Book Retreat Mystery 07 - Murder in the Cookbook Nook

by Ellery Adams

  Edwin and Mia were too busy sharing anecdotes about street food in Bangkok to be drawn into anyone else’s conversation. By the time the salad course was done, they were embroiled in a good-natured argument over whether kua kling was spicier than gaeng som.

  Jane, who was seated between Chef August and Chef Michel, hoped to learn more about their lives outside the kitchen. As fathers, both men understood the challenges of running a business while maintaining a close bond with their children. Jane realized that being the executive chef of a fine-dining establishment wasn’t that different from managing a five-star resort. She became so engaged in their discussion that she forgot to try her entrée.

  When she finally took a bite of her coffee-rubbed grilled steak, it was barely warm. But the chimichurri sauce was so fresh and flavorful that she ate most of her steak anyway.

  The stimulating conversation, delicious food, and excellent wine had Jane feeling relaxed and happy. Everyone seemed to be having a wonderful time, and for once, Chef Pierce was behaving. He was so enchanted by Eloise that he forgot to badger their server for refills on wine.

  Catching Eloise’s eye, Jane arched her brows as if to ask, “Are you okay?”

  Her best friend responded with a brief nod. She then tucked a strand of honey hair behind her ear and smiled at Chef Pierce. Eloise’s English rose skin and beguiling blue eyes were glowing. She looked as radiant as the bride she’d soon be.

  The entrée plates were cleared, and Chefs Michel and August began talking about their wives. The two men exchanged first-date and wedding stories for a few minutes before Chef Michel turned to Jane and asked, “And you, Ms. Steward? Did your husband plan your honeymoon? It sounds like he’s been all over the world.”

  “Actually, Edwin is my partner. My husband, William, passed away, and I never remarried.”

  Chef Michel’s face went as red as a maraschino cherry. “I’m so sorry.”

  Jane touched his hand. “Don’t be. I’ve been very lucky. I’ve had the love of two wonderful men in one lifetime. Edwin knows that William will always have a place in my heart, and my late husband would approve of Edwin because he loves me and my sons.”

  Chef Michel stared at the candle on the table, momentarily transfixed by the flickering flame. “My employer, Olivia Limoges, also lost her husband in a terrible tragedy. No one knew how to comfort her. Including me.” He looked at Jane. “She came to Storyton Hall some time during today’s challenge. She told me that her guest cottage feels like a home away from home. Thank you for letting Olivia rent that cottage. She’s like a sister to me. A blunt and bossy sister, oui, but I love her.”

  “Is your boss here to make sure you win?” Chef August gave Chef Michel a playful nudge.

  Chef Michel blanched. “Mon dieu, no! She’s having writer’s block and thought a change of scenery might help her break through it. If I make it to the finals, she’ll come cheer me on. Otherwise, I won’t see her much. She’s a very private person. And she’s behind deadline.”

  Jane didn’t know much about the authoress from Oyster Bay, North Carolina, other than Eloise was a fan of her work. For this reason alone, Jane was looking forward to meeting her.

  “Lemon-blueberry cheesecake parfait,” the server announced as he placed a glass bowl in front of Mia.

  “This place is heaven,” Mia said after sampling the dessert. “I’ve never gone this long without checking in on social media, but it feels amazing to unplug. I should visit once a year.” She smiled at Mrs. Hubbard. “And I’ll bring a cookbook every time.”

  “Speaking of cookbooks, where should the chefs sign theirs?” Eloise asked Jane.

  “I thought we’d use the break room in the kitchens.”

  Chef Lindsay pointed at the wine bottles in the center of the table. “Can we bring the dessert wine? It’s too good to waste.”

  “I like the way you think.” Lumbering to his feet, Chef Pierce grabbed two bottles in one hand and his glass in the other.

  The chefs followed Jane to the kitchens where they thanked the staff for the excellent dinner.

  Beaming with pride, Mrs. Hubbard asked the guests if they’d like to see her cookbook nook. They all said yes, which gave Jane and Eloise time to organize the books into separate piles. Edwin volunteered to help and had just finished with Chef Saffron’s cookbooks when his phone buzzed.

