At the urging of the coffee shop owner, Julian had taken a high-paying summer job in an upstate New York hotel. But his new boss had required eighteen-hour workdays. Julian had thought about quitting, but he hadn’t wanted to return to his hometown of Bluff, Utah. Although he’d learned to make candy and Navajo tacos there, the town possessed few prospects for a food service career. He’d finally phoned a Cornell administrator and talked to various deans. All the university folks had been very understanding; they’d told him to stay in touch. Officially, his departure was classified as a leave of absence. To Julian, it was escape from a black hole.
“So,” he said finally. He registered the distress in my face. “Don’t take it so hard, Goldy. I’ll go back to college eventually. I’ll even get better grades. Now, though, I can help with any food job you can think of.”
“I don’t care about the transcript,” I replied. “I’m just sorry you were so unhappy.”
Marla interjected, “You know that here in Aspen Meadow, you don’t ever have to eat alone.”
“Yeah, okay, enough about my problems.” Julian pointed to the hole over the sink. “Who did that, your ex-husband?”
“Yep,” Marla and I said in unison.
I added, “Right before he was arrested. He’s still in jail though, so don’t worry. And anyway, the hole was actually made a lot worse by a kitchen contractor. And he’s dead, I’m sorry to say.”
Julian exhaled. Then he appraised Marla. “You look so different,” he observed. “I mean, besides the dress. Where’s all your jewelry?”
“In a strongbox in my garage.” Marla giggled. “I’ve got twenty thousand in hundreds under my bed, too. You want to live at my place? You can be my chef and yard man. Be paid in cash,” she stage-whispered, “and have untaxed income!”
“Thanks,” Julian said with heartfelt appreciation. “But I need to do more work with food.” He cleared his throat, then turned back to me. “So, will you have me? Do you still need an assistant?”
“We want you. You’re part of our family. And of course I can use you,” I replied. “You’re one of the most talented cooks I’ve ever met.”
“Ooh-ooh,” said Marla. “High praise from Miss Golden Butter herself.”
“How’s the business?” Julian asked. “I applied to a catering outfit in Ithaca. It was a huge operation. But they said they couldn’t justify another guy, even for a few hours a week. They said times are really tough for caterers.”
“For heaven’s sake,” I replied. “It doesn’t matter how the business is.”
He raked his long hair with his hands. “What do you mean, it doesn’t matter?” He narrowed his eyes. “What’s going on? Is it good news? Bad news? I’ll work for room and board, if that’s easier.”
His questions dangled while I tried to think of an honest way to inform this proud, easily irritated young man about the recent downward course of events. There wasn’t an easy way.
“Better tell him, Goldy,” Marla said glumly.
I picked up his plate. Only a few cobbler crumbs remained. “Okay. Tom’s been suspended. Charged with insubordination. Scratch his salary. So if you want extra cash, you might have to cut Marla’s lawn.”
“Wait a minute, you skipped the good part!” Marla charged. “Miss Caters-With-Cholesterol attacked the assistant district attorney herself. He really ticked her off.”
“What?” said Julian.
“Oh, it’s a long story.” I gave Marla a furious shut up look. “Plus, business is down,” I admitted before Marla could jump in again. “You know, the competitor I told you about. Craig Litchfield. Somehow, he got ahold of my client list—”
“Your client list? With all your prices and menus?” interrupted Julian. “That’s stealing, isn’t it? How’d he do that?”
The phone jangled. I reached for it without answering Julian.
“This is Craig Litchfield.” The imperious tone sawed in my ear. Startled, I glanced at Julian, afraid he could tell who was on the line. But Julian was angrily clanking silverware into the dishwasher. Litchfield continued, “I’m coming over. I have something to talk to you about.”
“I’m not really prepared to—”
“You’re never prepared,” he quipped back. “I’ll be there in five minutes.” The line went dead.
I sighed and hung up. “Well, gang, Litchfield’s coming over.”
“Ooh, fireworks, fireworks,” trilled Marla.
Julian banged the dishwasher door shut. He regarded me warily. As a new but unpaid hireling, he did not want to appear nosy. His voice was sharp. “I’ll just do some food prep.” With that, he started unpacking gleaming red tomatoes from one of his crates.
