Alex raked his finger through his short, ginger-colored hair. He leaned over and kissed her forehead. He hadn't shaved yet, so his whiskers softly scratched her nose. "Damn. That's a lot of suspicious stuff going on. It seems like too many things to be coincidence, but I'm not sure what the purpose would be. Maybe revenge or sabotage? A sore loser or a ruthless wannabe winner, like Rayshelle? Promise me you'll be careful. I would imagine most of the other competitors know who you are and your reputation for winning. If it's someone gunning for a win, they could decide to try to take out the front runners, like you."
Over the past couple years Amy had honed her cooking and contest-entering skills. Cooking was something she had done for most of her life. As a child she had to cook her own meals if she wanted anything other than frozen meals and condensed soup. Learning how to impress judges with professionally worded recipes and beautifully plated food had taken some time. Lots of studying and note-taking. But just because she did her homework that didn't mean others weren't more than willing to cheat to win.
"I know. I'll have to keep an eye out for anything else that looks suspicious, but I would much rather concentrate on arranging the perfect table than solving a big mystery that could really be just a case of massively bad luck."
After the chatty breakfast with Alex, Amy felt better. Or maybe it was the afternoon of comforting cooking that soothed her crackling nerves. The kitchen was her favorite place to be, unless Alex was frisky. Then she preferred the bedroom. Whatever caused the chill outside didn't matter. She was glad she had arrived at the K Hotel calm, because playing a game of storage-bin-Jenga on a luggage trolley during a snowstorm rated a ten out of ten on the cruel-and-unusual-punishment scale. The giant awning stretching over the valet drop-off area wasn't much protection from the snow, which was falling horizontally. At least the torture was exacted equally on everybody. A line of vehicles snaked around the K Hotel parking lot, although the cars at the back were barely visible in the heavy snow. In years past, at the smaller banquet hall on the other side of town, getting everything inside had been a survival skill test, as competitors were responsible for hauling their food across a slippery, pothole-filled parking lot. Okay, so she wasn't having fun, but if the venue hadn't changed she would've been even more frustrated and frozen. As during the previous evening, hotel staff waited by the entrance to the conference facility, ready to help load up a fleet of luggage trolleys for any competitor who wanted to take advantage of the service. Now that there were heavy coolers full of food and boxes full of fragile serving ware to move, it seemed that every competitor had cued up for the valet service. She doubted anybody would let the carts out of their sight now, though.
Amy placed the last clear storage bin on her cart and shut the back door of the Jeep. Alex had insisted she take his four-wheel drive, since the storm showed no sign of letting up and the roads were already snow-covered. She kind of liked arriving in the tough-looking, black off-road vehicle instead of her adorable Mini. Tough and ready for anything. That's how she felt, considering she was in the middle of a two-day-long competition in the middle of the holiday season. At that point, shopping for presents was like getting trapped in a skateless roller derby nightmare. The grocery stores were packed with people buying enough food to feed small armies. Her kitchen was her soothing hidey-hole where she worked out stress by cooking. At the end of the meeting at Halo it had been announced that the gorgeously decorated Christmas tree in the entrance was the prize for the most visually appealing amateur tablescape. That was a pretty subjective thing to judge, since one person's perfect was another's tour in the land of gaudy, but she was game. That tree would look incredible in her living room. She had been planning on buying trim at after-holiday sales to try to recreate it. If she could win the tree she wouldn't have to play a rousing game of who-saw-it-first with crazed sale shoppers.
"Aren't you cold?" she asked the smiling bellhop who was minding her trolley. She was glad he was a boy-band-cute teen instead of a woman with a wig. "You only have a thin jacket on."
"Naw. I'm running around a lot, so that keeps me warm. Besides, I play in an outdoor hockey league. This is good conditioning for me." He flashed a smile that probably made half of the girls in his school swoon. "Do you have everything unloaded?"
"Yes. I've got everything."
