Final Fondue (A Five-Ingredient Mystery) (16 page)

Tanisha nodded solemnly. “I get it. He makes you feel special.”

“Right. When you go back to Swarthmore and two guys make a play for you, don’t choose the one your friends think is hot. Pick the one who’s right for you.”

Tanisha stepped back “How did you know about the two—?”

“Lucky guess.” Val checked her watch. Three o’clock. Bethany didn’t usually take such a long break. She’d probably lost track of time with Roy next to her. “I figured Bethany would be back by now. My grandfather’s in the dessert cook-off. I hate to miss the judging.”

“Go ahead. Business has slowed down. I can manage the booth alone.”

“Thanks.”

Val weaved around the people visiting booths and jogged across the street to the park, working up a sweat in the afternoon heat. People milled around the party tents where the contestants were serving desserts. She couldn’t find her grandfather because of the crowd, but she could see Henri. He stood on a raised platform at the far end of the park, sharing a microphone with the cook-off chairperson, the mayor’s wife.

She spoke into the microphone. “Now that the chef has given us his opinion of several of the dessert entries, we come to the moment we’ve all been awaiting. Chef Henri La Farge, tell us your choice for the best dessert in the Bayport Festival cook-off.”

Henri took over the microphone. “This was not a hard decision. I knew the moment I took my first bite that this was an extraordinary taste experience. By far the best dessert is the Quinoa Carrot Coconut Cardamom Cayenne Cookie.” His voice rose to a crescendo that cried out for applause.

Incredible.
Monique’s cookie had won. Val clapped enthusiastically for her cousin’s winning entry, but only a few other people joined in, possibly those who, like Val, hadn’t tasted it. No hope now that Val would get away without sampling the winning cookie. Maybe it would surprise her and taste great.
... Nah.

Henri continued. “This delicacy came from the kitchen of Madame Monique Mott. Monique, such a wonderful French name. Her dessert is sweet and hot, with the spicy complexity of cardamom and ginger, and a kiss”—he kissed his fingers—“a kiss of coconut nectar and a hint of almond. It has a certain je ne sais quoi that sets it apart from all the other cookies.”

“Hot pepper!” someone yelled.

Laughter erupted. This crowd probably had less enthusiasm than Chef Henri for complex flavors in cookies. Sweet would have sufficed without hot and spicy.

The mayor’s wife leaned toward the microphone. “Is Monique Mott here? Please come up and receive your prize.”

Monique climbed the steps to the platform and accepted an envelope from the mayor’s wife, who thrust the microphone toward her.

“Thank you, thank you, Chef Henri. I’m overwhelmed by the honor of winning. I’ve tried every single dessert here. They’re all wonderful and just as deserving of the prize as mine.”

Thundering applause came from the crowd.

Monique then thanked as many people as the average Academy Award recipient, including the members of her family, the owners of the spice shop in town, and the organizers of the food cooperative where she bought grains. Camera crews from a Salisbury TV station shot video. Photographers from the
Treadwell Gazette
and other Eastern Shore newspapers took pictures of Monique with Chef Henri.

“Congratulations, Monique,” the mayor’s wife said into the microphone. “And a huge thank you to Chef Henri La Farge for acting as the judge. Those of you in the audience who haven’t yet submitted your ballots for the people’s choice dessert, you have another fifteen minutes to vote. We’ve counted the ballots we’ve received thus far. It’s a close race. Mark your ballot for your favorite dessert. Every vote counts. Now let’s welcome the high school choral group who will sing favorite American classics.”

While the mayor’s wife talked, the professional photographers and media interviewers with microphones turned away from the platform. They hurried en masse toward one of the party tents.

Val pushed her way through the crowd to congratulate her cousin. “Fantastic win!” She hugged Monique and turned to Maverick. “Finished giving boatyard tours for today?”

“I have one more session at five. Then Monique and I are going to celebrate her win and a night without the kids.” He reached for his wife’s hand.

The corners of Monique’s mouth turned down. “I wish the kids could have seen me take the prize. I’m sorry your mother wasn’t here too, Maverick. She was pretty snarky about my cookies.”

Val congratulated her cousin again and excused herself to search for her grandfather. She checked the closest party tent. Her mother and Granddad’s buddy, Ned, presided over the table offering fondue. People were lining up for the chance to skewer a chunk of fruit and dip it into a bowl of melted chocolate. Two bowls rested on stands with tea candles under them.

Val found her grandfather outside a party tent, wearing an immaculate Codger Cook apron and facing a video camera.

