Books, Cooks, and Crooks (A Novel Idea Mystery) Read online

  “Oh, Lord,” I breathed, realizing who was absent from the group. “I don’t see Joel Lang.”

  Sean released my arm. “Okay. Let’s not jump to any conclusions. Joel sat at our table. He was there during the coffee service because I remember him ordering green tea. And then he left in a bit of a huff, remember?”

  I nodded, feeling a tiny spark of hope. “That’s right. Hopefully, he’s on his way back to the hotel.”

  “I’m going to ask around. Stay put.” Sean moved off. He started with my coworkers, speaking so quietly that I couldn’t hear what was being said. Truthfully, I didn’t need to listen in. A cold dread had taken hold of me and I could guess what the agents, chefs, and ancillary people huddled on the steps would say. No one had seen Joel Lang leave the building and I thought I knew why. The expression of anger on his face after Klara had criticized his love story menu told me everything. Joel had probably gone to the test kitchen to practice. My guess is that he wanted to prove Klara wrong. I was also willing to bet that she’d touched a nerve and had heightened Joel’s insecurities to the point where he wouldn’t rest until he knew he was completely prepared for tomorrow’s demonstration.

  Maurice was the first to realize that his former partner was not outside with the rest of us. I watched him pivot this way and that, his brows furrowed in confusion. By the time Sean reached the spot where he and Charlene stood, the Frenchman’s face had turned pallid. However, before Sean could talk to him, the paramedics emerged through the building’s front doors and carefully maneuvered a gurney down the handicapped ramp.

  We all watched in mute horror. Though the shape on the stretcher was entirely covered by a yellow blanket, it was clear that whoever had died in the explosion was concealed beneath the layer of bright cotton. The paramedics had strapped the corpse in tightly, but as the gurney bounced from the bottom of the ramp onto the sidewalk, the top of the blanket slipped a little, revealing a white body bag.

  I sucked in a horrified breath. I didn’t see anything gruesome because, thankfully, the bag hid the victim’s features from view. But the shape of the dead person’s head drove home the realization that a human being had just died a horrendous death. I closed my eyes and bowed my head, feeling a rush of sorrow and pity for the poor soul.

  As if sensing that I needed comfort, Sean appeared by my side and drew me against him. “All of Voltaire’s staff and the few Arts Center employees are accounted for. As of this point, no one saw Mr. Lang leave. That still doesn’t mean he’s the victim, but I’ll have to ask the paramedics if they found any ID or clothing that could help us figure out who . . .” He trailed off, his eyes on the gurney. He didn’t need to finish his sentence.

  “Go,” I told him. “I’ll be all right. I’m going to stand with my coworkers.”

  I joined Franklin and Vicky. We put our arms around each other’s waists and supported each other while the EMT truck drove off. Once it was out of sight, Bentley suggested we all relocate to the James Joyce Pub.

  “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I need a drink,” she proclaimed. “We’ve all had a terrible shock and we need to . . . take a moment. Please.” For the first time ever, I heard Bentley Burlington-Duke’s voice waver. “It’s on me. None of us should be alone right now.”

  The agents gathered the celebrity chefs, and together we silently trudged to the pub. Normally, the cheerful, wood-paneled bar and grill would have been cozy and relaxing, but tonight, I was too upset to focus on the charming framed illustrations of scenes from Ulysses and Finnegans Wake or to wave at the apple-cheeked bartender with the round belly and the hearty laugh.

  Jude took charge of finding several tables close together, which he and Zach rearranged until they’d formed a long rectangle. Sinking into our chairs, we accepted shot glasses from a subdued waitress. Apparently, Bentley had made it clear that we were not here to celebrate the Taste of the Town, for the waitress placed a full bottle of Wild Turkey on the table and then returned with two pitchers of beer. She passed out chilled pint glasses with a solemn expression.

  Once she was gone, Klara was the first one to break the silence. “Was it Joel on that stretcher?”

  The question was directed at me. I stalled by pouring myself an inch of whiskey and drinking it down in one gulp. I wasn’t fond of the bitter taste or the burning sensation in my mouth, but I was grateful for the feeling of warmth in my stomach and understood why people often reached for alcohol during times of shock and stress.

  “Lila?” Leslie prompted gently. “We need to know.”

