Let Them Eat Stake: A Vampire Chef Novel

by Sarah Zettel

  Slowly, I closed the notebook. I set it back in with the others and closed the drawer. I sat there in Oscar’s soft, ergonomic, leather-covered chair, and stared at the closed drawer.

  I pictured sneaking in here, just as Minnie said half of Manhattan was trying to do. I pictured finding Oscar’s notebooks, easy as pie. I pictured how long it would take to slip one into my purse or pocket versus how long it would take to rip out a handful of pages.

  It made no sense—none whatsoever. Why risk being caught tearing out the pages when you could just take the whole book faster, and without anybody noticing for days, maybe forever? You’d only do it if (a) you were in a panic from not being used to breaking and entering or (b) you wanted to keep the rest of what was in the book, because you needed to be able to refer back to your notes.

  This meant the number one candidate for ripping out those pages was Oscar himself. Oscar had been making notes that he suddenly decided he didn’t want read. That meant he thought somebody somewhere might just be interested in his private notes. I thought about Minnie’s description of the nerd-accountant type who’d been trying to get in there. That sure sounded like Scott Alden.

  I took off my Yankees cap and ran my hand through my hair. Okay. Okay. Say Oscar did want to get rid of some paper. What would he do? Just pitch it? Probably not. Burn it? Does anybody really do that? Although God knew if you wanted to burn something, a kitchen was the place to do it. Flush it? I glanced around to see if Oscar’s luxury office included a private bathroom, and my gaze fell on the industrial-strength paper shredder in the corner. Or maybe do the effing obvious.

  I walked over to the shredder. It was little more than a knee-high, gray container with a wicked-looking bunch of blades set into the lid. The wastepaper basket beside it had been cleaned out. Of course. I bent over the machine. There followed a moment’s fumbling and swearing, accompanied by a lot of glancing at the door and wondering if Minnie was wondering what I was doing up there, before I found the catch and lifted the lid. The bin was about half-full of paper confetti, proving that this was one of those high-class shredders that crosscut so you didn’t have to worry about any nosy people with a lot of patience and a sizable Scotch tape budget.

  I swore some more, but it didn’t help. I settled the shredder lid into place. Something brushed my fingertips. I flipped the lid back over. A scrap of notebook paper had gotten jammed under the rim, probably from somebody stuffing too much, too fast into the shredder.

  “Note to self: Burn or flush incriminating documents,” I muttered as I fished the scrap free.

  It was a list, or the bottom portion of a list, written in smeared pencil and Oscar’s scrawl. I squinted at it. At first, I just thought Oscar’d been in a hurry and so had been sloppier than usual. Slowly, however, I realized whatever it was a list of wasn’t written in English. Or French. Or Spanish. Or Mandarin. Or phonetic Japanese. So there I was, with a genuine, bona fide, no-mistaking-it clue in my hot little chef’s hand, and I couldn’t read the damned thing.

  I looked up at the cover of Bon Appétit. Oscar raised his glass of red wine to me and winked.

  17

  “Chef Alamedos, these are wonderful.” Mrs. Alden said as she set down her empty cake plate. Marie, Reese, Felicity, and I were back in the Aldens’ pristine living room. Mrs. Alden sat by the fire, looking trim and perfect in her apricot twinset. Deanna and her two head bridesmaids—Lois, the blonde with the bad 1970s hang-up and Peri the skeptical redhead—occupied the love seat. Marie’s cake samples had been reduced to crumbs and thin smears of frosting in what had to be record time, but Marie’s cakes had that effect on people.

  The ride back to Brooklyn Heights had felt very long. I spent the entire time alternating between checking my phone messages, calling an increasingly annoyed Zoe, and staring at the crumbled and smeared scrap of a list I’d retrieved from Oscar’s office. It stubbornly refused to morph into any language I knew. I called Brendan three times and got his voice mail, which got me wondering what kind of trouble he’d been getting himself into while I was breaking and entering and cleaning other people’s kitchens.

  This was a lot to have sitting in the back of the head while trying to concentrate on the more important subject of Marie’s cake.