A reporter with a microphone stood next to him. “What’s your reaction, sir, to the cook-off judge’s comments on your dessert? He said it should be disqualified because the other contestants baked something and you did nothing but chop and melt.” The reporter, a perky young woman who reminded Val of Fawn, tilted her mike toward Granddad.

“Someone should have told that fella that this isn’t a bake-off. It’s a cook-off. Maybe he doesn’t understand the meaning of the word
cook
. It means to combine ingredients and heat them. That’s what I did to make the fondue.”

Val liked how Granddad parroted what Henri had said yesterday at her booth. She looked for the chef among the people standing nearby. Too bad he wasn’t there to hear his definition of
cook
thrown back in his face.

The reporter angled the microphone toward herself. “The chef also said it takes less time and effort to make fondue compared with the other entries. What does the Codger Cook say to that?”

Granddad leaned toward the mike. “When I went to school, you earned grades for results, not effort. I know that’s changed in schools, but in the real world, results matter. Who should come out on top? The cook who spent the most time in the kitchen or the one who made a dessert you really want to eat?”

Applause erupted from the festival visitors close enough to hear the interview.

“Words of wisdom from the
Treadwell Gazette
’s own Codger Cook.”

Val heard murmurs from the group.

“That chef is a jerk.”

“The Codger Cook is the real deal.”

“I’m going to try his fondue.”

Henri’s attempt to put down Granddad was backfiring. Val searched the crowd for the chef. Telling him that he’d chosen her cousin as the cook-off winner would give her great pleasure. She would also suggest he watch the coverage of the cook-off on the local evening news so he could see Granddad’s interview.

Val didn’t see Henri in the crowd, but she noticed Jennifer striding past the party tents and heading behind them. She was alone, without her friends or her fiancé to protect her. Nothing bad was likely to happen to her in broad daylight, but if it did, Val would feel awful about turning her back on Jennifer. She hurried after the bride-to-be.

Val followed Jennifer to the area behind one of the tents and watched her join the festival goers waiting to use the portable lavatories. For the first time in her life, Val was happy to see a line outside the facilities.

She rushed to take the spot behind the woman she’d tailed. “Hi, Jennifer.”

“Hey, Val. Aren’t those painted panels on the stall doors fantastic?” Jennifer pointed to the row of johns with landscapes painted on them. Instead of being eyesores, the stalls blended into the surrounding trees and shrubs. “After I saw those yesterday, I went online and found you can rent panels that look like white trellises covered with pink flowers. Perfect for a big outdoor wedding.”

All roads led to her wedding, including the one near the portable johns. “If only they could be as pretty inside as outside,” Val said.

“They weren’t bad yesterday morning, but I’m guessing they’ve gone downhill since then. The cook-off was great fun. Your grandfather’s fondue was outstanding. Sarina and Noah said it was better than the one he served when they arrived.”

“I haven’t had a chance to try it yet. Too many people were waiting for a taste.” And not enough were waiting here. The line was moving faster than Val liked. No time for small talk. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something. One of our neighbors said he saw you leaving our house just before the fireworks started Friday night. That surprised me. You didn’t mention going to the house when the police chief asked what you did after dinner.”

Jennifer blinked rapidly. “I thought he wanted to know when we all got back to the house after the fireworks.”

No way she could have interpreted the chief’s question so narrowly. She’d told him what she’d done right after dinner and then skipped over everything else until the fireworks ended.
Why leave out the middle?
She wouldn’t want the police to know she’d gone to the house if, while there, she’d murdered her friend in the backyard. But in that case Jennifer would deny being at the house at all and challenge the witness who said he saw her. So what else would she want to hide?

“You should call the police to revise your statement before the witness reports seeing you at the house.” Val hoped that scare tactics would prompt Jennifer to tell the truth. “If you don’t, the police will take you for a liar. You’ll be answering a lot of questions in the interrogation room, especially if Fawn was murdered around the time you were at the house.”

“If she was there then, I can’t help the police. I didn’t see or hear anything. I was uh . . . busy.” Jennifer wiped sweat from her brow and leaned toward Val. “After we finished dinner, Payton and I drove to your grandfather’s house for a quickie,” she whispered.

Ah.
That explained how Payton knew where her bedroom was. “So Payton can give you an alibi for at least part of the evening when the murder took place. Why didn’t you mention that to the police?”

“I didn’t think I needed an alibi.” Jennifer shuffled forward as the line for the johns shortened. “And it was embarrassing to talk about it in front of a room full of people.”

She must have had a strict upbringing. Admitting to a tryst with her fiancé wouldn’t embarrass any woman Val knew. “The police will respect your privacy if you tell them.”

“I have the chief’s card. I’ll call him. Thanks for the advice.”

