The Complete Death Du Jour Mystery Collection

by Hillary Avis

  Inside, the walls and high ceiling were painted the toasty golden hue of turmeric. Along the sides of the room, rows of shelves with arched openings were packed with handmade ceramic jars. Underneath the shelves, hundreds of tiny drawers with paper labels made Bethany’s fingers itch to open them and smell and taste the treasures that the shop’s proprietor, Yasmin Singh, had collected in her travels around the globe.

  Yasmin looked up from the counter, where she was carefully weighing spices on a brass scale. A section of dark wavy hair escaped her hair clip and fell into her face, and she brushed it back. “Hey, Bethany! Good to see you! How are you liking that Kashmiri saffron?”

  “It’s amazing. I made a potato and garlic soup with it last week that was intense.”

  “Back for more?”

  Bethany shook her head. “I’m hoarding what I have left for the time being. Charley and I are actually here for chilis today.”

  “Ooh, one of my favorite topics.” Yasmin stepped out from behind the counter. She rubbed her hands together and motioned them over to the section of shelves nearest her. “These”—she indicated a large swath of jars, each labeled with a scientific and common name—“are my North and South American chilis, in order of heat level. Next shelf down is Asian chilis. Up here are the European and African ones. And then this row is miscellaneous.”

  “Miscellaneous? What does that mean?” Charley asked.

  “It means I can’t remember where I got them.” Yasmin grinned. “If you tell me what you’re making, I can point you in the right direction. Otherwise, a person could get lost in here!”

  Bethany laughed. “Well, I’m making chili—like the soup—for a contest, so I need a few varieties for depth of flavor. Texas-style, so I guess probably medium heat?”

  Yasmin squinted one eye as she perused at her rows of jars. “I think that’s a little pedestrian, don’t you?”

  “I agree!” Charley declared. “Why spice if you can’t take it all the way?”

  “Well, I don’t want to burn off their taste buds,” Bethany said. “I haven’t had good luck with spicy soups, to be honest. Spiced, to be sure, but spicy? People get nervous.”

  “I don’t think you should go too hot, either. But if you layer several chilis of different heat levels, you can end up with a really rich, unexpected flavor that’s almost fruity. A tiny bit of a very hot chili can add complexity, and then a sweet mellow chili underneath makes it satisfying. Throw in a few in the middle for acidity and interest, and you’ll have a winner.” Yasmin began taking down jars from the shelves, grouping them into sets of three and four on her counter. She uncorked one tiny jar. “Here, smell this chiltepine. It grows wild in Arizona, and it isn’t found anywhere else in the world. I collected these myself when I was hiking in Rock Corral Canyon last year.”

  She waved the jar under their noses, and Charley’s eyes went wide. “Wow!”

  Bethany grinned. “And you were worried I’d end up with some weak chilies.”

  “This almost makes the drive to Oldbridge worth it. You should definitely get some of those.”

  “It won’t take many,” Yasmin said. “And lucky for you, because these babies ain’t cheap.”

  Bethany winced, thinking of her fairly miniscule budget. Maybe I should have made a chili recipe with beans after all. “I really like them. Can you put them aside for me?”

  Yasmin nodded briskly. “Sure thing. Take your time and get to know the rest of the chilies. I grouped them as I would use them, but you can mix and match.” She took the little jar of chilies over to her scale and began weighing out a few of them.

  Charley uncorked one of the larger jars and inhaled deeply. “Mmm. This one smells like coffee. And maybe a little caramel.”

  “I know—this is like winetasting, isn’t it?” Bethany opened another jar. This one smelled citrusy, almost like fresh lemons underneath the spicy top notes. “I want this one for sure.” She slid it to the side.

  Charley sniffed another jar and sneezed into her elbow. “Whoa! That’s enough to knock you out!”

  “Put it in the ‘no’ section, then. We’ve definitely had enough people collapsing after eating my food for one week!”

  Charley’s face was serious as she capped the jar. “I almost forgot to tell you. Tox report came in this morning on that Ned guy. It was poison.”

  Bethany stopped with her hand on the lid of the next jar of chilies. “Like real poison, not an allergen?”

