A Killer Edition

by Lorna Barrett

  “Would I!” Pixie said eagerly.

  “I’m afraid I can only give you an hour or so, though. Angelica’s got a signing this afternoon with that TV chef and asked if I could lend them a hand.”

  “Yeah, I heard she’d managed to pull it off. Do you mind if we get started with those books right now?”

  Between the two of them, they got the boxes into the dumbwaiter and sent them down to the basement storeroom in three trips. Tricia waited on three customers before Pixie’s lunch hour. Once she’d returned, Tricia made her way up the stairs to her apartment to change and eat.

  As it happened, Tricia did not have to settle for a cupcake for lunch. Instead, she whipped up an omelet, tossing in some frozen onions and peppers she’d thawed in the microwave. Simple, but pretty tasty.

  Tricia figured her usual sweater set (light pink that day) would do and headed down the stairs to Haven’t Got a Clue, which was as quiet as a tomb.

  “Maybe we should put some music on,” Tricia suggested.

  “Oh, sure. I’ll do it now,” Pixie agreed. “You’d better hurry over to the Cookery for the book signing. And while you’re there, see if you can steer some of their customers our way.”

  Tricia smiled. “I’ll do that.”

  Tricia left her store and was surprised to find that the Cookery was nearly filled to capacity with eager customers. June was already busy ringing up sales, with a number of women waiting in line to buy one or more of the chef’s books.

  Tricia threaded her way through the throng of people to the large folding table that had been set up near the back of the shop. On it were stacked forty or fifty copies of the chef’s hardcover cookbooks. She found her sister staring at the dumbwaiter, dressed to the nines, and about to grab another box. “Let me get that,” Tricia said. “You’ll get your pretty outfit all dirty.”

  “Thanks. I just took off my apron. I guess I should have waited.” Angelica struck a pose. “Isn’t this dress darling?”

  “Are those new shoes, too?”

  “Well, of course. I can’t host Chef Larry in rags.”

  Since renovating her apartment, Angelica had made sure to have an enormous walk-in closet added to her boudoir, and she’d spent quite a bit of time filling it, too. She handed Tricia a box cutter.

  “You have high hopes for this signing,” Tricia stated.

  “I do.”

  “And all these people arrived because of your social media posts?”

  “Antonio got the chef’s PR people to help spread the word, too,” Angelica admitted.

  Tricia opened the box and began to unload yet another title onto the table. “I take it the chef will arrive by three?”

  “Yes. Antonio was assured he’d be here right on time, and I took a call from his press agent this morning, who said the same thing.”

  “Where’s the chef staying? Not in the Brookview or the Sheer Comfort Inn—otherwise, I’m sure you would have told me.”

  “If I were to guess, I’d say he’s holed up in a hotel in Nashua. He’s a big-city kind of guy with restaurants in places like LA, Vegas, New York, and even in Dubai. He wouldn’t want to stay in a backwater village like Stoneham.”

  “Ange!” Tricia admonished.

  “I’m not saying Stoneham is a hick town—I’m assuming that the chef might think that of us.”

  “We are a tourist destination and we have nothing to be ashamed of,” Tricia asserted.

  “A year ago, I would have agreed with you, but since we have next to nothing in the way of support from the Board of Selectmen or the Chamber . . .” She let her words trail off.

  The truth was the tourists visiting Stoneham would still be charmed by the village because Angelica—in her Nigela Ricita persona—had paid for all the beautiful flowers that once again graced Main Street. That she’d had signs erected to denote the donation hadn’t diminished the thanks the merchants on Main Street felt and only engendered more goodwill toward the Nigela Ricita Associates brand.

  A commotion at the front of the store drew their attention. The chef had arrived.

  Angelica almost knocked Tricia down in her rush to greet her guest.

  “Chef Andrews! Welcome to the Cookery. We’re so happy you could join us today.”

  “Happy to be here,” Andrews said, his gaze wandering around the store. His smile seemed to droop as he took in the shelves filled with vintage cookbooks. “What’s with all the old stuff?”

