The Gourmet Girl Mysteries, Volume 1

by Jessica Conant-Park

  “Hello, Miss Chloe,” Snacker greeted me, shaking a skillet hard and tossing its aromatic contents.

  Oh, he was still adorable! Again, not that I was looking. Well, not looking for me, but I could admire, right?

  “Hi, babe!” Josh stopped stirring a bubbling pot and waved me over. “Come taste this stock.” He held out a teaspoon and fed me the most unbelievably delicious beef stock. At that moment, right there in my mouth, the whole concept of bouillon cubes met its dried-up, prepackaged maker.

  A man said, “If that’s what they do to stock, I can’t wait to try an entire meal.”

  I spun around to see Barry in the corner of the kitchen. He was leaning so comfortably against one of the stainless counters that he looked almost at home. I hadn’t even noticed that anyone else was here. Why? I had eyes only for Josh.

  “Chloe, you remember Barry Fields? From the other night?”

  “Yes. I’m so sorry about your partner.”

  Barry’s brown curls had been severely gelled against his skull to create the effect of a shellacked swim cap, and his rumpled sport coat was, I thought, the same one he’d been wearing the other night.

  What could Barry be doing here? Josh had told him to stop in, but I thought that he’d been issuing the chef’s version of “Let’s get together for lunch sometime.” Barry, however, had taken Josh literally. I peeked at my boyfriend and raised an eyebrow.

  “Thank you.” Barry nodded. “It’s a rough time right now. Thought I’d stop in here for some comfort food, as they say.”

  “Yup,” Josh agreed. “We just whipped up something for him.”

  Oh, I got it. Josh was being cocky; he was showing off for the guy who’d lost this location. He might as well have stuck out his tongue and yelled, “Ha-ha!” Or maybe his tactic was to keep his friends close and his enemies closer. As Josh had pointed out, this “enemy,” Barry, could one day be a good connection. Or maybe Josh and Barry were just two food afficionados sharing their common interest?

  “Snack, how’s the veg doin’?” Josh asked his sous chef.

  “Just done now, Chef.” Snacker pulled the skillet off the heat and poured what Josh loosely referred to as a “hash” onto a plate. When Josh said hash, he didn’t mean some unidentifiable mess you’d find next to two fried eggs with a side of bacon. He meant a delicious combination of vegetables he’d pulled together, sautéed over high heat, and seasoned with a rich broth, a sauce, or just salt, pepper, olive oil, and maybe fresh thyme.

  Josh reached into an oven and, using only a thin dish towel, pulled out a tray to reveal a gorgeously browned game hen. He picked it up bare-handed, gently placed it on a cutting board, sliced off a beautiful portion, and added it to the plate with the hash.

  “Here you go, sir.” He carried the dish over to Barry. “And fresh rosemary bread, too,” he added, turning to another counter to cut a thick wedge from one of four loaves. “You’re next, Chloe,” he promised me with a wink, having probably seen the drool dripping down my chin.

  Barry took a mouthful from his plate and, when he finally swallowed, put down his plate and fork. “Superb. Really, Josh. Losing Oliver is miserable, and this is just what I needed.” Was he going to cry? “No wonder Gavin won’t part with even a share of this place. With you two here, Simmer is going to do well. It’s a dream.”

  Barry had come here to attempt the impossible feat of convincing Gavin Seymour to let him in on a restaurant that Gavin had just put oodles of money into? A restaurant on the verge of opening? And, more than everything else combined, a restaurant that he loved? What an idiot Barry was.

  “It’s just been a terrible few days. I’ve known Oliver most of my life, and to have him suddenly gone … well, it’s just unimaginable. We grew up together and started Full Moon together. Even with the disagreements we had, he was one of my best friends. Practically family.” He rested his head in one hand, but with the other hand, he kept eating. Barry looked positively heartbroken. I hoped that Josh’s comfort food fulfilled its mission by soothing some of Barry’s sadness.

  We’d just met Barry. Josh could at least offer the condolence of a delicious meal. I racked my brain to come up with something to say to a stranger who’d lost a best friend, but Barry was now focused on his food. Besides, he did have a wife and, presumably, friends who could help him deal with this loss, so I tried not to feel horribly inadequate. I have to admit that I was aching to ask him about Hannah, but it seemed cruel to push him to discuss Oliver’s death.

