Let Them Eat Stake: A Vampire Chef Novel (3 page)

In the middle of it all sat a woman who could only be the mistress of the house. Felicity walked over immediately to shake her hand. “Mrs. Alden. As you can see, we have our new catering team.” With professional smiles all around, Felicity made the introductions.

“How do you do, Chef Caine?” Mrs. Alden held out her perfectly kempt hand to me. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”

It takes practice to achieve perfect simplicity of appearance, and Mrs. Alden had clearly put in her time. Not one detail was out of place, from her neatly coiffed black hair to her lavender twinset, tailored white slacks, and pristine white designer flats. She looked so much as if she’d been custom created for the house around her that I got this strange idea that if you took her out of there, she’d start to wilt. That, however, didn’t last past her handshake. As I met my new client’s blue eyes, I saw the other thing that comes to cool, poised, refined and elegant women of a
certain income bracket—resolve. I also got a strong shiver of déjà vu.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Alden, but have we met?”

Mrs. Alden gave me a long look before she replied, because she was the kind of woman who liked to be sure before she spoke. “I don’t believe so. I’m certain I would have remembered.”

But her voice hit the
DéJà VU
button as hard as her eyes.

“Thank you, Trudy,” she added over my shoulder.
Trudy?
The tall woman behind me didn’t look like a Trudy, but then, she didn’t look like a housekeeper either. She looked like an ex-Rockette who’d let her hair go gray and her attitude go bad. At that moment, she also didn’t look as if she really wanted to leave.

“Oh, terrific, you’re here!” The words were accompanied by thudding footsteps coming down the Scarlett O’Hara stairs. The girl who owned them breezed into the living room. “Sorry I’m late!”

“Hello, darling,” Mrs. Alden murmured. “Deanna, this is Chef Caine and Chef Alamedos.”

“Fantastic!” Deanna grabbed my hand with both of hers and squeezed, flashing the square-cut diamond engagement ring straight at me. “Gabriel and I have been to Nightlife, you know. The food was fantastic. It is just so freakin’ awesome you’re here!”

The bride-to-be had gotten her coloring from someone other than her mother. Deanna had an untidy mane of mahogany brown hair and deep brown eyes. Her skin was the kind that tanned to an even gold, leaving those of us prone to imitating lobsters every summer seething in envy. But there was a pallor beneath her natural warmth, and dark rings around her eyes. I didn’t have to try to sneak a look beneath the fold of her turquoise cowl-neck top to know she’d have the distinctive, two-puncture mark that got called the “red hickey.”

Note to self: orange juice and cookies for the bride.

“So now we know everything’s going to be all right.” Deanna plopped onto the love seat. “I mean, up until now it’s been, like, this total disaster!”

Mrs. Alden smiled with bland disapproval, and Deanna rolled her eyes. “You said the same this morning, Mother, and you were right.”

Total disaster? Something’s gone wrong besides Oscar Simmons?
But Felicity trained a laserlike glare on me in case I was tempted to step out of line and ask personal questions.

The bride wasn’t pausing for breath in any case. “I’d be just as happy with something small, but Gabriel wants to have the big show.” As she spoke her fiancé’s name, Deanna filled with that special, misty sort of glow, that one that says the person has already passed corny-as-Kansas-in-August and is headed straight for high-as-a-flag-on-the-Fourth- of-July. It was the cue for a fond mother to smile indulgently, but Mrs. Alden just looked gracefully weary.

“Perhaps we can get started?” Felicity gestured me and Maria to chairs and took up her position at Mrs. Alden’s side. Deanna curled her knees up under her chin.

“So”—I pulled the rubber band off my battered kitchen notebook and flipped it open—“I understand there are nine people dining regularly at the residence at the moment, both dayblood and nightblood?”

“Yes,” answered Mrs. Alden. “Myself, my husband, Deanna, of course, Karina…oh no, not Karina…” I felt Felicity’s gaze leaning hard on me.
You’re not going to ask,
it said.
You are not even going to silently think about asking.
“And two of the bridesmaids, Lois Markham and Peridot Shane-West.” Peridot Shane-West. Nobody should do that to a helpless infant. “Then there’s Gabriel, and his father…”

“Sire,” Deanna corrected her.

“Sire,” agreed Mrs. Alden. “Henri Renault, and the best man, Jacques. They’re staying with us until the wedding.”

