Hot Stuff

HOT STUFF

A
LSO BY
D
ON
B
RUNS

S
TUFF
S
ERIES

Stuff to Die For

Stuff Dreams Are Made Of

Stuff to Spy For

Don't Sweat the Small Stuff

Too Much Stuff

S
EVER
M
USIC
S
ERIES

Jamaica Blue

Barbados Heat

South Beach Shakedown

St. Barts Breakdown

Bahama Burnout

A
NTHOLOGIES

A Merry Band of Murderers
(editor & contributor)

Death Dines In

(contributor)

A N
OVEL

DON BRUNS

Copyright © 2012 by Don Bruns

FIRST EDITION

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, and incidents either are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, businesses, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

ISBN 978-1-60809-061-7

Published in the United States of America by Oceanview Publishing,
Longboat Key, Florida
www.oceanviewpub.com

2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

Dedicated to The Food Channel, where so many of my friends spend their time getting fabulous tips from the great chefs of our time, and to the Bistro, a great restaurant that should have lasted forever.

About thirty-two chefs around the country graciously opened their kitchens to me and allowed me to see firsthand how high-end meals are prepared. I thank each one of them and, although I love to cook, I wouldn't last five minutes in one their establishments. The pressure, the exact way that they prepare their food, and the hours they put in would drive me crazy. I got the idea for the tool chest full of knives from Chef Enzo and Chef Kane at Shawnee Country Club in Lima, Ohio. Thanks to Howard Koch for recipe ideas and Anne Decker, Don Witter, and Dave Bruns for reading the early draft.

A special thanks to Clayton's on Siesta Key, Alisa at the Fat Cat in Lima, Ohio, Duval's on Main in Sarasota, and Darwin's on 4th, also in Sarasota, where I had the author photo taken. To my favorite male cooks, Jim Gideon, Tom Biddle, Bill Lodermier, Mike Trump, and David Gutridge. I got some great ideas from Chip at The Main Bar Sandwich Shop in Sarasota. Dave Dorley from Keystone Meats in Lima, Ohio, gave me the butcher experience. Thanks to Doc Glidewell for the excellent photography and George Foster for the excellent cover. To my wife, Linda, for the first read and Bob and Pat, my publishers, for their continued support. David and Frank from Oceanview, thank you for your hard work.

Kelly Fields and Cheryl Deitering donated to the Rotary Foundation for a chance to be characters in
Hot Stuff
and I hope I treated them fairly. They are very nice ladies.

To the kitchen staffs around the world who create so many wonderful dishes, I salute you. May you never have a murder in your kitchen.

HOT STUFF

Two hours ago I hadn't even known what a sous chef was, but there she was, blood seeping from the wounds in her abdomen as she lay faceup in the alley behind L'Elfe, the famous French restaurant on Bayshore Drive in Miami.

You've heard of L'Elfe. It was featured on all the cooking channels, and the owner is Jean Bouvier. He and his wife, Sophia, own at least five restaurants. He's written ten cookbooks, owns lines of spices, pots and pans, cutlery, and you name it. This little guy, about five foot one, and his burly wife, had become a money machine, and my partner hated them.

James, my business associate, was a culinary major in college and now works for a fast-food chain in Carol City, just outside of Miami. He dreams of becoming a millionaire and is put off by anyone who has figured out how to actually become a business tycoon. So far the best we've been able to do is start a private investigating company. Which is one of the reasons why I was in the back alley of L'Elfe. Em dragged me back there, saying we had to find out who killed the girl, someone who had once been a good friend of hers.

You see, my girlfriend, Emily, was treating me to dinner this night. She'd landed a major construction deal for her employer, her father, and we were celebrating. Sous chef Amanda Wright had been a good friend of Em's all through high school. Em had even fixed her up with my roommate, James, for a couple of dates recently, and Em wanted to show her friend support by eating at L'Elfe. It seemed like a good idea at the time. And, I was getting a free meal at one of the hottest eateries in Miami. Now, staring at Amanda Wright's blood-drained face, I was having second thoughts.

“Jesus, Skip.” The rescue squad had been called, but the pale body grotesquely sprawled on the concrete alley proved that there would be no rescue. “It's Amanda. I mean, it's really Amanda.” She grabbed my hand and squeezed tight. “She was a friend. Someone I could count on.” Em was trembling, her eyes focused on the corpse and the pool of blood that surrounded it.

I didn't know the girl that well, but looking at the pale, dark-haired young woman who seemed to have a brilliant future brought tears to my eyes. No one deserved to die at this age and be left to bleed to death in this dirty, vermin-infested, smelly alley with black vinyl trash bags lining the curb.

“What happened? We were talking to her just, what? An hour ago?” Over drinks and some type of scallops with seaweed.

I squeezed Em's hand back, sirens wailing in the distance, and the morbid curiosity seekers easing through the doorway from the kitchen. I was certain no one was left in the dining area. When our waiter ran into the restaurant screaming that there was a dead body in the alley, the place had cleared out quickly. Uneaten meals, unpaid bills, and undrunk drinks littered the tables as patrons hurried from their seats.

“Em, she's probably in a better place.” The dumbest thing I could have said. She was about to be head chef at a South Beach restaurant. That was the place she should have been.

“She was so happy. An hour ago.” Em was shaking. Not crying yet, but shaking as she buried her head in my shoulder. “She was so excited about the promotion. I've never seen her that happy.”

Amanda Wright had stopped at our table, speaking a mile a minute about her new assignment. Hands waving in the air, she informed us that Bouvier had asked her to become executive chef at a brand-new restaurant he was opening on South Beach. La Plage. The Beach. An unbelievable achievement for someone of her age and background. Executive chef.

“It was her dream, her goal. Skip, she had so much to live for.” I glanced at Em and tears were streaming down her face. I blinked, released her hand, and hugged her as purple lights swirled against the white building. Blue-and-red spinners from the police cars cast an eerie pattern down the narrow pavement, bathing everyone and everything in an unhealthy glow.

“Stand back.” A uniformed officer stepped from the first vehicle, obviously ready to take charge as a white ambulance pulled up behind him. Two paramedics leaped from the white unit and rushed to the body, one carrying a black medical bag. I was reminded of a phrase my mother often used to describe our basic living conditions. “A day late and a dollar short.”

“Em, they're going to get to the bottom of this.”

She shook her head. “She's dead, Skip. Bad things like this can't happen to good people. They just can't.”

I nodded.

“It's Amanda. She stood up for me when my whole world was coming apart.” Em was shaking, quivering, and I wanted it to stop. “Skip, we've got to find out what happened. I owe her. I owe her, Skip.”