Dead to the Last Drop (5 page)

It was Chef Tad Hopkins who pushed me to this new low in my management career—snooping around my own coffeehouse.

I passed through the swinging kitchen doors, turned on the lights, and blinked against the fluorescent glare.

I was now in forbidden territory.

After our disagreement earlier, Hopkins barred me from his kitchen
“for life.” There was little I could do about that banishment, or anything else I saw as wrong. As the loudmouth chef pointed out, he was under a two-year, ironclad contract, which included “complete control” of the kitchen and costly penalties if we “violated his terms.”

The problem was: I didn’t hire the man, and I couldn’t fire him. That privilege belonged to our employer, Madame Blanche Dreyfus Allegro DuBois, who was presently far away from the fuss, in her New York penthouse.

It wouldn’t be easy changing Madame’s opinion of this twenty-nine-year-old “prodigy” who she’d been tickled to “hook.” But if I could find evidence that Hopkins had violated his contract, then we could kick him
outta here
, and a better man could run the kitchen—namely, Luther Bell.

Though Luther was the assistant chef, he was much older than Tad—not that chronological age was the issue. The problem with Tad Hopkins wasn’t age, it was his lack of maturity.

Luther was a well-grounded gentleman who could stay calm and focused, even in the face of Tad’s tirades. Luther also possessed a kindness in his soul that everyone responded to, and that sweetness was reflected in his cooking.

Like the passionate notes of jazz playing every night on our stage, each bite of Luther’s food seemed to carry the love of the man who prepared it.

Sure, Chef Hopkins was talented. But ambition and ego had blinded him, and his loss of perspective had become toxic. This wasn’t a trait he’d revealed initially, which is how my kindly old employer had been fooled. The chef could be funny and charming when he needed to be; and for far too long, I believed I could penetrate his thick shark skin.

That belief ended with our first argument of the day.

Once I show Tad the evidence of his failed menu, he’ll change his tune!

Or so I’d thought. But the hotshot chef didn’t see his menu as a failure. He blamed Gardner and me, claiming we weren’t attracting the right kind of clientele who would appreciate his cuisine.

“What the Village Blend really needs is intelligent management and a highly paid publicity team,” he’d declared and named two of his friends for the job.

Ready to strangle him, I not so gently pointed out that this was a club that showcased jazz, not a temple to one gourmet chef.

My observation didn’t exactly help the situation, and the chef promptly barred me from his domain.

But with Abby’s big debut coming up, I was determined to feature Luther’s down-home chalkboard specials on Saturday—our busiest night.

So despite our nasty encounter that morning, I waited until late afternoon before pushing my way through the swinging doors of Tad Hopkins’s kitchen, for one more try at talking some sense into our senseless chef . . .

*   *   *

“C
LARE! Where have you been keeping yourself? It’s been too long!”

The warm greeting didn’t come from the chef. It was Luther who’d welcomed me with a broad smile and a voice that rumbled low under the high clatter of stainless steel.

“We both know Chef Hopkins doesn’t like me butting in,” I reminded him.

“Well, I don’t feel that way. And the chef isn’t in the kitchen right now, so come on in!”

I hesitated. My business was with the chef, not his assistant. On the other hand, I hadn’t eaten in hours, and the sizzling skillet was sending out tempting aromas.

Without thinking, I moved forward like a thirsty nomad toward an oasis, licking my lips with anticipation . . .

E
ight

W
ITH a rainbow of splashes decorating his white jacket, Luther’s russet brow glistened from the heat, and his cropped silver hair displayed the same hue as the lid he used to clap over his giant skillet.

“Do I smell wine?” I asked.

“Hard cider.”

With a wink he lifted the pan’s lid and revealed culinary magic: chopped bacon, Vidalia onions, and bright red peppers, all blended with pounds of fresh green string beans caramelized in a succulent, sweet-tart glaze.

“You want a taste?”

“Does a cat want nip?”

Luther directed me to a corner table, where he proudly presented me with a sample bowl.

The first delicious bite made my mouth salivate beautifully. The sweet-tart flavor came from a combination of hard cider and sweet apple juice, a brilliant pairing with the smokiness of the bacon, richness of the caramelized onions and slight crunchiness of the al dente beans.

