A. Gardner - Poppy Peters 01 - Southern Peach Pie and A Dead Guy (21 page)

One of the Cornerstone chefs glanced at Carla as he spooned butter-poached shrimp into a miniature stainless steel bowl. Spiky bits of dusty blond hair poked out from around the edges of his stovepipe-like paper hat. He smiled at Carla but kept one eye on his cranky boss's back. Obviously getting caught approving of snarky comments toward the head chef wouldn't be wise.

Chef Britton took a deep breath, which puffed out his chest. If he was trying to make himself look taller and more impressive, it wasn't working. He was short for a man, not even remotely close to being average height. Apparently he used obnoxiousness as a way to distract people from noticing his stunted stature.

"You don't need to be humble when you're as good as I am. My food is unbeatable." He swung his gaze back toward Amy. Although he was speaking to Carla, he was obviously trying his best to play dirty and unnerve Amy. "I hope you're prepared to lose."

Don't blink first. It's a sign of weakness
. Out of her peripheral vision she could see Carla shake her head slightly. Amy had seen the gesture before.
Don't answer him. I've got this.
Carla was a master of snappy comebacks, and she never hesitated to come to Amy's aid when the situation called for world-class insults.

"If your cooking skills are anything like your bedroom skills, I hope your partner in the showdown has a lot of stamina. Based on my prior experience, I predict you'll be down for the count about ten minutes into the competition," Carla said.

The smiling sous chef snorted, then spun around to stir something in a chafing dish. Score! Chef Britton's cool attitude cracked, leaving behind a crimson flush that rose from his neck, crept up his face, and headed toward his sparse hairline at a rather alarming speed. He whirled back around and sneered at Carla. "A good partner makes all the difference, my dear. Trisha's energy is contagious. I'll have no problems going full tilt for as long as it takes to win."

"You really should watch out. All of the bragging is going to come back around and bite you in the ass." Carla cranked up her laser-like evil eye and aimed it at Britton. "Karma's a bitch."

"Karma…Carla. Same thing."

Ouch. He had no problems lobbing insult grenades to defend his snobby encampment. What would he do during the showdown to defend his top chef status within the community? Amy's stomach twisted into a knot as Carla leveled one more icy stare at her former lover before turning away. She grabbed Amy's hand and pulled her into the crowd. If one of Britton's tactics to win was rattling her, he'd done a good job. Amy's heart was beating so hard she could hear blood whooshing in her ears. But unfortunately for him, it looked like Carla had turned the tables and given him a dose of rudeness. Would his break in composure still be in effect at the showdown?

CHAPTER TWO

Three hours later, Amy wished Carla was with her again to break up the flood of tension that was threatening to drown her. The showdown was almost ready to begin, and things weren't going well. "Could you have left them in your car?" Amy asked as she looked into the empty drawer.

Sophie shook her head. "No. I had them in my booth but put them in that drawer after Bridget stopped by to say we could start setting up our kitchens onstage. My knife case was here an hour ago."

Amy pulled the metal drawer out completely, until she could see the back wall. She shook her head. The knives were gone. "I guess somebody must've slipped past the security guards. We'll have to take turns using mine. Sorry, they probably aren't as nice as yours."

"You can borrow one of mine," Chef Jake called from the other side of the stage. He ran the wide blade of a chef's knife over his pewter-colored sharpening rod. The sword-fight sound of metal scraping against metal clanged across the stage. "Sucks that somebody took your entire kit. I have a smaller chef's knife I won't use. You're welcome to it."

"Thank you," Sophie said as she jogged across the front of the stage. The long, silky brown hair in her ponytail swung back and forth, glistening in the spotlights. She grasped the handle of the knife Chef Jake had placed on the corner of his prep table. "It feels good. I appreciate the help. I was about ready to see if I could find a booth selling knives out on the expo floor."

"Don't worry about it. Glad I could help."

Sophie returned to Amy's side, grabbed the laminated recipe sheet, and began pulling vegetables out of the cooler that was stashed under the worktable. The rules of the contest said they could wash fruits and vegetables beforehand but couldn't start any chopping or slicing until the preparatory period that was just beginning. "I'll chop the onions if you can do the celery."

Amy grabbed the plastic bag of pale-green celery stalks. She laid a couple out on a plastic cutting board and concentrated on slicing them as thinly as possible. With only one hour to prepare the soup from start to finish, that didn't leave a lot of time to soften large chunks of vegetables. Plus the repetitive act of chopping vegetables was a bit like meditating. A nice distraction from the stress storm gathering inside her.

After slicing the celery and grating carrots into crunchy orange shreds, she took a look around. There were colorful piles of vegetables on the work areas of the three kitchens. Jake and his partner, Holly, had purple onions, jalapeno peppers, and white beans arranged next to their hot plate. If she had to guess, white chicken chili would be their soup. Trisha, Chef Britton's partner, was using a mezzaluna to chop herbs that were grown on her own farm. She gripped the wooden handle at each end of the utensil and rocked the curved, half-moon blade back and forth on the wooden cutting board. As Amy watched, a fluffy mountain of leaves was quickly reduced to a dense mound of minced herbs. Bowls of shredded lacinato kale and spinach were already prepared and standing ready, no thanks to the famous chef. Britton had yet to make an appearance onstage.

