Book Retreat Mystery 07 - Murder in the Cookbook Nook

by Ellery Adams

She was unable to focus on the question because Edwin squeezed her shoulder and said, “I’ll get the truck and pick you up here. There’s no need for all of us to fight the crowd.”

  Jane wanted to see Fitz and Hem safely home as soon as possible, so she thanked Edwin and kissed his cheek.

  “Can we work at your booth while we wait?” Hem asked Eloise.

  “We’re good at selling,” Fitz added. “We sold all our jam and lots of spa stuff too. I bet we could sell all of your comics and lots of books too.”

  Eloise smiled. “I’m sure you could, but the Randolph kids are helping me today. They want to buy books but don’t have much in their piggy banks, so I hired them to be my festival assistants. They’ve sold books I’ve had sitting around for ages. I don’t know how you kids do it, but I’m impressed.”

  While Eloise and the twins talked about comic books and graphic novels, Jane flipped through one of the wedding magazines piled on the kitchen table. Scraps of paper protruded from each magazine, igniting Jane’s curiosity. Had Eloise seen a dress she liked? A bridal bouquet or centerpiece? Had she decided where to honeymoon?

  Following her best friend’s gaze, Eloise said, “I wish we could sit down and talk wedding stuff. I could share my thoughts with Mrs. Pratt, but she keeps trying to convince me that I need a rhinestone tiara and a twenty-foot train. If she had her way, I’d be limping down the aisle in glass slippers and leaving the church in an open-top carriage drawn by a team of white horses.”

  Jane gave a half shrug. “That part sounds pretty cool.”

  “I’d probably swallow a bug as soon as the horses picked up speed. Can you imagine the photo?”

  Jane could, and it made her laugh.

  Eloise laughed too.

  “This is what I love about you,” Jane said as Edwin opened the back door and waved for them to come out. “No matter how crazy things get, you keep me laughing.”

  “Speaking of funny, I ordered a book called Fifty Shades of Chicken: A Parody in a Cookbook for our next Cover Girls meeting. I thought I’d try the Mustard-Spanked Chicken recipe.”

  Eloise was probably joking, but Jane gave her a thumbs-up and hurried out to the truck.

  “What was my sister talking about?” Edwin asked as they drove down the narrow lane behind the shops.

  “Her plans to dominate dinner,” Jane replied.

  Edwin’s brows rose and he quickly changed the subject. “On the way to get the truck, I heard people talking about the mascot’s shirt. Any idea why?”

  The glint of humor in Jane’s eyes faded. “Someone wrote a message on the back of his shirt. Since the suit zips up the front, the person wearing it was probably clueless.”

  “What did the message say?”

  Jane repeated the words verbatim.

  Edwin was silent for a long time. Jane didn’t like the gravity of this silence but sensed that he’d gone quiet for the boys’ sake.

  At home, Jane told Fitz and Hem to relax while she and Edwin unloaded the cutting boards from the truck.

  “We can help,” Fitz said. “We already had lunch.”

  Though pleased by her son’s offer, Jane said, “You and your brother have done enough work for a Saturday. Why don’t you read for a bit?”

  “Okay, Mom.”

  With the twins out of earshot, Jane looked a question at Edwin.

  “My job as a travel writer has served as my cover for other kinds of work, but I always took it seriously,” Edwin began. “Most of my articles have been about food. Exotic recipes, obscure eateries, and unique ingredients. Investigating the source of those ingredients often got me into trouble.”

  “No, not you,” Jane teased.

  Edwin poked her between the ribs. “These scrapes were easier to get out of than, say, being locked in a medieval dungeon, but I digress. I’ve looked into the mistreatment of commercial fishers, as well as agricultural, aquacultural, and factory workers. All of these people harvested or packaged food for the world’s largest food companies. The list isn’t that long, and Cook’s Pride is one of them.”

  Jane drew in a breath. “Is that what the slave labor reference means?”

  Edwin handed Jane two cutting boards but insisted on carrying the rest. “It’s been years since I researched that company. Maybe they’ve cleaned up their act since then. I really hope so, Jane, because exploiting children was one of their sins.”

  Inside Jane’s cool and quiet house, Edwin stowed the cutting boards in a closet while Jane prepared a quick lunch of turkey and cheese sandwiches, grapes, and iced tea.