  Josh and Snacker looked as uncomfortable as I was with the silence that had now fallen, so I changed the subject. “So, tell me what’s been going on here today,” I said to the two chefs as I dug into the plate Josh had made up for me. It was identical to Barry’s: game hen with glorious hash and fresh rosemary bread.

  “Josh has been running me through the menu,” said Snacker, “and we’ve been cooking up some of the more complicated dishes so he can show me how he wants them plated. And, more importantly, I’ve been asking Josh if you have any single friends in need of some male companionship.”

  I laughed. I’d be surprised if Snacker didn’t get clubbed over the head and dragged back to some woman’s house by the end of the day. “I’ll work on it for you. I promise.”

  Josh groaned. “Hey, hey. Snacker’s got plenty to do around here to keep him busy, so don’t get him all distracted with one of your friends this early in the game.”

  After Barry and I had finished our food, he thanked Josh and Snacker and promised to return on New Year’s Eve. “I know how much you two have to get done, so I’ll leave you to your work. Thanks again for everything. This really did cheer me up a bit.”

  We waved good-bye, and I was ashamed of how relieved I was to have him gone. It’s awful, but there is something intolerable about being around someone else’s pain when you can’t do anything to help. Maybe next semester I could sign up for a class on coping with grief?

  I watched Josh while he worked in the kitchen. He was looking particularly sexy today, what with the sparkling white coat and all, and I was hoping for some alone time in one of the storage rooms, even though it was probably some enormous health code violation to fornicate near the dry goods. Besides, I really had to get going if I was going to make it to Moving On to meet Adrianna.

  I did manage to pin Josh against a wall for a few minutes of groping while Snacker stepped into the office to make some phone calls and confirm orders with purveyors. “Am I going to see you tonight?” I asked in between kisses.

  He sighed. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.” He slid both his hands into my back pockets and pulled me in close. “I’ve got too much to do, and I’ll probably be busy all night. I’ll call you later, though, okay?”

  What Josh meant, I knew, was that he wouldn’t have even one day off for the next two weeks. I already missed him.

  I dragged myself out of his arms. “Okay, I’ll talk to you in a bit.”

  Just one more kiss—

  I heard the kitchen doors swing open and shut.

  “Oh, excuse me. Sorry to interrupt.”

  I pulled away from Josh to see Eliot Davis standing by the door looking embarrassed to have caught us glued to each other. “I just wanted to see how the restaurant was coming along.” His physical features, especially his peculiar eyes, were unattractive, but he wore a boxy, trendy-looking sport jacket and somehow exuded an air of sophistication appropriate to the owner of a Newbury Street gallery. I hoped that Naomi’s thank-you present hadn’t been some god-awful macramé wall hanging or the stinky handmade candles or pop psych book I’d imagined.

  “It’s okay.” I laughed. “I’m on my way out anyhow. Nice to see you. And thanks again for your hospitality the other night at the gallery.”

  “Nice to see you, too, Chloe. Bye.”

  Josh squeezed my hand, and I left for another dreaded T ride, this one to Cambridge.

  TEN

  Moving On was located in an adorable yellow house on a quiet street
off Mass. Ave. outside Harvard Square. Adrianna’s car was parked out front, and I hoped she wasn’t going to kill me for being a few minutes late. The program director, Kayla, let me in and showed me into the combined kitchen and dining room. I don’t know what I was expecting, but Moving On looked like a normal house, with real furniture, hardwood floors, pale green walls, and white trim. Three windows in the kitchen gave a view of a back patio with a grill, covered for the winter to protect it from the snow. After working at the Organization, I’d assumed every nonprofit would be barren and depressing. This was a cheery, comfortable environment; it was a home. Adrianna stood in the kitchen, wrapping a nylon cape around a young woman seated in a chair.

  Adrianna greeted me by saying, “Hi, Chloe. This is Isabelle, and she’s ready to chop off this mane of hair.”

