by Maddie Day
“You didn’t pay much for my B.A.,” Turner said. “You know I got free tuition because of your IU connection, and I lived at home.”
“I have sacrificed much for you. You are my only son.”
“And Su is in med school. Your only daughter will be a doctor one day. That should make you happy. Me, I love to cook,” Turner said, loading his forearms with four orders. “I want to be a chef. This is great experience for me. Please don’t make a big fuss, Baba.”
“Leave Sujita out of this. It will be on your head if a hundred people come tomorrow and we are not ready.” Turner’s father turned away with a huff of air.
I ladled out an omelet’s worth of beaten eggs, but out of the corner of my eye I saw Mr. Rao freeze. Now what was wrong? I sprinkled sautéed green peppers, mushrooms, and onions onto the egg base, added capers and a handful of grated cheddar, and looked up to see what the problem was. Sajit stared with narrowed eyes at Warren Connolly, who shot him the curled lip under flared nostrils for a second. Then Connolly plastered on a fake grin and waved to Sajit with one pudgy hand.
“Dr. Rao. Join me, would you?” the professor called.
So it was Dr. Rao.
“Climate change denier,” Turner’s father muttered. This time whatever word he added after that sounded a lot more like a curse than the earlier expression of frustration, but he made his way to Connolly’s table.
I exchanged a glance with Turner. He only shrugged. As he delivered the loaded plates to their destination, I turned half of the omelet over onto itself, hoping the two scholars’ interaction wasn’t going to turn into a display of in-store fireworks. Uproar was never good for business.
Chapter 2
Despite it being March, not July, fireworks was exactly what the conversation between Drs. Rao and Connolly became after Turner’s dad sat at Connolly’s table. Every time I glanced their way, Dr. Rao did not look happy and Professor Connolly kept a smug, self-satisfied expression on his face. Turner asked his dad if he wanted coffee or something to eat, but Dr. Rao waved him away with an impatient gesture.
After about ten minutes Dr. Rao stood so suddenly his chair clattered over sideways. “No. That is simply not acceptable. All the science is against you and you know it.” If voices could kill, the deadly force of his would have.
I watched from the cooking area as Professor Connolly blinked. Turner cringed. Other customers turned to stare.
Connolly flipped open his hands. “You have your opinion, Sajit, and I have mine.”
“It’s not a matter of opinion,” Turner’s dad spat out, each word distinct. “The maple genus is suffering all over as the temperatures warm. The entire cycle is disrupted. Insects, microflora, all of it.”
“My funders believe otherwise.”
Dr. Rao stared at Connolly. He turned on his heel and left without saying good-bye to his son. Turner frowned but didn’t seem to mind. I was just glad the exchange had ended without a Roman candle going off, not to mention an even bigger explosion. Nobody wants their delicious breakfast interrupted by someone else’s fireworks. Interesting that it ran along the same theme as Sonia’s objection to Connolly earlier.
The professor left a few minutes later and the next hour turned so busy I didn’t have time to think. Rushes like that were exhausting but always proved great for the old bottom line. The crowd had to be due to all the folks here for the festival. I served and cooked for far fewer familiar faces than usual. Ten o’clock brought the opposite, a total lull in business.
“Sit down for a few while you can, Turner,” I said. “And make yourself whatever you want to eat. If it’s as busy as it was earlier, we won’t have a minute for lunch until we close at one-thirty.” I was still trying to ensure he felt welcome as my employee and also paced himself on rest and eating. The last thing we needed was one of us passing out from low blood sugar. I threw a slice of sharp cheese on top of an unclaimed pancake and topped it with another, making myself an ad hoc sandwich. I brought it and a glass of milk to a table and sank blissfully into a chair.
He joined me several minutes later, with a plate full of an egg-veggie scramble and a pile of overly crisp hash browns.
“I didn’t realize your dad felt so strongly about you working here,” I ventured after he sat. “I hope it’s going to be okay at home.”
He swallowed a bite of potato. “It’ll be fine. But it’s time for me to move out. Dad grew up in India, and the expectations for first sons—and especially only sons—are pretty different there, even now.”