“You’re welcome.” Val estimated she had less than a minute to coax information from Jennifer about the others in the wedding group. “This morning while Payton was waiting for you, he mentioned the double date he and Noah had with you and Sarina. Obviously things have worked out for you and Payton. What about Sarina and Noah?”

Jennifer held up crossed fingers. “I’ve been hoping they’d get together. It would be perfect for her. Her family wants her to settle down and have kids. Noah has a good income. If she married him, she could quit her job and devote herself to painting. I pushed for Noah to come here this weekend so they could spend time with each other.”

“On Friday, before you arrived at the house, Fawn was flirting with Noah.”
To Sarina’s obvious annoyance.

Jennifer advanced to the front of the line. “Fawn was in such dire financial straits, she’d have thrown herself at anyone with a steady income. I should have told her that Sarina had first claim to Noah. See you later, Val.” Jennifer marched to a just-vacated portable lavatory.

* * *

By the time Val returned to the front of the tents, the mayor’s wife was calling for attention from the platform.

She spoke into her microphone. “Ladies and gentleman, I’d like to thank all of you—cooks, tasters, and voters—for making the cook-off a success. We’re ready to announce the people’s choice dessert.” She paused. “The winner is the chocolate fondue made by Don Myer, the Codger Cook.”

Val whooped and jumped up and down. She gave Granddad a high-five when he passed her on his way to the platform. The camera crew shot footage as he accepted the prize, thanked the organizers, and praised the desserts made by his competitors. Much as Val wanted to stay around and celebrate with him, she felt guilty about leaving Tanisha on her own in the booth any longer.

As Val crossed the street, she saw Tony at the edge of the parking lot where the booths were located. He was punching the screen of his smart phone.

He looked up, waved to her, and met her as she walked toward him. “Can we finally talk?”

She glanced at her watch. “Briefly. I need to relieve my assistant at the booth in a few minutes.” She hadn’t promised Mom she’d be cordial.

He tucked his phone into his jeans pocket. “I’ll go straight to the point. I want to apologize for my fling. I let you down, and I let myself down. I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”

A large number of
I’s
in four short sentences. He hadn’t apologized eight months ago. What had changed? Maybe his paramour had dumped him. “You did me a favor by cheating right after we got engaged instead of waiting until we were married. Thank you for that.”

His head reared back as if she’d slapped him. “I deserve that. I only hope you’ll forgive me.”

“You didn’t ask me to forgive you when it happened. Why do you care now?”

“I feel guilty about it.”

So what bothered him was guilt found not love lost. Val crossed her arms. “Good to know you have a conscience. Maybe you won’t cheat on your next fiancée.”

“I promise I’ll never do anything like that again.” He ducked his head and looked at her like a little boy sent for a time-out, afraid his mother would stop loving him. “If you can’t forgive me, there’s no hope you’ll come back.”

“Everybody makes mistakes.” Hers was falling for him. “I’ve made a lot of them myself, but I don’t make the same one twice. We’re done.”

“Okay, the break-up was one hundred percent my fault, but after all the time we spent together, you’re heartless not to give me another chance. You’re taking revenge.”

Here was the Tony she remembered. He would admit to a lapse and follow it with a
but
, shifting the focus to her faults. “You really don’t know me, Tony, if you think I’d take pleasure in revenge.”

“We were together a long time. Can we at least part as friends? No hard feelings.”

She’d do whatever she had to do to get rid of him, except say that she had no hard feelings. She extended her hand. “Have a good trip back to New York.”

He looked at her hand, but didn’t shake it. Instead, he enveloped her in a hug.

Her heart beat faster. Her body responded to his as it always had. He was like a glass of champagne, sparkling and tangy at first, but ultimately flat. She broke away from him. “Good-bye, Tony.”

She turned and saw Gunnar in front of her, watching from the same spot where he’d spied her mother and the chief together. Wishing he hadn’t seen her with Tony, she walked toward him.

“What was that about?” he said.

His question put her teeth on edge. “I’m not sure what you mean by
that
. If you’re talking about Tony hugging me, that was a final farewell after he ambushed me.”

“I can’t believe he would show up here without any encouragement from you. You don’t need to spare my feelings by acting as if he took you by surprise.”

“Acting?” She felt steam rising inside her, under pressure from the murder, Henri, Tony, and now Gunnar. She couldn’t control her temper any longer. “Only one of us is an actor. I never pretended to be someone I’m not. You can’t say the same. You were following a script when we first met, so where do you get off accusing
me
of acting?”

