CHRISTMAS CANAPÉS & SABOTAGE
a Culinary Competition Mysteries short story
by
JANEL GRADOWSKI
* * * * *
Experiencing how it felt to be an arctic explorer wasn't on Amy's to-do list for the day…or her lifetime. She shoved her hands farther into her coat pockets and decided to distract herself from thoughts of being stranded on an iceberg by studying the Christmas tree standing between the registration tables as she waited in the slow-moving line. The branches were tipped with cut crystal teardrops and spires that sparkled and bobbed every time the front door of Halo Restaurant opened. Frosty blue and matte silver ball ornaments were nestled on the branches. Tiny twinkling lights and a garland made of downy, white feathers completed the decorations. She dubbed the style North Pole Chic, and it would look perfect in her living room.
She scooted forward as the line shifted, happy to be a little farther away from the door. The line of contestants now stretched outside, and the front doors of the restaurant were mostly being held open by the half frozen crowd. The wind, which had earned a dangerous wind chill warning from the National Weather Service, was free to torture the people crammed into the entryway. It ruffled the messy, loose curls that she had hoped would fare well in the wind. Her husband said she looked like a blonde angel before she left. He knew how to get on her good side. There would definitely be snow for Christmas—something that didn't always happen in southern Michigan—but it didn't need to be so cold in order for the white stuff to stick around for a few more weeks. The fabulously decorated tree had been studied and committed to memory, so Amy was more than ready to get through the check-in process and take shelter in what would hopefully be the warm interior of the restaurant. Trying to eat while wearing a heavy winter coat and mittens was about as practical as wearing sunglasses at night.
A woman wearing a bulky cabled Fisherman's sweater tried to smile at Amy from her seat behind one of the registration tables. It looked more like she was gritting her teeth in frozen agony. "Name and division please."
"Amy Ridley. Amateur division."
A grunt that sounded like an Abominable Snowman mating call came from somewhere behind her. She turned to find the perennially pissed off Rayshelle Applebee smirking at her. Amy hadn't seen her for a few months, and for that she was grateful. Rayshelle's special variety of unpleasantness tended to linger long after encounters with her were over. Her hairstyles were difficult to forget, too. The skunk stripe hair color scheme that she'd sported at the Kellerton Summer Festival had been replaced by a red hue that made a holly berry look pale and washed out. Amy had been a hairstylist for twelve years before leaving the profession to concentrate on cooking competitions. Finding the perfect variety of honey to add to a cake recipe had replaced finding the perfect shade of honey blonde for a picky client, and she couldn't be happier.
"You are not an amateur." Rayshelle waggled her pointer finger back and forth. "Go to the professional division where you belong, and leave us real amateurs alone."
The gaze of the woman behind the registration table ping-ponged between Rayshelle and Amy. She wrinkled her nose and asked, "Do you own or work for a restaurant, bakery, or catering company?"
"No."
"Then you're in the correct division."
Rayshelle huffed and grumbled as the second woman checking in contestants shuffled through a stack of envelopes. She pulled one out and handed it to Amy. "Welcome, Ms. Ridley. This is your copy of the contest rules, along with the numbers that need to be affixed to your sample boxes, which you can pick up when you leave. They'll be on a table near the exit doors. Please go into the restaurant and find a seat. Enjoy."
"Break a leg. Literally," Rayshelle said as Amy maneuvered around the table. Word play? Not the usual, straight-to-the-point insults that Rayshelle often lobbed at people.
Amy shook off the sour grapes comment and walked into the main restaurant area. The space was decorated for the holidays in the same white, light blue, silver, and sparkles theme as the tree in the entrance. Swags of pine boughs arced from the crown molding, and wreathes were hung on the white paneled walls. Flickering candles, housed in opaque white glass cylinders, sat in the center of the round dining tables. In the corner of the room, Bea Perkins waved to get Amy's attention. When had Amy made it across the labyrinth of tables, the owner of The Breakfast Spot pointed to an empty chair. "I saved you a seat."
"Thank you for choosing a spot far away from the door," Amy said as she shrugged off her long, cream-colored wool coat and draped it over the back of the chair. "The poor women that are checking people in. I hope they wore long underwear."
"Old Man Winter can ease up any time now. It isn't even Christmas, and I'm tired of the deep freeze. I think the girl who handed me my registration packet had blue fingernails, and the color wasn't from nail polish." Bea leaned closer as Amy sat down. Her pink rhinestone nose stud sparkled as she shook her head. "I don't want to catch any of the breeze from outside either, but the real reason I snagged this table is so we can check out the buffet."
Amy nodded in appreciation of her friend's tactics. Ignorance was not bliss in cooking contests. It was always a good thing to know what and who you were up against. Bea had positioned them perfectly to check out the work of one of the competition's judges, the chef of Halo. The brunch buffet was bountiful and beautiful. The chef knew how to set up a gorgeous food display and could possibly be a harsh judge. The tables lined up in front of the restaurant's wall of French doors were crammed in a rolling landscape of skewered mini breakfast sandwiches, small bowls full of glistening fruit salads, and miniature muffins studded with chunks of chocolate. The theme for the Holiday Celebrations Competition was Finger Foods Fantasy. By presenting each brunch dish in two-bite individual portions, instead of in the more common, self-serve giant metal pans, the chef of Halo was quite effectively saying, "Game on! Show me what you've got." Amy didn't know about anybody else, but she was more than ready to compete. The prize money for placing well would pay for a lot of very nice presents for her friends and family.
Soon the dining room was filled with the sounds of conversations and silverware clattering on plates. As Amy nibbled on a triangle of French toast filled with sweet cream cheese and dried currants, she eavesdropped on some of the conversations around her. Almost everybody was impressed with how pretty and tasty all of the items were. She wondered how many people were contemplating altering their recipes. Not a good idea considering the samples that were to be judged for taste needed to be turned in just over twenty-four hours later.
Once all of the competitors had filled their plates, the event coordinator, the director of the Presents For Kids charity that would benefit from the event, took her place behind the podium at the front of the room. Bridget Mahoney's red dress with a flared skirt and tiny rhinestones around the scoop neckline was elegant yet festive. A fashion concept that Rayshelle could use some help understanding. The clown-haired crank was sitting a few tables away and had garnered raised eyebrows from many people as they shuffled around her on the way to the buffet line. Her leopard-print gold lamé pantsuit looked like it came from a clearance rack, circa 1985, at the lingerie store where Rayshelle worked. Apparently the horrific outfit came with a force field, since no one else had dared sit at the table set for six. People snatched chairs and place settings to wedge themselves into friendlier tables.
Amy multi-tasked by listening to the schedule of events and trying to figure out what spices had been used in the cream of tomato soup she was sipping out of a tiny espresso mug. By the time the speech was over Amy had decided on two things. One—she would need lots of coffee to get through the two-day competition and not fall asleep during the final judging stage on Saturday evening. Two—garam masala was the spice giving the tomato soup the slightly exotic flavor.
