by Ellery Adams
Sheriff Evans removed his hat and placed it on the table. “Based on the ME’s analysis of the wound, I can tell you that we’re not looking at an accidental death.”
Jane went rigid, but the sheriff didn’t notice. He stood up and straightened his arm so that the pen in his hand dangled below his hip. “If I fell on a china bowl, causing it to shatter, I might be impaled by one of the pieces. In that scenario, the piece would enter my body at a vertical angle. Like this.” He jerked his pen in an upward motion toward his abdomen. “You with me so far?”
“Yes.”
“Now, pretend you’re stabbing me in the same place.”
Jane jabbed at his belly with her pen, careful not to touch his khaki uniform shirt. As she recalled the angry, red mouth of Chef Pierce’s wound, her stomach roiled.
Sheriff Evans took a firm hold of Jane’s hand. “The victim’s wound is horizontal, which means he was probably standing when he was stabbed. You’re a strong woman, Ms. Steward, so there’d be a decent amount of force behind your thrust.” He moved her hand until the point of her pen dimpled his shirt. “If your weapon penetrated deep enough, your fist might cause bruising around the cut. The skin surrounding Chef Pierce’s wound was bruised.”
When the sheriff released Jane, she stared down at her pen. “But if I squeezed a jagged piece of china, wouldn’t it cut my palm?”
“Not if you wore gloves. We found only one set of partial prints on that shard, and they probably belong to Chef Pierce.” The sheriff sat back down. “Did your security cameras pick up anything that could help identify Chef Pierce’s assailant?”
Jane told the sheriff about Bentley’s midnight visit.
“I was going to ask her about it after today’s filming was done. I can see that I shouldn’t have waited.”
“Let’s get her in here.”
Jane sent Butterworth a text, asking him to escort Bentley to the conference room without telling her why she was being summoned. Butterworth promised to fetch the young woman right away.
When Bentley entered the conference room ten minutes later, she looked more curious than alarmed. But the moment she saw Jane and the uniformed officers, her curiosity morphed into fear.
Bentley stood in the doorway, as if poised for flight, and said, “What is this?”
Jane spoke to her in soothing tones. “Ms. Fiore, this is Sheriff Evans. He’d like a word with you about last night. Please have a seat.”
Recognizing a subtle command when she heard one, Bentley sat in the chair closest to the door. Jane tried to reassure her with a smile, but Bentley averted her gaze and began gnawing at her thumbnail.
“Ms. Fiore—” the sheriff began.
“It’s just Bentley, okay? Why am I here?”
Her brow was furrowed in confusion. Her eyes darted wildly, unable to settle on anything or anyone. She looked like a rabbit cornered by a skulk of foxes.
The sheriff held out his hands in a placating gesture. “As you know, Chef Pierce passed away early this morning, and it’s routine for my department to investigate a death at Storyton Hall. As part of that investigation, we need to establish a record of the events leading up to the time of death. We need to talk to you because you were in Chef Pierce’s guest room last night.”
Bentley blanched. “How’d you know that?”
“Like most hotels, we have security cameras in our public areas,” Jane answered.
“You spy on your guests?” Bentley’s anxiety was increasing by the minute.
“Absolutely not,” said Jane. “We don’t watch the recordings unless we have to. A death means we have to.”
Sheriff Evans flipped a page in his notebook to reclaim Bentley’s attention. “The footage shows you knocking on Chef Pierce’s door several times. When he didn’t respond, you used your phone to call him. Why was the call necessary? Was he asleep?”
Bentley smirked. “Passed out is more like it.”
“But you were able to rouse him.”
“Yeah, after what felt like forever. And I wish he’d had more clothes on when he opened the door. Ugh. How can people let themselves go like that?”
The sheriff pressed on. “Why did you go to his room?”
“Because Mia asked me to deliver a note, and she said that I had to put it in Chef Pierce’s hand.” Bentley shuddered. “Trust me. I didn’t want to bang on that nasty man’s door at that time of night. I was chilling in my bed, watching the Project Runway judges rip into a guy for making clothes out of garbage bags, when Mia showed up. When I saw the look on her face, I didn’t even argue. I just did what she told me to.”
