Kale to the Queen

by Nell Hampton

  Taking my cart in hand, I pushed it through the kitchen. “Coming through,” I announced as we dodged chefs. The noise died down as we paraded through the large, open, airy kitchen and into Chef Butterbottom’s office without knocking. My staff members were quiet as I pushed the cart past the big chef sitting at his desk and into the tiny closet space.

  The door closed behind us and we barely had room to maneuver with the carts taking up what floor space was left.

  “This is it?” George asked.

  “This is it,” I said. “Phoebe, put the lamb in the bottom oven. I’ve already set it to preheat. The top oven will be ready for the bread. George, use the worktable for the vegetables. We’re going to have to stack the carts if we hope to have any room to maneuver. So let’s get them emptied now.”

  “This is ridiculous,” Phoebe muttered. “Why couldn’t they simply requisition us plastic?”

  “You just miss the view,” George joked as he helped her move the pan of lamb into the bottom oven. We all had to do a small bit of adjusting so that she could open the oven door and slide the pan inside.

  “There’s not even a dishwasher in here,” Phoebe said.

  “We’ll do them the old fashioned way,” I said. “I’m sure there are rubber gloves around.”

  “I didn’t sign up for this,” George said as he stacked the emptied carts and turned to see we only had ten inches to maneuver around from one work space to the other.

  “It’s only for a couple of weeks until they finish construction on the greenhouse,” I said and did my best to corral the things needed for tea, which was to be served in thirty minutes. “Thank goodness we finished the cookies.”

  “Can we at least keep the serving carts somewhere else when we’re not using them?” George asked.

  “I’ll take care of it,” I said. “In the meantime, George, start the vegetables roasting, and Phoebe, set up the tray for tea.” The children participated in tea time to practice the tradition. Their tea was usually more milk than tea and the duchess only allowed them a pinch of sugar.

  The cookies today were whole wheat, coconut, peanut butter, and chocolate drops. Along with the cookies, we served vegetable and tiny cucumber finger sandwiches. The goal was to provide a healthy snack and keep tradition alive.

  When Phoebe left with one of the carts, I took the other two, still stacked, out through the office, looking for a place to stow them. Luckily Chef Butterbottom was not in his office when I pushed through. I might have run a cart into a thing or two, but I was sure it wouldn’t bother him.

  That’s what I told myself, anyway.

  I pushed the stacked carts out into the open, airy kitchen. The kitchen was still very busy, but less so since the tea service had gone out. The sun came through the wall of windows, and I tried not to be envious. I looked around for a closet or area where Chef Butterbottom kept his carts. I didn’t see any place.

  “Excuse me,” I asked a man doing dishes. “Where do you put your serving carts?”

  “There’s storage out in the hallway. Two doors across the hall.” He pointed to the door and then to the left.

  “Thanks.” I pushed the carts through the kitchen doors and into the hall. There were two doors marked “Storage.” I opened one to find a huge pantry with anything a cook could want in order to feed hundreds of people at a time. There was one cart in between the racks and shelves of foodstuffs. I sighed. I couldn’t use this closet.

  Onward, I thought, and pushed the carts out of that closet and back into the hall. The serving carts were stainless steel and heavier than they looked. This time I parked them out in the hall and pulled open the second door. The room was surprisingly deep and there were shelves of pots and pans and cooking utensils. One wall was all serving carts. I went back out and pushed our carts from the hall into the room. I didn’t want to keep ours with the others or I might not get them back, so I found a small space in the opposite corner to leave them behind a large shelving unit filled with tablecloths and linens. I got some tape and a permanent marker and labeled them as “Family” carts.

  I smiled when I was done. That solved that little problem. Suddenly the door to the storage unit opened and I heard someone walk in. I froze at the sound of his voice. I recognized it immediately. It was one of the thugs in the alley who had threatened Michael.

  “I swear he will do anything to avoid paying the debt,” the man said. “Even go to prison for the rest of his life.”