Once the presentation was complete, the wait staff began clearing empty plates from the tables. The crowd noise roared again as people began collecting coats and purses. Everybody seemed excited to begin cooking. The first step would be setting up the non-edible parts of the tablescape that evening.
As Amy pulled on her coat a scream silenced the random chatter in the room. "Fire!"
She spun around. About ten feet away the table full of teapots was on fire. Each pot sat on a wire platform over a lit candle to keep the tea warm. A pool of fire on the white tablecloth grew larger by the second, originating from an overturned candle in the middle of the ring of pots. Bea pushed past Amy, grabbed a pot full of green tea, and doused the flaming tide. Everybody applauded as several waiters rushed out of the kitchen carrying fire extinguishers. Seeing that the threat had already been taken care of by cool-headed Bea, they decided to blow out the rest of the candles. There was now no need to cover the table and nearby people in fire-retardant foam. Bea calmly replaced the teapot on its stand and walked back to the dining table to stand next to Amy.
"That was awesome!" Amy said as she patted her heroic friend on the back. "I was ready to run for the emergency exit along with pretty much everybody else. You have nerves of steel. You're like a foodie super hero, saving the masses with a pot of tea."
Bea shrugged. "I tried putting real candles on the tables at my restaurant last Christmas…for about a week. I'll just say I have quite a bit of experience putting out little, unexpected fires." She bent and retrieved her purse from under the table. "This one was kind of weird, though. The candles under the teapots are in wide, shallow bowls, I'm sure to prevent them from being knocked over easily. How the heck did an overturned candle end up in the middle of the table?"
Amy spent the rest of the day deciding on table props with a mental side dish of wondering if the fire was a malicious act instead of an accident. Once all of the table accessories were finalized, she packed them up and headed across town. There was a mini traffic jam ahead when she pulled Mimi the Mini Cooper, her car that was so adorable she gave it a name, into the turning lane. Several cars were stopped ahead of her. She could see a man with a fluorescent yellow safety vest, reflective stripes flashing in headlights, standing in the entrance to the K Hotel convention center parking lot. Darkness by dinner time was another downright depressing cruelty of winter. Amy turned up the heat, to counteract the invasion of cold air that would occur when she rolled down her window to talk to the guy. Living in a giant freezer all winter didn't exactly make her want to do a happy dance either. The car's interior was toasty, bordering on balmy, by the time it was her turn to chat with the man.
He ducked down to peer at her. "Are you a Holiday Celebrations competitor?"
"Yes."
He pointed to the right. "You can park in that lot then take your things inside yourself. There are carts available at the door. Or, if you would like to wait a bit, the hotel is offering a valet service. Under the entrance awning there are people to help unload your supplies and then park your car, free of charge."
"Okay. Thank you."
Fancy schmancy. A valet service. But the line almost stretched into the street. She had hauled stuff around competitions by herself many times. So she came prepared and dressed to stay warm in a bulky, down coat that made her look like a troll, complete with crazy hair courtesy of the wicked wind, in anticipation of a hike across a parking lot. Most importantly, she just wanted to set up the table and get back home. The ballroom was open to all competitors from six to eight p.m. to set up props and decorations on their tables. She looked at the motionless valet line and calculated that it would take much longer than fifteen minutes, the time until the setup session began, to make it through.
Amy veered to the right and found an open parking spot next to a light pole. It was getting darker by the second, and a bit of extra light would help make sure she got everything out of Mimi. She wouldn't be happy if she got inside, took off her coat, and then had to bundle back up again because she forgot a container of props. Amy got out and pulled her coat zipper all the way up to her chin. The evening wind was even more brutal than when she'd left the house. She opened the rear door of the car and began pulling out bags of props. Two cross-body messenger bags full of scarves and ornaments went over her head in opposite directions. She swung the bags around so they were positioned behind her. Then she stuck her arms through the handles of two tote bags and hung them from her elbows. Last came the box full of clear, Lucite stands. She set the plastic storage bin on the ground while she shut the hatchback. Then she began the careful shuffle through the parking lot, while trying not to drop or break any of her holiday decorating cargo.
Ten minutes later she arrived at her assigned table near the center of the ballroom. The first task was to un-bundle herself. Carrying an extra twenty pounds of gear through a toasty warm building while wearing a coat designed to keep a person comfortable in temperatures up to thirty degrees below zero left her feeling like a steamed figgy pudding. After shedding her winter gear she deposited all of the bags on the floor around the generic, five-foot long folding table and took a deep breath. There would be time to refine the layout the next day when all of the food and containers were present. For now she just needed to place everything in its spot. Of course, she had already worked out the configuration, so it was just a matter of getting everything out of the bags and onto the table. She smoothed a white cotton cloth over the scratched plastic table then covered it with a sheer square of silver tulle. The feather garland on the tree at Halo Restaurant would've fit perfectly with the items she had chosen for her table, but feathers were not a good thing around food. Flyaway, inedible fluffs weren't a good garnish. She opened one of the messenger bags and pulled out the cardboard cutouts of the platters she would be using for the food the next day. No need to risk breaking the actual dishes when silhouette stand-ins would do the job. After those were arranged it was time to add some height. Her shoulder bumped the edge of the tabletop when she bent to pick up one of the clear cubes that some of the platters would be perched on. The table wobbled like a newborn colt.
She lifted the tablecloth and peered at the legs underneath. Two of the brackets that were supposed to hold the legs in place were dangling in mid-air instead of being attached to the bottom of the tabletop. Not good. She stood and looked around for someone to help. The table needed to be replaced. There's no way it would hold up the weight of glass platters, ice, and food.
"Excuse me," she said to a convention center employee hurrying up the aisle. "My table is broken. Do you know who I can speak with to get a new one?"
The woman shook her head. A swath of tangled blonde hair swept over her shoulder from the movement. She was wearing a wig. A cheap wig. Amy cringed to think of what kind of hair disaster the poor woman was experiencing if she preferred wearing a wig that looked like it belonged to a well-used life-sized Barbie doll.
"I don't know," she whispered as she practically sprinted away from Amy. What was that about? Yes, her hair looked strange, but she didn't need to run away like a spooked rabbit. Everybody had bad hair days at some time. Considering the gale force winds outside, only the women who bought hairspray by the case had made it into the ballroom that evening sporting hairstyles that looked remotely normal.
Amy hurried up the aisle, searching for a person carrying a clipboard and wearing a stressed-out, teetering-on-the-edge-of-sanity expression. That usually signified the person was part of an event's management team. It felt like it took forever to track down someone, and the woman spoke like her voice track was stuck in fast forward, but within twenty minutes the broken table had been replaced with a stable, all screws intact one.
