“People take this stuff that seriously?”
“She’s so naïve,” the chef said and climbed down from his stool. “No one will talk to a detective, or any outsider, during the run-up to the taping. I doubt you’ll even be allowed on the set.”
“Why not let the police handle the investigation, then?”
“The police,” Chef Clyde said, a sneer on his pointy face, “did a cursory investigation and found nothing irregular. Pilar isn’t a minor. Adults can disappear if they want to.”
“Back to my idea,” Emmett said. “Ms. Pennington here can pose as our new culinary assistant.”
“What?” The chef and I said at the same time.
“Think about it, Chef. I’ll assist you, like in the old days, and she can assist me. That will provide the perfect cover. She’ll be assistant to the assistant, so no one will pay any attention to her. She’ll find out things we’d never be privy to.”
“What about the release for Pilar’s recip—”
Indicating the kitchen with a Vanna White sweep of his hand, Emmett silenced the chef mid-sentence. “We’ll practice preparing the menu here,” he said to me and gave his final pitch, “I have an old co-worker at the studio who will get you set up.”
“I hope you know what we’re doing,” the chef said, sing-song, and turned back to his critters. He was through with me.
“The only thing that matters,” Emmett said as he walked me to the door, “is that we get Pilar home safely.”
I agreed to the scheme. I wanted to solve this case to show my appreciation to my aunt for offering me a job and for opening her home to me. I might be sleeping on a divan on her sun porch, its sheets falling way short of the thousand thread count I’d grown accustomed to during my high-end marriage, but on the bright side, I was getting exfoliation treatments for free.
* * * *
I was feeling a little cocky as I sped down the sidewalk. I’d survived my first interview on my first assignment. Then the heel of my shoe caught in a crack in the flagstone walk just outside the iron gate. As I bent over to ease the heel out of the hole without marring the delicate alligator leather, a man walking toward me from the yard next door called, “There you are. Thought you done run away.” The snowman-shaped gardener reached me. “Oh. Sorry. Took you for Pilar. Same color hair.”
My shoe popped free.
“So, I take it you haven’t seen Pilar recently,” I said brushing crumbled mortar off the hem of my pant leg.
The man continued to look me over, all five feet of me, plus my three-inch cheat heels and said, “If I was her, I’d stay gone.”
Trying to follow my aunt’s instructions not to discuss a client’s case while being nosy and chatting people up at the same time (wha?), I tried my hand at questioning the witness.
“Why do you say that?”
“‘Cause everyone knows she’s the real artist in that kitchen. Chef Creepy Critter makes use of her recipes and talent, then he takes all the credit.”
I was out of questions. This looked so easy on TV. Luckily for me, it appeared the guy took my hesitation as skepticism and added, “You think I’m full of it? I wasn’t always wider than I am tall. Pilar brought me her practice dishes, sometimes two or three a day.” He kissed the fingertips of one hand.
“If what you say is true, why would Pilar work for a man like Shelbee?”
“She gets to develop her dishes, and when the time is right, make her move to get her own show.” He headed back toward the neighboring yard, then turned. “I don’t know how she does it. I got ambitions. But I ain’t got the patience to put up with an asshole like Shelbee. Maybe she just reached her limit. Hope not, though. Sure would miss being her guinea pig.”
* * * *
When I got back to the office, I explained the plan. After my aunt finished laughing, she struggled to put away her snarky face and put on a mentoring one.
“Whew. Sorry. The picture of you in the kitchen even pretending to cook was too much.”
“Your approach to confidence building could use some work,” I said.
She 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