  “I am so glad you like the selection, señora.” Marie accepted Mrs. Alden’s praise with her usual queen-of-the-kitchen cool. “Ms. Alden?”

  “Totally fabulous!” Deanna sucked on her fork and rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. I’d watched the bride-to-be closely throughout the tasting, but what started as curiosity turned rapidly to amazement. Not one aspect of last night’s raid and robbery seemed to have stuck to her. If she was repressing her trauma, she’d repressed it down flat enough that I could have made crackers to serve with the cheese course. But I didn’t think it was repression. From where I sat, it honestly looked like she wouldn’t have given a damn if Manhattan came off its moorings and floated out to sea, as long as her wedding was going ahead.

  It was amazing. It was appalling. The only thing worse was her steely-eyed mother. Adrienne Alden watched her daughter as if she were waiting for Deanna to break.

  “It’s got to be the one with the raspberry.” Deanna traced the tines of her fork around the plate, looking to pick up some last trace of frosting. “Lo? What do you think?”

  “Definitely raspberry,” agreed Lo from the 1970s. “I mean, it’s like, pow! Pop! Awesome!”

  “I don’t know…” Peri poked at one of the few remaining crumbs. “I’m thinking the walnut…”

  “You’re thinking you can’t possibly agree with anybody else.” Deanna waved her away. “The vanilla with raspberry. We’ll do the chocolate for a groom’s cake, and you can add champagne to that sangria mix of yours, can’t you, Chef? For the nightblood guests?”

  “We have our head mixologist working on a nightblood-friendly champagne cocktail.” I said, lying through my teeth and promoting Abe the bartender at the same time.

  “Very fine,” said Marie, making notes in her own book. “We will be able to accommodate the groom’s cake into our schedule. Now, as to the plated dessert…” She brought out a second white box from her insulated carrying case. This one held a tray with a set of little lidded cups. “We thought perhaps, given the time constraints, we might choose a set of milkshakes that can be enjoyed by the entire gathering…”

  Marie led them expertly through the samples so they could select the three flavors for the dessert. These were most definitely adult shakes, and the tequila, rum, and brandy were all praised at least as much as the cakes.

  Great for a truck, Reese mouthed at me.

  It was only the presence of the clients that kept me from acting like a mature and reasonable employer and sticking my tongue out at him.

  It was just as well everything was going smoothly, because my attention kept straying to the mantelpiece with its antiques. The remaining bell jars had been carefully spaced out so anyone not familiar with the room would be unable to tell anything was missing. I wondered if Mrs. Alden or Trudy had done that. I wondered again whether they could have hidden the Arall in plain sight like that. If Henri and his boys really were thieves, they would have made sure they knew the location of the thing they were stealing before they made their try, wouldn’t they? That, of course, assumed they were after the Arall at all. There were any of a dozen other antiques just in this room that could probably bring in a good price, if you knew where to sell them.

  And how did any of this lead to Oscar’s being dead?

  “Chef Caine?” said Felicity, and I shot bolt upright. Everybody was looking at me, and I felt my cheeks heat up. “You were going over the menu next?”

  “Yes, yes, of course.” Silently inventing some new curses for myself, I handed around copies of the event menu we’d put together. Keep your mind on your work, I told myself ruthlessly. It’s the one effing thing you can be sure is happening around here.

  Luckily, the menu went over as well as the cake t
asting. Everything was wonderful, fabulous, and pop-pow awesomeness. Peridot did add at least ten minutes to the whole meeting by second-guessing everyone else’s choice. Still, by the time we’d all stood up and shaken hands, we had the go-ahead. Orders could be placed. Additional staff could be assembled. Even more importantly, I had something I could hand Elaine West so she could decide how to strategically leak bits and pieces to the relevant media types.

  “A moment if you please, Chef Caine,” said Mrs. Alden as I was packing up my notes and trying to resist the urge to attempt to sidle closer to the mantelpiece. I don’t know what I thought I’d find, but I wanted a closer look anyway. I probably should have been worried about that.