  After glancing at his screen, he put a hand on the small of Jane’s back. “Magnus is in the weeds. I need to bail him out.”

  “Good luck,” Jane said, turning to give Edwin a kiss.

  “You were the most beautiful woman at the table tonight,” he whispered. “As always.”

  Eloise put her hands on her hips and glared at her brother. “What am I? Chopped liver?”

  “Hardly,” Edwin grinned at Eloise. “You’re more like a lemon scone. Blond, sweet, and flaky.”

  Edwin ducked as Eloise threw a dishrag at him.

  “I don’t know what you see in him,” Eloise said to Jane.

  Jane smiled. “My future.”

  The chefs began filing into the break room.

  “The last time I saw such rare French porcelain, I was in a museum. That soup tureen alone!” Chef Michel whistled. “C’est très magnifique.”

  Eloise handed him a pen and directed the other chefs to their seats.

  “My parents are from India,” Chef Saffron told Jane. “After immigrating to the States, it took them ten years to buy their first house. My father’s boss gave them a silver tea set as a housewarming gift, and my parents treasure that set. They’d be really impressed by your silver collection.”

  Chef Pierce leaned against the doorframe and surveyed the crowded room. He held a wine bottle in one hand and an empty glass in the other. “I need my own space, so I’ll sign in the kitchen.”

  Because Jane had to load her arms with a stack of his A Man and a Pan cookbooks, she was unable to stop Chef Pierce from plopping down on a stool at the dessert prep station. He rested his torso against the wall as if he needed it to hold him up and poured the rest of the wine into his glass.

  Because Jane didn’t want to interrupt the young woman plating desserts, she stood in the aisle and waited for the cook to finish piping chocolate swirls on four plates. The pastry chef then used a squeeze bottle to produce dots of raspberry sauce. By pulling a knife through the dots, she transformed them into flower petals. Finally, she slid a square of chocolate cake onto each plate, topping the squares with a mint leaf, a dollop of whipped cream, and a single raspberry.

  After examining her work, she used a napkin to wipe off an errant speckle of raspberry sauce on the edge of the first plate. She was about to clean the rim of another plate when Chef Pierce’s hand cupped her backside.

  Wearing a lecherous smile, Chef Pierce curled his fingers and squeezed hard.

  The young woman shouted and jerked to the side. In her haste to get away from Chef Pierce, she knocked a dessert plate off the counter. It hit the floor, smashing into pieces and splattering her calves with chocolate and raspberry sauce.

  Jane opened her mouth to berate Chef Pierce when Mrs. Hubbard materialized with the suddenness of a fairy godmother. Except this fairy godmother wielded a cleaver.

  “If you lay a hand on another Storyton Hall employee ever again, I’ll carve you like a turkey.” Mrs. Hubbard spoke in a low growl. “Leave my kitchens in under ten seconds, or I’ll make a eunuch out of you! Ten . . . nine . . .”

  Chef Pierce was gone by five.

  Mrs. Hubbard put her arm around the young woman’s shoulders. “Are you okay, Jessie?”

  Jessie nodded. “Sorry about the plate.”

  “Don’t you apologize,” Mrs. Hubbard said. “This was not your fault. No one is allowed to touch you without your permission. I don’t care who they are.”

  When the young woman didn’t respond, Mrs. Hubbard looked to Jane for help.

  “Why don’t you and Jessie hang out in the cookbook nook for a few minutes?” Jane suggested. “After I have
a quick word with Mia, I’ll come check on you.”

  Another staff member came over to clean up the broken plate.

  “Should I make them some tea?” he asked Jane.

  “Irish coffee might be better. Thanks, Niko.”

  Jane returned to the break room and dumped Chef Pierce’s cookbooks on the counter.

  “Sorry, Eloise. You’ll have to sell these without a signature.” Jane glanced around. “Where’s Mia?”

  “In the cookbook nook catching up on texts,” answered Chef Alondra.

  Jane found Mia and Mrs. Hubbard huddled together on the love seat. There was no sign of Jessie.

  “Jessie’s new,” Mrs. Hubbard was saying to Mia. “It’s only her second week.”

  “Has she gone home?” Jane asked.

  Mrs. Hubbard folded her arms over her chest. “She’s back on the line, plating desserts. That’s where she wants to be.”