As Amy arranged the cardboard placeholders on her table for a second time there was a muted thump, accompanied by the crash of breaking glass and quickly followed by a scream. Two rows away another table had collapsed, its legs splayed out like a squished, 4-legged spider. A pile of glass shards glittered on the carpet near one corner. As people rushed up the rows to see what had happened, there was another crash and anguished scream. Talk about bad juju. A tablescape contest using rickety tables?
Her competitive side kicked in, and she forced herself to stop gawking and get back to work. She placed a few more of the ice-like platforms in the center of the table and then snaked long strips of gray silk between the pedestals, adding shiny and matte silver ornaments to fill in open areas between the platters. As she worked, several more crashes and tortured cries echoed through the ballroom. Suddenly everybody seemed to be peering under tablecloths or pushing on tabletops to check for stability issues. The vibe in the room bordered on full-out chaos by the time she took a step back to study her work. Her table looked as good as it could. Tomorrow, once the food and cut-crystal platters were added, it would look spectacular, in her biased opinion. Hopefully the judges would think so too. She stashed the bags with extra supplies under the table and pulled out her coat. The night wasn't over yet. Dressing for the fruit salad and a couple gallons of non-alcoholic punch still needed to be made. Time to hit the road so she could at least get a few hours of sleep.
A woman dressed in black from head to toe careened through the doorway as Amy was exiting the ballroom. The wheels of the luggage cart stacked with cardboard boxes that she was pushing rumbled over the hardwood floor like thunder. Since the woman wore a high-collared chef's jacket, there was a good chance she was in the professional division. Nothing like cutting it close, gliding in a half-hour before the setup period was scheduled to end.
A group was gathered in the hallway outside the ballroom. Amy recognized two faces in the knot of worried people that included event staff and hotel workers—Bea and Rayshelle. Had they been some of the collapsing table victims? She wanted to make sure Bea was okay, but Rayshelle's prickly personality was about as pleasant as moldy Limburger cheese. Concern over Bea won out. Amy turned and walked toward the group, instead of out the door to the quiet, stress-free parking lot.
"She had blonde hair, just like her!" Rayshelle screeched as she pointed at Amy. Yay! She hadn't said a word, and Rayshelle was already in full witch hunt mode. "I didn't really look at her face. I bet it was Amy and she just changed her clothes after stealing my stuff."
Amy froze as a dozen people turned to look at her. What was going on? Bea stepped forward and came to the rescue. "I did get a good look at the woman. She was at least four inches taller than Amy and had a different body type. I'm positive Amy wasn't the thief who took our props."
Took their props? That was even worse than damage from unstable tables. Rayshelle growled like an angry dog and stomped her feet in response to Bea. If her head started spinning, Amy was taking cover in the nearby lounge area. The couch there looked sturdy enough to act as a demon shield. Another woman, wearing a name tag sticker like the ones that had been given to all competitors, raised her hand. "I agree. She obviously isn't the person who took my cart. That woman was much taller and skinnier. So could we please get back to figuring out who really took our things?"
An hour later, Amy cupped her hands around her face to protect her eyes from the icy snowflakes that felt more like miniature spears, pelting her cheeks. Rayshelle had already attacked her enough for having the same hair color as the woman who had taken the props. Now Mother Nature was pretending to be a ninja. Amy knew how to apply blush. Rosy cheeks via bad weather was not a beauty effect she needed.
As she stepped onto the porch, she could see Alex through the kitchen door's window. The site of her husband still made her heart go bump, badda, bump. There was a gym set up in the basement, and he knew how to use it. Coming home to be greeted by a rear view of him in perfect-fitting, butt-hugging jeans was good, but he was standing at the stove stirring something in a pot. Oh, baby. That was so not good. He had admitted to ruining canned soup before he met her. Not a promising sign that her dinner would be tasty, since adding a can full of water was apparently too complicated. There wasn't a single can of soup in her pantry, so what was he doing? What if he had decided to whip something up using the ingredients she needed to use for the competition?
"Hey, honey. What are you making?" she asked as she opened the door. It smelled wonderful in the kitchen, like lemon and chicken. Not the burnt aroma she had expected. She hung her coat up on the rack next to the door. "It smells good in here."
"I know. What a surprise, huh? Especially considering it's me." He laughed as he gave whatever was in the pot another vigorous stir. "It's chicken and orzo soup."
Amy ran through the ingredients she would need to make everything for the next evening and decided he probably hadn't poached any of her supplies. At least he shouldn't have if he made the soup like most people would. "You made chicken soup from scratch?"
"Hell, no. I got it from Columbo's Market." He grabbed a couple of bowls out of the cupboard next to the stove. "You never eat well when you are in battle mode. Have a seat and fuel up a bit before you run out of energy. I bet you still have things to do tonight, and you'll be up early tomorrow."
He knew her well. She couldn't deny that was exactly what she had planned. She also couldn't deny that she was exhausted. As she scooted onto the bench in the breakfast nook she could feel her back muscles quiver as they relaxed. Steam rose from the hot soup when Alex set the bowl in front of her. The scent of the rich broth was comforting and energizing before she even took a bite. Hopefully not too energizing, since she just needed to do a couple of simple cooking chores and then go to bed. Sleeping soundly would be nice, but that prospect was sketchy considering the tsunami of thoughts that always invaded her mind when she tried to sleep before a big contest.
"How did the setup stuff go?" Alex asked.
Amy took a fortifying spoonful of the lemony soup and dove into an explanation of the strange happenings of the evening. When she was done with the twisted tale, she rubbed circles on the side of her forehead. "Of course, since the thief had blonde hair, the ever-obnoxious Rayshelle Applebee was trying to blame the thefts on me. Bea Perkins, along with a couple of other people that got a good look at the woman, assured everybody that it wasn't me. Apparently the woman was tall and thin, not something I could fake if I wanted to. The thing is—I wonder if I saw the thief myself. I asked a tall woman for help, and I could tell she was wearing a wig. A really cheap, ratty, blonde wig."
Alex reached across the table and squeezed her hand. "I'm sorry. You had so much fun at this event the last couple years. It doesn't sound very enjoyable at all now."
"Not really. I would much rather concentrate on making a perfect fruit salad than worrying about defending myself against Rayshelle's wild accusations. I'm not behind the shenanigans, but I sure would like to know who is trying to spoil things. This contest is getting bigger every year and makes a lot of money for the Presents For Kids charity. I'd hate to see it harmed by a Scrooge."
* * *
"I made a sausage and green chili strata for you," Amy said as Alex walked into the kitchen in search of his morning cup of coffee the next day. He didn't need to know he was pouring his mug from the second pot of coffee she had made that morning. "I set a couple of new hot sauces I picked up last week on the island, if it isn't spicy enough for you."
"You didn't need to make breakfast for me when you have so many things to do for the contest." He winked as he spooned sugar into his mug. "I'm perfectly capable of breaking out my credit card and hitting a drive-thru."
