Expiration Date

by Devon Delaney

  With Amber’s finger still lodged against the latch mechanism, Sherry opened the cedar post–framed door that provided the secure entrance to the fenced-in garden enclosure. The ladies entered while Chutney remained just outside the gate.

  “The fence is the only safeguard against the woodland critters. Close the gate very slowly, or we’ll be locked in here until the coyotes find us. I can’t count on the fact Chutney knows how to run for help, like Lassie.” Sherry guided the door as Amber removed her finger, leaving it slightly ajar.

  “Who does the fun stuff, like weeding?” asked Amber.

  “You’re not going to find a weed in here.” Marla pulled a minute plant with no resemblance to the others around it and tossed it skyward. “My sister plucks them as fast as they can seed themselves.”

  They walked on the soft wood chips between the raised garden beds. The path led them to the two small boxes in the rear. Sherry parked in front of the boxes that didn’t contain any plants.

  “During the Dawn of Time, when I was nine or ten, I planted my first garden. Remember, Marla?”

  Marla’s shoulder rose up and met her cheek. “I’ve heard stories.”

  “I think gardening definitely led to my cooking obsession. Marla and Pep were very patient with my cooking experiments featuring goodies from my little garden.”

  “We weren’t always thrilled to eat it, though.” Marla kicked some wood chips.

  “You never told me that!” Sherry knelt and repositioned the wood chips Marla had kicked out of place.

  “Well, you were a sensitive kid whose feelings got hurt really easily. Now you can handle the truth. Plus, Dad secretly rewarded us if we ate your weird stuff. He gave us a few extra goodies for dessert. It was our deal.” Marla used her big toe to push more chips around.

  “Dad’s a sneaky devil.”

  “What kind of things did you do as a kid, Marla?” asked Amber.

  “I can sum up my childhood in four words: soccer, sleep, eat, repeat.” Marla kicked an invisible soccer ball. “Now I’m trying to play catch-up to Sherry’s cooking accomplishments!”

  “No one says you have to.” Sherry crossed her arms. “Let me just be better at something.”

  “Sorry, but you know I love a good competition. Can’t suppress the urge.”

  “You’ll have to suppress it if you ever have kids of your own. You’ll take away every ounce of fun in sports for them if you make it all about winning.” Sherry forced a smile.

  Marla puffed out her cheeks and blew. “The world is a tough place. Sports are a great lesson in learning to use your wiles to surpass the guy who’s not trying as hard as you. Kids can’t learn that early enough as far as I’m concerned. And besides, you’re as competitive as they come. If you don’t think cook-offs are a kind of sport, then you might as well admit a tomato isn’t a fruit.”

  Sherry released a short hum. “These are my compost piles.” Sherry pointed to the banana peels and coffee grounds contained in the two frames. “I try to be as organic as possible and not use commercial fertilizer.”

  “When you say you try to garden organically, is your garden actually certified or whatever you call it?” asked Amber.

  “No. I use the word ‘organic’ in the broad theoretical sense in association with my gardening techniques. But I do try my best to stick to the guidelines for organic, because I don’t mind a few bugs in my veggies. Spraying tons of chemicals on my plants to kill bugs is so bad for you and the animals around here.

  “The compost pile I have over there”—Sherry pointed to the corner of her garden—“is made of non-organic produce and fruits I have tossed in. So that alone precludes my garden from being able to pass rigid inspection. But the seeds I use are definitely labeled certified organic, and I only buy non-genetically altered seeds and seedlings. I’m even a seed saver. Next year, my beans will be the next generation of this year’s crop.

  “Labeling products ‘organic’ is also a tricky business because it can be ‘made with organic ingredients’ or ‘one hundred percent organic’ and you hope they’re always certified and approved the right way. OrgaNicks Foods, for example, must have rigorous standards they have to adhere to. I can’t even imagine how many hoops you have to jump through to get the label on your product packaging. Sorry, am I lecturing?”

  Marla fondled a plant leaf between her fingers. “Maybe a lit—”

  “No, no! It’s fascinating,” interjected Amber.