  Charley nodded. “Serious stuff. It’s lethal within fifteen or twenty minutes of ingestion, usually. Seems like Ned got a small dose, which is why he’ll recover.”

  “Whoa. That means he was poisoned at the train station!”

  “Yup.”

  “So maybe it really was in my soup.” Bethany felt sick to her stomach.

  “Maybe. But it’s not like it’s your fault! Someone must have poisoned Ned’s plate specifically. If it was in the whole pot, everyone would have been poisoned. Luckily, we got some samples from his plate at the scene. We sent them off for analysis as soon as we got his tox report. Should have results on Monday.”

  Bethany shook her head. “I just can’t believe it. Who would want to poison Ned? Nobody there even knew the guy!”

  “Well, it’s like this chili you’re building. Layers of complexity, right?” Charley handed her a jar. “Try this.”

  Bethany inhaled the scent. “Mmm, smoky and sweet! I like it!” She put it with the other chilis she’d selected already. “What do you mean about layers of complexity? What does that have to do with Ned?”

  Charley leaned up against the counter and crossed her arms. “Well, it’s like right now, we only see the main ingredients. Ned’s job, his temperament, his age, his lack of connections here. But once Coop and I do a little digging around, we’ll identify some spices and seasoning. Maybe he has relationships here in Newbridge that we don’t know about yet. Or maybe the cook-off contestants do.”

  “The suspects, you mean.”

  Charley tilted her head to the side, thinking. “Well, we don’t know who is a suspect and who isn’t, yet. We have to dig deeper to find out all the connections. All the secrets.”

  “How are you going to do all that before the cook-off tomorrow morning? We can’t have a poisoner making food for an event like that!”

  Charley sighed. “Good old-fashioned legwork! Speaking of, I can’t waste too much time before I head back to the station. Are you almost done?”

  Bethany slowly opened the last jar of chilies on the counter. The fragrance almost jumped out and socked her on the chin—green, grassy, and bright. Perfect. “I think we found our chilies,” she said to Yasmin, who was weighing out whole nutmegs on her scale.

  Yasmin dusted off her hands and came over. “These three plus the chiltepine? Excellent choices. How much do you need?”

  Bethany consulted her handwritten scribbles. “I’m thinking a lot.”

  “How many servings of soup are we talking about here? Ten, twenty?”

  “More,” Bethany said, doing some quick mental calculations. “As many as five hundred.”

  “Dang, girl!” Yasmin gaped.

  “It’s for the benefit at Waterfront Park tomorrow. You know, for the train station restoration? People can buy tickets to taste all the different chili recipes in the cook-off.”

  “Ah! Yes! Well, they’ll be small servings for a tasting menu, so I’ll give you enough for three hundred regular portions.” She weighed and bagged the spices in brown paper sacks.

  After Bethany paid the bill, Yasmin handed the bags across the counter. “Here are your secret ingredients. If you win the cook-off, don’t tell what chilies you used! But do tell where you got them.”

  Bethany grinned. “You got it. I’ll keep my secrets a secret.”

  I’m not the only one with secrets. Someone else in the competition has a secret—a big secret. And I’m going to find out who it is.

  Chapter 6

  SATURDAY AFTERNOON

 
; BETHANY TOASTED THE dried chilis, put them in hot water to soak, and then hurriedly changed her clothes. She was already late for her weekly volunteer gig down at the homeless shelter.

  Looks like I’ll be cooking all night if I want to be ready for the contest tomorrow.

  “Bye, Kimmy!” she called on her way out the door.

  “Have fun!” Kimmy waved. “Call me if it’s raining when you’re done, and I’ll come pick you up.”

  Bethany mounted her yellow bike, Daisy, and pushed off from the curb. The shelter was only a couple miles from their cottage, and she knew the way without even thinking, so she let her mind wander as she rode, the wind whipping her cheeks and ruffling her hair. She ran through her checklist for the cook-off, mentally completing each task and moving on to the next.

