Kale to the Queen

by Nell Hampton

  We worked quickly in tandem silence. The heat from the stove rose up and curled my hair under my hat. I put the frittata in the oven and pulled out six crystal fruit cups. I sliced banana, oranges, and fresh coconut strips and then tossed them in a yogurt vinaigrette, placed them in the cups, wrapped them in plastic wrap, and placed them in the refrigerator. I made some fresh blueberry and ginger scones. We had five minutes to get it all to the family’s dining room.

  The duke and duchess ate breakfast buffet style. The complete menu included oatmeal porridge, the fruit salads, hard boiled eggs, the frittata, and breakfast sausages. The duchess had asked that any breakfast sausage be locally sourced, low fat, and low sodium. Luckily there were some made with turkey purchased just before I arrived. I made a mental note to order more that afternoon.

  We placed the food on two serving pushcarts, one for hot food and one for cold, and I quickly changed chef jackets. We raced out of the kitchen and down the hall to a staff elevator. Then down another hall to the apartment door and the back of the dining area. We had two minutes to set up the buffet. Luckily Mrs. Perkins was waiting for us at the door.

  “Where have you been? We barely have time to set things up.” She scowled at me.

  “There was a security incident in the kitchen greenhouse. We had to scramble to purchase new ingredients and then take over a portion of Chef Butterbottom’s kitchen to get this done.”

  “We will talk about this after we set up,” Mrs. Perkins said. “This is a very serious problem.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said.

  She opened the door for us and practically thrust us inside. I had never moved so quickly and carefully in my life.

  The dining room was large and bright. Curtains had been pulled back to let the morning light come in. There was a large wooden buffet covered with crisp white linen. We carefully placed our warming dishes at one end, the cold dishes at the other, and the scones in between. The chambermaids had already set the silver- and drinkware on the table. Plates rested at one end of the buffet in a small pile. A pot of fresh flowers sat in the middle of our buffet. It matched the flowers in the centerpiece on the dining table.

  I had a thought that it must be someone’s job to buy fresh flowers for all the rooms. Perhaps a palace florist?

  “All right, out, out.” Mrs. Perkins scooted us and our trays out of the room.

  The door closed hard on the back of my heel. The sting brought tears to my eyes and I bit my tongue to not make a sound. I looked at Michael and he at me.

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to show me the way back,” I said and slumped my shoulders.

  “It’s not so bad,” Michel said. “Despite everything—including missing poor Mr. Deems—we made the breakfast on time. That is quite a feat.”

  “I suppose.” I followed him back down the hall. Once out of the apartments, we were once again scrutinized and our badges scanned at every turn. I really needed a map to the palace so that if anything happened to Mr. Haregrove, I would be able to do this on my own. “Please don’t quit or die on me, Mr. Haregrove. I don’t think I’d live to see another day. I’d most likely get lost in the corridors, never to be found again.”

  He laughed. It was a warm and hearty sound that filled the cold spots in my heart. “Chef, you are funny. Did we not just pass eight security men in the hall? You are a woman. I’m certain you would be willing to stop and ask directions.”

  I smiled. “Yes, come to think of it, I would.”

  “You have nothing to worry about.”

  “But that doesn’t mean I want you dead.” I was serious. “Please take care of yourself.”

  “Do you think what happened to Mr. Deems might also happen to us?”

  “I have no idea,” I said and shrugged. “I was the one who found him. There was a lot of blood, but I didn’t see any obvious wounds.”

  “That’s not good, not good at all.” He opened Chef Butterbottom’s door and I pushed my cart through first, only to be confronted by a very big man with a bald head and beady eyes.

  “What in bloody hell do you think you’re doing in my kitchen?”

  His words blasted through me like dragon fire. His cheeks were red. He narrowed his eyes, and I noticed that his fists were clenched. He was a bit like a massive toddler having a tantrum.

  I decided to remain calm, like when confronted by a big angry dog. I put my hand out in a stop sign. “We were instructed to use this space for the duke and duchess’s breakfast.”

