Fete Worse Than Death (9781101595138) (12 page)

Marge grinned, and then sighed. “Poor Adela. It’s a mess.” She wriggled her shoulders uncomfortably. “I suppose I ought to stop by the hospital and see her. Maybe tomorrow. Bring her a geranium or something.”

“We can both go. I promised her I’d keep her up to speed on what’s going on.” Quill slung her tote over her arm and wriggled out of the booth. She felt a surge of affection and dropped a kiss on the top of Marge’s ginger head. “See you tonight. My office. About eight.”

It was only a few minutes by car from Marge’s All-American Diner to Clare Sparrow’s culinary academy, but Quill took the opportunity to set her worries about Adela aside and concentrated on getting through her next committee.

The Inn at Hemlock Falls sat directly across the Gorge from La Bonne Goute Culinary Academy. The late (and unlamented) Bernard LeVasque had purchased the twenty acres that lay between Peterson Park and the Resort and built a sprawling complex that included the three-story academy itself, an outbuilding for cars and extra wine storage, and an annex that had ten apartments for staff and visiting chefs.

Everyone not involved in the restaurant business in Hemlock Falls thought the academy was gorgeous. Meg had the same reaction to the architecture that she did to residential kitchens with stainless-steel appliances and acres of granite counters: too shiny, too new, and too generic. Quill, wisely, put this down to Meg’s competitive spirit. Marge was outraged at the uninhibited use of
investors’ dollars. Quill herself admired it, without having the least desire to own it.

The main building was three stories high, with a copper roof, cream clapboard siding, hunter green shutters and window trim, and twenty-foot-wide pine balconies on each story. Two smaller matching buildings were tucked onto the meadow in the back; one held ten apartments for visitors, the chefs, and the instructors; the other was an eight-vehicle garage. The main building held wine cellars, a vast, elaborate tasting room, and a second-floor restaurant with a spectacular view over Hemlock Gorge.

Quill pulled into the first driveway, which led around to the employee parking lot, and sat in her car for a moment, looking at her inn across the way. The air was soft with late afternoon sunlight and the cobblestones glowed like the skin of new peaches. The roses massed at the foot of the sprawling building were a Monet-like blur of soft pink and cream. Her own copper roof was green with the patina of age. The academy looked like a young and vigorous upstart by comparison.

She sighed and went in through the restaurant kitchen to find Madame LeVasque flaying chickens at the fifteen-foot-long, stainless-steel-topped prep table.

“Hello, Dorothy. I didn’t expect to see you here.”

Madame LeVasque had a nose like a hatchet, iron gray hair tucked neatly at the back of her head, and a very short fuse. She’d mellowed some, since the death of her husband (to no one’s surprise) and she greeted Quill with a faint smile. “What do you expect? You people have co-opted all my chefs to be judges for this stupid fete. Somebody’s got to keep the kitchen afloat.”

“I didn’t know you cooked.”

“I cook.” She whacked at the carcass in front of her and the chicken fell neatly in two. “I just didn’t cook when LeVasque was around. Rotten French bum that he was.” She jerked her chin toward the doors leading to the academy public rooms. “You’ll find all my chefs in the tasting room along with my director. A good few of the townspeople, too. I hope this fete comes off. With Adela out of the picture, you’ve got some organizing ahead of you.”

“True enough.”

Quill went ahead into the main part of the building, which had soaring ceilings crisscrossed with redwood beams, and a glass-fronted gift shop that held multiple copies of Bernard’s final cookbook
Brilliance in the Kitchen
. The teaching kitchen was at right angles to the tasting room. It had twenty Viking six-burner gas cook-tops, five prep sinks, and all the pots, pans, knives, graters, ladles, bowls, and measuring cups amateur chefs could wish for.

She pushed open the great wooden doors of the tasting room, which were carved with grapevines, and went inside.

The air was scented with wine and damp oak. Bernard had imported his wine shelving from his native Brittany and lined the large room with them. Chest-high marble-topped counters formed a U against the tiers of wine bottles. A long oak refectory table occupied the center of the floor with the proposed judges for the fall fete seated around it.