  Jane felt a rush of admiration for the young woman. “There’s no debating what needs to happen next.”

  “You won’t have to tell Pierce to leave,” Mia said. “I’ll do it first thing in the morning. He’s probably passed out in his room by now anyway.”

  Mrs. Hubbard wagged a finger at Mia. “Don’t give him the news by yourself. We can all predict how he’s going to take it.”

  “I’ll have him come to my suite. That way, my staff will be there.”

  Jane’s anger was still rising. “Why did you include someone like him? Because he’d create drama?”

  “Is that what Ty said?”

  “Not specifically about Chef Pierce, but he made it clear that drama hikes ratings. And since the rest of the chefs are extremely likable, I assume Chef Pierce is here to stir up strife.”

  Mia gazed at the colorful cookbook spines lining the shelves. “The other chefs are friendly because we just started. With every challenge, the stress increases. If you’ve watched the show, you know how crazy things get. Chefs play mind games with each other. They leave a freezer door open so another chef’s ice cream will melt. The nicest person can turn mean.”

  “Jessie has nothing to do with your show.” Jane’s eyes flashed. “Chef Pierce’s behavior will not be tolerated at Storyton Hall.”

  Mia stood up. “He’ll be gone in the morning. That’s a promise.”

  Jane and Mrs. Hubbard headed back to the kitchens to check on Jessie. When she assured them that she was fine and would prefer to focus on her work, Jane returned to the break room. The other chefs were gone, and Eloise had packed up the cookbooks earmarked for Run for Cover.

  “What happened?” she asked. “Mrs. Hubbard looked upset.”

  “With good reason,” Jane said. After giving Eloise a brief account of Pierce’s behavior and the consequences he’d suffer as a result, she tapped her watch face. “It’s been a long day. I’m ready to go home and put my pajamas on.”

  “Go ahead. I’m going to meet Landon out back in a few minutes.”

  Eloise smiled. “See you tomorrow.”

  As she passed under the arbor into Milton’s Gardens, Jane inhaled the perfume of confederate jasmine. She walked slowly, her steps moving past rows of baby’s breath and cosmos that glowed like stars. White moths flitted among the blooms. Peepers and crickets serenaded Jane with their night music, inviting her to forget about the day’s trials.

  Across the Great Lawn, the lights of her home shone like a beacon. Soon, she’d be in bed with her book.

  Suddenly, a shadow emerged from a copse of trees on the far side of the lawn. The shadow creature had four legs and was racing straight for her.

  Jane froze. She’d seen foxes on Storyton Hall’s grounds. And once, a coyote. The animal bearing down on her was too big to be a fox, and only a rabid coyote would run directly at her.

  With no shelter nearby, she was as defenseless as a rabbit.

  “Go away!” she cried, trying to startle the creature. Fear turned her voice shrill. “Go!”

  A whistle pierced the air, and the animal immediately veered toward the path leading to the staff cottages. And then, a ghostly figure stepped into the pool of lamplight. In her long, white dress, with her halo of fair hair, she could have been Diana, Goddess of the Hunt.

  She bent down, opening her arms in welcome, and the shadow animal rushed into them. His tail wagged furiously, and he bathed her cheek with his tongue. He was no beast. He was a dog.

  Seconds later, the pair left the circle of lamplight and melted into the darkness.

  Jane exhaled in relief. The woman was neither a ghost nor a goddess. She was a writer named Olivia Limoges. And her companion was a black standard poodle.

  I’ll have to tell Ms. Limoges that her dog can’t run loose like that, Jane thought as she continued walking.

  She wished she could reclaim the peacefulness she’d felt in the garden, but it was gone.

  At home, she reminded herself that tomorrow was a new day. She then climbed into bed and reached for her book.

  * * *

  Jane’s bedroom was still draped in darkness when her phone rang.

  She came awake with a start and squinted at the clock. A phone call before sunrise was a bad omen.

  “Hello?” she croaked.

  “Ms. Steward? I’m so sorry,” said a man. His voice was familiar, but no name surfaced in Jane’s sleep-fogged brain. “I wasn’t sure who to call.”

  “Who is this?”