  “Uh, Stoneham is proudly known as Booktown. We’re renowned for embracing vintage books.”

  “You mean used,” he said with a sneer.

  “We celebrate the past,” Angelica answered honestly. “But we also embrace the present. And that’s why we invited you to be here today.”

  Andrews scowled. “I don’t make a nickel from used booksellers. Do you sell used copies of my books?”

  Angelica hesitated. “We have a wide variety of books. But as you can see, we cater to the needs of people with a love of preparing food. We sell vintage and new utensils—everything we think our customers would use and enjoy. And we have a variety of your books here today.”

  “Used?” he again accused.

  “No. They were ordered from our regular distributor—and whatever is sold today will be afforded your full royalty.”

  Andrews’s scowl deepened.

  Angelica tried again. “It was a great honor for me to meet you a year ago on the Celtic Lady Authors at Sea cruise.”

  “I’m sure it was,” Andrews said dismissively. He looked at his watch. “I have an interview with People magazine in an hour, so I need to get out of here by three thirty. Make that happen,” he said with a cold glare.

  Tricia blinked and immediately felt sorry for her sister, and she saw Angelica swallow down pangs of anger and disappointment.

  “Whatever you say, Chef.” That last word was said in a tone Tricia had come to know and fear. Angelica was unhappy. Not just annoyed. But royally pissed off.

  She led Andrews to the back of the store and he stood behind the table. All the women who’d assembled rushed to see who would be first in line.

  Andrews continued to stand behind the table and gave a brief—a very brief—speech, which was little more than a commercial for his Good Food Channel television show, before he sat down and grabbed a pen, ready to start signing.

  Tricia stepped up to hand him each book, title page open so that he could sign it. He didn’t personalize any copy, just scribbling his name in an incoherent line and rushing each gushing woman along without a smile or a hint of gratitude.

  “Could you make it out to Doris?” one woman asked. “It’s for my mother. It’ll be an eightieth birthday gift.”

  “No. We need to keep the line moving,” Andrews said tersely, scribbled his name, and bellowed, “Next!”

  The man must have woken up on the wrong side of the bed that morning, Tricia thought as she placed yet another cookbook before him. Even Gordon Ramsey had better manners than this piece of work. She’d seen Andrews’s TV program, which had portrayed him as a benevolent kind of guy. Had it all been a sham?

  “Mr. Andrews?” It was Muriel (or was it Midge?) Dexter who had stepped up to the table, holding on to the book she’d purchased days earlier, its receipt sticking out of the top and acting as a bookmark.

  “Chef Andrews,” the celebrity cook demanded.

  “Chef Andrews,” she corrected herself. “I’m Muriel Dexter, and this is my sister, Midge.” On that day the twins were decked out in the matching sailor suits in white with blue piping that they’d worn on the cruise and looking smart in matching sailor caps perched upon their snow-white hair. “We’re your biggest fans.”

  “Then why aren’t you both holding books for me to sign?”

  Midge blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  “If you’re my biggest fans, wh
y are you only asking me to sign one book instead of two?”

  “Well . . .”

  “They’re sisters and they live together,” Angelica explained.

  “Not surprising,” Andrews muttered under his breath.

  Tricia held yet another of the heavy cookbooks in her hand and at that moment fought the urge to whack the guy over the head with it.

  “Would you please sign it?” Midge asked as Muriel held out the book.

  Andrews wrenched the book out of the old woman’s hand, the movement sending her rocking on her heels.

  “Excuse me!” Angelica said in that familiar tone once again. But Andrews seemed oblivious, scribbled his name across the title page, and slammed the book shut. The Dexter twins backed away as though scalded, and several of the women in line began whispering among themselves.

  Angelica bent down so that her mouth was next to the man’s ear and muttered in a tone that only he and Tricia could hear, “I’m sure your mother didn’t bring you up to be so rude.”

  Andrews swiveled his head in her direction and glared at her.

  Oh, dear. Had Angelica just ruined her chances at winning the amateur division of the Bake-Off?

