The Gourmet Girl Mysteries, Volume 1

by Jessica Conant-Park

  “But she wasn’t raped or anything, thank God.” Isabelle looked embarrassed. “I mean, I know she was strangled, which is terrible, but I guess it’s good that something else bad didn’t happen to her before that. You know what I mean?”

  “I do. I know what you mean.” I found myself disturbed and distracted by the news that something as innocuous as an apron had been turned into a murder weapon and that the murderer had been in Simmer. In Josh’s restaurant.

  “I hate to bother you again with this, Isabelle,” I said, “but I really need some things to put in this memory book I’m doing. It will really mean a lot to Gavin.” As much as I didn’t want to encourage her crush on Gavin, I was desperate.

  And the tactic worked. Isabelle said, “I guess so. You can write that she worked hard to make Gavin happy. That’s probably true enough.”

  Finally! I had something!

  “Thank you. I’m going to talk to Snacker now.”

  “But you promise? You won’t throw me under the bus, right?”

  I promised her that I wouldn’t say anything about Blythe. Again, it was funny to hear Isabelle use the language of the kitchen. Restaurant people always seemed to be talking about being “thrown under the bus” to refer to backstabbing, a phenomenon all too common in the restaurant world. Since knives suitable for stabbing were all over the place in kitchens, whereas buses were, of course, absent, I’d never understood the preference. Anyway, Isabelle now spoke like an insider. I silently wished her luck.

  Snacker had hung up the phone. I grabbed him before he could evade me by burying himself in kitchen preparations. “Snacker? Please?” I did my best to look pitiful. “I swear, if you give me a quote, I’ll leave you alone!”

  “Chloe, I just don’t have anything to say.”

  “You could choose to remember something positive about Leandra, like she was …” I said, filled with the spirit of California’s registry of motor vehicles.

  “She was hot. Will that do?” Snacker shrugged. “I have to run. Good luck.”

  At least the comment was positive. It was also easy to translate: Leandra was a beautiful woman with much to offer the world.

  I found Kevin the bartender up front removing bottles from a cardboard box and affixing those funny little pouring spouts to the top. “Hi, Kevin.”

  He looked up from his work. “Hey, Chloe. How are you doing today?”

  Kevin’s sideburns were even more pointy than usual. It always amused me to see men experiment with their facial hair. But I refused to be distracted from my cause, even when I noticed Kevin’s tight black Simmer T-shirt clinging to his muscular body as he lifted another box up onto the counter. “Did you get the form I had Wade pass out? I’m trying to gather some happy memories of Leandra for the memorial on Monday.”

  “I did get it. I just haven’t had a chance to write anything,” he said apologetically.

  Sensing that Kevin might be the lone soul who’d give me a good recollection or remark, I offered to do the writing for him.

  He said, “Leandra and I worked together before at another restaurant, and she was a great waitress and a nice person. I’ll probably miss having her around.”

  I wrote: “I worked with Leandra for years and found her to be highly skilled at her job. She was an exceedingly compassionate and warm person whose presence will be greatly missed.”

  “That’s great. Thanks, Kevin.”

  “No problem.”

  I came close to telling him that it had been a gigantic problem for almost everyone else.

  TWELVE

  Back at home, I settled in at the computer to see whether I could find some of the items stolen from Simmer on eBay. Although I’d bought a few things from the online auction service, I was by no means an expert eBay shopper, and I’d never sold anything there at all. When I opened the cheery, welcoming home page, with its primary colors and its wealth of shopping categories, I immediately remembered that I loved everything about eBay. As much as I wanted to browse through antique linens, DVD collections, and discount designer clothing, I reminded myself that my purpose was to search for the stolen goods. Well, I did take the time to log in. On eBay, you never know what you’ll come across, and if I happened to stumble on something irresistible, I’d better be all set to bid, right? I entered my online ID and password. The first time I’d gone on eBay, I’d had no idea what to expect and was beyond intimidated by the entire process of setting up an account, bidding, and figuring out how to pay. It turned out to be very simple: just like regular online shopping except cheaper. Well, usually cheaper. A few sellers set unreasonable starting bids or charged outrageous shipping fees, but there were plenty of good deals, too.