  “But that’s just it,” I said, surprised by how calm I sounded. “He’s missing, but that doesn’t prove he was killed during the explosion. Sean, I mean, Officer Griffiths, will find out everything he can and then he’ll call me.” I fished my cell phone from my purse and put it on the table. “As soon as I have new information, I’ll share it with you.”

  Charlene passed her hands over her face. “This is like a waking nightmare. I didn’t know Joel well, but he’s one of us. If that was him back there . . . caught in that fire . . . And how did it start in the first place? Isn’t that a brand-new building?”

  Glancing toward the other side of the bar, where Bentley stood with her cell phone pressed to her ear, I wished that she’d complete her call and join us. I wasn’t sure how to comfort the chefs, and Bentley, who was both unflappable and pragmatic, would undoubtedly restore a sense of normalcy to our gathering.

  Jude filled my glass with amber ale. He passed the pitcher to Bryce and then touched my hand. “You okay?”

  I nodded, though it was far from the truth. It wouldn’t do for the person who’d invited all the chefs to Inspiration Valley to fall to pieces, but I was relieved when Bentley finished her conversation and joined us.

  “I’ve called over to the Magnolia B&B. Joel hasn’t come back.” While everyone absorbed this news, she turned to me and spoke sotto voce. “I also talked to Dominic about renting Voltaire’s for tomorrow’s demonstrations. He’s charging me an exorbitant rate, especially considering the free publicity the event will give his restaurant, but I’m in no position to argue.”

  I couldn’t think of anything to say. While I was still reeling from the explosion, Bentley was thinking ahead, ensuring that nothing would stop the chefs from creating their love story menus.

  “Will they be up for it?” I whispered, jerking my head to indicate Leslie and Maurice, who were seated directly across from us.

  Bentley frowned. “They’re television personalities, Lila. They know the show must go on. Right now, they’re shaken. We all are. But by tomorrow, their professionalism will take over. Unfortunately, you, Zach, and I don’t have until then. I need to go over the details with Dominic, Zach has to contact the media and inform them of the new location, and you have three jobs. First, you need to figure out how to get the members of the public to Voltaire’s in the morning. Second, arrange for Maurice to take Joel’s place in tomorrow’s demonstration in case he is unable to be there. Maurice will need to come up with a lovers’ menu tonight. Lastly, find out from your boyfriend when we’ll be allowed to resume our events in the Arts Center.”

  I almost reminded Bentley that Sean was a police officer, not a firefighter, but I kept my mouth shut. In a way, I was glad that she was doing what she did best: taking charge. I wanted to have tasks to complete—they’d help obscure the image of the figure on the gurney and the dreadful pictures I’d created in my head of a man burned beyond recognition. Possibly a man I’d just shared a meal with.

  “We should get the chefs back to the hotel after they’ve had a drink or two,” I said. “They’re going to need their rest.”

  Bentley nodded. “Have Franklin and Jude walk them to the Magnolia. The rest of us will figure out how to save Books and Cooks from being a total disaster.”

  I found that statement to be quite callous, considering someone had just died and an explosion had damaged our brand-new Arts Center, but there was too much to do to waste time o
r energy getting into an argument with my boss. Instead, I turned to Jude and, in a low whisper, shared Bentley’s plans.

  He nodded, and called Maurice’s name. When Maurice looked up, I asked, “If the unfortunate soul killed in the explosion was Joel, do you think you could pull a famous lovers menu together in time for tomorrow’s demonstration?”

  “Oui, but of course.” He stroked his chin and thought for a moment. “I will represent Napoleon and Josephine with a pissaladière, using a variety of peppers and olives to represent one and the other. And then a tarte tatin with plums.” He rubbed his hands together. “Oh, it will be magnifique.” Then, as if realizing that enthusiasm was out of place this evening, he whispered wistfully, “If only Joel . . .”

  I pulled a pencil and notepad from my purse. “Write down the ingredients you’ll need, and I’ll make sure they’re ready and waiting for you.”

  Jude waited until there was a break in the conversation before offering to walk the chefs to the inn. They looked to me before rising from their chairs and I held up my phone and shook my head, indicating that I’d received no new information. Exhausted, confused, and sad, the chefs allowed Jude and Franklin to lead them out of the pub.