"There's no reason for you to go hungry just because I'm a little busy." Alex was a successful, but insanely busy, entrepreneur who treated Amy like a cherished queen. He loved her unconditionally, so she cooked for him whenever she could, as a little way to show how much she loved him. "I had a loaf of bread that needed to be used up. Besides that, you've always told me you hate fast food. Have you been lying to me?" She waggled her eyebrows. "Do you have a secret addiction to greasy burgers and over-salted fries?"
"Nope. I have an addiction to making you happy, and if I have to eat a greasy breakfast sandwich, I'm willing to make the sacrifice so you can give the contest your best shot."
He used a fork to push the small, single-serving casserole dish onto a silicone hot pad and carried it to the kitchen island counter. As he settled onto one of the stools, Amy opened the oven to check on the muffin tops. She was still trying to decide what to call the bite-sized baked goods. A moist, orange muffin batter was dropped onto a cookie sheet, instead of spooned into muffin cups, so the results were closer to a tender cookie than a muffin. A coating of sugar would make them sparkle like glittering coins. "Which sounds better, Orange-Kissed Mini Muffin Tops or Citrus Coins?"
"Citrus Coins. It's more unique. Might make them stand out with the judges if they have a catchy name." He squirted a spicy stream of hot sauce onto the eggy casserole. "When did you get up? I see at least three things that look to be fresh out of the oven, and it's barely eight a.m."
"I don't know. I couldn't sleep well thinking about all of the things that are going on at the hotel." Amy donned oven mitts and pulled the cookie sheets covered with little orange mounds from the oven. She set the sheets on cooling racks. "I suppose the problems could be coincidental, a random cluster of bad luck, but I barely slept last night wondering if it's something more sinister. What if everything is connected?"
That was a headache-inducing question. If the incidents were linked, who was causing the trouble and why? That was another loaded question that was heavier than a pan of lasagna from Popper's Pizza. Both the food and the prospect of facing more snafus made her nauseous. Adding a bottle of antacid to her bags would be a good idea for the day.
She jumped when Alex's warm hands slipped around her hips and settled on her stomach. He gently guided her to the second stool at the island. While she'd been yammering about muffin names and thinking about strange happenings, he had placed the second strata there, along with a knife and fork. She had been so busy connecting the destructive dots she hadn't even noticed him preparing the spot for her.
"It looks like you have enough done. I think it's time to take a break and eat some breakfast. It's even more important for you to eat since you didn't get much sleep." He patted the stool in front of her breakfast. "Sometimes it helps to talk things out. Tell me what you think is happening, get it off your chest, and maybe you'll feel better. The holidays are chaotic enough without worrying about things that are out of your control. I want to enjoy the holidays with you. Not worry that you'll have a nervous breakdown."
Could anybody not be stressed out at Christmas? Maybe a man could, but a woman…not a chance. Party planning, gift buying, cleaning, cooking…cooking, cleaning, fighting crowds to discover the perfect gift sold out hours ago, engineering parties that would make a professional planner envious. Amy was spinning like a Tilt-A-Whirl run by a psychotic carnie. She hopped onto the stool. Hopefully Alex was right. Putting her ideas about what was happening at the contest into spoken words would help empty out the mess of thoughts clogging up her brain. She needed to concentrate on preparing food.
"Tell me what you're thinking about," Alex prompted again.
"Bea said she thought it was odd that the tablecloth at Halo Restaurant caught on fire. It looked to her like someone had purposely flipped over the candle in the middle of the table. Then, speaking of tables, all of the missing screws on the tables last night. Could they have fallen out from being moved around, or did someone take them out?"
Alex raised his left eyebrow. Then his right eyebrow. "If the tables are from a rental company, they could be iffy. Lots of moving around from venue to venue and not a lot of maintenance. Although I wouldn't expect quite so many faulty tables at one place at the same time."
So maybe those things did have a rational, non-villainous explanation. Amy took a deep breath and plunged on. "The prop disappearances were definitely a case of thievery. Was it the contest as a whole or specific contestants being targeted? Did someone just think the things would look nice at their house? Rayshelle was trying her best to pin the thefts on me, but what if she did it and was trying to divert attention to me? She enters all of the local contests that I do, but she has never even placed, let alone won. Maybe she's come up with tactics to win, beyond developing recipes."
Alex raked his finger through his short, ginger-colored hair. He leaned over and kissed her forehead. He hadn't shaved yet, so his whiskers softly scratched her nose. "Damn. That's a lot of suspicious stuff going on. It seems like too many things to be coincidence, but I'm not sure what the purpose would be. Maybe revenge or sabotage? A sore loser or a ruthless wannabe winner, like Rayshelle? Promise me you'll be careful. I would imagine most of the other competitors know who you are and your reputation for winning. If it's someone gunning for a win, they could decide to try to take out the front runners, like you."
Over the past couple years Amy had honed her cooking and contest-entering skills. Cooking was something she had done for most of her life. As a child she had to cook her own meals if she wanted anything other than frozen meals and condensed soup. Learning how to impress judges with professionally worded recipes and beautifully plated food had taken some time. Lots of studying and note-taking. But just because she did her homework that didn't mean others weren't more than willing to cheat to win.
"I know. I'll have to keep an eye out for anything else that looks suspicious, but I would much rather concentrate on arranging the perfect table than solving a big mystery that could really be just a case of massively bad luck."
After the chatty breakfast with Alex, Amy felt better. Or maybe it was the afternoon of comforting cooking that soothed her crackling nerves. The kitchen was her favorite place to be, unless Alex was frisky. Then she preferred the bedroom. Whatever caused the chill outside didn't matter. She was glad she had arrived at the K Hotel calm, because playing a game of storage-bin-Jenga on a luggage trolley during a snowstorm rated a ten out of ten on the cruel-and-unusual-punishment scale. The giant awning stretching over the valet drop-off area wasn't much protection from the snow, which was falling horizontally. At least the torture was exacted equally on everybody. A line of vehicles snaked around the K Hotel parking lot, although the cars at the back were barely visible in the heavy snow. In years past, at the smaller banquet hall on the other side of town, getting everything inside had been a survival skill test, as competitors were responsible for hauling their food across a slippery, pothole-filled parking lot. Okay, so she wasn't having fun, but if the venue hadn't changed she would've been even more frustrated and frozen. As during the previous evening, hotel staff waited by the entrance to the conference facility, ready to help load up a fleet of luggage trolleys for any competitor who wanted to take advantage of the service. Now that there were heavy coolers full of food and boxes full of fragile serving ware to move, it seemed that every competitor had cued up for the valet service. She doubted anybody would let the carts out of their sight now, though.
