Small Plates (19 page)

C
hef Gold had played around with his temper in the first round, teasing the audience with mini eruptions followed by coy “Gotcha” smiles. But when the student assisting him dropped a heavy frying pan, luckily empty, on the chef's foot, there was nothing fake about the reaction. After a string of invectives, Gold limped around in an exaggerated manner until the clock started to tick down and he forgot his act. Emerging from the greenroom, Faith noticed the male student had been replaced by a female who looked even younger than Jennifer. Her name was Megan, Faith remembered from the introductions, and the unlucky boy was Josh. Megan was standing at Gold's station, as far away from the chef as she could, clearly hoping to avoid any mishaps while still being helpful. Billy Gold must have spoken to the planner, demanding the switch, when Faith was out of the room. She was happy that Jennifer was still with her. The girl was quick and professional.

“You may open your mystery ingredient boxes now! They contain chicken livers, frozen lemonade, Cheez Doodles, and peppermint hard candies. You have thirty minutes for this entrée round, and the time starts now!”

Once again Faith felt her brain freeze, or was it melting? Niki had warned her that these shows threw ingredients like candy and junk food at contestants. But Cheez Doodles—and peppermints? The other two chefs had already sped to the pantry. Claudia, in a front-row seat, was glowering at her. Clearly she thought she should be cooking and Faith should be sitting down.

The woman's angry stare galvanized Faith into action. Once again she flipped through her mental recipe cards. What did the list suggest? Picnic food. A southern picnic? No time to create a good barbecue sauce for the livers, but she could still do something delectable. She'd pulverize the Doodles—too bad they weren't Fritos so she could munch a few for courage—coat the livers, and deep-fry them. Corn bread—she'd seen cornmeal in the pantry—as one of the sides. There had to be chard left over from the appetizers, and she'd treat it like collards, chopped and barely wilted on high heat. Tom's voice whispered “bacon” and she veered toward the fridge, which was a walk-in down a corridor where she found some plus the other items she'd need, like butter. The chicken livers would take the least time, but she had to get the oil up to temperature and quickly started the pot going.

As for the candies and lemonade, the obvious thing was ice cream. She had no time to go with anything but the obvious. Besides, what was a picnic without homemade ice cream in the cooler? There were red-and-white-checked paper napkins among others on a shelf, and she'd use those when plating the livers, which she hoped would be crispy on the outside and still soft in the middle. She'd add some Old Bay or something similar to the coating to give it a slight zing.

Just as in the first round, the spirit of competition—particularly with these chefs as opponents—kicked in, and Faith wanted to win. A lot. The trophy was prominently displayed on the judges' table. It was tacky in the extreme and shouted Dollar Store, yet it looked like an Oscar to Faith, gleaming like real gold in the bright lights.

She cooked the bacon and mixed her corn bread batter, adding some of the drippings. The collards would have to be cooked near the end. She opened the oven door to put the corn bread pan in to cook.

There was only one problem. Her oven was stone cold. She'd never thought to check, and someone had turned it off between rounds. More sabotage.

She looked around wildly. No way would Jake or Billy give her oven space, and it would take too long to get her own up to temperature. Jennifer coughed; Faith turned in the girl's direction. She angled her head slightly, indicating the stove immediately to her left. Faith ran over with the corn bread. The oven was on. Jennifer had barely moved a muscle. She couldn't be accused of helping Faith.

“Problem with your stove, chef?” the culinary arts director asked.

“Yes. It seems to have gone off after the first round, but fortunately I thought you might have had one preheated in reserve and that one over there”—she pointed—“was on.”

“Ah, well yes, we did have a spare.” Clearly he was covering up for a detail he'd neglected and clearly he didn't want to be caught out. The audience gave a collective sigh of relief. The school had thought of everything!

Time to get her ice cream into the ice cream maker and then fry the chicken livers. Niki had told her that contestants always ran into trouble making ice cream or sorbets, but Faith felt she was on a roll, and she was. When it came time to plate, she was happy with the results. Everything smelled and looked delicious. She wouldn't mind digging in herself.

