The Tell-Tale Tarte

by Maya Corrigan

  Business was brisk at the Cool Down Café until ten thirty. Twice during the morning, Val was thrilled to see every seat filled at the café’s eating bar and handful of bistro tables. The café was generating more profits than it had six months ago, when she’d feared that her initial half-year contract to manage it wouldn’t be renewed. The club manager had renewed her contract after all, but only for another half year, which would end in March. Now the club had a new manager, who might not be satisfied with the revenue from the café. How could he imagine the alcove off the reception area would generate more money from clothes than food?

  Granddad walked into the café during the lull between breakfast and lunch, took off his parka, and hung it over the back of a stool. He sat down at the eating bar. “I don’t know why you couldn’t tell me your news over the phone.”

  His red parka, gold-rimmed bifocals, and low-level grumbling told her he was back to his old self, despite his recent makeover. “I wanted to tell you the news while you were eating a pecan muffin and drinking fresh coffee.”

  He pursed his lips, like a kid wary that medicine would follow the spoonful of sugar. “Okay. That’s better than the stuff you usually want me to have for breakfast—twigs and seeds with nonfat yogurt.”

  After putting a muffin and coffee in front of him, she went around the counter and sat on the stool next to his. “When I was at the mall yesterday, a man collapsed in the parking lot. A teenager and I gave him CPR until the ambulance came. He died later.”

  “That’s what you wanted to tell me?” Granddad patted her arm. “You did all you could, so don’t fret about it.”

  He attacked his muffin with gusto, apparently no longer anticipating bitter medicine to follow it.

  His relief surprised her. “What news did you expect me to give you?”

  “Yesterday you talked about going away with Gunnar for Valentine’s Day and you spent the evening with him. I figured you two might be making things between you more . . . uh, official.”

  Official as in getting engaged? “Nothing’s changed between us.”

  “Good. With your track record, you don’t want to rush into anything.”

  “One rotten fiancé does not a track record make,” Val muttered, but this wasn’t the time to remind him that her love life was her own business. “The man in the parking lot looked like you. That’s why I rushed to help him.”

  As she described the man, Granddad put his muffin down. Deep furrows appeared in his brow. “Nothing unusual about a man with a beard like mine and a black coat. But the same kind of hat and glasses . . . that’s sorta strange. You know his name?”

  “Emmett Flint. He was in Gunnar’s theater group.” Val watched her grandfather’s face for a reaction to the actor’s name. She saw none. “I figured he was your client and got you to wear the same kind of clothes he planned to wear yesterday.”

  “You’re wrong about that.”

  Val wasn’t ready to give up. “Emmett could have used a different name and changed his appearance when he hired you. He often wore hairpieces that made him look younger. Yesterday he made himself look older by graying his hair and beard.”

  Granddad brushed crumbs from his plaid shirt. “My client never had a beard and never will have one.”

  Finally. A crumb of information about the person who’d paid him an advance. “So your client’s a woman. Maybe she knew Emmett Flint and hired you to dress like him.”

  Granddad looked rattled as he set his cup down. “Thanks for the muffin and coffee. Good luck with your catering tonight.”

  Val waved to a trio in yoga outfits who came into the café. “Take a seat, I’ll be right with you.” She turned back to Granddad. “If your client dictated how your beard and hair should be cut and what clothes you should wear yesterday, you need to be on your guard. Emmett Flint had the same hair and clothes as you. He was a nasty character. Whatever this woman is paying you isn’t worth getting involved in something shady.”

  He climbed off the counter stool. “You’re jumping to conclusions . . . as usual.”

  The fact that some of her past conclusions had been wrong didn’t mean this one was. “If you’d give me more information about your client, I wouldn’t have to guess what’s going on. I could do some research.”

  “I can do my own research. Just remember which of us took an investigation course.” He patted her on the shoulder. “It’s better if you stay out of it.”

  Better for her, but maybe not for him.

