A. Gardner - Poppy Peters 01 - Southern Peach Pie and A Dead Guy

by A. Gardner

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  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  A. Gardner is a native westerner exploring the sweet bites of the south. After years of working in the healthcare industry, she moved across the country with her husband and adventurous baby boy. She is a mystery and romance writer with a serious cupcake obsession and a love of storytelling that began at an early age. When she is not writing, she is either chasing after her son, out for a swim, trying out a new recipe, or painting her nails bright blue.

  To learn more about A. Gardner, visit her online at: http://www.gardnerbooks.blogspot.com

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  BOOKS BY A. GARDNER

  Poppy Peters Mysteries:

  Southern Peach Pie & A Dead Guy

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  SNEAK PEEK

  If you enjoyed this Poppy Peters Mystery, check out this sneak peek of another funny, romantic mystery from Gemma Halliday Publishing:

  CHICKEN SOUP & HOMICIDE

  by

  JANEL GRADOWSKI

  CHAPTER ONE

  "Are you ready to rumble?" Chef Jake Sawyer asked the question in a booming sports-announcer voice. The Chicken Soup Showdown would begin in a few hours, and Amy was ready. Or at least she kept telling herself she was ready in a fake it until you make it kind of way as she walked around the civic arena and tried to enjoy the Eat Local Expo. Chef Jake pointed the faux microphone, a wooden spoon, toward her. "Who's going to take down the egomaniac, Chef Britton?"

  Amy smiled at the pro wrestling-style commentary. Chef Jake had delivered the questions with a smile and a wink, but there was a sharp edge to his description of their rival. The afternoon could get very interesting. What she had thought would be a friendly charity competition might not be so friendly after all. She had no idea what an amped-up wrestler sounded like, so she just answered in a normal tone of voice. "I have no idea who will win. I think we're all pretty evenly matched teams."

  "Very diplomatic. I think you are a nicer person than I am." He swept his arm over the array of food samples on the table between them. "Would you like to try something?"

  "I would love to." She studied the display for Nibbles & Noshes restaurant, Jake's foodie business baby. On the white linen tablecloth, small cups of walleye ceviche were lined up beside glistening cubes of braised beef short rib on tiny plates. She selected the fish, flecked with bits of purple onion and green jalapeños. The ceviche was perfectly tangy and spicy. She held up the empty cup in a toast. "Mmm…I could make a meal of this. I'm sure you've been busy keeping up with the demand for samples. Are you ready for the showdown, especially the talking-to-the-crowd part?"

  He nodded and flashed another toothpaste commercial-worthy smile. His dark hair was twisted into a small knot on the back of his head. He had a full, closely trimmed beard and sapphire blue eyes that glittered in the harsh arena lighting. In short, he was so hot he could melt a stick of butter by looking at it, despite having dark moons under his eyes. Prepping for the Eat Local Expo must've been exhausting. He rolled his eyes and said, "I'm going to pretend it's just another dinner shift. I figure if I focus on one person, like I'm talking just to them, I won't get stage fright and freeze up. Are you ready to cook a meal in the spotlights?"

  She had been trying to forget about the fact that they were going to be cooking in the theater at one end of the civic arena. It had 500 seats. Considering the event had sold out weeks earlier, whenever she thought about it, the nervous butterflies in her stomach turned into giant bats. So she and her best friend, Carla, were wandering around the expo, munching on food samples while Amy tried to distract herself from worrying. Hopefully her stomach would stop grumbling and settle down soon so she could concentrate on making soup and a salad for the competition. "I'm ready, but the audience-participation thing is freaking me out too. We're really supposed to try to get the audience wound up like they're at a game show? I'm not used to being a cheerleader while I cook. Rah, rah…I'm putting chopped celery in the pot."

  He nodded as he chuckled and handed her a short rib sample. "I've cooked in worse situations. As long as Britton doesn't win, I don't care what happens. His partner from the herb farm seems really nice, but he's going down. "

  "Do you think so?"

  "Hell yes. Believe me, there will be nothing better than watching Britton get taken out by one of the underlings he tortured."