I scribbled down the nightblood names. Her ankles neatly crossed, Marie sat up straight on the edge of her chair, looking over us all as if we were unsatisfactory students at her finishing school, but I knew her mind was working through the situation methodically. Designing a menu for French vampires and very rich New Yorkers would present a world of challenges. We were all going to be earning our pay here.

“And the wedding itself?” I turned a page. “Ms. Garnett said you were expecting five hundred…?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“And the event space is…”

“The Carriger Hall,” said Felicity.

I made a note. “Mel Kopekne’s still the manager there, isn’t he?” Mel and I were both refugees from the west side of the state. “He puts on a fantastic event.”

“That’s why we’re using him,” said Mrs. Alden loftily. “Now, as for the food. I have the menu Oscar Simmons planned for us.” Mrs. Alden opened a folder on the end table and handed me a printout. I looked at it and had to struggle to keep my jaw from falling open.

This was the best you could do? This?

“Kinda sucks, doesn’t it?” Deanna yawned hugely.

It
kinda sucked
? According to Oscar, the wedding of the decade was going to eat smoked salmon, beef tenderloin, spring vegetable medley, chocolate torte, and a selection of raw sauces. It was a menu you could get from any wet-behind-the-ears private chef pulled down at random off Craigslist.

“You went over this with Oscar…Chef Simmons? Was there an issue with…tradition?” Some people do not like any food perceived as “too fancy,” even when they’re paying four-star prices for it.

“No.” Mrs. Alden was clearly struggling to keep her voice calm. “As a matter of fact, when he presented this to us, we were…
surprised
would be putting it mildly. He
said he had been informed that this was to be the menu and that he would not stand for being constantly…”

“Jerked around,” said Deanna darkly. “Except I don’t think that was what he was going to say at first. Anyhow, when we wouldn’t play, he stormed off.”

“And you have no idea where this came from?” I thought about the mountain of money, the wealth of PR, and the glorious challenge of providing the food for this kind of wedding. I thought about Oscar’s imperial-sized ego and the overhead at his restaurant, Perception, which was so close to that fourth star we all craved. It just didn’t add up.

“I did ask a few questions,” said Mrs. Alden. “I must confess that not everyone in my family is happy with this wedding. There has been the possibility of…foolishness.”

“No one’s admitted to anything.” At first I thought it was just my imagination that supplied a whiff of smoke behind Deanna’s words. Then I saw the white vapor leaking out of the bride’s fingertips.

“Deanna,” murmured Mrs. Alden. Deanna glanced at her smoldering fingertips as if checking out a chip in her nail polish, and shook her hand. The smoke dissipated. So, the bride was in fact a witch—one with control issues. Good to know.

“What Mother’s trying not to tell you is Karina, my sister, is one of the ‘not happy’ people”—Deanna paused to make the air quotes—“and she’s perfectly capable of screwing—”

“I’ve spoken with Karina,” Mrs. Alden said, cutting her daughter off. “And she had nothing to do with Chef Simmons’s departure.”

“Well, she lied to you. As usual.” The shrug and its accompanying slump spoke of years spent refining the sulking skills.

“That’s enough,” Mrs. Alden informed us all, and it would have taken more nerve than I possessed to contradict her.

I must have telegraphed my readiness to ask another
question, because Felicity spoke up, her words rich with meaning and import.

“So, Chef Caine, what are your thoughts on altering the menu?”

There was only one possible answer to that. With deliberate motions, I tore the printout into strips. Felicity stared at me, horrified, but Deanna applauded. I handed the strips to the bride-to-be. Deanna—sulk averted—let the pieces rain down into a wastepaper basket.

Now that we had Deanna firmly on our side, Marie leaned forward, ready to hook us Mrs. Alden.

“How very trying this has all been for you, señora,” my pastry chef murmured to the mother of the bride, urging her to confide, matron-to-matron. “If this is the dinner menu, I can only imagine what an embarrassment the proposal for the cake must have been.”

I did not imagine the flash of relief behind Mrs. Alden’s eyes.

“The cake was totally pathetic, that’s what the cake was,” growled Deanna. “It was about eight miles past tacky and…”

“We do not need to discuss the cake,” said Mrs. Alden. “Not the previous cake.”

