Skye had a special relationship with the Dooziers. In the past she had protected them from bureaucratic school rules, and they had protected her from her own naïveté, but she didn’t like to press her luck.
While Earl was firmly in her corner, there was no love lost between her and Glenda. Thank goodness they weren’t competing in the same category. Speaking of category, if Glenda was taking Cherry’s place, that meant she was in the Special-Occasion Baking group. What on earth could Glenda produce that would be fit for a special occasion? Possum Pie? Roadkill Jubilee? Or maybe a Squirrel Sundae?
Once Skye reached her cubicle she put the Dooziers out of her mind and began to assemble the ingredients for her recipe. While she worked, more finalists began to appear. They came in all shapes, sizes, and ages, but everyone wore the same determined look.
This was the day. Either they’d take home thousands of dollars and bragging rights for the next year, or they’d leave with nothing, and be forced to say over and over again, “Oh, I’m not disappointed I didn’t win. It was just an honor to make the finals.” Those words might quickly become harder to swallow than Skye’s cooking.
As the warehouse started to fill with the sounds and smells of food being prepared, Skye slid her practice Chicken Supreme into the preheated oven. She set the timer, checked the clock on the wall, and looked at her watch. The dish had to come out in exactly fifty minutes, just as the cheese started to bubble, but before it started to brown. At that point she would sprinkle the top with buttered bread crumbs and then cook it five minutes longer.
Skye frowned as she adjusted her apron; they still hadn’t gotten her one with the right spelling of her name. She was tempted to take a Magic Marker and make the correction herself, but instead she set off to visit her competition and see what everyone was saying about the murder.
She couldn’t exactly take notes as she chatted, but she did tuck a small spiral pad in her pocket to jot down anything relevant as soon as she was out of a contestant’s sight. She was hoping to overhear discussions, but would start one if there was no alternative.
The first row of six stoves that Skye approached was the Healthy recipe entrants. She noticed that one cooking space was empty. Where was Vince, and how come May hadn’t picked him up and hauled his butt to the six a.m. practice? Skye ground her teeth; Vince had always been their mother’s favorite.
Pushing away her jealousy, she concentrated on what the other five Healthy recipe finalists were saying. The first conversation she tuned in to was between two women cooking next to each other. One of them was the contestant that May had thought she knew when they first gathered on Friday, Imogene Ingersoll.
This time Skye saw what her mother meant; there was something familiar about Imogene, but thick glasses, heavy makeup, and what was obviously a wig made identification difficult. Hmm… Skye bit her lip. Maybe Imogene had lost her hair undergoing chemotherapy. A couple of months ago Skye’d given a ride to a student who worked part-time at the Laurel Oncology Clinic and that might be where she’d seen Imogene.
Skye’s focus was brought back to the two when Imogene said, “After they turned us away at the gate yesterday, I thought for sure they’d cancel the contest, or at least postpone it.” She tied on her apron while continuing to chat. “I didn’t see the message on my cell that the contest was still on until I came home from Mass; then I flew over here.”
Skye recognized the other lady as the one with the injured leg. What was her name? She squinted at the apron pocket. Right, Monika. Now she remembered—Monika Bradley, the CPA from Brooklyn.
As Skye watched, Monika nodded. “Yeah, I was surprised, too. But my husband can never let a phone go unanswered, so I got the news yesterday afternoon.” She slid a pan into her oven, then said, “I guess the show must go on.”
“Well, not to speak ill of the dead, but she wasn’t very nice.”
“That’s an understatement. She reminded me of my cousin’s poodle. It was a pretty little thing, all bright eyes and curls, and it would come up and rest against your leg like it wanted to be petted. But the minute you reached down to stroke it, it would bite your fingers clean to the bone.” Monika set the stove’s timer. “Did you hear her yelling in the restaurant? Someone stealing her secret ingredient, my eye. I saw her put that little sack she was carrying on about in the garbage can. She shoved it in way to the bottom.”
“Really? Did you say something to her?”