  “We both know he didn’t do it. Haregrove doesn’t have the guts,” said a second man whose voice I didn’t recognize. Two voices surprised me. I thought I only heard one person enter the room.

  “That’s what I’m saying. He’s hiding behind this murder thing to keep from paying us. Well, it won’t work. Anton’s got people in prison. They’ll beat it out of him just as quickly as you and I would.”

  My nose had a sudden tickly sensation and fear spiked down my spine. I put my finger under my nostrils to try to keep as quiet as possible.

  “Dead or not, Deems owed Anton too much money. If we can’t beat it out of Haregrove, we’re going to have to go after the family.”

  “Now you know I don’t go for that kind of thing,” the man whose voice I recognized said. I peered around the shelf to see his large back. He held up his cell phone in his hand, and I could tell he was using the speaker option. It was why I heard two voices but only saw one man. He wore a white T-shirt and black slacks. I could see apron strings around his thick waist. The man clearly worked in the palace kitchen.

  “I’m not the one pushing this,” the second man said. I couldn’t see him so I had no idea who he might be. “It’s Anton. Deems knew this when he got involved.”

  “But he didn’t kill himself,” the big guy said. “So how can we take it out on his family?”

  “Look, I heard they got a nice insurance settlement. That’s just about what Anton needs to cover the debt. If we can’t shake down Haregrove, then we shake down the wife. Either way, he’s going to get his money.”

  I took a step back when my nose tickle flared up again. I held my nostrils closed and looked up. I heard somewhere if you look up you can prevent a sneeze. My heart raced as the tickle continued. I held my breath so as not to give in and then—achoo!

  Crap.

  I froze, but couldn’t stop the next sneeze. Achoo, achoo, achoo!

  Great, I thought as the world tilted under my sneezing fit. I’m going to die from sneezing.

  I grabbed a clean tissue out of my pocket and wiped my nose. My eyes watered, and I awaited my fate at the hands of the enforcer. But nothing happened. I held my breath and listened. No one was talking, but he wasn’t walking this way, either. I peered around the corner. He was gone.

  Swallowing hard, I chewed on my bottom lip and tiptoed toward the door. He hadn’t come running toward me. Was he lying in wait to see who I was? The door didn’t have a window so I couldn’t tell. I considered hiding in the room for the next hour, but I knew I had to get back to the test kitchen to make dinner. Clearly no one would harm me in such a public place. Would they?

  Then I remembered that Mr. Deems had been murdered on the premises, which meant that, public or not, if someone wanted me dead, I would be dead.

  Not a happy thought.

  I blew out a long breath and lifted my chin. Well, here goes nothing. I pushed the door open and walked quickly and confidently to the kitchen door across the hall. The man wasn’t there. No one noticed that I left the room.

  What did that mean? Did my sneezing spook him? Or was I lucky enough that he left before I started?

  I crumpled the tissue into my pocket and hurried straight to the safety of my new kitchen to wash my hands. It occurred to me that there were cameras in the hallways. I wondered if the man could check the cameras and discover me walking out of the closet. Was I still in danger?

  My next thought was that the man worked inside Chef Butterbottom’s kitchen. Hadn’t Frank worked in Chef Butterbottom’s kitchen be
fore he came to work for me? Did Chef Butterbottom have anything to do with Frank’s death? Was there somehow a connection? Who was Anton? What kind of money had gone missing?

  If Mr. Deems was killed by the man from the kitchen, or even Chef Butterbottom, then Ian needed to know. The family needed to be safe. I needed to be safe.

  Chapter 17

  It was after the dinner cleanup, close to eleven PM, when I finally stopped by Ian’s office. I wasn’t surprised to find him still at work. This time he was at his desk doing paperwork instead of roaming the halls as he usually was when I saw him at night. I knocked on his doorjamb.

  “Come in,” he said and looked up. We locked gazes for a moment, and I felt a zing of attraction run down my back. It was disconcerting and my hands trembled. I swallowed and ignored the feeling, all the while praying I didn’t blush.