The Country Captain soup Amy and Sophie were making would have a tomatoey broth infused with mild curry powder. Golden raisins would add a touch of sweetness to the spicy, chunky soup. Cornmeal biscuits and citrus-marinated carrot salad completed the hopefully prize-winning meal.

"Let's go over what order we need to do everything," Sophie said as she slid part of the chopped onions that were destined for the salad into a small metal bowl. "I want to make sure everything gets done in time."

"I don't think there's such a thing as too much practice," Amy said. She picked up her copy of the recipe. "Let's do this."

"I'll start sautéing the vegetables. I need you to cut a stick of butter into half-inch cubes. Then one of us will have to run it to the freezer backstage. The butter must be as cold as possible when I make the biscuits." Sophie pointed at the gap in the curtains to the left of the stage. "Let's go see how far away it is."

"Sorry to be nosy, but I couldn't help eavesdropping. Can't you just put the butter on top of ice in your cooler?" Trisha asked as she slammed a blue mesh bag full of yellow onions on her worktable. "Then you won't need to leave the stage."

Sophie shook her head. "That's a good idea, but I don't think ice will work well enough, especially with these bright stage lights heating everything up. I would rather just use the deep freeze that's set up backstage to chill the butter as fast as possible. It'll only take a minute or two to run back and forth."

Amy followed her cooking partner into the dark area behind the heavy black curtain. All of the walls were painted black, lit by dim spotlights. The dense darkness cloaked electrical cords snaking across the floor. Not only was the area creepy and spooky, it was downright dangerous, especially for frenzied, stressed-out cooks. Luckily she would be running with a stick of butter, not a knife. The stainless steel upright commercial freezer stood against the back wall, dully shining in the murky light. Amy took a deep, fortifying breath. She began shoving folding chairs and card tables out of the way to clear a straight path to the oversized appliance. "I'll take care of getting the butter here. That way you can keep an eye out for when the vegetables have softened enough and get the chicken into the pot as soon as possible. We can tag team everything."

"Sounds good to me." Sophie draped her arm over Amy's shoulders and squeezed gently. "I am so happy that we are doing this together. There's nobody else I would rather have as a partner."

The Chicken Soup Showdown was the featured event of the Eat Local Expo. Three teams of local foodie celebrities were competing against each other to make the best meal composed of chicken soup, a salad, and homemade bread. A panel of local food writers would sample the meals and choose the victorious team. The winners would have $5,000 donated to their charity of choice, along with taking home $500 each to spend however they wanted. Amy and Sophie, owner of Riverbend Coffee, were playing for the Kellerton Library's literacy program. Chef Jake Sawyer, the hottie with the man-bun who made the best ceviche in town at Nibbles & Noshes, was paired with Holly Neale, owner of Buttercream Cupcakery. They would donate to the Pathway Women's Shelter. The last team consisted of the famous, but even more famous in his own mind, Chef Chet Britton from Cornerstone restaurant and Trisha Dunbar, chief gardener and owner of Dunbar Farms. Their charity was a community garden that was being planned for a neighborhood that had seen better days.

Sophie returned to the stage to slice the raw chicken so it would cook quickly. Once a straight line to the freezer was cleared of stage debris, Amy tried to join her partner. She turned around and stifled a growl of frustration. A disheveled man was sprawled in a folding chair that he had placed in the clear strip of stage while she had worked to shove a musty, broken recliner into a corner.

"Excuse me, but could you please move? I need to get to the freezer when the showdown starts, and I just finished moving everything out of my way." She pointed at the debris-free zone behind her. And forced herself to smile. Sure, she probably looked like a crazed serial killer, but it was the nicest expression she could muster at the moment. "If you are going to watch the competition from here, could you slide your chair to the left or right? I don't want to trip over you."

The man slowly shook his head. His greasy hair flopped like squid-ink spaghetti. "Nope. I'm comfy here. You'll have to go around."

Amy inhaled through her nose. Okay, as long as he didn't stick his leg out to trip her, she could get around him when she needed to make the run to the freezer. Whoever the belligerent man was, he wasn't worth arguing with, especially when she could smell the alcohol on his breath from three feet away. Maybe he would pass out and roll out of the way.

"What are you doing?"

Holly, the cupcake wizard, stood in the gap between the heavy velvet curtains. Or at least it sounded like Holly. She was just a silhouette with her hands on her hips and elbows jutting out like mountain peaks. Amy blinked as the backlit figure advanced into the backstage darkness. It was definitely Holly, and she was definitely angry. "Get out of Amy's way. Are you drunk? Where did you get alcohol here? You better not have taken something that one of the chefs needs to use in their soup. I'm calling a cab, and you are going home. Don't even think of asking the cabbie to take you to a bar."