“Sure.” Monika crossed her arms and leaned back against the counter. “At first she denied it, but then I threatened to go to Grandma Sal and she admitted she pulled the whole stunt to try to get May Denison kicked out of the contest.”
“No!”
“Yes. Cherry said that May was her biggest competition, and she always tried to get her main rival disqualified.”
Imogene pushed her glasses up. “Why didn’t you turn Cherry in?”
“Because they were going at each other tooth and nail. I was hoping both of them would get kicked out. If Cherry had ended up winning the grand prize and I had a chance at winning it, I would have turned her in then.” She sniffed. “Instead they let the next runner-up take Cherry’s place. Damn!”
Skye snickered softly and moved on to the Snack recipe row. Here Charlie was holding court, waving a spatula and talking loudly. He wore his usual gray twill pants, white shirt, and red suspenders. His three-hundred-pound bulk took up nearly every inch of space in his cubicle, and made him look like a sumo wrestler squeezed into a pair of size-A panty hose.
Charlie’s booming baritone echoed off the warehouse walls. “If I hear any of you say that again, we’ll be suing you for slander.”
Skye slipped behind a pillar. She wanted to know what he was talking about, but not enough to be drawn into the fray.
“Oh, shut your yap, you old fool.” A birdlike woman marched up to him clutching a whisk. “All I said was that the dead woman had a fight with May Denison. You can’t sue me for stating the facts. I’m not saying May killed her.”
A dignified woman whom Skye recognized as a math teacher from Scumble River High shook her head. “Besides, Mr. Patukas, I think Ms. Alexander had words with at least a dozen or so people. I saw her yelling at Grandma Sal’s son just after we finished dinner.”
The others in the area joined in, and Skye quickly scribbled names and motives in her notebook. It seemed as if Miss Cherry had argued with nearly everyone in the place.
Skye looked at her watch; she had ten minutes before her dish had to come out of the oven. Hurriedly she moved on to the Special-Occasion Baking row. Here all was quiet. May was intently making frosting roses on what looked to Skye like a tiny lazy Susan.
Next to her the cookie blogger, Diane White, concentrated on a chocolate creation that looked something like the fusion of a truffle, a tiramisu, and a brownie. Skye licked her lips. As she watched Diane started to sprinkle chocolate shavings on the dish’s surface. Just then the blogger’s assistant arrived, gliding into the kitchen area.
Diane’s back was to the entrance, and when the assistant spoke, the blogger threw up her hands and squeaked in fright. The bowl of chocolate flakes slipped from her fingers, spilling its contents on the ground, and Diane sank to her knees, screaming.
Wow, she certainly was high-strung. Was she afraid she might be the next victim, or was she on edge because she was the killer? She had been poking around the murder scene yesterday. In fact, she’d had to be escorted out due to her hysteria. But maybe that had been a ruse to escape the scene of the crime without arousing suspicion. Could the cookie blogger be a coldhearted criminal?
CHAPTER 13
Beat Egg Whites Until Stiff
Shit! Skye glared at her watch. If only sheer willpower could make the hands move backward. It was nearly five minutes past the time her casserole was supposed to come out of the oven. Just what she needed—another ruined mess.
But surely anyone would agree that finding out who murdered Cherry was more important than creating th
e perfect entrée. Skye paused and bit her lip. Well, anyone but her mother. With May’s angry yet disappointed face in mind, Skye turned on her heels and raced across the warehouse to the One-Dish Meals area. Making a tight turn at the end of the row, she skidded into her cubicle.
The first thing Skye saw was Bunny sitting on a folding chair painting her nails, wearing a red leather minidress and matching ankle boots laced with white silk ribbons. Not a good look for someone Bunny’s age, but the redhead had never appeared more beautiful to Skye. Surely Bunny would have taken the dish from the oven when the timer went off.
Skye’s smile faltered when she realized the counter was empty—no sign of the Chicken Supreme. Still, the timer wasn’t pinging, so Bunny must have stopped it.
Skye let her gaze slip to the oven just in time to see twin columns of smoke curl upward like elephant tusks. She yelped, ran forward, and twisted the dial to the OFF position. Seizing a potholder, she flung open the door and grabbed the Corning Ware dish.