  In between bites of food, the couple spoke in hushed tones about the impromptu cooking challenge, the arrival of the CEO and his team of lawyers, and the message on the mascot’s shirt.

  “This morning was supposed to be our time to relax together, but I can’t seem to get out from under the black cloud created by this TV show.” Jane stared down at the remains of her sandwich. “So many bad things are connected to it. A murdered chef, an exploding grill, a competition that won’t quit, stolen antiques, and a vandalized costume.” She fought the tremble in her voice. “It’s a summer’s day. The sky is blue, and the sun is shining. But I feel like we’re about to be hit with a Shakespearean-sized tempest.”

  Edwin took her hand. “What can you do?”

  “I have to move faster than the storm moves,” Jane said. “All along, I’ve been playing catch-up. A terrible thing happens, and I try to find out the how and why it happened. But that’s not working. I need to gather all the information I can and closet myself in a room with the Fins until we fully understand the motivation behind these crimes.”

  “How can I help? Magnus is covering the lunch service, which means I’m at your disposal.”

  “I can’t avoid the reporters or lawyers forever. I’ll have to face them eventually. But right now, I need to learn all I can about Cook’s Pride and the man who runs it.”

  Edwin carried their plates to the sink. “I’ll clean up and brew a pot of coffee. You start digging around on your laptop.”

  An hour later, Jane had filled a notebook page with biographical details on Fox Watterson, the CEO of Cook’s Pride. Watterson’s given name was Frank, but his family started calling him Fox because of his red hair and the boyhood nickname had stuck. At seventy, what little hair remained on his round head was dyed a clownfish-orange. Watterson grew up in Chicago, and after a failed attempt as a restaurateur, began working for a major food company. Years later, Watterson started his own company and hired his two siblings, a brother and a sister, to help him run Cook’s Pride. The global company was now worth billions.

  “They got too big, too fast,” Jane told Edwin. “They couldn’t keep tabs on all the divisions, and some of those divisions turned pretty shady.”

  “Like using child labor in the chocolate trade?” Edwin asked.

  With a grim look, Jane pulled up the article she’d bookmarked. “I had no idea that child labor has been a part of the chocolate industry for decades. It’s totally Dickensian. These kids are working for pennies on the dollar instead of going to school. Competitive pricing has led to human trafficking, which means there are children working without pay on cocoa farms all over West Africa. It breaks my heart, Edwin.”

  Edwin’s pained expression matched her own. “It’s a travesty.” He pointed at her laptop. “And Cook’s Pride isn’t the only culprit, are they?”

  “No. Half a dozen companies are guilty of these barbaric practices,” Jane said. “Journalists have tried to expose the injustices and there are nonprofit agencies working toward a future where chocolate is a slave-free, child-labor-free trade, but it’ll take time, money, and persistence. The major food corporations claim to be on board with eradicating child labor but use the excuse that they don’t know which farms their beans come from. How can they get away with that?”

  Edwin studied Jane over the rim of his coffee cup. “Are you familiar with any of the journalists accusing Cook’s Pride of using child labor?”


  “No, but someone in Storyton takes issue with the company’s business practices. They wrote that message on Dew Drop’s shirt knowing it would be seen by hundreds of people.” Scooping up her phone, she said, “I really need the Fins to comb through our guests’ social media pages. I asked them to search for a connection to Chef Pierce, but we obviously need to look at all the food-related posts.”

  Jane was still typing when her phone rang. Seeing Sheriff Evans’s name on the screen, she put the phone on speaker mode and answered the call.

  “Hello, Sheriff.”

  “Ms. Steward, I wish we could talk in person, but I’m dealing with that delusional director. He’s been in a holding cell for less than an hour, but he’s acting like the Count of Monte Cristo.”

  Jane felt no sympathy for Ty. “Perhaps he’d rather be in a hospital. Like Mr. Gilmore.”

  Sheriff Evans grunted. “He should be there, begging for the man’s forgiveness. The sad truth is that I won’t be able to keep him here—not with those corporate lawyers making all kinds of threats. They’re gunning for you next, but I’ll delay them as long as I can.”

  “In return, I’ll send you an urn of coffee.”