  Between serving lunch at the café and preparing the food for the book club dinner party, Val had little time to dwell on Granddad’s situation, though it gnawed at the back of her mind for the rest of the day.

  * * *

  At four o’clock Val carried the food for the book club dinner party to her car—a pot of onion soup, a Dutch oven holding the beef daube, bags with the ingredients for the salad and the dessert.

  A bare inch of snow had fallen while she was home preparing the food. Perfect snow, enough to coat the trees and bushes, not enough to cover the roads. It took her twenty minutes to drive from Bayport to the larger town of Treadwell, where the book club dinner would be held.

  Judith Humbolt threw open the door of her two-story brick colonial before Val had a chance to ring the bell. “I’m so relieved you’re here. I was worried that you would have an accident because of the snow, and then what would I do? Order pizza? That would have been just terrible.”

  Val resisted the urge to say that an accident would have been no fun for her either. “I’m here now. You can relax.”

  Judith fingered her blunt-cut silver hair. “I’ve had the dining room table set since Friday. I’m hosting the book club for the first time, so I need to make a good impression.”

  She led the way to the kitchen. Val set down the first load of food and went back for the rest.

  Judith watched as Val removed a cast-iron pan from a bag. “Why did you bring that?”

  “To make the tarte Tatin.”

  “I thought you’d have the dessert ready.” A note of hysteria crept into Judith’s voice. “And that pan isn’t big enough. We’re having eight at the table and then two more guests for dessert.”

  “Tarte Tatin is best served fresh. I brought the ingredients for two of them.” Val would make one right away and the other while the guests ate the main course.

  “But I didn’t allow any time for making dessert in the schedule. Here, I printed a copy for you.” She thrust a sheet of paper into Val’s hand.

  “I’ll have plenty of time.” Val glanced at the agenda. 5:45—Set out appetizers in the living room. What appetizers? Now she was the flustered one. “I thought you wanted onion soup as the appetizer.”

  “Soup is the first course at the table. Before we sit down, though, we’ll have raw vegetables and cheese in the living room. Instead of appetizers, I should call them crudités and fromage in keeping with our French theme. I’ll put those out while you get the hot dishes ready.”

  Relieved, Val checked the rest of the timetable.

  6:00 to 6:15—Book club gathers in the living room.

  6:45—Val puts soup at each place and bread on the table. Then Judith invites everyone to the table.

  7:00—Val clears away soup bowls and brings the salad and main dish.

  What did Judith do in her former life? Orchestrate dinners at Downton Abbey? Val pointed to the schedule. “Do you want the salad served as a separate course?”

  “No, no.” Judith waved her hand back and forth like a windshield wiper. “That might take too long. By a quarter to eight, at the latest, everyone has to leave the table and move into the living room. You’ll set the coffee and teapots on the tray table there and serve the dessert when the special guest joins us.”

  “Who’s your special guest?”

  “It’s a surprise. I don’t want anyone to know in case my arrangements fall through.” With that, Judith left Val in the kitchen.

  By six o’clock, the daube was simmeri
ng on the stove and perfuming the air with a heady mix of beef, wine, garlic, and onions. Val had just put the first tarte Tatin into the oven when the book club members began arriving.

  With the dining room as the buffer between the living room and the kitchen, she couldn’t hear what the women were saying. Their occasional laughter suggested they were discussing something other than a grim crime novel.

  When Judith took her into the living room to meet the club members, a woman with an authoritative voice was speaking to the group. Judith waited for thirty seconds and then interrupted her. “Excuse me, Simone. I’d like everyone to say hello to Val Deniston. She’s the caterer who’s making tonight’s Parisian dinner.”

  The women in the club ranged in age from early forties to late sixties. Judith introduced them so quickly that Val had trouble attaching names to faces, with one exception. In a room full of women wearing sensible shoes, pants, and sweaters, the fiftyish Simone stood out in suede high-heeled boots, a narrow black skirt, and a blood-red blouse. Her thick hair, the color of dark roast coffee, hung down to her shoulders.

