Recipe for Murder

A
HHH
—” N
ANCY
D
REW
sniffed appreciatively. The scent of barbecued chicken wafted into the air, making her mouth water.

Ned grinned. “Didn't I say I could cook?”

“You said it,” Rick Williamson, one of their friends, answered for her. “We just didn't believe it.”

“We still don't.” Bess Marvin heaved a huge sigh and wiped her forehead. “Soon the food won't be the only thing that's cooked!”

“It should start to cool off before long,” Nancy
said. The hot July sun still prickled her scalp, but there weren't many hours of daylight left. “By that time dinner might even be on the table.”

“Did somebody mention food?” a girl's voice called from the other side of the Drew backyard. Slim, athletic George Fayne was bent over a croquet mallet, her eye on the red ball about a yard from hers. With a short swing she knocked her ball into her opponent's. “Aha! You're out of the yard, Ken.”

Ken Hampton, another River Heights High graduate, looked at the sky. “Why me?” he asked as George placed her croquet ball next to his. She rested her foot on her blue ball, gave it a sharp crack with the mallet, and sent Ken's ball spinning across the yard to slam into the fence on the far side.

“It's too hot to play croquet,” Bess observed. “All I want to do is eat.”

“That's all you ever want to do,” George called as she lined up her next shot.

“And all
you
ever do is compete,” Bess complained to her. She glanced across the table at Nancy. “How many games has George played today? And this is after giving tennis lessons all morning! It's not human.”

“At least she's busy,” Nancy said with a sigh. “This summer seems to be dragging on forever.”

“No new mysteries, huh?” Bess asked.

“Not a one.” Pushing strands of reddish blond
hair out of her face, Nancy said, “Come on in the kitchen and help me see about the rest of the stuff.”

As they headed inside, Nancy heard the hollow sound of George's croquet ball connecting with the final stake. “Okay, Hampton,” George crowed with triumph, “that's three. Think you're up for another?”

“No way,” Ken answered. “The next time we play a game, I get to choose.”

Nancy chuckled as she cracked open the oven door. She checked on the baked beans. They were bubbling gently. A couple more minutes and they'd be ready to serve with Ned's chicken.

“Refills!” Nancy called as she carried out another pitcher of lemonade.

“Great!” Ned tossed off Nancy's father's barbecue apron and sank down beside her on the picnic bench. “This cooking takes a lot out of a guy.”

“You were the one who wanted to do it,” Nancy reminded him, pouring him a glass.

“I know.” Ned took a huge swallow. “But believe me, this'll be the best chicken you've ever tasted. An old family recipe. It'll be worth the wait.”

Nancy had just opened her mouth to answer when she suddenly smelled something burning. “The chicken!” she cried, leaping from her seat.

Smoke was billowing out the sides of the
covered barbecue. Nancy lifted the lid just as Ned reached her side. Flames were blazing around what was left of the chicken.

Quickly Ned dumped his lemonade over the ruined meat and doused the fire.

“Oh, no,” he groaned, staring down at the now-blackened chicken as the others crowded around to see.

Nancy covered her mouth with her hand to hide a smile. The chicken was burned to a crisp.

“An old family recipe, huh?” Rick demanded.

“Yeah, chicken à la lemonade.” George started to laugh.

“This is terrible,” Nancy said, trying to sound sympathetic.

“It sure is!” Bess wailed. “Now what are we going to do? Send out for pizza?”

“Don't panic,” Ned said. “We can make hamburgers or something.”

“Are you kidding?” George looked appalled. “I would like to eat in this century, if you don't mind.”

Everyone but Ned and Bess burst into laughter. “I can cook,” Ned insisted. “I can.”

“Oh, sure.” Ken Hampton was laughing so hard he could barely catch his breath. “Nickerson, you couldn't cook even if you went to cooking school.”

“Ned,” Nancy said, “I think Ken has a good idea.” Her blue eyes danced with merriment. “You've got the rest of the summer. Why not go
to cooking school? I dare you. And I'll even tag along to make sure you don't burn down the school.”

Ned sent her a mock glare. “Is this a challenge?” he asked. “All right. We'll just see who has the last laugh. I will enroll in cooking school.”

“You're kidding!” Nancy stared at him. Ned's jaw was locked tight with determination. She blinked. “You're
not
kidding.”

“Better yet,” Ned said, warming to the challenge, “I'll enroll in the Claude DuPres International Cooking School and become a French chef.”

“You?” Rick shook his head. “They'll never let you in.”

“Oh, yeah?” Ned said. “My mother has a friend who enrolled in a six-week course and came back an expert. I've got the rest of the summer to kill. I'll do it.”

“If you're really serious, I'll enroll too,” Nancy said. “In fact, we can all do it! What about you guys?” she asked, glancing around at her friends.

George and Bess looked at each other. Then Bess turned to Ned and asked, “Is there a pastry class?”