Amy placed the last clear storage bin on her cart and shut the back door of the Jeep. Alex had insisted she take his four-wheel drive, since the storm showed no sign of letting up and the roads were already snow-covered. She kind of liked arriving in the tough-looking, black off-road vehicle instead of her adorable Mini. Tough and ready for anything. That's how she felt, considering she was in the middle of a two-day-long competition in the middle of the holiday season. At that point, shopping for presents was like getting trapped in a skateless roller derby nightmare. The grocery stores were packed with people buying enough food to feed small armies. Her kitchen was her soothing hidey-hole where she worked out stress by cooking. At the end of the meeting at Halo it had been announced that the gorgeously decorated Christmas tree in the entrance was the prize for the most visually appealing amateur tablescape. That was a pretty subjective thing to judge, since one person's perfect was another's tour in the land of gaudy, but she was game. That tree would look incredible in her living room. She had been planning on buying trim at after-holiday sales to try to recreate it. If she could win the tree she wouldn't have to play a rousing game of who-saw-it-first with crazed sale shoppers.
"Aren't you cold?" she asked the smiling bellhop who was minding her trolley. She was glad he was a boy-band-cute teen instead of a woman with a wig. "You only have a thin jacket on."
"Naw. I'm running around a lot, so that keeps me warm. Besides, I play in an outdoor hockey league. This is good conditioning for me." He flashed a smile that probably made half of the girls in his school swoon. "Do you have everything unloaded?"
"Yes. I've got everything."
He motioned for a valet worker to take the Jeep's keys from Amy. What a treat to be pampered. It sure beat testing her own defensive driving skills to find a parking spot then playing sherpa over an arctic tundra.
"Are you an amateur or professional?" the bellhop asked as they walked through the sliding doors into the grand hallway of the convention center. Crystal chandeliers sparkled overhead as the trolley silently rolled over the thick, diamond patterned carpet. The hotel and conference center was less than a year old but had already established itself as the premier place for parties and conferences in Kellerton.
"Amateur."
He nodded and nudged the cart to the right, toward the end of the line of people and carts tracing along the ivory paneled wall. "This is your line. Good luck!"
Amy took over as captain of her appetizer transporting ship. The line moved quickly with three people checking in participants, but there were unhappy murmurs billowing back through the crowd. She could see contestants pushing carts past the closed ballroom doors, with foam sample boxes still balanced on top of coolers and storage bins. Something obviously was happening, and it didn't appear to be good. When Amy made it to the table, she found out what the fuss was about.
"An apparent power surge broke all of the cold storage equipment we had set up for this event. Replacements are on the way, but in the meantime we are asking that everybody go into the conference room to the left," a woman with long, wavy hair the color of pumpkin explained. "At this point it looks like we'll be running about half an hour behind schedule. If you are afraid your cooler won't keep something sufficiently chilled, the patio doors are unlocked to place food outside. It's only fifteen degrees, so everything should keep fine. All samples will be turned in after the replacement equipment arrives, and then the ballroom will be opened for the competition."
Even though it was cold enough outside to make a polar bear happy, Amy didn't need to stash any of her food on the patio. She had lined the super-insulated coolers with ice packs. The dips, winter fruit salad, and vegetables would stay perfectly chilled for hours.
Amy grabbed the brass handles on the cart and tried to steer it toward the conference room. It was sort of like grabbing a stubborn bull by the horns and trying to move it backward as the swivel wheels sunk into the plush carpet. How did bellhops make it look so easy? The long-sleeved white shirts they all wore were probably hiding biceps that would make a body builder jealous. Finally she made it into the large room and maneuvered along the wall to an open spot near the mini kitchen at the far end.
"Well this is a bit inconvenient," Bea said as she arrived dragging a cart behind her. "I guess I had better get these sample cartons back in a cooler."
Amy nodded. In the chaos she had forgotten about her samples hanging out on top of the cooler. "It's pretty unusual to have all of the refrigeration equipment break at the same time, don't you think?"
Bea shrugged as she unlatched the cooler lid. She had let her usual super-short spiked hairstyle grow out a bit. The pixie cut looked wonderful with her heart-shaped face. "If it was a power surge, those can do a lot of damage. At least people can stash food outside to keep cold if they need to. This would've been a disaster for quite a few people if it was held in the middle of summer instead of the winter."
Amy surveyed the crowd. There were a lot of people heading outside. An almost constant glacial breeze puffed across the room as people walked through the French doors to deposit containers full of food in the snow banks along the sidewalk. The big windows that overlooked a garden in the summer were like glass doors on the makeshift refrigerator now. Hotel workers circulated through the crowd, offering masking tape and markers to people who wanted to label their containers. "I always make sure I have plenty of ice in my coolers to keep food cold, no matter what time of year it is. I'm not turning the heat off in my vehicle and getting frostbite so my trout dip won't spoil."
"Common sense, but things like that probably play a good part in you winning so many contests."
Amy wrapped a strand of hair around her finger, a nervous habit whenever she was uncomfortable. She was super competitive and proud of winning so many trophies and prizes, but it was difficult for her to take a compliment without wanting to pull her hair over her eyes and hide. How did she sometimes win against professional chefs? Often when she had a chance to look at other entries, after the prizes were awarded, it seemed impossible that she had won.
Bea nudged Amy with her shoulder and said, "This is kind of fun despite the glitches. I should pick your brain for tips so I can enter even more contests besides this one and the Summer Festival baking contests. Hopefully I won't get my platters and tablecloths stolen in the future."
"I would love to chat with you, but you have the biggest factor in winning down already. You are an excellent cook. You won second place in the pie contest in August." Amy frowned. "Have you heard anything else about the thefts last night?"
"Nope. My guess is somebody is going to throw a nice party on the cheap."
They continued to talk about food and general holiday craziness as the crowd in the ballroom grew. The center of the huge room was almost impenetrable between the people, luggage carriers, and coolers. A woman in a black chef's uniform dragged her cart past and stopped nearby. Amy recognized her as the contestant who had breezed into the ballroom half an hour before the prep time ended. The chef ran her fingers through the long swatch of black hair on the top of her head. The sides were shaved. Definitely a unique hairstyle, but maybe not ideal for Michigan in the winter. Amy decided the woman probably owned lots of hats and caps.
The newcomer rolled her eyes and said, "Can you believe this? No refrigerators or freezers? The people who bought tickets to eat the food may get a sample of food poisoning along with their goat cheese canapés."
"Things happen that are beyond anybody's control," Amy said. The Goth chef's attention had shifted to something behind her. Amy turned to find Rayshelle peering into the cooler perched on the end of her cart.
"What are you doing?" Amy asked as she fixed an evil eye on the rude snoop.
Rayshelle's cheeks flushed as she slammed down the cooler lid. "Looking for my cooler. I seem to have misplaced it in this madhouse. It looks just like that one."
Amy channeled one of her ice packs and asked, "Your cooler has my name written on the lid in permanent marker?"