  “Hi, Chloe.” Isabelle spoke in a whisper. She looked about twenty years old and probably weighed all of one hundred pounds, not including the ten pounds of frizzy black curls that overwhelmed her tiny frame. She was either frozen in her seat or ready to fly off it; either way, here was a young woman terrified of what was about to happen to her hair. And to make matters worse, Ade looked even more beautiful than ever with her artistically colored blonde hair blown out to its fullest in an homage to early nineties’ supermodels. She looked so glamorous that poor Isabelle must have felt dowdy by comparison. Anyone would have. I did.

  “Hi, Isabelle. Don’t worry about anything. Let me just talk to Adrianna for a second before we get started.” I grabbed my stylist friend by the elbow and led her off to the side for a moment.

  “Ade, what did you say to her? She looks petrified!”

  “Nothing, I swear. I just suggested that we cut off all of her damaged hair, try a more flattering cut, and get her using better products. What’s the problem?”

  “The women here do not exactly have piles of money floating around with which to maintain highlights and dye jobs, okay? And I can guarantee you that Isabelle isn’t in a position to buy high-priced shampoo! The point of being here is to make her feel good about herself, not make her feel inadequate, okay?”

  I knew from talking with Kayla the other week that Isabelle had been kicked out of her house at sixteen and hadn’t had a permanent place to live since then. She’d bounced around, staying with friends and living on the streets for years, until her room at Moving On had become available. Kayla had said that she had no idea how someone as shy and withdrawn as Isabelle had toughed it out on her own for so long.

  For once, Adrianna had the sense to look sheepish. “Oh, God. I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’ll take care of her.”

  Thirty minutes later, Isabelle’s hair had been washed and conditioned in peppermint-scented products, and Adrianna was finishing a chin-length cut with chunky layers that would help her curls fall softly.

  I scooted my chair close to Isabelle, who looked near panic as strands of her hair continued to fall to the floor. “So, Kayla told me you have an interview tomorrow morning? What’s the job?” I asked.

  “Well, um, it’s in Westwood, at a medical building. They need someone to do some office stuff, I guess. You know, filing and making copies, I think.”

  “Westwood? That’s quite a hike from here.” How this girl was going to get from Cambridge to Westwood on public transportation five days a week was beyond me. That was at least a forty-five-minute drive by car, barring traffic jams.

  “Well, I worked out a route. If I get the job, I’d have to be there at nine, so I think if I leave here by five thirty, I should be okay.”

  “What?” Adrianna stopped her styling. “Five thirty in the morning? You wouldn’t even get back here until late at night! Are you kidding me?”

  Isabelle clasped her nervous hands in her lap. “I’m not really qualified for a lot of jobs ’cause I never finished high school. I’m trying to get my GED, though. Kayla is helping me and a couple of the other girls here with that when she has the time. I’ve had a few other interviews closer to home, but I don’t have much work experience, so no one will hire me.”

  “No, no. Chloe, do something,” Adrianna instructed me. “We can’t send her off with this great new hair to spend her entire day commuting to frickin’ Westwood!”

  “Oh, uh, okay. Let’s see.” I glared at Ade. I wasn’t exactly a headhunter. “You’re looking for office work? Or is there something else you might like?”

  “It might sound silly, but I’ve always wanted to work in a bakery. I love the way it smells—sort of homey and safe. I never really had that when I was growing up, but I used to go into this bakery near my house when I was a kid, and the owner would give me a cinnamon roll every afternoon on the way home from school. She’d let me hang out there for a couple of hours if I needed to when my parents …” She broke off for a moment. “It seemed like a nice place to be.”

  Adrianna smiled at me. “I bet Chloe could help you out with this.”

  “Let me make a phone call. I might have something better for you, Isabelle.” I pulled my cell phone out of my purse. “I’ll be right back.”

  I dialed Josh’s number, and he picked up quickly, sounding significantly more harried than he had when I’d left Simmer.

  “Hey, Josh. Sorry to bother you. What’s going on there? You sound busy.”

  “Oh, Christ. It’s havoc here,” he groaned. “I’ve got a big staff meeting so we can prep the front and the back of the house and try to make this opening go as smooth as possible. And I forgot I have to go out later to take care of some other stuff.”

  That stuff better not have to do with Hannah.

  Josh continued. “Just becoming one of those days, you know? What’s up with you? How’s it going with you and Adrianna?”