  Vicky produced a notepad and pen from her voluminous handbag and looked at Bentley expectantly. Bentley rattled off a list of assignments. Then, she stopped abruptly and told Brian to take Flora home. It was clear even to my tough-as-nails boss that Flora was too distraught to work.

  Zach disappeared soon afterward to make calls from the quiet of his office at Novel Idea. Bentley and Vicky departed for Voltaire’s, leaving me alone in the raucous pub. Sitting among the merry patrons, I knew that I’d have to walk home for I’d had too much to drink to operate my scooter. I was just rising to leave when my mother walked into the James Joyce, her face pinched with worry.

  “Mama!” I waved at her and the moment she spotted me, she released such a deep breath that I could see her entire body sag in relief. Rushing over, she threw her arms around me.

  “I saw fire!” she cried. “I was doing my usual tarot card reading before bed when flames started dancin’ before my vision! It was awful, Lila. I sensed you were in danger.” She pulled away, doubt entering her eyes. “Were you? In danger?”

  I grabbed her hand. “Yes, but I’m okay. There was an explosion at the Arts Center. I think there was an accident involving the gas line we had brought into the kitchen.” Hesitating, I smoothed the soft wrinkles on the back of my mother’s hand with my thumb. “Someone was in the room when it happened. We don’t know for sure, but it’s looking like it was Joel Lang, one of the celebrity chefs.”

  “That’s who I saw, then.” She gazed, unfocused, at the flickering candle in the middle of the table. “Black smoke and a charred body. It was too awful, Lila. I couldn’t rest ’til I laid eyes on you.”

  I told myself that the shivers running down my spine came from the cold beer. Most of the time, I doubted my mother’s so-called gifts, but there were occasions such as this when I couldn’t understand how she knew the things she knew. She’d recently bought a police scanner and loved listening to the calls relating to Inspiration Valley, though those were few and far between, and one of her clients was the chief of police’s loose-tongued wife. But even Amazing Althea couldn’t have known that a body had been found inside the Arts Center, could she?

  “I’m sorry you had a scare,” I told her. “And I’m so glad you found me. I’m in no condition to drive and I don’t want to be alone right now.”

  She smiled and I knew I’d said what she wanted to hear. After all, there’s nothing that makes a mother feel more valued than to be needed by her child. It doesn’t matter how old the child is—toddler, college student, or middle-aged matron, none of us ever grow too old to be rescued, cared for, or comforted.

  For me, that was the hardest thing about having Trey attending school at the other end of the state. Sure, he called and emailed, but it wasn’t the same. I couldn’t bake him a batch of chocolate chip cookies when he hadn’t done well on an exam or make him hot tea with honey when he caught a cold. I could listen and sympathize and offer advice, but the distance was tough on me. Sometimes I ached to ruffle his hair or watch how his impish smile could transform him into a boy again. I even missed doing his laundry and straightening up his room. Those things served as a reminder that this wonderful young man was a part of my life. I sighed. I guess I’d yet to adjust to his absence.

  “Don’t worry, honey. He misses you, too,” my mother said as if I’d spoken out loud. “Come on, let’s get you home.”

  The moment we stepped outside and I saw her turquoise pickup truck parked at the curb, I knew I’d found the solution to the problem of how to get the public to Voltaire’s to view the chefs’ love story demonstrations.

  “Are you busy tomorrow?” I asked as I hopped into the passenger seat.

  “I have the feelin’ I’m gonna be,” my mother replied.

  As she pulled out onto High Street, I thought about my idea and couldn’t come up with a better solution. “When we get back to my place, can you call everyone you know who drives a pickup truck?”

  My mother looked surprised. “Why, that’s half the town!”

  “Exactly,” I said. “Ask them if they’d like to be a part of a very last-minute parade.”

  • • •

  DESPITE THE TRAGEDY that rocked our little town, the atmosphere in Inspiration Valley on Friday morning was festive. My mother had convinced all her truck-driving friends to form the “Hillbilly Taxi Service,” and they’d decorated their pickups with signs and streamers, balloons, and paper flowers. Many of them had lined the flatbeds of their vehicles with hay bales and quilts to accommodate the passengers who couldn’t fit inside the cabs.

