Chesapeake Crimes: This Job Is Murder!. Donna Andrews

and the LEDs of the electronics equipment. When Emmett had shown me around the day before, the lights had been blinding, coming at me from every direction, and they were hot, too. I preferred this low-watt mode, and only switched on a light above a sink.

      Separate areas of the kitchen had been assigned to each team. I went to stand at our deep stainless-steel counter with its sink, stove, cutting board, and so many sharp knives it looked like we were filming an Xtreme Autopsy show. Right behind me were the refrigerators. I had a cheat sheet with the locations of our ingredients in the open cupboards under the counter. I did a quick inspection then came back to turn the stove’s burners on and off, try the faucets, and practice controlling the high-powered hose attachment that could fill a large pot with water fast.

      Every sound I made seemed unnatural, echoing down low at first, then rising to be abruptly absorbed and dampened by the high ceilings, really rattling my nerves. It was dawning on me that the closer we got to taping without Pilar showing up, the more likely it was that I’d have to take the stage, risking exposure.

      Opening refrigerators required bracing myself. I couldn’t actually see Chip and Dale and Bambi inside the transparent containers, only imagined I did. Thankfully, Emmett had tasked me with prepping the produce and gophering things around, excuse the pun, giving me the perfect opportunity to question the film crew, all innocent-like. And if we actually had to take the plan down to the wire, Emmett would be the one to brave the critter carnage and the chef’s temper.

      Nearby, in the off-set darkness, something crashed to the floor with a metallic clang.

      “Emmett?” I called. Nothing. I looked down the hall, but I didn’t see anyone. “Hello? Does someone need to use the kitchen set?” I thought I saw a figure moving along the corridor leading to the lobby. I grabbed my purse and tried to catch up.

      As I approached the front, I heard Emmett chuckle and the guard say, “Hey, I’m almost outta here. Don’t be asking me for nothin’.”

      I stepped into the now fully lit space. “Emmett, did someone come from the direction of the set just now?”

      “No. Why?” Emmett crossed the lobby and peered down the hall.

      “I came in early to go over the layout one more time, and I thought someone—”

      “You’ll be fine,” Emmett interrupted, then greeted a man and woman entering the lobby.

      The three headed down the hall, turning on lights as they went. I followed, feeling anything but fine.

      * * * *

      Thirty minutes later, the studio was filled with busy culinary assistants, make-up people, and camera crew. Booms were raised overhead. I watched as a hand-held camera operator near our station, seemingly sporting a camera where her head should have been, paced off the space. After a while we were told to stand down while the show’s production crew went through their checklists.

      I hadn’t thought to bring breakfast and was starving, but not for some little forest-creature omelet. I knew better than to look for something normal in the refrigerators near the set, so I went to a break room offstage I’d noticed earlier. The room was empty and dark, but I didn’t turn on the lights—didn’t want to advertise to the staff that I was pilfering food. The hall was short enough to spill light in from the set anyway. Monitors, keyboards, old phones, and broken chairs filled the corners, but there were no desks to rifle. I could just make out motor sounds—the fridge was on. Maybe I’d luck out and find string cheese or some yogurt that wouldn’t be missed.

      I pulled open the door. It wasn’t a large refrigerator, but then it didn’t need to be because Pilar was so petite.

      I didn’t shut the door as I backed away and plowed into a pile of cast-off small appliances, sending it flying. Good thing. The racket silenced the entire studio for the split second it took me to get out a high-pitched wail. I added, “Help,” as I stumbled into the hall and slid down the wall outside the break room, my eyes bulging and glued to its doorway. From my seated position, I watched people move past me as if in slow motion. Their screams were strangely muffled.

      Someone was at my elbow, urging me to stand. “Come on, Nonni, let’s get you away from here,” Mare said. She walked me to the far corner of the set. Skippy had produced a chair from somewhere, and they eased me onto it.

      “Put your head between your knees if you feel faint, honey,” Mare said.

      “Uh, uh.”

      “Shhh.” Mare tilted my head back and looked deep into my eyes. “You’re going to be okay. The police are on their way.” Then she and Skippy went to join the murmuring knot of people in shock outside the break room.

      I continued to process things in slow motion: Chef Clyde looking lost at the very back of the crowd, Emmett at the front, while our hand-held camera operator filmed everything. The camera was trained on Chef Clyde, but I didn’t think the chef noticed.

      “Everyone move back,” Emmett said as he gently pushed people. “The emergency crew will need to get a stretcher in there. The police will not take kindly to the way we’re trampling the crime scene.” Chef Clyde had already moved all the way over to where I sat.

      The camera operator continued to aim the lens at the chef, even though it required jockeying for position in order to shoot around the people filing back into the kitchen. I was about to say that something didn’t seem right about this, when someone in the lobby screamed, “Dead? Pilar’s dead?” startling everyone.

      The hand-held operator jerked her camera to the side for a fraction of a second.

      “Denise is a camera operator, too?” I inquired of no one in particular.

      But Chef Clyde heard me and backed up against the storage racks, shouting, “That’s not a cam—that’s Denise. Emmett! Who let her in here?”

      Denise threw the camera down, and the room full of people gasped as one. She was moving toward the set side of the counter. I followed her gaze, realizing she was heading straight for the arsenal of knives. When I saw that Emmett was trying to head her off, but wouldn’t make it, I jumped out of my chair, grabbed the hot water faucet handle, and turned it for all I was worth. As soon as Denise got to the opposite side of the counter from me and put her hand on a knife handle, I aimed the hose and spewed the steaming water right into her ear. She screamed and flailed and crawled into a cupboard under the counter to escape. My hand was frozen. I couldn’t let go of the nozzle until a police officer came up beside me and turned off the spigot. I stared, hypnotized, as water continued to flow and drip from surfaces high and low. I kept staring, craning my head over my shoulder, as I was led away.

      * * * *

      Much of what happened after that was a blur. Best forgotten anyway. I heard that the Gastronomic Gambles folks delayed the filming of the competition indefinitely out of respect for Pilar.

      At Pilar’s memorial, Chef Clyde took responsibly for her death, explaining that Denise had apparently committed the murder to make him suffer. When killing Pilar didn’t derail his quest for the trophy, Denise planned to end him with his own deboning knife during the competition. Knowing his murder would be taped was the icing on the cake.

      “Actions have consequences,” Chef Clyde said. “Six years ago, Denise Quay was a talented chef, and I was a judge for a major competition she’d probably have won. I disqualified her without grounds, and everyone went along with my decision. I was jealous, vain, and vindictive, and as a result, a very dear friend has paid the ultimate price. Please forgive me.”

      I never learned of a single person who did, but I’m sure the little chef felt better after baring his soul. I’m also sure network executives felt better after removing the chef and his show from their lineup.

      Emmett retired to work in his herb gardens full time. Denise’s scalded face healed, and she’s hoping to avoid prison by claiming temporary insanity.

      I learned many things in my first job—like solving a culinary case is tougher when murder’s on the menu. And I learned