Not many folks are strong enough to stand against a written assault, but there are still a few hardy souls around. Moi, for example: I had seen several of my books find a place on the best seller list in spite of her attempts to denigrate my writing. My current cozy mystery series was doing well, and the latest installment, Died Blonde, had garnered praise from writers and readers alike, effectively letting me thumb my nose at the Poison Pen of Prose.
Which brought me back to the situation at hand. We were missing a beloved concierge, and the current suspect was the resident celebrity chef. I shook my head as if to rearrange my thoughts.
"So a trip to the kitchen is in order?" I sipped my coffee and waited for Greg's response. After my experience with Eduardo, I'd let my dear hubby go first when we made our appearance.
He nodded. "I think we might be better able to determine Eduardo's whereabouts when Nona ordered her poolside snack by talking to the other kitchen staff."
That made sense. If Eduardo was the one who had added a garnish of rat poison to the shrimp cocktail, we needed to find out quickly before someone else's life was in danger. I shivered, thinking of a hundred ways that Layla could meet her fate. The writer's brain was not a gift at times such as these. I inclined my head at Greg.
"After you, my dear."
CHAPTER FOUR
I've always associated the smell of baking and cooking with comfort, something I did not have much of in my childhood. Because of this, I'd created a world for myself from the many books I'd read and modeled my behavior and speaking patterns after my favorite heroines. Yes, I might sound a bit over the top at times, but it is a legacy that I created, not having the sure foundation of a home that most of my friends had.
But I digressed. The wonderful aromas that greeted my nose when Greg and I stepped into the resort's kitchen were amazing. I even had a moment's hesitation. Surely somebody who could create like this would not use the talent to harm others, even a menace such as Nona Belladonna.
With Greg striding ahead, we walked through the hustle and bustle of the resort's kitchen. Chopping, shredding, sautéing, roasting, and grilling: it was all happening here, and it was carried off brilliantly by the great man himself as operator of a well-oiled machine. Wearing a spotless apron and a chef's toque, Eduardo was standing behind a row of busy assistants, commenting on their progress, tasting each dish with a small spoon. His nods of approval or frowns of displeasure had the white-jacketed undercooks either smiling or cringing.
When he spotted me, I got a scowl as well. I gave my dear hubby a gentle push in the back, effectively using him as a blockade between me and a very displeased Eduardo. Per usual, Greg was more than able to handle the steaming chef.
Without a word, Eduardo spun on his heel and stalked over to a stainless steel counter where ingredients sat ready to be incorporated into one of his signature dishes, herrings in a wine sauce. Salted butter, shallots, white wine, and finely chopped parsley created a tantalizing sauce for the herrings, and it was almost enough for me to remove Eduardo from the suspect list.
"My name is Gregory Browning. I believe you've already met my wife, Caro," began Greg. He started to offer his hand and then thought better of it. In order to shake the chef's hand, Greg would have to force Eduardo to turn and face us. Judging by the eloquence of his stiff back, I'd say that was not going to be easy to do.
I gave a subdued smile and small wave of my hand as Eduardo glanced over his shoulder at me.
"What are you people doing in my kitchen?" he said, his tone as sharp as the knife he now held. "You have no business being in here." He punctuated each word with a stabbing motion of the knife.
I backed up a few paces just to be on the safe side. Greg stayed put, tucking his hands casually into his pockets, his posture relaxed. Brilliant, I thought. If we had to defend ourselves from flying blades, Greg would certainly be on the short end of things.
"We just need to ask a few questions of you, if you don't mind," my brave—or rash—husband continued. "It'll take only a few moments, and then we'll be out of your kitchen, which smells divinely, by the way," he added, looking around with appreciation.
Nice touch, I thought with admiration. Maybe there was a method to his madness after all.
Eduardo preened, putting the knife back in its mahogany block and turning fully around to face us, his arms over his chest as he leaned against the counter. With a little wave of his hand, he gestured for Greg to go on.
"As you already know," began Gregory, "Ms. Belladonna ingested poison via the shrimp cocktail she'd ordered while she sat by the resort's main pool." He waited for Eduardo to acknowledge this then continued. "What we need to know is the whereabouts of your kitchen staff when the dish was ordered."
