Chesapeake Crimes: This Job Is Murder!. Donna Andrews
shrugged. “So if you go in as the replacement assistant, we could get onto the set before the rehearsal and filming?”
“That’s right. Evidently, there’s always camera crew, company reps, and assistants running around the set. Since I’d be the new girl, it’d be only natural for me to have questions. And I’ll have two days after rehearsals to see what we can uncover before the actual taping.”
“You’ll need to bone up on the production of a cooking show and the duties of a culinary assistant, or you’ll never pass as someone hired for competition. Ask Emmett to email the dishes, recipes, and ingredients they’ve planned. Study those.” She got her cell phone out of her pants pocket.
“You’ve seen me try to boil water. This is going to be a disaster.” I moaned. “All of TV land is going to see me crash and burn.”
“Man up, girl.” She thumbed her phone. “I just emailed a couple of websites to you.”
There was her famous empathy again. “Can’t I just do the paperwork that’s piled up around here? Until I’ve gotten a few easier jobs under my belt?” I’d be real good at billing. I handled my own credit card accounts when I was married.
“You need to learn the business. How to work undercover. Plus, being out there will give you the client contact you need.”
“But I don’t like clients—or even people, for that matter.”
“Exactly. On that note, someone claiming she’d been Pilar’s culinary school roommate called. Said she’d heard that Chef Clyde hired us, and she wants to help. I didn’t confirm that we have the case, but check her out—see what her angle is. Perfect opportunity to get real-world experience. Here’s the address.”
I researched the Gastronomic Gambles competition and checked all the social media for something on the roommate. The cooking show even had its own Facebook page, but I found no e-presence for the roomie whatsoever. Looked like Auntie would get her way and I’d have to actually make contact with the staff at the cooking school as part of the roomie’s background check.
When I checked my email, Emmett had already sent the requested information. The dishes:
First Course—Cajun Turtle Stew
Second Course—Fig-Glazed ’Possum Kabob on a bed of Quinoa
Main course—Squirrel Ravioli and Truffles on a bed of Poke Salad
with a side dish of
Asparagus Wrapped in Poached Alligator Tail
God. A person should get a warning before opening a message like that. At the very least, there should be some kind of gross-out filter that captured unsavory email until you can face it.
Holding my breath, I sat down to read the rest of the nightmare that was to be my life for the foreseeable future. When I got to the phrase “mince the squirrel meat,” I closed my eyes and let the held-breath out slowly. Eventually, the universe stabilized enough for me to continue reading the distasteful document, even though I skimmed it like gravy.
At “scald, dress, and pick the hair off the ’possum,” however, I headed to the bathroom, hanging my head over the toilet bowl until the wave of nausea passed. The office toilet—which the public used. Where does one go to recover from that?
Gumshoes grumbling their way across television and movie screens suddenly made sense. The monosyllabic responses of down-and-out private eyes, the drinking, the bitterness. Call me a house dick, I’d be surly too. Knock me in the head with a gun butt, and I’d be cranky. Already, getting people to tell me things they never meant to tell anyone, snooping into matters that weren’t any of my business, and pretending to be someone I’m not had frayed my last nerve.
* * * *
I’d never been on this side of town, with its boxy little houses, all the same, all in a row, and it took getting lost twice to find the address. The driveway ended in a ratty hedge instead of a garage. Behind the glass of the front door, a dark-haired woman nearly filled the frame, and didn’t speak until I was on the porch right in front of her.
“You must be Ms. Pennington from the Turnbow Agency.” She moved aside and opened the door to let me in. “I’m Denise Quay.” We sat down on a settee in the foyer.
“You called our agency to voice a concern about—”
“The disappearance of Pilar Heinz. My friend did not just wander off, no matter what the police say.” She sounded angry instead of concerned.
“You mentioned to Ms. Turnbow that a Gastronomic Gambles chef might be involved.”
“Clyde Shelbee. He’s gotten away with so many things in the past, why not murder this time?” The woman was wringing her hands as if a neck was between them.
“Murder is a very serious accusation,” I said as softly as I could so I didn’t rile her any further.
“If you’d had dealings with the famous Chef Clyde in the past… Pilar finally saw him for the jealous and petty little man he is. She wanted something in writing this time guaranteeing she’d get credit for her contributions.”
“If he refused, maybe Pilar finally said enough is enough and took off.”
“No. Pilar might quit, but not until after the competition. She believed if she could get Shelbee to acknowledge that the recipes were hers, it would launch her career.”
“It’s my understanding that Chef Clyde is going ahead with using Pilar’s dishes in the competition.”
“What? And the network is going to let that bastard get away with it?”
“With what? If you have evidence that a crime has been committed, you need to go to the police.”
She stood abruptly and marched to the door. “You have more than enough evidence already to get the police to swear out a warrant on Shelbee. Instead, you’re going to allow a killer to cover his tracks.” She shoved the door open with her foot. I guessed our chat was at an end. Seemed my detecting skills were shaping up nicely.
* * * *
I called my aunt’s cell to report what little I’d learned.
“Where are you right now, Auntie?”
“Angelina hired us to tail Brad,” she replied. “I’m at the Four Seasons having a mojito, waiting for him to come out of the bathroom with the barmaid.”
“Ha ha. Do you want to hear what I learned from Pilar’s friend?”
She sighed. “Not now. I’m still dealing with the case your cousin screwed up. The client wants that boy’s head on a plate.”
“I thought it was just a misunderstanding.”
“My son’s description of the problem as a misunderstanding was a bit of an understatement. I’d give you other choice words, but not over the phone. At any rate, you’ll have to keep handling the Heinz case.”
“Handling? As in making decisions?”
“Don’t panic.”
“Don’t panic? It’s a little too late for that!”
“Listen, I love you and want to be supportive. I just can’t deal with your drama right now. Come back to the office and type up your report.”
“I was going back to your house to soak my feet. They’re killing me.”
“Well, maybe tomorrow you’ll wear sensible shoes.”
* * * *
When I returned to the office, I found a woman with ash blond hair, clad in a tan running outfit sitting alone at my desk. She clutched a huge khaki purse.
I asked the beige lady, “Does Ms. Turnbow know you’re here?” My aunt didn’t want me to call her aunt in front of clients. Said