by Lee Hollis
She came across one more bad review.
There is something fishy going on at the Blooming Rose! Owner Felicity Chan-Flynn has skated by for years on her restaurant’s sterling reputation, but it’s high time someone expose this eatery for what it really is—an overrated tourist trap that serves day-old fish and warmed up slop more in keeping with the menu at the state penitentiary rather than a high quality summer season restaurant frequented by visiting celebrities and dignitaries. I have already contacted writers for the top food magazines in New York to let them know that the Rose isn’t blooming at all. It’s wilting and past its prime.—Meat Maven
Ouch.
Even worse than Dr. Foley’s review.
And Meat Maven was the obvious user name for Olivia Redmond.
She had posted it the morning after Hayley dined with her and Nacho at Felicity’s restaurant.
And she was dead just a few days later.
Hayley didn’t know what to think.
Was Felicity unhinged and scarily sensitive?
A crazed killer hell-bent on taking out anyone who spoke ill of her restaurant?
But Felicity could not have been the one to murder Olivia Redmond.
She had an airtight alibi.
She had already left the estate and was working in her vegetable garden back at the restaurant when Olivia was killed at the estate. She even had an eyewitness to corroborate her story who was willing to testify to the fact.
There was a knock at the back door.
Hayley looked up from her laptop, startled. She set the computer down next to Leroy, who was snoozing on the couch next to her, and walked through the kitchen and opened the door to find Bruce standing there.
“Is this a bad time?”
“No, come in,” Hayley said.
Bruce looked around the kitchen as he entered. “You in the middle of making dinner?”
“I haven’t really been cooking much since the kids aren’t around.”
“Oh, I see.” He looked disappointed.
“Why? Are you hungry?”
“A little. Just thought I’d guilt you into letting me stay for dinner if you had a meat loaf in the oven or something.”
“Sorry. What is it you want, Bruce?”
He glanced at the fridge. “You really don’t have something hidden away in there you could whip up for the two of us?”
“Are you serious? There’s nothing in the fridge. And even if there was, I don’t feel like cooking you dinner!”
“Okay, fine. I get it. I’m not the handsome vet you’ve got the hots for. I’m just your platonic coworker so I get no special treatment.”
“The point, Bruce. Get to the point. Did you really just stop by to get a free meal?”
“No. I went and found a busboy who works at the Blooming Rose after our conversation with Carla McFarland. Or to be clear, your conversation. Kid by the name of Jay Chaplin. Parents are teachers at the school. I know the family. He’s a good egg.”
“What did he have to say?”
“Once I got him to open up, he actually had a lot to say. His parents forced him to quit about a month ago. According to him, Felicity Flynn-Chan was a monster to work for.”
“That’s no surprise. She’s always been a perfectionist. I know that because she calls me when she wants to place an ad for her restaurant in the Island Times and she will only deal with me because she wants it done just so.”
And two lousy reviews on a well-trafficked Web site would undoubtedly send her into an emotional tailspin.
“She screamed at the poor kid all the time for the silliest offenses, like forgetting to put the soupspoon in the right space on the table or if on a busy night he didn’t clear a table fast enough. The stress was so bad he went to the doctor and was given a prescription for an antidepressant.”
“A lot of restaurant owners are mercurial and demanding, Bruce.”
“Yeah, but this apparently went way beyond that. One night a table complained that the basket of bread they had been served wasn’t warm enough and she had such a meltdown she spent the rest of the night curled up in a ball in a corner of the kitchen and wouldn’t talk to anyone. Another time she beat one of her waiters with a spatula for dropping a pat of butter into the lap of a state senator who was dining with her husband. He had a zillion stories like this. God forbid you get on her bad side.”
“So she’s unstable. That doesn’t make her a killer,” Hayley said.
“Man, all this talk about food . . . I’m starving.”
“Off topic, Bruce.”
“Right. Maybe she’s not a killer. But I not only talked to Jay, I got in touch with a dishwasher and a hostess and a couple of waiters, and they all said the same thing. Felicity Flynn-Chan is nuts and willing to do just about anything to protect her business. The only thing she loves more than that restaurant is her husband, Alan. She’s completely devoted to him.”
Alan Chan.
Felicity’s subdued, nondescript husband.
The restaurant’s well-trained chef who remained safely tucked away in his wife’s shadow.
Felicity was the true face of the operation.
And she may have had an alibi for Olivia’s murder.
But did Alan?
“Want to order a pizza with me? We can have it delivered. My treat,” Bruce said, clutching his growling stomach.
It dawned on Hayley that she had no idea what she was going to have for dinner, so resigned, she shrugged. “Fine. Have a seat in the living room. I’ll call Little A’s and pop open a couple of beers.”
Bruce beamed from ear to ear as he shook off his jacket and hung it on the coatrack, then pulled out his cell phone. “I’ll call. Meat lover’s okay?”
She nodded as she watched him laconically drift into the living room and turn on a cable news channel. Hayley had to give him credit. His persistence had paid off.
Bruce Linney was staying for dinner.
