Death by the Dozen (9 page)

“Welcome, chefs,” she said. “Now we need to quickly go over the rules. You will wait onstage in your kitchens while our host announces the mystery ingredient. You will then have an opportunity to gather your mystery ingredient off of the cart we wheel out. That is your only chance. Back onstage at your designated station, you will find it fully stocked with all of the kitchen staples you’ll require, such as flour, milk, sugar, and eggs. Also, assigned to your station will be your designated runner. This is your runner for the duration of the competition. It will be their duty to acquire whatever special items you need to make your culinary creations from the pantry that we are maintaining in the corner of the conference room. This is where we will be keeping unusual spices and other possible ingredients.

“The judges will be in attendance for the duration of the contest, and while they will be judging you primarily on creativity, presentation, and taste, they will also be watching to see how you manage your kitchen. Professionalism is always appreciated. The contest will begin in half an hour. I suggest you go familiarize yourself with your kitchens.”

As they made their way out of the conference room back to the festival, Mel felt her stomach clench. She was nervous. She couldn’t believe it. She was never nervous about cooking. She always looked at it like an adventure. But she’d never had scads of free publicity and ten thousand dollars riding on it before.

“What’s the matter?” Angie asked. “You look a little sweaty and pasty.”

“Do I? It must be something I ate,” Mel said.

“Hi, Mel!” Polly Ramsey darted in front of her. “Isn’t this exciting? It’s actually starting.”

Mel frowned at her. She was a kid running a cookie business out of her apartment, and she didn’t look nervous at all.

“Angie, you remember Polly—she came by the bakery the other day?”

“Oh, yeah, you’re the one with the Sherman Tank for a mom,” Angie said.

Polly had the grace to look embarrassed. “I’m sorry about that. I did take your advice,” she said. “I banned her from coming here until the finals, assuming I make the finals. Truly, I’m just happy to be a part of all this.”

She gestured around at the hordes of people now filling the walkways, the vendors hawking their wares, and the general happy chaos that filled the place.

Mel felt her shoulders drop. Polly was right. This was supposed to be a fun event, not do or die. Sheesh. She had to get her priorities straight.

“Come on,” she said with a smile. “Let’s go find our stations.”

Mel and Angie found themselves in a well-appointed spot with plenty of shade. The day was beginning to heat up, and Mel was grateful for the cool breeze that blew across the grounds, keeping the desert sun from becoming oppressive.

The challenge to the chefs, pastry division, had been divided into two groups of twenty-two. Mel was relieved that they were in the first group as the second group had to go cool their heels in a conference room nearby so as not to be tipped off to the mystery ingredient.

Mel and Angie studied their mini-kitchen, and Mel felt reasonably sure she could function in it. She was used to baking in bulk, so it would be weird to use the miniappliances that they’d been supplied with, but then they only had to cook for the four judges—Bertie Grassello, Dutch Johnson, Vic Mazzotta, and Candace Levinson, who was an editor with
Food and Wine
magazine.

Spectators gathered to watch as their host arrived with a large white plastic box. Mel and Angie exchanged a look.

“If it’s eels, I am so out of here,” Angie said.

“It’s not going to be eels,” Mel said. “At least, I don’t think so.”

Their host, celebrity chef Johnny Pepper, bounded onto stage, exploding like a firecracker and drawing the crowd to him like moths to his flame.

“Are y’all ready?” he addressed the crowd with his charming Southern drawl and engaged them in guessing what the mystery ingredient could be. As he shouted back and forth with the gathering throng, Mel took the opportunity to study him.

He had spiked, bleached blond hair that shone almost white in the midday sun, a nose ring, and a sleeve of tattoos running up both of his arms. He wore combat boots and fatigues under a black chef’s coat that sported flames shooting up from the bottom hem. He looked too punk rock for the kitchen, and Mel suspected Oz would love him.

Johnny was a veteran of the Food Channel and had made his fame and fortune by being a badass grill man. His face was now on everything from charcoal briquettes to bottles of BBQ sauce. He was as close to a rock star as a chef could get.

Angie leaned next to her and said, “Is it just me or is he hot?”

“En fuego,”
Mel confirmed.

As if he heard them, Johnny glanced over at their station and gave them a wicked grin.

“Dutch better watch it,” Angie said. “I think Johnny could eclipse even him.”

Mel had to agree. She pulled her gaze away from Johnny and glanced at the crowd. She saw Grace Mazzotta wedged between a family and a young couple. Grace was standing up on her toes and scanning the faces of the people around her as if looking for someone. Mel glanced over at the judges’ booth to see Dutch and Bertie and a woman taking their seats, but there was no sign of Vic.

She frowned. She didn’t see Jordan either. Was Vic off dallying with his bimbo protégée? Mel felt a hot spike of anger rush through her. If Vic wanted to be a two-timing lowlife, that was his choice, but here was Grace, his counterbalance of kindness, and she deserved to be treated better than this.

“I’ll be right back,” Mel said.

“But . . .” Angie began, but Mel shook her off.

She slipped off the dais, feeling Olivia’s gaze upon her as she went. She really wished the other baker had been put into the second round.

“Grace,” Mel called to her friend. “Are you all right?”

“Oh, Mel, hi there.” Grace gave her a beaming smile.

Mel reached past the young couple and pulled Grace toward her. “You look like you’re about to be trampled.”

“Oh, no. I’m fine, dear. Shouldn’t you be up there listening to your instructions?”

“My partner has it under control,” Mel said.

“Well, then you’ve chosen well,” Grace said. She went back to scanning the crowd. “Now, if I could just find Vic.”

“He’s not here?” Mel asked.

“If he is,” Grace said. “I can’t find him.”

