Toasting Up Trouble (A Dinner Club Mystery) (2 page)

“Let’s see . . . Canadian, French, Greek. Here we go, Italian,” J.J. said softly to herself as she walked along the cookbook aisle at Book Titles, the newly renovated independent bookstore on her route home after work. She needed that cookbook tonight.

She scanned the titles and authors and pulled out the ones that looked of interest to flip through. She liked looking at the pictures. That was her downfall. While she loved the whole idea of cooking elaborate meals, her forte was in the reading of cookbooks. She had an entire four shelves reserved for those books, part of a large bookcase that ran the length of one wall in her apartment. But only cookbooks with large and colorful photos of the dishes. She’d buy them according to the themes and photos, then look through them over and over, enjoying a vicarious thrill seeing someone else’s labor right there in bright colors.

And although her friend Evan Thornton had persuaded her to join the Culinary Capers dinner club, she secretly
believed she would never have caved if it hadn’t been for this one weakness. The one obsession that cost her money but was not a vice. Cookbooks. Okay, she admitted to herself, buying mysteries was another passion that fell into the same category. But now she could really indulge in cookbooks without a twinge of guilt.

She grinned as she started flipping through the pages of
nigellissima
by Nigella Lawson. Great photos, easy-to-read recipes—although she had no idea how complicated they might be—and, best of all, Italian food. She quickly scanned the rest of the cookbook section and then made her way to the checkout clutching her prize. It would be an Italian night at casa Tanner.

She drove home quickly, unlocked the door to her apartment, and slid through before Indie, her two-year-old Bengal cat, could dash out into the hallway. That had happened on more than one occasion,resulting in a test of wills: one demanding to be outside and on the prowl; the other insisting that Indie was an indoor cat. She’d compromised by setting up a portion of her large wraparound balcony as a cat playground complete with a large patch of real grass. Of course, the mesh blocking the sides and top were what gave J.J. peace of mind, while Indie didn’t seem to mind too much, except when trying to catch a bird midflight.

She checked her phone messages—a reminder her car needed servicing, a hang-up, and the chance to win a fabulous vacation, all of which she deleted—and then dished out some canned food for Indie and tossed a green salad for herself.

As she ate, she eyed her briefcase on the floor by the kitchen counter. No, she wouldn’t go over that budget tonight. She didn’t even know why she’d brought it home. She’d made herself a promise when she left her old life behind—no more late nights working on a project. Her own life was as important as her job. She would be kinder to herself.

She found herself thinking back to her days as an account planner with the high-profile advertising agency McCracken and Watts in Montpelier, Vermont. Just before she got bogged down once again in thoughts about Patrick Jenner, her ex-fiancé, she shook her head and reached over to pull her new cookbook out of its bag. She ran her hand gently over the cover before opening it. She had to admit, she was a cookbook junkie. She loved the colors, the travelogues that accompanied her favorites from overseas, and the feeling that she actually knew her food.

She did realize, though, that loving cookbooks did not a good cook make. Oh what she’d give for osmosis. She sighed and finished eating her salad. She couldn’t wait to share
nigellissima
with the others in the club. But that would have to wait for their planning session.

J.J. sipped her espresso while watching the dwindling lineup of people ordering their coffee and, hopefully for Beth’s bottom line, something sweet to go with it. Beth Brickner kept smiling, although J.J. bet her feet hurt by now. It was eleven
A.M.
and the Cups ’n’ Roses coffee bar had opened at seven. J.J. knew that Beth tended the front counter with the help of one barista for the first couple of hours. After that, the part-timers started their shifts but Beth held her ground at the cash. She enjoyed the customers, as she’d once said.

As if she realized she was being watched, Beth looked over and smiled, transforming her sixty-four-year-old face to about twenty years younger, J.J. thought, and she smiled in return. Her attention shifted to the front door and the two people walking through it. Connor Mac and Alison Manovich, two more of the Culinary Capers members. When Evan Thornton arrived, Beth would slip away from her duties and join the other members.

After collecting his usual mochachino, Connor slid in beside
J.J. in the group’s regular booth, which formed a semicircle in the right corner of the shop, with most of it facing the street. It was J.J.’s favorite spot, and it allowed her to watch the passersby and, admittedly, led to distractions at times, especially when the discussion focused on cooking techniques.

“You’re looking great, J.J.,” Connor said, reaching over to squeeze her hand. “I’ve been meaning to call you, but the week just slipped by. Are you free for dinner tonight?” He ran his right hand across the slight growth of beard on his chin.

J.J. gave about two seconds’ thought to playing hard to get. After all, Connor was gorgeous and was probably used to women falling all over him. And what self-respecting single gal would admit to being available at the last minute on a Saturday night? But she felt comfortable with Connor, and she knew that after about six months of dating, this was as exciting as it would get between them. That was okay. She was all for friendship. Dinner would be good, and she said so.