  “Of course,” I said, studiously ignoring how Felicity frowned at me. I also waved Reese away. We’d catch up down in the kitchen. But I couldn’t help noticing how Deanna was looking hard over her shoulder at her mother. It was a look full of meaning and family-style telepathy. Mrs. Alden ignored her as efficiently as I ignored Felicity. Peri and Lo whispered and giggled at her, and Deanna left with her bridal peeps in tow, but reluctantly.

  I sorted through my printouts and tried not to look guilty. After all, it hadn’t been Mrs. Alden’s office I’d snuck into.

  “Some of the ladies at church were talking about Chef Simmons,” Mrs. Alden said overhead. “We were all very shocked to hear about his death. I think you said you knew him?”

  Had I? At this point I couldn’t remember whom I’d told what. “I worked for him, once.” There was no way on this earth Mrs. Alden was getting the whole story. Once a year for that particular reminiscence was more than enough.

  “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you.” It had suddenly become vital that all my three-by-five note cards were in an orderly stack with their edges precisely lined. “It was pretty sudden.”

  “That was what Karina said.”

  “Oh.” That got me to look up. Mrs. Alden’s face was expressionless. I wished I had Detective O’Grady with me. He’d have known what to say to get under that perfect, polite mask. “You knew she and Oscar…”

  “Of course. We spoke today, and she is very upset. They’d developed a close friendship. In fact, she was the one who recommended him for the wedding. I don’t suppose you had a chance to see Chef Simmons after you came to us?”

  It is vaguely possible that fishing line wouldn’t have been as obvious if I hadn’t been less than two hours from ransacking Oscar’s office.

  “The job has been keeping me pretty busy.” I kept my gaze rigidly on my hands as I wrapped the rubber band around the card stack and laid them on top of the manila folder with my printouts. It was a complete nonanswer, and I was sure she knew it. There was only one way out of this conversation I could think of, and that was to change its direction and start heading somewhere Mrs. Alden did not want to go.

  Stop. Don’t do this. Quit while you’re ahead. Exit stage left. But all these sensible thoughts dancing and waving their arms to try to get my attention were blocked by a single huge question in the front of my brain, and the only person who could answer it was looking calmly at me with her Maddox blue eyes.

  “Mrs. Alden…,” I began.

  “Whatever it is, you can go ahead and say it. I won’t mind.”

  I still might have been able to turn my back if I hadn’t also slowly but surely been working up a decent-sized mad at this woman for looking so calm while I was wondering how many more mental train wrecks and unanswered questions I was going to have to put up with before this wedding was over.

  “Weren’t you at all worried Gabriel and his family might be setting up this engagement to try to get to the Arall?”

  Finally, I got a reaction. Mrs. Alden’s whole frame tightened as her perfectly manicured hands clutched at each other—but only for a second. Clearly she’d learned a long time ago that surprise equaled weakness.

  “Of course, Brendan told you about the Arall,” she said thoughtfully. “He asked you to be part of this fiasco too, didn’t he?”

  “I was brought in by Felicity Garnett,” I answered stonily. “Why would you think Brendan asked me to be here?”

  But Mrs. Alden didn’t answer, at least not directly. “Brendan’s a good man. I don’t know how he managed, all things considered.” She straightened the copy of the menu left on the table minutely. “But no, as a matter of fact, I was not worried about the Arall being stolen. I had taken precautions against it.”

  “Taken precautions,” I repeated slowly. “Well. That’s all right then.”

  Mrs. Alden’s jaw tightened, and I knew I’d scored a hit. I just didn’t know if it had been a really good idea to take aim.

  “Believe it or not, Chef Caine,” she said, “I do know what kind of mess this wedding is creating.”

  “It’d be tough to miss.”

  “Yes, it would. But we must live in the world as it is, not as we want it to be. My daughter has made her choice. It will be followed through on. Was there anything else?”

  There was something else. Actually, there was a whole lot of something else, but I knew a dismissal when I heard it. I thanked her and beat a strategic retreat down the back stairs.

  “Everything all right, Chef?” inquired Reese as I shouldered my way into the kitchen.

  I looked back out the stairway door, and then out the French doors, and the swinging door, and the side door. Then, I dropped into the stool at the kitchen island and rested my forehead on the cool, smooth marble.

