Kale to the Queen

by Nell Hampton

  “Huh.”

  “It’s a big deal.”

  “I see.”

  “Okay then,” I said and stood, as the conversation had suddenly gotten very awkward. “Please give Meriam my condolences. Will I see you at work today?”

  “Can I be there for the dinner shift?”

  “Okay. I’ve got to go. I’ve got grocery shopping to do.”

  “Do you have the list of approved markets?”

  “I do,” I said. “And I have an appointment with the head gardener today to see what the timeline is on the greenhouse.”

  He walked me to the door. “I’ll let her know you stopped by.”

  “One more thing,” I said.

  “Yes?”

  “I heard a rumor that Chef Butterbottom was seen arguing with Frank the night he was murdered. Do you have any idea if it’s true or what they might have been arguing about?”

  “No,” he said with a shake of his hand. “Butterbottom didn’t exactly care for Frank. That said, there isn’t anyone he really does care for.”

  “Okay,” I said. “It was worth a try.”

  “Do you think he might be a good suspect?”

  I shrugged. “I’m going to have to prove the argument was more than a rumor. Then we have to hope it’s a strong enough motive for murder.”

  We had gotten to the door when I heard a familiar voice call out from upstairs. “Michael, can you bring us some tea?”

  I glanced up to see Mrs. Perkins’s formidable self rounding the top of the stairs. “Oh, hello,” I said.

  “Chef Cole, what are you doing here?” she asked.

  “She stopped by to bring food,” Michael said. “I told her Meriam wasn’t up to taking visitors.” He lowered his voice for my ears only. “Mrs. Perkins is Meriam’s mum.”

  “Oh,” I said. “My condolences for your loss.” It made sense now why she was here.

  “Right. Good.” Her tone softened for the first time since I met her. “Thank you for that, Chef.”

  “Let me know if you need anything else,” I said and went through the doorway.

  It seemed that the palace staff were like the residents of a small town; everyone was related. I’d have to be careful who I said what to. I was so glad I hadn’t made any comments to Michael about Mrs. Perkins’s sternness . . . or had I?

  Chapter 8

  One of the approved markets was within walking distance of the tube station. Tucked between a sundries shop and an Italian restaurant, the market was unassuming. I picked up a basket and looked through the day’s fresh produce.

  I assumed the family had gone to stay with the duchess’s parents while security had ensured the safety of the household. I know that other royals had moved back into their apartments as early as late last night. Penny was a wealth of palace scuttlebutt. Several members of the family had apartments at Kensington Palace. They each chose whether or not to have a private chef. The reason the duke and duchess had three kitchens was because the duchess liked to cook for her family herself. But with two children and an increasing role in charity events and state dinners, her time was limited, and they had brought me in to give the children a consistent, healthy diet.

  Lunch today was for the children only since the duchess had an event she had to attend. I planned parmesan spring chicken slices with fresh snap peas, spinach, and new potatoes. Dinner would be simple: roasted lamb, fresh mint jelly, asparagus, wild rice, and mushroom pilaf, with fresh fruit for dessert.

  I studied the pile of snap peas and picked one up, snapped it, and sniffed.

  “You aren’t going to get fresher peas than those,” a gentleman in a grocer’s coat said. “The truck brought them in from the country this morning. I think they still have morning dew on them.”

  “Ha,” I laughed. “I think that’s from the misters overhead.”

  “Can’t pull anything over you Americans.” He was my height, thin, with sparse brown hair, a long sharp nose, and calm gray eyes.

  “How did you know I was American?” I glanced down at my outfit. “Are my clothes that odd?”

  “It’s not the clothes. It’s your accent.” He held out his hand. “I’m Joe Flannary. This is my market. Well, actually, my great-grandfather’s market, but since I’m the last one alive, that makes it my market now, doesn’t it?”

  “Carrie Ann Cole,” I introduced myself.

  “Where in America are you from?”

  “Chicago.”

  “What brings a young lady from Chicago into my market on this fine morning?”

