Books, Cooks, and Crooks (A Novel Idea Mystery) Page 5

  “Does this town have a decent barbeque joint?” Dennis asked as we stepped out into the late afternoon sun. “I’d love some shredded pork.”

  I managed to keep a straight face as I told him about the Piggy Bank. “But it’s outside of town,” I told him. “Just on the outskirts of Dunston.”

  “I think I’ll pass,” said Annie. “I’m not up for a drive, even a short one. I’ll just get something from How Green Was My Valley and eat in my room.”

  “Suit yourself,” Dennis said. I gave him directions, and he trotted off to his rental car.

  Visibly relieved, Annie bid me good-bye and walked in the direction of the grocery store.

  I hopped on my scooter, buckled my helmet, and murmured a Mother Goose nursery rhyme that reminded me of Dennis Chapman:

  “The greedy man is he who sits

  And bites bits out of plates,

  Or else takes up an almanac

  And gobbles all the dates.”

  Two hours later, I sat in the Dragonfly Room, sipping excellent wine and nibbling a heel of warm French bread. The evening felt magical. All of the Novel Idea agents and celebrity chefs were already having a good time and the meal had barely gotten underway. Gentle laughter intertwined with pleasant conversation and for a moment, it appeared as if the chefs had put aside their rivalries and were intent on enjoying each other’s company.

  I exchanged a contented glance with Sean and then cast my gaze around the room, noting how the soft flames of the candles on the tables caught the sparkles on the women’s dresses and cast a soft sheen on the fabric of the men’s tailored suits.

  Voltaire’s waiters moved as silently as ghosts. They cleared the soup bowls and refilled our wineglasses before serving our entrée of grilled rosemary lamb chops. The scent of lemons and garlic rose from the table and Leslie Sterling, who was seated to my left, asked the other chefs at our table to name their favorite dessert featuring the versatile yellow fruit.

  “Tell us yours first,” said Klara.

  “Mine’s not that exciting,” Leslie stated. “But I do make a lemon chiffon cake that simply melts in the mouth.”

  Ryan whispered something into his wife’s ear and she nodded and then smiled at the rest of us. “We were trying to agree on our favorite,” she explained. “And I’d have to go with my oma’s griesmeelpudding met bessensap.” She pronounced this as “grease meal pudding met bessen sap,” and I wondered how something with the word “grease” in it could be anyone’s favorite fruity dessert. “It translates to ‘semolina pudding with currant sauce.’ What makes it so wonderful is the boiling of the lemon peel in a pan with milk. The flavors just fuse, as you’d say, Joel.”

  The table’s only male chef rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I don’t use semolina often.”

  “Oh, it’s wonderful!” Klara exclaimed. “Tell him why, Ryan.”

  Klara’s husband seemed delighted to participate in the discussion. “Semolina or griesmeel is one of the oldest of the ground grains.” The way he pronounced the word sounded very different from Klara, with the “g” coming from the back of his throat. He sounded more Dutch than his wife. “‘Meel’ is how you say ‘flour’ in Dutch and ‘gries’ is similar to the word ‘gravel,’ as semolina comes from the middlings of hard wheat. Many cultures have their own version of semolina. For example, the Italians have polenta.”

  “And the Moroccans have couscous,” Leslie added.

  “Precisely.” Ryan grinned at her and then cut a piece of his lamb.

  Joel Lang studied Ryan with interest. “You are very knowledgeable about food, Mr. Patrick.” He dipped his chin as a show of respect.

  “I spent many years traveling throughout Europe when I was stationed overseas with NATO. The base was in Brunssum, in the Netherlands, and I could hop on a train and be in another country in a few hours.” He smiled, as if remembering a happy time in his life. “I became fascinated with the different cuisines of each place.”

  “I couldn’t manage without him.” Klara leaned over and kissed her husband on the cheek. “And now it’s your turn to answer the lemon question, Joel. How do you make an Asian fusion dessert using lemons?”

  “Lemongrass and Asian pear sorbet,” he answered. “Though there is an ancient custom in China that good friends or lovers never share the same pear, for dividing the pear would lead to separation.” He cast a quick glance at Jude’s table, where Maurice and Franklin were laughing heartily and clapping each other on the back. “I have made the mistake of sharing a pear before.”