  “That’s a fair trade.” The uptick in the sheriff ’s voice didn’t last. “I wanted to tell you about a break in Chef Pierce’s case. I spoke with his GP today and was told that he refilled Chef Pierce’s prescriptions the day before he left for Storyton, but there are only four rivaroxaban capsules left in the bottle. He started out with thirty.”

  Jane tried to recall the specifics of Chef Pierce’s medications. “Were those his heart pills? The ones that acted as anticoagulants?”

  “Yes. Chef Pierce took one rivaroxaban pill a day with dinner. But he had other medical issues in addition to his heart and blood pressure. He also had liver disease.”

  Jane blurted, “But he was still drinking.”

  “The ME mentioned the liver disease, but it was Pierce’s GP who told me that it was quite advanced. He thought I was calling to say that Pierce had died from liver disease, and when he heard that the cause of death was exsanguination, he got upset. With proper medical care, most people don’t die of blood loss, even if they’re on anticoagulants. I didn’t mention the large puncture wound in Chef Pierce’s side.”

  “Chef Pierce’s killer got him to ingest the extra pills.” Jane was horrified by the thought. “He was never going to leave the cookbook nook alive.”

  “Initially, I believed Chef Pierce and his killer had an argument,” continued the sheriff. “The killer lured Chef Pierce to the cookbook nook and demanded something of him. Chef Pierce got angry, there was a scuffle, and the porcelain was broken. I envisioned the killer grabbing the biggest piece to use as a weapon. Chef Pierce either ran right into that piece, or the killer coldly plunged it into his side.”

  Jane gazed into the middle distance. She was no longer in her kitchen but in the cookbook nook. “Chef Pierce wasn’t a small man, and I doubt he was easily intimidated. But it was the middle of the night, he’d had too much to drink, and he may have unknowingly overdosed on his heart medication. It’s hard to picture Chef Pierce as a victim, but he was a victim long before he entered the cookbook nook. I don’t know why he went, but that meeting was the death of him.”

  “Exactly.” Sheriff Evans sounded relieved that they’d arrived at the same conclusion. “At first, this seemed like a crime of opportunity. But if someone tricked Chef Pierce into ingesting that medicine hours before the rendezvous in the cookbook nook, then we’re looking at premeditated murder.”

  “Bentley. She was in his room at midnight.”

  The sheriff agreed that not only did he plan to speak with Bentley again, but he also wanted to interview anyone who knew Chef Pierce or had access to his room. He went on to say that there were no leads in Roger’s shoplifting case, and no one had been seen tampering with the festival mascot’s costume.

  “I feel like I’m lost in the desert without a map or a drop of water,” he said.

  Jane hated to hear the frustration in the sheriff’s voice. She knew how self-doubt could worm its way into a person’s mind during times of stress. And Sheriff Evans was under too much stress. She wanted to tell him that she believed in him but didn’t have the chance.

  “I’ve gotta run,” he said. “Chief Aroneo’s on the other line. I’m sending four deputies your way. Caution your guests to remain inside Storyton Hall and its grounds. And avoid the lawyers if you can. They tend to speak in paragraphs instead of sentences. If they corner you, you’re done for.”

  Jane wouldn’t be cornered by Fox Watterson’s lawyers or anyone else. She was in battle mode, and when she swept into the surveillance room ten minutes later, the Fins took one look at her face and knew that the Guardian of Storyton Hall was fired up.

  “We’re not leaving this room until I know everything there is to know about Bentley Fiore, Fox Watterson and his company, Mia Mallett and her crew, and the celebrity chefs. We’re going to fill every piece of paper in this hotel with details on these guests until we have an answer.”

  Jane was too keyed up to sit, so she stood behind her chair and stared at the bank of television screens. She tracked guests from one security camera to another, manically watching their every move.

  Sinclair pushed a file folder to her end of the table. “Miss Jane, we’ve been searching for answers all morning. And we believe we’ve found one.”

  Jane’s fingers dug into the soft leather of her chair. “Go on.”

  Sinclair waved a hand at the folder and said, “Bentley Fiore is Chef Pierce’s daughter.”

  Chapter 15

  Jane glanced at the folder but didn’t reach for it. She conjured an image of Bentley’s freckled cheeks, rose-gold hair, and gymnast’s build. Jane couldn’t see any trace of Chef Pierce in that young, fresh-faced woman.