Well. That was clever. Greg, without having pointed a finger at anyone in particular, had let the chef know exactly what we already knew and what we were looking for. I gave him a smile and a quick pat on the back.
Eduardo stood as if deep in thought, eyes closed and a forefinger tapping his chin. "I think," he said suddenly, giving me a start, "that Gustave will have that information. I am already prepping for the next day's menu in the afternoon."
Greg nodded. "May we speak with Gustave?"
"Celeste!" Eduardo lifted his voice, and one of the assistant cooks bustled over, wiping her hands on her apron.
"Yes, Eduardo?" Her accent was lovely, a mixture of island and mainland, and the smile she turned on me and Greg was shy.
"Please take them to the breakfast supply room. Gustave should be in there gathering ingredients for tomorrow." Eduardo was already turning back to his preparations. "And hurry. We need to get these dishes finished quickly." At the sight of his very sharp knife flying across the shallots, I took Greg's hand and pulled him with me as we followed Celeste. There was nothing wrong with being safe rather than sorry.
I've heard it said that one should never approach either a restaurant or a horse from the back. This back kitchen area, however, was as spotless as the rest of the resort. With a little wave, the silent Celeste left us at a set of swinging doors clearly marked Supplies.
It was dimly lit inside, and I wondered how Gustave was able to see. The tall shelves reminded me of library stacks, creating dark corridors from one end of the room to the other. Greg, ever handy, pulled out his key ring with the mini-torch clipped to it and created a path of light for us to follow.
I stayed close at his heels. Darkness and I didn't get along so well, and my fertile imagination was conjuring shadows everywhere I looked. And it was quiet—too quiet. I shivered, the hair on my neck standing straight up.
"Greg, I don't think…" That was as far as I got. Something hit the back of my head, and I dropped like a stone.
When I came to, I was lying on my side, my back pressed against something lumpy—maybe a large bag of flour or sugar or coffee beans. It was still dark, but I could make out the outline of someone else nearby.
"Greg?" I croaked. There was no answer, and now I could hear someone moving around deeper in the darkness.
"Greg?" I said again. My head throbbed, and my throat was dry from fear, my heart doing a rapid dance in my chest. I needed someone—anyone—to answer.
A bank of lights above me flickered into life, and I shut my eyes against the painful glare. The movements were nearer now, clearly footsteps, and they were headed right toward me. I opened my eyes to mere slits and saw Gustave Brennan standing there. With a gun in his hand. And a very evil grin on his face. He came closer, kicking my legs with a very heavy shoe. I let out a gasp of pain, and he chuckled as if I'd shared a joke with him.
"Ah. We're awake now, aren't we?" I watched in terror as Gustave strolled over to me, waving the gun in the air as if it were a toy.
"Where's my husband?" I demanded, struggling to sit up. He merely reached out his foot again and gave me a not so gentle push, forcing me back to the ground.
"Your husband?" He pretended to think, wrinkling his forehead in mock concentration.
"Would that be someone about so high"—here he demonstrated, using the gun as a pointer—"with a funny accent and a bad haircut?" He paused, more for effect than anything else. "The last I saw of him, he was running for the door, leaving you behind."
I felt a flash of hope that I'd get out of this alive—Greg was going for help. "He does not have a funny accent!" I said huffily. "Or a bad haircut either," I added. "What did you do with Layla, you sorry excuse for a chef?"
"What did you say?" The words were forced out from between clenched teeth, and I instantly regretted my bravado.
"Just let me go, okay, Gustave?" I sounded casual, but my heart was pounding in my ears. "Let me out of here, and I promise I won't say a word to anyone." No answer was forthcoming, so I took a deep breath and plunged into a conversational riptide; if he was going to kill me anyway, at least I'd get an answer or two. "What have you got against the Casa Del Mar, Gustave? Not enough recognition? Eduardo's shadow too long to let your own talents shine?"
Wasn't that what the victim always said in books or movies? I tried to recall how my own protagonist managed to get out of some tricky spots, but my mind was blank.