  Once again, I found myself wondering what caused the rift between the two chefs as an awkward silence settled at our table. The moment the waitstaff began to clear our plates, I hurriedly changed the subject. “Tomorrow’s cooking segment should be very interesting,” I said. “‘Great Love Stories from Literature Interpreted Through Food.’ I’m intrigued to know what each of you will be preparing for the event. Leslie, what famous couple are you representing?”

  Leslie dramatically placed her hands over her heart. “Oh, just the saddest couple in the world.”

  We gazed at her questioningly. In my mind, I ran through famous literary couples—Jane Eyre and Rochester, Lancelot and Guinevere, Scarlett O’Hara and Rhett Butler—it seemed to me that most literary lovers were tragic.

  Leslie looked at us incredulously. “Surely you know who I mean? Why, their love was so fierce and rapturous that it overpowered all their values and other allegiances.” Obviously pleased that she had stumped us, she declared, “Romeo and Juliet, of course.”

  “Ah,” we all responded simultaneously.

  The server placed desserts in front of us. Leslie stared at the rich red strawberry compote flowing over the creamy vanilla panna cotta on her plate. “This looks delicious,” she declared as she picked up her spoon. “To represent the passion of the star-crossed lovers, I’m making a variation of the traditional tiramisu. Rather than blending coffee with chocolate, mine will be a perfect marriage of raspberry and dark cocoa. And because there was such violence associated with their love, I’ve added a special ingredient to the chocolate cream.” She lowered her voice and leaned in. “A hint of pepper to give it a little bite. It’s remarkable how pepper and chocolate meld together.”

  “That sounds interesting,” I said as I tried to imagine the spark of flavor in the chocolate.

  “Hmph,” remarked Klara as she dug in to her dessert. “I can’t imagine why you’d want to ruin chocolate with pepper.”

  Sean laughed. “I’d say the same thing, Ms. Patrick, except that as a joke, I once tipped some pepper into a brownie mix my college roommate was baking—you know the pranks guys pull in college—and I have to say that those were some of the best brownies I’d ever eaten.”

  “Well, I suppose you just never know until you try,” Klara said, smiling at Sean.

  I gave Sean a playful nudge. “I’ll have to bake them for you sometime.” I put a spoonful of the panna cotta in my mouth and almost moaned in delight at the sweet creaminess and sumptuous berry flavors. “Oh, this is divine. Klara, who are your famous literary lovers?”

  “Tristan and Isolde. I was inspired by their story of the black or white sails. The story is that Tristan was in love with Isolde, even though he was already married. After falling ill, Tristan sent a ship to Isolde asking her to come to him in the hopes that she could cure him. If the ship returned with white sails, that would mean she was coming. If the sails were black, it would mean that she denied his love. Tristan’s wife saw the white sails, but lied and told Tristan they were black. Heartbroken, he died of grief before Isolde arrived. When Isolde heard of her lover’s passing, she died, too. So terribly, terribly sad.” Klara shook her head but then immediately brightened. “I decided to do a dish that reflects their tale.” She glanced at Ryan, who nodded encouragingly. “A duo of soups. I’m making a variation of my oma’s brown bean soup, which is very Dutch, but I use black beans instead. I’m also making her to-die-for white bean soup.”

&n
bsp; “And we were very fortunate,” Ryan excitedly interjected. “We found some small black and white bowls that are shaped a little like boats. We plan to stand a cheese crisp shaped like a sail in each one.”

  “The cheese crisps are made with Gouda, of course, broiled under a flame for added crispness,” added Klara. “They’ll provide nice contrast to the color of the soup.”

  Leslie frowned. “So the white cheese crisp is in the black bean soup and the black one in the white?” At Klara’s nod, she asked, “How do you make the black one?”

  Klara seemed surprised by the question and looked at Ryan.

  “With squid ink,” he answered quickly. “Just a drop or two makes it very dark, and it adds an interesting flavor element as well.”

  Joel perked up. “Ah, squid ink. It has a very fishy flavor. I use it in some of my own recipes to great effect.”

  “Who are your literary lovers, Joel?” I asked, sipping the coffee that the waiter had just poured.

