by Doug Lutz
“Winnie,” my grandmother interjected, “how did she do it? No murder weapon was ever found. And all the knife sets were complete; and most were found to be clean. The only blood was on Cosmo’s knife, and he had cut himself earlier. How do you explain it?”
“Mr. Grimsby, how many competitors were there in the contest?” I asked.
The producer looked at me with a furled brow, saying “Isn’t it obvious? There were five. One is dead so now there are four.”
“I mean in total. You had two previous rounds, yes?”
“Well, if you include the people who were not even here into your fantasy—I mean, explanation—there would be fifteen in total.”
“And you had three rounds, correct? All fifteen competed in the first round, and then you eliminated five, which meant ten chefs cooked in the second round. Five more gone at the end of round two left you with our four here, plus the deceased. Is my math correct, Mr. Grimsby?”
“Yes, but I don’t follow where you are going with all of this, Miss Kepler.”
“Oh, but I think you do, sir. Let me ask another question. The chefs, they all received a gift set of knives to use on the stage, yes? And they could keep them once they left?”
“Of course, we don’t want to appear stingy, no matter what that woman said. She may have been married to an unethical, high–up muckety–muck at MegaFood, but the company overall was great. They gave us all of our stuff. And, they wanted to open a regional headquarters here. Really, they needed all the public goodwill they could buy.”
Grimsby was starting to look around, fidgeting to the point that Parker, normally the last person to pick up on what was really going on, surreptitiously moved behind him, sensing he may need to take the man down whenever I pronounced the promoter guilty of something.
“Interesting choice of words, Drake. And please, allow me to call you Drake, since no one knows how to pronounce your actual last name,” I said. “Back to the knives. Each competitor, even the ones who were not chosen to move on to the next round, was able to keep their knife set. That is what you are saying, isn’t it, Mr. Grimsby?”
“I’ve already said so, yes.”
“So, fifteen chefs, and fifteen sets of knives?”
“Like I said, yes.”
“And every chef has possession of their set? A gift set, I believe, if I understood your words correctly?”
“Naturally.”
“What about the chef who cheated in the second round? Did he get to keep his knives?”
There was a pause in the conversation. You could hear everyone inhale as if they knew something big was about to break wide open in this case.
“Drake? I’ll ask again, did he keep his knife set?” I knew everyone had forgotten about the chef who had brought his own ingredients onto the stage. Velma chimed in to remind everyone the man had been simply awful at trying to hide the fact that he was cheating, saying the boy made no effort to hide the food. It was right there for all to see when you opened the carry bag.
Grimsby came to his own defense. “Well, no. We did have to confiscate that man’s knife set. That was one of the rules. Cheat and you leave with nothing.”
“I’m sure if we find the young man, he will tell all about how someone paid him to cheat so poorly he would get disqualified. That’s how the murder weapon came in proximity to the victim. Grimsby here was hoping everyone would have forgotten about that lost set of knives. Care to tell us where they are, Drake?”
As we walked back onto the stage, Grimsby, with almost an involuntary reaction, gave a quick look at his desk in the wings, stage right. He tried to play it off. “I’m not sure where the knives ended up. They were first put on the production table and I haven’t seen them since.”
I looked at Parker. “Since this could be an active crime scene, do you need a warrant to search for the murder weapon?”
“It kind of depends. If I have a suspect, and probable cause, I could get a search warrant for his vehicle or his house. But this crime scene? That’s sort of fair game. Depends really. I can look on top of the desk, but to look inside I would need cause for it to be admissible in court. What did you have in mind?”
“Suppose someone else, someone who was not an officer of the court—say, oh, I don’t know, perhaps a café owner who has a hobby of being an amateur sleuth—suppose that person were to rummage through a desk looking for an aspirin.”
“Winnie,” my grandmother said, “do you have a headache? I think I have something in my purse if you need it.”
“No thanks, Grandma. I think my headache remedy is in the desk here. Let me check.”
