by Diana Saco
“It’s a bit scary for kids. Isn’t it?” I asked.
“Most of the books I illustrate are authentic retellings of fairy tales and nursery rhymes, which were originally quite dark to frighten children into behaving. And let me tell you—kids are fascinated by darkness. They have a surprisingly morbid literary appetite. I suppose it’s all part of the macabre continuum that children consume because they love a good fright—Snow White’s evil stepmother, Rumpelstiltskin, Count Olaf, Voldemort, even Freddy Krueger.” She shrugged. “Kids are warped.”
“But this is very good,” I said.
“I didn’t say it wasn’t good, nor that I’m not proud of my drawings. I’m just saying that they aren’t nearly as challenging as baking an excellent cake,” she said motioning to the dessert she was about to slice into. “Children are easily frightened but not so easily fed. They’re finicky eaters. Filling a child’s imagination with scenes that scare him is easy compared to filling his stomach with a meal that appeals to him.”
Her comment reminded me of something. The town’s movie theater—which was owned by my friend Farm—showed horror cult classics every October, culminating in a huge Halloween bash. I remembered some unusual treats from last year’s celebration.
“Have you prepared desserts for the Old Mill Movie House?” I asked.
She smiled. “Yes, at the last Halloween party, I made several of the treats, including the eyeballs.”
“Those were gross. Delicious, too,” I added quickly, not wanting to insult my interviewee. She just laughed. “What were they made of?” I continued.
“Baked meringue balls filled with lemon curd and decorated with marzipan and icing for pupils and veins.”
“I wasn’t expecting the lemon curd filling,” I admitted.
“No one does,” she said with an evil chuckle. “No one does.”
“Marzipan, what exactly is that?” I asked. I knew what marzipan was, but I wanted to steer the discussion back to Munch.
Judging from Chloe’s half smile at my question, she understood what I was doing, but she politely explained anyway.
“Marzipan is a confection made from sugar and almond meal. It can be colored and shaped any way you like to make miniature fruits, dolls, balloons, cars, and any other figure you can think of, which is what makes it ideal for decorating cakes.”
“Didn’t Monica Munch use marzipan?” I finally segued.
Chloe snorted. “She over used it. She called herself ‘the Mistress of Marzipan.’ I called her other things,” she added sardonically. “Marzipan is handy, but a true artist experiments with other media and techniques.”
“You don’t like marzipan?”
“I used to love it, but that Munch woman almost ruined it for me with her infantile concoctions.”
“She did my partner’s daughter’s birthday cake,” I offered neutrally.
“Something cute, no doubt,” she said in disgust.
I nodded. “But Angie is only five,” I explained.
“I’m sure it was ‘age-appropriate,’ ” she said, drawing air quotes. “That’s pretty much all Monica can manage. Could manage,” she corrected.
“So was this one of your points of contention?”
“One of many. She considered my art unsuitable for children.”
“Well, maybe it depends on the age of the child,” I suggested diplomatically.
“I don’t know. Maybe,” she shrugged, sliding a plate toward me.
As Chloe served the coffees, I tried the chocolate dipped orange torte she had just placed in front of me, thinking all the while how much I enjoyed my job sometimes. I couldn’t help closing my eyes at the first bite, the better to concentrate on savoring the delicate blend of citrus and cocoa. When I opened my eyes again, I found Chloe watching me with a very pleased look on her face.
“It’s delicious, Chloe.”
“I could tell,” she said.
She smiled broadly then, her clean white teeth gleaming back at me. I was suddenly struck by how attractive she was. She appeared to be in her early forties, just a hint of time framing a set of clear blue eyes. Her hair was long, straight and dark brown, the color of rich chocolate with thin swirls of cinnamon blended in. High cheek bones flanked a classic Greek nose and balanced over a solid square jaw. Her lips were a dark pink, glossy, thick, and quick to smile. I had to blink several times to regain my concentration. When I looked at Chloe’s eyes again, one brow was raised in an all-knowing expression that said my inspection was noticed and appreciated. I tugged at my professional demeanor, which was slipping from me like a loose skirt, and tried to continue the interview.