  “Murray Lloyd. From the kitchens. I come in first to start the baking. But when I turned on the lights, I saw . . .” He let out a breath. “There’s a man here, Ms. Steward. A dead man.”

  Chapter 5

  Jane threw on sweatpants and a T-shirt and scribbled a note to her sons. It was four in the morning, and since she had no idea when she’d be back, she left the note next to a box of cereal. She also placed bowls, spoons, and two bananas on the counter. She couldn’t predict what the day would bring, but she’d feel better knowing that Fitz and Hem had breakfast.

  Outside, bright stars were pinned to a Prussian blue canvas. There was no sign of the coming dawn.

  Jane crossed the dew-soaked lawn at a brisk pace, accompanied by the muted drone of insects and the faint squeak of bats on the wing.

  During the night, the moon had lost its luster. A swath of diaphanous clouds made it look like a wooly yarn ball instead of a shiny coin, but it was still capable of casting eerie shadows over the garden.

  Ahead, the manor house was a slumbering stone giant. No light streamed from its windows. All the curtains in the guest rooms were drawn. The public spaces were illuminated by soft energy-saving lights that seemed to emphasize the somnolent atmosphere.

  Jane swatted at a veil of gnats and opened the loading dock door. It closed behind her with a bang, and her footfalls echoed on the tile floor. She felt like she was in a horror film, and she was walking straight toward danger.

  In the kitchens, every light was on and the ovens were humming. The hushed voice of a man singing the blues floated through the air.

  A radio sat on the prep counter near the ovens, along with the necessary ingredients and equipment for bread baking.

  Murray was nowhere to be seen, and there was no sign of a dead man.

  “Murray?” Jane softly called.

  There was no answer.

  Jane took out her phone. With her thumb hovering over the red emergency button, she entered the break room.

  The lights were on here too, and Murray had brewed a pot of coffee. The glass carafe was full and hot to the touch.

  Her anxiety rising, Jane selected a potential weapon—a set of poultry shears—from a utensil cylinder near the sink and yanked open the door to the walk-in fridge. Eddies of cold air rushed out, raising gooseflesh on her arms, but everything looked as it should.

  She checked the dry goods pantry next. Its shelves of canned and bottled foodstuff told her nothing, so she headed for the cookbook nook.

  “Ms. Steward?”

  The thin whisper came from the hallway to Jane’s
left that led to the staff restrooms.

  Jane turned to face a gray-haired man wearing an apron. He had a rolling pin in one hand and was pressing a paper towel to his mouth with the other. His skin had the weathered patina of a person who spent his free time outdoors, which is why Jane found his pallor alarming.

  “Murray.” She moved closer to the baker. “Are you okay?”

  He nodded and lowered the paper towel. “Sorry, ma’am. I didn’t think I’d be sick, but I was. I’ve seen my fair share of dead game up close, but this is different.” Murray pointed toward the cookbook nook. “You shouldn’t go in there alone. Give me a minute to get my breath back, and I’ll come with you.”

  Taking Murray’s elbow, Jane steered him to the break room. She filled a coffee cup with water and told him to drink it.

  “I’ll be right back. If it’s as bad as you say, we’ll both need something stronger than water.”

  “I reckon so, ma’am. I reckon so.”

  As Jane approached the cookbook nook, she saw what had captured Murray’s attention.

  It was blood.

  A thin stream of it had traveled across the hallway tiles and formed a pool against the back wall.

  Jane looked at the blood and tried to gather her courage. She knew she was about to see something terrible, and she was scared.

  Though she had no need of a weapon, she found comfort in the feel of the poultry shears in her hand. Squeezing them so hard turned her knuckles white, and she peered into the cookbook nook.

  Her gaze immediately locked on a man’s body. He was on the floor, his belly and part of his face pressed to the tiles. His head was turned toward the hall so that he was staring at Jane’s feet. The man’s right arm was pinned under his torso while his left hand was near his chest, inches away from his motionless heart.

  Jagged shards of broken porcelain surrounded his body like Artic icebergs. And like the iceberg that sank the Titanic, one of the shards had punctured the man’s belly. The wound, which was closer to his hip than his navel, was likely the portal through which the man’s life had drained.