Getting Rich (A Chef Landry Mystery)

by Domovitch, Monique

  “Er...” I began, lamely. Now my right eye was twitching too. I glanced helplessly at Toni.

  She took one look at my panicked expression and took over. “Nicky and I recognized the need for a restaurant catering to health—and weight-conscious people.” She sounded so professional. “We wanted to create a menu that offered healthy meals—delicious, but low in fat and in sugar.”

  Lauren nodded knowingly. “Isn’t that exactly what this country needs?” She turned to the audience. “How many of you want to lose weight? Let’s see a show of hands.” There was an instant swell of applause. She nodded. “I’m not surprised. Lately, it seems as if every time I listen to the news or open a paper, there’s an article about the obesity problem in this country. We all know that being overweight will cut years off our lives.” She continued, quoting statistics and explaining the link between obesity and diseases like cancer and diabetes. “This problem is so serious that the next generation will be the first in recorded history to have a shorter life expectancy than that of their parents.”

  Toni nodded in agreement. “Yes, and it is Nicky’s and my belief that restaurants are partly to blame. Rather than trying to attract customers by offering quality, most restaurants offer quantity, and portions are becoming larger and larger. As a result, what people nowadays think of as a normal portion, is actually twice—sometimes three times—the healthy amount.”

  Toni sounded great, smart and likable. She had sort of stretched the truth about how we’d come to adopt our Skinny menu. The idea had come to me out of sheer desperation, not out of any sense of altruism.

  Toni turned to me. “And Nicky has already lost twenty-five pounds on our meals.”

  Lauren’s sharp eyes focused on me. “Tell us about your diet, Nicky.”

  I cleared my throat and found my voice. “The thing is.” I searched for a way to tell the truth without contradicting Toni. “I didn’t diet. In fact, I’ve never been able to stay on a diet in my life.”

  Lauren’s eyes lit up. “So what you’re telling us is that all you’re doing differently this time is eating from your Skinny menu?”

  I avoided a direct answer. “We’ve created a full menu offering three-course meals, most of which are lower than five hundred calories.”

  “Unfortunately, that’s not including the wine,” Toni added laughing.

  “But, for those who do want a drink,” I said, “they can order white-wine spritzers. One spritzer has only forty-eight calories.”

  “Only forty-eight calories?” Lauren echoed, sounding impressed. “I didn’t know that. I think spritzers will be my new favorite drink.” The audience laughed. “You know what my weakness is? Bread. Please tell me you serve bread in your restaurant.”

  I nodded. “Oh, absolutely. Bread is my personal weakness too. We’ve come up with a few recipes for high-fiber bread, one of which is flavored with rosemary. It is so tasty you may never want to eat plain bread again.”

  “Rosemary-flavored bread—sounds divine.” Lauren was so engaging that I found myself forgetting about the cameras. I even forgot about my twitch. “Tell us about the most popular items on your menu.”

  I told her about our Skinny Fettuccine Alfredo, and about one of our latest hits, a low-fat mulligatawny.

  She was asking. I was answering. At one point I caught Toni’s eye and she nodded imperceptibly.

  Before I knew it, Lauren was thanking us for coming and then said something about being back after the break. The red lights above the cameras turned off. The floor manager took off our microphones and guided Toni and me off the stage.

  “Nicky, you did great.” She sounded sincere.

  “I did? I can’t remember a word I said.”

  “Yes. I loved what you said about hating to diet.”

  “I said that? I was scared half to death, but I have to admit, this TV thing wasn’t so difficult after all.”

  Toni quirked an eyebrow. “Well, make sure you never get scared half to death twice, or God knows what will happen.”

  i’d seen that fake surprised look before

  Back in the makeup room, Toni grabbed her coat. “We’d better get to work. Hopefully we’ll have the phone ringing off the hook all day.”

  “I have to stop by the house first. I want to check on Jackie and the puppies.”

  She gave me an amused smile. “You lie like a rug. You can’t wait to find out if Mitchell caught your interview.”

