One Cup Of Flour Two Cups Of Murder (Winnona Peaks Mysteries Book 2) (4 page)

Chapter 8

Cornelia Westbrooke was fuming.  It was the second round of the competition and she didn’t know how she was going to suffer through all of these samples with a smile.  All these upstarts thought that they invented the idea of a bakery.  Dressed in a conservative ash gray cardigan over a marigold yellow dress, she made sure to wear her grandmother’s pearl necklace and earrings to the competition.  Her grandmother told her over and over the presentation was in the attention to detail and care.

Recently, she’d been to the doctor twice to tell him that someone was poisoning her food because she couldn’t taste things as much as she used to.   Terrance said she was overreacting, but he was just one of those grandchildren that could double as a vacuum cleaner.  Every time his mouth opened there should have been a large sucking sound coming out for all the cash he was capable of spending.  He wasn’t the only problem. Dr. Freedman was an old coot.  How dare he tell her that people can lose their sense of taste after a certain age?  She was a Westbrooke!  Her grandmother was baking into her 90s and nobody ever accused her of losing her taste.  It wasn’t Cornelia’s fault that half of these horrid entries tasted like cardboard and the other half tasted like sawdust.  Cornelia’s hearing was as good as when she was twenty years old. Lose her sense of taste? Poppycock.

Not only was that, but to listen to that incessant moaning hippo Nanette was exhausting!
What did she know about baking?
  Then there was the judge she had the most amount of respect for—Raymond Olson.  He was the food columnist for the Winnona Peaks Chronicle and she really thought his piece on steaming mussels was quite spot on. The way he grimaced under his shiny baldhead and round glasses just proved that he was a food scholar.  His tie and clipboard rested on top of his stomach as proof of his dedication to food.  His editorial on divinity around the Christmas season was also written with balance and good taste.  Surely, he was going to save the contest from Nanette’s backwoods, hillbilly palate.  Cornelia didn’t care how often that woman traveled to Cleveland to get certified as a judge, true palates were something you were born with and Cornelia knew that only Raymond Olson and she were the judges anyone should pay attention to.

Slightly hunched, Cornelia’s birdlike structure was draped with thinning skin covered in age spots and varicose veins.  She wore a sweater, always imported from London, to keep warm and cover whatever sins the sun had committed against her over the years. She didn’t overdo it, but her grandmother taught her that she should indulge in the little things in life if she wanted to feel like a true Westbrooke.

Resigned to continue suffering through the bake-off, she reached out for another dismal cookie. She’d defended Vanessa in front of Nanette so she hoped at least she would deliver the goods.  Cornelia took just the smallest of bites; wrinkling her nose in disgust, she spit it into the napkin she kept with her at all times. Cornelia made some marks on her scorecard and thought to herself,
well, maybe not risky enough. I can’t even taste anything, but chocolate.

Vanessa was disgusted by her facial expression and the fact she spit her cookie out resulting in a reply of, “Wow!”

“My bakery will have something better.” Cornelia snapped. Terrance gave a quick nod affirming her statement and offered a nonchalant sneer as he bit into his sample.

“I’m sure they will.”  Vanessa said. 

Raymond and Nanette were standing behind her and shook their heads with a knowing nod. But the other judges seem to enjoy the cookie. 

That display was the reason everyone kept petitioning the City Council to find a way to get Cornelia Westbrooke dismissed from judging the bake-off and out of the downtown area.  Her building looked dusty and abandoned with plywood over the main window. Whatever Cornelia pictured in her mind about the bakery, the rest of the town saw an eyesore that needed to be restored.  Cornelia always refused the restoration efforts, determined to keep the original lettering “Westbrook Pastries” in chipped and faded paint over the door.  Weeds sprouted in the broken sidewalk out front and the leaves of fall never left the entryway.  Stray cigarette butts wandered their way up next to the antique heater vents. 

The town saw a glimmer of hope when Fiona Clyde moved in the bottom portion to open up Clyde’s Confections.  She actually was in the second property that held the Westbrooke Pastries logo.   For a few years, Cornelia’s grandmother reigned supreme and opened a second shop downtown when the center of business activity shifted and the city moved the highway around at the end of World War II.  Cornelia allowed Fiona to open up there, but the primary bakery was still a boarded up shell. 