She looked at the others' plates with a sinking sensation. They looked terrific. Billy Gold had done a quick pâté by sautéing the livers with chopped onions in butter, adding some of the unconstituted frozen lemonade and ground-up Doodles, and then using the blast chiller to cool, but not chill, the mixture. He'd also created what he called a palate cleanser of peppermint sorbet. The presentation was lovely. Using a baguette from round one, he had toasted thin rounds, which he arranged like a tepee over the slab of pâté with a jaunty sprig of thyme, indicating one of the herbs he'd used, flying like a flag from the top.

Chef Barlow was still sticking to his signature Pacific Rim cuisine and presented a kind of poke, the Hawaiian dish, but instead of raw ahi or a similar fish he'd used thin slices of the liver sautéed
à point
and cooled to room temperature, then tossed with the frozen lemonade before he arranged them on a bed of chopped lettuce. Ingeniously, he had very briefly deep-fried the Cheez Doodles in grapeseed oil, garnishing the dish with them. Faith was nervous about her chances against these two until she saw the little round peppermint Chef Barlow had placed on each plate. Clearly he had forgotten the ingredient, and when it came time to present tried to bluster his way out of it by saying he had planned it as an “After Dinner Mint” so one's breath would be minty fresh.

The judges didn't buy it—Pierre playfully wagged a finger at him—and he was “Sliced.” Faith and Chef Billy Gold would face off in round three.

B
ack in the greenroom it was Jake Barlow's turn to explode. “I'm outa here,” he fumed, starting to strip off his chef's jacket. The event planner—Faith had finally remembered her name, Gloria—put up a hand, as if she were halting traffic. “You may, of course, leave now, but you won't get your check.”

Check? She should have realized that Barlow and Gold wouldn't have participated out of the goodness of their shriveled little hearts, even for a good cause. It wasn't a large enough venue. They'd do charity events for nothing, but only if the event was covered widely enough, i.e., nationwide at the least. She didn't let on that she was donating her time—she would have refused payment from this organization anyway—but Claudia squeaked, “A check! You're getting paid!”

Gloria looked quite annoyed, the annoyance clearly directed at Jake for letting the cat out of the bag. “We assumed you were donating your expertise, Chef Westell. If we were mistaken, I'm sorry.”

She didn't sound a bit sorry, and before Chef Westell could say anything more, Gloria left the room. Faith followed soon after—the atmosphere was more poisonous than ever. The night couldn't end soon enough for her. And she was determined to beat Billy Gold in the dessert round even if it was the last thing she ever did.

W
ith both Jake and Claudia looking daggers from the front row, Faith willed herself to start thinking the moment the Pandora's box of ingredients for the final round was opened. Like the appetizer round, this one was only twenty minutes. From the noise level, Faith knew the audience was feeling no pain, which boded well for the auction bids.

The culinary arts director and the planner were talking to the judges. It looked like a huddle. Chef Gold was nowhere to be seen. He'd been onstage a few minutes ago, walking over to the buffet, where Faith saw him down a flute of champagne and a quick refill. He'd been imbibing all evening.

Gloria left, obviously going to remind the chef of the time. He must be in the restroom, Faith thought.

But she returned without the chef in tow and went back to the group at the judges' table. After another hasty huddle, the director came to the microphone and announced that the round would start despite Chef Gold's tardiness.

“The ingredients for the dessert round are: fresh chèvre, canned lychee nuts, Swedish Fish, and Vanilla Wafers. You have twenty minutes, and your time starts now!”

Barely registering that Billy Gold—too much bubbly?—was still not at his station, Faith went right into action this time. Compared to the other boxes, this was an easy one, and the organizers may have planned it that way, recognizing the fatigue factor for the chefs. She put the gummy fish candies in a pot with the liquid from the lychees on the stove to melt. She'd combine the syrup with the chèvre for a quick cheesecake with a buttery Vanilla Wafer crust, crumbing the cookies in the food processor and adding melted butter. She'd top the cakes with sliced lychees and rosettes of whipped cream. There was heavy cream in the fridge, and she went to get it. She'd need it for the filling as well. Faith was feeling better than she had all night. She could take this thing!