  “Ouch! Those pesky no-see-ums.” Marla swatted her arm. “Sun starts setting, and they start biting.”

  Sherry took her sister’s not-so-subtle hint as the cue to head back inside.

  “Just got to make sure the gate is solidly shut.” Sherry tested the latch and followed Marla and Amber back to the house.

  Chutney brought up the rear.

  Back in the house, Sherry offered Amber and Marla a glass of rosé. They sat in the living room while Sherry went back to the kitchen to check on the casserole. Sherry peeked inside the oven. Predictably, the casserole was tantalizingly fragrant. She lowered the oven temperature and removed the Dutch oven lid to let the topping brown. Sherry poured three glasses of wine and brought them out to the living room.

  Just as she was taking a seat, Sherry’s cell phone rang. She ran back to the kitchen and found her humming phone on the counter.

  “Hello.”

  “Is this Sherry Frazzelle?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Ms. Frazzelle, this is Stacy from the OrgaNicks Company. How are you doing today?”

  Sherry’s knees trembled for an instant. She walked over to the kitchen table and sat. “Fine, thank you.”

  “Ms. Frazzelle, we would like to invite you to participate in a cooking demonstration at the Au Natural Market this Wednesday. We will also be inviting your sister, Marla Barras, if she’s still in the vicinity. It would be three hours maximum, and especially because you are the Connecticut finalist, we would love it if you would say yes.”

  Sherry let silence wash over the conversation before she sputtered out her reply. “Well, sure. Okay. I’m sorry, though, my sister will be back at her home in Oklahoma by Wednesday. Amber Sherman is staying at my house. She was one of the finalists. Could she do it with me? You don’t think it’s too soon? I mean too soon following the death of one of the cook-off judges?”

  “Mr. Andime strongly suggested it would help the community heal. Let me e-mail you the details. We have your e-mail on file, so by this evening, you should receive instructions. And yes, we would love Ms. Sherman to participate. Would you please share the instructions with her? There will be a third contestant there, too. And, of course, you will be preparing the recipes you made at the cook-off. We’ll have all the ingredients for you, if you could just pick them up the day before.”

  Sherry swayed in her chair before righting herself. “Okay. Thank you. Bye.” Sherry ended the call and made a notation on the phone’s calendar. She rejoined the others in the living room.

  “Well, that was a woman, Stacy, from OrgaNicks. It seems they want the two cook-off sisters to do a cooking demo of our recipes at the Au Natural Market on Wednesday.”

  Marla’s face grew sullen. “No can do. I’ve got to get back to Oklahoma. Darn, I’ve never done a demo before. Aren’t they glossing over the fact the cook-off was never really completed, not to mention, a man died at the event? Shouldn’t there be some sort of mourning phase for the poor chef, at least until the investigation is complete?”

  “I asked, ‘Isn’t it too soon?’ and the lady seemed to backtrack and explained it wasn’t in association with the cook-off. Just a public relations attempt to keep OrgaNicks in a good light with their consumers. If you think about it, it’s probably a good idea so OrgaNicks isn’t forever associated with a tragedy.” Sherry took a sip of her rosé to wash down the words that left a slight bitter taste in her mouth.

  “Interesting.” Amber held up her glass before drinking. “Not sure this is an appropriate time to put pr
oduct sales first, but then again, I’m not the CEO, thankfully.”

  “The thing is I offered you up in place of Marla.” Sherry took another sip to fortify her statement before Amber could respond. “The lady indicated there would be another contestant from the cook-off involved, but she was speaking so quickly I didn’t have a chance to ask her who. Can you stay a few extra days?”

  “What? No. I mean, I’d love to stay, but I don’t know about doing the demo. My recipe seems like ancient history, and I’m not sure I want to dig up the artifacts,” said Amber. “The last I remember seeing it was when it was all over the deceased Chef’s face. I’m still sick about the terrible image.”

  Sherry pressed on. “Demos have a very different vibe. It should actually be fun. Might be a good diversion for me, too. The demos I’ve done before were organized completely by the sponsor. We’ll be working with the store’s own chef in a location where the shoppers are able to sample dishes, ask questions, and get excited to cook the recipe later for themselves. It’s a win-win for all because you get to practice cooking, the store sells the ingredients, and the hungry customers get fed for free! Most demos are very low key, and the shoppers are quite nice.”