  I ignored the possibility that Josh might be seeing Hannah later. Well, I ignored it for now. “Good. Only I’m wondering if you can help me with something.”

  I begged Josh to find some way to hire Isabelle to do something in the kitchen. Anything! Simmer wasn’t a bakery, of course, and the hours would be horrible, but the commute would be easy. Mainly, I thought that what Isabelle needed was a work setting with a family feeling. Restaurant kitchens were hot and demanding and sometimes chaotic, but Josh always took excellent care of his staff.

  “Does she have any restaurant experience?” Josh asked hopefully.

  “I’m not sure, but I don’t think so,” I confessed. “She’s always wanted to work in a bakery, so she’s interested in cooking on some level. And she needs a break. If you don’t give her a job, she’s going to have a long commute and be miserable.” Guilt, guilt, guilt!

  “All right, you got me. Send her in, and I’ll give her a kitchen job. The money won’t be wonderful, and I don’t know how many hours I can give her, but send her in if you want. Can she be here for the staff meeting today?”

  If I could’ve hugged Josh over the phone, I’d have done it.

  When I shared the news, I couldn’t tell who was happier about it, Adrianna or Isabelle. Adrianna started maniacally blow-drying Isabelle’s hair with a diffuser, shouting above the din, “Oh, my God, this is so great! Are you so excited? Do you have anything to wear?”

  Although Isabelle didn’t say much, she couldn’t stop smiling and must have said thank you a hundred times. Moving On had provided her with some outfits for interviews. Since there was no need to be formal with Josh or Gavin, we helped her to select plain black dress pants and a pretty yellow sweater. Working in Josh’s kitchen, she would be provided with chef pants and a kitchen shirt, so she wouldn’t be spending hard-earned and much-needed money on work clothes. All she’d have to buy would be a pair of good shoes.

  Adrianna rummaged around in one of her bags and pulled out hair and makeup samples to leave with her new client. While she did Isabelle’s makeup, I wrote down directions to Simmer. When we finally got our protégée out the door, we were beaming like proud parents and waved overzealously as she walked down the street to the T station.

  “Okay
, we’ve got to keep moving,” I reminded Adrianna as I swept up hair from the floor. “We’ve got four more women here who need to get ready.”

  I stayed with Adrianna for another two and a half hours while she worked wonders with more residents of the house. Now that she understood where these women were coming from and the challenges they were facing, she dropped her normally brash, outspoken, and headstrong style and showed remarkable compassion and sensitivity.

  “I can’t believe we’re done,” Ade said, rolling up the cape and beginning to pack away the mountain of supplies that had accumulated on the table. “That was great.”

  “You were wonderful!” I commended her. “You about ready to go?”

  “You go ahead. I want to stay and talk to the director. I was thinking I might volunteer here whenever they need me.”

  Would wonders never cease? I hugged Adrianna and left for home. When I arrived, it was almost five, and Gato yet again welcomed me by urinating in a plant. I took off my uncomfortable shoes and then threw on some sweatpants and a T-shirt, and sat down at my computer to check my e-mail. I deleted even more copies of almost the same letter that had snuck through my spam blocker earlier today, a version now urgently suggesting I get my penis enlarged.

  A bunch of e-mails were from my lawyer friend, Elise, who lived in Chicago with her husband. To judge from the number of e-mails I got from Elise each day, being a lawyer primarily involved surfing the Web for entertaining stories and interesting sites. She’d sent a bunch of links to sites with music clips from Kevin Federline—in Elise’s opinion, listening to him never ceased to be violently amusing—and one link to photographs of celebrities caught with wardrobe malfunctions. Elise also forwarded me an e-mail from her ex-boyfriend, Alex, with a picture of himself, his wife, and their new baby and a pretentious note detailing how happy he was with his family life and his snooty academic professorship. Elise was pleased to see that his wife was quite possibly the homeliest creature on the planet and that their baby was a squished, wrinkled little blob who looked remarkably like a cross between Winston Churchill and a bulldog. Elise and I took a sick pleasure in creating an imaginary life for Alex based on the scant details she received from his sporadic e-mails. Our latest was that he’d taken up knitting bulky, brightly colored Argentinian-style sweaters and was forced to work summers in Alaska catching crabs from boats that sailed through high storms.