“Outdone, as usual,” Amber said. “I’ve got a lot to learn about the name game.”
“Patti’s first question is pretty straightfor ward.” Sherry swallowed a mouthful of chicken. “Off the top of my head, I’d say I entered the contest because I prefer organic foods and I’d like to see OrgaNicks products do well, since they’re somewhat local to me. Also, living close to the cook-off location was a bonus, so it was a no-brainer for me to enter. Marla and I worked on some recipes together. How great is it we were both chosen for the finals? All boring info but true.
“Let’s see, second question: nope, I’m not related to anyone affiliated with OrgaNicks. Rules say you can’t enter if you are.”
“She also asked if you knew anyone who works there,” added Marla. “Maybe she wants to know some inside information about the place?”
“Well, sorry, I don’t.” Sherry reread the e-mail. “And the third question is nearly impossible to answer without judging the other competitors’ characters, so I can’t provide her with any info on the other cooks either.”
“Who thinks those are weird questions besides me?” asked Amber. “I mean she’s kind of putting you in the hot seat. Think about it. The first question is fine. We’re all inspired by something. But if you had answered ‘yes’ to the second, you’d be a rule breaker. If you shared any insight in question three on the other competitors, your character could be called into question for being judgmental. What’s she getting at here, and why are you her target?”
“Not sure, but she’s just going to have to be satisfied with my boring answers.” Sherry finished replying to the e-mail with one hand while eating with the other. “At least she didn’t ask me straight up if I had an alibi. Or maybe she should have asked if that’s what she really wanted to know. My alibi is I was busy cooking my recipe, but that’s out the window if the food I spent an hour preparing was what killed the chef.”
“Hold on. Take it slow.” Marla patted down the air with her hands.
“Okay. This is stressing me out.” Sherry pushed the computer away. “Charlie was right. We shouldn’t eat ‘plugged in.’”
“I was thinking, remember that guy, Kenny Dewitt, who was trying to get under people’s skin when we were cooking?” asked Marla. “I wouldn’t put it past him to try to win at all costs. But is he murderous? I’m not so sure.”
“He writes a food blog of some sort.” Sherry put her fork down.
“Doesn’t having a food blog make Kenny Dewitt a professional in the culinary world and not eligible for amateur recipe contests?” asked Amber. “I’m assuming he runs a revenue-generating website.”
“There’s a chance he blogs out of the goodness of his nonprofit heart, but the way he was hawking his site all morning, I think he was definitely soliciting advertisers and website traffic.” Sherry pulled the computer back toward her. “I’m curious. I want to see if he has ads on the site, then we’ll have a good idea what he’s all about. Wasn’t the blog titled something about Doody?”
“Not Doody. I think it was Dude,” said Marla. “Food Dude or Foody Dude rings a bell.”
“Let’s search for all of the above.” Sherry studied the computer screen.
Amber and Marla moved their chairs and their plates closer to get a better view.
“Got it! Kenny Dewitt, The Foody Dude.” Sherry knocked the fork off her plate as she gestured with her hands.
“Wow, how old is this picture?” asked Marla.
Sherry examined the screen from edge to edge. There, on The Foody Dude’s homepage, was a photo of a clean-cut young Californian wearing a UCLA T-shirt. He was standing curbside by a food truck. The cars parked on the street indicated it was taken at least ten years ago. His youthful physique was svelte, and his face was lit up with an inviting smile.
Sherry scanned the webpage. “Solid layout, inviting content, flashy photography, recipes, tips. Nice job, Kenny.”
“No blah in his blog,” Marla thumped her hand on the table.
“There definitely are ads and commercial links on the margins.” Sherry read on. “Here we go. He has already written about the OrgaNicks Cook-Off. That was quick.”
Amber wedged her head closer to the screen, blocking Sherry’s view. “He says the event was stressful, challenging, and competitive. I agree.” Amber nodded. She gasped and pointed to a paragraph. “Here he speculates on whether the chef ’s death was by natural causes or possibly something more sinister. I’m guessing there’s a very good chance he wouldn’t know for sure it’s now being investigated as a murder. How could he? It just happened.”