Clare sat at the head of the table wearing her toque.
She jumped up as Quill came in. “Hey! We thought we’d lost you!”

“Sorry I’m late. The time got away from me.”

“Seen anything of that crook Adela?” somebody called out.

Quill frowned and scanned the table. She didn’t recognize the voice. There were fifteen food-related categories to judge at the fete every year and the judges were usually selected from the town. She waved at her own sous chefs, Elizabeth Chou and Bjarne Bjarneson, who wouldn’t have made a crack like that.

Althea Quince waved cheerily at her, her bracelets clanking. Quill doubted that she’d made the comment—but she had been at Brady Beale’s squash-Adela-flat meeting that morning, and you just never knew.

Betty Hall sat next to Althea—and as she never said anything aloud, Quill was pretty sure the comment hadn’t come from her, and she was on Adela’s side, anyway.

Raleigh Brewster, Jim Chen, and Pietro Giancava were all chefs from the academy and familiar to her. That left Dolly Jean Attenborough, president of the Crafty Ladies Art Guild, Brady Beale, who gave her an oily grin, and a tall blond woman of about thirty whom Quill had never seen before.

The blonde stood out like a torch ginger in a bed of sweet peas. She was slender, with a Florida tan, and the kind of white blond hair associated with Swedes. Her eyes were a pale blue—startling in the tanned face—and she stared back at Quill with an “it wasn’t me, Mom” expression that would have been funny under other circumstances.

Brady Beale smirked at her. Quill’s money was on him. She walked to the end of the table opposite Clare and said pleasantly, “Before we start, let’s talk about Adela Henry. I don’t believe she took that money. Now, I’ve always been proud to be part of this fete and I’m proud to be part of it this year, too. Yes, we’ve run into some irregularities this year. But the fete has an honorable history, and that is totally due to Adela.

“Adela Henry devoted a lot of time, a lot of effort, and a huge amount of expertise to the fete’s success for more than twenty years. I checked the records before I came out to see you all today—does anyone know how much money our village has donated to the literacy fund over those years? You’ll be amazed. I know I was. One. Million. Dollars. That’s an average of fifty thousand dollars a year. Under Adela Henry’s stewardship.” Quill paused. “I’d like to take a moment, before we go over the code of conduct for the judging, to thank her for her good work. She can’t be here today. It looks as though she may not be here for this year’s fete. But I know we’re all hoping she will be here for the next.” Quill shot Clare a quick glance and began to clap. Everybody joined in, except for Brady who, as Quill suspected he would, finally caved to peer pressure and applauded, too. Quill waited until the applause reached a crescendo. She raised her hands and said, “Thank you. I’m going to tell Adela of your good wishes tomorrow when I see her.”

Brady nudged Pietro Giancava, who was sitting next to him, and snickered. Pietro sneered at him, dusted his shirtsleeve as if to remove a piece of dirt, and shoved his
chair back. Good. So maybe the entire town wasn’t out for Adela’s blood.

“Now, I’d like to get on to the code of conduct. It’s pretty simple. Each of you has the judging standards for your particular food category, and we can talk about those if you have any questions. I know you will all be fair and honest in your assessment of the entries, and that you’ll avoid any community pressure that might be brought to bear in the more hotly contested areas. I’d encourage those of you who’ve participated as judges in the past to offer support to the new guys. Does everyone have the code of conduct sheet? If not, I have some copies in my tote. Everyone’s got one? Great.” Quill smoothed her own copy on the tabletop and read. “Rule one is pretty self-explanatory. The fete opens at ten on Friday morning, which is the eighth of September. Judges are to check into the Green Room at seven thirty
A.M.
”

“Just for the newbies, the Green Room is the registration tent,” Dolly Jean caroled. She jumped up from her seat. “For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Dolly Jean Attenborough, president of our very own craft guild. We’re known all through upstate New York as the Crafty Ladies.” She paused. There was a spatter of handclapping.