  The sound of the little bell over the door drew Tricia’s attention, and she saw the Dexter twins and several other customers flee the store. A woman in a beige suit, with a face frozen in what could only be described as disgusted resignation, signaled the author, who stood.

  “I have to get going. I’ve got an interview with channel nine. Be sure to watch the news tonight,” he called before he dashed out of the Cookery and into a long black limo that had double-parked outside the store.

  Tricia caught sight of her sister, who stood off to the side, her expression grim. She moved to join her. “I thought he said he was talking to someone from People magazine.”

  “Who cares,” Angelica muttered.

  “Are you okay?”

  Angelica’s expression was tense. “I guess.”

  “I’m sorry,” Tricia said.

  “What for?”

  “I know you admired that jerk.”

  “He’s an extremely gifted chef,” Angelica said, stiff-lipped.

  “And he’s still a jerk,” Tricia insisted.

  Angelica’s wry smile was ironic. “Yes, he is. He could have at least signed the rest of the stock before he vamoosed.”

  A short line remained at the register and the stack of books on the signing table had dwindled, but the excitement at meeting the world-famous chef had completely disappeared.

  “Are we on for martinis on your balcony tonight?” Tricia asked.

  Angelica turned a sad face toward her sister. Somehow she managed a smile. “It looks like it’ll be the best part of my day.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  The first day of the Great Booktown Bake-Off dawned hot and hazy, which was not good weather if one wanted to make a meringue, but since that wasn’t a task in Tricia’s near future, she put that thought aside.

  Tricia had hours to kill before she and Angelica were to meet to walk to the high school to witness the spectacle, so she had plenty of time for her morning exercise and to get ready for the day. What did one wear to observe a baking contest? Was the auditorium air-conditioned? Should she bring a sweater? In the end, she chose just another sweater set. This one was powder blue.

  With her cat fed and money in the till to begin the day, Tricia left Haven’t Got a Clue for what she figured would be most of the day and showed up at the Cookery to find Angelica waiting behind its door. “Let’s grab a latte at the Coffee Bean,” she suggested.

  “Sounds good to me,” Angelica agreed.

  They entered the shop to find a short line. It was co-owner Boris Kozlov, who usually did more of the behind-the-scenes work these days, manning the front of the house. “Vhat can I get for you ladies?” he asked.

  They gave their orders, paid, and spoke to him as he prepared the drinks.

  “Are you excited about Alexa entering the Bake-Off?” Tricia asked.

  “Is not my nature to be excited,” the thin, grim man admitted. “But if she vins, it vill be good for the shop. Vould you like a cupcake to go vith that?”

  “Uh, not today. But I hope Alexa will add her entry to the menu beginning tomorrow,” Tricia said.

  Boris nodded. “Da. That vas the plan.” He handed them their coffees. “Thank you for patronizing the Coffee Bean. Next!”

  “That Boris—still a charmer,” Angelica muttered as they left the shop.

  The sisters walked up Main Street toward the high school and found they weren’t the only ones headed in that direction. Despite the ten-dollar fee to watch the proceedings, which would be used to buy new television equipment for the school, a surprising number of people had shown up to watch the contest unfold.

  Tricia saw the Dexter twins standing on the edge of the crowd and nudged Angelica. “I’m surprised they’d want to watch the proceedings after what happened at the Cookery yesterday.”

  “I’d better go over and apologize to them,” Angelica said, and headed in the twins’ direction, with Tricia following.

  “Muriel!” Angelica called. One of the twins looked up and offered a weak smile. “I’m terribly sorry about what happened yesterday at the book signing. I do hope you’ll accept my apologies.”

  “Your apologies?” Midge asked. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

  “Mister Andrews”—and Angelica emphasized the word, not his title—“was terribly rude to both of you. I don’t condone that kind of behavior in my store.”

  “We don’t blame you, dear lady. We’ve always had a wonderful time when we’ve visited the Cookery, and this incident won’t keep us from coming back again.”