I came upon the production desk, where several papers lay about, but no knife set was sitting out in the open. If it had been, Parker could have confiscated it as Exhibit A.
I started to pull on the desk drawers, hoping one would be unlocked. “If I had just taken a knife set from a cheating competitor, would I have to put it here, on top of the desk? Anyone could have walked off with it. These knife sets are quite valuable. Aren’t they?”
Grimsby sighed. “They cost several hundred dollars, yes.”
“So, I would have wanted to secure the knife set. Put it somewhere out of sight; somewhere people would not have noticed it, especially if one of the knives went missing. Someplace like the bottom desk drawer.”
The last drawer was still unlocked. Grimsby really needed to brush up on his bad–guy skills.
I opened the drawer a few inches, just enough to see inside. I purposely stopped short of opening it the full amount.
I faked a sneeze. “I am thinking I need a tissue, too. I could be allergic to cats, too, you know. Fortunately, I don’t need a warrant to blow my nose, right? Parker, be a gentleman and see if there’s a tissue in there, will you? Please and thank you.”
Parker reached down to pull the drawer out further. Before he had actually touched to handle, he looked up, his smile bigger than a lopsided crescent moon. “Sorry, Winnie, there’s no tissue. I guess the Captain still has it, but look what I see—in plain sight and admissible in court as evidence. There’s the knife set, and the large chef knife is missing.”
“No tissue? That’s a shame. I guess I’ll have to suffer. But wow, there’s a knife set inside. I never would have guessed.”
Parker then opened the lowest drawer all the way, where a bloody knife partially wrapped in a kitchen towel could be plainly seen. He immediately reached for his own set of handcuffs, and then realized that he had let the Captain drive away with them. He improvised, grabbing Drake Grimsby by the collar.
“You can’t pin the murder on me. The woman already confessed.”
“Oh, Mr. Grimesbut. I am sure she will tell us the whole story when she writes her statement, just like I said a while ago. You see, when we looked at the video a second time, we all saw the two pairs of shoes at the bottom of the curtain. Then we saw Cosmo and Bailey return to the stage. But—and this is what made me start to rethink my conclusion—I noticed the shoes were not the same. If you compare the shoes we see at the start, before the toasting, to the shoes we saw at the end, they are not the same. Those shoes belonged to you. And Mrs. Warren.”
Grimsby, trying his best to distance himself from a possible stint in prison, started spilling his guts.
“She told me she wanted to put George out of business and have her own television show. Her husband’s career had fizzled, and she thought we could make a go of it with my television production experience and her as the on–camera talent. We waited until the naïve little love birds left the curtain, and then we sneaked back for our own rendezvous. But she had the knife. She had cut a slit in the curtain so we could see if anyone was coming; we didn’t want any interruptions, if you know what I mean.”
Parker tried to get the rambling man back on subject. “I don’t think we need the details. Just get to the part where you killed Pierre.”
Regaining his composure, Drake continued. “Yes, well, when we saw Pierre walking back to finish off the second bo
ttle of wine, she grabbed my hand. I thought she was going to pull us closer together so Pierre wouldn’t notice. But as he walked by on the other side of the curtain, she lunged at me, and in the process, the knife went through the slit in the curtain.”
Grimsby’s eyes started to bulge out when he realized the obvious. “That must have been when she stabbed him. I could hear the man stagger down the hall; I thought he was just a bit tipsy. I had no idea she stabbed him.”
“So, when did you panic and hide the knife?” I asked.
“Not until later. I mean, I didn’t hide the . . . well, once she told me, I had to go along with it, or she’d blame me for the murder. At first, when I was still innocent, you know, having no idea a crime had been committed, we kissed one more time. I knew I had finally met my soul mate. I was floating on air, I was so happy. It didn’t register with me that I had just helped kill a man. That fact didn’t become clear to me until after the body had been found. I wasn’t in my right mind. It could have been temporary insanity, I think. Somebody get a notary. I want my temporary insanity documented for the judge!”