“You brought vegetables?” I asked.
“Bought them at a farmer’s stand in eastern Colorado.” He placed a bunch of leeks next to the tomatoes. “I didn’t know whether you’d take me back or not. But if you did, I wanted to fix dinner for everybody. There’s plenty for you, too, Marla.”
Marla checked her wrist, then frowned: no watch. She glanced at my clock. “The IRS hit men said they’d be back at two, so I can only stay a bit longer. Thanks for the invitation, though. If my confrontation with the bureaucratic bottom-feeders ends before next week, which they warned me it wouldn’t, I’ll take you up on it.” She reached out to squeeze his hand. “It’s good to see you, Julian,” she said warmly. Julian grinned and worked zealously on the vegetables. I poured Marla more iced coffee.
Once the tomatoes and leeks were stacked in glistening heaps, Julian filled the sink with shiny scallions, nugget-sized new potatoes, slender green beans, stalks of asparagus, and fragrant bunches of basil, dill, and rosemary with soil still clinging to the roots.
“So tell me how this Litchfield guy got your files.” His voice had an edge. Water gushed into the sink as he began to scrub the rest of the vegetables.
“I honestly don’t know,” I replied.
“After all that security stuff you went through with The Jerk, you’re saying you have no idea how he broke in?” he demanded. “What else has he done?”
Marla took a sip of iced coffee and advised, “Remember, Goldy, twenty-year-olds think the world can be fixed.”
I took a deep breath. “Litchfield tried to steal one of my suppliers and one of André Hibbard’s. Remember my old teacher?” Julian nodded. “He’s moved to a retirement community in Blue Spruce. I’ll be competing against both André and Litchfield next week, for the Soirée booking. Anyway, Litchfield offered higher prices to our suppliers, and guaranteed orders, if he could be the suppliers’ sole client in Aspen Meadow.”
Julian muttered, “Some people.”
“All of Goldy’s energy has gone into fighting this guy,” Marla interjected. “And that’s why she’s so on edge and why she clobbered the assistant district attorney. At least that’s my theory—”
Before she could elaborate, however, a howl erupted from outdoors. Jake. The dog brayed again.
“Maybe Arch is home,” I said hopefully. We all listened, puzzled. But this barking was not the usual glad-to-see-you woofing. I headed for the front door. Had I locked the gate? Arch would scold me if I’d forgotten it.
“Sounds as if he’s in the street,” Marla called. Cursing under my breath, I stepped onto the front porch in time to see Jake tackle Craig Litchfield.
“Jake!” I cried. “Stop! Get down!”
With his massive paws planted on Craig Litchfield’s chest, Jake turned and gave me mournful eyes. Mud splotched Litchfield’s coal-black shirt. His face was spattered with mud, too, and what wasn’t was purple with rage. In the moment I called to Jake, Litchfield smacked the hound hard across the jaw. Squealing, Jake rolled across the lawn.
“Oh, Lord.” I ran down the porch steps and across the grass toward our poor dog.
“Stop, stop!” I shoved Litchfield away and dropped to my knees beside Jake. Marla and Julian appeared on the porch and started yelling at Litchfield to back off. “There, there, boy,” I mu
rmured. I cradled his head in my lap. Jake whimpered and licked my hand. A thin stripe of blood oozed out of his nose. He shivered with fear. “What do you want?” I demanded of Litchfield. “Why did you do that?” I could hear the shrillness in my voice.
With studied nonchalance, Litchfield tugged a pack of cigarettes from the breast pocket of his dirty shirt. With his matching black pants and slicked hair, he looked like a toreador. He shook out a cigarette and flashed a silver lighter out of a pants pocket. He lit the cig, inhaled deeply, and regarded my house like a reluctant buyer. Jake showed his teeth and growled, the last vestige of his police training.
Litchfield blew out a stream of smoke. “That animal is bad news,” he announced contemptuously. He lifted his chin, picked at a strand of tobacco on his lower lip, then spit it onto my lawn. “You know, there’s a leash law in Furman County.”