"Now there's a fine question. Can't wait to hear the answer," Bea said as she tilted her head to the side, waiting for the response.
Rayshelle didn't say a word. Just took a few steps backward and tried to disappear into the crowd, but the puff of process-damaged, unnaturally cherry red hair on her head stood out like the tip of a laser pointer as she pushed past startled people.
The black-clad chef shook her head. "Some people just don't have a clue about what it means to play fair."
Amy continued to make small talk with Bea while keeping a close eye on her coolers. After over half an hour of feeling like an anchovy crammed into the conference room, an announcement was made that competitors could line up to turn in their samples. She slowly inched through the luggage cart traffic jam until she ended up in the amateur cook line. She was surprised at how quickly it was moving forward since people were actually handing over sample containers this time, but she soon saw that there were now four women handling check-in duties.
Amy stepped into the P through S lane and checked her boxes, making sure the ones that needed to be refrigerated were marked with a giant "R" on the lid. As the woman in front of her turned in her samples, Amy flipped open each box to make sure everything was still arranged perfectly, or as close to perfect as she could muster after schlepping the samples all over the conference center.
The smile of the woman who checked her in looked like it belonged on a department store mannequin. Her lips barely moved out of toothy smile position as she spoke. Make that creepy living ventriloquist puppet. "Please take the rest of your food into the ballroom, and unload it near your table. Someone will be by to remove your empty cart. Don't begin setting anything up until the announcement to begin is made."
"Thank you," Amy said as she grabbed the handle on her cart and leaned forward to get the momentum going. She needed to get more exercise, but pushing around a heavy cooler-loaded cart on thick carpeting wasn't on her workout agenda. When the wheels hit the hardwood dance floor in the ballroom, she sighed with relief. There was a rhythmic rumble from the hard, rubber tires as she picked up speed and found her table in the middle of the room. Everything was just as she had left it. There were no cries of frustration echoing through the cavernous room. Nothing funky or malicious seemed to be happening, except the fried refrigerators and freezers, but that was because of a random power surge. Or some creative mechanical tinkering.
She kept an eye on the hotel employees dressed in black pants and long-sleeved white shirts as they shuttled empty carts up and down the aisles. The person she suspected to be the thief had worn a blonde wig and if anybody could spot a wig, she could. Being a former hair stylist actually was quite beneficial when it came to culinary competitions. She could perform with sharp instruments in stressful situations and spot fake hair from twenty feet away.
Amy exercised a bit more doing dead lifts with the coolers, trying to get them off the cart without jostling the food inside. A steamy shower would be her best friend in the morning. A bit of heat to loosen up the muscles that were bound to seize up in her sleep. Once all of the coolers and boxes full of platters were on the floor she flagged down a helper to take away the cart. It was a guy, and he absolutely wasn't wearing a wig, considering his sparse, receding hairline. There were still quite a few tables without people standing near them, so she had enough time to find Bea to wish her luck.
As Amy walked up the row where Bea's table was located, the intimidating chef in all black roared past her. A woman on a mission, and it was clear that nobody should get in her way. Or risk getting barreled over. The black and more black clothing stood out among the standard, white chef jackets that many of the other professionals wore. Amy liked it, but she wasn't sure she could pull it off herself. She would feel like an impostor wearing one of the jackets, since she didn't go to culinary school. Maybe a black apron would work, since aprons, made of everything from frilly lace to leopard print fabric, were the standard uniform among the amateur competitors. The chef's modified mohawk hairstyle added to the intimidation factor. No way would Amy cut off her long hair and dye it that dark. Nope. Nature gave her honey blonde hair, and she would keep it that way. At least until she started turning gray. Then all bets were off.
Bea was standing in front of her table, studying it like a battle map, when Amy finally arrived. It had taken longer than expected to reach her friend.
"Are you ready?" Amy asked as she squeezed between two tables to let a harried-looking woman pass by. Maybe it was the timing of the contest, but the competitors just looked more intense and stressed out than in any other local cooking contest Amy had entered.
"I am. Just going through my plating sequence." Bea bent and pried open the lid of a storage bin under her table. "And checking to make sure I didn't forget anything. Thought I left my big platter at home for a second. Thank goodness I'm a serving ware hoarder, so I could replace what was stolen last night."
"I packed extras if you need something."
Bea shook her head. "I hope not, but thanks for offering."
The sound system crackled to life. "The setup portion of the competition will begin in five minutes. Please report to your table, and make sure the aisles are clear of carts."
The frenetic energy in the room escalated. People began bouncing around like excited neutrons. Wasn't that what happened in a nuclear reaction? How long before everything went kaboom? Considering there could be a saboteur in their midst, Amy tried to shove that unwanted thought to the back corner of her brain. It could hang out behind the list of presents she still needed to buy since she had been busy developing recipes and planning the tablescape for the competition.
"It may take me five minutes to get back to my table," Amy said as she patted Bea on the forearm. "Good luck, and I'll see you after it's over."
"Good luck to you, too!"
The wide aisles were clogged with people, coolers, and carts that had about the same effect as semi trucks driving on a walking path. So Amy began cutting between tables. She had sort of been joking about needing the five minutes to make it back to her table four rows away. The joke was on her as the two minute warning announcement came. She could see the Lucite boxes on her table, but three luggage trolleys and two seemingly impenetrable knots of people blocked the aisle ahead. It took some creative moves that would've made a dance aerobics instructor proud, but she made it to her table with a minute to spare.
"Competitors you have thirty minutes to set up your tables. Please remember there will need to be at least ten servings of every item. Time starts…now."
Clapping, cheers, and a couple banshee yells punctuated the start of the frenzy. Amy took a deep, supposedly cleansing, breath. The extra oxygen didn't help. She still felt like she had chugged a bottle of caramel syrup along with her afternoon latte, but she dove into her tasks anyway. The cardboard cutouts she had arranged on the table the previous evening were replaced with sparkling crystal plates and silver platters. Then she began arranging the foods that didn't need to be refrigerated. Blocks of ice went into the clear plastic columns Alex had made for her. He had even built the ice trays with tiny holes to let the water drip into hidden reservoirs as the ice melted. Her husband was handsome and handy, a pretty perfect set of attributes.
Big electronic countdown clocks were positioned on the walls at opposite ends of the ballroom. An announcement, by someone who sounded impossibly calm, was made every five minutes to let competitors know how much time was remaining. Amy arranged sweet shortbread crackers on a tray then piped snickerdoodle dip on them in cute rosettes. The smoked trout dip was in another piping bag so it could be neatly swirled onto cucumber slices. After that she spooned jewel-toned diced fruit salad into shot glasses. With five minutes left she dumped the container of large, two-inch square ice cubes into the elevated drink dispenser. The ice was made of coconut water studded with apricot halves, so it would add flavor to the punch as it melted, along with looking pretty. She had just poured in the punch and adjusted the garland around the base of the dispenser when the buzzer went off.