Gustave's laughter was closer to a cackle, and he pantomimed mirth, throwing his head back and closing his eyes. I took advantage of the moment to roll away from him and get to my feet. I was unsteady—I was nauseated—but I was alive. And I'd just spotted the still form of Layla, lying with her eyes closed and a trickle of blood coming from her mouth.
Without thinking, I wobbled over to her, kneeling down carefully to avoid toppling over from the wave of dizziness that hit me. I could tell she was still breathing, so at least she was alive, but for how much longer I couldn't tell. Head injuries can present themselves in many different manners, including bleeding from the ears, mouth, and nose. Since I could now see a puddle of blood underneath her head, I was fairly certain that she'd been injured there.
"Did you hit her too, or did you shoot her?" I had to admit that my tone was not the friendliest, but I was getting angry. Anger usually led to recklessness, at least for me, and I felt a good case of rash behavior coming on strong. Standing back to my feet, I turned and glared at Gustave Brennan.
"Now, now," he said, "let's not be hasty, shall we?" He motioned toward Layla. "I just hit her hard enough to keep her quiet for a while, that's all."
I snorted. "Really." I could hear how steady my voice sounded in spite of my trembling legs. "And exactly how long has she been 'quiet,' if I might inquire?"
"You might, indeed," he replied as he began walking toward the back of the room, brandishing the gun at me. "Move it. I don't think she's going anywhere any time soon," he added in mock seriousness.
I walked ahead of him to an area that held a desk and two chairs. As if we were peers sitting down to discuss the day's menus, Gustave took the chair behind the desk, and I sat in the one that faced him. This was becoming a very odd, very surreal situation indeed.
I'd had enough. I stood to my feet, ignoring the voice of reason that begged me to sit back down and cooperate. Fat chance. Cooperation was not my strong suit on a good day, and I definitely was not having a good day.
He gazed at me from across the desk, his eyes calmly watchful. From where I was standing, I could see the gun he held on his lap. My heart once again began a tap dance from my chest to my throat—my mouth felt Sahara dry.
"We can talk about this, Gustave," I began. I had no idea where this was going or what it was we could talk about. From the look on his face, I could see he was past the talking stage anyway. Talking was my forte, however, or so my dear spouse had always maintained.
He stood up abruptly, and I startled back on reflex. Having the solid desk between us was a false security, I knew, but it was better than nothing at all. He used the gun to motion me away, and I was happy to oblige. I was just tensing my muscles to make a dash for the door when he spoke.
"I've never met a person who can outrun a bullet, so I'd stay put if I were you."
In spite of my fear I managed a grin, a lopsided facsimile of my usual sunny smile. "Oh, I don't know, Gustave." I knew I was pushing it now, but recklessness stole over me, goading me into more dangerous conversational waters. "I grew up outrunning my cousins. I'm willing to give it the ol' college try."
To my surprise he smiled back and lowered the gun. It was all I could do to stay upright. The adrenaline rush I had experienced was now causing my knees to knock against one another. Gustave didn't seem to notice or care, and I leaned against the desk as steadily as I could manage, my arms crossed in a manner that I hoped looked casual.
Across the room, Layla wasn't faring as well. She lay still on the floor, but I saw her eyelids flutter open briefly before they closed once more. I hesitated, turning over the next step in my mind, flicking my eyes back toward the sous chef.
"Just out of curiosity, Gustave," I began, "why was it so important to silence Nona Belladonna?"
I attempted to sound as if I couldn't care less about his answer. By now my mouth had become so dehydrated from fear that I could feel my lips beginning to dry out. I'd need a drink of something soon, or I'd run the risk of sounding like Mr. Benoit, my sixth form French teacher. His odd smacking noises as he taught us the mysteries of conjugating verbs were legendary among students in my school.
Gustave threw me a look of such contempt that my heart began to triple time. No need to poke the hornet's nest, I thought in alarm. I attempted a smile, feeling my lips stick to my teeth.
"Sorry, didn't mean to get into your business," I said.
Gustave shrugged, and my heart rate slowed. "I don't really care anymore who knows."