I stroked Jake’s silky ears. “The dog was on our property, so he was perfectly legal.” When Jake wriggled in my arms, I pushed his rump down and spoke to him under my breath. He’d always had trouble holding a command to stay. I needed Jake to sit close by me until this visitation from the enemy was over. I didn’t trust myself not to do more damage to Litchfield than I had to Andy Fuller. “What do you want?” I repeated coldly. “Tell me and then go. Better yet, go. Write me a letter.”
“Yeah, write a letter, you creep!” Marla was glaring.
Litchfield blew smoke at her while appraising the gray housedress and pink thongs. “Who’re you? A caterer’s helper? Or the maid?” He took another drag on the cigarette. “You can go back to your dusting now.”
Marla Korman, the richest woman in Aspen Meadow, head of the committee for the Merciful Migrations September Soiree, laughed in delight. “Hey, baby!” she called back in an uncanny imitation of Litchfield’s condescending tone. “How ‘bout I start by cleaning your clock?”
Litchfield muttered, “Bitch.” He tilted his head and raised a dark eyebrow at Julian, who had stalked down to the sidewalk. He stood beside me, his lean body tensed and ready to strike. Amused, Litchfield grinned. “And who might you be? Another caterer’s helper?”
“I am Julian Teller.” Julian bit each word. “I’m telling you so that when I kick your ass, you’ll know it’s me.”
Litchfield chuckled. “Aha! First a threat from the domestic help, then one from the great Julian Teller! The brilliant young vegetarian chef who used to work for Mrs. Schulz. The power behind the throne, you might say.” Jake let out a low growl. Litchfield blew out smoke and contemplated Julian. “I heard you were off in college somewhere. Want to come work for a real caterer? At twice your current salary?”
Julian’s voice knifed the soft summer air. “You are so dead. You don’t even realize it.”
“What do you want, Litchfield?” I demanded for the third time. I gripped Jake’s collar.
Litchfield screwed his handsome baby face into a sourpuss. “Well, now,” he said. He held his cigarette at his side and bent forward. “I heard about your troubles. I’ve come to offer you cash. For your business. Your suppliers, booking schedule. Recipes, not that those are worth anything. Two-year no-compete agreement.” He studied the glowing tip of his cigarette. “Fifty thousand dollars.” He smiled. “Take it or leave it.”
I was nonplussed. It was like the devil offering cake to a starving person. Still restraining Jake by the collar, I wiped the blood off the dog’s nose with my free hand and tried to steady my breath.
“Go away,” I said quietly to Litchfield. “And don’t ever, ever come back. For any reason.”
Craig Litchfield flicked his cigarette butt into Tom’s roses. An arc of smoke hung briefly in the air as he thrust his hands into his pockets, rocked back on his heels, and considered us.
“Okay, Goldy Bear Schulz,” he said at last. “We go up against each other again a week from today. You change your mind before that, call me.”
Chapter 8
Julian and I coaxed Jake up onto the porch. Marla went inside for a clean, wet washcloth. I dabbed Jake’s wound; the poor dog squirmed and refused to keep still. Promising to call later in the week, Marla reluctantly left for her match with the IRS. Shortly thereafter, Tom and Arch returned. Arch’s joy at Julian’s arrival turned to distress when he saw Jake. Tom insisted on taking Jake to the vet; Arch refused to stay home and went with them. Returning to the kitchen, I mentally swore revenge on Craig Litchfield’s black heart.
“How does he know about me?” Julian demanded as I rinsed the pork chops I’d bought for the evening meal. I had no idea what to serve meat-shunning Julian. As if reading my mind, he began scrubbing large baking potatoes. No doubt he would conjure up a vegetarian dish more inspiring than anything in my repertoire. “I mean,” he went on, “how does he know my background? About college? How does he know what kind of cooking I do?”
“I have no idea,” I admitted as I covered the chops and put them into the walk-in refrigerator. “But I’m wondering if he has a rich aunt. He runs huge ads and charges less than the cost of ingredients. He must be losing money on events. Then he offers you twice an unknown salary to work for him. How does he do it?”