  “I’m serious. I really have to check on the dogs,” I protested weakly. More important, I was dying to get out of my bodysuit. “Besides, I didn’t tell Mitchell about the interview.”

  She chuckled knowingly. “Go. Go. And if he did happen to be watching, let me know what he thought.”

  I didn’t bother answering.

  In the two and a half hours I’d been in the Global studios, a blizzard had started and the parking lot was now blanketed in white. My smart car was covered with a half foot of fluffy snow.

  “Oh, hell. I hate winter,” I cried, marching off toward my car with Toni on my heels. Using the sleeve of her alpaca coat, she brushed the snow off my windshield.

  “What are you doing? You’ll wreck your coat,” I exclaimed, shocked. Taking in the fine overstitch around the collar and down the front, I said, “It looks expensive. How much did that lovely little number set you back?”

  “You don’t want to know.” She snapped one of the wipers against the windshield. Chips of ice went flying.

  She was probably right. Toni could spend more on one garment than I did on my mortgage every month. That was another thing Toni had, that I didn’t—money—which was why she’d been able to bankroll our restaurant when we first opened. My contribution had been what she called sweat equity. Without her money, I would most likely be a sous-chef somewhere at best, and years away from running my own kitchen. I owed my friend a huge debt of gratitude for the opportunity she had offered me.

  Toni brushed the snow off her sleeve. “See you at work.” She pulled her car fob from her pocket, pressed the button, and a few yards away her BMW roared to life. She hopped into her car, turned on her wipers and waved goodbye, leaving me blowing warm air into my frozen hands. I must admit, once in a while I did envy Toni her money. Today, standing in the cold and watching her leave in her big warm car, was one of those times.

  *

  Thirty minutes later, I pulled to a stop on the now snow-covered pad behind my house, relieved that my golf cart—as Toni referred to my car—had made it home safely on the ice-covered streets.

  I sludged around the side of the house through the ankle-deep snow to let myself in by the front entrance. That way, if Mitchell happened to be looking out I could casually wave him over. I kept my fingers crossed that he might catch a glimpse of me today. It wasn’t every day I was made up by a professional and looked amazing.

  Having my boyfriend living right next door should have been great. At least that was what I thought when we first started dating. A smile as I came up my walk, the whiff of something delicious I was cooking, or simply a quick phone call should be all it took for him to hop over the wrought iron fence that divided our front stoops and come knocking at my door. In reality, living in such close proximity—one thin, sound-carrying common wall apart—was not always wonderful. Every time I waved at him, I was afraid he’d feel obligated to come over. Then, if I didn’t wave, I worried he’d think I was ignoring him. And of course there was the uncontrollable desire to put my ear to the wall when I heard the phone ring in his house, and spy on his comings and goings when his door slammed. Whenever he left looking scrumptious, I’d wonder where he was going, who he was meeting.

  Toni was right. I did have to stop myself from following him. I wondered if he felt claustrophobic, having me just next door. Would it be better for both of us if we lived farther apart? I’d been wondering a lot about that lately.

  Last summer, after my ex-boyfriend’s untimely death, the last thing in the world I was looking for was another relations
hip. But Mitchell moved in next door, and he was cute. At first, I didn’t know what to make of him. Here was a mid-thirties man who spent all his time sitting by the window instead of going to work like a normal person. Until I learned that he was a writer, and that his desk sat in front of the living room window, I thought he might be a peeping Tom, or maybe under house arrest. We became friends, and then gradually the friendship ignited into a romance.

  After making sure the puppies’ crate was clean, that the water bowls were full and they were all comfortable, I checked the phone for messages—still nothing. I ignored my disappointment and headed back out to my car, using the front entrance again, just in case he happened to be looking out the window. I was halfway down the walk when I heard a door open and my named called out.

  Mitchell. I swung around, hoping I didn’t look too overjoyed. It was just my paranoia at work, but I couldn’t shake the worry that showing too much enthusiasm for a man would only send him running in the opposite direction.