“What kind of look?”
Bentley’s mouth twitched in amusement. “Oh, my girl was mad. Seriously mad. I’ve been her assistant for two years, and I can tell you that Mia Mallett doesn’t let things get to her. I’ve never met someone with so much positivity. But something got to her last night. She had a major dark cloud vibe.” Suddenly realizing how this sounded, Bentley amended her answer. “She wasn’t mad in a serial killer way, but I knew she needed me to come through for her.”
“What did the note say?”
Bentley recoiled. “I didn’t read it! First of all, it was in an envelope, but even if it wasn’t, I still wouldn’t read it. Mia trusts me. The second she doesn’t, I’ll lose my job.”
Jane put her phone on her lap and sent a message to the Fins.
Search Chef Pierce’s room for a note from Mia ASAP.
Make a list of medications. Check his phone and other tech for clues.
“All Ms. Mallett wanted was for you to put the note in Chef Pierce’s hand?” Sheriff Evans raised his brows.
Bentley sighed. “I had to watch him read it too. When he opened the door, I told him about the note, and he mumbled something about not knowing where he’d left his glasses.”
Sheriff Evans made a contemplative noise. “Had you given him the note at this point?”
Bentley shook her head. “I was trying not to look at him. I looked into his room instead, but when I couldn’t see his glasses anywhere, I decided to just go in and find the damn things.”
“Did you?”
“Yeah. They were in the bathroom. But while I was searching for them, Chef Pierce sat in a chair and went back to sleep. I had to yell at him until he woke up. I shoved his glasses on his face and he read the note. He didn’t say anything. He just closed his eyes and I left.”
Sheriff Evans made an encouraging noise. “And how did you learn that Chef Pierce had passed?”
Bentley glanced at Jane. “Right after you talked to Mia, she told me what happened and asked me to call the authorities and get an official statement.”
“Thank you. That’s all I have for now.” The sheriff turned to his deputies. “Do you have anything to ask Ms. Fiore?”
Phelps shook his head, but Emory said, “What was Chef Pierce like?”
“What do you mean?” Bentley picked at an uneven fingernail.
“What did people think of him? What kind of reputation did he have?”
Bentley waved both hands. “No. No way. I can’t gossip about any of the contestants or I’ll get fired. Probably sued too.”
Emory tried again. “I get it. I’d never ask you to gossip. But I have no idea who this man was, so can you paint a general picture for me?”
“Look. I signed a nondisclosure saying that I won’t discuss details of the show. That includes contestants. Arrest me if you want, but I can’t say anything else.”
Sheriff Evans told Bentley that she was free to go.
She practically ran out of the room.
The sheriff turned to Jane. “Emory and Phelps will have to search Chef Pierce’s room. While they’re working on that, I’d like to speak to Ms. Mallett.”
“I’ll ask Butterworth to find her.”
Jane sent two messages. The first was a group message warning the Fins that Phelps and Emory were on their way to Chef Pierce’s room. The second was to Butterworth.
Te
ll them I’ll be waiting to let them in, replied Lachlan.
Butterworth wrote, I’ll bring Ms. Mallett to you without delay.
When Mia entered the conference room, her face was flushed and beads of sweat lined her forehead. She looked like a runner at the end of a hard race.
She shook Sheriff Evans’s outstretched hand with enthusiasm. “Sorry. I’m sweaty and I smell like garlic. That’s the downside of hosting a cooking show.” She lowered herself into a chair with a sigh. “What can I do for you, Sheriff?”
“Tell me about Chef Pierce. What was he like?”
If the request surprised Mia, she didn’t let it show.
“I’d see him every year at events like the Taste of Chicago or the Food and Wine Classic in Aspen. He’s a talented chef. That’s why I wanted him on the show. But it wasn’t the only reason. Chef Pierce wasn’t good with people. Especially women. He could be rude and condescending and tended to make inappropriate comments. But he had a big personality, and big personalities create drama. In television, drama means higher ratings. Higher ratings means A-list sponsors.”