  Individuals or companies listed items for auction, and people like me entered our highest bids, the most we were willing to pay. There were pictures of almost all items, together with descriptions and, sometimes, a disclaimer about the item’s condition and a statement about flaws. Almost any search terms produced results because nearly everything imaginable was on eBay: half-used bottles of shampoo, brand-new ovens, antique bird feeders, sterling silver flatware, women’s dress shoes scuffed down at the stiletto heels, almost anything at all. Most auctions lasted for about a week. If you won an item, a congratulatory message showed up in your e-mail.

  But my purpose wasn’t to win. Rather, if the stolen kitchen equipment actually was on eBay, I was hoping to find one seller who listed all of the items. Sellers used eBay IDs, not their real names, to identify themselves. In theory, the entire process of selling and buying was fairly anonymous, except that if you actually bought something, you had to give the seller your name and address, of course. I had no idea whether it was possible to identify sellers’ real names. If I found the items from Simmer, could I trace them to Blythe? I didn’t know. But I had to start somewhere.

  I began by looking for an eight-inch chinois, which seemed to be the most distinctive item missing. It took me a couple of tries to remember to check the little box marked “Search title and description.” When I did, I got nine results. In a store, I’d have expected to pay at least a hundred dollars for a chinois. The bidding was about to close on the first item in my list of results. The high bid was just over fifty dollars, plus shipping, of course. I clicked on that first result and got the item’s page, which gave the details, including the place from which it would be shipped. This first chinois was coming from Ohio. I returned to the list and tried again. The fourth try pulled up a chinois from Boston. Yes! I clicked a link to see the seller’s other items.

  Yes, dammit! Along with the chinois, this seller was auctioning off a handheld stick blender, a mandoline, and not one, but two, Wüstof chefs’ knives. Also, a very cute “gently worn” green peacoat, a desk lamp, a king-size Calvin Klein duvet cover, and a “vintage” Santa Claus statue that looked more tacky than vintage to me. But what were the odds that somebody not affiliated with Simmer would be selling all the items missing from the restaurant? If this was Blythe, as Isabelle thought, why was she ripping off her place of employment? Maybe Isabelle had been mistaken; maybe the thief was someone else. Who was likely to steal from Gavin? If Blythe wasn’t the culprit, why had Isabelle said that she was? What could Isabelle have against Blythe? And did the stealing have anything to do with Leandra’s murder? Could Leandra have discovered that Blythe was stealing and then threatened to tell Gavin? Leandra could have done what I was doing; she could have searched on eBay for proof that Blythe was a thief. If Leandra had confronted Blythe, I couldn’t imagine that her response would’ve been to grab a Simmer apron and use its ties to strangle Leandra to death. Still, as I’d just reminded myself, I had to start somewhere.

  The only way to find out whether the eBay seller was, in fact, Blythe was to win an auction. Payment might be sent electronically to an e-mail address, but the seller would provide a return name and address on the package, or so I assumed. There was one minor hitch: If I bought something from Blythe, she would obviously recognize my name. Th
e seller wanted payment by check or PayPal. Either method would provide my name; there was no way to use an alias. But I didn’t have to be the buyer. Blythe knew who Adrianna was but probably didn’t know her last name. Consequently, I decided to enlist Ade and to bid from her computer. There was probably no way to trace me if I used my own computer, but I felt a tad paranoid and didn’t want to risk it. Besides, Adrianna would look great in that peacoat.

  I called Ade, who said that her computer was still hooked up. “Why do you need my computer? What are you …?”

  “See ya in a minute.”

  I drove to Adrianna’s apartment. When she opened the door, she had a leery look on her face. “What’s going on, Chloe?” Her thick blonde hair was in a simple ponytail, and she wore a fitted scoop-neck top and cargo pants. She was the most adorable pregnant lady I’d ever seen.

  “How would you like to become the proud owner of a green peacoat? Or a stick blender? Or perhaps a desk lamp for your new apartment?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “Too bad. You are.” I explained what I was doing and promised to reimburse her for whatever she ended up spending. I said nothing about the possible connection between Leandra’s murder and the eBay items that had been filched from Simmer. Ade was already upset that Owen was being questioned by the police. I didn’t want to raise false hope about getting him off the hook. “Consider it a pregnancy gift!”