As far as Fiona was concerned, the plywood came down and a new front window went up, but Cornelia owned the property and refused to even let Fiona put out a table tent in front advertising her new business.  It was a little cleaner, but it still looked like a broken down building.  Cornelia didn’t care what the town thought; the point of renting a building was to make money and improvements cost money.

Cornelia’s thoughts were interrupted when Gregory Binks walked up to offer the judges an assortment of drinks. “I
told
you this morning that I don’t drink coffee.” Cornelia snapped. 

“Well, I brought you some lemonade in case―.”

“In case of what?  I should just blast my palate with sugar!  Don’t you know young man that judging and tasting is a very serious business.  How dare you―.”

“I think the man was just trying to be nice, Cornelia,” Raymond droned, picking up a bottle of water.

“Want to try a cookie?” Vanessa asked Gregory after the judges moved on.

Gregory put down his tray and said, “This is the best part of my job down here.  Sure I’d like a cookie. What kind are they?”

“Cherry Chocolate Chip cookies,” she smiled. Hesitantly, Gregory picked up a cookie to sample.

“Vanessa didn’t want to play it too safe. It’s a chocolate chip variation.” Christy offered.

The cookie hovered right in front of Gregory’s mouth and he paused, “I’m not about to eat tofu, am I?”

Vanessa retreated to the back near the oven, took her two spoons and scraped the next dollop of cookie down onto the pan.  She laughed. “No, that would be way too risky,” she called from behind Christy.

Christy continued, “We went somewhere in the middle of chocolate covered cherries and chocolate chips. Then we came up with this cookie.” 

Gregory took a bite.  “These are incredible!  After the contest do you want to feature some at my coffee stand, Vanessa?”

“Sounds great!”

“If you want a real cookie, then you need to start ordering from Cobbler House.  We deliver 5 days a week within a 25-mile radius.  Step aside little man.”  Alexander elbowed his way up to Christy and took a cookie, taking a huge bite and ignoring Gregory’s dirty look. Looking up at the sky, Alexander wagged his finger, slowly chewing the cookie over and over. Shaking his head just a bit, he swallowed and said, “These definitely need a higher quality chocolate.  I mean their okay, but―.”

“I’m not in your cooking school! Why don’t you stay in your corner?”  Vanessa popped off from the back.  Christy shot her a look, yanking her head toward the judges at the next booth. 

“Oh, baking lessons would do
wonders
for this contest.” He smiled at the judges as he walked by, making sure they saw his apron with the embroidered logo from Le Cordon Bleu flashing, “Pastry Instructor” under the moniker.

Cornelia raised her eyes and again offered a nod. 
This baker really seemed to know what he was talking about.
  She glanced over at Anna and decided to reconsider their entry once they finished touring the first time. 

Alexander continued, “Clearly, you have not tried Clyde’s Confections and Fiona’s infamous lemon cookies.”

All of them looked down the row to see little Fiona Clyde beating something in a bowl with a fury.  Flour was flying everywhere and her ferocious stirring kept tugging hair out of her bun.

She banged a spoon on her table and yelled, “Ugh!” causing her baker to come up in a hurry to try and help.  Fiona was waving her arms and pointing at the oven about something that was clearly not going well.

Cornelia knew she had to get rid of that girl.  She’d been a menace ever since she invaded Grandma Westbrook’s kitchen and kept trying to get Cornelia to upgrade the equipment.
This man was right.
Obviously, Fiona didn’t know the first thing about baking.  Cornelia was going to have to do something about that.

“Alex!  I need you over here, now!”  Anna yelled out.

Cornelia looked over to see Anna with her hands on her hips. Apparently, this instructor had trained her.
Very impressive.

Alexander rolled his eyes and shook his head.  “She can’t do a thing without me. But, duty calls!” He smirked. “Let me know if you want me to critique your cuisine, ladies.” He said, gesturing to Christy and Vanessa as he slowly walked towards his booth.  “If you want some real cookies, then check back with Cobbler House in about fifteen. We’re using
mon exclusif amuse-gueule recette
for the championship round. Tootles.” 

