The Gourmet Girl Mysteries, Volume 1

by Jessica Conant-Park

  “Chloe! This isn’t worth ruining your wood floors over.” Adrianna eyed me and my apartment and pronounced us both filthy. “Time to get you two fixed up. Listen, I don’t know what to say about last night. We’ll get to that later. We’ll take things in chronological order. So that means the Noah situation first.” She wrapped an arm around my shoulders. “It sucks, and it’s embarrassing. He may be hot and sexy and charming, but he’s an insensitive, egomaniacal ass. And you already know all that, and you knew he wasn’t good for you, but he was there and charmed you into bed, and you made the same mistake we all have. So cry it all out today. Then you can tell me what the hell happened last night.” She stood up and carried a huge box of pastries to the kitchen. “I brought over every season of Alias on DVD, so we’ll gorge ourselves on Thai food and the pastries I brought over from Mike’s in the North End. Let’s finish painting and clean this disaster area up,” she called from inside the fridge. “Oh, and I’m staying over tonight.” I smiled to myself. I wasn’t alone.

  At 6:30 that evening, Adrianna and I had finished up the living room. She’d patiently tolerated my diatribe on the woes of my involvement with Noah, and she’d repeatedly shaken her head in disbelief as I’d described everything about my evening with Eric, including the meal, his pretensions, and, of course, his murder.

  After the painting, we sat on the couch together. “Come on,” Adrianna said, “it’s not like you had any relationship with this guy. I mean, it must have been exceedingly disturbing and revolting to see a bloody body, but you can’t actually be sad, right? This date with Eric was only supposed to be a retaliation for Noah’s philandering. It’s not like you gave a shit about him.”

  Adrianna is always practical, sometimes to the point of seeming coldhearted. Objectively, I suppose, she was right. But I did feel sad. “Ade, the thing is, though, you didn’t see Eric’s dead body on the floor. You didn’t see all the blood. It’s not like on TV. It smells, and it’s just awful looking. Somebody died last night, and it doesn’t matter, in a way, who it was. I feel sad about that, and I feel sorry for myself that I had to see what I did. Is that selfish? And maybe I got what I deserved for my stupid attempt at revenge, but as annoying as Eric was, he didn’t deserve what he got. I mean, being annoying and pretentious didn’t mean he should die. Because if it did, Noah should be dead, too.”

  “Not such a rotten idea,” Adrianna responded. “But you’re right. I’m a bitch. Forget I said any of that. You can feel whatever you want to feel. It must have been terrible. I’ve never seen a dead body, so I don’t know what it was like.” She leaned over to give me a hug.

  “You know, even though I was there, in a way, I don’t even know what it was like, either. God, Ade, his throat was cut open! And … well, what if it was my fault? If I hadn’t gone on that stupid Web site, and we hadn’t made this date, maybe Eric wouldn’t have been at the restaurant and would still be alive and doling out his preposterous culinary observations! And why did everyone think Eric and I were practically on the verge of marriage? How could he have been talking about me when he only found me on the Internet yesterday?”

  Adrianna lit some scented candles—she believes in aromatherapy—and, amid the smell of wild strawberries, she tried to reassure me. “Chloe, you don’t know why Eric was killed. If it was random violence, that’s not your fault. Look, we live in a big city, and the reality is that people get murdered, and if it’s some psycho out there, then I’m glad you weren’t hurt. But if this Eric was a target, someone wanted him dead for whatever reason, and you just happened to be there.”

  “You’re right. But I still feel terrible. This whole thing is confusing and upsetting, and I wish to God I’d never met Eric!” I fell to pieces for a few minutes while my good friend rubbed my back and fetched me tissues. The image of a lunatic out there randomly killing people in restaurant restrooms didn’t reassure me. In a gruesomely comforting way, I preferred to think that Eric in particular had been the intended victim.

  When I pulled myself together, Adrianna took my head in her hands and asked, “Okay, you done? Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You’ve cried enough to flood this place.” Adrianna got up and went over to grab her purse, which she’d left on a chair. “Now, for one of this evening’s activities … ta dah!” She whipped around to show me a box of hair dye.

  “Why are we dying my hair?” I demanded.

