The Gourmet Girl Mysteries, Volume 1

by Jessica Conant-Park

  I cut him off. “None of that is going to help me!” I pretended to pout. “I’ll just have to lock myself at home and remain in isolation until next week.”

  “All right. One hint. Pay extra attention to anxiety disorders and personality disorders. And don’t worry too much about the code numbers. There’s only one question on that.”

  I looked around to make sure none of my fellow students were watching and then kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you! You’re the best.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. You still have a ton of work to do.”

  “Yes, sir!” I gave him a military salute. “Oh, Doug. I haven’t told you what happened at Simmer.” After I’d filled him in, we talked for a few minutes about Leandra and about the dangers of living in a big city like Boston.

  Doug reminded me to be extra careful when I went to visit Josh at the restaurant. “Make sure you get someone to walk you to your car, okay? And call me if you need to talk about any of this.”

  “I promise. Do you need a ride?”

  Doug shook his head. “Terry’s picking me up and taking me to lunch. I’ve got another review class later this afternoon, but we’ll have enough time to eat at a dark and romantic place he found in the North End.”

  “I’m jealous! Have fun.”

  When I got to Cleveland Circle, I double-parked and picked up a Pino’s pizza. I was ravenous, and nothing except a thin-crust delicious lunch would get me through the afternoon. It wasn’t what Josh served on Newbury Street, but a good pizza had a place in my heart. In fact, it seemed to me that Adrianna had almost been justified when she’d threatened to throttle Owen for forgetting a Pino’s pizza when she’d been in the throes of a craving.

  When I reached my condo, I balanced the pizza on one hand and opened my back door with the other. I could hear the phone ringing as I worked the old lock with my rusty key. Even with caller ID, I hated missing calls, and it drove me crazy to have caller ID display Unknown Caller or, worse, nothing but Incoming Call with no number. When caller ID let me down, I always felt convinced that I’d lost an opportunity to scream at some telemarketer about the National Do Not Call Registry! Missing a call with an actual phone number on caller ID meant that I’d spend twenty minutes Googling in an attempt to trace the call. Was I suffering from an anxiety disorder? Paranoia?

  I snatched the phone off its base and practically screamed into the phone. “Hello!”

  “Chloe, this is Gavin Seymour.”

  “Oh, Gavin. How are you doing?”

  “Hanging in there. I’m actually calling to see if you’d do me a favor.”

  “Anything,” I said honestly, although I couldn’t imagine what I could do to help. Unless he wanted to tap into my half-trained clinical skills?

  “I’m organizing a memorial service for Leandra. She was an orphan. Is that the word I want? She didn’t have any family that I can locate. When her body is released, I’ll arrange for cremation, but for now I’d like to have a gathering at Simmer on Monday. For her friends to share their memories. And grieve.”

  “Of course I’ll be there. Do you want me to call people and let them know?”

  “No, I can handle that. But I think it would be nice to have a memory book. Would you be able to put one together? I know it’s already Thursday, but I’m sure that people from the restaurant would be more than willing to contribute to the book. Maybe the book is more for me than anyone else, but with no family around, I feel like I need to do something meaningful. Does that make sense to you?”

  It did make sense to me. A memory book would give Gavin something tangible to hold on to. How I was going to have one ready for Monday was beyond me, but I obviously had to say yes. “Sure. And I can definitely do it. I think it’s a lovely idea, Gavin.”

  “Thank you. I was thinking we’d all meet at the restaurant between lunch and dinner service, around three o’clock. Simmer is opening again tomorrow, so maybe you could stop by then or this weekend and have Leandra’s friends make their contributions to the book? I really appreciate this, Chloe. Thanks again.”

  He sounded so grateful that I felt like a shrew for worrying about my exams and papers. But I hadn’t known Leandra very well, and putting together a memory book seemed like a job for a close friend. Maybe she hadn’t had any? I had the impression she’d been far from popular with her fellow employees at Simmer, but she must have had friends outside work. I had no idea who they’d been, and I had no time to find out.

  After assuring Gavin that I’d have the memory book with me at Monday’s gathering, I hung up, put all my DSM review materials on my coffee table, and dropped onto the couch. My eyes fell shut for a moment. God, I was tired. My lack of sleep and the stress of Leandra’s murder were both taking a toll on me. I did discover her body, after all, and even though I didn’t have a close emotional connection to her, it was still upsetting.