  He took a threatening step forward. “Who told you that you could mess with my space? Look at the dishes you left. Dirty counters, dirty sink, dirty floors.”

  “Ian Gordon, the head of security, told us to use your kitchen. We had little time. The food had to be served in the apartments. There was no time to clean until we got back. Which is now.” I kept my shoulders back, my chin up, and my tone firm.

  “Chef Butterbottom,” Michael stepped up and held his hands up like a policeman at a traffic stop. “May I introduce Chef Cole. Chef Cole, this is Chef Butterbottom, head chef for Kensington Palace.”

  “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” I said. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  “If that’s true, then you should have known that no one—no one—dares enter my kitchen without my permission. I have rules and expectations. I do not expect to come into my kitchen and discover an unclean space that smells of bad American cooking.”

  Ouch. “We were ordered to use the space.” I tried not to raise my voice, but it might have gone up a little. “We are here to clean up now.” I took a step forward to let him know I was not intimidated by his ranting.

  That only made things worse. “I am the boss of this kitchen. I am sure you have been instructed that when you are in this kitchen, you work for me. Have you not?”

  I paused. Darn it, he’s right. “Yes, Mrs. Worth explained that to me. But that has nothing to do with what is happening now.”

  “It has everything to do with it. I don’t like Americans. I don’t like American food. And yet I come to my kitchen and discover an American mess made by an overprivileged, undereducated American chef.”

  “Excuse me, but I was in the top one percent of my culinary class.”

  “Did you study in Le Cordon Bleu? No? I thought not. You are in my kitchen, Miss America. I have certain expectations. Those expectations are for you to return my kitchen to the manner in which you found it. There are cleaning rags and hand brushes under the sink.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I expect the floors to be scrubbed by hand and then polished with soft cloths. No chemicals! I won’t have anyone slip and fall because someone who does not belong in my kitchen got lazy and used chemicals instead of elbow grease. Am I clear?”

  “You are clear.”

  “Am I clear?” He bellowed again, and I was reminded of one of my culinary instructors who loved to bully his staff.

  “Yes, Chef.”

  “Then get to it. I have a phone call to make to Mr. Gordon. He needs to explain himself.” He stormed off. A big man in white T-shirt and white pants, he reminded me of Mr. Clean, or maybe a WWE fighter.

  I looked at Michael, and he mouthed, “I’m sorry.”

  I shrugged, and we went back to our area from earlier. The cuttings had been bagged before we left. The pots and pans and baking sheets were all rinsed and sitting in the sink, ready for the dishwasher. Seriously, the place was inspection-level clean. But clearly not clean enough.

  I filled one sink with dish soap and another with vinegar water. I used one dish cloth for the soapy water and the other for the vinegar. Michael put the dishes in the dishwasher and ran it. I washed down the counters and the stove and wiped out the oven and the refrigerator with hot soapy water. Then I handed that cloth to Michael to wash down the rolling trays.

  While he did that, I set out to rinse everything with cold vinegar water. The vinegar not only disinfected but cleared the soap and deodorized everything. I made sure the oven hood
and everything we had touched was wiped clean.

  Michael followed behind me with a soft polishing cloth.

  I could hear Chef Butterbottom yelling into the phone. It was clear he had gotten ahold of Ian and was pitching a first-class fit about us. He slammed down the phone. By this time, I was drying the pots and pans and returning them to their original places.

  Michael had indeed gotten a hand brush out from under the sink and, with a new sink full of hot soapy water, he began to scrub all the edges and crevices in the stove and countertops.

  “Those are clean,” I said.

  “Even so, Chef is watching and expects us to ensure that it is well scrubbed. Trust me. He will come out and inspect everything before he lets us leave.”

  “What do you mean, ‘lets us leave’? I have a schedule to keep. I have to see Mrs. Perkins, Mrs. Worth, the security office, and Mr. Gordon all before I can fix the children’s lunch, which must arrive precisely at noon.”