  Make the chili paste, sauté the onions and garlic, add the stock. The beef she’d bought on the way home from the spice shop would need to simmer for hours in the pungent liquid until it was perfectly tender. She knew her tomato-less, bean-less chili was a risk here in Connecticut, but she loved the purity of the dish. Just a few ingredients, cooked to perfection. And it was so different than the cassoulet Kimmy was making—it didn’t feel like they were competing directly, even though they technically were.

  Well, Monsieur Adrian and I are. Poor Kimmy just got stuck in the middle.

  She took a shortcut through an alley and pulled up behind the shelter. As she locked Daisy to a railing, she could see through the window where Olive and Ryan were chatting merrily in the kitchen. Ryan had his back to her and was adding chopped vegetables to a huge stockpot.

  My job. She winced. The whole point of volunteering was to do something good for the homeless guests, and here Ryan was filling in for her.

  “Hey!” she said, knocking on the window and waving. “I’m here!”

  Ryan turned and his face lit up with a smile. He motioned her inside. Who could resist a smile like that? Bethany shook her head and jogged up the back stairs, barreling through the kitchen door at full speed.

  “Sorry I’m late,” she said as she looped an apron over her head. She started to wash her hands, but froze when she felt Ryan’s knuckles graze her back. She held her breath as he tied the apron strings that she’d left dangling at her sides.

  “There,” he said, his deep voice rumbling in her ear. “You’re all set.”

  Damn.

  “Thanks.” Her voice came out high and squeaky, and she cringed. She cleared her throat. “I need all the help I can get—obviously.”

  “We got you started on the soup.” Olive motioned to the stock pot. “I hope you don’t mind.”

  “No, that’s great,” Bethany said, flushing. “I’m just sorry you had to step in for me. I’m a little distracted because of the cook-off.”

  “I’ll be your sous chef any time. Just say the word.” Ryan grabbed two ten-pound bags of potatoes and did bicep curls with them. “Guess that makes me a-peeling.”

  She groaned at the pun, but she couldn’t help smiling. And she couldn’t help noticing how his muscles flexed underneath his T-shirt sleeves.

  I will not objectify cute homeless guys. I will not objectify cute homeless guys.

  “See? I knew I could make you smile.”

  Olive pushed past him and rolled her eyes. “Are you going to peel those potatoes or what? Dinner’s at six whether those things are mashed or not.”

  Ryan sheepishly began scrubbing the potatoes in the sink, and Bethany took a look at the stockpot. Olive and Ryan had done their job well—the pot contained broth, onions, garlic, carrots, and celery, all simmering away. It was the perfect base for just about anything Bethany could imagine.

  “Would it be crazy to do another round of minestrone?” she mused aloud.

  “Everyone likes minestrone,” Olive said agreeably.

  “I know, but I hate cooking the same thing twice.” Bethany drummed her fingers on the counter while she thought.

  “That’s because you’re an artist,” Ryan said over his shoulder. He dropped a couple more potatoes in the sink and picked up new ones to scrub. “You’re never content. Always trying to improve, refine. It’s your gift.”

  “He should know.” Olive nudged Bethany with her elbow on the way out to the dining room with a bin of cutlery. Bethany knew what she meant— Bethany rarely saw him without paint streaking his arms or clothing. Ryan had created a huge and impressive mural in the shelter’s common room that depicted the entire town of Newbridge, right down to individual people. He sometimes designed and painted murals for businesses around town, too. And he never accepted payment for his work—he just did it for the joy of it. So when he called her an artist, she knew he meant it as a huge compliment, but for some reason it got under Bethany’s skin.

  “I’m not an artist. I’m just doing my job,” she snapped, a little more harshly than she meant to. But really—some of us have to pay rent, and we use our skills and talents to do it! If Ryan would just value his own work and actually charge for his time, he might be living somewhere nicer than a shelter.

  “Didn’t anyone tell you this was a volunteer gig?” Ryan looked up from his potato peeler and flashed her a smile, and she felt immediately guilty. He was giving her such a graceful way to recover from her snappy comment.

