Chesapeake Crimes: This Job Is Murder!. Donna Andrews

to keep up.

      A voice from the next room called out, “Emmett, why are you hollering?”

      The back of Emmett’s bony hand stopped me beneath the archway to the kitchen, its frame gleaming with intricate wood carvings of fruit and fowl.

      “Chef, that P.I. my daughter hired for us is here,” Emmett said. “Should we come in?”

      We must have gotten the nod, because in tandem we entered the kitchen. I noticed a red brick floor and a cozy fire in an eye-level hearth directly across the room, right below a stuffed ’possum on a shelf, its tail artfully draped.

      An elfish man wearing bike shorts and no shirt stood on a stool in front of the longest counter I’d ever seen. The chef was done up in an apron that only partially covered his bare chest. The Citchen Critter logo was printed across its bib.

      “I’m put out that Ms. Turnbow is not here in person,” the chef said to the ceiling as if in prayer for divine patience. Then he turned to me. “My culinary assistant, Pilar Heinz, is missing.” He punctuated each syllable by stabbing the air with a fat knife. “Less than one week before the Gastronomic Gambles championship. I need you to find her. Now!”

      “My employer has sent me to do the initial interview,” I stammered, “since, as she informed you, she’s at a sensitive point in another investigation. If we get the basic details of your case to her right away, we can begin the background checks.” I liked the term background checks. Sounded so detective-speak.

      Loris Turnbow, my aunt, had been kind enough to give me a job with her P.I. firm after my husband embezzled his company’s largest fund, then fled the country. She served as my training officer, helping me meet the minimum requirements set by the state board to get my license. It was no secret that she hoped I’d make this temporary solution to my cash-flow problems permanent. She apparently thought I had promise.

      “Doesn’t she look like Pilar?” the chef asked as Emmett handed me a photo of the missing person.

      “I declare, she does.”

      “Ask your questions, girl,” the chef commanded.

      Even though he had to stand on a stool to be eye-level with me, I fought the urge to run. To cover my nervousness, I dug in my Fendi bag for paper and a pen to take notes.

      I dropped that pen when I noticed a dozen bird feet, toes up, on the countertop in front of Chef Clyde. The medieval-looking contraption hanging over us, where pots and unfamiliar implements of all shapes and sizes dangled, didn’t help.

      Thankfully, a sign above the stove, “No Road Kill Used in the Preparation of This Dish!” made me laugh and regain my composure. I picked up my pen and forged ahead with my questions, determined to do the job right.

      Before I’d left the office, my aunt had explained that this was a bad time for her to take a new case because of an issue with an employee. Since only her son and I worked for the agency, I took that to mean my cousin had stepped in it. Again. That left me. She explained that Emmett’s daughter, a client several years ago, had called in a favor. Sending me to do the light lifting would jump-start Chef Grumpy’s case.

      Emmett ferried a covered dish from the refrigerator to the counter. “I have a plan, Chef, to find Pilar. Young lady,” he said turning my way. “I think my idea will assist you as well.”

      “What idea?” My aunt hadn’t said anything about the clients having ideas involving me.

      “It will be far more difficult to find our culinary assistant than you imagine,” Emmett said. “Winning the Gastronomic Gambles is all to some people. They’ve worked hard for many years to get to the final round. Any attempt to snoop will cause suspicion. They’ll assume you’re trying to sabotage them, even if you explain you’re only trying to find Pilar.”

      “People take this stuff that seriously?”

      “She’s so naïve,” the chef said and climbed down from his stool. “No one will talk to a detective, or any outsider, during the run-up to the taping. I doubt you’ll even be allowed on the set.”

      “Why not let the police handle the investigation, then?”

      “The police,” Chef Clyde said, a sneer on his pointy face, “did a cursory investigation and found nothing irregular. Pilar isn’t a minor. Adults can disappear if they want to.”

      “Back to my idea,” Emmett said. “Ms. Pennington here can pose as our new culinary assistant.”

      “What?” The chef and I said at the same time.

      “Think about it, Chef. I’ll assist you, like in the old days, and she can assist me. That will provide the perfect cover. She’ll be assistant to the assistant, so no one will pay any attention to her. She’ll find out things we’d never be privy to.”

      “What about the release for Pilar’s recip—”

      Indicating the kitchen with a Vanna White sweep of his hand, Emmett silenced the chef mid-sentence. “We’ll practice preparing the menu here,” he said to me and gave his final pitch, “I have an old co-worker at the studio who will get you set up.”

      “I hope you know what we’re doing,” the chef said, sing-song, and turned back to his critters. He was through with me.

      “The only thing that matters,” Emmett said as he walked me to the door, “is that we get Pilar home safely.”

      I agreed to the scheme. I wanted to solve this case to show my appreciation to my aunt for offering me a job and for opening her home to me. I might be sleeping on a divan on her sun porch, its sheets falling way short of the thousand thread count I’d grown accustomed to during my high-end marriage, but on the bright side, I was getting exfoliation treatments for free.

      * * * *

      I was feeling a little cocky as I sped down the sidewalk. I’d survived my first interview on my first assignment. Then the heel of my shoe caught in a crack in the flagstone walk just outside the iron gate. As I bent over to ease the heel out of the hole without marring the delicate alligator leather, a man walking toward me from the yard next door called, “There you are. Thought you done run away.” The snowman-shaped gardener reached me. “Oh. Sorry. Took you for Pilar. Same color hair.”

      My shoe popped free.

      “So, I take it you haven’t seen Pilar recently,” I said brushing crumbled mortar off the hem of my pant leg.

      The man continued to look me over, all five feet of me, plus my three-inch cheat heels and said, “If I was her, I’d stay gone.”

      Trying to follow my aunt’s instructions not to discuss a client’s case while being nosy and chatting people up at the same time (wha?), I tried my hand at questioning the witness.

      “Why do you say that?”

      “‘Cause everyone knows she’s the real artist in that kitchen. Chef Creepy Critter makes use of her recipes and talent, then he takes all the credit.”

      I was out of questions. This looked so easy on TV. Luckily for me, it appeared the guy took my hesitation as skepticism and added, “You think I’m full of it? I wasn’t always wider than I am tall. Pilar brought me her practice dishes, sometimes two or three a day.” He kissed the fingertips of one hand.

      “If what you say is true, why would Pilar work for a man like Shelbee?”

      “She gets to develop her dishes, and when the time is right, make her move to get her own show.” He headed back toward the neighboring yard, then turned. “I don’t know how she does it. I got ambitions. But I ain’t got the patience to put up with an asshole like Shelbee. Maybe she just reached her limit. Hope not, though. Sure would miss being her guinea pig.”

      * * * *

      When I got back to the office, I explained the plan. After my aunt finished laughing, she struggled to put away her snarky face and put on a mentoring one.