Next, Luther set down a plate of Buttermilk Fried Chicken Wings.

“Is that a combo, or what?” he crowed. “I must have made fourteen tons of coleslaw working at those federal cafeterias. Now, don’t get me wrong—nobody can say that Luther Christian Bell doesn’t enjoy a good slaw. But it might be time for a change, and I think these string beans pair perfectly with my grandmother’s buttermilk fried chicken. I did wings to keep the price down, and it gives the folks more pieces on their plates.”

I nodded. “Little bites on the plate work much better for a nightclub.”

Luther’s instincts were spot-on, but then he’d been working in the food preparation business for thirty years; first in the Marine Corps, then in New Orleans, and finally at various United States government cafeterias in the DC area, including a stint at CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia, and the famous U.S. Senate Dining Room.

His natural home was the kitchen, and I never knew anyone who enjoyed cooking more. According to Luther, that love was born on the knee of his great-great-grandmother, a former slave from South Carolina.

“These are scrumptious,” I managed between chews. “The chicken is crispy on the outside and juicy on the inside. And these string beans? That fresh brightness with all those vibrant flavors is the perfect complement to your fried chicken.”

Luther’s smile outshined the gleam of the spotless kitchen.

“So when are you adding these Hard Cider Green Beans to the menu?”

“Next week. Tonight is a test run for the staff dinner.”

“Why not try them out for
tonight’s
chalkboard specials?”

“That’s not up to me, Clare . . .”

Of course, I knew that. When Chef Hopkins was working, he created the specials. But they never sold as well as Luther’s.

“So what
are
Chef Hopkins’s daily specials?”

Luther suppressed a chuckle. (I suspected he got a kick out of my endless rounds with Hopkins over the menu, and he likely knew the specials were going to ring the opening bell of our next toe-to-toe match.)

“As I recall, the first special is Pomegranate Pork Chops.”

“With or without those annoying crunchy seeds?”

Once again, Luther suppressed a laugh.

“What else?”

“Squab with Black Pepper–Strawberry Compote.”

I turned away, pretending to be ill.

Luther snorted.

“Okay, I’m over it. Hit me with another one.”

This time Luther held my gaze, expression deadly serious. “He’s got Sea Trout Stuffed with Cranberry Chutney in the freezer, ready to go.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“Do I look like I’m kidding?”

“I know
fresh
sea trout was delivered yesterday, because I paid the
supplier—”
Too much
, I silently added. “How and why are they suddenly
frozen
? Is freezing some step in Chef Hopkins’s ‘prodigy’ preparation?”

Luther folded his corded arms. “All I know is the chef loaded the trout into his minivan last night. When he came back this afternoon, he stuffed the freezer with preprepared servings.”

“That makes zero sense. How does he want you to cook it?”

“He told me to zap it in the microwave. The chef said the trout steams in the bag.”

“You’re telling me all that lovely
fresh
trout is now encased in plastic? To be steamed—in a microwave? And why would he take the fish away, only to bring it back?”

Luther showed me his palms. “It’s his kitchen.”

“For now,” I said. “Would you mind showing me that fish?”

Luther waved me to the walk-in. Shivering in the big freezer, I glanced over the preprepared fish, trying to weigh it with my eyes. It seemed to me this was roughly half the order I paid for.

“What are you doing?” Luther asked.

“Checking something . . .” I unwrapped one of the chef’s prepped fish and frowned.
Freezer burned? In less than twenty-four hours? I don’t think so . . .

Despite the walk-in’s zero degrees, my blood started boiling.

“Luther, where exactly is our executive chef?”

“He had a personal appointment,” Luther replied. “Said he’d be back later.”

Now, why is my highly paid executive taking personal time during dinner prep? And why did he take these fish off the premises? Where is the other half of the order? And why do these fresh mid-Atlantic catches look like they were sitting in a North Pole snowbank for the past month?

At that point I made a vow to get some answers, and hung around after my day shift to confront the chef when he finally showed up again.

No surprise, Hopkins blew his stack for a second time. He absolutely refused to allow Luther’s specials to go on Saturday’s menu, or explain his suspicious activity with all that beautiful sea trout.