“Great. I’ll pick you up at six? Thought we’d try that new spot downtown, the Hidden Keg.” He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “In fact, I second-guessed you and already made reservations. Hope you don’t take that the wrong way.”

J.J. shrugged. “Of course not. They’d be easy enough to cancel if I said no and you couldn’t find another date.” She was teasing him and he knew it.

“Okay. See this spot over here on the bench?” He pointed beside him and slid over the few inches. “I know my place.”

“And I know my place is in this chair,” Alison said, setting her plate with two sour cream twists down beside her mug of regular coffee. “Hey, Connor, J.J. How’s it going?”

“Good, although hectic,” J.J. answered first. “What about you, Alison? Keeping the bad guys in their places?”

Alison sighed, took a long sip, and sat back in the chair. She looked like a teenager when she went casual, like the jeans and T-shirt with the hoodie over top that she was
wearing today. Fortunately, her police uniform seemed to add several years, along with that necessary air of authority, when she was working. “Tell me about it. For a small village, Half Moon Bay does have more than its share of loonies, I sometimes think.”

“As long as they’re not dangerous, too,” Connor muttered.

“No, they’re usually not. They seem to leave their weapons behind. Or they’re saving them for downtown Burlington. Thankfully.”

J.J. hadn’t noticed Evan enter until he slid in beside her on the other side, placing a medium cappuccino in front of her. “Beth says this’ll save you having to get up and fetch your own. She’ll be right over. Howdy, all.”

“Wow, Evan. Is that a swath of gray I spy in your hair?” Alison asked playfully.

Evan ran his right hand lightly over the spot in his short red hair. “It is. Do you think it makes me look worldlier?”

Alison took a closer look. “Not really, sorry.”

“All right, how about more scholarly? I’ll settle for that.”

“Oh, definitely,” Alison agreed and took a quick sip that almost covered her grin.

“Huh.”

“Well, I think it makes you look worldly, scholarly, and older, which translates into trustworthy, even with all those freckles,” Beth chimed in, taking the empty chair beside Alison. She missed Evan’s grimace but knew that would be his response. “Keep it, Evan. It really looks good, whatever the adjective.”

Evan smiled. “Why, thank you, Beth, arbiter of good taste.”

“Oh boy. Before we get carried away with the niceties, what have you got for us, J.J.? At what level have you set the bar?” Alison asked.

J.J. looked around the table, a big smile on her face. “All right, here goes: I’d like to introduce you to Nigella Lawson.” She flipped over the cookbook she’d had sitting on the table
in front of her, and balanced it upright. “
Nigellissima
is my choice for the next Culinary Capers dinner.”

She glanced around from one to another, hoping to see her own excitement mirrored in each of the faces. Okay, that might have been asking too much. No one ever leaped up for joy right at the reveal. She started flipping through the pages. “Great photos, aren’t they? I’ll pass it around and you can all have a more thorough look. I bought it just last night, so I haven’t had time to really read it through carefully, but I might go with the beef pizzaiola. So, if I do the meat dish, we need a pasta to start with, followed by my pièce de résistance—I know I’m mixing my countries here—and then two side dishes, and a dessert.”

Beth looked at the index in the back of the book, running her finger slowly down the names of the dishes. “This looks like it could be fun.”

She passed it to Alison, who did the same. After it had made its way around the table, J.J. leaned forward, crossing her arms on the table. Her desire that they should all buy into this choice had intensified as the others had checked it out. “So, what say you? Is it a go?”

Connor laughed. “You are into this one, aren’t you? As I remember, last time you winced and shrugged your way through our checking out the book.”

J.J. sighed. “You’re right. Last time I just chose something I thought would be doable. This time, I was enthralled looking through the cookbook, and I’m hoping that will translate into a delectable meal.”

“Well, if that’s the vibe you’re getting, then I’d say we should all be on board,” Evan said. “I vote yes.” He looked around the table, and the others nodded their agreement. “There. A done deal, J.J.”

“Great. I hope you don’t mind that this book is at the upper end of the price range we’d set.”

Alison finished her cappuccino before speaking. “I’ll probably just borrow it from the library again. But I’m happy to try out a side dish.”

“Dibs on dessert,” Beth added.

“Guess I’ll take the other side dish and we’ll confer, Alison,” Connor said. “What does that leave for Evan?’

“That would be the pasta,” J.J. pointed out.

Evan thought about it for less than a minute. His eyes lit up as he announced, “I’ve been thinking lately about buying a pasta machine to make my own fresh pasta. This is the kick in the pants I need to do just that. Besides, Michael can’t object to the expense if it’s for the dinner club.” He grinned.

“I can’t picture Michael objecting to anything you decide to do.” Beth had taken on that motherly tone she sometimes used with Evan. J.J. wondered if he noticed it. But if he did, he never let on. Or maybe he enjoyed it.

