Kale to the Queen

by Nell Hampton

  If Michael was trying to protect someone from being blamed for Mr. Deems’s murder, it wasn’t obvious who. I frowned. Unless it was Meriam herself. It seemed that he would have been less likely to take the fall for someone else knowing that Mrs. Deems and his godsons needed him.

  Unless he was more than protecting Meriam. What if Michael was a willing accomplice? Then my theory of his innocence was wrong.

  That made me scowl harder.

  “The chicken is already dead,” Ian said. “No need to keep stabbing it.”

  I looked up to see him leaning against the doorjamb. The door swung closed behind him. “What brings you to my closet?” I asked as I put down the knife and picked up a spoon. What I had meant to do was ladle the stew into a serving taurine.

  “You weren’t here earlier,” he said, and it sounded more like an accusation than a comment.

  “I went to take food to Mrs. Deems,” I said. “If that is any of your business.”

  “We were supposed to meet.”

  “I don’t have time to wait around for you to get to me,” I said and arranged the taurine on the serving cart along with the rest of the meal under silver domes to keep it warm. “Phoebe, take this up to the family.”

  She added a plate of butter and salt and pepper shakers and then excused herself to push the cart through the doorway. In doing so, she had to push Ian out into Chef Butterbottom’s office.

  “Good God,” Butterbottom blustered. “It would be nice to have my space back.”

  I stuck my head out. “You could have given us a corner of the main kitchen.”

  “There’s no free corner in my kitchen,” he glared. “And there’s no free corner in my office. Close the door. I can’t get any work done.”

  Ian and I exchanged a glance and stepped back into the test kitchen. I looked at the mess that needed cleaning.

  “Maybe now isn’t a good time,” I suggested.

  “Fine, come to my office in an hour,” he stated. “We need to talk.” It sounded very serious.

  “Do I need to bring I lawyer?” I asked.

  He sent me a look.

  “Kidding,” I said and raised my hands. “I’ll be there as soon as we finish up here.”

  “Good,” he said. “Don’t make me hunt you down again.”

  “I didn’t realize I was making you hunt me down now,” I muttered as the door swung shut behind him. I heard muffled voices as Ian talked to Chef Butterbottom about something.

  “Maybe it’s good news.” Phoebe had come back while I washed dishes. “Maybe we’ll have our kitchen back sooner than they thought.”

  “I think Mrs. Worth would be the one to tell me that sort of news, not the head of security.”

  Phoebe shrugged as she put on gloves and took over scrubbing a copper-bottom pot. “A girl can dream.”

  * * *

  An hour and a half later, I knocked on Ian’s office door.

  “Enter.”

  I opened it. He sat at his desk writing with a pen. It was so odd to see someone use a pen and not a computer keyboard. “Are you signing autographs?”

  “Paperwork,” he said and put down the pen, slid the papers into a folder, and waved at the chair in front of his desk. “Have a seat.”

  “Did you figure out who the guy is who wants money from Michael?”

  “I spoke to the inspector today,” Ian said. “They have done some digging into the Deems’s finances and found some things that may make a difference in the case.”

  “What things?”

  “I can’t tell you for privacy reasons, but I wanted to thank you for pointing us in the right direction for the investigation.”

  “What about the threats inside the palace?”

  “I’m looking into that,” he said. “You don’t have to worry about it.”

  “I don’t know,” I shook my head. “I’m not comfortable working around men who threaten families and neither should you be.”

  That made him sit up. “I take my job here very seriously, Chef Cole. Any man or woman who poses a threat will no longer be allowed on the premises. Is that clear?”

  “But how will you know if you don’t let me identify the guy?”

  “The inspector is looking into it. I have started the proper procedures to fire any person or persons involved.”

  “What you’re telling me is that you don’t need me to identify anyone.”

  “That’s correct,” he said. “We have the matter well in hand.”

  “Okay, then,” I said and stood. “I won’t bother you with this again.”