  I gave him a casual wave. “Hey, what’s up?”

  “Hey, yourself. Got time for coffee?”

  I glanced at my watch, my heart dancing with joy, and gave him a teasing smile. “I guess I can spare a few minutes.”

  He held the door open for me and took my coat, his dark eyes holding mine. No wonder I’d fallen for him. He was tall—just under six feet—and just so happened to have a really nice butt, which I eyed appreciatively as I followed him.

  Considering his kitchen was a mirror copy of mine, it couldn’t have looked any more different. Let me start by saying that mine wouldn’t appeal to just anyone. One would need to be a lover of all things old to like it, starting with my 1927 Beach gas stove. It was butter-yellow with black trim, and sported a lid that covered the burners when not in use. I’d found the relic on eBay and had it shipped all the way from Winnipeg at a cost of over twice the purchase price. I didn’t care. There was something oddly comforting about that old cast-iron cooker. Maybe because it reminded me of my grandmother’s kitchen and all the hours she and I spent together baking oatmeal cookies and chocolate cakes. That stove now held center stage in mine, alongside a decades-old refrigerator I’d had refinished to match at a local body shop.

  My love for everything retro didn’t stop there. There were the antique high cupboards with glass panes I’d salvaged and lovingly stripped and repainted, the old wood floor I’d sanded and lacquered, and the open shelves on which I displayed all my Blue Willow dishes. I liked to think of it as French country—charming and romantic in a non-fussy sort of way.

  Mitchell’s kitchen was as masculine as mine was not—charmless yellowed-oak cabinets from three decades ago, a white fridge with faded decals, inherited no doubt from somebody’s basement or garage. The stove was harvest gold, which I might not have minded so much had it worked. On the other hand, as Mitchell pointed out, he owned a microwave. So why would he even need a stove? And he was happy with any fridge as long as it kept his beer cold and his frozen dinners frozen.

  So what if my man wasn’t exactly sophisticated. I didn’t care. In fact, that was something I rather liked about Mitchell. Unlike his predecessor, I didn’t have to do somersaults to impress him. It was a refreshing change.

  He brushed a lock of hair from my forehead, anchoring it behind my ear, his eyes holding mine. He leaned in and kissed me, making me almost swoon. “A few minutes to spare, you say?” He smiled wickedly. “Does that mean you’ll only have a half cup instead of a mug? And I suppose I’ll have to forget about nibbling on your neck, and your shoulders and your—”

  I put a hand to his mouth. Considering his lack of ability in the kitchen—something he more than made up for with his talent for kissing—he could make a mean cup of coffee. I smiled back, holding his gaze. “Well, let’s not exaggerate. Pour me a mug by all means.”

  I climbed onto a bar stool and planted my elbows on the counter, wondering what he wanted to talk about. And then I noticed the way he seemed so very concentrated on pouring the coffee, and I guessed that whatever he wanted to tell me was probably not good news.

  He handed me the quart of milk.

  “Thanks.” I poured a few drops in my coffee and took a sip, “Mmm, good.”

  He cleared his throat. “Sorry if I haven’t had much time for you lately, Nicky. I’ve been working like mad on the edits.”

  “And how’s it going?”

  He shrugged, looking miserable. “Not great. My deadline is coming up fast, and if I don’t finish in time, I’ll break contract.” He scowled. “And if that happens, not only could they back out of it, but I’d have to reimburse them my advance.” He gave me an apologetic smile. “Which is why...” Long pregnant pause. My mouth dried. “I’ve decided to take her suggestion,” he continued, “and go to New York to work on the editing with her in person.”

  I managed to keep the whine from my tone. “And when are you leaving?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  I had not once thought of wondering how old this editor was, or what she looked like. Now, I pictured her as some lithesome blonde with sultry eyes. I had a sudden vision of Mitchell dining at some dimly lit restaurant, having a whispered conversation with his sexy editor, who just so happened to be enamored with her hot new author. I swallowed hard. “How long will you be away?”

  “No more than two weeks.”