  “His daughter? Are you sure?”

  Sinclair pointed at the folder. “Chef Pierce didn’t believe it either. When Ms. Fiore’s mother filed for child support, he insisted on a paternity test. After the test confirmed his paternity, nothing changed in Chef Pierce’s life. Ms. Fiore’s mother, Cindy, refused child support in exchange for the termination of Chef Pierce’s parental rights. The case isn’t public record, so Sheriff Evans will need to request the files to confirm Cindy’s story. She was kind enough to send me an image of the paternity test results.”

  Dropping into a chair, Jane said, “So you believe her.”

  “Based on our phone conversation and the results of that test, yes, I’m convinced.”

  The folder contained two printouts. One was the paternity test. The second was a photo of a young man in a chef’s jacket posing next to a bar. His arm was slung around a pretty, small-framed young woman in a cocktail waitress uniform. Chef Pierce had been caught mid-laugh while the waitress’s starstruck gaze was locked on the man. The bar was strewn with liquor bottles, shot glasses, and shriveled lime wedges.

  “Is this Chef Pierce?” Jane was incredulous.

  “A younger, slimmer, and healthier Chef Pierce. The cocktail waitress is Cindy Fiore. The photo was taken in Brooklyn, twenty-six years ago, the night Ms. Fiore and Chef Pierce met. It was their only night together. Nine months later, Bentley was born. Ms. Cindy Fiore said that she met Chef Pierce during her “wild child” phase. Owing to multiple tequila shots, she doesn’t remember much about Chef Pierce other than his looks and confidence. She found him far less appealing after the birth of their daughter.”

  Bentley had inherited her mother’s straight hair, small frame, and freckled skin. Her only similarity to Chef Pierce was the shape of her eyes.

  Jane scanned the paternity test. While it certainly seemed legitimate, she wouldn’t know an authentic paternity test from a fake. But if Sinclair was convinced, that was good enough for her.

  “Was Bentley told that she was Chef Pierce’s daughter?”

  Sinclair looked pained. “Not from her mother. Cindy fabricated a tale about a han
dsome stranger coming into the bar and sweeping her off her feet. She told Bentley that his name was James, he spoke with a British accent, and he traveled all over the world.”

  “She turned Chef Pierce into 007?”

  “Or a pilot for British Airways,” Sterling said.

  Jane closed the folder. “It must have been hard on Bentley to grow up believing her father was out there, somewhere, unaware of her existence. Did Cindy ever marry?”

  “No. She confessed that her taste in men wasn’t the best, which is why she didn’t stay with any of them for long. She also kept her dating life separate from her home life. Luckily, her parents provided financial and emotional support. As a result, Bentley is very close to her grandparents.”

  “Good.” Jane’s relief over learning that Bentley hadn’t had a lonely and miserable childhood was short-lived. “I assume Bentley figured out that her dad wasn’t a British globetrotter named James, or we wouldn’t be sitting here right now.”

  “According to her mother, Bentley took an anthropology course her senior year in college that ignited her curiosity about her father. She repeatedly asked her mother about the night she and her father had met. The more her mother stuck to her fictitious story, the angrier Bentley became. After college, Bentley took a job in a PR firm based in LA. She rarely spoke to her mother, leaving Cindy to rely on social media for updates on her daughter. Two posts indicate that Bentley discovered her father’s true identity.”

  Jane winced. “She must have felt so betrayed.”

  Sterling walked to the wall opposite Jane and pulled down a projector screen. He then dimmed the lights and hit the space bar on his laptop. He’d barely touched the keyboard when a group of thumbnail images appeared on the projector screen.

  “You’re looking at screenshots of Ms. Fiore’s Instagram feed. Most of her photos are of guests from Ms. Mallett’s show, or food and fashion shots. The locations are quite varied. For example, here she is, drinking Chianti in Florence.”

  Sterling clicked on a thumbnail, and a photo of Bentley filled the screen. She wore a white cotton dress and mirrored sunglasses. Her hair was chestnut brown—not rose gold—and a cookbook was open on the table in front of her. The tip of her index finger rested just below the underlined name of the recipe.