Out of sight of the audience, she ran even faster to the large fridge and quickly pulled open the heavy door. She could see the cream on the shelf.

She could also see Chef Gold. He was lying on his back with a kitchen knife sticking out from his chest.

One of Faith's knives.

She knelt and felt for a pulse. There was none. His skin was still warm. The murder must have occurred only minutes before. Minutes before she had been wandering around—alone. No witnesses. The prime suspect.

She stood up, envisioning what would come next after the 911 call. The fear, confusion, and all the chefs back in the greenroom—save one.

Billy Gold had been “Sliced.”

She'd left the door open and she heard footsteps. Someone was coming. Before anyone could enter, Faith went out into the corridor quickly, blocking the view.

It was Jennifer. She looked a little pale.

Faith thought the girl must be tired out. It had been a hectic night, although her nervousness had not shown itself after the earlier introductions. Calm and efficient. Faith hoped she wouldn't take the death of her mentor too hard.

“You mustn't come in. There's been”—Faith paused, searching for words—“an accident.”

The girl nodded. “I know.” And then she paused, as if searching for words as well. They came out slowly—“Megan was his next intern.”

Her voice grew louder, the next words faster. No more calm. Just desperation—and a kind of relief in her voice.

“I couldn't let him do it to her too. You can see that, can't you?”

Faith could.

T
he Christmas eve sky was filled with stars when Mary Bethany found a baby in her barn. They hadn't had a real snow yet; the island never got the kind of accumulation the mainland did, but it was cold. She had pulled an old woolen overcoat that had belonged to her father over her winter jacket and grabbed a shawl her mother had knitted, draping it around her head. Her small herd of goats was letting her know that it was milking time, holiday or no holiday.

Mary wasn't leaving a festive gathering. She wasn't leaving any gathering at all. Just a cup of hot cider, a slice of the fruitcake sent by her cousin Elizabeth, and a few cats for company and to keep the rodent population down. Walking the short distance from the old farmhouse to the small barn she'd built when the herd got too large for the shed, Mary had remembered the legend about animals being able to speak on Christmas eve. She'd allowed herself to speculate about what her goats would have to say. They were Nubians, pretty, long-eared goats that gave rich milk with the highest butterfat content and protein of any breed. Her pretty nannies. Her neurotic nannies. Temperamental, easily miffed divas, they let her know with resounding
blaats
when something was even the slightest bit wrong. She was afraid that given human voices, their conversation would be a litany of slights and sorrows. Or perhaps not, perhaps they would tell her how much they depended on her, how much they loved her. She had entered the warm barn smiling, and her smile grew broader when she saw the large basket with a big red bow nestled against a bale of hay. It must be a gift from a neighbor. She hadn't thought she would be getting any presents. Even her sister Martha's yearly Harry & David cheese log had not arrived. A tag hung from the bow:
FOR MARY BETHANY
. She ignored the goats for a moment and knelt down before the gift.

It was an afghan in soft pastel colors. That would be Arlene Marshall, who crocheted so beautifully. The summer people always snapped up her work at the Sewing Circle's annual fair in August. How kind, Mary thought. It would be just the thing to throw across her lap at night when she sat up late reading. But so unexpected. She hadn't seen or spoken to the Marshalls since she'd brought some of her rose hip jelly over in early September. It had been a wonderful summer for the
Rosa rugosa
bushes that surrounded the house and had seeded in what passed for a lawn and beyond it, in the pasture. Mary had gathered the large bulbous, bright orange hips and put up jelly, made soup, even dried some for tea. Looking at the gleaming jars on the pantry shelf, she had decided to bring some to Arlene and Doug—her nearest neighbors, a mere six acres of fields and woods away.

But this was too much! It must have taken Arlene a long time to make, the stitch was intricate and the wool so fine. Then she heard a tiny sneeze. The merest whisper of a sneeze. She pulled back the blanket and uncovered—a baby! Eyes squeezed shut, a newborn—tiny—about the size of a kid. She rocked back on her heels in amazement, letting the cover drop from her hands. A baby?