  Tortured underlings? Chef Jake had animosity to spare. Sophie, the owner of Riverbend Coffee, was Amy's partner in the Chicken Soup Showdown. Before opening the coffee shop, Sophie had been the pastry chef at Cornerstone, the high-end restaurant owned by Chef Britton, the target who was in Jake's crosshairs. As Amy and Sophie worked on their menu for the showdown, Sophie told her about the acidic, local celebrity chef. Life behind the Cornerstone kitchen doors, ruled by the vindictive dictator, sounded about as fun as getting a root canal every day. According to the chef bio on the showdown's web page, Jake was a former sous chef at the restaurant. He must've had run-ins with the combative chef, too.

  "We'll see soon enough." Amy deposited her empty glass and plate into the dirty dishes bin at the end of the table. "Good luck!"

  She looked around and located Carla at a nearby table loaded with bouquets made of fruit. The shop talk about cooking, a chore that her friend tried to avoid as much as possible, probably drove her away from the Nibbles & Noshes booth. Amy nudged Carla's shoulder, then plucked a skewer of grapes and pineapple chunks from a grass-green vase. "I'm done talking shop. Ready to move on."

  Carla grabbed a business card from the vendor. "These are really good. I needed a bit of fruit to counteract all of the sugar, bacon, and cheese I've eaten so far."

  The Eat Local Expo certainly wasn't a health-food extravaganza. Braised pork belly, ultimate grilled cheese sandwiches, and dark chocolate tortes were more prevalent than fruit kebabs on the sample tables. Restaurants, bakeries, and food producers from three counties around Kellerton, Michigan, were offering little bites of their most decadent treats. Exercise-fanatic Carla did indulge in decadent food, but she was probably calculating how many extra laps she'd need to make at the health club's pool to burn off the calories.

  Amy and Carla walked in silence for a bit, checking out samples and getting a nice dose of vitamin C courtesy of the fruit. Amy was grateful for the company. If she had been alone, she'd be wandering around wringing her hands and going a bit insane waiting for the showdown to begin. Or hanging out in the Riverbend Coffee booth bugging her partner and drinking all of the espresso samples. Not a smart thing to do unless she wanted to look like an infomercial for the side effects of consuming too much caffeine during the showdown. Even though Carla couldn't stay for the actual competition, she had rearranged her day to come to the expo and play mental health anchor.

  "These sound good." Amy stopped in front of a table. What looked like balls of dirt nestled in fancy foil wrappers were lined up in front of a chalkboard that said they were Pecan Pie Energy Balls. She popped one in her mouth and chewed tentatively, hoping the vegan snack wouldn't taste like potting soil. As advertised, the treat was sweet and chewy. She grabbed another sample and handed it to Carla. "They do taste like pecan pie. They're supposed to give you energy. You should buy a case of them. They have to be healthier than the gallons of coffee you drink at work to keep your energy up."

  Carla sniffed the snack then took a bite. She nodded. "These are really good, but I can't believe you're criticizing my coffee consumption. I've seen the stash of coffee beans in your pantry."

  "My point is, you and Shepler are still rolling along at the hot-and-bothered relationship level. I'm sure multiple sources of energy for both of you can come in handy. You need some natural sugar, carbs, and protein to go with the caffeine." Amy handed money to the smiling cashier behind the Nature's Nuggets table. She plucked a bag of the homemade energy bites from the display and tucked them into Carla's tomato-red tote bag. "Betwee
n your work hours and hanging out with him, you must be running with your energy tanks on empty all the time."

  "Thank you." Carla hopped out of the path of an old woman zooming down the aisle in an electric wheelchair. "I've been working extra hours so I can take a few days off in a couple weeks. Bruce and I are planning a little romantic getaway."

  Amy flinched as another red tote bag slammed into her hip. The reusable shopping bags were being passed out at the entrance to the Eat Local Expo. It seemed that every person roaming the civic arena floor was carrying one. Judging from the impact, apparently a vendor was selling barbells instead of barware. She rubbed the tender spot and asked, "Where are you going, and why haven't I heard about this until now? If you're leaving soon, there are all kinds of things you need to do to prepare for a romantic getaway, starting with buying more energy snacks here."