"Competitors…step away from your tables. Time is up. Please make sure all storage boxes and coolers are stored underneath your table then exit the ballroom immediately so the judging can begin."
Amy nudged one of her coolers farther under the tablecloth then joined the procession toward the doors that had been opened at the far end of the ballroom. A team of judges who would decide which tables looked the best stood on the elevated stage, waiting to begin their duties. Amy had been to the conference center enough to know there was a large waiting area that all of the competitors were funneling into. Friends and relatives would be waiting there, along with ticket holders who had paid to attend the event. Once the judging was over, people would be able to check out the tables and sample the foods. In the past the tables with the most quickly disappearing food had turned out to be the winners. When the paid crowd was unleashed, Amy hoped to find a group of satisfied people hanging around her display.
Alex was somewhere in the crowd, but even though she wanted to see him, there were more pressing things to take care of. Like finding a bathroom. Coffee was great fuel for short bursts of energy, like setting up a buffet table in thirty minutes, but there were drawbacks. Amy skirted the perimeter of the crowd, searching for Alex's short cropped ginger hair and the restroom signs. She found the signs, but a line of anxious women stretched out the door and along the wall. Okey not dokey. Amy turned to the left and started up the hallway that ran along the side of the ballroom. The mission to find her husband needed to be temporarily abandoned. There were more restrooms—she just needed to find them and hope not too many others had the same idea.
There were barely any people in the hallway. A good sign. Most were gathered in the grand reception area she had just fled from. She picked up her pace when she spotted the stick-woman sign pointing to the right. She veered down a narrower hallway lined with doors. Placards designated them as smaller conference rooms. Happy day! There wasn't even anybody else in the hallway and more importantly, not a line stretching out of the restroom.
When she exited the stall someone was walking out the entrance door. Amy caught a glimpse of long, brown hair just before the heavy door thumped shut. The wigged trouble-maker was in the building and on the move. So much for fussing with her own hair and touching up makeup. Amy washed her hands in record time, silently thanking the conference center for providing paper towels instead of just air dryers or she would've been drying her hands on the forest green apron she was still wearing. The woman who had just left hadn't wasted time primping either, but she probably should've at least run a comb through the tangled, synthetic hair.
Amy slowly pushed open the restroom door. She looked both ways and spotted the woman as she turned right onto the main hallway, away from the crowd. The thick carpet had been awful for pushing around heavy carts, but it was perfect to hide the sound of footsteps. Amy sprinted to the corner then stopped. Walking at the YWCA every other day had stopped her from gaining weight over comfort food season, and it had prepared her for chasing mysterious women. Hurrah!
She peeked around the corner. At the end of the hallway a pair of swinging doors flapped shut. The entrance to the kitchen for the ballroom. Amy padded up the hallway and stopped. She was too short to see through the round windows on the set of doors. The "Employees Only" sign was at her eye level. So she wasn't an employee, but she was a competitor. Close enough. She pushed open the doors just in time to see Wig Woman exiting through the doors at the other end of the industrial kitchen.
There wasn't carpet in the kitchen, so Amy tried to tip-toe run across the hard tiles. Of course, her rubber-soled, ergonomically correct, super-comfortable shoes squeaked. Hopefully the woman was so focused on her nefarious plans she wasn't listening for footsteps or giant mice following her. Amy pushed open the second set of swinging door a few inches and blinked to adjust her eyes to the dimmer light in the hallway that ran along the other side of the ballroom. The woman was about ten feet away and focused on a task. Distracted was good. If the woman accomplished her apparent mission of pulling the fire alarm, everything and everybody would be drenched. Amy certainly didn't want to walk through the parking lot while dripping wet, and nobody else in attendance probably had any aspirations to become human icicles either.
Amy took a step back into the kitchen and smacked the palms of her hands on the doors. They swung open with thunderous booms. "Stop, thief!" Amy yelled as she sprinted toward the woman.
Amy shoved Wig Woman away from the fire alarm box, and the woman screeched. Playing football with Alex's sports-obsessed family at reunions had finally come in handy for something more than collecting odd bruises. The other woman stumbled, but she regained her balance by impersonating a twin propeller plane. She glared at Amy as she yanked open the door to one of the conference rooms and disappeared inside.
Hotel workers rushed down the hall toward Amy. The organizer of the event burst out of one of the ballroom doors, followed by two uniformed security guards. Amy pointed at the conference room door. "The woman who I believe stole the supplies last night just tried to pull the fire alarm. She went into that conference room. We need to find her before she gets to another alarm."
The director, Bridget Mahoney, narrowed her eyes at Amy. Her hair, pulled back into a tight French twist, looked like molten silver. The real estate corporation Mrs. Mahoney founded owned half of Kellerton. A shrewd business woman wouldn't tolerate games and hoaxes well. "What makes you think somebody is trying to ruin the competition by turning on the sprinklers? Besides, you didn't have anything stolen last night, so how do you know this is the same woman?"
"What about all of the freezers and refrigerators breaking today? How many tables had mysteriously missing screws and collapsed last night? Did you forget about the tablecloth catching on fire at the brunch? What if all of those things are connected…to a tall woman wearing a wig and posing as a K Hotel employee who just flipped up the cover on the fire alarm? I don't think it would hurt to track her down and ask a few questions, because I think somebody is trying to sabotage the competition."
Mrs. Mahoney stared at Amy for a few seconds then nodded her approval of the theory. She turned to the small group of people gathered around. "Check out the conference room. Keep an eye out for anybody who looks suspicious near the fire alarms."
Amy added. "The woman is dressed like a hotel employee with black pants and a white shirt. Tonight she's wearing a wig with long brown hair. The wig is a mess, though, so she should be pretty easy to spot."
The security officers disappeared into the dark conference room as the group of hotel personnel spread out along the hallway lined with windowless doors. "Remember, all of the conference rooms are connected," the director called as she wrung her hands together. "It's dreadful, but I think you may be right that somebody is trying to ruin the contest."
There was a shout from inside a nearby room. The wigged woman banged through the door next to Amy. Once again she was grateful for the plush carpet because before she knew it she was lying on her back, staring at the crystal chandelier overhead, and trying to catch her breath. She squealed as something furry plopped onto her face. One arm was pinned between her stomach and the wriggling woman lying on top of her. Amy used her other arm to fling off the hairy beast. Freed from the grasp of the tangled wig, she was able to clearly see who had tackled her. It was the chef in black, minus her dark chef's jacket, and angrier than a wet cat.
The security guards each grabbed one of the chef's arms and helped her stand. "Let me go," she hissed as she struggled to wrench herself out of their grasps.