  “Hi. I was wondering if I could talk with you about something I heard today.”

  He leaned back in his chair. It gave a solid creak. “Sure, have a seat.” He waved toward the two chairs in front of his desk. “What’s troubling you?”

  “You know I got moved to the test kitchen until the greenhouse is righted,” I said.

  “I do. How’s old Butterbottom treating you?”

  I shrugged. “He’s fine as long as we don’t talk to him or his staff and stay out of his way.”

  “So it’s détente in the kitchens now?” He raised an eyebrow.

  “For now,” I said and scooted to the edge of my seat. “But that’s not why I stopped by. You see, the test kitchen is too small to store our serving carts, so I had to find a place to put them.”

  “I’m sure Chef had a suggestion.”

  “I didn’t ask him,” I said and waved the thought away. “It didn’t matter. Someone pointed me toward the storage rooms. Here’s the thing: I was in the storage room toward the back putting away our serving carts when I heard a man talking. I’m pretty sure he didn’t know I was there since I was out of sight. I recognized the voice.”

  “And?”

  “He was one of the two men who accosted Mr. Haregrove in the alley after the wake.”

  “Two men accosted Mr. Haregrove in the alley after the wake?”

  “I told you about that,” I said. “I suspect they have something to do with Mr. Deems’s murder. They were threatening Mr. Haregrove and telling him that, dead or not, Mr. Deems owed them money, and they expected Mr. Haregrove to pay them back.”

  “I see, and one of these men was in the storage room across from the kitchen?”

  “Yes,” I said. “He was talking to someone on the phone. He talked about the money that is owed to them. He said that he believes he—Mr. Haregrove—got arrested so that he didn’t have to pay them back.”

  “I didn’t think Haregrove was a big gambler,” Ian said and rubbed his chin.

  “I don’t think he is,” I said and leaned closer. “The guy on the phone said that with Mr. Haregrove in jail, they would have to go after the family. Michael told me he didn’t have a family, but Mr. Deems has two sons, who are Mr. Haregrove’s godchildren. I’m afraid they were talking about going after Mr. Deems’s family.”

  “Why?”

  “He said something about Mr. Deems having enough insurance to pay off the debt. If they can’t squeeze it out of Mr. Haregrove, then they will squeeze it out of the family.”

  “That sounds serious,” Ian said. “I don’t like the idea that there are people working in the palace who would talk like that, let alone take such actions. Could this have been staged?”

  I frowned. “Why would he stage such a scary conversation?”

  “Because you’re new and an American. He might want to haze you a bit.”

  “Well, hazing me by intimidating Mr. Haregrove in the alley seems out of place. I know they didn’t see me that night. Why would they make up something like this now?”

  Ian shrugged. “Either way, I don’t like it. If you can identify the man whose voice you heard in both places, I’ll question him.”

  “What about the inspector? Will you let him know? Maybe Mr. Deems wasn’t killed over his bad relationship with his wife. Maybe he had a gambling problem. Maybe he owed people a lot of money and couldn’t pay them back.”

  “I’m sure the inspector will be looking into the Deems accounts,” Ian said. “If there is a hint of trouble, he’ll sniff it out.”

  “So you’ll look into this other man? The one trying to intimidate Mr. Haregrove? I don’t like the idea of working around such a person.”

  “Can you describe him for me?”

  “Well, he is big and bald, and he was wearing kitchen staff clothes, a white T-shirt with black pants. I saw apron strings, so that means he works in the kitchen. And if he works in the kitchen, Chef Butterbottom could also be a suspect. He could have used the man as an enforcer.”

  “That sounds like a ridiculous theory.”

  “Which one?”

  “The one where Butterbottom is the killer. He has no motive.”

  “What about the other guy? Do you know who he is?”

  “A big, bald man who works in the kitchen.” Ian frowned.

  “Yes, does anyone come to mind?”

  “One or two,” Ian said. “Are you certain they didn’t know you were in the storage room?”