  Once the women moved into the dining room for the first course, Val could hear their conversation as she worked in the kitchen. Judith opened the discussion by asking what the others liked best about The Murders in the Rue Cler. Simone, the voice of authority, said she liked nothing about it. It was the worst book Rick Usher had ever written, and she should know because she’d read them all.

  Another woman countered that it was her favorite Usher book. She loved the descriptions of the food at the Rue Cler markets. Simone pointed out that the focus on food was highly unusual in an Usher book and speculated that the Usher protégé whose name appeared in small type on the cover had written those passages and much of the rest of the book.

  When Judith said she found the book’s emphasis on revenge disturbing, Simone insisted the revenge theme was the book’s only strong point. Citing examples of vengeance in revolutions and wars between countries, she called it a basic human impulse. Judith called it a base human impulse. The others jumped into the fray, taking sides on the merit of revenge in the book and in life.

  Once Val served the main dish, she was too busy making the second tarte Tatin to pay attention to the table talk.

  At seven fifty, five minutes behind schedule, Judith herded her guests into the living room and brought in two chairs from the dining room for extra seating. Val cleared the table.

  She was back in the kitchen when the doorbell rang and easily overheard the conversation in the hall when Judith’s special guest arrived.

  “Thank you both so much for coming on this cold night,” Judith said. “I’ll take your coats.”

  A man with a low raspy voice said something Val couldn’t catch.

  “I’ll have to speak for him tonight,” a man with a mellow voice said. “It’s painful for him to talk with a sore throat.”

  “I’m sure our book club members will have lots to say to both of you. Come into the living room and meet everyone.”

  Immediately after that, Val heard excited female voices, but couldn’t distinguish any words. After she cut the tarte Tatin and put slices of it on dessert plates, she looked up to see a man in the doorway between the dining room and the kitchen.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” he said. “I’m Clancy Curren.”

  The special guest with the functioning voice. His name sounded familiar, but Val knew she’d never seen him before. Shorter than average, he wore jeans and a light blue sweater that matched his eyes. The dirty-blond hair curling onto his forehead and down his neck gave him a youthful appearance, though he was probably pushing forty.

  “Hi, Clancy. I’m Val Deniston.”

  “The ladies were raving about your dinner.” He walked to the stove and pointed to the Dutch oven. “Is that the beef you made?”

  Val lifted the lid. “It’s daube Provençal.”

  Clancy leaned down and sniffed appreciatively, his hands behind his back, like a kid told to look, but not touch. “I haven’t eaten anything that smelled this good in a long time.”

  “There’s plenty left over. Would you like some?”

  “Just a taste. We were only invited for dessert.” He took the forkful of beef she gave him and savored it with his eyes closed. “Mmm. Fantastic. Do you often cook at other people’s houses?”

  “I sometimes cater small dinner parties.”

  “Small dinner parties. Good. Would you consider making lunch and dinner every day for a group of four?”

  For a moment, Val was too startled to speak. “I’m flattered, but that wouldn’t work. I make breakfast and lunch every day at the café I manage.”

  Clancy’s face lit up. “Then you can cook dinner for us.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m really busy at the moment. A few months from now, I may have time to cater dinner a few times a week. Certainly not every day.”

  He pouted. “But we need you now. It wouldn’t be a long-term job. Our personal chef left for the Philippines ten days ago to deal with a family problem. She’s due back in February at the latest. None of us can cook. We’re tired of frozen meals and desperate enough to pay well.”

  Val cut into the second tarte that sat on the counter. “If money’s not an issue, why not arrange for a restaurant to deliver meals or go pick them up?”

  “We’re miles away from any decent restaurants and they don’t offer takeout. The only restaurants near us with takeout are fast food places.”

  She put a tarte slice on a dessert plate. “Where exactly do you live?”

  He leaned toward her. “At the house of Usher.”

  Val waggled a finger at him. “I’ve read Poe. Nothing would tempt me inside a place called the house of Usher.”