  A scratching noise made me open my eyes. Ken, the hermit crab my nephew had given me for Christmas, was busy rubbing one of his claws against his glass cage in an effort to turn himself around. When Walker had presented me with this gift, I’d had a hard time even saying thanks, and that’s putting it lightly. I’d had zero interest in keeping a pet that had ten legs and no fur. Ken had, however, grown on me during the past few months, and his cage was now full of water dishes, climbing structures, and cozy hiding places. Ken lacked a scintillating personality, but so far he hadn’t bitten me, and that was more than I could say for Gato, who spent hours staring into Ken’s cage, maybe because he liked Ken or maybe because he wanted to eat him. I couldn’t tell which.

  My stomach growled, and I reached for the pizza. After I’d inhaled two lukewarm slices, I decided to run down to the nearby CVS to pick up some supplies for this memory book I’d promised to do. The weather was great, and I didn’t feel like fighting for a parking spot, so a quick walk seemed like a good idea, especially because it was impossible to walk and study at the same time. I grabbed my purse and another slice and started down the outside stairs, only to run into stupid Noah, my neighbor, who was in his usual half-naked state on a chaise longue on the grass. All Noah needed was for the weather to hit anything above fifty degrees, and his clothes flew off his body. Today he wore nothing but running shorts and sunglasses. A boom box was blaring Jimmy Buffett, and it took all the restraint I had not to start smashing Noah over the head with my purse to the beat of “Volcano.”

  I’d made the idiotic mistake of having a short fling with Noah just before I’d met Josh, and whenever I saw Noah, I was reminded of my bad judgment. Granted, Noah was dark, handsome, and muscular, but aside from his intoxicating looks, he was a prick—a womanizer, a playboy, a bachelor-at-large, however you want to say it. He’d been bed-hopping throughout our entire fling, and I was never going to live down the embarrassment of having looked out my window one morning to see a bleached blonde in a tank top exiting his place. To top it off, Noah felt no shame or guilt whatsoever about his behavior. Everything about him enraged me.

  I’d just taken a rather large bite of my pizza and was busy sucking the cheese off the top when he saw me.

  “Hello, Chloe.” He pushed his sunglasses up onto his head and squinted at me in a sexy way.

  I was doomed to have every encounter with Noah find me in some sort of humiliating circumstance. Now, melted cheese dangled out of my mouth, I had no napkins, my hair was mounded in an unflattering bun on top of my head, and I was wearing ragged capri sweatpants. My expensive Victoria’s Secret padded bra pushed up and out what I had, but the effect didn’t compensate for my overall look of pitiful dishevelment.

  He laughed. “Enjoying your lunch, I take it?” Damn him for looking so good! I was the one who’d been dumped and humiliated. Consequently, I was the one who deserved to look spectacular when we saw each other.

  Although my gut instinct was to slink silently away, I forced myself to remain calm. I finished chewing, swallowed the cheese, and did my best to wipe the grease off my face with the back of my hand.
Then I cleared my throat. “Noah,” I said coldly, “I see that you are taking advantage of the global warming crisis. Al Gore would be very disappointed in you. Go plant a tree or install energy-efficient lightbulbs.”

  “Oh, somebody’s cranky today, huh? Do you need some cheering up?”

  I exhaled loudly. “I’m cranky because I have final exams. I have work to do, which is evidently a foreign concept to you, since you devote all of your time to lolling around admiring yourself.”

  “I’m glad to hear you think I’m worth admiring.” Noah beamed and pulled his sunglasses down.

  Argh! I turned, marched off, and waited until I’d turned the corner to tug on a big underwear wedgie that I was sure Noah had noticed. He took every available opportunity to check out my, and everybody else’s, ass.

  My day so far had consisted of unpleasant events: the excruciating DSM review class, the unwelcome request from Gavin, and yet another maddening brush with Noah. At least I was going to see Josh tonight. The thought eased my mind, especially because Josh was the kind of boyfriend who didn’t care whether I had food hanging out of my mouth or bunched-up underwear or ratty, unwashed hair. Even so, my appreciation for Josh made me want to dress up tonight. Not that I was planning on wearing a ball gown, but I did want to look good. What’s more, meeting up with Josh’s chef friends meant that we’d eat well. The prospect lifted my spirits.