  “Sherry, are you sure you don’t want to do this because you’re getting into the idea of finding some clues about the murderer’s identity?” asked Marla. “Have you given any consideration to the notion that whoever killed the chef is after anyone associated with the cook-off? Could be a dangerous scenario if they show up at the store because it’s an OrgaNicks demo.”

  “That’s ridiculous. You’ve watched too many crime shows. What do you say, Amber? Are you in?” Sherry fanned her hands, as if coaxing a positive response from Amber.

  “But if they wanted two sisters in the first place, I’m no substitute for the real thing! And I don’t like what Marla is suggesting.” Amber’s eyes widened, and she took a large sip from her glass.

  “Listen,” said Marla. “Sibling rivalry makes for good PR, but really, the whole thing’s about showing off their products. I’m sure it’s safe, too. I was just kidding about the danger. Don’t worry. You’ll be perfect!”

  Amber tipped back her wineglass and emptied it into her mouth. “Okay, sure. Why not? It’s good practice if I’m going to try some more contests. So far, my experience as a newbie in my first cook-off was sketchy at best.”

  “You cook, you chat, they eat, and you’re done. There’s no prize, but it’s a good experience. A couple of hours of your life, at the most.” Sherry examined her new friend for any signs she might change her mind. “I’m just happy OrgaNicks asked me. Do you think they haven’t heard about the chef’s last bite being my dish?”

  Marla shrugged.

  “Anyway, OrgaNicks will be providing our ingredients. All we have to do is pick them up. Full instructions are being e-mailed to me by this evening. Now, how about another glass of wine?”

  Sherry brought what remained of the bottle of rosé to the living room. As she poured the last splash into Marla’s glass, Sherry’s phone rang again from the kitchen. She picked it up on its final ring before it transferred to voice mail. “Hello?”

  “Is this Sherry Frazzelle?”

  Sherry looked at the unfamiliar number displayed on her phone. “Yes, may I ask who’s calling?”

  “Hi, Sherry. This is Patti Mellit. We met at the cook-off. As a matter of fact, I believe you were that unsuspecting woman I corralled into admiring my ancient high school award. I’m sorry if I took any time away from your cooking.”

  “No, no. Of course you didn’t.” Sherry clutched the phone tighter.

  “Ms. Frazzelle, I’m so sorry about the tragedy at the cook-off today. The contestants must be shocked and devastated.”

  “Thank you. We feel so sorry for the chef and his family. You must be quite upset yourself.”

  “Of course. I didn’t know him personally, but it’s always unfair to lose such a young soul. He was a rising star in the culinary world.”

  Sherry repeated the phrase, “Rising star.” The words left her lips in a whisper.

  Sherry heard what sounded like papers being shuffled on Patti’s end of the phone. “The reason I’m calling is I was working on an article about the cook-off. With that now indefinitely tabled, my editor would like to run an article on cooking competitions in its place. May I ask you a few questions, Ms. Frazzelle, as our local Augustin contestant?”

  “Of course, and please, call me Sherry.” Sherry picked up a sticky note and pen in case she had to take notes. “Would you mind if I put you on speaker while I write down the questions? I like to organize my thoughts so I don’t make a fool of myself in print.”

  “Of course.”

  Sherry set the phone down, increased the volume, and placed pen to paper.

  “I have three questions I’d like to ask you. On second thought, would it be all right if I e-mailed them to you so you could have some time to think through your answers? I just need your e-mail address.”

  “That’s easy, sure. My e-mail is . . .” Sherry went silent when Marla marched into the room.

  “Use mine,” hissed Marla.

  Sherry placed her hand over the phone and mouthed, “Why?”

  “Just use mine.”

  Sherry lifted her hand. “The e-mail address is m underscore Barras at comp dot com.

  From the living room, Amber giggled. “M Barras, that’s great!”

  “Never knew my name was so funny,” whispered Marla.