Island Food & Spirits by Hayley Powell
The other night I showed up at my brother Randy’s, bar with my yummy Skillet Bacon Mac & Cheese because his husband, Sergio, was working late wrapping up a couple of big cases and I didn’t want Randy skipping dinner. It was also an excuse to get one of Randy’s signature Blackberry Moonshine Cocktails, which I was sure my grateful brother would offer on the house.
As we sat at the bar chowing down on the mac and cheese and sipping our cocktails, a childhood friend of ours, Jeff Pryor, sauntered into the bar to grab a beer, so we waved him over to join us since we hadn’t seen him in a while. We all began to catch up on what was going on in each of our lives. Most of you probably know that Jeff owns a sightseeing cruise boat that takes visitors around Mount Desert Island and the outer islands where they can take in the rocky, beautiful coast as well as look at seabirds, seals, and some of the lavish summer homes of the rich and famous.
He also offered a sunset cocktail cruise that is a favorite among many folks, myself included.
I know, I know, you’re not surprised.
As we were chatting away, a young off-duty summer park ranger strolled in and took a seat at the bar to enjoy a cold beer before heading home, presumably after a long day at work.
I noticed a young couple sitting next to us at the bar with a stack of brochures from the park headquarters in Hulls Cove. The woman got excited upon seeing the young park ranger and stood up and marched over to him, ignoring her husband’s pleas to sit back down. She then tapped the ranger on the shoulder.
“Excuse me, may I ask you a question? My husband has been no help whatsoever,” she said, tossing him a disgusted look over her shoulder.
“Of course,” the ranger said, smiling. “What’s your question?”
“At what age does a deer become a moose? We haven’t been able to find the answer in any of the brochures.”
Randy spit out his Blackberry Moonshine Cocktail while Jeff and I both fought hard not to erupt in a fit of giggles.
The park ranger patiently explained
that deer do not become moose. They stayed deer. The woman began arguing with the poor ranger and declared that he didn’t know anything because she had seen a picture of a grown moose next to its baby deer with her own eyes. The ranger stood his ground. Moose are not grown-up deer. So with a huff, the woman spun around and grabbed her embarrassed husband and marched right out of the bar.
The second they were gone we all broke out into hysterical laughter.
When we finally calmed down, Jeff began to tell us some of the questions he gets on his various boat cruises.
“What do you do with the islands in the winter?”
We chuckled at this one.
“How many sunset sails do you do in a day?”
Now we were laughing.
“How long is your two-hour tour?”
Randy was practically choking after that one, and I was laughing so hard I could barely breathe.
“Is this island surrounded by water?”
Now we were rolling.
After just leaving the dock on the boat, one tourist actually looked back at where they had launched only moments before and asked, “What town is that?”
My sides hurt from laughing so hard.
But the one question that really got us going and caused me to fall on the floor laughing in hysterics was one Jeff got last summer. He would always take pictures of each couple or group on the boat, and told them that after the tour they could pick their pictures up in the gift shop at the dock if they would like theirs to keep.
This led one passenger to ask him with a straight face,“How will we know which one is ours?”
As anyone around here knows, summers can be very long and somewhat trying on the patience at times, especially in a busy tourist town such as ours.
So remember to try to take some time and relax, and just have some fun by getting together with friends for a fun dinner in or out. But certainly don’t forget to add a great cocktail or two. You’ll end up having a wonderful time and the summer won’t be so stressful.
This week I’ll get your party started with my Skillet Bacon Mac & Cheese recipe and Randy’s Blackberry Moonshine Cocktail.
Skillet Bacon Mac & Cheese
Ingredients
1 pound box shell macaroni (or your favorite)
1 teaspoon dry mustard
½ teaspoon cayenne pepper (or less if you don’t like a touch of heat)
2 cups grated sharp cheddar cheese
1 cup grated Gruyère cheese
1 cup, plus ½ cup grated cheddar cheese
1¼ cups milk
1½ cups panko bread crumbs
2 tablespoons chopped fresh parsley
6 slices cooked crispy bacon; reserve ¼ bacon grease
Salt and pepper to taste
Roux Sauce Ingredients
¼ cup butter
¼ cup flour
3 cups milk
First make the Roux Sauce. In a large cast iron skillet over medium-low heat (any large oven-safe skillet), melt the butter, whisk in the flour, stirring constantly until a paste is formed and bubbles a bit, about 2 minutes. Add the milk a little at a time, whisking constantly until the sauce thickens, and remove from heat.
Bring a pot of salted water to a boil and cook the pasta until almost al dente, but do not fully cook; drain and set aside.
Preheat your oven to 400 degrees. Put Roux Sauce back on low heat and stir in mustard and cayenne. Gradually add the cheeses while stirring constantly until all the cheese has melted. Add the additional milk, salt, and pepper to taste.
Add the cooked pasta and cooked crumbled bacon to the Roux Sauce in the large skillet.
In a bowl mix together the panko bread crumbs, chopped parsley, and reserved bacon grease, and top the mac and cheese, sprinkling evenly. If you desire, sprinkle a little more grated cheese on top of bread crumbs.
Bake 25 to 30 minutes or until top is browned and pasta is bubbly.