  “We’re not dying yours,” she responded. “We’re dying mine. I don’t know how to fix the Eric problem. But I do know something about friendship. I’m too blonde, and you’re in no state to be socializing with blondes right now. In an act of solidarity, I’m going brunette. Or more precisely, I’m going Walnut Shine.”

  “Oh, Ade! I don’t hate all blondes now. Just Noah’s blonde tramp. You have gorgeous hair.” She did have excellent hair: a thick, silky mane of magnificent locks that curled softly the way you see in all those shampoo commercials. She regularly colored her hair at home and had at least four different blonde shades streaked through her tresses. How her hair stayed healthy, I had no idea. Mine was full of split ends and frizz no matter how many times I conditioned, hot-oiled, or trimmed it.

  “Yes, yes, Chloe, I know there are many lovely, friendly blondes out in the world, but right now we’re going to hate all of them! Get me a towel, and help me get this glop in my hair. And get the menu for Bangkok Bistro. We need major takeout tonight.”

  After we’d ordered half the menu to be delivered, we holed up in my bathroom, Adrianna seated backward on the toilet, half-naked, with a towel wrapped around her shoulders.

  “I can’t believe you’re trusting me with this,” I murmured as I massaged the brown dye through her hair.

  “It’s just hair,” she replied, a comment I thought was pretty generous, considering that hair was her profession.

  As I worked on her new look, I found that instead of wanting to complain about my nightmarish love life, I just wanted to be quiet. I didn’t even want to think about Noah or my year and a half of infrequent and unsuccessful dating or the bloody mess I’d seen on the men’s room floor. I just wanted a night with my best friend.

  After washing Adrianna’s hair in the tub and declaring her new walnut shade a victory for scorned women everywhere, we sat in front of the TV. I had showered and scrubbed the paint out of my own hair and was comfortably wearing my sushi-print pajamas with my hair twisted elegantly on top of my head, thanks to significant tugging and pulling from Adrianna.

  Having not eaten all day, I was so famished that when the deliveryman arrived with our Thai food, I practically tackled him. The day of fasting was unlike me. I typically spent a good portion of each day thinking about what I was going to have for my next meal. Whenever I was depressed, I usually had a few hours when I didn’t want anything to do with food, but when my bad mood even hinted at lifting, I craved food. And not just food, but gourmet food. I was all about soothing trips to Whole Foods or dinner at Boston Magazine’s review of the month. When I’d ended my last serious relationship, I’d ransacked my shelves of cookbooks and selected Charlie Trotter’s Rack of Lamb with Vegetable Ragoût, Mustard Spätzle, and Mustard and Thyme Reduction as my medicine. Instead of slaving over homemade spätzle, I’d substituted store-bought gnocchi, but I’d figured that under the circumstances, Mr. Trotter would forgive me for cheating.

  We opened pad thai (no peanuts), tod mun, chicken curry, warm beef salad, and white rice. The smells were spicy, salty, and sweet. I inhaled the aromas and felt a cozy, healing comfort wash over me. While Sydney Bristow continued to kick some serious ass, we polished off the delectable chocolate mousse cake Adrianna had brought and washed it down with tall glasses of milk. The last time Adrianna had broken up with a boyfriend, the highlights of the evening had included, from what we could both remember, drowning our (her) woes in apple martinis, getting kicked out of the Purple Rose bar, and vomiting in my bathtub late into the night. The hangovers we’d both had the next day led to the resolution that future he
artaches were to be dealt with sober.

  And sober we were when late that night we both crashed in my bed together. I was exhausted from my emotional-roller-coaster day, and Adrianna had to get up early to do yet another final hair run-through for a bride-to-be. Ade pulled the comforter up to her chin. “I keep telling her to wait until a few days before the wedding to decide, since she keeps changing her mind about what she wants. One day it’s up, the next it’s down,” Adrianna complained.

  We giggled and chatted like kids having a sleepover until we were both silent and falling asleep. I rolled on my side and pulled a pillow on top of my head, a habit that always left me in a state of potential suffocation but was my favorite way to sleep. It felt nice to have a warm body in my bed, even if it was just Adrianna. Better her than Noah. Or Eric, obviously.