He motioned for a valet worker to take the Jeep's keys from Amy. What a treat to be pampered. It sure beat testing her own defensive driving skills to find a parking spot then playing sherpa over an arctic tundra.
"Are you an amateur or professional?" the bellhop asked as they walked through the sliding doors into the grand hallway of the convention center. Crystal chandeliers sparkled overhead as the trolley silently rolled over the thick, diamond patterned carpet. The hotel and conference center was less than a year old but had already established itself as the premier place for parties and conferences in Kellerton.
"Amateur."
He nodded and nudged the cart to the right, toward the end of the line of people and carts tracing along the ivory paneled wall. "This is your line. Good luck!"
Amy took over as captain of her appetizer transporting ship. The line moved quickly with three people checking in participants, but there were unhappy murmurs billowing back through the crowd. She could see contestants pushing carts past the closed ballroom doors, with foam sample boxes still balanced on top of coolers and storage bins. Something obviously was happening, and it didn't appear to be good. When Amy made it to the table, she found out what the fuss was about.
"An apparent power surge broke all of the cold storage equipment we had set up for this event. Replacements are on the way, but in the meantime we are asking that everybody go into the conference room to the left," a woman with long, wavy hair the color of pumpkin explained. "At this point it looks like we'll be running about half an hour behind schedule. If you are afraid your cooler won't keep something sufficiently chilled, the patio doors are unlocked to place food outside. It's only fifteen degrees, so everything should keep fine. All samples will be turned in after the replacement equipment arrives, and then the ballroom will be opened for the competition."
Even though it was cold enough outside to make a polar bear happy, Amy didn't need to stash any of her food on the patio. She had lined the super-insulated coolers with ice packs. The dips, winter fruit salad, and vegetables would stay perfectly chilled for hours.
Amy grabbed the brass handles on the cart and tried to steer it toward the conference room. It was sort of like grabbing a stubborn bull by the horns and trying to move it backward as the swivel wheels sunk into the plush carpet. How did bellhops make it look so easy? The long-sleeved white shirts they all wore were probably hiding biceps that would make a body builder jealous. Finally she made it into the large room and maneuvered along the wall to an open spot near the mini kitchen at the far end.
"Well this is a bit inconvenient," Bea said as she arrived dragging a cart behind her. "I guess I had better get these sample cartons back in a cooler."
Amy nodded. In the chaos she had forgotten about her samples hanging out on top of the cooler. "It's pretty unusual to have all of the refrigeration equipment break at the same time, don't you think?"
Bea shrugged as she unlatched the cooler lid. She had let her usual super-short spiked hairstyle grow out a bit. The pixie cut looked wonderful with her heart-shaped face. "If it was a power surge, those can do a lot of damage. At least people can stash food outside to keep cold if they need to. This would've been a disaster for quite a few people if it was held in the middle of summer instead of the winter."
Amy surveyed the crowd. There were a lot of people heading outside. An almost constant glacial breeze puffed across the room as people walked through the French doors to deposit containers full of food in the snow banks along the sidewalk. The big windows that overlooked a garden in the summer were like glass doors on the makeshift refrigerator now. Hotel workers circulated through the crowd, offering masking tape and markers to
people who wanted to label their containers. "I always make sure I have plenty of ice in my coolers to keep food cold, no matter what time of year it is. I'm not turning the heat off in my vehicle and getting frostbite so my trout dip won't spoil."
"Common sense, but things like that probably play a good part in you winning so many contests."
Amy wrapped a strand of hair around her finger, a nervous habit whenever she was uncomfortable. She was super competitive and proud of winning so many trophies and prizes, but it was difficult for her to take a compliment without wanting to pull her hair over her eyes and hide. How did she sometimes win against professional chefs? Often when she had a chance to look at other entries, after the prizes were awarded, it seemed impossible that she had won.
Bea nudged Amy with her shoulder and said, "This is kind of fun despite the glitches. I should pick your brain for tips so I can enter even more contests besides this one and the Summer Festival baking contests. Hopefully I won't get my platters and tablecloths stolen in the future."