“No, no, of course not, señora.” Marie’s English is actually better than mine, except when she’s being soothing. “We will make it gone. Dismissed entirely. Now,
por favor
, you might look at these.” Marie opened her portfolio, pulled out three sketches, and laid them on the coffee table. “We will, of course, make adjustments depending upon Señorita Alden’s choice of colors and flowers.”

I was going to have to give Marie a raise. No glitzy, contest-style cakes had been allowed in there. These were stately creations, festooned with flowers and ribbons in delicate pastel shades. The best of all was a white-on-white cake with oval tiers, piping like antique lace, and a single perfect, peach-colored lily lying at the base as if it had been left behind from the bride’s bouquet.

That was the one Mrs. Alden picked up. She passed the sketch to Deanna, who gave a little shriek. “Oh. Em. Gee! That is awesome!” To emphasize this, she whipped out a smartphone and snapped a picture. “I’ve got to show Peri and Lo!” Her thumbs flew across the keyboard. For the moment, the rest of us ceased to exist.

“Can you do this? In time?” Mrs. Alden asked Marie. Marie gave me a long, sideways, she’s-mine-now kind of glance and straightened her shoulders.

“Unfortunately, with the plated dessert and other aspects of the dinner, I’d require extra staff…”

“Whatever you think you will need.” Mrs. Alden gazed raptly at the sketch. “There’s some room in the budget still, isn’t there, Felicity?” Felicity was making notes on her BlackBerry, and I could practically hear the cash register ring.

“Thank you, señora. I will do my very best for you.” Marie smiled. Now she also knew I had to give her a raise. “We will schedule a tasting as soon as possible.” Deanna gave a thumbs-up to this without looking away from her phone.

“When can you start?” said Mrs. Alden, looking from Felicity to me. “The out-of-town members of the wedding party are arriving Saturday. We’re supposed to be having a welcome dinner, and absolutely nothing is done. It’s a mixed party…”

“There’ll be vampires,” translated Deanna a shade too quickly. “Gabriel, Jacques and Henri, and some friends. Say fifteen all together.”

“Any allergies I should know about? Any particular preferences?”

“Something simple?” said Mrs. Alden. “My husband might appreciate a nice steak…”

Which settled the question of whom I was going to bring in to back me up on this job. For a beef-loving household, I needed Reese.

“We’ll
start on the preparations immediately,” I said. “I’ll begin the shifts at the house with the Saturday dinner. We’ll have two staff here during the day to handle breakfast and lunch, and preparations for evening. I’ll come on to assist with dinner, and I’ll handle things overnight. Felicity and I will draw up the contract for you to review and approve.” Felicity nodded, all smiles. I snapped my book shut. “Perhaps we could see the kitchen?”

“Of course.” Mrs. Alden got to her feet. “This way.”

“Have fun.” Deanna waved while keeping her eyes on her phone screen. “Felicity, you stay put. We need to talk gift bags.”

It turned out the Aldens’ home was stately enough to have an actual back staircase. This led down to the ground floor and, through a white door, to the kitchen. I was expecting that kitchen to be nice. I did not expect to want to set up a cot in the corner and never leave.

Despite being on the first floor, the room got plenty of light from the windows over the sink and the French doors that led out to the patio and terraced garden. To the left as we came in was what amounted to the hot station; a six-burner cooktop with a built-in grill. Two wall ovens waited next to it. To the right was the cold station with a full-sized, brushed-steel fridge and a matching full-sized freezer. The counters were mostly stainless steel, a favorite choice of professional and practical cooks. The center island, however, had a white marble top, making an aesthetic statement as well as a separate space for pastry. Marie eyed it with approval. The cupboards and cabinets were all laid out so everything from pantry to utensils would be within easy reach. A swinging door led to the dining room. Another, smaller door led out to the sunken porch at the side of the house. Jackets on hooks, a Peg-Board for spare keys, and a line of boots said this was used by those who didn’t want to make the grand entrance through the front.

“Do you have a regular cook?” I asked. This wasn’t the
normal showpiece of a big house. The appliances were all top-of-the-line, and the dishwasher was commercial grade. This kitchen belonged to a serious food person.

“Actually, I usually do the cooking,” said Mrs. Alden a little wistfully. “Especially when it’s just the four of us—three of us,” she corrected herself. “But with all the extra people, it’s become a bit much. I hope you’ll have everything you need.” Mrs. Alden was glancing around at the cabinets, as if taking a mental inventory of each.