Chapter 9

Terrance Westbrook couldn’t believe his ears.  He dawdled a bit at Vanessa’s table, letting his dear grandmother Cornelia eat up the slop being served by that blowhard.  That pompous Alexander Mackey was
so bourgeois
tossing his French around these poor unsuspecting provincial nits.  Terrance really wanted to take him on and confront him on what it was like to be a true chef.  Of course, Daddy had sent Terrance to Paris with letters of recommendation to the finest cooking schools, but cutting onions and getting up at those ungodly hours was, well simply peasant’s work.  He much preferred to wander through the Louis XIV exhibits and bask in the glory of his birthright of being a Westbrook.  He knew what it took to be a true chef and he was onto Alexander Mackey.

His family didn’t understand that he wasn’t going to settle for just any career.  After all, his brother was in line to take over the family business of Westbrook Global, but what kind of life is that to be chained to a job all day, looking at numbers and investment bankers?  No, Terrance Westbrook was not going to settle.  He almost graduated from Yale with a literature degree and when that didn’t suit his fancy, his father sent him on the Tibetan mission he requested in order to better find himself. 

Terrance was positive that the Himalayas would be where he discovered his true calling, but they wanted him to
walk so much
he couldn’t see how that was helping at all.  He did discover that he enjoyed helping people when he gave that little girl a Band-Aid out of his pack in a remote village so he came back to Winnona Peaks with a renewed vision, sure that he was going to go into medicine.  His father paid for the best tutors he could find to help him take the pre-requisite courses.  Studying for the MCAT to get into medical school proved to be just
another bourgeois
excuse to make people conform to their limited ways of thinking. It wasn’t his fault that he failed such an inane test.  He had much better things to do with his life; that’s when he returned to food.  Food was elemental, it spanned across time, space, and history.  None of the other grandchildren were interested in Westbrook Pastries, but Terrance had finally figured out what he was going to do with his life.  Besides, with his medical training he was the best candidate to help Grandma Cornelia as she got along in years. 

He’d watched plenty of those cooking shows over his lifetime and had traveled to most of the locations they put on the late night travel stations.   When Grandma Cornelia had that small stroke and situation, it seemed natural for him to move in to the old Westbrook Estate and keep tabs on her.  They had visited plenty over the years and even though the Estate was a bit subpar for his liking and dreadfully drafty, he at least had his tea served to him on time by George, their antiquated butler.  Plus, he was sure that he had found his niche by creating his food blog. 

Terrance condescended a weak smile to Vanessa Jefferson.  She just didn’t understand
how
influential his blog was going to be in years to come.  He had just started it and only two people looked at it since it began, but he was sure that the world would see true quality and come running.  After all, he’d eaten at restaurants with three Michelin stars.  Surely, this silly little town would soon know that he would take over judging the contest when his grandmother Cornelia was no longer able. 

“Would you like another cookie?” Vanessa asked.

“Why I don’t mind if I do.”  Terrance grinned.  “I do love the hint of spice.  Is that chili powder?”

“Well, well, Mr. Westbrook.  I’m impressed.” Vanessa said, smiling.

“Oh, when you’ve backpacked over the Andes with just a mule and a guide, you learn a thing about true flavor.”

“You’ve been to South America?”  Vanessa asked, impressed again. 

Terrance offered another weak smile.  These provincial people are all the same around the world, almost like children. “You have done quite well without you’re lovely assistant.  I would have thought that without your star pupil, Lily, you might have backed out of the contest.”

“Oh, well my grandmother taught us that we should never back down when the going gets rough.  Guess it’s just in my nature.  Besides, I knew that my sister, Christy, had my back.  She’s humble, but she can bake a mean blueberry muffin.” Vanessa said.  Terrance offered another weak smile and took another bite.

“Why yes, I just love how the sweet cherry and chocolate flavors balance against that hint of spice.  Would you be interested in being a guest on my food blog?”  Terrance asked.  “I’m looking to add some local color.  Right now, it’s just my lonely French Provincial voice preaching to the choir.”

“Well, I’m flattered, Mr. Westbrook.  It would be great to be on your food blog.”

“Lovely!  I’ll be in touch.
Ciao, Bella.
” Terrance said, waving the cookie in the air and wandering away.  When he was sure he was out of earshot he mumbled to himself,  “These poor saps.  They won’t know what hit them when Grandma’s plan to reopen Westbrook Pastries comes to fruition.  I’m going to put the Westbrook name back on the map.”