Dolly Jean’s wispy white hair flared lacelike around her rosy cheeks. She dimpled attractively at the tall blonde with the ocean blue eyes. “Actually, darlin’, I know everyone in this room except you.”

The blonde looked from side to side, as if Dolly Jean were addressing someone behind her. Then she got to her feet—she really was very tall, Quill thought—and
extremely fit, to boot. “I’m Sophie Kilcannon.” Her voice was light and pleasant. “This is my first day working at the culinary academy for Chef Sparrow.” Then, with a slight note of defiance, she added, “I’m a chef.”

Clare stood up. “Forgive me, Sophie. I should have introduced you before this. Everybody? I’d like to introduce Sophie Kilcannon, who comes to the academy from her home in Florida. Sophie has been chef-in-residence for several internationally known clients in Palm Beach, and I’m delighted to welcome her to her new home at Bonne Goute. She will be assisting in cooking classes both in entrées and pastry. She will specialize in fruits and vegetables.”

Enthusiastic applause greeted this short speech. Clare sat down again.

“And what are you judging at the fete, Sophie?” Dolly Jean asked.

“I’ve been recruited to judge pies.”

A ripple of amusement (with a dash of commiseration) swept through the audience. Sophie didn’t seem to notice.

“How delightful,” Dolly Jean breathed. “Several of our Crafty Ladies will be entering the fruit and berry pie competition. You must let me introduce you to them.”

Quill cleared her throat. “Thank you, Dolly Jean. That segues nicely into the next item: avoiding charges of favoritism.”

~

Almost four hours later, Quill stretched out flat on her office couch and stared up at the tin ceiling. The ceiling was a relic of the 1850s when the Inn had been a young
woman’s academy and it would have been a high point on any nineteenth-century architecture homes tour, if she’d been interested in running such tours,
which she wasn’t.

“Can I get you something to eat?” Meg said. She sat behind Quill’s desk, playing solitaire on Quill’s laptop with one hand, a glass of wine in the other.

“Clare brought out cheese and fruit when nobody would shut up and go home. I’m too tired to eat anything else. What is it about volunteers and meetings, anyway? They just went on and on and
on
.”

“At least you got back in time for Jack.”

“Five minutes. That was it. He was out of his bath and headed for bed when I finally got here. Doreen gave me what-for.” She raised her right arm and looked at her watch. “And five minutes is when Linda Connelly will be here for another meeting. You can flip out from too many meetings, Meg, I’m sure of it. You can go stark staring bonkers.” She yawned, suddenly so sleepy that she wasn’t sure she could stand up. “I just want to crawl in bed and sleep for…oh, my goodness!” She jumped to her feet. “They’re going to walk through that door any minute. Mickey Greer and, um…what’s her name. Linda.”

“So?”

“So wait until you see Mickey.” Quill grabbed her tote, rummaged through it for her brush, and took out her little hand mirror. “I look like something Clare’s cat dragged in.” She ran the brush through her hair, whipped on some lip gloss, and hustled Meg out of her office chair.

Meg promptly sat down again, on the couch. “
Who’s
coming here again?”

Somebody tapped at the office door and opened it. Quill assumed a casual pose behind her desk and smiled brightly. “Come in, please, Mr. Greer. And Linda, of course. Welcome…oh. It’s you, Dina.”

“It’s me.” Dina adjusted her spectacles with one forefinger. “Were you expecting somebody else?”

“Linda Connelly and her assistant are coming by to talk about the fete.”

Meg stamped her foot. “Earth to Quill. Who is Linda Connelly and why should I give a hoot?”

“I told you guys about that, didn’t I? Elmer found an event organizer to take over Adela’s duties while she’s, umm…in the hospital. He hired her this morning. The organization is called Presentations and it’s Linda Connelly, plus two assistants. Two guys. George somebody and Mickey Greer.”

Dina’s eyes widened. “Is she sort of short in a good suit?”

“I imagine she’s short whether or not she’s in a good suit,” Meg said.

“Oh. My. God.” Dina sank onto the couch next to Meg. “If that’s the one, she’s in the dining room right now, with the hottest guy I’ve ever seen in my life.”