“You said you and Ms. Munch argued about whether your work was appropriate for minors. Is there anything else you disagreed about?”
“Well, I never confronted her about this, but I know she stole recipes. Literally walked into people’s houses, rummaged through their kitchen drawers and cupboards until she found their stash of recipes, and then photographed them with her smartphone.”
“How do you know that?”
“I was dropping some produce off at Alice Tidwell’s house a few months back and caught her in Alice’s kitchen, holding her phone over a recipe card on the pantry counter. When I asked her what she was doing, she claimed she had stopped by to leave a pie for Mason and was just making a quick call. And she mumbled something unconvincing about the reception being better over by the pantry.”
“Well, that sounds plausible.”
“Except that I had heard that fake little shutter sound that smartphone camera’s imitate. Plus Alice doesn’t leave her recipes lying about like that. I asked her. And a while later, I managed to sneak a peek at Monica’s phone and saw recipes in her Photos app. Those that weren’t typed had different handwriting from hers.”
It occurred to me that Chloe would have made a good detective herself. For some reason, that made me like her even more.
“Did she steal any of your recipes?” I asked.
“I’d have killed her.”
I frowned at the timing of that comment. After all, I was in the woman’s kitchen questioning her about her rival’s suspicious death.
Chloe caught my reaction and smiled. “In a manner of speaking,” she added.
“And you said you never confronted her?”
“Why bother? She’d only deny it. And she hadn’t, to my knowledge, taken any of my recipes, so I didn’t really consider it my fight. But I did mention my suspicions to Alice.”
“Do you think Alice confronted her?” I asked.
Chloe snorted. “I thought you knew Alice.”
“I do.”
“Well, then you’d know that if Alice brought it up, it would’ve been for some silly reason, like apologizing for any illegible notes. A completely unnecessary apology, too, since her penmanship is impeccable.”
“Yes, it is,” I said, remembering Alice’s customary thank-you notes and gift cards, always handwritten with such precise curves and strokes that one would swear she used a protractor.
“Nina, do you think anyone would kill Monica over a stolen recipe?” Chloe asked.
“You tell me. I know you were kidding earlier, but you seem to be a regular at the local cooking contests and probably know some of the other regulars. How cut-throat does it get?”
“On the surface, it’s all pretty civil. But there’s plenty of back-stabbing behind the scenes.”
“What sort of back-stabbing?” I asked.
“Well, there’s an art to that, too,” she said. “It’s usually a combination of tricks to undermine a competitor. You start rumors that she uses sub-standard ingredients, bad-mouth her to the judges, monkey with her assigned taste order in a contest.”
“How do you mean?” I asked.
“In most cases, you want your entry to be one of the last ones tasted to make it more memorable. In somewhat longer competitions, however, the judges tend to rush through the last tastings as they begin to tire. And their palates start to
dull, failing to discern nuances. So you wouldn’t want to be dead last. A position about three quarters of the way down the roster would be best in longer competitions. Regardless of size, absolutely no one ever wants to go first. The adage ‘first to taste, last to place’ is well known in the culinary contest circuit.”
“How are the orders determined?”
“It’s usually random,” she replied. “For the Millsferry Bake-Off, the judges walk from one booth to another in order, so booth assignment determines taste order in the competition. Those assignments are made in advance and posted online.”
I frowned unable to work out the logistics. “So how can anyone change the order?” I asked.
“By making ‘an honest mistake’ or rather claiming to,” Chloe said, again drawing air quotes. “You arrive early and set yourself up in a competitor’s space pretending to get confused about your assignment. Because the setups can take time, none of the coordinators want to hold up the competition by making someone move, so they usually talk the other person into moving to the available tent.”
“Did Monica ever pull that stunt?” I asked.
“Yes, and it was the last stunt she ever pulled.”
“What? You don’t mean she changed the order for this bake-off, do you?”