  “Chef Cole.” He blew out a long breath. “You’re new here, and you are not aware of how things are done.”

  “That’s correct,” I said. “I’m not aware. I wasn’t aware that someone could be murdered in my new workplace. I wasn’t aware that a second person, who I came to like, would be unduly accused of that murder.”

  “The reasons for Mr. Haregrove’s arrest still stand,” Ian said.

  “Did you know that Mrs. Deems has cancer and may die? Did you know that Mr. Haregrove is the only other male role model her boys have now that their father is dead?”

  His jaw clenched. “I am aware of the situation. Don’t classify me as unfeeling, Chef Cole.”

  “I see, then you simply have a stiff upper lip about it.” I walked to the door. “I thought better of you.”

  “If by that you thought we were somehow more than colleagues at the palace, then your thinking is wrong. I’m doing my job, Chef Cole. Why don’t you concentrate on doing yours?”

  I walked out of his office and let the door slam behind me. Fuming, I stormed down to the privacy of my kitchen. Not the test kitchen, but the family kitchen where I was supposed to be working. I hit the lights and slumped against the door in sadness.

  The entire space was covered with a light dusting of dirt and sawdust. It would take a lot of work to get it back to usable. After the day I had, I felt horrible and slowly slid to the ground to rest my head in my hands.

  Maybe it was all a big mistake. Maybe I should have never come to London to cook for the family. Someone else could have handled this better. Right?

  “I didn’t leave this light on,” said a male voice I recognized. I lifted my head to see the handsome gardener standing just inside the kitchen door. His thick blond hair was pulled back into a ponytail, but he wasn’t wearing a helmet this time.

  “No, you didn’t,” I replied and stood, brushing the dust off my backside.

  He paused and studied me. “You look different when you’re not angry and flying at me like a harpy.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “No, that came out wrong.” He stepped into the room. “I would like to apologize.”

  “What for?” For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out whether he meant for ruining my garden, forcing me to work in a closet, or calling me a harpy.

  “For the mess,” Jasper said and stepped closer, “and for the harpy comment, although you were a little crazed when we first met.” He reached out and gently lifted my face into the light. “I would have been more careful if I knew my actions would upset you so.”

  I gave a short laugh and blinked back tears as I stepped away from him. “I probably resemble a harpy right now.” I rubbed the mascara that was running down my cheeks away.

  “No, you don’t.”

  “Don’t what?”

  “Look like a harpy.” His eyes narrowed. “You look upset.” He stuck his hand in the back pocket of his well-worn jeans. “I can’t stand to see a beautiful woman so upset. Especially if I might have caused it.”

  I hugged myself, trying to figure out how to get out of this rather awkward conversation. “It’s been a long day,” I said. “Why are you down here? Isn’t it too dark to demolish anything more?”

  “I was walking by on my way home when I saw the light. What brought you down? Isn’t the big kitchen comfortable?”

  “Have you met Chef Butterbottom?” I had to laugh at the rid
iculousness of the question.

  “Yes, he seems as if he has things well in hand.”

  “I guess that’s the nice way to say it,” I said.

  “What, you don’t like the man?”

  I thought I spied a quick smirk quiver across his mouth. “Let’s say he hasn’t endeared himself to me,” I said. “Right now he has me and my staff in the test kitchen.”

  “The test kitchen?” Jasper drew his eyebrows together.

  “It’s a broom closet with an oven and a sink. I had a new staffer quit today over how awful the working conditions are.”

  “You should say something to Chef Butterbottom.”

  “The last time I did, things didn’t go so well. I am convinced he doesn’t think having an American chef feeding the family is right.”

  “Oh, so a French chef would be better?”

  I liked the twinkle in his blue eyes. The man really was shockingly handsome. “Oh, no, not better,” I said. “But perhaps more tolerable. I believe Chef Butterbottom thinks only good British chefs should cook for the future kings.”

  “Ha! As if old Bottom would let them pay him your salary.”