“So Chef Pierce was brought on board to cook delicious food and serve a generous helping of drama on the side,” the sheriff said.
“Bingo.” Mia pointed at Sheriff Evans. In a more serious tone, she said, “Inviting Chef Pierce to participate was a risky move. Our sponsors want to back a wholesome show. No swearing. No clips of the chefs drinking wine after a tough day. But Posh Palate viewers want excitement along with heartfelt stories and footage of amazing food.”
“These unsuitable remarks of Chef Pierce’s. Could you give me an example?”
Mia rattled off a few. The men didn’t react, but Deputy Emory winced.
The sheriff glanced at his notes. “Was Chef Pierce’s inappropriate behavior ever physical?”
Spots of color bloomed on Mia’s cheeks. “I wouldn’t have someone like that on my show. I’d never subject other women to abuse.”
“Despite knowing that Chef Pierce was verbally abusive, you believed that his bad behavior was limited to words.”
Mia began to fidget with the ring on her pinkie finger. As she spun it around and around, Jane could see that the stone in its center was a tiger’s eye.
“He’s like the old, racist, white guy from that seventies TV show. The guy with the ugly chair.”
“Archie Bunker?” Jane guessed.
Mia snapped her fingers. “That’s him! He was a total jerk. He could never be on TV now. But if I had someone like him on my show, he’d be the person viewers love to hate. He’d make the other chefs shine brighter and be a lesson to everyone on how not to behave.”
Sheriff Evans mulled this over. “Chef Pierce was your Archie Bunker. And did he stick to his role?”
“Absolutely. He insulted every chef by the end of the first day.”
Jane could almost hear the sheriff’s inward groan. If Chef Pierce made enemies wherever he went, finding his killer would be difficult.
“Did he insult the chefs equally or did a particular chef get more than their fair share?”
Mia folded her arms on the table and leaned forward. “What’s really going on here? Am I in some sort of trouble?”
“I have questions about Chef Pierce’s death. It’s as simple as that.” The sheriff tapped his notebook with his pen. “When I spoke with your assistant earlier, she said that you asked her to deliver a note to Chef Pierce last night. She also had to watch him read it. Is that correct?”
“Yes.” Mia relaxed. “I wanted to make it crystal clear that he had to come to my suite at eight this morning. I knew he’d go ballistic when he found out he was being kicked off the show, and I wanted my staff there when he did.”
“Why was he being asked to leave?”
Mia’s shoulders drooped. “For being exactly what he was.”
Though Mia clearly felt guilty, she still had to tell the sheriff how Chef Pierce’s abuse had turned physical when he’d groped a pastry chef.
After a brief pause, she looked directly at Sheriff Evans and described the incident.
“Was Mrs. Hubbard there?” the sheriff asked Jane.
Considering Mrs. Hubbard had threatened Chef Pierce with a carving knife, Jane kept her reply short and sweet. “Yes. She told Chef Pierce he could either leave the kitchens or become a eunuch.”
The corners of the sheriff’s mouth twitched. Any trace of amusement vanished after Mia said that she heard about the incident minutes after it occurred.
“Then why send your assistant to Chef Pierce’s room in the middle of the night? You told me earlier that you’d never subject another woman to abuse.”
Mia was unruffled. “I meant what I said. Bentley’s a first-degree black belt. If Chef Pierce tried anything, she’d have him begging for mercy before he knew what hit him.”
This piqued the sheriff’s interest. “Do all of your assistants have martial arts training?”
“No, but maybe they should.” Mia laughed. “Once, I filmed Bentley smashing a hidden camera this paparazzi stalker sleazebag had attached to my gate. After we posted the video, no one tried a stunt like that again. Bentley protects my personal space. She’s invaluable to me.”
Mia was a beautiful, stylish, wealthy young woman who appeared to have it all, but Jane wouldn’t want to be in her shoes. She’d hate the lack of privacy and having to constantly focus on her image. With fame, there seemed to be no peace.
I couldn’t live in the spotlight. Not even for a billion dollars.