  I hit the CVS on Beacon Street and did my best to gather material for a memory book: construction paper, a photo album, and markers. After stocking up on a few household items, I walked down the aisle toward the register. Halfway there, I came upon a thirtysomething man wearing a muscle shirt that revealed arms covered in tattoos. He was clutching his cell phone and nervously scanning the aisles. “What do you mean, wings? Where are they flying to?”

  I stifled a giggle and pointed out the feminine product he’d clearly been sent to buy. After I’d paid, I took a quick T ride to Coolidge Corner in Brookline and browsed at the Brookline Booksmith. I couldn’t believe that Adrianna hadn’t read anything about pregnancy or kids. No wonder she was such a wreck! What she needed was information. I put together a collection of what I thought were upbeat introductory books about pregnancy and babies. The super-introductory baby care book Ade actually needed would’ve had a title like This Is a Baby or How to Avoid Dropping Your Infant on Its Head, but I settled for a couple of Dr. Sears’s books and a few humorous ones on the joys and perils of breast-feeding. I’d practically fallen over when Ade, who didn’t like children, had said that she was going to breastfeed. I also upgraded my CVS photo album by buying an expensive scrapbook with a gorgeous fabric cover and rice paper pages. My hopes for the memories that would end up inside were anything but high, so it seemed smart to have an attractive, if deceptive, outer package.

  By the time I got home, Noah’s narcissistic sunbathing show was over; he was nowhere to be seen. His welcome absence made me think of Doug’s advice about memorizing the DSM diagnoses by associating them with particular people: I wondered whether Noah counted as having a narcissistic personality disorder. I’d have to look up the full list of symptoms, but Noah certainly did display a “pervasive pattern of grandiosity” and a “need for admiration.” Furthermore, he had the empathy of a rock. God, Josh would be rip-roaring mad if he knew that I was thinking about Noah. And Noah, the narcissist, would just love it.

  At my computer, I printed out requests to Simmer’s staff members to put their loving memories of Leandra in writing and to give the results to Josh or to me. At the top of the page I had a brief sentence encouraging the staff: “Gavin hopes to fill a memory book with the staff’s fond remembrances of Leandra. Please include any detailed feelings, anecdotes, or thoughts about Simmer’s lost employee.” At the bottom of the page I wrote my phone number and e-mail address, and I even volunteered to write up the memories for anyone who wanted to call me. The easier I made the task, the more people who’d do it. Or so I hoped.

  Josh called as the last page was printing.

  “Hi, babe. You’re still coming out with us tonight, right?”

  “Of course. Where are we going?”

  “Porcaro said to come see him at the Hub.”

  Josh always called Mark Porcaro by his last name. He was the executive chef at Top of the Hub, the restaurant at the top of the skyscraper known as the Pru, the Prudential building. Smack downtown, the restaurant offered fabulous views of Boston. Tall, wide windows wrapped around the dining and bar area. The Pru’s Skywalk Observatory gave a three-hundred-sixty-degree panorama, and I was hoping that we’d get a chance to walk around. The city looked especially beautiful at night. But most importantly, the food at the Hub was awesome. I’d been there only once before, when Josh and I had had a few appetizers at the bar, but they’d been wonderful. Because we were friends of Mark’s, I was sure he’d “take care of us,” as Josh always said, meaning that delicious off-the-menu dishes would magically appear from the kitchen.

  “Cool. Who else is coming?” I asked.

  “Digger and Lefty are meeting us there, but they won’t be free until ten. How ’bout I pick you up at quarter of?”

  Digger and Lefty, whose real names I didn’t even know, were both chefs. I was beginning to wonder whether the culinary industry had some peculiar regulation that required chefs to use pseudonyms. If so, Josh must have been granted a special exemption.

  “Sounds good. That’ll give me time to finish this stupid paper I have to write. And remind me to give you the flyers I have for you to pass out at Simmer.”

  “Flyers for what?” he wondered aloud.

  “Nothing. Gotta run. I’ll see you tonight!”

  “Wait! I don’t like the sound of this. What are these flyers about?” Josh laughed.

  “You’ll see.” The less time I gave Josh to protest his assignment, the better.

