Curried Lobster Murder: Book 14 in The Darling Deli Series (5 page)

“We’re just waiting for the judges,” she said. “I was beginning to wonder if something had happened to you too. I just heard about Mr. Babcock… how horrible. He was at your table, wasn’t he?”

“Yes,” Moira said. “He was.” She noticed that four of the other contestants watched her expectantly; the fifth, Nadine, just looked pale.

“They’ve been asking me questions about him for the past ten minutes,” she said. “I keep telling them I didn’t know him that well…”

“Word is he killed himself,” another contestant, a man named Antonio Cross, said. “Did he seem depressed to you? Did he say anything to make you think, in retrospect, that he was planning this?”

“Whoa,” Moira said, raising her hands. “I barely knew the guy. We talked for a couple of hours, mostly about food. He seemed pretty normal, I guess. That was it. If anything, he seemed like a happy guy.”

“You were there, weren’t you? When he died?” a woman asked. The deli owner couldn’t remember her name.

“Yes, I was. My daughter and I heard his wife scream and thought we should see what was happening. I didn’t see it happen, but I saw them afterward. It was… it was terrible.”

The room fell silent for a moment as the contestants digested this.

“Do you think she did it?” Antonio asked. “His wife, I mean? I know some people said it was suicide, but that just seems like a convenient explanation. What if he was murdered, and they just don’t want to shut the competition down so they’re keeping it quiet?”

“I’ve got no idea,” she told him. “But she seemed really distraught. I guess she could just be a good actor, but it really seemed like she loved him.”

She frowned, not liking the way the conversation was going. She didn’t want to keep going over and over the man’s death. It was a terrible thing to think about, and discussing it again wouldn’t help anything.

Luckily, before anyone else could ask another question, the door to the kitchen opened and Damien Warner walked in, followed closely by Charlie, who looked as bright and alert as ever.

“It looks like everyone’s here,” he said with a quick count of the six of them. “We’re going to get started on the challenge soon, but first there is an important issue that I’ll let Charlie address while I double-check your stations.”

Charlie stepped forward, clipboard in hand. “As some of you may have heard, last night we suffered a terrible loss. One of our contestants, Bobby Babcock, killed himself.”

The six remaining contestants fell silent.
Suicide? It that really the official explanation?
Moira thought.
I don’t believe it. He had so much hope for this competition. Why would he end his life before it even began?

“What happened?” Antonio asked. “How did he do it? All we heard was that there was a lot of blood.”

“He slit his throat with a razor,” she told him. “We’ve obviously never had anything like this happen before, and while we debated whether or not to put a hold on the competition, we decided to go ahead. Though he was a contestant, we do not feel that his death had anything to do with the Chef War, and it wouldn’t be right to let his personal issues take precedence over everyone else’s enjoyment of the cruise. If no one else has any questions, I would like to—”

Antonio cut her off, asking, “What about his wife? Is she going to get off the cruise early?”

“While Mrs. Babcock is free to stay and enjoy the rest of the cruise courtesy of Mr. Warner, I believe she is planning on departing along with her husband’s body at our first stop in Labadee, Haiti.”

“See?” Antonio whispered, edging closer to Moira. “She could have killed him. Most crimes on cruise ships go unsolved. I bet you she’s going to have him cremated when she gets back, and that will be that. No investigation, just a death certificate and an urn.”

“I don’t think she killed him,” Moira replied in a low voice. “You didn’t see her; she was distraught.”

She could tell the man was still skeptical, but Charlie spoke again before he could get another word in. “I would like to take a moment of silence for Mr. Babcock before we begin the first challenge.”

She bowed her head, and Moira and the other contestants followed suit. The room fell silent until Charlie cleared her throat a few minutes later.

“I think it is time to finally begin your first challenge. Damien will explain the rules, and I will be available to answer any questions that arise. Once the challenge begins, you will have forty-five minutes to complete it. A camera crew will be joining us shortly—please ignore them. Remember the footage will be edited before it’s available to the other guests on the cruise. The videos will be available online a few days after the competition ends, and contestants will get a DVD mailed to them at the address you provided when you signed up.”

By the time she had finished speaking, Damien had reappeared. He thanked Charlie, then beckoned the contestants over.

“You each have a station with all of the tools you should need to complete this first challenge. Once the timer starts, we ask that you stay out of each other’s stations. That way there can’t be any complaints of cheating or interfering, not that I think any of you wonderful people would do anything like that. The fridge, cupboard, and spice racks are all fully stocked, and there should be more than enough of all the ingredients to go around. If for some reason there isn’t, just let Charlie know and she will make sure more is brought down from one of the other kitchens. Will everyone please approach their stations now?”

Moira and the other contestants shuffled nervously to their stations in the huge, stainless steel filled kitchen. She was already feeling intimidated by the shiny new appliances, which were both better and bigger than what she had in the deli. At least the basic tools at her station—the knife, the cutting board, the measuring cups, and mixing bowls—were all similar to what she was used to.

“Each of you should have a laminated pamphlet at your station with the specific rules for this challenge. Does everybody see theirs?” All six of them nodded. “Good. As you can see, the first challenge is a breakfast dish with a twist. You cannot use eggs, bacon, sausage, waffles, or pancakes during this challenge. Whoever comes up with the most creative and tasty dish, to be judged by Felicity, Walter, and myself, wins. We will be ranking you from one to six, and whoever comes in sixth place will be disqualified—though, of course, you are still free to enjoy everything else this cruise has to offer. Any questions?”