  “I will be honoring my heritage by representing the story of Liang Zhu, or in English, The Butterfly Lovers.” Joel sat back and stared off in the distance as he continued. “It’s a tragic romance like Romeo and Juliet. Zhu Yingtai was a beautiful young woman from a wealthy family who lived in a time when girls were not allowed to go to school. She, however, convinced her parents to allow her to disguise herself as a young man and attend school away from home. For three years, she was the roommate and best friend of Liang Shanbo, a bookish young fellow who never discovered that she was a girl. When their studies were over, they returned to their separate hometowns and missed each other greatly. After months of being apart, Liang visited Zhu, discovered she was a woman, and they became passionate lovers who vowed that if they could not live together, they would die together.”

  “How beautiful,” said Leslie.

  “But the legend does not end there,” Joel said. “Zhu’s parents arranged for her to marry the son of a rich family in their neighborhood, and when Liang found out, he became ill from grief and died. On the day that Zhu was to marry, the wedding procession was halted by a strong wind as it passed Liang’s tomb and Zhu left the procession to pay her respects. As she cried in front of his tomb, a flash of lightning struck it open. Without hesitation, Zhu leaped into the grave, and when the rain stopped, the sky cleared, and the spirits of Zhu and Liang turned into a pair of beautiful butterflies. They flew happily among the flowers and were never apart again.”

  I sighed. “What a moving story. How will you translate it into food?”

  Joel sat up straighter and smiled proudly. “I am making a trio of dishes. The first dish will have two fresh spring rolls, one with basil, tofu, and fennel and the other with cilantro, chicken, and lemongrass. These represent the lovers’ time at school, when they were two young men sharing a room. The second dish will be a fiery seared tuna crusted with hot Szechuan pepper and served over wasabi and lemongrass noodles and accompanied by ginger green beans. My secret to the searing is that I broil it under extreme heat. It makes for a very quick sear and increases the intensity of the Szechuan pepper. This dish, of course, represents their passion.”

  Klara frowned. “But don’t you think the Szechuan pepper and the wasabi with the lemongrass will battle for dominance on the palate? Not to mention the ginger. There are too many different kinds of heat in one dish.”

  “No, there aren’t.” Joel’s eyes darkened. “It’s the perfect blend to illustrate fiery passion.” But even as he made this statement, his brow creased and he looked as if he doubted his own words.

  Sean exchanged a glance with me and asked, “What’s the third dish of the trio, Joel?”

  Joel blinked. “To symbolize the lovers as butterflies flitting among the flowers, I will make a cilantro and lime sherbet that accentuates the floral character of the herb and sprinkle it with sugared jasmine blossoms.”

  I touched Joel’s hand. “Your trio sounds like a very interesting mix of flavors. I can’t wait to try them all.”

  “I don’t think the three dishes work together, Joel,” Klara said. “They seem in opposition to each other.”

  Joel stood, scraping his chair back. “All you do is criticize my food. What do you know about Asian fusion cuisine anyway? You’re just a Dutch hausfrau cook.”

  As he strode out the door, Ryan put his arm around Klara’s shoulders. “Don’t listen to him, hon. He doesn’t even know the difference between Dutch and German.” He kissed her cheek. “And I think you’re right about his trio. Come on, let’s call it a night.”

  “Don’t you worry, darling. I don’t take a word he says to heart.” Klara picked up her purse and turned to me. “Lila, dinner was lovely. We’ll see you tomorrow.”

  I looked around the room and saw that most of the guests were leaving. Jude and Franklin were just exiting to the front lobby, so I grabbed Sean’s hand and we hurried after the two agents.

  “How’d things go at your table?” I asked when we caught up, keeping a safe distance between us and the celebrity chefs walking ahead of us.

  Franklin grinned. “That Maurice is a card. He had me in stitches most of the night.”

  “But some of those chefs sure have inflated egos,” Jude added quietly.

  Sean nodded. “We had a couple at our table who were rather puffed up with self-importance.”

  “But wasn’t that dinner delicious?” Flora said as she joined us, holding hands with her husband, Brian. “I think the evening was a great success.”