“But you were born here, right?”
“I sure was. At the hospital in Bloomington. A Hoosier, born and bred, even if I don’t quite look like one. And I haven’t gone anywhere, Robbie, except twice to visit the rels in India.” He sounded wistful.
I cocked my head. “Your father seemed upset you’re cooking meat, too. Do you mind cooking it? I’m sorry. I never thought to ask you.”
“I don’t mind. The Hindu religion discourages the eating of meat, particularly beef, because the cow is sacred. But my father knows I’m only preparing hamburgers, not consuming them.” He gestured to his plate. “It’s not like we live in a vegetarian country, anyway.”
“Especially here in Indiana. People love their meat. Beef, pork, lamb, you name it.” I wanted to ask what his mom thought of Turner’s choice to train as a chef, but I didn’t want him to feel that I, his boss, was prying into his personal life. His dad had brought the issue to my grill—asking about his father was fair game. Then Turner answered my unasked question anyway.
“At least Mom’s got my back. She’s always said Su and I could do whatever we wanted with our lives, as long as it was legal and we could support ourselves.” He scarfed down his eggs while I finished my pancake sandwich. “Are you all set for this afternoon?”
I shot a quick look at the clock. “I think so. I’m really glad I decided to close an hour early today. The judges and officials will be here by two-thirty, so we should have plenty of time to clean up and get the place presentable. I’ll have my biscuits all ready to pop in the oven fifteen minutes before the entry deadline.”
“The doors open at three, right?”
“That’s right, and the judging is at three-thirty. I hope we pack the place.”
“The contest is for a single locally made breakfast item, I think you said.”
“Exactly, and it has to include maple. The county doesn’t have a multi-cook station facility like they set up on those cooking competition shows, so the cooking won’t be live.” I cringed a little. Murder had entered my life more than once since I’d opened the store, and I’d become just a teensy tiny bit sensitive to phrases like live. “I’m doing maple biscuits—but they’ll include your secret ingredients. The judges are going to love them.”
“Who’s judging?” He stood and cleared both our places.
“Some of the scientists at the conference, I think, and maybe a few locals, too. I don’t know who they’ve tapped to do the honors.” I joined him in the kitchen area. “I’m going to prep the dough now. It’ll bake up better after a couple of hours of chilling.”
“Good idea.”
“I don’t really care if I win the contest or not, even though they’re lumping chefs together with amateur cooks. But it’s great exposure for the store and restaurant.” I measured out flour, baking powder, salt, and the touch of both curry powder and cayenne Turner had added, with scrumptious results, a month earlier. As I cut in the butter, I asked, “Do you know the professor who was in this morning? The man from Boston?”
“The one my father was talking to?”
“That’s the one. His name is Warren Connolly. They didn’t exactly seem to be best buds.”
“I’ve never seen him at the house. But my father knows all kinds of people professionally.”
“What’s your dad’s exact occupation again?” I added the milk and syrup to the flour-butter mixture and gave the dough a quick knead.
“He’s a research bioche
mist, and he used to spend all his time looking at cellular structures.” Turner finished setting up the last table for the next round of customers just as the little cowbell on the door set up a jangle. “He’s tacked into climate change waters recently. Mostly because he’s seen the change in the trees on our farm.”
As I mused on Turner using a sailing term like “tacked,” a tall thin figure in uniform pushed through the door.
“Hey, Buck, come on in,” I called to our lanky police lieutenant as I wrapped the thick disk of dough in plastic. “You said your dad tacked into a change in career. Are you a sailor?” I asked Turner.
His dark eyes lit up. “You bet. Me, a sailboat, Lake Monroe? It’s the best.”
“I used to sail off the Pacific Coast back home.”
“You did? Sailing on the ocean is one of my dreams. To be executive chef on a touring yacht. I told you I’ve never been anywhere except India.” His eyes were dreamy, focused on a faraway horizon. “I want to see the world, but from the water.”