  “Well, I have it on good authority that this is one of a handful of markets approved by the royal chefs. Is that true?”

  “True enough,” he said and puffed up his chest, expanding his white apron. “We’ve been proudly serving them for more than one hundred years.”

  “Good, because I’m the new family chef for the duke and duchess of Cambridge. I need to pick up a few things for lunch and dinner.”

  “What’s that you say? You’re a chef?”

  “I’m a chef.”

  “If you were truly the new chef, you would know they have a fine greenhouse full of fresh veggies and such. Grow their own these days.”

  “Except that there was a bit of a problem in the greenhouse yesterday, and they are cleaning it all out and starting again. So here I am, grocery list in hand, looking for your freshest spring peas and asparagus.”

  His gray gaze turned thoughtful, and he stroked his chin. “That’s right, I did hear something on the news this morning about the kitchen greenhouse. What was it a fire? A bad infestation of gnats?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say,” I replied.

  “Indeed.” He studied me thoughtfully. “But if you were the real chef, then you would have simply called and had us deliver your order. It has to pass through the security and be tested before it’s allowed in. We can’t be poisoning the young family.”

  “You can believe me or not.” I shrugged and read from my list. “I need two pounds of your best peas, asparagus, spinach, carrots, some new potatoes, and wild mushrooms.”

  “We have all of that.” He grabbed a plastic sack and chatted with me as he gathered up everything on my list and placed it in my hand cart. “Now, do you need any meats, cheeses, or breads?”

  “I have all that in the kitchen,” I said. “This will do—wait. I need coffee for my room and some late night crackers and cheese.”

  “Coffee, crackers, and cheese,” he said as I followed him through the aisles. “Who lives on that?”

  “I do,” I said and pulled what I needed from the shelf. “Don’t you have other guests to help?”

  “My staff is doing a fine job,” he said and looked around. The store was not that busy. Most likely because it was in London in the middle of the morning and most everyone was at their office jobs.

  “Are you sure you don’t want some tea and biscuits?” he asked.

  “I try to stay away from processed sugar,” I said. “But you’re right, tea would be nice to have for guests.”

  “In your hotel room?”

  “In my apartment. Or do you call it a flat? It’s actually a small suite of rooms,” I corrected him. “At the palace, where I work. Not all that glamorous.”

  “Right,” he said with a wink.

  He rang up my purchases at the register and I paid cash. I had been given a petty cash account for these types of purchases. I knew if I needed something delivered, it would be billed to the duchess and delivered as he described. But sometimes you want to see for yourself where the food comes from—even if it was a grocery shelf.

  “Well, Miss Cole—it is Miss, right?”

  “Chef,” I reminded him and picked up the two paper bags full of fresh ingredients.

  “That’s right, Chef Cole.” His gaze twinkled. “It was nice to meet you. I hope to see you again soon at my humble grocery store.”

  “Good-bye, Mr. Flannary.” I waved as I walked out into the busy London street.

 
“See you soon, American Chef.”

  * * *

  Back in the kitchen, I put the fresh produce in the sink with ice water to crisp up and wash. A little white vinegar helped keep it fresh and wash off any bacteria, dirt, and wax that might linger.

  It was difficult not to keep looking at the boarded-off door that led to the greenhouse. Someone had placed a “Do Not Enter” sign on it. As if crossed boards weren’t warning enough.

  I sent a quick message to Michael to let him know that I didn’t need him to come in tonight. It was best he stayed with Mrs. Deems. With only the family to cook for, I figured I could handle two meals by myself. I washed my hands and put on my chef coat. My identification badge was clipped to the hip pocket where it would be accessible at all times but out of the way.

  I chopped veggies and sautéed the chicken for the children’s lunch. Michael was usually the one who ran the covered meals up to the nursery. I would do it today. It was a good thing I’d become familiar with the pathway from the kitchen to the nursery.

  There is something mindful and almost Zen-like when it comes to chopping veggies, making sauces, and adding spices. I was careful to keep the flavors not too extreme. The children were small and their palates were developing. That meant they tasted some things stronger than others.