  “It’s not the mansion in Poe’s story. The house belongs to Rick Usher, the novelist. I’m working on a book with him.”

  Val now realized why Clancy’s name had sounded familiar. She’d seen it on the cover of The Murders in the Rue Cler when she looked up the book online. “You’re Rick Usher’s coauthor?”

  “I like the sound of coauthor. That’s more than most people give me credit for.”

  Clancy was the mouthpiece for the man with the sore throat, Judith’s surprise guest. That man had to be the famous author himself. “So Rick Usher’s in the living room?”

  “Go see for yourself.”

  Judith whooshed into the kitchen. “I’m sure you’d rather spend your time with a pretty woman, Clancy, but aren’t you here to be Rick’s voice? He’s so hoarse, we can barely hear him.”

  “I’m sorry. Talk to you later, Val.” Clancy scuttled out of the kitchen.

  Judith picked up the first tray of desserts Val had filled. “I’ll serve these. You bring the second tray.”

  Val filled the second tray and went past the dining table toward the living room. Judith stood in the far corner. She hovered over the guest of honor, offering him dessert, and blocked Val’s view of him. Val handed the desserts to the women sitting closest to the dining room.

  Simone peered at the plate Val had just given her. “This is a tarte Tatin, isn’t it? Made with apples.” She emphasized the final word as if warning Adam against eating the fruit Eve offered him.

  The young woman next to Simone turned her hands palm up. “Duh. Traditionally, you make it with apples.”

  Simone rolled her eyes. “I know that, but you can also use pears.” As she spoke, she focused on the corner of the room, where Rick Usher was sitting.

  Val gave out the last dessert on the tray and turned around for her first look at the celebrity author, who was forking a piece of tarte into his mouth. His shirt and pants were black. He wore his driver’s cap low over his forehead, just above his tinted glasses.

  She blinked in disbelief. That wasn’t a famous author. It was Granddad!

  Chapter 4

  Val clutched the tray with shaking hands and stared in disbelief at her grandfather. He froze with a fork halfway back to his plate, doubtless as shocke
d to see her as she was to see him. He must not have noticed her car parked on the street near Judith’s house. He put his fork down and tapped his lips with his index finger. Val got the message: Say nothing. Fine, she would keep his secret, as long as she didn’t have to pretend he was a famous writer.

  She wheeled around and went back to the kitchen.

  Judith followed her. “Don’t you want to meet Rick Usher?”

  Val shook her head. “I’m feeling a bit lightheaded.” That was even true.

  “Sit down.” Her hostess took her by the elbow and steered her to a kitchen chair. “Put your head between your knees.”

  Next best thing to burying her head in the sand. Val leaned down as far as she could without falling over. “Please go back to your guests. I got a little warm. I’ll be fine in a minute.”

  Judith filled a glass at the refrigerator’s water dispenser and plunked it down on the table in front of Val. “Drink this. I’ll check on you in a bit.” She slipped out of the kitchen.

  Val raised her head and guzzled water cold enough to give her brain freeze. After Granddad used her recipes to win the job of a food columnist, she’d gone along with the deception rather than expose him as a fraud. Now he’d taken deceit to a new level by impersonating someone famous. Where was the real Rick Usher? And why couldn’t Granddad talk tonight? This morning his voice had worked fine. Maybe his laryngitis was essential to the ruse. If he had a voice, he might have to answer questions about Rick Usher’s book. Better to let another man speak for him—Usher’s coauthor.

  Clancy strode into the kitchen, as if her brain waves had cued him to make an entrance.

  “Hey, Val. The tarte Tatin was amazing.” He eyed the slice she’d saved for herself on the table.

  “I’m glad you enjoyed it.” Earlier she’d found his cheeriness appealing, even infectious. Now it struck her as forced. She moved the plate with the dessert to the counter, farther from his greedy eyes. “Who are the four people who need a cook at the Usher house?”