  Carla ran her fingers through her short, cognac-colored hair. Now that it was fall, she had opted for darker walnut streaks instead of the honey highlights she wore in the summer. "We're thinking about going to Petoskey or maybe Grand Rapids. If the weather looks bad, we may even just stay somewhere nice in downtown Detroit. I didn't tell you until now because I don't need to prepare that much for two nights away. I'll just throw a few things in the overnight bag you gave me for my birthday, and I'll be good."

  "No you won't! That little bag will not hold enough supplies for a romantic getaway." Amy twisted her straw-blonde ponytail into a bun and tucked the ends underneath to secure the temporary updo. It was time to get serious with her best friend, so she needed a serious hairdo. The Vera Bradley bag was quite large, and very cute, but even if Carla and Shepler spent most of the weekend in bed, they'd need more stuff. "You have to at least pack a cooler and garment bag with a nice dress."

  Carla grimaced and shook her head. She wasn't convinced that more than two minutes of planning was in order, so Amy soldiered on with the reasons why. "You can pack snacks and drinks in the cooler, then you won't have to waste money on room service. When you two actually get out of bed, I bet your hunky sweetie pie will want to take you out to dinner…that's why you need a dress."

  "We'll manage." Carla held up a square of muffaletta sandwich, which was skewered by a blue tassel-topped toothpick. She swiped the stratified sandwich sample back and forth like a miniature sword. "We may not be as organized as you and Alex, but we are adults. I promise we won't starve or go schlepping around town in dirty clothes. We'll be fine."

  "But if you take the time to plan, maybe make a batch of cheesecake-filled, chocolate-covered strawberries, your weekend could go from fine to outstanding." Amy's mind filled with all of the decadent treats that would be perfect for a romantic getaway—gooey caramel-filled chocolate truffles, buttery shortbread cookies to dip into thick fudge sauce, and some champagne Jell-O shots to add some whimsy to the spread of snacks they could feed each other with their fingers. No utensils or napkins needed. Carla obviously didn't have the time or inclination to make the sexy treats, but Amy didn't mind helping out her formerly commitment-phobic friend.

  Carla rolled her eyes. "I don't do things like fill strawberries. How do you even do that? Fussy foods are in your arena. Maybe Bruce and I will get some strawberry cheesecake ice cream cones."

  Would she actually consider making them if they were simple? It wasn't like she was suggesting Carla prepare a four-course buffet for aliens. Scoop, fill, dip. Three easy steps. "You get giant strawberries and scoop out their cores, pipe in sweetened cream cheese, then dip in melted chocolate. I'm sure I can find a melon-ball tool for you here before you leave."

  "No, thank you. I'm fine with my ice cream version of your foodie fantasy. Handing a cashier money is the most work I want to do outside of the hotel room."

  The aisle ahead was blocked. Amy stopped to figure out how to get past the logjam of people clustered in front of the Cornerstone restaurant booth. The display area was about four times larger than any of the other booths, but apparently the added space still couldn't accommodate the crowd scrambling for the gourmet restaurant's food. Worker-bee chefs in starched white jackets and tall, ribbed paper hats scrambled to fill sample plates. Amy couldn't see the menu board, but it didn't matter. While she didn't mind chatting and sampling Chef Jake's food, she had no interest in anything from Chet Britton's restaurant. That would be like munching on the terrine of evil concocted by the wicked warlock of the Chicken Soup Showdown. During the preliminary competition meetings, he hadn't been quite able to hide his disdain for being pitted against mere mortals in the culinary world.

  "I don't see anything else interesting in this aisle. Do you want to try to squeeze through or just turn around?" she asked Carla.

  "I vote for turning around. I certainly don't have any desire to see Chet preening for his groupies."

  "As I recall, you used to be one of my groupies." The masculine voice stopped Amy's plunge back into gridlock. She turned around. The classically trained, highly paid, conceited Chef Britton was sneering at Carla. He wrinkled his nose at her and asked, "What's the matter? Don't you love me anymore?"

  Considering his height, barely taller than Amy, and receding hairline, he looked sort of like a balding troll. Carla showed no emotion, but that was something she was used to doing while working in a busy emergency room. Her hands were clenched into fists behind her back as she said, "Do you really want me to answer that? I might hurt your fragile ego. Wouldn't want to poke any holes in it and have your bravado deflated right before the showdown."