  “Oh, two weeks isn’t that long.” Hopefully not long enough for some gorgeous babe to work her magic on you. “You can get it all done in that time?”

  “If it takes longer, I’ll be in deep shit.”

  In more ways than one, sweetheart. I jutted out my bottom lip, copying a sexy pout I’d seen Toni do very effectively on a few occasions. “I’ll miss you.”

  It must have worked because his smile lit the room. “I promise I’ll think of you all the time.”

  “You will?”

  “Every minute of every hour.” That might have sounded more romantic without the teasing glint in his eyes. “By the way, you look amazing today.”

  “That’s because I was on television this morning.” I gave my hair a toss, à la Toni, but only succeeded in whipping a lock into my eyes. I brushed it away.

  “You were on TV? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I figured you’d be too busy to watch.”

  “Even so, I could have recorded the show and watched it later.”

  I told him all about the interview over a second cup of coffee, and by the time I left for work, what little lip gloss I’d had left was gone, and his nice shirt was wearing more makeup than I was. It almost made up for the fact that he would be gone for two weeks. Almost.

  a steady flow of fat paychecks in my future

  I walked into the restaurant, fighting against the wind to close the door, and slipped out of my parka. From the back of the room where he’d been setting a table, Jake came to a full stop, giving me an appreciative stare just as Charles came out of the kitchen. “Oh. My. God. You look amazing.”

  “I do?” I said, hoping he’d say it again.

  He strode over. “You are hot,” he gushed, opening his arms for a hug, and squeezing until I squealed. This was an even better reaction than I’d had from Mitchell. “Hey, Jennifer, guys,” he called over his shoulders. “Nicky’s here.” He stepped back, studying me closely. “You should always wear your makeup that way.” I guess Mitchell’s smooching hadn’t erased all of it.

  He and Toni were two of a kind, forever trying to convince me to glam up. Since the ad campaign, using my before and after pictures, I was making more of an effort. I now routinely wore mascara and lip gloss, but that was as far as I would go. As far as I was concerned, spending hours putting on makeup when it would only melt away in our hot and steamy kitchen was a complete waste of time.

  “Enjoy it while you can because I refuse to spend half an hour painting my face every morning.”

  The guys came pouring out of the kitchen, staring at me as if I were some new dish they were considering for our
menu. Jennifer walked over, staring closely at my makeup.

  “She looks great, doesn’t she?” asked Jake, nodding his approval.

  “You sure do,” said Jennifer. “I wish I could do my eyes that way.”

  I swear, I was liking that girl more all the time.

  Marley and Jake gathered round. “Way to go.”

  “You look hot.”

  Toni waltzed in from the back, still wearing her shrink-wrap dress. “You won’t believe the buzz from our interview. The phone has been ringing off the hook. We’re booked solid for the next month.”

  Jake grabbed the reservations book, setting it on a table and pulling me a chair. “It’s true. Look.”

  I sat and he flipped page after page, and indeed many of the spaces were filled. “I wouldn’t call that booked solid. There are what, ten or twelve dinner reservations a day?”

  “That’s already twice as many dinner customers as we usually get,” Toni said.

  “And the calls are still coming in,” added Jake. “I bet by the end of the day all the spaces will be filled. You’ll see.” He started toward the kitchen and stopped. “Before I forget, Edna Jamieson called.”

  The name sounded vaguely familiar. “Who’s she?”

  He shrugged. “She’s a regular, comes in at least three or four times a week. I’m sure you must have noticed her. She’s middle aged and tiny—under five feet tall. She has gray hair and tends to wear tweeds and jeweled brooches.”

  Toni’s eyebrows rose. “I think Edna could use a fashion consultant.”

  I frowned. “What does she want?”

  He shrugged. “All I know is she’s nuts about our brownies. She asked me for the recipe but I wouldn’t give it to her. And then she insisted on speaking to you personally. Maybe she thinks you’re a softer touch and will give in to her.” He handed me a piece of paper with her name and telephone number.