  “I’ll take that as a no,” said Reese.

  “The shit may or may not be about to hit the fan.” I told him without lifting my head.

  “Could you be a little more vague with that?”

  “Give me a couple hours and I’ll try.”

  “If we had…”

  “If the word ‘truck’ is appearing anywhere in that sentence, you can forget it.”

  “I’m just…”

  “No, you’re not just sayin’, because I’ve had it up to here with this day.” I raised my arm to the limit of my reach, an interesting trick when you’ve still got your forehead on the counter.

  Reese sighed and very sensibly changed the subject. “So, what’s on for tonight?”

  I straightened up. What was on for tonight? Tomorrow, we had a bridesmaids’ tea scheduled, plus breakfast and lunch. Tonight, though, tonight was just the family, and all the supplies were here. A new idea was forming. Considering what happened with the last one, I was ready to give it a swift kick. But there are times in your life when you know you’re already in too deep to back out.

  “Reese, can you cover dinner tonight? I want to drop the menu over at Nightlife so Zoe can get a look before we meet tomorrow.” It was lame. It was beyond lame. There was no reason I should be heading all the way back into Manhattan to drop off a couple sheets of paper I could have read off over the phone.

  “Better you than me, Chef,” muttered Reese.

  Of course, he thought I was going to check up on Zoe, and I didn’t blame him. But this time he was wrong. Because Mrs. Alden’s dropping all that unsubtle and probably completely bogus information about Karina got me thinking. Just because mother and daughter weren’t talking honestly about Oscar, there was no reason daughter and chef couldn’t have a cozy little chat, especially after they’d met on the sidewalk and been so rudely interrupted by a short Irish cop.

  Probably she would not want to talk to me, but I was pretty confident I could at least get my foot in her door. After all, chefs had a totally unfair advantage when it came to launching a charm offensive.

  18

  Normally, if I want to bribe somebody, I do the cooking myself, but I was operating under some unusual time constraints here. One of the advantages of being a chef in Manhattan, though, is you are a member of a tightly knit community of fellow professionals not averse to handing you the occasional curry hot pot to go out the back door, no questions asked.

  I had to look up the address for Exclusivité. From
what little I’d been told, I was expecting to arrive at a street-level shop or spa. Instead, to my surprise, the cab pulled up in front of one of Manhattan’s iconic glass and steel skyscrapers just a couple blocks off Columbus Circle. It was only a guess that I’d find Karina Alden at her office, but you didn’t develop and run a luxury product business without being a workaholic. Having been a badly gut-punched workaholic, I knew all about the comfort of being able to throw yourself into your job when you didn’t want to think—especially if it involved not thinking about one of O’Grady’s Q&A sessions.

  I paid off the cabbie, grabbed the receipt (hey, it was a business expense), and climbed out onto the curb. The night was warm, and the traffic on the sidewalk and down the street was brisk. A quick check of my carrier bag showed I hadn’t spilled anything yet. A quick check of my cell phone said Brendan hadn’t called or texted.

  A quick look where I was going showed Scott Alden on the other side of the lobby’s tinted windows, striding out of the elevator.

  I froze like a guilty teenager when the light snaps on, and I looked around frantically for a tourist to duck behind. But Mr. Alden was too busy texting and checking his watch at the same time to notice some random, out-of-uniform chef standing by the curb. He breezed out through the revolving door, letting the rotation point him toward Broadway, and headed down the sidewalk without once looking up.

  Okay. Unexpected, I thought as I was remembering how to breathe again. It also told me two things: (1) Karina was in fact in her office; (2) I wasn’t the only one feeling the need to check up on her. I did find myself wondering how that particular father-daughter conversation had gone and what kind of ground it had covered. I knew nothing about Scott Alden, except that he was rich, a T-typ, he didn’t much like Lloyd Maddox, he might have tried to get access to Oscar’s office, and, according to Trudy, his main goal in life was to keep everybody calm and happy.

  So, who was he here to keep calm and happy? That question followed me through the revolving door and across the gleaming lobby, and I had the feeling it wasn’t going away any time soon.