“He’s a creep,” Julian said fiercely as he fitted my food processor with the grating blade. “Don’t worry—we’ll beat him. We’re just going to have to cook better than he does, that’s all.”
I smiled at him. “That’s what André said.”
“I just wish I knew how he gets his information.”
“Julian, so do I. The man’s making me paranoid.”
Julian shook his head, then savagely pushed a hunk of fresh Parmesan cheese into the growling food processor. “You’ve got an open window right over your sink. Your computer’s right on the counter. You have a password for your programs?”
I thought of Arch and his fascination with encryption. “No.”
“Install one,” Julian said grimly.
Tom and Arch returned with Jake, whose wound had been cleaned and smeared with antiseptic. Tom repeated the vet’s warning that we were to watch the hound over the next few days for signs of fever or swelling, indications that an infection might be setting in.
Arch watched Julian’s skillful moves as he organized a meal on the scratched Formica counter. “I am so happy you’re here,” he said awkwardly. At fourteen, Arch did not initiate physical affection.
Julian set aside the grated Parmesan and grabbed Arch in a bear hug. “Hey, man, great to see you, too. Still doing magic? What’s your latest project?”
Jailbreak Potatoes
4 large baking potatoes
2 tablespoons (¼ stick) unsalted butter
½ cup whipping cream
½ teaspoon salt
¼ teaspoon or more white pepper
½ cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese
Preheat the oven to 400°F.
Scrub and prick each potato 3 or 4 times with a fork. Bake the potatoes for 1 hour, or until flaky. Remove from the oven and cool slightly.
In the large bowl of an electric mixer, place the butter, cream, salt, pepper, and cheese. Using a sharp knife, cut at a 45-degree angle to remove an oval of skin and potato from the flat top side of each potato. Using a spoon, scoop most of the potato out of the interior into the bowl with the other ingredients. Leave a thin layer of potato inside the skin. Scrape the potato from the back of the removed ovals of potato skin into the bowl.
Using the whip attachment, whip the potato mixture until smooth. Taste and correct the seasoning.
Dividing the whipped potato mixture evenly, spoon it back into the skins. Place the stuffed potatoes on a buttered, rimmed baking sheet and bake an additional 15 minutes, or until the filling is thoroughly heated.
Makes 4 servings
“Well … Todd and I are working on some hightech stuff. I have a whole display of it in my—our—room,” Arch replied shyly. “First I have to show you the cat’s new spot. Want to see both?”
“You bet.”
I followed them upstairs.
Tom, mumbling vaguely about woodwork, retired to the basement. While I unfurled clean sheets, Arch proudly showed Julian how Scout the cat had made a hidden home under Julian’s old bed. Scout had fled inside during the Litchfield encounter. Now he eased from his spot to rub against Julian’s stubbly cheek. Julian howled with laughter. Arch’s wide grin made me smile.
Back in the kitchen, I pored over my computer manual and eventually chose and entered a password. Rock music reverberated from the boys’ room overhead. At four o’clock, Julian came down to help with the evening meal. I shaped, knotted, and covered rolls from a recipe André had laboriously copied out and given me. Julian put the potatoes in to bake, finished trimming the other vegetables, and set the table. While the rolls rose, I seared the chops and swirled in Dijon mustard with melted currant jelly for a sauce. Julian scooped out the baked potatoes, whipped the steaming mass with cream, Parmesan, salt, and white pepper, refilled the skins, and placed the delicious-looking concoctions back into the oven to puff to a golden brown. While he was cleaning up, I told him about the previous day’s modeling shoot, working with André, finding Gerald Eliot’s body, and the arrest of Arch’s and my old friend, Cameron Burr. Cameron was now sitting in jail while his wife labored to breathe. Julian frowned. Perhaps thinking of Cameron, he dubbed his dish Jailbreak Potatoes.
Just after six o’clock, the three meat-eaters dug into the tender chops, while all of us dove into the rich, tangy potatoes and magnificent array of fresh asparagus, leek, tomatoes, and corn braised in white wine and broth. We smeared butter on the feather-light, golden-brown rolls, ate, and talked about Arch’s upcoming school year and how long it would be before Tom could be cleared.
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