  “I agree, Flora. It was a good night.” I glanced at the door of the Dragonfly Room. The last of the waiters was heading out with Zach, who flicked the light switch and closed the door. I waved him over.

  Zach bounded in our direction. “Hey, people! Wasn’t that totally the most—”

  His words were lost in a thunderous roar that shook the room. Flora screamed. Two of the waiters bolted outside. I clenched Sean’s arm. “What was that?”

  “I have no idea.” Sean frantically scanned the lobby and his hand went to his hip, as if instinctively reaching for a gun that wasn’t there. “All of you, wait here. Jude, come with me.”

  The two men disappeared into the hall. Jude returned almost immediately. “Everyone get out of the building,” he ordered. “There’s smoke coming from the culinary arts wing. We think something exploded. The fire department is on the way.”

  “Oh, man!” Zach slapped his forehead as he started for the door. “Don’t tell me something was wrong with that brand-new equipment.”

  I quickly glanced behind Jude. “What about Sean? Where is he?”

  “He’s checking to see if anyone else is inside. Don’t worry, Lila, he’ll be right behind us. Let’s go.” Jude herded us all to the door.

  A cool evening breeze chilled me as I stood staring at the Arts Center’s façade, exhaling in relief when Sean came running out alone. His hair was plastered to his head, and his suit was wet.

  “The smoke was getting pretty thick and then the ceiling sprinklers came on.” He ran his hand through his hair. “But I couldn’t find anyone else in the building. At least no one answered when I called.”

  “Thank goodness,” I said, expelling a pent-up breath. “I hope there’s minimal damage to the center. What do you suppose happened?”

  Sean shook his head. “I don’t know. I’ll go talk to the waiters and see if they can shed some light on the situation.”

  Zach glanced over to where Klara stood with the other chefs. “It better not be something to do with that gas stove that Miss Top Chef insisted we install. I swear I can smell gas. Can’t you?”

  “Dear me, I am getting a whiff of it,” said Flora, wringing her hands. Brian put his arm around her shoulders.

  Jude added, “I’m glad the celebrity chefs were already out of the building.”

  Sirens howled in the distance. We all huddled in a group on the sidewalk, staring as smoke billowed out the side of the building. The fire engine pulled up, followed by an EMT truck. Although we were onl
y witnesses, I felt caught up in the drama of activity, noise, and urgency as firefighters unrolled the hose, hooked it up to a hydrant, and ran inside. Members of the emergency crew asked us all if we were okay.

  Suddenly, a fireman came rushing out of the building and ran up to one of the paramedics, pulling him away from an ashen-faced waiter standing beside me. The fireman spoke in a quiet voice to the paramedic, but I was close enough to hear.

  “I need a body bag,” he said. “Someone was in the kitchen when the explosion went off and I don’t want these folks to see what’s left of the poor soul.”

  Chapter 4

  THE NEWS THAT SOMEONE HAD DIED IN THE EXPLOSION struck me dumb. I looked around, wondering who was missing, but my brain was unable to process any useful information. I stared blankly from one face to another. All of a sudden, their names escaped me, drifting out of reach like the column of smoke blackening the night sky.

  “Lila,” Sean said, squeezing my arm. “Who didn’t make it out?”

  I turned to him and blinked. Sean. His touch freed me from my stupor. I swept my gaze over the clusters of shocked and terrified literary agents, chefs, and waiters and a pair of Arts Center janitors.

  First, I located all of my coworkers. Flora’s husband, Brian, had enfolded her in an embrace and her shoulders were shaking as she cried. Franklin and Vicky were standing absolutely still and I noticed that they were holding hands so tightly that their knuckles were white. Jude, Zach, and Bentley stood elbow-to-elbow, their eyes fixed on the building’s front doors.

  “Everyone from Novel Idea is here,” I said, my voice betraying my relief. “I don’t know all the folks from Voltaire’s and have only met a few of the Arts Center staff, but let me take a head count of the chefs.”

  I noticed Klara and Ryan on the far side of the steps, flanked by Bryce St. John and Leslie Sterling. Charlene Jacques was clinging to Maurice Bruneau. No one spoke. From top chef to janitor, every individual stared with wide, glassy eyes at the Arts Center’s façade.