  “Aha, so I do get paid quite a bit less than the master chef.” I acted as if I were surprised.

  “Oh, no, did I just let the cat out of the bag?”

  Shaking my head, I smiled. “Of course he’s paid more. I cook for a family of four and sometimes for their guests when they have private dinner parties. He cooks for state dinners and larger events.”

  “So you are not envious of his position?”

  “No, oh, no,” I said. “I am envious of his space, though. As you can see, I had a very nice kitchen, but then a man died and you came to destroy and rebuild the crime scene.”

  “And you got stuck in a closet.”

  “I have to go through Butterbottom’s office every time I go into or leave my kitchen.”

  “Ouch,” he said and made a face. “I think I owe you a drink for that.”

  I tilted my head. “Yes, I think you do owe me at least a drink.”

  “Shall we go?”

  “After the day I had, I think we should.” I felt as if I needed to forget about everything for a while. It wasn’t very often in my life that a handsome man asked me to go for a drink. He did owe me for the state of my kitchen.

  “Have you had dinner?” he asked. “There’s a pub around the corner that makes fantastic fish and chips.”

  “I could eat,” I said. “I need to get my jacket.”

  “Just use mine,” He offered me the jean jacket that he had folded over his arm.

  “But you’ll be cold,” I protested.

  “A few drinks and I’ll be fine,” he said and helped me into his jacket. It smelled like his aftershave. “Come on then,” he said and put his hand on the small of my back to steer me out of the kitchen. “Let’s leave the dust behind.”

  We left the palace via the parking area. Two blocks away was a bustling pub called the Kissing Canary. It was not far from the pub where the wake was held, but it was clearly not as well known to the palace staff.

  There was music playing when we walked in, and people greeted Jasper from behind the bar as if they were family.

  “Who’s this with you, Jasper?” an older bald man said.

  “This is Chef Cole,” Jasper said. “She cooks for the family.”

  “Call me Carrie Ann,” I said.

  “Bob Westin,” he said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “If I buy you a drink, can I call you Carrie Ann?” Jasper asked.

  I felt the heat of a blush rush over my face. “Well, now, it depends on the drink.”

  The old man grinned. “A woman after my own heart, this one, Jasper.”

  “We’ll take two of your finest whiskey,” Jasper said. “And two fish and chips.”

  “You have the family chef with you and you’re ordering food?” Bob asked.

  “He owes me,” I said.

  “How’s that?”

  “He’s destroying my kitchen with dust and dirt. They’ve got me working in a broom closet until this one finishes with the greenhouse.”

  “Ah, that’s right, that’s where Mr. Deems went toes up,” Bob said. “Sorry to hear about that mess.”

  “Who do we have here?” an older woman asked as she came around to Bob’s side. She was as short as Bob, with a round face that was flushed from the heat in the bar. She wore a stylish shirt, slacks, and a green apron. Her hair was gray and curled into a bob.

  “Jasper has brought us Chef Cole, the new royal family chef,” Bob said. “This is my better half, Amy.”

  “A pleasure to meet you,” I said and shook her hand. “Please call me Carrie Ann.”

  “Jasper’s ordered our finest whiskey,” Bob explained as he got a dusty bottle off the shelf behind the bar.

  “Oh, boy, what did you do?” Amy asked.

  “He kicked her out of her kitchen,” Bob said, his dark gaze twinkling. “Now he is going to ply her with whiskey and fish and chips.”

  “Amy makes the best fish and chips in all of London,” Jasper said and took the shots that Bob poured. “Come on, let’s get a table before they’re all gone.”

  I wound my way through the crowd of people who looked like regulars. They dressed like people who needed a drink after a long day of work. There were very few suits here. Mostly the men wore jeans and tees and the women jeans and blouses. The crowd was older and the music, while happy, was not as loud as at the other pub.

