By Cook or by Crook

by Maya Corrigan

  “You got your cooking genes from him, huh?” Gunnar said.

  Val didn’t trust herself to give a straight answer. She fingered her cutoffs. “These cooking jeans? They’re so old I don’t remember where I got them.”

  “I’m back, Val.” Her grandfather called out from the hall. “Somethin’ smells good. Make sure you’re not burning it.”

  Gunnar laughed. “Lessons from the master.”

  Val’s jaw clenched. She checked the cookie sheets in the oven. “Not even close to burning.” She slammed the oven door. “Thanks for bringing breakfast, Gunnar. I’m not trying to rush you, but I need to talk to my grandfather, and then get dressed for the memorial service.”

  “Val, have you seen the newspap—” Her grandfather stopped at the entrance to the kitchen and scowled at Gunnar. “Oh, you’re here. I thought I recognized your red car parked at the corner.”

  “Good morning, sir. Did you enjoy the game last night?”

  “Yup.” Granddad looked from Gunnar to Val and back again. “I expect you enjoyed what you did too. No time to shave this morning? Or no razor?”

  “Granddad.” Val glared at him as he came into the kitchen.

  “I can take a hint,” Gunnar whispered to her. He walked past her grandfather. “Nice seeing you again, sir. Save me one of those macaroons, Val.”

  Val walked him to the door. “Sorry about that.”

  “I’m just sorry that what he thinks happened last night didn’t happen.” He put his hand on her arm. “I meant what I said about getting away from here. If you won’t go to the Bahamas, how about New York? You must have friends there.”

  “A few, but my friends here need me. This is my home now and—” She broke off, startled by her own words. Had her heart decided where home was though her brain still hemmed and hawed about it? Her brain took over now, feeding her practical reasons for not leaving. “I have a business to run. I can’t just take off when I please.”

  “How about a bodyguard? I do a pretty good imitation of one.”

  If she needed a bodyguard, she wanted a real one, not a would-be actor playing a role. “Thanks. I’m not going off on my own. As long as I’m with other people, I feel safe.”

  A nerve pulsed in Gunnar’s temple. “Feeling safe isn’t the same as being safe. I’ll call you later today.”

  He’d explained away some of the doubts she’d had about him, but also triggered new ones. The actors she’d met in New York had one trait in common with celebrity chefs. They performed all the time, not just in front of a camera. So how could you know what they were really like?

  As she closed the door behind Gunnar, the hall phone rang. The caller ID announced “Treadwell Gazette”—probably a reporter following up on either the racket-burning story or the recipe contest. Val pressed Talk to answer the call and then Off to end it—a telephonic way of saying “No comment.” She pressed Talk again, heard a dial tone, and left the line open. No phone calls would get through until she and Granddad had a chat.

  Could she guilt him into giving up the recipe column? Probably not, but she’d try. The kitchen smelled of sugar, coconut, and vanilla. The sweet aroma calmed her. She opened the oven. Better take out the macaroons before taking on her grandfather.

  He stood at the counter, lapping up the article about himself like the cat that got the cream. He pointed to the newspaper. “Surprised you, didn’t I?”

  She donned a quilted mitt and pulled the cookie sheets from the oven. “Doesn’t it bother you to claim my recipes as your own?”

  He looked the picture of wide-eyed innocence. “I view them as family recipes.”

  “What about the people you beat out for the columnist gig? They can actually cook. They have recipes of their own to share.” Like Irene Pritchard, who’d wanted assurances that Val wasn’t competing against her in the contest. She must be steamed about Granddad winning.

  “They might cook better than me, but the editor decided I write better. He likes my folksy style.”

  Granddad wouldn’t climb aboard the guilt train no matter what Val said. She transferred the cookies to a wire rack to cool. “Why did you enter the contest? It’s not like you’ve ever shown an interest in writing a food column.”

  Granddad ran a finger under the collar of his polo shirt. “It’s all because of Lillian, the widow Ned mentioned the other night. I met her at the senior center.”