Drake looked around, hoping to find someone, anyone, willing to give him a break. “And speaking of that, call a judge! I’m ready to make a deal. She’s going down first!”
George Harrison Windsor laughed. “Hey, my divorce was finalized a while ago. She’s your problem now, sir. Enjoy.” We all got a chuckle out of that one.
Seaview’s best police officer, in my opinion at least, was now Parker Williams. Without prompting, he twisted Grimsby’s arm behind his back and started to lead him to the door. “You may have met your soul mate today, but soon you will be meeting your cell mate. Drake Grimsby, you have the right to remain silent and I surely hope you do so. I’m tired of hearing all of this crap.”
As Parker and Drake were driving off, Velma stood and asked, “Hey, what about the contest winner? We need to have a winner, don’t we?” She looked at the judges, who were busy conferring.
A little old woman, probably Doc Jones’s first patient, slowly stood, her cane at the ready in case she started to lean too far in one direction. “Yes. We have decided on a winner for this year’s Saucy Skillet.”
The room hushed. The only sound was the low hum of the air conditioning unit in a window at the other end of the building. The tension and excitement increased by the second.
The woman shuffled her papers, trying to make sure she had the correct name to announce. My grandmother ran her fingers through her hair, wanting to look as good as possible when she was called up to accept her award.
The foreman of the culinary jury continued. “The judges were very appreciative of all the entries. We enjoyed every dish we tasted, even those with a little too much salt.” With those words, George sat up a bit straighter, knowing he had just won the contest.
“And while we did enjoy every single dish, we had to take into consideration the theme which for this year was the traditional picnic.” Both George and Grandma slumped a bit in their chairs.
Cosmo, anxious to hear his name as well, said, “We know that, ma’am. Could you please just announce the winner?” He took Bailey’s hand and pulled her to his side.
“Patience, sir. You young people are always in such a hurry. You all need to learn to have patience.” The woman found it necessary to reexamine her papers, thinking somehow they were no longer in the correct order.
“Like I was saying, the fried chicken on a stick was a good one, as was the sweet potato biscuit. And the waffle train? The cat’s meow.”
Cosmo tried to correct the judge. “Actually, it was supposed to be Mexican flan on top, not syrup, but—”
“Now you are trying my patience, young man. Call it what you want, we liked it. But none of those entries had the true essence of the traditional picnic. Remember, we are a town built by poor farmers and fishermen. For us, a picnic is more about love and not so much about the food. Simple is better, and the faster we girls could throw together some food for our picnic basket, the sooner we could be out at the beach with our boys.”
“So, you are saying no one won?” I asked.
“Far from it, my dear. In fact, Miss Babbitt takes the prize this year. Her peanut butter crunchy pickle sandwiches were the best. They brought back so many good memories, we sat around for hours reminiscing about old boyfriends. Her meal was sublime, and the brownies were beyond description!” The other judges started to giggle like young schoolgirls when the spokesperson mentioned the all–night gossip session.
I took the liberty of presenting the Saucy Skillet trophy to Bailey, who graciously accepted it. Taped to the bottom of the trophy was a check for ten thousand dollars. I carefully penned in Bailey’s name and presented the prize money to the stunned girl.
“Congratulations, Bailey. Great job! And the prize money will make for a great wedding and honeymoon.”
Bailey took her fiancé’s arm. “No, Winnie. I’m sorry, but no need to shop for a wedding dress. At least, not yet. This money will go to rebuilding our new rolling restaurant train, the Southern Comfort.”
Cosmo’s eyes widened. “What are you talking about, Bailey?”
“I mean, we could use your talent to finish the redesign of the dining car and the kitchen, and my talent to decorate the caboose’s living quarters. Once we’re done, we’ll have a dining car with a show kitchen operated by all of your amazing steam–powered gadgets. It will be like going back in time, but with a bit of modern mechanics thrown in. We can have a rolling steampunk fine dining experience, maybe once a day for either lunch or dinner. Then, once we are done cleaning up, we can retire to the caboose and ah, you know, stoke our own furnaces, as it were.”