  I followed Jasper over to a corner high-top table with two tall chairs. The windows to the street were behind the table, and he offered me the seat so that I could see the city. I noticed that Jasper had nodded at a few people as we wound our way to the table.

  I climbed up on my seat. “You come here a lot.”

  He shrugged. “I know a few people, if that’s what you mean.” He pushed a shot glass toward me. “Cheers.”

  “Cheers,” I said. We touched glasses and then tossed the whiskey down. It went down smooth and oaky with just enough heat to take the chill out of my bones from the walk over.

  “So may I call you Carrie Ann now?”

  “Yes,” I said. “The whiskey was exactly what I needed.”

  “Then we’ll have another.” He raised his hand and waved Bob over. The bartender grinned and poured us a second round. When he turned to leave, Jasper stopped him and took the bottle.

  “The man has deep pockets,” Bob said and wiggled his thick gray eyebrows.

  “Only for special women,” Jasper said. He raised his glass. “To us.”

  “The best people we know,” I finished. It was a common toast I made with my friends, and I’d said it without thinking. He paused for a moment then laughed and tossed down his second shot. I followed with mine. My face warmed and my muscles finally relaxed. “Thank you for this. I didn’t know how badly I needed it.”

  “We all need a night out now and again. How long have you been here? Four days? Five?”

  “Six,” I said. “Tomorrow’s my day off.”

  “Then it’s your Friday night,” he said.

  “But it’s your Sunday night,” I pointed out. “What were you doing working on Sunday?”

  “A gardener’s work is never done.”

  “Did you know Francis Deems well?”

  “Well enough,” Jasper’s face darkened. “We went to elementary school together.”

  “I heard you were best friends then.”

  “Who told you that?” There was surprise in his voice.

  “A friend,” I said carefully. “I noticed you weren’t at the wake in the pub.”

  “Meriam doesn’t like me much,” he said, poured another drink, and tossed it down. “I didn’t want to cause a fuss.”

  “What happened to break you two up?”

  “It was a stupid family thing,” he said. “My brother dated his sister and things didn’t go well. Then Frank decided he was too good to be my friend.” He pou
red himself a fresh shot. “We live in a small world. I dated Meriam before they got together. Then I broke up with her to date Susan Finch. That’s all it took to set Frank against me for good once he took up with her.”

  “It would seem that breaking up with Meriam was a good thing,” I said. “Or she may not have ever married Mr. Deems.”

  “Well, I was a bit of a cad in those days,” he said with a sideways grin. “She’s never forgiven me and so Frank never forgave me.”

  “Did that make you angry? If I remember right, you and Mr. Deems had an argument the night he was murdered.”

  That made him pause and look at me. “You think I might have killed Frank over the way he manhandled lettuce?”

  “Is that what you had words about?”

  “Yeah, the guy wasn’t careful with the produce. I always had to replant after he went through and ripped everything out.” He paused. “But I would never kill him over it.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to suggest you would. It’s so strange to be so new and involved in such a sad thing,” I said. “I went to visit Mrs. Deems today. I know she doesn’t want people to worry over her, and it’s probably the whisky talking, but . . . Did you know that she has cancer?”

  “Oh, God, no. What a bit of bad luck for her. To have cancer and to lose her husband.”

  “I know,” I said. “It broke my heart. I just had to tell someone. She’s so brave, but it’s clear that it’s getting to her. Having Michael arrested for the crime has practically knocked her to her knees. She was counting on him to help her with the boys.”

  “I heard they were having an affair, and that is why the cops think that Mike killed Frank.”

  “I don’t think he did it,” I said.

  Just then Amy showed up with two plates filled with freshly fried fish and chips. There was salt and vinegar on the table. “Wow, that smells good,” I said.

  “Enjoy,” she said with a smile. “I’d love to hear what the family cook thinks. A good review is great for business.” She winked at me.

  I forked up some of the flaky fish. It melted in my mouth with the right crunch of crust, the tang of vinegar, and the perfect flake of white fish. “This is fantastic,” I said.