Sheriff Evans put down his pen. “Did you hear from your assistant after she delivered the note?”
“No. I trusted Bentley to get the job done and I expected to see Chef Pierce at eight this morning.” Mia waved at Jane. “But Ms. Steward came to my suite instead.”
The sheriff asked Mia if she had anything else to add, but she didn’t. She was halfway to the door when she suddenly stopped and turned.
“People will say that Chef Pierce was a terrible guy, and in many ways, he was. But when he was in the kitchen, he was a better version of himself. I guess I put too much faith in that side of him. I hoped that being on the show would inspire him to change. I knew he’d misbehave in the beginning, but I believed he’d turn things around by the end. It was naïve, and I feel like what happened in the kitchen—with Jessie—is my fault.”
“You’re not responsible for Chef Pierce’s actions,” Sheriff Evans said kindly. “Never stop believing that people can change for the better. Even if they prove you wrong, don’t give up on hope. The world needs more optimistic and hopeful people.”
Brightening, Mia said, “That reminds me of my yearbook quote. We had to read Moby-Dick my senior year, and I only liked one line. It was something like, I might not know what’s coming, but whatever it is, I’ll go to it laughing.”
And while Mia couldn’t laugh, she was able to muster a smile on her way out.
* * *
Ten minutes later, Jane stood in the middle of Chef Pierce’s room and wished she could light a scented candle. Or a hundred scented candles.
“How did he create this much chaos in so little time?” she muttered to Lachlan. “It smells like gym socks, a barnyard on a hot day, and something rotten.”
“Like this?” Deputy Phelps pointed to a plate bearing the remains of a tuna sandwich, half a pickle, and a brown apple core.
Jane gestured at the metal dome next to the plate. “Would you put the cover back on, Deputy Phelps?”
“I can do better than that. I’ll add it to the pile going to my car.”
While Deputy Phelps bagged the food, Sheriff Evans carried a pile of used towels into the bathroom and dumped them in the tub. “Twelve towels. How’d he get so many?”
“Chef Pierce hung the DO NOT DISTURB sign as soon as he arrived,” said Lachlan. “He wouldn’t let housekeeping clean his room. He preferred to help himself to the housekeeper’s cart.”
Deputy Emory was seated at the desk, reading emails on a laptop,
and Jane wondered if she’d found something useful.
“Were you able to crack his password?” she asked the deputy.
“I didn’t have to. His phone is password-protected, but not his laptop,” replied Emory. “I’m surprised because he has financial and inventory records for a place called Epitome Steak on here.”
Jane peered over Emory’s shoulder. “That must be his restaurant.”
“Do you recognize this name?” Emory pointed to an email sent to Chef Pierce at 11:12 p.m. the previous night.
“ForkedTongue212? Sounds like a pen name,” mused Jane. “Wait a second . . .”
Jane took out her phone and typed “Forked Tongue” plus the word “food” in Google’s search box. The first result held the answer.
“It’s Levi Anjou,” she told Emory. “He’s a New York–based food critic and a Posh Palate judge. His blog is called The Forked Tongue. Apparently, he writes harsh reviews of restaurants that fail to meet his high standards.”
Deputy Emory tapped her bare ring finger. “Is he married?”
“I think so. Why?”
“Could you check?”
Again, Jane turned to the Internet for answers.
“Levi has been with his wife, Sheila, for twelve years.” Jane cocked her head. “What does Mr. Anjou’s marital status have to do with Chef Pierce?”
Deputy Emory shifted in her chair. “Sorry, Ms. Steward, but I need to talk to the sheriff.”
She closed the laptop lid and walked into the bathroom.
Jane crossed the room to where Lachlan sat on the floor, sorting the contents of Chef Pierce’s trashcan.
“Emory found something on Pierce’s laptop,” she whispered. “I’m going into the bathroom to distract the sheriff. While I’m in there, you need to read what’s on that screen.”
Lachlan pressed a plastic bag into Jane’s hand. “Take this to him. It’ll give us the time we need.”
Jane studied the bubbly script written on the front of a blush-colored envelope. She could tell by its weight that the paper was of high quality.