“Grace, is everything okay?” Mel asked. It was as close as she could get to saying that she thought Vic was cheating on her.

Grace turned to look at her. Her eyes crinkled in the corners, and she tipped her head in understanding. “All marriages weather storms, even when they’re named Jordan.”

Mel scanned Grace’s face. It was still a pretty face, softened just a little bit with wrinkles and the toll of gravity. She was in awe of the acceptance in Grace’s eyes. If Joe ever pulled a stunt like this, why she’d . . .

A flash of movement near the stage caught Mel’s attention.

“Speak of the devil,” she said.

Jordan was coming toward them. Her long dark hair was pulled back in a casual knot at the back of her head. She wore jeans and a plum-colored blouse, which was wrinkled as if she had just thrown it on.

A close glance at her face and Mel could see her lips were clamped tightly together, and she was without makeup, which seemed out of character for a young woman who appeared to get by on her looks.

“Jordan,” Grace called out to her, and the young woman whipped her head in their direction. She didn’t look pleased to see them. “Have you seen Vic?”

“No! I’m his intern, not his keeper,” the young woman snapped, and then she plowed past them back into the crowd.

Mel frowned, but Grace patted her arm.

“Vic is just going through a phase. It’ll pass. It always does, and I’ll still be here for him.”

“But aren’t you . . .” Mel’s voice trailed off, realizing that this might be none of her business.

“Angry?” Grace guessed and then shook her head. “To what purpose? Vic is my best friend. He’ll figure it out. He just needs some time and understanding.”

“Or a swift kick in the patoot,” Mel suggested.

Grace tipped back her head and gave a delighted laugh. “No wonder you’ve always been Vic’s favorite. You’re not afraid of him at all, are you?”

“Not even a little,” Mel said. “And I am more than willing to offer my size nines to do the kicking.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Grace said with a chuckle. “Now get up there before you’re disqualified. I’m sure Vic will turn up any minute; he always does.”

Mel gave her a quick hug and squeezed her way back up onto the dais.

“And your mystery ingredient is . . .” The host paused for dramatic effect, while reaching into the plastic box, and then yelled, “Parsnips!”

Angie turned to Mel and said, “Oh, yeah!”

Mel nodded, and they exchanged the complicated handshake Oz had taught them but not nearly as coolly as he did it.

“I wouldn’t celebrate yet if I were you,” Olivia said from across the kitchen.

“You think you can beat us?” Angie taunted her.

Olivia curled her lip, and her sous-chef mimicked her hands-on-hips stance of intimidation.

“I could beat you with my whisk tied behind my back,” she said.

“Isn’t that how you usually cook?” Mel asked. “Or maybe it just tastes that way.”

Olivia snarled, and Angie spun Mel away from her before it got physical.

“Game face,” Angie ordered, and Mel nodded.

On Johnny’s count, they had to run to the cart and collect their parsnips. This was no time for squabbling with Olivia. They could save that for later, after they whipped her meringue in this competition.

It was almost too easy, which made Mel nervous.

Their runner was an elderly woman named Joanie. She was short and skinny with gray hair that hung in a long ponytail down her back. She wore thick glasses, giving her a birdlike appearance, which was only enhanced by the two vivid circles of rouge she wore on her cheeks and the cherry red lipstick she wore on her lips, although her ability to color within the lines was questionable at best.

She moved pretty quickly for a woman who looked to be shoving eighty back pretty hard. When Mel asked her to get them some candied ginger, Joanie took off for the special pantry with her head ducked low and her steps quick like the determined march of a badger.

“I think she’s going to work out,” Angie said.

“She is a spritely little thing,” Mel agreed.

Angie pointed over her shoulder in the direction of Olivia’s station and said, “I’m not sure, but I think Puckett’s runner just peed his pants.”

Mel glanced over to see Olivia sweating profusely while dressing down her sous-chef and her runner, as if she were starring in an episode of
Hell’s Kitchen
.

“Lunatic,” Angie scoffed, and she went back to monitoring the cupcakes.

Mel watched Dutch as he strolled amongst the different stations, pausing to watch the pastry chefs in action. She ignored him and set to work on her cream cheese frosting.

The sound of a bowl shattering brought her attention up, and she glanced over to see Polly Ramsey, flushed with embarrassment, as Dutch grinned down at her.

Polly’s father was standing in her kitchen with her, and Mel was surprised to see him there. He hadn’t struck her as being too much on the ball when he’d been in the shop, but maybe that was because Polly’s mother seemed to suck all of the air out of the room with her stage-mother histrionics.

Mel watched him for a moment and noted that he seemed to move about the kitchenette as if he knew exactly what he was doing. When Dutch lingered with Polly, her father shooed him away, showing an awareness Mel wouldn’t have guessed he possessed.

“Score another victory for Dutch,” a voice said from behind Mel.

She turned to find Bertie Grassello standing there.

“Hi, Bertie,” she said. “How are you?”

Bertie Grasello had been Mel’s least favorite professor at the culinary institute. He was a poser, and she had no patience for him.

Instead of working on his craft, he worked at making himself look like James Beard. Tall and stocky, he shaved his head bald and sported a gray mustache neatly trimmed over his upper lip. But that was where the resemblance ended.

While James Beard had been one of the key persons responsible for giving America a gourmet food identity, Bertie Grassello was a publicity hound always looking for his next close-up.

“Looks like Vic couldn’t be bothered to show up,” he said. “That’s a pity—for you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Mel asked.

“Oh, come on, you know you’re favored to win. Vic has all but guaranteed it. I saw your face when they announced the mystery ingredient was parsnips. You knew already, didn’t you? He told you, didn’t he?”