  For a twist, I served the meal in a bento box, placing the chicken fingers and fresh veggies into a square bento-box shape. It was fun and artistic, and I hoped it would delight the children.

  Completing the meal with little flourishes of fresh radish roses, I covered the dishes, changed my chef’s coat for the clean one, and walked them up the stairs, down the hall, and to the nursery. I knocked once and waited.

  The older of the two women I saw attending to the children my first day opened the door. Up close, I noticed that she actually wasn’t much older than me. Her brown hair was long and pulled back into a low ponytail. Her face had on the bare minimum of makeup with only thin black eyeliner highlighting her spring-green eyes. She nodded and opened the door. “Chef Cole, what a surprise. We expected Mr. Haregrove.”

  “He is attending to the Widow Deems,” I said softly. “I told him I would handle lunch and dinner today by myself.” The staff knew about the death of Mr. Deems, but I wasn’t sure how much the children knew, and I didn’t want them to hear.

  “Of course, how kind of you. Please come inside.” She opened the door wider, and I walked into the room between the two nurseries. It was big and wide, filled with what my elementary school teachers had called centers when I was young. One corner had tricycles, a rocking horse, and other modes of transportation. Another had a bookshelf and comfy seats for reading. There were art supplies in another space and what appeared to be letter and number learning stations in the far corner. Near the open windows was a tiny table set for lunch. It was perfectly child-size with proper china and silverware. A pot of fresh violets sat in the middle.

  “My name is Mrs. Killigan, but you may call me Teresa. I am governess for the prince. This is Miss Lovejoy.” Teresa waved her hand toward the younger woman with soft blonde hair who was reading a storybook to the little princess. “She is nanny to the princess.”

  “So nice to meet you both,” I said and took the covers off the plates and set them up on the table.

  The little prince came running over. “Hello,” he said. “How do you do? Are you a chef?”

  “Yes, I am,” I replied.

  “Where are you from?” he asked as he climbed into his chair.

  “I’m from Chicago,” I answered.

  “Where’s that?”

  “In the United States.” I tucked the tray under my arm and held the dish covers in my hand. “Do you know where that is?”

  “Far away,” he said and took a sip of his milk.

  “Across the Atlantic Ocean,” Mrs. Killigan said. “Wait for your sister before you touch anything on the table.”

  “Have a good day,” I said, but the children were already lost in the excitement of lunch.

  I heard from Penny that the duchess liked to spend as much time as possible with her children, but like any mother with outside responsibilities, there were many times when she didn’t have that luxury. Let’s face it, being a part of the royal family meant a great deal of responsibility.

  It was nice to get to know other members of the household staff. I wondered if they had known Frank well. But it wasn’t a question I could ask in front of the children.

  Ian Gordon came around the corner as I headed down the stairs back to the kitchen. “Chef Cole,” he said.

  “Mr. Gordon.”

  “Where is Mr. Haregrove? He didn’t come to work today.”

  I stopped beside him on the steps. It was a narrow passageway, made all the narrower by Ian’s athletic body. “He’s with the Widow Deems,” I said. “I told him he could take the day. He’ll be back tomorrow. Why?”

  “No particular reason,” he replied.

  “Are you keeping track of us?”

  “That’s my job,” he said, his gaze sincere. “A man died on my watch. It won’t happen again.”

  “Good to know.” I chewed on my bottom lip. “Are you any closer to finding the killer?”

  “We have our suspects.”

  “Anyone I know?”

  “Perhaps,” was all he said, and then he continued up the stairs. “Good day, Chef.”

  “Right.” I went back to the kitchen. It was spooky working alone in a place next to where a man was killed. But then the palace was old, and I figured that Mr. Deems wasn’t the first dead man to have been found on the grounds.

  Chapter 9

  “So glad you decided to come with me,” Penny said as we entered a small pub near the palace. “Everyone will be here. There are so many people for you to meet.”