“That’s exactly what I mean,” Chloe said. “She had been assigned booth number 22 out of a total of 36. She arrived two hours early and squatted at booth 26.”
I scrunched my brow, quickly doing the math in my head. “Well, that’s closer to that optimal three-quarter mark you mentioned, but surely that’s not a big enough difference to matter.”
“Which is why I didn’t make a fuss about the change.”
“You mean it was your tent she stole?” I asked surprised.
“Yes,” she said simply. But there was nothing simple about it.
*****
My interview with Chloe Owens raised more questions than it answered. Still processing the last revelation about the change in booth assignments, I finished up with a couple of routine questions about timing and other people in the vicinity and whether she saw anything suspicious. I didn’t learn anything more that felt significant. In my experience, however, the puzzle pieces had to start falling into place before we’d know what was significant. Ironically, the facts that seemed critical early on often turned out to be irrelevant. Like this business with the tents. In the end, we might learn that Monica Munch would have been just as dead even if she hadn’t swapped her booth with Chloe’s. Only time—and some fine detective work—would tell which facts mattered.
When the cake and coffee ran out, I decided I should go. We headed toward the front door, where I stepped out and then turned to thank Chloe.
“I appreciate your taking the time to speak with me. And to feed me, too. The cake was delicious,” I added sincerely.
“My pleasure,” she said, leaning casually against the doorway. “But I think you’re putting the cart before the horse, Nina.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, you don’t even know yet how Monica was killed.”
“It takes a while for tox results to come back. By then, you might have forgotten some detail. It made sense for us to conduct preliminary interviews as soon as possible, even if this turns out to be an accidental death or natural causes.”
“Us?” she asked.
“My associate and I. He’s probably just finishing up his interview with Monica’s husband,” I added, checking my watch.
“How did you decide who would interview whom?” she asked interestedly.
“We flipped for it.”
“And you won,” she stated, smiling down at me rather cheekily.
“Actually, Marvin Munch won. I hear he has allergies, and I have a cat.”
She laughed, evidently appreciating that I didn’t let her get away with a boast. But I had a funny feeling that she knew I had wanted to meet with her regardless. Of course, I wasn’t going to tell her that Al had cats, too.
Something drew her attention and caused her to frown. And then she asked me the most peculiar question. “Nina, do you believe in zombies?”
Up to that moment in my life, I would have sworn up and down that I knew rationally and unambiguously that zombies did not exist. Despite that, I actually whirled around in alarm, fully expecting to see a walking corpse lumbering up behind me. I think I may have squeaked in shock at the living-dead proof I saw. For there before us, stepping out of a car with a partially unfolded map in hand, was none other than Monica Munch.
I heard Chloe gasp behind me and utter, “Egads! It lives!”
I realized, of course, that it couldn’t be Monica Munch. I mean, I saw her lifeless body for myself! I studied her lookalike as she approached and began to notice differences. The hair, for one—whereas Monica had brown bangs, this version was a full-out redhead. And instead of the spiky coif that Monica had worn, this woman had a more sensible, shoulder-length haircut, expertly trimmed and styled. Her makeup was also more tasteful than Monica’s. And her attire was casual but fashionable—a blue silk blouse over dark tailored pants.
“Excuse me,” she said, addressing us with a distinct southern accent. “I’ve gotten turned around here. Can you ladies please tell me where Meadow Lane is?”
Since it was her neighborhood, I let Chloe answer.
“This is North Pleasant. Go back down to Cove, turn right and then turn right again at the next street. That’s Meadow Lane. The Munch place is just a few houses up on your right.”
“How did you know I was looking for the Munch residence?” the newcomer asked suspiciously.
“You look exactly like Monica Munch,” I said, my natural and professional curiosity kicking in. “Are you related to her?”
“Yes,” she said, with a seemingly rehearsed tearfulness in her voice. “Monica was my twin sister.”