This time her scream was louder than a the tornado siren, as the casserole slipped from her hands to the floor; elbow macaroni, chunks of chicken, and cheese splattered the cubicle. Skye gazed at the oozing cabinets and closed her eyes. The orange and white mess was revolting!
As she tried to pull herself together, the smell of scorched Velveeta clogged her throat. Her eyelids flew open and she whipped around to look back at the stove. The smoke had turned from gray to black and was billowing toward the ceiling. Somehow, although the arrow on the dial was aligned to the word OFF, the oven’s broiler had been ignited.
Damn! Damn! Damn! Some of the ingredients must have bubbled over while baking and were continuing to burn. Before she could react, the overhead sprinklers chirped, then spurted like exploded water balloons.
Bunny bounced off her chair and popped out of the cubicle like refrigerator biscuits from a tube. Skye covered her head with both arms and dashed after her. The shrieks of Skye’s neighboring finalists accompanied her flight.
Within seconds contest staff came running from the four corners of the warehouse. The first to arrive slid into Skye’s booth as if he were making a grand slam home run; others followed, looking like cars piling up on I-55 in a snowstorm.
Grandma Sal’s son, Jared, picked himself up from the heap and turned on Skye. “What the fu …” He caught himself and took a deep breath. Speaking between clenched teeth, he gritted, “What happened?”
He drummed his fingers against the partition as Skye explained, pointing to the offending dial. When she finished he said under his breath, “Great, another prank.” Then, looking out at the gathered reporters, who were firing questions faster than a Xerox machine spitting out copies, he pasted a fake smile on his face and announced, “We’ve had a little mishap. No big deal. It only affected three workspaces, because Fine Foods went to the added expense of wiring the sprinklers in small sections. And, since the contest hasn’t started, I’ll get a cleanup crew here right away, and these people can get back to cooking.”
While Bunny and Skye waited for their area to be put to rights, Skye picked bits of green pepper and red pimento off her arms. Without looking at the older woman, afraid that if she did she might smack her, Skye asked in her best psychologist voice, “Bunny, why didn’t you take the casserole out of the oven when the timer went off?”
“Yesterday you told me not to touch it.”
“But you did turn off the timer?” Skye wondered how the woman had managed to remain both spatter-free and dry.
“Well, yeah. I had to do that.” Bunny adjusted her black-and-white-checked thigh-high stockings. “It was as annoying as a poor man begging for a kiss.”
“Didn’t you think that the timer might be set to indicate something? Like maybe when the casserole was done?”
“Nah.” Bunny resumed painting her nails. “Thinking causes wrinkles.”
“So does death,” Skye muttered as she continued to scrape burned food from herself.
“What?” Bunny peered up at Skye.
“I said, please get me some wet paper towels.”
“Sure. As soon as my nails dry.”
“You know, Bunny”—Skye jammed her hands in her pockets so she wouldn’t strangle the redhead, but she couldn’t resist a verbal jab—“that outfit you have on is a bit on the young side for you. Don’t you think?” She attempted to twist the knife. “How old are you, anyway?”
Bunny, clearly impervious to Skye’s criticism, deposited the nail polish bottle in her purse and started to wave her fingertips in the air as she replied, “Age is just a number, and mine is unlisted.”
At ten o’clock Grandma Sal blew a whistle and the Soup-to-Nuts Cooking Challenge officially started. Each contestant would have six hours to produce three identical dishes. One would go to the judges for tasting, one would go to the photographers for pictures, and the third would be cut into bite-size pieces and put out for the audience to evaluate. It was up to each finalist to determine which of their dishes went where.
Skye knew her mother would be among the most pressed for time. Not only did May have the mixing and baking to contend with, she also had the decorating. On the other hand, she also had a recipe she had successfully produced many, many times, while the best casserole Skye had ever managed to create ended up looking like drowned roadkill on the warehouse’s floor.
As Skye set to work putting together her first official Chicken Supreme, her mind drifted to what had been happening in the outside world while she had been chained to a hot stove.