  “I’m not in the mood to argue with you, but I don’t see why you don’t just go talk to Gavin or Josh about this.”

  “I promised Isabelle. Oh!” I clapped my hand over my mouth. I’d just completely broken my promise by blabbing everything to Adrianna! The Office of Ethics and Professional Review of the National Association of Social Workers would be furious! “Pretend you don’t know anything!”

  “Chloe, I’m pregnant and tired, and I have the worst indigestion of my life, and I don’t even have an eBay account, so I don’t know anything, and that’s close to the truth. Just go be me on the computer. My credit card is in my wallet. And you better pay me back!”

  I squeezed between a few boxes, sat down in front of the computer, went to eBay, and started setting up a new account for Adrianna. “What do you want your user ID to be?”

  “Do I seem like I give a shit today?” she hollered from the kitchen.

  I dubbed her grouchymama and filled in all the correct boxes. “You’re all set!” I called out happily.

  “I still don’t give a shit!”

  “How can you not give a shit? This is shopping!”

  I repeated my chinois search until I again found the seller offering the suspect items. Only one of this mystery seller’s auctions was ending soon. Actually, it was ending at midnight tonight. And I’d lucked out. Yes, I had the perfect excuse to bid on the adorable peacoat! The current bid was only twenty-one dollars, but eBay bids always rose toward the very end of an auction, so I entered a maximum bid of eighty dollars, in other words, an awful lot of money for a used peacoat and more, I hoped, than any ordinary eBay shopper would be willing to offer. I really didn’t want to have to buy Ade an eighty-dollar coat right now, but anything in the name of justice! I would look very cute in it, too, so until Ade lost her pregnancy weight, I could wear it through next fall …

  “Chloe? Are you done yet? Come in here and eat with me.”

  Adrianna had put together a plate of marinated artichoke hearts and mushrooms, the special Italian salami called sopressatta, sliced Fontina cheese, Brie, ripe plum tomatoes, fresh basil leaves, olive oil, and French bread. No wonder she had bad indigestion!

  “Who has this much food in the house a few days before moving?” I asked.

  “Pregnant people who don’t want to cook anything. Want some water?”

  I nodded, and Ade pulled out two bottles of Poland Spring.

  “I could drink about thirty of these a day. I’ve never been so thirsty in my life. I figure that I pee all the time anyway, so what’s the difference? So, what’s going on with you? How are you and Josh?”

  “Good. Except that I hardly ever see him because he works all the time. I knew it would be like this when the restaurant first opened, but it’s been since New Year’s. Shouldn’t things ease up soon? Seriously, Ade, he is so tired he can barely stand half the time, and he’s a little snippy and cranky because he’s beyond exhausted.” I piled a bread slice high with Fontina, tomato, and basil, drizzled some high-end olive oil on top, and took a bite.

  “The restaurant is still very young, though. To you, it might seem like it’s been ages, but four or five months is a short time in that business. Chloe, you know how many restaurants close in the first six months. So, they have to do everything they can to stay open this first year.” She swilled more water and then popped a mushroom in her mouth. “Gavin dug himself a big hole by the time he opened Simmer. That’s one of the reasons they have to pay Owen COD. It’ll take a while for them to start making money. Or just to start breaking even.”

  “So what do I do until then? Until Josh’s schedule eases up?”

  “Nothing. You enjoy the time that you do get with him. You’re just about done with school for the year, summer is coming, and you’ll have some free time to go hang out down at the restaurant with Josh when he gets a break. You two just have to make the most of the time you do have together.”

  “You’re right. I wouldn’t trade him for anyone else in the world. I just hope we can get through this okay.” I cut off a thick slice of the gooey Brie, smeared it on the bread, and topped it with a marinated artichoke heart. Perfect.

  “Are you two having problems?” She looked concerned.

  “No, no. Not at all.” Our slight tiff about women in the culinary profession didn’t really count as a relationship problem. At least I hoped not. “We’re great. I just miss him.” Was I tearing up? I hadn’t realized how hard it had been to have Josh working so much.