  NINE

  Josh parked his Xterra in the underground garage at the Prudential. As we rode the elevator up what seemed like four hundred floors to Top of the Hub, I gazed at my boyfriend. I was unused to seeing him out of his chef’s clothes. Well, I mean, I always enjoyed seeing him out of his chef’s clothes, but tonight he actually had on regular people clothing. He was looking very handsome in his clean, stain-free ivory T-shirt and army green cargo pants. Josh was about as dressed up as he ever got.

  “What are you smiling at?” Josh asked, wrapping his arm around me and kissing the top of my head.

  The elevator doors opened. I didn’t answer until we were waiting by the hostess stand near the bar. “I’m smiling at you. You look really good. And rested.” Although he still had bags under his eyes, he looked better than he had in weeks. I could hardly believe that we were having a night out. I didn’t even remember the last time we’d gone out anywhere together. I tried not to remember that our good luck was the result of Leandra’s murder, which was the only reason that Simmer was closed tonight.

  Josh nodded. “Well, I took a four-hour nap this afternoon, but I’m still missing weeks of sleep. You’re not looking so bad yourself, kiddo.”

  I was glad that even in his exhausted state, he noticed my appearance. In getting ready to go out, I’d taken more time than usual. I had on a totally cute ivory baby doll dress with slight scrunching at the hems—another loan from Adrianna. I was pushing the arrival of warm weather, so I’d thrown on a cozy cashmere cardigan, also from Ade, to keep me from freezing.

  The host seated us at a corner table and gave us menus. There was a Top of the Hub Tasting Menu and a Chef’s Tasting Menu, both of which looked phenomenal and could be ordered with the recommended wines. I scanned through those and the regular menu, salivating at the descriptions. A bunch jumped out at me:

  Sautéed Foie Gras

  Peach Compote, Brioche Toast

  Native Lobster and Avocado Citrus Salad

  Dill Oil, Fresh Tarragon Vinaigrette

  Crispy Calamari

  Asian Slaw and Roasted Pineapple Dressing

  Jonah and Lu
mp Crabmeat Cake

  Avocado Cream, Crispy Plantains, Corn Salad

  Pan-Seared Scallops

  Orange Fennel Salad, Potato Galette, Chorizo Emulsion

  Hazelnut Crusted Salmon

  Apple Celery Root Salad, Sweet Potato Puree, Apple Gastrique

  Adobo Rubbed Grilled Center Cut Pork Chop

  Creamy Masa, Tomatillo Cream

  Apple gastrique? Whatever it was, it sounded delicious.

  “Chloe? Are you still with me?” Josh sat across from me and was nudging my menu with his.

  I had spaced out while studying the menu. “What? Oh, yeah. I’m here. It’s just that the food looks so incredible.”

  Josh cleared his throat. “Okay, I’m feeling a little jealous here. Now, Porcaro’s a good chef and all, but don’t forget about me,” he said teasingly. Then he hid behind the menu.

  “I don’t love you just for your food, you know.” I looked at him seriously. “Although it helps.”

  Josh peeked out at me from behind the menu. “I’m going to have Porcaro send out hot dogs if you don’t watch yourself.”

  “You have nothing to worry about, and you know it. Oh, Digger and Lefty are here.” I pointed to his friends, who were walking toward us. The three chefs had worked together a few years earlier at a now-defunct restaurant. They’d stayed in touch mainly by leaving one another voice mails. It was a rare occasion when their schedules let them get together in person.

  Digger was the executive chef at a small but fabulous one-year-old tapas restaurant in the South End, where Lefty was his sous chef. Both of them looked as tired as Josh, but they were clearly happy to see their old friend. Digger was in his late thirties but already had lots of gray showing in his wavy locks, which he wore pulled back and fastened with an elastic. His dark, leathery skin made me think he’d spent too many long days in the sun while growing up in Hawaii, but he was ruggedly handsome. He was still wearing kitchen clogs, and when he leaned in to hug me hello, I enjoyed the familiar kitchen smells. Josh always carried that same scent after work. In fact, the kitchen odors permeated his chef pants and coats so thoroughly that even after I’d taken all of Josh’s work clothes and laundered them myself, they’d still smelled fresh out of the kitchen. I’d given up and told him to keep using his laundry service.