  “Pretty certain,” I said. He studied me, and I felt a blush rush over my cheeks. “I had to sneeze and couldn’t stop it. I thought maybe he would rush to discover me after the sound, but he didn’t. In fact, he was gone when I left the room. I didn’t see the big guy in the kitchen after that. I’m hoping he left before I sneezed.”

  “But if he didn’t, it would be easy to figure out you were the person eavesdropping.” Ian’s scowl deepened. “If he is indeed an enforcer for a bookie, then you might be in danger. You should have brought this to me straight away.”

  “I couldn’t,” I said. “I had to get dinner for the family completed and the kitchen cleaned before Chef Butterbottom had a fit.”

  Ian shook his head. “You should have called me. I would have come to the kitchen and made a show of seeing you. That way, if they thought about harming you, they would know that I was protecting you.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said and swallowed. “I’m new at this intrigue business. My cooking comes first.”

  “I’ll walk you to your room,” he said and rose.

  “I really don’t think you have to do that,” I protested as I got to my feet. “If they were going to harm me, they would have already done it. Don’t you think?”

  “I think it’s better to be safe than sorry. I’ll put an extra guard on your hallway. Tomorrow I’m going to call in the men from the kitchen who fit the description. I want you here to see if you can identify the man you saw in the alley.”

  “Okay,” I said. “After breakfast, right?”

  “After breakfast.” He held the door to his office open and I stepped out. “I don’t understand why you are so interested in Mr. Deems’s murder.”

  “Well, I was the one who found him, and I feel a connection to him. Like I owe his family an explanation for what happened in my kitchen.”

  “It happened in Head Greenhouse Gardener Fedman’s area, not your kitchen,” he reminded me as he held open the elevator door for me. “And unless I’m mistaken, and you had something to do with Deems’s murder—”

  I gasped and whirled around to face him. “No!”

  “Then there is no reason for you to worry about what happened.”

  “Except that I’m convinced Michael isn’t the real killer, and that means someone else may die. Don’t you think it’s important to ensure the safety of everyone else here?”

  He gave me a sharp look. “My job is to ensure the safety of everyone here.” The elevator opened onto my kitchen floor. He held it and I stepped out. We walked in silence up the steps, past Penny’s door, until we reached mine. I was suddenly exhausted. The days at the palace were long, and I’d been truly scared of what I had overhea
rd. It was a relief to share it with Ian, even if I had the distinct impression he didn’t quite believe me. We stopped at my door and I turned to him. He was close, and I could feel the confident heat radiating off of him. It seeped into my worried soul, and I was attracted to the safety he represented.

  I could smell the starch in his white dress shirt and the undertones of spicy cologne and warm male. “Look, I get that it’s your job to keep us safe. It’s why I came to you with this information. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that I keep running into that man talking about money and Mr. Haregrove. I trust you’ll look into it. I’m not trying to do your job or the inspector’s job; I don’t have time for that. I simply want to help. Mr. Haregrove is a good man. He doesn’t deserve to lose his best friend, his job, and possibly spend the rest of his life in prison. Especially if someone else killed Mr. Deems. Someone who perhaps also worked with Mr. Deems and Mr. Haregrove when they were still working for Chef Butterbottom.”

  “You still think Butterbottom is involved in this?” He crossed his arms over his chest, essentially putting a barrier between us.

  “No, no, I don’t know,” I said wearily and ran my hands over my face. “But it’s clear someone in the kitchens knows something that can crack the case.”

  “I’ll send a text when I have my suspects in my conference room,” he said. “When I do, go to my office. You can view them through the two-way mirror and let me know if you recognize anything about them.”

  “Thank you for believing me,” I said.

  “Good night, Chef Cole,” he said. “Get some rest. You’ve earned it.”

  “Good night.” I closed and locked my door behind me and leaned against it. It felt cool and smooth against my heated skin. I created a mental picture of John in my mind. John was who I wanted. John was home.

  Then why did my body tell me I was lying?