A low groan emanating from Layla made me jump. Gustave glanced briefly at her then returned his gaze to me, effectively dismissing the injured woman. I hesitated a moment, still not comfortable with the whole gun thing, then walked over to Layla as she began to come around, one hand reaching up weakly toward her head.
"Are you okay?" I asked, moving her hand away from the large gash on the back of her head. "Here, let me have a look, Layla."
"What happened?" she asked, her voice a shadow of its normally cheerful self.
"You got a bad knock on the old noggin," I answered, careful of Gustave's listening ear. Up close, the gash looked bad, but I knew that head wounds tended to bleed more because of all the blood vessels so close to the surface. "We need to get this cleaned up so I can see what it looks like," I added, looking at the sous chef as I spoke.
He shrugged again, examining his nails on the hand not clutching the gun. "Whatever. Just don't get any funny ideas." His casual approach to the entire episode was beginning to cross the line of confidence; did he not realize that Greg could be rounding up the troops even as he was inspecting his manicure?
Whenever I am in a tense situation, my go-to response is acerbity. Just in time I stopped myself from saying something like, "As in funny ha-ha?" That would, more than likely, push Gustave closer to the edge of insanity if not all the way over.
I gave Layla's shoulder a little squeeze then stood up. To get to the supply room's small sink I would have to walk past Gustave, and I hoped I could pull that off without my knees buckling from fright. For Layla, though, I had to try.
An abrupt noise from the hallway made me jump. Someone was out there, and I hoped with all my heart that Greg had brought the cavalry. I looked back at Gustave and was surprised to see him still sitting, still picking at his cuticles. He was either applying selective hearing, or he was well and truly in his own little world.
Taking a deep breath, I whirled around and made a beeline for the swinging doors, hoping that I would indeed be able to outrun a bullet. Whoever was out there had to be friendlier than the person inside the kitchen. I only hoped that he (or she) would be carrying a bigger gun.
I was right: the not-so-charming detective duo definitely had more firepower. And right behind them was Gregory, my personal knight in shining armor. Without another thought, I threw myself into his
arms.
In the commotion that followed, I didn't get to see exactly what happened to Gustave Brennan when the detective arrested him. I did see him led away in handcuffs, though, that vacuous expression still on his face. He'd slipped over that tenuous line into insanity, into his own version of reality.
Poor Layla. She'd simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time, running to the storage room for more bottles of water to hand out to thirsty guests. Instead of getting H2O, she'd gotten a good clobber on the noggin, as my gran might say. Thankfully the damage wasn't permanent. Paramedics stabilized Layla, staunching her head wound and starting an IV line in her thin arm. I shuddered. I've never been good with the sight of blood, and the fact that I was still on my feet was nothing short of a miracle. Of course, my husband's strong arm around my shoulders acted as both comfort and prop, and I was grateful to sink into his embrace and rest.
What we learned about this entire fiasco was this: a career can become the heartbeat in a person's life. When someone wreaks havoc with it, one of two things might occur: death of the career…or death of the career wrecker.
In this case, Gustave Brennan identified himself as a chef and only a chef. He had no other talents, no other interests, and nothing to fall back on when his career was threatened. Nona Belladonna's vitriolic review of his on-screen performance, plus a dressing down by Eduardo in front of the other kitchen staff, was enough for Gustave to believe that his entire professional life had been tainted when it had not; in fact, just the opposite was true. Whenever this happened, those who had experienced the Poison Pen of Prose felt nothing but empathy, and others simply forgot the entire episode. Still, it created such deep bitterness in Gustave seeing Nona Belladonna on his turf—not to mention the note she'd written to him as she had done to me—was the nudge that sent him toppling over the edge.
"You know," I said to Gregory as we sat poolside the next day, dangling our feet in the water, "I really do get why he did that. Not that I condone actual murder," I added hastily as my husband's eyebrows shot skyward. "It's just that when someone does me wrong, I've got the ability to do away with them via my books." I swung my legs out of the water, creating a rainbow of water droplets. "And I'll bet you think you know what characters I've used as Nona's stand-in." I smiled smugly to myself. If he guessed for the next ten years, he'd never solve the mystery. I'd made sure to use enough of my own red herrings to protect the guilty.
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