Amber continued reading verbatim. “‘The cook-off contained all the ingredients of a good recipe for murder.’ Hey, he’s using your analogy, Sherry. He goes on to say, ‘The setting at the Hillsboro High School provided enough suspense for a great who-done-it plot, and everyone who was there that day should be considered a suspect, if it was, indeed, a murder.’ He adds, ‘Gives new meaning to “too many cooks spoil the broth.”’”
“Hey, he stole my other line, too, sort of.” Marla started to waggle her finger then curled it in to her palm.
“Uh oh, you’re not going to like this part, Sherry,” cautioned Amber.
Sherry shut her eyes and lowered her head. “What is it?”
“I’m quoting here, ‘Since when did pork tenderloin stuffed with farro become big news? Since it was the Last Supper for one of the country’s finest chefs.’”
“What an SOB! I’m so angry right now! He’s drawing damaging conclusions just to sensationalize the event and sell his blog!” Sherry pounded her fists on the table, sending her fork flying again. Her eyes welled up with tears. She dabbed her running nose with her napkin. “How do we know he didn’t have a motive? Maybe he smuggled in something devious. What’s his alibi?”
“You read my mind.” Amber tapped her temple. “Maybe he’s trying to deflect attention away from himself.”
“A definite possibility.” Marla drummed the edge of the table with her fingers. “Okay, Sherry, here’s your chance. Were there are any red flags about Kenny, beyond goofing around at the cook-off?”
Sherry stepped away from the computer and took a short walk through the kitchen. “The thing is, I heard him say it was his first recipe contest, and he was a last-minute sub, so I’m thinking, if Kenny did it, he didn’t have much time for pre-meditation. I suppose he could have had an issue with the chef and seen this event as an opportunity for revenge, but that seems far-fetched.”
“Didn’t you tell me that Kenny hit Brynne in the eye during his contestant interview?” Marla balled up her fist and punched the air. “Does he have anger issues?”
“I don’t think so. It was an accident. At the same time Brynne and Mac were on their way to speak to him, I was going to my oven to check my tenderloin. Kenny seemed so excited they were coming he began dancing and waving his arms in the air, as if he were guiding a jumbo jet in for a landing. He nearly beaned me as I passed by. From what I saw, it looked more like Brynne retracted her mic so Kenny wouldn’t grab it, and in the process, she clobbered herself with it. But kudos to her, she continued the interview despite the fact her makeup was running all over her face.
“Since I was caught between them and the oven, I was forced to wait it out. Brynne led with the fact Kenny was a last-minute substitute for a contestant who had to drop out. In response, Kenny had a tagline all ready to go.” Sherry deepened her voice. “ ‘When the judges taste my short ribs, they’ll fall off their chairs with delight. My short ribs are famous out west, and the east doesn’t know what they’ve been missing. I’m here with the definitive answer to the question, What’s for dinner? ’” She heightened her tone. “He seemed so confident about his chances of winning.”
“Way to spice things up, Kenny. Spice, get it?” Marla contorted her arms around her own back and patted herself.
“Good one.” Sherry’s eyes trained back on the computer screen. “Listen to this. He writes he had never even come across any of the
three judges previously, just in case ‘you, the reader, had any reason to presume The Foody Dude’s involvement.’” Sherry sighed. “Well, there goes the air out of my soufflé. Seems like he’s just trying to cash in on a situation he stumbled onto. Something his readers might find titillating.”
“On the bright side, he’s a good writer, though, don’t you think?” asked Amber. “I bet his readership will soar with this kind of scandalous content, but I’m still not happy about what he’s suggesting.”
“How about we send him a blunt ‘cease and desist’ personal message, seasoned and spiced with what we know about his blatant rule breakage during the cook-off.” Sherry tapped her fork on her plate for emphasis. “He’s still a rotten egg for throwing me in the fryer, and, let the record show, I’m not convinced he’s innocent!”