She stomped toward the booth, but slowed down to calm herself. Taking deep breaths, she replayed her brief exchange with Gunnar and saw it in a different light. He wasn’t blaming her so much as protecting himself from disappointment, wanting to know where he stood. Instead of listening to the subtext of his words, she’d transferred her anger at Tony to him. She might not be ready for another relationship yet, as Mom had said. Too soon for a commitment.

She went into the booth. Tanisha and Bethany, their heads close together, sprang apart when they saw her.

“What’s going on?” Val asked.

Tanisha shrugged. “Nothing. Business has been slow, but steady. Is it okay if I leave now?”

“Sure. You’ve been here a long time.”

The girl scurried away.

Bethany straightened the stack of flyers on the table though they looked neat enough already. “Tanisha warned me against getting serious about Roy, based on what you said about his smile.”

Uh-oh.
Val should have known better than to tell an eighteen-year-old anything that she didn’t want repeated. “Tanisha took what I said out of context. That wasn’t meant as advice for you.”

“I like Roy. He’s a lot of fun and, at my age, that’s all I want. Nothing serious. I don’t have to worry about my biological clock yet.” Bethany’s hand flew to her mouth. “I didn’t mean that you need to worry about yours.”

Val stifled a laugh. “I probably should, but my worry basket is filled to capacity this weekend. No room for a biological clock in it. And I’m glad you had a good time with Roy.”

* * *

Twenty minutes after closing the booth, Val was hauling the last cooler from her car into the café. She glanced toward the club’s fitness machines arrayed in the open area beyond the reception desk. Only a few people were using the equipment.

A golden-haired woman on a recumbent bike caught her attention. Whitney Oglethorpe, Payton’s ex-girlfriend, was reading a book while her legs pedaled. No one was on the bikes to either side of her. Adjacent exercise bikers resembled airline passengers seated next to each other. Strangers would talk to each other in both situations, though getting away from an inquisitive person was easier in a gym.

Val shoved the cooler behind the counter at the café and hurried to the locker room to change into the shorts and T-shirt she kept there in case a chance to play tennis came up. By the time she returned to the exercise area, she still hadn’t thought of a way to get Whitney talking. Val would have to play it by ear.

She climbed on the bike next to Whitney’s and put her feet in the rubber stirrups on the pedals. Wearing beige shorts with pockets for tennis balls, she must look like a newbie biker to Whitney, who was cycling in form-fitting biking shorts. Asking for help was always a good icebreaker.

Val leaned forward on the bike contraption to peer at the console with its LED display, myriad buttons, and a number pad. “Excuse me, can you tell me how to work this thing?”

Whitney looked up from her book. “If you don’t know what program you want, you can just pedal and press the Quick Start button.” She went back to reading.

“Thank you.” Val started pedaling, pressed the big green button, and gave Whitney a long look. “Didn’t I see you yesterday at the festival with Penelope Grandsire? I play tennis with her here at the club.”

The name-dropping worked.

Whitney bent the corner of her page and closed her book. “She’s very into tennis. I’m staying at the Grandsires’ house this weekend. I’m Whitney.”

“I’m Val. Nice to meet you.” Val glanced at the title of book Payton’s ex-girlfriend had closed—
La Cousine Bette
by Balzac. Val had read it in English translation during the summer when she focused on long novels. She remembered little about the plot except that it took Bette five hundred pages to exact an exquisite revenge. Did Whitney have any vengeful urges toward the woman who replaced her in Payton’s affection? “Speaking of the Grandsires, I just met Penelope’s son, Payton, this weekend.”

Whitney pedaled more slowly. “Oh? How did you meet him?”

“I live with my grandfather. He got roped into renting his extra bedrooms to festival visitors. Payton has friends staying at the house, so he came by this morning. I’m sure you’ve heard that one of them was strangled Friday night.”

“Not one of Payton’s friends. He hardly knew her. She was a friend of his fiancée, Jennifer. She must be staying at your grandfather’s house, too.” When Val nodded, Whitney continued, “Do you know Jennifer? I mean, is she a friend of yours?”

Val suppressed a laugh. Two women pumping on bikes were pumping each other for information. “I never met any of the people staying with my grandfather until they checked in two days ago.”
Sorry, Whitney, I can’t tell you anything about Payton’s fiancée, but feel free to rant about her.

“How strange that she stayed on here after her friend’s murder. Nothing, not even death, will interfere with her weekend plans.” Whitney attacked the cycle with new vigor. “Penelope doesn’t think Jennifer’s right for Payton. He has a future in politics, but not if he’s married to her. The press will jump on him for having a wife who was involved in a murder.”

Val couldn’t let this unfair comment go without a protest. “No one can hold her responsible for her friend being murdered.”
Not even the press.