  I slept dream-free and woke up cozy and warm and still satisfied from the delicious Thai food. It was only 6:45 a.m., but I could hear Adrianna in the shower preparing for her bridal nightmare. I snuggled in my comforter and remembered when my food-love connection had first begun, namely, during a family trip to Europe when I was thirteen. When my now-beloved parents, Bethany and Jack, had packed us up, the last thing Heather and I had looked forward to was vacationing with our parents, and we’d especially resented the expectation that we girls actually learn something. I’d devoted the first part of the vacation to devouring Gone with the Wind and delectable food. While Scarlett pursued her precious Ashley, I munched on buttery baguettes smeared with a triple-cream Brie and air-dried beef, the perfect love story and perfect food. I’d taken breaks from the Civil War (truces, I guess) for meals with my family. When I finished Gone with the Wind, I started The Great Gatsby. While our parents toured the Louvre and Notre Dame, my sister and I sat on benches in the Paris sun enjoying spinach-filled crepes and cones of exotic sorbet. I embedded myself in the world of Gatsby’s all-night parties, lavish food, and romantic quests, and looked up occasionally to join Heather in gazing with vague longing at beautiful French boys. (At that point, my graphic knowledge about boys came from the one pornographic picture my classmate Elliot had shown me.) So, my pursuit of the perfect blend of romance and food dated to that summer, when I basked in literary love and bombarded my senses with new tastes and smells. Especially since then, good food had always meant love or the hope of love: Scarlett, Ashley, Rhett, Gatsby, Daisy, French boys, and surprisingly good times with my family. It had meant weddings and holidays. Until now, it had never, ever meant death. Never before.

  Adrianna interrupted my reminiscing when she entered the bedroom looking intolerably glamorous in a black spaghetti-strap sundress. “How can you look like that this early in the morning? Or ever, for that matter?” I demanded.

  “Oh, shut up!” She waved away my words and handed me a steaming cup of perfect coffee that she’d somehow extracted from my defective coffeemaker. No wonder I was the only woman friend she had. No one else could tolerate her perfection.

  “I’ll walk you out.” Holding the coffee cup, I hauled myself out of bed, walked her out the side door to the fire escape, and sat down in the one rickety chair I had managed to squeeze onto the little landing. I was just about to say my good-byes and thank-yous to Adrianna when I heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Noah.

  This was how my life worked. Faced with an ex, I was dressed in silly pajamas, and my hair was a mess. Meanwhile, my gorgeous friend stood beside me in all her glamorous glory with Noah flagrantly ogling her, black dress and all.

  “What do you want?” demanded Adrianna, who stood beside me in more ways than one.

  “Hi, Adrianna.” Noah leaned flirtatiously against the railing. “You look good.” Oh, I hate him! “So, Chloe, I see you’ve moved on nicely. A little switch for you, but you’ve got good taste.”

  I jumped in before Ade socked him. “Noah, what do you want?”

  His flirty expression vanished as he turned to me with irritation. “Well, I didn’t realize you were mad enough to throw the police at me.” My stomach dropped. “Some detective came by asking me questions about where I was Sunday night around dinnertime and after. I explained that I’d had company here and therefore couldn’t have murdered your date.” I bet he’d been with that horrid blonde woman again. “Why the hell would you even have mentioned me to the police?” he continued. Boy, he was mad. Good.

  “Well,” I said as casually as I could manage, “Detective Hurley asked me some questions, and somehow your name came up. I mean, they are the police. They have to be thorough.” I grinned smugly at him.

  “Yeah, well this detective started asking me all about paint. Whether I’d painted anything lately, if my office had been painted, and on and on. And I was more than happy to inform him that the person who does all the painting around here is you! I told him all he had to do was go upstairs and look at your apartment.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about or why he’d ask you about paint. But apparently you’ve survived your brush with the law, so just relax, Noah,” I fired back.

  “Well, now that you’ve had your little revenge, you can leave me out of your police conversations,” he said as he turned and headed back downstairs—but only after giving Adrianna the once-over again. “It was nice seeing you.”

  Adrianna took a step forward as though she was going to leap after him and clobber the jerk. I grabbed her hand but couldn’t stop her from yelling, “Don’t you even look at me, you big, dirty male slut!”