And
that
was why I returned to the coffeehouse in the dead of night. If Chef Hopkins wasn’t giving up answers, I’d sniff them out for myself!

N
ine

A
T 1:00
AM
, I was back in Hopkins’s kitchen.

Except for the soft hum of refrigerators, the room was quiet—and spotless, I had to give him credit for that.

I passed the gleaming silver counters, the heavy-duty ranges, and the dumbwaiter that took food up to the second floor. Rounding a corner, I stepped into a short hall, where Chef Hopkins had turned a small storeroom into a private office, which he always kept locked.

But I’d come prepared with my giant ring of manager’s passkeys, all twenty-two of them. I inserted the key into the knob lock, but it didn’t turn.

Oh, you’re kidding me.
It appeared the chef had changed the doorknob and lock.

I was already suspicious of Hopkins. Now alarm bells were going off in my head, until I heard an even more startling sound—

Bam!

Bam-Bam-BAM!

Someone was pounding on the back door, and I immediately recalled a story Gardner had told me.

Coming down from his third-floor apartment in the wee hours, he found the kitchen occupied by Chef Hopkins, who was speaking in hushed tones with a thuggish, middle-aged man in a long, black leather coat. This man had pale, craggy features, a receding hairline, and an Eastern European accent.

My co-manager asked the chef what was up and was immediately told to “forget what he saw and mind his own damn business” (
that’s the sort of charm Chef Hopkins exudes
).

Of course, Gardner recounted the incident to me.

After years in New York, I’d learned about chefs who did quasi-illegal things in this insanely competitive restaurant trade.

One head of a Michelin-star Manhattan kitchen traded in smuggled caviar from Russia. Another illegally demanded a cut of his waitstaff’s tips. And then there was the proprietor of a Chelsea gastropub who obtained certain items at a cut-rate price, after they “fell off” a big restaurant chain’s trucks.

Now I knew the Village Blend didn’t serve caviar, bilk its baristas, or pay off truck drivers to misplace a case of frozen lobster tails.

So who was the strange Eastern European man? What was his business in my coffeehouse? And could that be him at the back door right now, looking to find Chef Hopkins for some nefarious purpose? Like, oh, say, buying up a big order of fresh sea trout at a discount price—and covering the crime by replacing it with half the amount of cheap, prefrozen fish?

Expecting to discover the truth, I decided to answer the back door (couldn’t wait, actually). If I could subtly question this mystery man, I was sure I could get him to reveal some kind of net to catch and cook our resident shark.

First I grabbed a big meat cleaver (in case the man got nasty). Then I released the door’s dead bolt. The loud click sounded, and the pounding abruptly stopped. But before I could pull the steel door wide, it burst inward.

On a cold blast of night air, a well-dressed gentleman rushed inside with astonishing force, slamming me backward. My rear hit the deck and the cleaver flew out of my hand and across the spotless floor.

With his eyes wide and hands shaking, the intruder stared down at me.

His face was clean-shaven, his features refined, his skin a milk chocolate hue. He looked East Indian, maybe Pakistani—and definitely
not
the pale, leather-jacketed thug whom Gardner had seen come through this back door.

He also reeked of alcohol!

“I am s-s-o s-sorry,” he slurred, “but I’ve got to find it! I know it’s here . . .” (The words came out sounding more like “I gosh to fine ish”—but I got the message.)

I raised myself on both elbows and met his ink-dark gaze. He wore no coat, just an exquisite pin-striped suit, yet his shirt was sloppily opened with a few buttons missing. His thick, dark hair was disheveled, the white dress shirt matching his temples, a sharp contrast to his dark complexion.

As his undone tie slithered to the floor beside me, I realized—

I’ve seen this man before!

“Who are you?” I asked, trying to sound calm. “What do you want?”

“I’ve gosh to fine ish,” he simply repeated and frantically scanned the kitchen. When he spied the swinging doors leading into the coffeehouse, he bolted.

T
en

“W
AIT!” I cried, but the man shot past me, colliding with a food caddy on the way. A stainless steel shower of forks, knives, and spoons pelted me as the cart toppled.