“Oh,” I replied intrigued. Twins always added a unique twist to a case. Every investigation with twins that I ever handled either resulted from a case of mistaken identity between the twins or found resolution in their resembling each other. I wondered which role the newcomer would play—cause or conclusion. “My condolences for your loss,” I told her.
“Ditto,” Chloe said, less sincerely.
“Did you two know her?” Monica’s doppelgänger asked.
“You could say that,” Chloe replied. “Your sister and I traveled in some of the same circles. I’m Chloe Owens.”
“So you’re a baker, too, Ms. Owens?”
“Yes, I am.”
“And you?” the newcomer asked, addressing me.
“No, I didn’t know your sister,” I replied. “My name’s Nina Braco, of Braco and Dupree. I’m a private investigator looking into your sister’s death pending toxicology results.”
“Toxicology?! Are you saying Monica was poisoned?” she asked.
I shook my head, replying, “We don’t know yet why your sister died, Ms. . . ?”
“It’s Doctor—Dr. Maxine Moffit,” she said automatically.
“Dr. Moffit,” I continued, “is this your first time in Millsferry?”
“No, just the first time in a long while since I’ve visited at the house. But I had to come after Marvin called me yesterday and told me what happened.” Remembering her mission, she suddenly said, “Oh, my goodness, Marvin—he must be beside himself with grief. Thank you for the directions,” she added politely.
And with that, she was gone.
6. Two Geeks and a Cajun Walk Into a Bar
Having worked on Sunday, Al and I gave ourselves most of the day off on Monday, agreeing to meet later that afternoon. We rendezvoused at Steamy’s Tavern to compare notes.
Steamy’s was one of my all-time favorite places to go. Situated on Bleaker Street, it was an easy four-block walk from my office to the Temple of the God of Chargrilled Burgers. The kitchen priests began their blessed labor with a quarter pound of grass-fed organic beef grilled to medium-rare perfection. They enshrined this j
uicy ambrosia in a toasted sourdough bun with crispy romaine lettuce, a thick slice of vine-ripened tomato, and a mountain of caramelized onions. For cheese devotees like me, they completed the ritual burger creation by adding a golden layer of mild cheddar to gild the surface. Whenever this almighty burger was placed before me, I was overcome with the need to bow my head in reverence. Depending on my mood, I paid further tribute with a sprinkling of sea salt crystals and either a dollop of silky mayo or swirls of stoneground mustard. Holy Hamburgers! The one thing I always had faith in was great food. And the Steamy Burger made me a believer.
Steamy’s decor was a second enticement. The place was a playground for all things steampunk. Glossy oak furniture, gaslight fixtures, and polished brass accents provided a backdrop for whatever cool gadgets the proprietors could think up. Tabletop kegs of draft beer rolled across surfaces on sturdy casters. Side orders slid down metal rails to patrons’ tables. Custom dumbwaiters on shiny pulleys and chains delivered covered dishes to plush booths. At each table and counter, antique glass bottles and jars with silvery lids and tiny fitted spoons served up a variety of condiments, including British standards like malt vinegar and the under-specified “brown sauce.” To complete the setting, an intricate air-compression system randomly blasted fake steam into the tavern via a series of floor vents, overtly punctuating the theme.
This entire motif was the brainchild of two of my dearest friends, which was the third reason that—as my car bumper testified—“I heart Steamy’s!” Officially, E. F. Armsby and Robert Lumski were business partners with a flair for turning ideas into investments and investments into compounding interest. Unofficially, Errol Flynn Armsby was just plain “Farm” (a mashup of his middle initial and last name) and was known best for running the Old Mill Movie House, which he inherited from his mother. Bob Lumski—“Gizmo” to everyone who knew him—was a geek who used to work at Mia-Tech and occasionally still did the odd job for them. He got the nickname not because of his love of computers and technology, but rather because of his habit of using placeholder names like thingamajig, thingamabob, widget, gadget, and so forth. When Farm and Gizmo became friends, it was like nitro meeting glycerin, an explosion of ideas that changed the landscape in permanent ways.