  "A few harmless words aren't going to do anything to my confidence. I'll win." He narrowed his eyes at Carla and then turned his gaze onto Amy. "There's no way amateurs can defeat me."

  "The Almighty Unbeatable Chef Britton?" Carla shook her head. "There's this thing called humility. You should try it some time."

  One of the Cornerstone chefs glanced at Carla as he spooned butter-poached shrimp into a miniature stainless steel bowl. Spiky bits of dusty blond hair poked out from around the edges of his stovepipe-like paper hat. He smiled at Carla but kept one eye on his cranky boss's back. Obviously getting caught approving of snarky comments toward the head chef wouldn't be wise.

  Chef Britton took a deep breath, which puffed out his chest. If he was trying to make himself look taller and more impressive, it wasn't working. He was short for a man, not even remotely close to being average height. Apparently he used obnoxiousness as a way to distract people from noticing his stunted stature.

  "You don't need to be humble when you're as good as I am. My food is unbeatable." He swung his gaze back toward Amy. Although he was speaking to Carla, he was obviously trying his best to play dirty and unnerve Amy. "I hope you're prepared to lose."

  Don't blink first. It's a sign of weakness. Out of her peripheral vision she could see Carla shake her head slightly. Amy had seen the gesture before. Don't answer him. I've got this. Carla was a master of snappy comebacks, and she never hesitated to come to Amy's aid when the situation called for world-class insults.

  "If your cooking skills are anything like your bedroom skills, I hope your partner in the showdown has a lot of stamina. Based on my prior experience, I predict you'll be down for the count about ten minutes into the competition," Carla said.

  The smiling sous chef snorted, then spun around to stir something in a chafing dish. Score! Chef Britton's cool attitude cracked, leaving behind a crimson flush that rose from his neck, crept up his face, and headed toward his sparse hairline at a rather alarming speed. He whirled back around and sneered at Carla. "A good partner makes all the difference, my dear. Trisha's energy is contagious. I'll have no problems going full tilt for as long as it takes to win."

  "You really should watch out. All of the bragging is going to come back around and bite you in the ass." Carla cranked up her laser-like evil eye and aimed it at Britton. "Karma's a bitch."

  "Karma…Carla. Same thing."

  Ouch. He had no problems lobbing insult grenades to defend his snobby encampment. What would he do du
ring the showdown to defend his top chef status within the community? Amy's stomach twisted into a knot as Carla leveled one more icy stare at her former lover before turning away. She grabbed Amy's hand and pulled her into the crowd. If one of Britton's tactics to win was rattling her, he'd done a good job. Amy's heart was beating so hard she could hear blood whooshing in her ears. But unfortunately for him, it looked like Carla had turned the tables and given him a dose of rudeness. Would his break in composure still be in effect at the showdown?

  CHAPTER TWO

  Three hours later, Amy wished Carla was with her again to break up the flood of tension that was threatening to drown her. The showdown was almost ready to begin, and things weren't going well. "Could you have left them in your car?" Amy asked as she looked into the empty drawer.

  Sophie shook her head. "No. I had them in my booth but put them in that drawer after Bridget stopped by to say we could start setting up our kitchens onstage. My knife case was here an hour ago."

  Amy pulled the metal drawer out completely, until she could see the back wall. She shook her head. The knives were gone. "I guess somebody must've slipped past the security guards. We'll have to take turns using mine. Sorry, they probably aren't as nice as yours."

  "You can borrow one of mine," Chef Jake called from the other side of the stage. He ran the wide blade of a chef's knife over his pewter-colored sharpening rod. The sword-fight sound of metal scraping against metal clanged across the stage. "Sucks that somebody took your entire kit. I have a smaller chef's knife I won't use. You're welcome to it."

  "Thank you," Sophie said as she jogged across the front of the stage. The long, silky brown hair in her ponytail swung back and forth, glistening in the spotlights. She grasped the handle of the knife Chef Jake had placed on the corner of his prep table. "It feels good. I appreciate the help. I was about ready to see if I could find a booth selling knives out on the expo floor."