"I would love to chat with you, but you have the biggest factor in winning down already. You are an excellent cook. You won second place in the pie contest in August." Amy frowned. "Have you heard anything else about the thefts last night?"
"Nope. My guess is somebody is going to throw a nice party on the cheap."
They continued to talk about food and general holiday craziness as the crowd in the ballroom grew. The center of the huge room was almost impenetrable between the people, luggage carriers, and coolers. A woman in a black chef's uniform dragged her cart past and stopped nearby. Amy recognized her as the contestant who had breezed into the ballroom half an hour before the prep time ended. The chef ran her fingers through the long swatch of black hair on the top of her head. The sides were shaved. Definitely a unique hairstyle, but maybe not ideal for Michigan in the winter. Amy decided the woman probably owned lots of hats and caps.
The newcomer rolled her eyes and said, "Can you believe this? No refrigerators or freezers? The people who bought tickets to eat the food may get a sample of food poisoning along with their goat cheese canapés."
"Things happen that are beyond anybody's control," Amy said. The Goth chef's attention had shifted to something behind her. Amy turned to find Rayshelle peering into the cooler perched on the end of her cart.
"What are you doing?" Amy asked as she fixed an evil eye on the rude snoop.
Rayshelle's cheeks flushed as she slammed down the cooler lid. "Looking for my cooler. I seem to have misplaced it in this madhouse. It looks just like that one."
Amy channeled one of her ice packs and asked, "Your cooler has my name written on the lid in permanent marker?"
"Now there's a fine question. Can't wait to hear the answer," Bea said as she tilted her head to the side, waiting for the response.
Rayshelle didn't say a word. Just took a few steps backward and tried to disappear into the crowd, but the puff of process-damaged, unnaturally cherry red hair on her head stood out like the tip of a laser pointer as she pushed past startled people.
The black-clad chef shook her head. "Some people just don't have a clue about what it means to play fair."
Amy continued to make small talk with Bea while keeping a close eye on her coolers. After over half an hour of feeling like an anchovy crammed into the conference room, an announcement was made that competitors could line up to turn in their samples. She slowly inched through the luggage cart traffic jam until she ended up in the amateur cook line. She was surprised at how quickly it was moving forward since people were actually handing over sample containers this time, but she soon saw that there were now four women handling check-in duties.
Amy stepped into the P through S lane and checked her boxes, making sure the ones that needed to be refrigerated were marked with a giant "R" on the lid. As the woman in front of her turned in her samples, Amy flipped open each box to make sure everything was still arranged perfectly, or as close to perfect as she could muster after schlepping the samples all over the conference center.
The smile of the woman who checked her in looked like it belonged on a department store mannequin. Her lips barely moved out of toothy smile position as she spoke. Make that creepy living ventriloquist puppet. "Please take the rest of your food into the ballroom, and unload it near your table. Someone will be by to remove your empty cart. Don't begin setting anything up until the announcement to begin is made."
"Thank you," Amy said as she grabbed the handle on her cart and leaned forward to get the momentum going. She needed to get more exercise, but pushing around a heavy cooler-loaded cart on thick carpeting wasn't on her workout agenda. When the wheels hit the hardwood dance floor in the ballroom, she sighed with relief. There was a rhythmic rumble from the hard, rubber tires as she picked up speed and found her table in the middle of the room. Everything was just as she had left it. There were no cries of frustration echoing through the cavernous room. Nothing funky or malicious seemed to be happening, except the fried refrigerators and freezers, but that was because of a random power surge. Or some creative mechanical tinkering.
She kept an eye on the hotel employees dressed in black pants and long-sleeved white shirts as they shuttled empty carts up and down the aisles. The person she suspected to be the thief had worn a blonde wig and if anybody could spot a wig, she could. Being a former hair stylist actually was quite beneficial when it came to culinary competitions. She could perform with sharp instruments in stressful situations and spot fake hair from twenty feet away.