  “Stop, Ade!” I said, laughing. “You’re the one who said it’s not worth it.”

  “Oh God! He is so annoying. In fact”—she paused dramatically—“I found Noah threatening and potentially violent just now! He very well could have murdered Eric.”

  “Don’t be idiotic. You may have been threatening and potentially violent just now, but Noah wasn’t. Of course he didn’t murder Eric. He has no motive whatsoever. He obviously doesn’t give a damn about me and apparently had his hands full with Tank-Top Woman at the time of the murder.”

  “Fine,” she conceded. “He didn’t murder Eric. But I don’t know what you were thinking hooking up with him.”

  I shook my head at my own idiocy. “I have no idea either. I really don’t.”

  After Adrianna left, I sat in the sunshine on my makeshift balcony and finished my coffee. The phone rang twice, but I let voice mail pick up. The third call finally got me out of my chair. “Yes,” I answered irritably.

  “Chloe? It’s Detective Hurley here. From the other night.”

  “Of, course. Hi.” Like I knew thousands of detectives all over Boston. I bet that damn Noah had tried to incriminate me in Eric’s murder. Why did I have to paint everything? Hurley was probably calling to say he was on his way over to arrest me. Wait. Wouldn’t he just show up with handcuffs?

  “Listen, I’m just calling to check in. To see if you remembered anything else from Sunday.” He sounded tired, and I had a suspicion that his hair was as wild and uncombed as when I’d met him. He struck me as a chronically chaotic-looking person.

  “Honestly, not really. Um … I think I told you everything I could think of.”

  “Can we just go over who you saw at the restaurant again? Tell me all the staff members you can remember seeing.”

  I listed off everyone I’d met: Joelle, Tim, Garrett, Cassie, Ian, and the kitchen staff I’d seen but hadn’t actually met.

  “So only one chef? Or one person in a chef’s coat?” Hurley asked.

  “Well, I don’t know. I know Garrett was wearing one, obviously, but I think the other guys in the kitchen were wearing them, too. Only theirs weren’t as nice. You know, cheaper looking. But I wasn’t paying much attention, to be honest with you. Does that help?” I felt like a lousy witness. If I’d known these sorts of details were going to become important, I’d have studied everyone there.

  The detective continued. “Okay, now about the phone call Eric had. Could you go over that again?”

  Again, I had nothing to offer this earn
est detective—except a slight concern about Noah’s casting suspicion on me with his paint comment. “Um, listen. My neighbor, Noah, just stopped by. He said you came over and were asking him about paint? Was there paint in the men’s room? On that knife? I didn’t see any on Eric’s body at all. Or on Eric, for that matter. Before. And Noah said he told you that I paint all the time. In fact, I was painting last weekend. Calm, brown tones. I was trying to tidy up my place. Give it a little bit of a Zen feel, you know. But I took a shower before I saw Eric, of course. I hope you don’t think I did anything wrong.” I was blathering on in what increasingly felt like the manner of a murderer trying to convince the police of her innocence.

  “No, you’re not a suspect at this time. But I can’t comment on the investigation.” Sounded like some phrase he learned in detective school. But at least I was off the hook. He continued asking me about other people I’d seen that night, and I did my best to describe everything and everyone I could remember. None of it seemed helpful, and I was pretty sure that none of my information was going to blow this case wide open, as detectives and reporters said in second-rate TV shows.

  Detective Hurley released a loud sigh. “Okay, Chloe. Look, please call me if you think of anything at all that you remember. Even if it seems unimportant, okay?”

  Although I doubted that I’d recall any crucial clues, I assured him that I’d call if I thought of anything new. I hung up, convinced that would be my last contact with the murder investigation.

  SEVEN

  I’d just finished my shower when the phone rang again. I wrapped a towel around myself, grabbed the phone, and stared at the caller ID. Rafferty, P. What? Did I even want to answer this?

  “Hello?”

  “Is this Chloe?” a shrill female voice asked.

  “Um, yes. Who is this?”

  “Oh, Chloe, this is Eric’s mother, Sheryl Rafferty.” She muffled a sob. “I spoke with Timothy Rock yesterday. I got your last name.” She stopped for a second and added, “From him. And found your number in the phone book.” She started crying harder.