With the winner declared and the trophy and prize money awarded, everyone left the fairgrounds to return to their respective abodes. As Velma and I started to walk off the stage, I picked up my wooden spoon and holstered it through one of my belt loops. It wasn’t a deadly weapon, but I had a feeling more than one bad guy would avoid a knuckle–rap if at all possible.
As Velma and I walked back to the Cat and Fiddle, the winning lovebirds waltzed across the fairgrounds to the side track where Bailey’s train cars were sitting. Even Fran and Tricia had renewed their relationship, walking with linked arms back to the Seagull’s Nest. It would take them longer to get there than George, who was quick–stepping alone and whistling a cheerful tune.
As we reached the café, a man was standing on the front stoop. He was wearing a dark blue suit, the pinstripes extremely thin but there. His red tie made him look almost like a politician; all he needed was the American flag lapel pin.
“Can I help you?” Velma said.
“I hope so. Am I guessing correctly in that you are Winnipeg Kepler?”
“I am she,” I said. “Would you like to come in?”
The three of us walked inside, where Velma started a pot of coffee. The visitor and I sat down at the four–top table by the bay window.
The man introduced himself. “I am from MegaFood, Incorporated, Miss Kepler. You interviewed with one of our subsidiaries, Mint Street Bankers, a while back, and I must say, everyone there was very impressed. Unfortunately, that position has been filled.”
“And so, you are here why?” It seemed like I had just finished doing battle with the corporate giant, and here I sat, face–to–face with another one of their representatives, possibly sent on a peace mission—with no job offer. That made no sense.
“Excellent question. Well, we have a similar opening at MegaFood. And based on the recommendations from the human resource manager at Mint Street, we decided you would be a perfect fit in our marketing department. Normally, we just email the person being offered a job, but my VP insisted I come out to see you in person. I had called several times, but you were never in.”
My instinct told me the man sitting in front of me was serious, and had nothing to do with the recent quasi–criminal activity. To be sure, I probed.
“Your boss. The VP. By any chanc
e would that be a Mr. Warren?”
“Harding is the vice president of my division. He must have spoken with the VP in Mint Street’s HR department, though, since he was very familiar with your interview. He insisted I come out here today to meet you in person. I hope it’s not too late. Are you still on the market, looking for a position?”
“Oh, now that is an interesting question,” I said. I peered through the window at Seaview’s old buildings being revitalized one red brick at a time. Then I imagined the modern steel and glass surrounding the window of a high–rise office. I’d have maintenance brush down the dust on the plastic green plant in the corner. My phone would buzz; it would be my assistant reminding me of the next meeting. Stale, bitter coffee would be waiting. Maybe Grandma’s dream for me wasn’t actually my dream? Bitter coffee? I could do better.
I offered a question to my inquisitor. “You know, I have a thought. What if, and please don’t read anything into this, but what if Mr. Warren were to step aside? Who would take his place?”
The man shrugged his shoulders, not expecting to have a new hire ask him a question. “I suppose the company would open the position for anyone to apply. I’ve been there for a while; I guess I would have the best shot at it. Why do you ask?”
“Never mind. Thank you very much for the offer, but I have to decline.” I looked up as my grandmother was placing two cups of coffee on the table. “You see, I am currently in negotiations to become the owner of this fine establishment, and if successful, I’ll need to stick around a while to make sure the spicy crab poppers are cooked just right. What do you think, Grandma?”
“I think someone down at the police station will be very interested in hearing that news, Winnie. But it’s your choice. Not much of an office here, compared to working in a skyscraper somewhere. But I can’t just give the place away, you’ll have to buy it. This deal must be legal if it’s anything.”
What kind of cash are we talking about, Grandma? All I have is a twenty in my pocket; any more, and I’ll have to go to the bank and get a loan.”