"I need to go check on my salad ingredients," Amy murmured as she used her hip to shove a huge metal toolbox on wheels farther to the side. If cranky man stayed put, she at least had a wide area to skirt around him. She slipped past the warring couple. Whatever was going on, she didn't want to be a part of it.

When Amy made it back to the stage, Sophie leaned toward her and whispered, "I heard you talking to someone, so I peeked backstage again to see what was going on. What a mess. That's the last thing Holly needs. She shouldn't have to deal with her obnoxious son right now. Poor woman."

That explained who the sloppy drunk was, but not why he was backstage. At least things were more hospitable on the stage. Three identical kitchen areas with four-burner hot plates, a convection oven, a long prep table, sink, and huge cooler were arranged side by side. In the center kitchen, Trisha was bouncing around her U-shaped area like a pinball. She had a piece of paper in one hand while she spun glass spice bottles on the table to look at labels. At the same time, she used her foot to flip open the cooler's lid. She was doing some serious multitasking while her diminutive partner, Chef Britton, was still nowhere in sight.

"Do you have any idea where he is, Trisha?" Jake asked as he leaned on his worktable. His forehead glistened with sweat. "Have you tried calling him? Maybe something came up at Cornerstone."

Trisha shook her head. Curly strands of blonde hair had loosened from her French braid and formed a fuzzy halo around her face. "I've been calling and texting him for the last hour. He isn't answering me. I saw him in his booth a couple hours ago, and he sounded fine. I know he likes to be the center of attention, but now is not the time to be fashionably late."

"Unfortunately, this is classic behavior for Chet." Jake swiped a white kitchen towel over his forehead. "I don't know where Holly went, but we're all done prepping. What can I do to help?"

"Nothing. I'm so mad right now I have the energy of three people." Trisha turned on her faucet and ran her hands under the stream of water. She slicked the wayward curls back with her wet fingers. "I'm pretty much done. Now to just wait for Chet to grace us with his presence."

So Amy and Sophie weren't the only ones having a rough evening. That didn't make Amy feel any better though. This was the very first showdown. It was a great opportunity to raise money for some very deserving charities. If the event went into self-destruct mode, would it continue next year? She knocked on the metal prep table next to Trisha. "We're all set too, so if you do find something that needs to be done, I can help."

"Thank you."

Trisha wiped her hands on her blue-jean apron as she disappeared into the darkness of the backstage area. A crowd was clearly gathering on the other side of the curtain that shielded the competitors from the audience. Multiple conversations blended together in a lively chorus of voices. Amy's former coworkers from Elegance Salon would be out there somewhere in the stadium-style theater seats. Her husband, Alex, wasn't. He was driving home from a business trip in Traverse City.

The scent of rotten eggs drifted past Amy as the curtains waved slightly from a breeze. She looked at Sophie. "Do you smell that? Is somebody using hard-boiled eggs?"

"I haven't seen any eggs." Sophie sniffed then bent toward the burners in their kitchen. "That smells like propane to me. And it's coming from our hot plate."

She twisted the valve on the small propane tank sitting under the cook top. "That should stop it, but there must be a leak in one of the lines. We need to find someone to fix this fast or the showdown will start with a literal bang."

Trisha reappeared with the showdown's director at her side. Bridget Mahoney was the grande dame of Kellerton. Her family owned half of the town, including the civic arena where the competition was being held. Rumor had it that she was a shrewd landlord, but Amy knew that she was also a philanthropist. She was generous in sharing her money with charities, and never shied away from organizing huge fundraisers that would make mere mortals, or even seasoned PTA presidents, run away screaming for help.

"Your attention, please." Bridget waved her clipboard to silence the chatter of everybody onstage. "I realize we are missing a competitor, but I really can't delay the showdown. It's the end of the expo, and there is just enough time for you all to cook your meals and for the judges to decide on a winner."

Amy raised her hand. "Excuse me, but we have an even bigger problem. There's a propane leak in our kitchen."

That glitch brought a flurry of activity. Stagehands, all sporting fully stocked tool belts, clanked around replacing the leaky propane hose and setting up a high-powered fan to blow away the stinky fumes. An announcement was made to the restless-sounding crowd that the start of the showdown would be delayed for fifteen minutes because of an unforeseen problem.

Mrs. Mahoney's blue sequin-covered sweater twinkled in the harsh spotlights as she paced back and forth along the back of the stage while waiting for the explosive fumes to disperse. The burst of exercise under the hot lights would wilt most people, but her expertly applied makeup was still impeccable. Her silver hair dutifully stayed smoothed back in the simple yet elegant French twist. One of the stagehands flagged her down. She nodded as she listened to him. He disappeared backstage, and Mrs. Mahoney's face deflated into a furrowed grimace when she approached Trisha. "I am so sorry, Miss Dunbar. We need to begin the showdown in a few minutes. Do you want to forfeit or go it alone?"