When Quirk talked to Charlie’s cleaning crew, had they told him anything about the missing teenager? Had Wally found his father or figured out why he was checked into the motel under the assumed name of a cartoon character? And most important of all, had the police found out who killed Cherry Alexander?
Skye finished the first casserole and popped it into the oven. She couldn’t start on the second one until the first was nearly done. May had warned her that each dish had to go into the oven as soon as it was finished. It could not be refrigerated nor sit at room temperature.
This left Skye between thirty and forty minutes to investigate. But what would she do about Bunny?
She glanced beneath her lashes at the redhead, who had settled back into the folding chair and was leafing through an In Style magazine. “Hey, Bunny, do you want anything? I’m going to take a walk and get a Diet Coke.”
“Yeah, bring me a cup of coffee. Two creams and three fake sugars.”
“Okay.” Skye slipped out of the kitchen area, then poked her head back, praying Bunny wouldn’t decide to come with her. “Listen, if I get held up and the timer goes off, take the casserole out of the oven, okay?”
“Sure.” Bunny didn’t look up from the glossy page. “I’ve got you covered.”
Skye vowed to be back before the first ding.
Most of the contestants would be too busy to be talking about Cherry’s murder, so Skye headed back to the hospitality lounge, a walled-off section furnished with tables and chairs. Coffee, tea, and soft drinks were provided, along with small pastries and sandwiches.
Two women and a man were the only occupants besides Skye. They sat at a table against the back wall, deeply involved in a conversation. Skye immediately recognized the trio as the contest judges.
Skye smiled to herself. This was perfect. She couldn’t approach them, but it made sense that they would be in the lounge, since they wouldn’t have anything to judge for the first hour or more.
She concentrated on being invisible, silently choosing a can of pop and a bear claw. Careful not to make eye contact, she selected a seat off to one side. She wasn’t facing them, but they were in her peripheral vision. Someone had left the Books section of the Sunday Tribune on the table, and Skye opened it in front of her face.
As she hoped, the judges paid no attention to her and continued their discussion.
The first thing Skye heard was the male judge, Paul Voss, say, “I doubt they’ll ever figure out who
killed that woman. The cops here are straight out of Mayberry R.F.D. Barney Fife questioned me yesterday and could barely spell my name correctly.”
“You needn’t sound so pleased,” Alice Gibson, the cookbook author, chided him. “All that means is that someone gets away with murder.” She poked Paul in the ribs with her elbow. “Unless, of course, you’re the killer.”
“Very funny.” Paul took a swig from a water bottle. “It was probably the husband. It’s always the husband. Or the lover, if she had one.”
“Whoever it was, they did us a favor,” Ramona Epstein, the food editor, said. “That woman was the most annoying contestant I’ve ever run into.”
“True.” Alice fingered her napkin. “If flattery and bribes didn’t work, she tried blackmail.”
Paul straightened. “What’d she have on you?”
“Nothing I couldn’t handle.” Alice raised an eyebrow. “How about you two? She told me she had something on all of us.”
Ramona and Paul both said, “Nothing,” at the same time; then Paul added, “Well, we may be happy she’s gone, but Fine Foods sure must be upset.”
“Why?” Alice asked.
Ramona answered before Paul could. “Because Fine Foods is in the midst of a big buyout deal. This is not the time for Grandma Sal’s to look bad in the press.”
“So, Fine Foods wants the murderer caught and the case closed and forgotten ASAP?” Alice asked.
Paul nodded. “Sure, it’s just like when you sell your house—you make sure the lawn is mowed, the carpet is vacuumed, and the windows are sparkling so you can get the best price.”
The two women nodded.
He looked at his watch. “We probably should be getting back to the judging booth. If a dish comes in and we’re not there, Grandma Sal will kill us.”
After the judges left, Skye wrote down what she had heard. She’d been having some remarkable luck in eavesdropping on conversations about Cherry. On the other hand, what else would anyone be talking about the day after the murder?
Murder of a Chocolate-Covered Cherry Page 14