  Val stared at him, amazed. “I don’t understand what Lillian has to do with this. Is she into cooking?”

  “Not at all. Her husband cooked. He made gourmet dinners for her every night. Now she eats at the retirement village, and she hates the food. All the fellas who live there vie to sit at her table in the dining room. I got to be top dog by inviting her to that fancy new restaurant.”

  “The Tuscan Eaterie.” The femme fatale of the senior set just wanted to eat well. Val could relate to that. “How did Lillian like the food there?”

  “She enjoyed it. Me, I thought it was kinda skimpy and expensive. If I have to take her to places like that, my bank account will go bust. I figured if I won the recipe writer contest, I could impress her without shelling out a lot of dough.”

  Val waved her hand like a student with a question. “Hello. You’ll have to cook for her.”

  “Once in a while. That’s the reason for the five ingredients. I can manage simple stuff if you teach me. You have plenty of recipes with eight or more ingredients. You can put those in your own cookbook.” He reached for a macaroon. “Monday’s the deadline for my next column. I’m counting on you for recipes.”

  What choice did she have? Instead of her convincing him to give up the recipe column, he’d enlisted her as his accomplice. “I’ll help you pick out recipes on one condition—you have to prepare them. That way, if someone buttonholes you on the street and asks questions about them, you can answer.”

  “Sounds like overkill to me, but okay.” He munched his macaroon. “This is a mighty fine cookie. How many ingredients?”

  “Five, but it’s not my recipe, so you can’t use it. I got it from a woman who lives on Maple Street, Mrs. Zachana—”

  “Mrs. Z. I knew her husband. I’ll drop by her place and ask if I can use her recipe. She’ll probably be tickled to have her name in the paper.”

  At least he was asking her permission and giving her credit. After a visit to Mrs. Z’s cute brick house, Granddad might do what Val had hoped a few days ago on Tuesday—fall in love with the place, buy it, and get rid of the Victorian behemoth. A compact home would be perfect for him if he lived alone. But if Val stayed for a while, it wouldn’t suffice for both of them. Of course, she could always get a place of her own, but she’d miss this kitchen, not just its ample counter space, but the memories it brought back. Grandma had taught her to cook here. Val baked cookies and cakes in other kitchens, but only here did she feel her grandmother standing beside her when the oven gave off sweet aromas. Somehow she’d find the money to maintain the behemoth, even if it meant taking in boarders, which Granddad would resist.

  He plucked another macaroon from the rack. “I gotta call Ned. He’ll spread the word about my column. I’ll be a celebrity at the senior village.”

  Val laughed. Winning the contest certainly energized him and made him less grumpy. “I think Lillian is just an excuse. You’re writing the column in a quest for fame.”

  “I gotta get something out of it. It doesn’t pay worth a hoot. I’m hoping they ask me to write restaurant reviews next, and I can get some free meals.” He hustled out of the kitchen. A few seconds later, he shouted, “You left the phone off the hook, Val.”

  “Sorry.”

  She bit into a macaroon, crunchy on the outside, soft and sweet in the center. She arranged the remaining macaroons on a platter to take to the potluck lunch, and sliced grape tomatoes for the salad she would also take.

  The phone rang several times while she was assembling the salad. Each time she expected her grandfather to report that the chief wanted to sp
eak to her, but Granddad fielded all the calls himself.

  He returned to the kitchen as she mixed the salad. “A lot of folks saw that article in the paper. They’re phoning to congratulate me. I might have to take that phone off the hook myself just to have some peace.”

  “You’ll never do that. Admit it, you love the attention.”

  He eyed the salad. “What’s that greenish glop with the little tomatoes in it?”

  She spooned some onto a small plate. “Have a taste. Tell me what you think.”

  He rolled the salad around in his mouth as if tasting wine, but at least he didn’t spit it out. “Not bad, but danged if I know what I’m eating.”

  “Hearts of palm—”

  “Never heard of ’em. No palm trees around here.”

  “You’re also eating avocados, a little mayo, and lemon juice. Onions are optional.”