Amy exercised a bit more doing dead lifts with the coolers, trying to get them off the cart without jostling the food inside. A steamy shower would be her best friend in the morning. A bit of heat to loosen up the muscles that were bound to seize up in her sleep. Once all of the coolers and boxes full of platters were on the floor she flagged down a helper to take away the cart. It was a guy, and he absolutely wasn't wearing a wig, considering his sparse, receding hairline. There were still quite a few tables without people standing near them, so she had enough time to find Bea to wish her luck.
As Amy walked up the row where Bea's table was located, the intimidating chef in all black roared past her. A woman on a mission, and it was clear that nobody should get in her way. Or risk getting barreled over. The black and more black clothing stood out among the standard, white chef jackets that many of the other professionals wore. Amy liked it, but she wasn't sure she could pull it off herself. She would feel like an impostor wearing one of the jackets, since she didn't go to culinary school. Maybe a black apron would work, since aprons, made of everything from frilly lace to leopard print fabric, were the standard uniform among the amateur competitors. The chef's modified mohawk hairstyle added to the intimidation factor. No way would Amy cut off her long hair and dye it that dark. Nope. Nature gave her honey blonde hair, and she would keep it that way. At least until she started turning gray. Then all bets were off.
Bea was standing in front of her table, studying it like a battle map, when Amy finally arrived. It had taken longer than expected to reach her friend.
"Are you ready?" Amy asked as she squeezed between two tables to let a harried-looking woman pass by. Maybe it was the timing of the contest, but the competitors just looked more intense and stressed out than in any other local cooking contest Amy had entered.
"I am. Just going through my plating sequence." Bea bent and pried open the lid of a storage bin under her table. "And checking to make sure I didn't forget anything. Thought I left my big platter at home for a second. Thank goodness I'm a serving ware hoarder, so I could replace what was stolen last night."
"I packed extras if you need something."
Bea shook her head. "I hope not, but thanks for offering."
The sound system crackled to life. "The setup portion of the competition will begin in five minutes. Please report to your table, and make sure the aisles are clear of carts."
The frenetic energy in the room escalated. People began bouncing around lik
e excited neutrons. Wasn't that what happened in a nuclear reaction? How long before everything went kaboom? Considering there could be a saboteur in their midst, Amy tried to shove that unwanted thought to the back corner of her brain. It could hang out behind the list of presents she still needed to buy since she had been busy developing recipes and planning the tablescape for the competition.
"It may take me five minutes to get back to my table," Amy said as she patted Bea on the forearm. "Good luck, and I'll see you after it's over."
"Good luck to you, too!"
The wide aisles were clogged with people, coolers, and carts that had about the same effect as semi trucks driving on a walking path. So Amy began cutting between tables. She had sort of been joking about needing the five minutes to make it back to her table four rows away. The joke was on her as the two minute warning announcement came. She could see the Lucite boxes on her table, but three luggage trolleys and two seemingly impenetrable knots of people blocked the aisle ahead. It took some creative moves that would've made a dance aerobics instructor proud, but she made it to her table with a minute to spare.
"Competitors you have thirty minutes to set up your tables. Please remember there will need to be at least ten servings of every item. Time starts…now."
Clapping, cheers, and a couple banshee yells punctuated the start of the frenzy. Amy took a deep, supposedly cleansing, breath. The extra oxygen didn't help. She still felt like she had chugged a bottle of caramel syrup along with her afternoon latte, but she dove into her tasks anyway. The cardboard cutouts she had arranged on the table the previous evening were replaced with sparkling crystal plates and silver platters. Then she began arranging the foods that didn't need to be refrigerated. Blocks of ice went into the clear plastic columns Alex had made for her. He had even built the ice trays with tiny holes to let the water drip into hidden reservoirs as the ice melted. Her husband was handsome and handy, a pretty perfect set of attributes.
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