  “I imagine a wake is not the best place for introductions,” I said.

  “I think Mr. Deems would approve,” Penny said.

  Inside, the pub was packed. “A crush” is what Penny aptly called it. Loud music played. People young and old were gathered, talking loudly and trying to be heard. I spotted Mrs. Worth seated near the fireplace, talking with Mrs. Perkins and an older gentleman. Mrs. Killigan and Miss Lovejoy were there as well. Michael stood near Mrs. Perkins, speaking to a young man I didn’t know. Even Chef Butterbottom was there. I thought it might be wise to steer clear of him.

  “Come on,” Penny said and put her arm through mine. “Let’s get a drink.”

  We approached the bar. The interior was old and decorated with dark woods, cream-colored plaster, crossbeams, and such. There was a collection of old smoking pipes hanging from the ceiling, both long and short. Tables were scattered about. People sat on stools and in small clusters of overstuffed chairs. Others stood and tried to weave themselves around the crowd.

  There was a somber air to the festivities and yet still one or two groups laughed. Most everyone had a sober expression, a drink in their hand, and a black ribbon pinned to their chest.

  “The first thing you should know about this pub is that everything is ordered through the bar, even the food,” Penny said as she pulled me through the crowd and up to one of the four bartenders.

  “Who do we have here?” a man in his thirties asked Penny. He looked at me with a teasing leer. “Fresh meat?”

  “Stop it, Tommy.” Penny slapped his hand and then kissed his cheek. “This is Carrie Ann. She’s the new family chef for the duke and duchess.”

  He looked at me carefully. I wore the same outfit I’d worn that morning to visit Mrs. Deems. Considering I only packed two, this was the best I could do. “She looks like an American.”

  “I can hear you,” I said.

  “Carrie Ann, this is Thomas Evans.”

  “Hello,” I said.

  “How do you do?” he replied.

  “Tommy knows everything there is to know about Kensington Palace and what goes on in and around it. Don’t you, Tommy?”

  “Shush,” he said and put his finge
r to his smiling lips. “Bartenders don’t spill secrets. If we did, then we wouldn’t be bartenders long.”

  “I’ll have a pint,” Penny said and looked at me.

  “Scotch, neat,” I said.

  “Now there’s a girl after my heart.” Tommy’s eyes lit up. His smile was attractive, and I found myself blushing. He poured out her pint and then my shot. “Wait,” he said when I reached for my drink. “You’re the one who found Frank, aren’t you?”

  I pulled my hand back and swallowed. “Yes,” I said.

  “Wow. That must have been tough.” There was sympathy in his gaze.

  “It was.”

  “Were you afraid?”

  “Of Frank? No, I liked him. I wanted to help him, but it was too late.”

  “That must have been terrible,” he said and patted my arm. “Here,” he said and placed the shot glass in my hand. “Your drinks are on me tonight.”

  “Thanks,” I said with caution.

  “No worries.” He winked. “Maybe you’ll spill some secrets of your own.”

  “Only if you share as well.”

  “It’s a deal,” he said and held out his hand. I shook it.

  “Come on, there are people you have to meet,” Penny said and dragged me away.

  The wake was held at the local pub where the staff from the palace hung out. It was like a big family. I found that after a few drinks, stories were being told in every corner about Francis Deems and the funny things he did, or adventurous things, or things he got away with. The stories could be told now that he was gone.

  My head spun, and I realized I’d never remember all the names of the people Penny introduced me to, but I would remember their faces if I saw them in the halls.

  I ended up near Mrs. Perkins, who stood in line for the ladies’ toilet. “I’m sorry for your loss,” I said. “How is your daughter holding up?”

  “She wanted to be here, but Charlie got sick,” Mrs. Perkins said. It was the first time she had spoken to me without a superior tone. “Thankfully, Frank left her some insurance money. She and the boys will be fine.”

  “That’s good to hear,” I said and nursed my scotch. Even though several people had offered to buy me drinks, more than a couple of these and I would have to be escorted home.