  “Hmm. Five ingredients without onions.” He tapped his temple. “Hey, if I put a salad recipe in my column, I won’t have to cook, just chop, and I’m good with a knife.” He held out his plate. “Give me some more so I can decide if I like it.”

  “Sorry. It’s going to the buffet lunch we’re having after Nadia’s memorial service today. The macaroons are also going.” Val covered the salad with plastic wrap and stowed it in the fridge. “I’ll add the onions to the salad later if I have time. Right now, I’d better shower and get ready for the service.”

  Half an hour later, Val came downstairs, dressed for the memorial service in a black skirt and a cream top.

  Granddad was sitting at the dining room table, poring over recipes. “Got a call from the police while you were showering. The chief said to tell you he knows about your busted brakes, and he’s looking into it.”

  “How did he find out?” Either the garage mechanic or Gunnar must have contacted the police.

  “He didn’t say. How come you didn’t tell me about the brakes? Or being run off the road Tuesday night? And you didn’t wake me when you heard noises in the middle of the night.”

  “I didn’t want to worry you.” She headed for the kitchen. “I need to chop onions.”

  He followed her. “I looked at your recipe. You left it on the counter. It calls for red onions. I think you should use green onions instead.”

  She wheeled around. “Now you’re trying to teach me to cook. Winning that contest is going to your head.”

  “I’m making a suggestion. Green onions won’t overpower the salad. Red ones will.”

  She opened her mouth to object, closed it, and stared at him. “You’re right. I should have thought of substituting green onions.”

  “Here’s another thing you should have thought of.” Granddad sat at the breakfast table. “Going after a murderer can get you in trouble. The police want you to stop, and I do too.”

  “They would rather arrest Monique and close the case.” She took a bunch of green onions from the fridge. “And don’t try to convince me she’s guilty.”

  “I bet she asked you to help her, though, and that’s putting you in danger.” He pointed his index finger at Val. “If she wants to prove she’s innocent, let her do it herself.”

  By doing it herself, Monique would increase speculation that she’d murdered Nadia.

  “I’m sure her lawyer advised her against doing that. Don’t worry, Granddad, I’m not walking around accusing people of murder. I’m just asking questions about Nadia.” Val sliced through each green onion lengthwise. “I’ve learned a lot about her in the last few days. I should have taken the time to get to know her better, instead of just writing her off. I wish I’d returned her call the day she was murdered.”

  “You want to make it up to her by solving her murder? That’s guilt gone haywire.”

  “Guilt’s hard to control.” No one knew that better than Val. She’d come to Bayport with a plateful of guilt and a side order of regret for the life she’d left behind in New York. Four months had passed, and she still couldn’t get rid of the leftovers. “You can’t assume my car problems have anything to do with Nadia’s murder.”

  “I’m just glad your car’s in the shop, and you can’t drive for the next few days.” He stood up. “You need a ride to the memorial service?”

  “Monique and Maverick are coming by for me.” Val cut the onions crosswise into semicircles. “By the way, Mom and Dad phoned this morning and missed talking to you. When they call you later, don’t mention the murder or Monique. It might ruin their vacation.”

  “Okay.” He waggled his finger at her. “Don’t you go playing detective at that lunch.”

  At the memorial service, Val sat on one side of Monique, Maverick on the other side. The chapel filled quickly. Nadia’s nearest neighbors, Irene and Roger Pritchard, flanked their son, Jeremy. The real estate folks occupied two rows. Downtown merchants showed up, including Luke and Darwin. Nearly every row had Bayport tennis players or club staffers sitting in it. Also present, two men resembling vultures more than mourners: a reporter, who tried to buttonhole people as they arrived, and Deputy Holtzman, who fixed his eyes on Monique.

  During the opening hymn, Bigby charged in. He walked up and down the center aisle, looking for an empty seat with the same intensity he doubtless showed when looking for empty land to build on. As the singing stopped, he lowered himself into one of the folding chairs lining the walls.