  As Flora collected tickets and Jude and I diverted visitors from the entrance of the Arts Center to the motorcade that would take them to Voltaire’s, I couldn’t help but get caught up in the joviality of the event. People happily climbed into and onto trucks, eager to get to the demonstrations that would be presented by their favorite chefs. They greeted strangers as if they were friends, and seemed to be enjoying a marvelous time before the actual Taste of the Town events had even begun.

  Scanning the scores of attendees who were lining up to board one of the trucks, I felt a pang of sadness for Joel. Sean had called me first thing this morning to give me the official news that Joel’s was indeed the body taken away on the gurney last night. I couldn’t stop thinking about him and how the chef would never know how successful this food festival was or that so many people had shown up for the demonstrations. Perhaps he might have sold more cookbooks than he ever anticipated as a result of the event. If not for the faulty equipment we had installed—

  “C’mon, shug,” my mother called from the driver’s window of her truck. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

  I shook off thoughts of Joel and last night’s explosion and waved at her. Strapping on my helmet, I hopped onto my yellow scooter to lead the parade to Voltaire’s. As I revved the engine, I called out, “Off we go!” and started down Redbud Road. A clatter behind me made me look back, and I realized that many of the trucks had strung tin cans on their bumpers. In this noisy and colorful way, we began our ride to the first scheduled event of Taste of the Town.

  As I approached Center Park, it struck me that this hillbilly parade was a perfect way for the town’s visitors to get a sense of Inspiration Valley. Sitting in the trucks, they would have a good view of our tree-lined streets, our wonderful Nine Muses fountain, and the charming shops and colorful gardens that gave the town its character. On a whim I rode right around the square of the park and the procession of trucks followed me. Shopkeepers and residents stepped outside and waved. I tooted my horn, as did several of the trucks.

  On the corner of Dogwood and High Street, Nell, the owner of Sixpence Bakery, was placing a cake box on top of a stack that Big Ed balanced in his arms. At the sight of our entourage, he nearl
y dropped his load, but recovered quickly and hollered, “G’mornin’ y’all!” I beeped and Nell blew us a kiss.

  As I turned onto High Street, Makayla stepped out the door of Espresso Yourself. “Woo-hoo, girl!” she called. “We’ve got ourselves a parade.”

  I grinned at her and continued past Novel Idea, Sherlock Homes Realty, the Constant Reader, and the James Joyce Pub. On the sidewalk by the bookstore, Franklin was straightening a large sandwich sign that proclaimed: BOOK SIGNING THIS MORNING! MEET AUTHOR DOUG CORBY OF A FOODIE’S DIARY. As we paraded by, he stared at us, mouth agape, and then broke into a huge smile before giving me a thumbs-up.

  Finally, we arrived at Voltaire’s, where Vicky stood at the entrance waiting for us. She frowned at me and tapped her watch. I pulled my scooter around the back, quickly parking it and storing my helmet under its seat, and hurried to join Vicky in greeting the attendees.

  “That was quite a spectacle,” Vicky noted. “I can’t believe you convinced all those people to ride in those trucks.” She raised her eyebrows. “It’s not safe on those hay bales, and it is most certainly illegal for them to ride without seatbelts.”

  “There was no harm done. Everyone was having fun. See?” I indicated the crowd with a sweep of my hand. “They’re all smiling. And the Hillbilly Taxi Service got us here on time.”

  “Barely,” she retorted. “Let’s go inside. Chef Klara is due to begin in two minutes.”

  Dominic had set up his restaurant so that all the chairs faced the bar. I had only been in Voltaire’s when the lights were dimmed to provide the proper dining atmosphere, and today, with the chandeliers blazing, I could see that the room was spacious and more than adequate for our needs. A few waiters were taking coffee orders and the celebrity chefs were gathered at one end of the bar. Bryce St. John was examining the two portable burners that had been set up alongside various cooking utensils and equipment. Behind the bar, Zach spoke to a technician who was testing the sound equipment. I admired the wisdom of Dominic in deciding to have the chefs do their demonstrations at the bar. Instead of the audience crowding into the kitchen, they were seated comfortably at tables and being served coffee and tea, for which they’d no doubt be charged handsomely. And the chefs would be presenting at a height from which everyone could see and hear them without obstruction.