Amy propped herself up on her elbows, not quite ready to stand up, until the guards dragged the pissed-off chef a little farther away. No need to stand in harm's way, or in the path of a right hook, if the woman managed to get loose. Two police officers ran down the hallway toward them, closely followed by Alex.
"Are you hurt?" he asked as he dropped to his knees beside Amy.
She shook her head as she watched one of the officers fasten handcuffs on the wrists of the scary chef. "Just staying down here to catch my breath and wait until it's safe. The chef and I have tackled each other twice in the last five minutes. I'd like to make it through the rest of the night without feeling like I've been ambushed by a football team."
* * *
"This is going to look great in the living room," Alex said as he draped his arm over Amy's shoulders. They were standing in the corner of the ballroom, admiring the blue and silver trimmed Christmas tree that had been moved there from the lobby at Halo Restaurant. "You worked hard on this event. I'm glad you won the prize you wanted."
"Thank you, honey." Amy stood on her tip-toes and kissed him on the cheek. "I was so excited to find out this was one of the prizes. I think it was very serendipitous that my table theme that I had planned out months ago matched it almost perfectly."
"Your table looks like it was designed to sit next to the tree. We'll have to host a party next year so we can see how they look together."
"Congratulations," a woman wearing a black silk mini dress said as she toasted Amy with a plastic wine glass. "Your table was gorgeous."
"Thank you. Happy holidays!" Amy called as she turned to walk back to her table. She grabbed Alex's hand and led him up the aisle. "Looks like people are starting to pack up. I don't think I have any food left, so it won't take long to get ready to leave. I just want to go home and crawl into bed."
"Me too, but I don't want to sleep," he whispered into her ear as they stopped in front of Amy's table. She shivered even though the ballroom was pleasantly warm. All of the food was gone. Only an inch of punch remained in the glass drink dispenser. She slid a storage bin out from under the table and began tossing in the silk and silver lamé scarves that had been wound between the platters. Once there was a nice bed of soft fabric she nestled the ornaments and chandelier crystals on top. While she was doing that Alex had found a luggage cart and wheeled it up beside her.
"Can you start wrapping the plates and platters in bubble wrap? There should be a box full of it under the table."
"Anything to help get you home sooner. And in bed." He waggled his eyebrows. "With me."
Amy laughed as she emptied the reservoirs full of water under the ice blocks into the drink dispenser. The jar and remaining ice would go into a cooler, and she could take care of it at home, since there was no easy way to get to a sink to dispose of the liquid.
"Congrats. I know you loved that tree," Bea said as she stopped in the aisle. She leaned on the handle of her luggage cart, which was already loaded with boxes and coolers. "Sorry you didn't win first place overall."
"I'm happy." Amy shrugged. "I won the specialty category that I wanted, and the champion deserved to win first place. A three-foot-tall solid ice fountain was a genius way to serve the punch."
"It was. I'm just glad you caught Erica before she hit that fire alarm, or we all would've had fountains."
"You know who she is?" Amy had no idea who the Chef In Black was, other than a big, cranky party-pooper. "I had seen her here the last few days, but she doesn't look familiar beyond that."
"It's Erica Clinton. She owns Black Swan catering and is also part owner of Mossman's Banquet Hall."
"Where this contest was held the last two years."
"Exactly. I would imagine she lost a lot of money when the contest moved here, between the event renting the hall and people who attend the cocktail party deciding to book future parties there. I heard her yelling at Bridget Mahoney that her Christmas was ruined because she had been counting on the revenue from the event."
"Her holiday was spoiled so she decided to torture everybody else?" Amy rolled her eyes as she wrapped the last serving plate in bubble wrap. "I guess the Grim Reaper look was very appropriate for her personality."
"It was indeed." Bea laughed. "I need to get going. Have to work tomorrow morning. You all have a good night. Merry Christmas," she said as she waved goodbye.
"Good night and happy holidays to you, too," Amy said. She gasped as Alex pushed her hair aside and kissed the side of her neck, in that special spot that always made her toes wiggle, as he untied her apron strings. "No PDA, mister. Help get the cart loaded up so we can continue this in a more appropriate place."
"Aye, aye, madam." Alex saluted her. Within two minutes he had everything stacked on the cart in an arrangement that would make a Tetris master proud. He placed the trophy on top like a cherry on a sundae. "Ready to leave?"
"Absolutely. Let's go home and make this holiday a little jollier."
* * *
Snickerdoodle Dip
8 oz. cream cheese, at room temperature
1/4 c. butter, at room temperature
1/4 c. real maple syrup
1 tsp. ground cinnamon
1/8 tsp. ground nutmeg
1 tsp. vanilla extract
Place cream cheese and butter in a medium-sized bowl. Cream together with an electric mixer until light and fluffy. Add rest of ingredients and mix until combined.
Serve as a dip with graham crackers, pretzels, butter crackers, etc. Can also be used as a spread for bagels or toast.
* * * * *
Creamy Tomato Soup with Garam Masala
The heat level of garam masala varies, ranging from mild to hot. While the soup is simmering, more can be added if you would like the soup to be spicier.
1 small, yellow onion, finely minced
1 Tbsp. butter
1 to 2 tsp. garam masala
1 – 28 oz. can crushed tomatoes
1 tsp. brown sugar
2 c. vegetable broth
½ c. plain Greek yogurt
Melt butter in a small sauté pan over medium heat. Add the onions. Season with 1 tsp. garam masala, salt and pepper. Cook, stirring frequently, until onions are soft and beginning to caramelize (you may need to turn down the heat if they start to burn), about 10 minutes. Transfer onions to a 3 qt. sauce pan. Add tomatoes, brown sugar and vegetable broth. Bring to a boil. Reduce heat and simmer for 30 minutes, adding more garam masala if you would like the taste of the spice to be stronger. Reduce heat to low and stir in yogurt. Check seasoning, adding more sugar or salt if necessary. Heat until just warmed through, taking care not to let it come to a boil or the yogurt will curdle. Makes 4-6 servings.
* * * * *
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Janel Gradowski lives in a land that looks like a cold weather fashion accessory, the mitten-shaped state of Michigan. She is a wife and mom to two kids and one Golden Retriever. Her journey to becoming an author is littered with odd jobs like renting apartments to college students and programming commercials for an AM radio station. Somewhere along the way she also became a beadwork designer and teacher. She enjoys cooking recipes found in her formidable cookbook and culinary fiction collection. Searching for unique treasures at art fairs, flea markets, and thrift stores is also a favorite pastime. Coffee is an essential part of her life.
To learn more about Janel Gradowski, visit her online at: http://www.janelgradowski.com
BOOKS BY JANEL GRADOWSKI
Culinary Competition Mysteries:
Christmas Canapés & Sabotage (holiday short story)
Barbecue & Bad Juju (short story in the Killer Beach Reads collection)
The Bartonville Series:
Must Love Sandwiches (novella)
The Queen of Bad Decisions (short story)