George snorted. “Pastry class. Didn't you just start a new diet?”

“It can wait another six weeks,” Bess retorted.

“What about you, George?” Nancy asked. “Let's all go.”

“Are you kidding? I have tennis lessons to give.”

“Hah!” Bess jeered. “You said yourself that that Matthews kid would like to take your place.”

George glanced from one to the other of them. “Oh, all right,” she grumbled. “If Ned Nickerson can go to cooking school, so can I.” George shook back her short, dark hair. “I'll see if Matthews can substitute for me.”

“Good!” Nancy said. “It's settled. Now all we have to do is get into the next class.”

“I'll take care of that tomorrow. We should be ready to roll by next Monday,” said Ned. “I don't want anyone chickening out.”

As if they had rehearsed it, everyone turned and stared at the remains of the chicken.

• • •

Later that night, after everyone had left full of pizza, Nancy walked Ned to his car. “You're sure you want to go through with this?” she asked as Ned climbed into his car.

He nodded, rolling down his window. “I'll make the arrangements tomorrow. If we're lucky, we can leave on Monday.”

Nancy leaned her elbows on the door. “Did anyone ever tell you you're a great guy?” she asked softly.

“I think George did, awhile back.”

“Besides George.” She tilted her head and
stared into his dark eyes. “I guess I'm just trying to say thanks.”

“For what?” Ned looked genuinely puzzled.

“Just for being you.” Nancy kissed him, then reluctantly pulled back.

“Monday,” Ned said, and she nodded. As she dashed up the front porch steps, she heard him give her a farewell honk.

• • •

Nancy swept back her hair and squinted through the windshield of Ned's car. “Turn here,” she said.

“I hope we have time to hit the showers,” George said. “It's so hot and sticky.”

“I don't think we will,” Ned answered. He checked his watch. “There's an orientation meeting this afternoon—in fifteen minutes actually—and a short class afterward. We're lucky we got into the school at all.”

“And
into this hotel,” Nancy said, staring up at the twin towers of the Westerly Hotel. “We're close enough to walk to the cooking school from here.”

The girl at the desk assigned them their rooms. “You three are in the south tower,” she said to Nancy, Bess, and George, handing them their keys. “And you, sir,” she added, turning to Ned, “are in the north.”

“I'm afraid we'll have to see our rooms later. We'd better head straight for the school,” Nancy
said, examining the map of the school grounds. Once outside she pointed in the direction they were to walk.

“Let's get going,” she said, “or we'll be late.”

They pushed through the hotel's rear doors and hurried past a courtyard with stone benches and fountains, and under a walkway. The famous cooking school could be glimpsed across and down the street.

Nancy and her friends raced into the main reception area of the school with just minutes to spare. At the auditorium, the first person they ran into was Claude DuPres himself.

A gray-haired man with florid cheeks, he welcomed them all individually.

“You will enjoy my school,” he said. “You will learn to become master chefs if you work hard. Which classes are you taking, Ms. Drew?” he asked, reading her name tag.

Nancy smiled. Chef DuPres's heavy French accent was just what she would have expected from a world-renowned chef. “Ned and I are signed up for introductory French cooking,” she said.

“Excellent. It's good to learn the basics. What about you?” he asked, turning to Bess and George.

“Pastry,” Bess said promptly. “I can't wait.”

“She sure can't,” said George. “She couldn't stop talking about it in the car. I'm signed up for introductory Chinese cooking.”

“I wish you all the best of luck,” the chef told them.

Ned squeezed Nancy's hand. “Think you'll pick up cooking as fast as you learned to be a detective?”

Claude DuPres turned sharply in Nancy's direction. “You are a detective?”

Before Nancy could say anything, Bess jumped in. “Nancy's the best,” she said loyally. “She's solved dozens of cases. I'm surprised you haven't heard of her.”

“Bess!” Nancy said, embarrassed.

DuPres frowned. He seemed about to say something more, but he was interrupted by another wave of students entering the forum.

Nancy, Ned, Bess, and George moved into the auditorium. The place was so crowded they had difficulty finding two seats together.

Claude DuPres walked to the center of the stage and pulled up a wheeled cart. From a lower shelf he lifted several trays of delicate hors d'oeuvres and pastries. The class gave a collective sigh of envy.

“These are just samples from Chef Paul Slesak's pastry class,” the chef told them. “The hors d'oeuvres were made by the students of another class. They are pretty, but easy to make.”

DuPres lifted one of the pastries to his lips. “You will all learn this and much, much more. You will learn to be master chefs!” With a
flourish he popped the tiny confection into his mouth.

“The sign-up sheets will be outside the doors of the classrooms. Classes are listed here.” He held up a stack of papers, then handed them to a student who began passing them out. “When you arrive at your rooms—”

Claude DuPres never finished what he was about to say. With a strangled cry he suddenly fell forward over the cart and then slid in a heap to the floor!