“It’s a great plan. You should totally go for it.” I wasn’t sure his father would agree. I carried a menu over to Buck.
“I hear y’all talking ’bout sailing?” he asked, laying his uniform hat on the small table he preferred at the back of the restaurant, where he could eat and keep an eagle eye on the town, too.
When I nodded, he went on.
“You might could sail a boat all the way to China through the hole in my stomach right about now. I’m that hungry.”
No wonder. He was only about six foot a hundred—or at least a foot taller than my own five three—and as skinny as a twig. “You must have a metabolism like a hummingbird, Buck.” I smiled fondly at him.
“Welp, I got me a appetite like a horse. Can I get one of everything?”
“For a change?” I snorted.
“Shucks, Robbie. Anymore, I don’t even know why you ask.”
A couple of minutes later I carried over a tray and set down three plates in front of him. He beamed at the sight: two over easy next to three links and a mound of hash browns, a tall stack of my signature pancakes, plus a couple of biscuits covered in creamy homemade sausage gravy. He tucked his napkin into his collar and his fork into the biscuits.
“You ain’t seen no more dead bodies, have you?” he asked, laden fork halfway to his mouth, gravy dripping onto the pancakes.
“I’m happy to say I haven’t.” A shudder ran through me remembering the body my friend Lou and I had encountered this winter while we were out snowshoeing. The man had been murdered, and his killer had later come after my boyfriend, Abe, and me during an ice storm. “Thank goodness.”
“I sure don’t know what it is with you and murder. You’re like a flame to them moths.”
Was I? It was true, I’d encountered three murders since my store opened, and I was the one who’d found two of the bodies. One, in fact, right here in my store. But surely all those were coincidence. I had no intention of brushing up against even one more violent person. I loved my thriving store-restaurant and my town and I had a solid relationship developing with Abe. Life was good. My plan for it definitely didn’t include murder.
Chapter 3
As it turned out, half the judges that afternoon—Dr. Rao and Professor Connolly—had already been in the store a few hours earlier. At three twenty-five, four of my still-warm biscuits were displayed on a small white plate in the middle of the array of other entries. My plate, with the biscuits neatly halved, was identified only by #8 MAPLE BISCUITS on the white card in front of the plate. The biscuits had come out as close to perfect as was even possible, rising high and flaky with golden brown maple-crusted tops and a crumb you just couldn’t wait to get your mouth around. I’d done a pre-taste, and the combo of maple and Indian spice was exactly right, with a subtle zing following the hint of sweetness that came from rubbing maple syrup on top before baking.
To my entry’s left were dark heavy-looking maple doughnuts and then plump maple sausages, all on identical plates. On the other side sat maple bars, topped with a glistening icing, with a plate of maple bran muffins beyond. The other offerings were in the same vein, with only one, a pecan-topped coffee cake, offered by another area chef. Most looked way too sweet for my taste, but I kept my mouth shut. I was a contestant, not a judge.
I’d grabbed a few minutes earlier to wash up and don a magenta silk tunic for the occasion. I’d tried to tame my full black curls with a couple of clips, and had thrown on a dash of colored lip gloss. I was glad I had, as a reporter from the Brown County Democrat had snapped a photo of all the entrants lined up in a row at the side of the contest table. He’d also taken a couple of shots of me alone, since I was hosting.
The store was packed to the gills with tourists and locals alike. Since three o’clock they’d been filing past the contest entries, pointing, murmuring, but not touching. The organizers, one of whom was my aunt Adele, had stretched a cord in front of the length of the table to keep viewers several feet away.
Now Adele stepped to the portable PA system they’d set up, not that this forthright senior citizen really needed amplification. She tapped the mike, her dangly silver earrings catching the light. “We’re about ready to start. Can you shut your sweet pie-holes already?” She smiled to soften the message and nobody seemed to take it the wrong way. The buzzing conversation soon grew still. You didn’t mess with Aunt Adele.