  The minister addressed the congregation with words about eternal life meant to be comforting, words he could have spoken at anyone’s memorial service. Val wondered if he’d ever met Nadia.

  Irene Pritchard spoke of Nadia’s willingness to volunteer her time for children’s charities, the money she’d raised for the March of Dimes, and the parties she’d given to bring her neighbors together. Then Althea talked about her friendship with a woman whose background and interests couldn’t have been more different from her own, except that they shared a love of tennis. At one point, when Althea’s voice broke, Val fought to hold back tears.

  Monique nudged Val. “Look at Bigby.”

  The big man sweated profusely, his face strangely contorted. He squeezed his eyes closed. As Althea finished speaking, he buried his face in his hands, his shoulders heaving, though no sound escaped him. Remorse, Val decided. He was feeling remorse for harassing Nadia, maybe for killing her.

  Monique whispered, “He’s all broken up. He must have really cared for her.”

  “You think?” Val had taken it for granted that Bigby, after being rejected by Nadia, had stalked her in revenge and written an anonymous letter to expose and embarrass her. But Monique saw him differently. Val tried to shift her own perspective on Bigby. Perhaps love, not revenge, had motivated his actions. An excess of love could be as dangerous as hate.

  Val sighed. People were like those inkblots psychologists used—walking, talking inkblots. They really should be easier to understand than black splotches and less susceptible to projection by the interpreter. But just when you thought you had them pinned down, they would morph, as Bigby was doing now before her eyes.

  At the end of the service, the minister introduced Joe Westrin. Nadia’s ex stood up and thanked them for coming in the name of Nadia’s only living relatives, an aunt and uncle too frail to travel. He also announced that everyone was invited to Althea’s house for a buffet lunch in Nadia’s honor.

  Bigby rushed out the side door, the first to leave. By the time Val made it outside, he was gone. Groups of mourners clustered on the sidewalk and along the path between it and the chapel. Val stood on the steps of the church with Monique, while Maverick joined Luke and Darwin on the sidewalk.

  Monique offered to lend Val a car. “We still have our old hatchback parked at Maverick’s shop. I could drive that, and you could drive my van.”

  “Thanks, I can use a car. How about you keep the van and I drive the hatchback?”

  “The door locks don’t work, and the air conditioner is dicey.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I’ll only use it for short hops.”

  “W
e might as well pick it up on the way to Althea’s house. We’ll leave whenever Maverick stops hanging out with the boys over there.” Monique pointed with her chin toward her husband. “On second thought, maybe you shouldn’t take the hatchback. It could be bad luck.”

  “Bad luck?” Val echoed. She wasn’t superstitious. Broken mirrors and black cats didn’t worry her, but after the last few days, not to mention her automotive history, she wasn’t anxious to drive an unlucky car. “What do you mean?”

  Monique brushed lint from her black dress. “The last person who drove the hatchback was Nadia. She borrowed it a few weeks ago.”

  The car borrowing no longer surprised Val. She might be the only person whose car Nadia hadn’t driven. “Why did she want your car?”

  “Probably to haul something that would have messed up her leather upholstery.” Monique beckoned to Maverick. He either didn’t see or ignored her. “I found out what Maverick was doing Monday night. He left Philadelphia sooner than I expected.”

  “Where’d he go?”

  “Casino-hopping in Atlantic City.” Monique rolled her eyes. “How dumb is that? No one wins at a casino except the house.”

  And the man who needs an alibi. Maverick had lucked out, his face on casino surveillance cameras the night his mistress was murdered. “So Maverick’s really into gambling. I remember him talking about the NCAA championships at the café. It sounded like he had a lot of money riding on the game.”

  “For the Super Bowl, he didn’t just bet on the game, he bet on the toss. He can’t even go to a funeral without consulting his bookie. And until a month ago, he played poker two nights a week, usually losing big.”

  “Hello, ladies.” The reporter Val had seen inside the church swooped down on them. “I’m Terry Barnes from the Treadwell Gazette. Val Deniston and Monique Mott, if I’m not mistaken. Mind if I ask you a few questions?”