  “Then we’d better get started on the floor,” Michael said with a sigh.

  “I am not cleaning the floor by hand.” I crossed my arms in defiance. “Neither should you. They make mops for that.”

  But he got down on his knees, dragging a bucket of soapy water down along with his brush. “In this kitchen, Chef Butterbottom is the boss. I need my job.”

  “Please don’t tell me we have to clean the entire floor.”

  “No, no, only the area we used.”

  “Fine,” I said with a sigh. “I’m not using a hand brush, but I’ll use a mop. Where does he keep them?”

  “They keep the mops in the closet across the hall. It will really be best if you let me clean around the baseboards and feet of the stoves and the counters with the hand brush.”

  “Fine,” I said. “I’m getting a mop.”

  I took two steps toward the door when it opened suddenly.

  “What in bloody hell are you doing?”

  I looked up to see Ian Gordon striding into the kitchen. “We’re cleaning up.”

  “With a scrub brush and a rag?”

  “I was going to get a mop.”

  “Chef Butterbottom doesn’t want anyone to use a mop in his kitchen. He says you miss things,” Michael said.

  “Chef Butterbottom is the boss in his kitchen.” My tone showed my disgust. I was tired and not happy. A quick look at my watch told me my orientation was now going to have to wait until after the children’s lunch was prepared.

  “The duchess is not paying you to do scullery maid work,” Ian said. “I need you both to come with me.”

  We stood and, as if on cue, Chef Butterbottom came barreling out of his office. “You are not finished. I have to inspect the cleaning before you can leave.”

  “I need them both to come with me now,” Ian said and widened his stance and crossed his arms.

  “They cannot leave my kitchen without completing their work. I won’t have it.”

  “The place looks clean enough to me.” Ian raised his right eyebrow in a motion I had begun to expect. “This is official security business.”

  “That is the excuse you used to let them into my kitchen to begin with,” Chef growled. “You may be head of security, but you have no right to allow anyone in my kitchen. Also no right, no right at all, to let them out of their work.” He pointed at his chest. “I’m boss here. That means I can and will fire anyone who does not meet my standards or who is disrespectful. There is an important dinner tonight, and I need to have a clean kitchen to start with.”

  “I need my job,” Michael said, loud enough to be heard, but still softly. It was clear he had the least amount of authority. There was no way he was going to get in the middle of this.

  “You’re not going to get fired,” I said.

  “I can and will fire whomever I choose in my kitchen,” Chef Butterbottom stated, his gaze squarely on me.

  “Fine, fire him; I’ll hire him back for my kitchen.”

  “It would take weeks,” Chef said. “The paperwork alone will take a day or two to sort out. Maybe it’s you I should fire.”

  “She isn’t going anywhere until my investigation is over,” Ian said. “I’m taking them both now.” He gently took my arm and turned me toward the door.

  “If you ever cook my kitchen again without my permission, I will fire you immediately. I am very serious,” Chef said.

  “Yes, sir,” I said and resisted saluting him.

  Ian sent me a look as the kitchen door closed behind us and we stepped out into the hall.

  “What?” I asked.

  “You are either fearless or quite stupid,” Ian replied.

  I inhaled sharply. “I’m not stupid.”

  “Then fearless.”

  “Maybe,” I said. After all, what small-town girl would travel to another country to cook for royalty?

  “She is very good at her job,” Michael said.

  I looked over my shoulder at him. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  I walked beside Ian. “Thanks for getting us out of that ridiculous situation. Chef Butterbottom must be really insecure to be so controlling.”

  “You’re welcome, but I didn’t come to talk about Chef. I need to question you both. Then you will need to see the inspector in charge of the murder case and answer his questions.”

  “So it wasn’t an accident?” I asked. I was hoping there was a chance that Frank had hit his head and bled out. I knew head wounds were messy.

  “It wasn’t an accident,” Ian said grimly.

  “What happened? Do you know?”

