the crime already?” He let out a muffled harrumph. “Your parents aren’t in town, are they?”
“Oh, no, sir. Nothing of the sort. I do have my ideas on who murdered the chef, though. There’s just one, teeny little problem.”
“Young lady, I don’t have time to play games. Either you have it or you don’t. Assuming you do, what are you asking me to do?”
It was time to set the trap. “Bring all of the suspects together, of course. But only to announce the winner, maybe? We don’t want to scare the killer off before you make the arrest.”
“Well, since you put it that way . . . I suppose I could help out.”
The trap had sprung! “Great! Thanks so much Captain! And remember to bring those shiny handcuffs. If the killer escapes, the state boys might grab the collar.”
“Well,” he boasted, “no need to worry abo
ut that happening. I’ll have Williams assist. We’ll show those Richmond desk jockeys. You name the place and time, and we’ll get the whole crowd there.”
This was working out better than I had anticipated. “I’m sure you would like your photo taken at the scene of the crime, bad guy in cuffs. How about tomorrow? Six–ish? The setting sun will reflect nicely off your badge.”
The Captain agreed to the entire plan. Now I had just one problem remaining. I still didn’t know exactly who killed Pierre. This type of gathering always worked on television. My fingers were crossed.
My elation subsided as the church ladies instigated me to call Captain Larson an idiot to his face before I ended the call. He heard the commotion and asked if everything was okay. I said yes, it was, but declined to relay the other comments from my grandmother. Or the pious companions on my right and left. No need to ruin a good moment.
The next evening, everyone arrived at the exposition hall just as the sun was setting over the water’s horizon. The diminishing light triggered the security exterior lights; their warm, orange glow painting the parking lot and steps leading to the door. It was a surreal setting reminiscent of an old movie filmed in mid–twentieth–century Technicolor.
The fairground parking lot was filled with the vehicles of each member of this bizarre dinner party. There were squad cars bookending the gathering, presumably to thwart an escape. Added to the mix were a few vehicles belonging to folks who had an interest in the outcome, including the shared car of Fran and Tricia.
I pulled into a vacant parking space and turned off the engine. My car, a very used car when I bought it from some guy needing quick money for a lawyer, clicked and clacked as the engine cooled down. It was something one had to get used to hearing. I didn’t even notice the noise anymore.