“Thank you,” she continued. “As you know, this is the kickoff culinary competition for the Maple Festival. We’re delighted to receive such a great array of entries. Our cooks are them folks.” She pointed to our line at the side of the table. “But they’re not necessarily in the same order as their entries. Let’s give them a hand for putting themselves and their talents to the test.” The crowd clapped, and when someone called out, “Let’s hear it for links!” one of the cooks blushed.
“Let me introduce our esteemed judges and they can get themselves a-tastin’.” Adele turned to the four standing to her rear. Her steel-colored page boy haircut lay neatly in place, as always, and she wore a green embroidered Indian tunic she’d brought home from the service trip to southern India she and her eighty-something boyfriend had recently returned from.
“First, we have South Lick’s own top chef, Christina James.”
My friend Christina, her long blond hair freed from its usual ponytail, smiled and waved to the crowd.
“Next, our esteemed farmer-scientist, Dr. Sajit Rao.”
Dr. Rao held up a hand in acknowledgment, but kept a serious expression on his face. After Turner and I had finished the cleanup earlier, he’d asked if I needed him to stay, and I’d said I didn’t, so he wasn’t here to see his father judge. I kind of hoped the younger man had gone home to help the family with whatever needed doing for their demonstration tomorrow.
“From the Nashville Inn, up-and-coming chef Nick Mendes,” Adele announced.
A dark-eyed man looking somewhere near my own age of twenty-seven nodded acknowledgement, his hands clasped in front of his white chef tunic. He’d taken over Christina’s spot at the inn last winter when she was hired at Hoosier Hollow, the new gourmet restaurant down the street, but I hadn’t met him yet. I’d noticed him checking out my eclectic collection of vintage cooking implements beforehand but hadn’t had a chance to greet him.
“Finally, visiting from Boston, we have world-renowned scientist Professor Warren Connolly.”
When the applause died down, Adele added, “I guess you might know a small little thing or two about maple up there in New England, Professor, am I right?” She extended the microphone toward him.
“We most certainly do.” He patted his stomach with both hands and rocked back on his heels, beaming, looking for all the world like the stereotype of a well-off businessman, flushed cheeks and all.
I’d be willing to bet Professor Connolly had studied a liquid lunch at the Casino in the hours since breakfast. Didn’t he have conference sessions to attend? Oh, well. Not my circus, not my
monkey. When a man climbed onto a chair way at the back of the crowd, my cheeks warmed. It was my hunky electrician, Abe O’Neill. Now there was a circus I could do flips for. He waved and blew me a kiss, then gestured with two thumbs up.
Adele handed each judge a pen, a small clipboard holding a score sheet, and a water bottle for clearing their palates between tastes. She instructed them on the procedure and the judging categories.
“Professor Connolly, you’ll start us off,” Adele said.
“Oh, no. Ladies first. I insist.”
Christina caught my eye and lifted one eyebrow as if to say, “Where’d they get this throwback?” but she proceeded to the first plate. I watched as the line of judges moved down the line of entries. They nibbled, scribbled, tasted more, marked the final grade, sipped water, and moved to the next station. Somebody gave a piercing two-fingered whistle of support when Christina tasted the muffins. My neighbor in the entrants’ lineup folded her hands so tight when Christina came to the maple bars, I was pretty sure they were hers.
I tried not to look too closely when the judges sampled my biscuits, but Christina managed to slip me a wink. She knew quality when she tasted it. The dark doughnuts next to my entry seemed to act to my advantage. To a one the judges grimaced after tasting them.
Warren Connolly, bringing up the rear, popped an entire biscuit half into his mouth as soon as he got to my entry. No delicate nibbling for him, no subtle rolling on the tongue. He coughed but it was a strangled sound, like he was choking on the bite. I watched as his eyes bugged out. His face turned even redder. He grabbed at his throat with both hands. Nick, just ahead of Connolly in line, turned and stared, eyes wide, but he didn’t move to help. Was he paralyzed? Why didn’t he whack Connolly on the back? This was terrible. Choking was no joke. I tried to push people aside, but too many stood between us for me to reach the professor. The entire crowd seemed rooted to the floor. The professor’s water bottle thunked onto the floor.