  “I can’t say until we question you,” Ian said and showed both Michael and me into and out of an elevator. Then down another hallway.

  “That’s fine, but I have thirty minutes before I need to start lunch for the children,” I said.

  “This is going to take longer than thirty minutes.”

  “That won’t do.” I stopped and planted my feet.

  “Respectfully, we’re on a deadline, security chief,” Michael said.

  “Not any longer,” he said and took a hold of my elbow, forcing me forward. “I’ve explained the situation to Mrs. Worth. She has told the duke and duchess. A murder inside the palace changes everything. The family has been moved to a secret location. Until we know they are safe, they will not be here.”

  “Then I need to pack and go with them. As their chef, I’ve been contracted to travel with the family to ensure the quality and consistency of their meals.”

  “She’s right,” Michael said, trailing behind me. I appreciated his support.

  “You are both under suspicion for Mr. Deems’s murder,” Ian said bluntly. “You are not going anywhere near the family.”

  “Wait, wait, what?” I pulled my arm from his grasp and stopped in the hall. Michael stayed behind me. “I didn’t kill Frank. I only met him yesterday. What reason would I have to kill him? And Michael is his best friend. Why would he kill him?”

  “That’s why we need to interview you.”

  I put my hands on my hips. “Do we need lawyers?”

  “You will have a barrister assigned to your case, should you need one.”

  “I don’t have a case,” I said. “I didn’t do anything. Don’t you have cameras everywhere? Can’t you look at the footage and see that I was nowhere near Frank when he died? And as far as Mr. Haregrove goes, he wasn’t even in the palace at the time. Were you?”

  “Let’s take this one step at a time,” Ian said. “We’re going into the security offices, where I will interview you both separately. After that, the inspector will come to interview you, and we will determine if you need a lawyer.”

  I clenched my hands in frustration and a little fear. “I should be with the family.”

  “Chef Cole . . .” Michael sounded as if he was going to ask if I was all right. Which I wasn’t, but I wasn’t going to tell them that. Don’t show fear or weakness, my father used to tell me. People and animals will sense it, and you will lose cont
rol of the situation.

  I think I was a little beyond controlling anything by that point, but I soldiered on. “My head hurts.”

  “I have painkillers in my office,” Ian said. “Come on, then. The sooner we get started, the sooner this will be all worked out.”

  “He’s right, Chef,” Michael said and carefully took my arm in his. “I’ll be right here. Okay?”

  I was an alien in a foreign country’s royal household and appeared to be considered a suspect for murdering a man and stuffing his body under a kale bed. This was a situation that I thought could only happen in the movies.

  I went along quietly, thankful that my phone was in my pocket. At the very least, I would Google what to do when accused of a crime in England. All I could do was hope that the Internet had the answers I needed before I found myself tossed into a cell somewhere. The palace was old; I wondered perversely if it still had dungeons.

  Chapter 5

  “Here’s a water and two NSAIDs for your headache,” Ian said as he entered the room.

  “Thank you.” I tossed down the pills and drank the water. I wished I’d eaten something earlier; I felt a bit lightheaded. Ian took the glass from me and put it to the side of the table.

  “If you are going to take my fingerprints, you can save your time,” I quipped. “They took a complete set as part of my interview process. They should be on file.”

  “You watch too many American crime shows,” he said. “Real life is very different. Now start from the beginning. Where were you last night?”

  “I’m sure your computer system shows that I left the kitchen with Penny after the birthday party was over. We went back to our rooms, where I promptly fell asleep in my clothes because I felt jet lagged.”

  “Miss Nethercott was with you when you went into your room?”

  “No.” I fidgeted in my seat. “Her room is before mine. We said good-bye, and I went straight to my room. I know there are cameras in the hallway. You can verify it.”

  “We are working on that. You fell asleep at what time?”

  “I have no idea. I walked in, put my things down on the counter, went straight to bed, and laid down. It was only going to be for a moment, and then I planned to get up and shower and such. But the next thing I knew, it was four AM and I was wide awake.”