Blackberry Moonshine Cocktail
Ingredients
2 ounces blackberry-flavored moon-shine
1 ounce fresh lemon juice
Splash of seltzer water
6 blueberries
2 strawberries
2 blackberries
In a shaker pour the moonshine, lemon and add half the fruit and muddle together. Strain into an ice-filled cocktail glass and top with a splash of seltzer and garnish with the leftover fruit. This is definitely a great way to start a party!
Chapter 30
“I don’t know why you roped me into coming with you,” Randy said as Hayley drove them in her car to Town Hill.
“Protection. You’re my bodyguard. I don’t feel safe going on my own,” Hayley said, speeding up on the country road that led to the Blooming Rose bistro.
“What do you hope to possibly gain by poking a stick at Felicity? It’s not as if she’s going to tell you anything like, ‘Oh, Hayley, I’m so happy you stopped by. I want to confess to shooting Dr. Foley and strangling Olivia Redmond. Shall I call the police or would you rather do it?’”
“She didn’t strangle Olivia. I think she may have enlisted the aid of her husband.”
“Alan? But he’s so quiet and passive. He doesn’t strike me as the type to commit murder.”
“That’s because we’ve rarely heard him speak. We don’t really know what he’s like, which is why I’m hoping he’s there when we swing by the restaurant just to say hello and make a dinner reservation.”
“She’s going to be suspicious. They have these wild inventions now called computers and you can actually make reservations online.”
“I’ll just tell her we were passing by on our way home from Ellsworth and decided to pull in and make a reservation in person.”
“I have this foreboding sense of danger, Hayley. My stomach is doing flip-flops. And since when do you consider me a bodyguard? My husband is the law enforcement official. I’m just a low-key nonviolent bar owner with incredible hair,” Randy said, checking himself out in the side mirror.
“You know what they say. There is safety in numbers.”
“Yeah, but if what you suspect is true, do we really stand a chance against a homicidal husband and wife hit team?”
Hayley didn’t have an answer for that one. It was almost too preposterous to contemplate.
Felicity and Alan Chan cold-blooded killers?
Over a couple of lousy reviews on TasteTest?
Hayley pulled into the gravel parking lot. There was one car parked near the restaurant entrance—a black Volvo.
It was quiet. Just a light breeze and slight chill in the air. Rain was undoubtedly on the way. Typical late April Maine weather.
Hayley and Randy got out of the car and walked inside the restaurant.
It was very cold.
No heat.
And empty.
The upholstered chairs were upended on top of all the tables in the dining room, and the floor appeared freshly mopped. There was a scent of Pine-Sol or some other cleaning agent.
“Hello? Felicity? Alan? Hello?”
No response.
Hayley turned to Randy. “Let’s take a look around.”
“Have you forgotten about the car parked out front? Somebody is obviously here,” Randy said, his voice cracking.
“There’s no harm in making sure,” Hayley said, heading off to the side office just past the hostess station.
“You know, just because you get off playing Miss Marple doesn’t mean we’re all good at breaking and entering and throwing ourselves headfirst into perilous situations,” Randy said. “But I am hungry, so I’ll go check out the kitchen.”
Hayley poked her head into the office and glanced around.
It was immaculately kept.
Not a stray piece of paper out of place.
On the wall were various framed awards and endorsements from a number of media outlets. The restaurant was ranked third in a New York Times article entitled “The Best Seasonal Restaurants in Maine.” Best crab cakes in a Bon App
étit list, “Seafood Favorites.” A profile of Alan in the Maine Food & Lifestyle magazine.
Hayley browsed through the story, which detailed Alan’s fairy-tale marriage to Felicity, his extensive culinary training in Europe, his upbringing in Seoul, South Korea. She stopped at one paragraph and read it over more carefully. The reporter had asked Alan about when he was a young man in his early twenties and in the military. Alan had proudly recounted his days as an officer in the ROK Special Forces and how he’d been trained in hand to hand combat and weapons for secret missions in North Korea. It had been an intense time in his life, and in the name of his country he did some things that were tough to forget.
The reporter then shifted the focus of the article back to Alan’s love of food and his dream of one day owning his own restaurant, which had certainly come to pass.
ROK Special Forces.
South Korea’s own version of the US Army Green Berets.
Brave operatives sent on covert missions to take out terrorists, rescue hostages, retrieve vital information.
Someone in ROK Special Forces would be totally capable of snapping a woman’s neck.
Trained to do it, in fact.
Hayley removed the framed article from the wall and walked back through the dining room toward the kitchen where Randy was foraging for food.
“Randy, take a look at this. It’s not exactly proof, but it certainly raises a lot of questions about Alan Chan. . . .”
She burst through the carved wooden swinging doors and stopped short.
Standing near the stove was Randy, his eyes wide with fear.
Alan Chan stood directly behind him, one hand clamped firmly over Randy’s mouth while the other held a steak knife to his throat.
“Alan, what are you doing? Let my brother go,” Hayley pleaded, keeping her voice soft and trying to remain calm.
“Why did you come here? What do you know?” Alan spit out.
“We just stopped by to make a reservation, okay?” Hayley said, gently putting down the framed article on the kitchen counter and holding out her hands to show that she came in peace.