  “Thank you,” Angelica said, her tone heartfelt.

  “After that man’s incredible rudeness, I’m surprised to see you ladies here,” Tricia said.

  “Our admiration for the chef may have dimmed, but we came to cheer on Nikki, Alexa, and the other local bakers,” Muriel said.

  “As a matter of local pride,” Midge pitched in.

  “Stoneham is very lucky to have such ardent community-spirited citizens,” Angelica said sincerely, which caused both ladies to blush.

  “We’d better get in line,” Muriel said. “We’ll see you later,” she promised, and the twins waved and joined the throng heading up the steps to the school, while Tricia and Angelica hung back.

  “Talk about gracious,” Tricia said.

  “Yes. Thank goodness. Come on. We’d better join the crowd.”

  Minutes later, they paid the entrance fee and were given flimsy neon pink plastic bracelets to wear. “This way if you need to leave the school for a while, you can get back in,” said the cheerful teenage girl with a ponytail and wearing the school’s cheerleading outfit—which, with its blue-and-gold sweater with a big white S, was far too warm for the early-summer day.

  “Members of the marching band will be selling cookies, cupcakes, sandwiches, soda pop, and coffee at the breaks, so you won’t need to go far.”

  “Thanks,” Tricia said, and donned her bracelet, which clashed with her sweater set.

  Angelica frowned and tugged at the ring of plastic around her wrist. “I’m sure Sofia would love something like this, but it doesn’t go with my outfit.” On that day she’d chosen an apricot linen suit and matching heels.

  “You can finish your coffee, but there’s no food or drink allowed in the auditorium,” the cheerleader told them.

  “No problem,” Tricia said. She’d nearly finished her small, skinny latte. The sisters filed into the school. “I can get us seats if you want to finish your coffee.”

  “I’m nearly done,” Angelica said, and took a mighty swig before dumping the paper cup into a nearby trash bin. Tricia ditched her cup as well.

  As
they entered the cavernous auditorium, they were surprised to find the lower level was already half filled. “Wow, this Bake-Off really is popular,” Tricia said.

  “And think of the PR opportunity it could have been for the Chamber had Russ Smith shown the slightest interest in the event,” Angelica lamented, shaking her head in consternation.

  “Speak of the devil,” Tricia said as they walked down the aisle. She nodded in the direction of the front row. There sat Russ alone in the aisle seat, with shoulders slouched, looking uncomfortable. “Do you think he wants to see Nikki win?”

  “More likely lose,” Angelica muttered. “He probably came to make catcalls and boo at her.”

  “According to Pixie, everyone’s betting she’ll take home the trophy.”

  “Not me. I hope it’s Tommy or Joann from the Brookview,” Angelica said of her employees.

  “But if that happens and they go to California to compete on the chef’s TV show, you might lose them.”

  “It would be a wonderful opportunity for either of them. I would never try to hold them back. They both have unique talents. Why wouldn’t I want to see them succeed?”

  A surge of pride in her sister swelled through Tricia as they paused about six rows from the front of the auditorium, sidling by several other villagers to sit mid row and stare at a large blank screen that had been lowered from the top of the stage.

  “I feel like we should have disgustingly big tubs of popcorn saturated with butter-flavored oil to munch on,” Angelica said.

  “You heard the cheerleader—no food or drink.”

  Angelica looked around and lowered her voice. “I brought a couple of boxes of Sofia’s animal crackers—just in case we get desperate.”

  Tricia was pretty sure she wouldn’t get that desperate.

  Just then, the darkened screen came to life, but the lights in the auditorium didn’t dim. The camera focused on the culinary rooms, which seemed to have gotten a refresh since Tricia and Angelica had visited them the week before. The walls were now painted a bright white, and new counters—which looked like granite but were probably Formica—had been installed, as well as new, sparkling-white stoves and refrigerators. The Good Food Channel had done well by the school. The camera took in two of the kitchenettes, and a woman with a clipboard seemed to be counting the various gadgets, spoons, and other paraphernalia at each site.