  “Got it,” said Patti. “Take your time, although I’m under a time constraint so when I say take your time, I mean as soon as possible.”

  “Okay, nice talking to you.” The inflection of Sherry’s words was lighthearted, but that wasn’t the way she felt.

  “Off the record, I heard it was your dish that may have sickened the judge. What do you think about that?” asked Patti.

  Sherry’s insides were doused with an ice bath. Her throat constricted, and she was unable to stifle a gasp. “I’m not sure how to feel right now. But I’ll get right on the questions when I receive them. Bye.”

  Sherry ended the call and laid her phone down on the coffee table. “How is this news getting around so fast? I feel like the walls are closing in on me. Marla, why did you want her to send the questions to your e-mail?”

  “Just thought it might be best if you don’t have personal e-mails about the cook-off details out in cyberspace for all to see. The Internet is a permanent public record, you know. Just being cautious because I imagine the investigators might check those kinds of things if you’re under the slightest suspicion. Don’t want to send out any undue false signals.”

  “So you’re worried about me?” Sherry rubbed her moist palms on her cocktail napkin.

  “I didn’t exactly say those words, but I am concerned I’ll faint if we don’t eat dinner soon.”

  “Okay, let’s get the casserole out of the oven.” Sherry set down her glass with a piercing clink and went to the kitchen.

  Amber, Marla, and Chutney trailed behind in close proximity.

  Sherry spun on her heels. “Patti’s got a lot of power with her written words. I’d better stay on her good side.”

  Chapter 8

  Sherry carried the hot casserole to the table, set it down on a trivet, and raised the lid. The steaming aroma escaped, and the anticipation of the first taste escalated. Amber and Marla were waiting to be served while discussing the overall drinkabil-ity of French versus American rosé. French rosé triumphed.

  Marla squealed when the casserole lid was lifted. “Sherry! If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you broke the ‘Recipe Piggyback’ rules and added some extras on top.”

  “Maybe.” Sherry bit her lower lip. “I just thought it needed a finishing touch.”

  “Amber,” said Marla, “is there a clinical term for someone who can’t let things happen on their own accord without putting in her two cents every time? If not, I’d like to suggest Sherry-itis.”

&nbs
p; “I don’t want to get into specifics because we’re new friends and I like you both a lot, but I will say, sometimes it’s okay to give up some control if you can, Sherry. The world will continue turning. Your stress and anxiety levels will fall noticeably. End of session. Now, let’s eat!”

  Sherry absorbed Amber’s words and tucked the suggestion away in her brain’s “to be considered” compartment.

  After eating commenced, it was agreed the casserole and the game that created it were, in their self-congratulatory words, “winners.”

  “The ex-boss of the house isn’t here to tell me ‘no,’ so do you mind if I grab my laptop? I want to see whether Patti e-mailed the questions. If she did, we can read them over dinner.” Sherry left the table and returned with her laptop. “When Charlie lived here, our rule was no electronics at the dinner table, but who cares now, right?”

  Sherry didn’t have to ask Marla what her e-mail password was because she had committed it to memory. She knew the chance of Marla having changed the secret word over the years was nil.

  “Marla, you got the e-mail.” Sherry opened Patti’s message.

  “Wait, you know my password?” Marla balled up her napkin and tossed it at Sherry.

  “No secrets among sisters. Okay, first question: What inspired you to enter the OrgaNicks Cook-Off?” Sherry paused, took another bite, and contemplated the lusciousness of the maple sweet potatoes on top of the smoky chicken filling.

  “Second question: Are you related to or familiar with anyone who works at OrgaNicks Foods?” Sherry paused before continuing. “Last question: Without naming names, were there any of your fellow competitors you feel would do almost anything to win?”

  “Sounds like she’s doing a little investigating of her own.” Marla licked the prongs of her fork until they were clean. “Yum, this is good. What should we name this casserole?”

  “How about New England Shepherd’s Pie?” suggested Amber.

  “I like the name. Let me think.” Sherry raised her eyebrows. “How about Uber Tuber Stew?”

  “Or Sultry Poultry Pottage?” added Marla.