Sherry crafted a personal message to Kenny, strongly encouraging him not to make injurious claims he couldn’t prove. She also reminded him of the stated rules of the cooking contests and how the numerous banner advertisements framing his website might make the cook-off sponsor think twice about maintaining an association with The Foody Dude, whose honor and integrity were surely in question. To intentionally end on a lighter note, she wrote she enjoyed meeting him, found his site fascinating to read, and wished him well in its success.
“Kill him with kindness.” Amber smiled a toothy grin.
“Sent. Mission accomplished. Quit program. Shut down laptop.” Sherry shut the lid of her computer. She finished her remaining bites of dinner in silence.
“Girls, watch what a creature of habit my puppy is.” Sherry put her fork on her empty plate with a clink.
Chutney rose from his relaxed position under the table and scrambled for the front door. “He’ll just wait there for his final walk of the night while I clean up. Creature of habit, owned by a creature of habit.”
Amber and Marla scrubbed their plates and loaded them in the dishwasher. They then retired to the small television room off the living room.
“Ladies, I’m off to take Chutney out for one last tinkle. Turn on a show and put your feet up.” Sherry hooked the nearly all-white dog up to his leash. “If I’m not back in ten minutes, send out a search party.” She waited for a reply. “Did you hear me?”
“Okay, we heard you,” called Marla. “Time starts . . . now.”
As Sherry fingered the front door handle, an inexplicable ripple of adrenaline, or was it nerves, traveled up her spine. She had never before hesitated to walk her dog in her quiet neighborhood after dark and was surprised by her body’s spontaneous reaction. As the door shut behind her, Sherry shortened the leash length to keep Chutney close. The full moon and the evening breeze played games with the shadows the surrounding trees cast. Bats darted overhead across the darkening sky. In the distance, an owl screeched as if its life was in peril. At least she hoped it was an owl making the eerie scream. Her arms, too, broke out in goose bumps, and she shuddered. She turned Chutney around as soon as he produced and cantered home, checking behind her every few feet.
For the remainder of the evening, the three ladies sat in front of the television, which was on mute, and talked about future possibilities to reunite, whether for fun or competition. Before retiring, Sherry helped Marla pack her suitcase in preparation for the taxi ride to the airport early the next morning.
Just as Amber and Marla were about to turn in, Sherry announced, “I’m sorry, but I can’t resist checking to see if The Foody Dude responded to our message. Anyone want to join me downstairs?”
Sherry, Marla, and Amber, already in their nightclothes, raced down the stairs and, once again, gathered around the laptop.
“He did! Kenny PM’d me.” Sherry clicked on the message. “‘Hi, Sherry. I hang my head in shame. I should rename my blog The Foolish Dude. You’re correct. I felt it was such an honor and great opportunity to be asked to be in the cook-off, even if it was two days before the event, and I couldn’t turn down the offer to come east. I knew the whole time I wasn’t rightfully eligible because of my profession. ’”
“He’s eating crow,” said Marla. “And I’m not buying it.”
“There’s more. ‘To be honest, Chef Birns pulled me aside and told me I wasn’t a contender because of my food blog earnings. He indicated the judging panel would go through the motions of judging my dish, but it wasn’t eligible to be a prizewinner. The sponsor felt it was too late to get a substitute, and the reputation of the cook-off would suffer if they left the sixth finalist spot unfilled.’”
“That’s true.” Amber lowered her voice to a near whisper. “I didn’t think of that.”
“There’s a little bit more.” Sherry scrolled down the page. “He goes on to say, ‘Despite all the suspense and intrigue that went along with the cook-off, the whole cooking contest world is ridiculous. You people, who spend so much time and effort making up recipes just to have them stolen right from underneath your noses by Corporation X, should have your heads examined. You’re just a herd of cows giving your milk away for free to folks who’re too lazy to create recipes for their products. I’d even go so far as to say the sponsors put the “con” in contest. So, who’s “Foolish” or even “Clueless” now? So, in conclusion, consider me a recovering contester. I am one-day contest-free and counting.’”
“Wow, I should have known he couldn’t end on a pleasant note,” said Marla.