No one spoke up, though Moira’s mind was swirling with them. Was that it? No more directions… she just had to make a breakfast dish without using any of the most common ingredients.
Easy
, she thought, beginning to panic.
I’ll just whip something up that I’ve never made before and hope it tastes good enough to win the competition… what could go wrong?

The moment the timer rang signaling the beginning of the challenge, the deli owner burst into action. She had no idea what she was going to make yet, but she didn’t want to be the only one left standing clueless at her station. She decided to look through the pantry until she saw something that sparked an idea in her, and go from there.

Damien Warner had left the kitchen before the timer had gone off, leaving only Charlie to supervise. Well, Charlie and the three cameramen, who seemed determined not to miss a thing. At first, Moira had been certain that she wouldn’t be able to focus on anything but the cameras filming her every move; to her surprise, the instant the competition started, they stopped mattering.

She pulled open the pantry and raked her eyes over the shelves, desperate for something to inspire her. Should she try to make muffins from scratch? Baking had never been her strong suit; it probably wouldn’t be a good idea to pin the competition on her ability to create a delicious muffin recipe on her first try. The deli owner bit back a groan, wishing her mind wasn’t so blank. Maybe it was the lack of sleep, or the thoughts of Bobby’s death the night before, but she just couldn’t seem to concentrate on food. She was just about to close the pantry doors and go check the fridge when her eyes fell on a container of oats.
Should I make oatmeal?
she thought.

Suddenly she remembered something, one of her favorite things about visiting her grandmother when she was younger—banana oatmeal breakfast cookies. They were delicious, didn’t include any of the ingredients that had been banned for this challenge and, best of all, she even had a pretty good idea of how to make them.
I may be able to win this thing after all,
she thought, reaching for the can of oats.
Or at least not get disqualified during the first round.

She gathered a few other ingredients, then returned to her station, stealing a few surreptitious glances toward what the other contestants were working on. Sofia was making some sort of breakfast biscuit, and Nadine was doing something with fruit. Would her breakfast cookies stand a chance against everyone else’s food? She didn’t know, but now that she was back at her station with all of her ingredients, she was committed.

She started by preheating the oven and pulling the largest mixing bowl off the rack. After giving her hands a good wash, she measured out the oats. She added a pinch of salt and a dash of cinnamon, then set to peeling and mashing the bananas, her eyes on the clock. Once the bananas were in, she returned to the pantry and grabbed a jar of almond butter, scooped a cup of it into the mixing bowl, poured in as much pure maple syrup as she dared and, after a moment’s hesitation, visited the pantry once more for a small bag of chocolate chips. The judges wanted something creative and tasty; they were going to get it.

She mixed the dough with her hands just as her grandmother had done, then spooned it onto a cookie sheet in small dollops. She then slid the sheet into the oven and set the timer for fifteen minutes, though she would check on the cookies after ten.
I’m just guessing on the time
, she thought nervously as she began to clean up.
But then, I was guessing on pretty much everything else as well. Did my grandmother use maple syrup or honey? I can’t remember. Too bad we weren’t allowed to use eggs… I probably could have whipped up a prize-winning quiche in a heartbeat—I do make them a couple of times every week at the deli.

She spent the next fifteen minutes cleaning up her station and peering nervously at the breakfast cookies. The kitchen was filling up with delicious scents of cooking food, but she was too nervous to enjoy it. A cameraman stopped by her station. He panned the lens over her clean cooking station, then crouched down to film through the oven window where the cookies were nearly done. Moira gave the camera an anxious smile as it swept over her face. She tried to examine the cameraman’s expression to see if he had any opinions on the dish that she had come up with, but his face was impassive.

The wait was the worst part. She was relieved when she opened the oven a third time to check on the cookies and they finally looked done. She had only a few minutes to spare, so she quickly took the cookie sheet out, grabbed the three plates for the judges, and waited for them to cool for as long as she could before transferring two cookies to each plate. The other contestants were all hurrying as well, and there was the sound of breaking glass and a quiet curse as someone dropped something a few stations to her right.

The deli owner put down her spatula just as the bell rang to signal the end of the competition and looked around. Everyone else looked like they had at least finished putting their food on the plates for the judges. One woman—was it Daphne? —was nursing a burnt hand, and several people looked to be on the verge of tears.

“All right,” Charlie said. “Everyone wash up and then follow me. Leave the plates for the judges where they are; they’ll be brought in separately.”

Moira and the six other contestants followed her out of the kitchen and into the banquet hall where they had eaten the night before. The long table was still up on the stage, but instead of small round tables on the floor below, there were simply six chairs lined up facing the judges. The contestants filed slowly down the line, each of them taking a seat with nervous glances around. The deli owner felt exposed, which she realized must be the point. There was nothing—no table, no counter—between the contestants and the judges. Nothing to shield them from any harsh words they had about the dishes, and nothing to hide reactions from the cameras. She gulped. This couldn’t be over with quickly enough.

“Congratulations! You all made it through the first part of your first challenge,” Damien Warner said from his seat at the center of the long table up on the stage. “Now all you have to do is sit back and relax while we do the rest of the work. Charlie will call each of your names as we bring your dish out. When you hear your name, I expect you to rise and approach the table while we taste your dish. Then each judge will tell you what he or she liked or disliked about the dish, and you will be asked to return to your seat. You won’t be getting your scores until all of the dishes have been tasted. Any questions? No? Then let’s begin.”

Antonio was called forward first. He had made hash browns topped with shredded chicken, onions, corn, beans, cheese, and a homemade hot sauce. The judges were silent as they tasted the food. Moira could see Antonio shift his weight nervously as the three judges chewed. She bit her lip, knowing that she would get her own chance in the spotlight soon enough— not looking forward to it at all.