  “Sweetie, it’s going to even out, I promise. Josh is crazy about you.” Ade sounded unusually soft and loving. Maybe her hormones were preparing her to soothe a teething baby.

  I wiped the tears from my eyes. “What about you and Owen? Any thoughts on getting married?”

  “Lately, I’ve probably seen him as much as you’ve been seeing Josh. Not that bad really, but we’re both so busy trying to fit in work and packing right now that we haven’t had too much time together.”

  I realized that I had not seen Owen since the day Leandra appeared in his truck. “I miss Owen, too. It seems like he always used to be around, and now he’s not. I’m not used to it. Aren’t we pathetic, sitting here complaining about our men?”

  Ade stood up. “You know what we need? Cheesecake with tart cherries! I happen to have just that in the fridge.”

  Two slices later, I was overstuffed. After that, I enlisted Adrianna’s help with Leandra’s memory book. We talked over the situation and agreed that the only reasonable solution was to concoct the kinds of happy recollections and flattering descriptions of Leandra that Gavin wanted.

  I scribbled notes on a legal pad while Adrianna brain-stormed. “Okay,” she said, “let’s have somebody say, ‘She was the first one to volunteer when we needed someone to work late, and she never once complained about putting in that extra effort.’”

  I nodded. “That’s good. Keep ’em coming.”

  “‘Leandra was loved by all her coworkers. I will especially miss the sound of her laugh echoing through the dining room.’” I couldn’t imagine who at Simmer would have said such a thing, but I wrote it down anyway. The time was too short for truth.

  “Oh, here’s a good one,” Adrianna said excitedly. “‘Leandra was a bright soul in a dark world.’”

  “Nobody talks like that,” I protested with a laugh.

  “I don’t see you coming up with anything better!”

  True enough. I wrote it down and prayed that I wouldn’t be punished for the sin of lying. “What about something that a customer might say?”

  “‘It
was always a delight to have Leandra as a server. She made a delicious dinner even more enjoyable with her loving spirit.’ Do you like how I threw in the compliment to Josh there?”

  Ade and I kept going for another ten minutes or so before we called it quits. Then we worked out a plan to camouflage the fabricated memories. I would type out all the recollections, genuine and fake, and intersperse them throughout the book. Separately, I’d list the names of everyone who had reportedly contributed. There would thus be no direct link between the material and the names.

  “Do you want to watch a movie or something tonight?” I asked Ade. “I’m sick of studying.”

  “Actually, Owen is coming over tonight. He should be done with his deliveries by late afternoon, and then he’s taking me out to dinner at Rialto, if you can believe it. I told you he was doing well with this job!”

  I was so jealous. Rialto was in the Charles Hotel in Cambridge, and the executive chef was Jody Adams, who did absolutely spectacular food. Yes, a famous female chef! Even by Josh’s tough standards, Jody Adams was a real chef. She not only created the menu but worked the line, too; on many nights, she was actually in the kitchen cooking. Josh had no use for the kind of chef whose name graced the menu but who stayed tucked away in a corporate office and left the real work to the sous chefs and line cooks. My parents had taken me to Rialto a bunch of times. One night, I’d had Jody’s phenomenal truffled egg creation served in a hollowed-out baked potato. As I wouldn’t say to Josh, it was one of the best dishes I’ve ever eaten. But cheap, Rialto wasn’t, so I was impressed that Owen was taking Adrianna there.

  I went home and set to work on Leandra’s book. After keyboarding the material, real and fictional, that I’d gathered, I printed it all out. How pathetic was it that basically no one had anything positive to say about this dead girl? Very, that’s how. Consequently, I was glad that Adrianna and I had remedied matters. I took the printed pages, a pair of scissors, and a glue stick to the living room, where I sat in front of the televison, cut out strips of paper with the supposed recollections on them, and glued the strips on to the pages of the album I’d bought. I tried to make a little go a long way by leaving lots of space on each page. That arrangement, I hoped, made it look as if Leandra had had lots of friends. Any friends. Any at all.