  She smiled back a bit grudgingly and went to the pantry to rustle up some minestrone ingredients. She found cans of beans and tomatoes, bags of dry pasta, and a dishpan full of bottled dried herbs and hauled them back out to the large, spare kitchen. It was a basic recipe with basic ingredients, but she knew she could make it delicious and filling. Bethany opened her cans and rinsed the white beans and chickpeas so they wouldn’t leave a metallic taste in the soup.

  Olive returned from setting the tables and checked the internal temperature on the chickens that were roasting in the huge ovens. “Right on schedule. Actually, ahead of schedule. Aren’t we efficient tonight?” She beamed. “Gives me time for a cup of tea before the dinner rush.”

  She filled the kettle and set it on the stove, then leaned back against the counter to watch Bethany measuring out the dry herbs into the soup. “How are you doing? Feeling prepared for the cook-off tomorrow?”

  “Are you competing in that?” Ryan asked. “Maybe I’ll go, then.”

  “I think the tickets cost money. It’s a benefit kind of thing,” Bethany explained. “I’m not exactly ready, either. I’m probably going to be up until the wee hours cooking.”

  Olive clucked her tongue disapprovingly. “Usually you’re three steps ahead on everything. Must have been a good date with Milo last night!”

  Ryan fumbled a half-peeled potato into the sink. It bounced around, ringing the stainless-steel sink like a gong.

  “It was all right.” Bethany hoped that would put Olive off the scent. For some reason she just felt bad talking about the date in front of Ryan. He wasn’t exactly in the position to have a relationship right now, and there was no need to rub his nose in it.

  Olive raised her eyebrows as she opened a teabag and put it into a mug. “Just all right? Where’d he take you?”

  “Home Plate,” Bethany mumbled into her soup pot.

  “The sports bar?!” Ryan frowned. “Are you into baseball or something?”

  “It’s a diner,” she protested weakly. “It has good burgers.”

  Olive shrugged. “I guess romance can happen anywhere.”

  Ryan cleared his throat. “So, is it a serious thing? Are you two—?”

  The whistle on the kettle started squealing, cutting off whatever he’d been about to ask. Olive shut off the burner, and Bethany practically dove for the fridge, where she spent more time than necessary looking for a block of parmesan. When she found it, she studiously avoided eye contact with Ryan and put the cheese into the food processor to grate it for the soup.

  The loud whir of the appliance made it impossible for the conversation to continue, and Ryan went back to peeling potatoes. Every now and then, he’d look over at Bethany, but
every time he did, she made sure he couldn’t catch her eye. When she’d grated enough, she turned off the food processor. Please don’t bring it up again. Please don’t bring it up again. Please don’t—

  “How long have you been dating?” Ryan asked. “I didn’t realize you had a boyfriend.”

  “I don’t,” she said automatically. “I mean—it was just a first date. I don’t even know if it’s going anywhere. We mostly talked about work.”

  He didn’t say anything. Instead, he brought his pile of potatoes over and slid them into a pot of salted water that had just come to a boil on the stove. He went back and got a second batch and added them to the first. Bethany breathed an internal sigh of relief. Maybe he’ll just let it drop.

  “I have to throw my hat in the ring before it’s too late,” he said abruptly. “Bethany, can I take you out sometime?”

  Olive’s hands flew to her mouth and her eyes went wide. She backed out of the kitchen with her cup of tea so quickly that Bethany didn’t have time to tell her that she didn’t need to leave—she had no intention of going out with Ryan. But at least this way, she could let him down privately, so it wouldn’t be as embarrassing for him.

  I know better than to date a fixer-upper. Anyway, where would we go? Who would pay for the date? I should encourage him to work on his life before he starts a relationship.

  She looked at him, and his mouth quirked in a half-smile. Why were his eyes so impossibly green?!

  “What do you say?”

  I say no, because I shouldn’t distract you from figuring out your deal, Ryan. I say no, because I can’t date someone who doesn’t bring at least fifty percent to the relationship. But man, it’s hard to say no to that face.

  “Can I ask you a question first?” He nodded, and she took a deep breath, then plunged ahead. “Are you at all interested in doing something with your life?”

  His forehead creased, and he rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Come on, Ryan. This shouldn’t be a tough question.