Even though Beth was at least two decades older than the others—retired now for five years from being a high school music teacher, and owner of the Cup ’n’ Roses for two years—the difference in ages wasn’t a big deal.

“That’s great. So,
nigellissima
it is, and we feast on these wonderful recipes at my place in three weeks.”

Heaven help me.

J.J. glanced at the large circular wooden clock that hung on the wall above the water cooler. The morning seemed to be dragging—not unusual for a Monday, she admitted. She was about to make that comment to Skye yet again when the phone rang. Skye grabbed it.

J.J. waited a few beats to make sure the call wasn’t for her and then reached for her own phone. She’d left a message for her new client, Olivia Barker, the previous Friday but hadn’t heard back yet. She knew the signs of a busy client, but she did need to start the flow of information if this event was to be successful. Great timing. Barker took her call, and after half an hour J.J. hung up and eyed the several pages of notes she’d made, eager to get to the planning. Fortunately, it wasn’t a rush job, not with five months until the event, because she had to focus on the event earmarked next on her calendar.

She called up the Portovino file on her computer. She
wanted to take another look at what she’d budgeted for the catering for IDD, or the Italian Designer Do as she thought of the Portovino birthday party.

She gave her notes a final perusal before printing them out and tucking them into a folder to take along to the meeting she had arranged with the new and last-minute caterer, Antonio Marcotti, for two thirty
P.M
. She just hoped he’d respected the budget when coming up with a menu for the affair. She knew that Marcotti’s prices could be in the high range, but she did have that budget as the bottom line. However, she also realized that a really outstanding food experience was worth the price. But what if the price was outside the budget?

J.J. checked her watch, her right hand ready to push open one of the double glass doors. She took a quick look down at the short green leather jacket she’d chosen to go with her long black-and-white jersey blouse, black skinny pants, and open-toed black leather booties. She felt confident. She
was
confident. Time to make it happen.
Bella Luna, la cucina italiana
was etched on both doors along with bunches of grapes hanging from a grape vine. She was right on time. Hopefully, Chef Antonio Marcotti had indeed made himself available, as promised.

The lunch-hour crowds were thinning out, and only two tables had diners finishing what looked to be desserts.

She waited a few minutes at the hostess desk close to the front door, and when no one appeared, she made her way toward the kitchen, at the far end of the room. She stopped about two feet away when the swinging doors flew open and a tall dark-haired beauty pushed through with a tray of two espresso cups and a small bowl of flaked chocolate.

“No one is allowed in the kitchen,” she said, sailing past
J.J. After depositing the espressos, she returned to J.J. and asked, “What can I do for you?”

“I’m here to see Mr. Marcotti. I’m J.J. Tanner. We have an appointment at two thirty . . .” She peered at the woman’s nametag and added, “Lucy.”

“I will tell Chef Marcotti that you are here.” She disappeared through the door.

J.J. picked up a menu from a stack perched on the end of the bar that spanned the length of the remaining wall. She sat on a bar stool and scanned the items. Gnocco frito or Tuscan spiced crisp dumplings. Nodini or warm bread knots, olive oil, rosemary, garlic, and sea salt. Olive calde or warm marinated olives. Her mouth was watering already. She stopped herself from turning to the dessert page, knowing all would be lost at that point.

The doors flew open again, and this time it was a swarthy-skinned man in a white chef’s tunic, top buttons undone to allow the flap to lie against the right side. Touches of gray highlighted the black hair that curled out around the edges of the jacket and his chef’s hat.
The complete picture
, J.J. thought, then stood and held out her hand. “Good to see you, Chef Marcotti. Thank you for taking the time to meet in person.” She realized he was a fraction shorter than her five foot six.

Marcotti gave her hand a quick, firm shake. “Signorina Tanner, please join me for an espresso.” It was a rhetorical question as he led the way to a table for four in a corner far from the customers. As soon as they were seated, Lucy appeared with their espressos, a tiny dish of flaked chocolate with a tiny silver spoon, and a plate of chocolate-dipped biscotti. She also handed Marcotti a small pile of papers and, after eyeing J.J. thoroughly, left them alone.

Marcotti took his time stirring a small spoonful of chocolate shavings into his espresso, appreciating the fragrance,
and then taking a sip. He then waited for J.J. to do the same before starting to speak.

He shoved the papers toward her. “Let us get right down to business. I am a busy man and cannot take too much time away from the kitchen. This is the menu I’ve proposed for the Portovino party, along with the cost of each item. If you’d like to take a few minutes to read it all over, and if there are any questions . . .” He let the suggestion trail off.

J.J. went through the menu carefully, noting that he’d included all the items the client had asked for, along with some others that made up a well-balanced menu. She stopped at one item, especially when she noted the cost.