“Well, actually he did.” Sherry pointed to the words she was reading. “He concludes with, ‘Best of luck in future cooking, Ms. Frazzelle. While I can’t say I had a great experience at the cook-off, I can say I met many remarkable people. May your life’s ingredients be exotic and flavorful and your completed recipes provide full sensory satisfaction. Take care.’”
“It doesn’t bother you it was Chef Birns, deceased, who gave Kenny the news he was disqualified before the judging?” asked Marla.
“I see your point. But would Kenny get so worked up he felt the need to kill the messenger? After all, it wasn’t the chef who made the contest rules. And how would Kenny suddenly be able to come up with some poisonous substance after getting the bad news? Does he carry whatever it was around with him, just in case he needs to, well, you know, kill someone?” Sherry mimicked choking while holding a death grip on her throat. “I don’t think he did it.”
“The world of competitive cooking is more complicated than I could have ever imagined,” said Amber. “If my next cook-off is anything like this last one, I may have to reconsider my involvement.” She headed upstairs.
Marla followed.
Sherry was left at the table to close down the laptop. Amber’s final reflection of the evening magnified the unsettled feeling in Sherry’s stomach. She tried to squelch it with the promise of a good night’s sleep in her safe, comfortable bed.
Chapter 9
Returning from an early-morning dog walk, Sherry held her cell phone to her ear with one hand, while trying not to smash a buttery apple muffin in her leash hand. The newspaper she picked up at the end of her driveway was tucked under her arm.
“Okay. We’ll see you this afternoon. Good-bye.” Sherry unhooked Chutney’s leash and laid her phone on the front-hall table. The muffin dropped to the floor. Chutney took no time cleaning up the edible debris.
“I’m in here,” Amber called from the kitchen.
“Sounds like we’ll have some visitors later,” Sherry told Amber when she found her seated at the table. “I just got off the phone with the detective. He has more questions. I think they like to see my face in person to watch me squirm. Otherwise, I don’t know why they can’t ask me questions over the phone. Oh, and I should have bought three muffins. Thanks to my clumsiness and Chutney’s appetite, this is all that’s left of the one I just dropped.” Sherry tossed the crumbs in the trash. “I hope you enjoyed yours.”
Amber curled up one side of her mouth and nodded.
“Take a look at this.” Sherry handed her the newspaper. “There’s an article about the cook-off right there
on the front page. It’s a big story for Hillsboro. Says the last time the town had a murder was six years ago. The article doesn’t give any new information on the investigation. I guess because it’s only been a day.”
Amber scanned the article before raising her eyes to meet Sherry’s gaze. “I would bet you’ve seen some crazy things go on at cooking contests.”
Sherry thought for a moment. “Nothing too out of the ordinary. There are always accidental knife wounds, self-inflicted, of course. I’ve seen an older lady faint at her cook station, only to be revived and back cooking again within minutes, as if nothing had happened. I’ve cooked with contestants who had casts on their arms, one was in a wheelchair, and another was on crutches. We’re a determined bunch. But no deaths, thank goodness. Until yesterday.”
Sherry glanced at the wall clock. “I need to put in a few hours at work, which I usually do in the afternoon, but I’m going early today. Do you have any interest in going to the beach later? I’ll need some fresh air by then. You can drop me off and use the car this morning if you’d like.”
“Good plan. I think I’ll decline the car and just take it easy around here until beach time.”
Sherry nodded. “Sorry Marla flew out so early this morning. She could have provided you with some company. But you’re probably happy to have some time to yourself. So, I’ll see you in a few hours. Maybe tonight we can eat at the restaurant we got the discount coupons for. Chef Lee’s restaurant in Stamford.”
Amber raised her thumb skyward. “Sounds like a plan.”
“Make yourself at home until I get back.”
* * *
The doorbell resounded overhead as Sherry entered the Oliveri Ruggery. “Dad? Are you here?”
Erno Oliveri emerged from the back of the store. His loafers tapped a hasty beat as he made his way across the wooden showroom floor.
“Hi, sweetie. You didn’t have to come in today. And I thought you preferred afternoon hours. Isn’t Marla still at your house?” Erno stretched his arms toward his daughter.
Expiration Date Page 9