“I’m not sure we can include the funghi, Chef Marcotti. I don’t really think we need it, do you? There’s a wonderful variety already, and it really is more than the budget can afford.” She had been firm on the exact amount of the budget.

Marcotti leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. “Funghi. Do you know what it is? It is seasonal mushrooms, sautéed to perfection with mascarpone, gorgonzola, and a touch of marjoram. Sensational. Perfect for an event such as this. The guests will love it and so will Signor Portovino, of that I am certain. It is my specialty, my signature dish. It must be included. You will have to adjust your budget in some other area.”

J.J. bit her tongue, holding back the retort that begged to escape her lips. She took another sip of espresso, buying time to come up with a tactful response to the imperious person across from her.

“I can appreciate the quality of your special dish, Chef, but I really cannot afford it. There’s nothing I can adjust at this point. I will certainly keep it in mind for some future event, though. It does sound delicious.” She hoped her smiled looked sincerely apologetic.

He scowled. “Ms. Tanner, you are the one who came to me, begging me to help, and on such short notice. You should have come to me in the first place, you know.”

She almost expected him to shake his finger at her, but he continued without any added gestures, except to cross his arms in a confrontational pose.

“You asked for my advice. I give it to you. You do not take it. That is not a good working relationship. I have not worked with your company before, and it’s only because I know of your client that I have agreed to do this. I am very much in demand, you know. I have adjusted my schedule to meet with you. Now, in return, I ask that you adjust your budget.”

J.J. tried counting to ten. She would not let her one-quarter Irish temper on her mother’s side get the better of her. “I will have to get back to you on that, Chef Marcotti.”
With the same answer.
Time to deflect. “I see you have a Venetian stew on your menu, and I was wondering: what ingredients do you use in it?” She’d spotted the same dish in
nigellissima
and had briefly thought about trying it, until she’d noticed the long list of ingredients, most of which she’d never heard of.

Marcotti tilted his head and looked at her for a few seconds before answering. “Why do you want to know? Are you planning on attempting to make it?”

A small laugh escaped J.J.’s lips. “No, it’s just that it sounds tantalizing. Believe me, I’m not a very good cook. But I do belong to a dinner club, the Culinary Capers. And I’m the host next month. I’m doing an Italian theme. Can you recommend where I should shop for ingredients?”

“Now you want my help with your little cooking adventure? You really are too much, Ms. Tanner.” He stood up. “I will expect to hear back from you in two days at the latest. I cannot hold a spot on my schedule for you if you cannot agree to my requests. And just remember, a Marcotti event is one that will be remembered.”

He turned on his heel and marched back into the kitchen, leaving J.J. to stare openmouthed. She felt the heat rising on her face. She looked around to see if anyone had heard. She felt mortified along with being plenty angry. So he hadn’t appreciated her attempt to steer the conversation to what she thought would be safer ground.

She looked at the door through which he’d disappeared and then down at the plate and chose the largest biscotti. She ate it slowly, finishing the espresso, which was now cold, and tried to look tranquil. After blotting her lips on the white linen serviette, she gathered the papers into her briefcase and left with as much dignity as she could muster.

The practiced feeling of calm had left her by the time she reached the office. She marched over to her desk, dropped the briefcase on the floor—forgetting how much she’d paid for it—and started pacing until Skye eventually finished her call and hung up the phone.

“What?” Skye asked.

“That overbearing, officious jerk.”

“Not the best of meetings, I take it.”

“Do you know what he said?” And J.J. proceeded with a detailed rendering of the encounter.

“Huh.”

“His requests.” J.J. almost spat out the words; she was still angry. “His arrogant demands. I—we—have a client. Marcotti is also working for that client.” J.J. finally sat down. “What would you have done?”

Skye shrugged. “I’m not sure. I probably would have handled it much the same, although I think I’d have fewer facial expressions.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, you know. I love playing poker with you. Everyone does. Your face reveals your inner thoughts, and I’m sure this Chef Marcotti got an eyeful even if your words were chosen
with care. Oh, well. Tell me about the budget. How much over would this dish make it, and is there really no way to juggle it again?”

J.J. pulled out the page with the offending item on it and walked it over to Skye. “Guess which one it is.”

“Ouch. I’m guessing it’s the funghi at fifty-five dollars a pop. Man, that would add up to almost a quarter of the food budget. What would he suggest you cut out? The decorations?”

“Probably. I’ve kept the costs reasonable in other areas, knowing we’d have to splurge a bit on the food. And although Mr. Portovino is loaded, he’s not a spendthrift. He has made that clear.”

“So, what are you thinking of doing?”

“I’ll wait a couple of days and then phone Marcotti. My answer, unless I can figure out a way to include this, will be a resounding no.”

Skye walked over and gave her a quick hug. “It’s your show. Your budget. Your decision. He will just have to accept that.”