Javier Soto eyed the mesh bag of Vidalia onions on the countertop of the prep kitchen with deepening suspicion. The string opening was knotted in a different way. And the bag was not as full as it had been only an hour earlier, when he had unloaded his supplies. Yes, he told himself. It had been opened, definitely. With a scarred forefinger he counted the jumbo sweets one by one.
“Ocho!” he said triumphantly.
“Excuse me?” Jenn had positioned herself as far away from Tate Moody’s prep chef as she could manage in the studio’s small kitchen. Which meant that they were on opposite sides of the brightly lit white linoleum counter.
Jenn and Stephanie had complained bitterly when Scott announced only two hours earlier in the day that they would be sharing the prep kitchen with Moody’s crew, and Jenn had even threatened to quit. But they both knew she wasn’t going anywhere. How many jobs were there in Atlanta, Georgia, for a CIA-trained food stylist? Jenn put down her rolling pin and scooted her pie pans away from the manic chopping of the surly man at the other side of the counter.
“I say there are only ocho onions here,” Javier said, raising his voice. “Somebody is taking my onions. Somebody is stealing my Vidalias.”
“Ignore him,” Steph said, under her breath. She quickly dumped a pan of crumbled corn bread into the bowl with the rest of the ingredients for the Foxton family turkey dressing. On top of this she dumped a skilletful of cooked breakfast sausage, along with the pan drippings. She measured out sage, salt, cracked pepper, and chopped shallots, and began folding together the ingredients.
Javier Soto stopped chopping and sniffed the air. His gleaming black bandito-style mustache quivered with each inhalation.
“You!” he screamed with rage, pointing his knife at Steph. “You are the one who is stealing my Vidalias.” He ran around the counter and snatched up the mixing bowl. He plunged his hand into the glop and held a handful of it up to his nose. “My onions!” he cried. “My beautiful onions.”
“Hey!” Steph yelled. “That’s my dressing!” She grabbed at the bowl, but he was too quick.
“Valerie! Tate!” he called, cradling the bowl under his arm. “Vaya te! Come see what these thieves are doing to me!”
Val Foster was on the makeshift Vittles set, directing the placement of a forest of potted evergreens around the Vagabond. Tate was hooking up the propane tank to the grill, which had been relocated inside the studio.
“What now?” he muttered, turning to see his prep chef stalking toward him with a bright blue mixing bowl under one arm. Trailing close behind were two young women whom he recognized as Regina Foxton’s kitchen staff.
“Give it back!” cried the brunette with the short pigtails.
“Scott!” cried the petite redhead with the tattoos. “Scotty! We need you.”
a
Scott Zaleski and Regina Foxton were standing on the Fresh Start set, having a decidedly chilly discussion about the pumpkin pie situation, when they heard the ruckus emanating from the set next to theirs.
“What now?” Gina threw her script onto the counter and took off in the direction of her crew’s agitated cries. Scott was right on her heels.
The Vittles set closely resembled an armed standoff. A stocky, mustachioed Mexican in a white chef’s coat, tight Lycra running shorts, and bright yellow rubber clogs was clutching one of Regina’s trademark blue mixing bowls and brandishing a large wooden spoon, with which he was fending off the advances of Jenn and Stephanie. Tate Moody stood behind a stainless steel grill of Sherman tank proportions, his arms crossed, looking bemused.
Jenn and Stephanie circled the Mexican, grabbing at the bowl, but being rebuffed by random smacks from the wooden spoon.
“Gina!” Jenn said, spotting her boss. “This maniac was threatening Steph with a knife! Then he grabbed our dressing and ran over here with it. Make him give it back.”
“Look at this,” the Mexican demanded, thrusting the bowl at her. He held up a fistful of dressing. “You see? You smell? These are my onions. My Vidalias. They are stealing my onions.”
“Good Lord,” Gina said, backing away from the uncooked dressing. “It’s dressing. It has onions. I’m sure the girls didn’t take your onions. My recipe doesn’t even call for Vidalias. We have plenty of our own onions. Right, Steph?”
“Uh, right,” Stephanie said.
Tate Moody peered into the mixing bowl. He scooped up a bit of dressing and tasted. “Uh-huh,” he said. “These are definitely Vidalia onions.” He took the bowl from his aggrieved assistant and held it out to Gina. “Taste for yourself.”
“Ridiculous,” she said huffily. But she snagged a bit of onion and chewed thoughtfully.
“Sweet,” she admitted. She took the bowl from Tate and handed it back to Jenn, raising one eyebrow in an implied question.
“Ladies? Have we been helping ourselves to other people’s groceries?”
“It was two lousy onions,” Stephanie said crossly. “I don’t see what the big deal is. He’s got a ten-pound bag. And we just ran out. We’ve only got one onion left, and we need those for the counter beauty shots. We don’t have time to run to the Kroger,” she said defiantly. “Scott’s already on our case because we’re running way late.”
Gina sighed and turned toward the Mexican. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice soothing. “I’m sure it was an innocent mix-up. I’ll see to it that your onions are replaced.”
“No!” Javier said stubbornly. He spoke in rapid-fire Spanish.
Tate translated. “Javier says these onions are Vidalia onions. He says he buys a bushel of them in May, takes ’em home, and wraps them individually in his wife’s pantyhose, and then he keeps them in the produce drawer in his fridge so they don’t rot.”
“Oh,” Gina said weakly. “I did a whole show on Vidalia onions last spring. Vidalias do have a high sugar content, which makes them sweet, but prone to rotting if not handled properly. That’s what I tell my viewers to do.”
Tate translated that, and Javier spat out a reply.
“He says he never watches your show,” Tate said, his lips twitching with suppressed glee. “He only watches Telemundo.”
“I’ll replace the Vidalias,” Gina repeated. “Tell him that.”
But that much English he understood. “Where you gonna get Vidalias in July?” Javier demanded.
“Yeah,” Tate echoed. “Where you gonna get Vidalias in July?”
“My produce wholesaler can get them for me,” Gina said. “I’ll call him in the morning.”
“Sorry, man,” Scott said. He held his hand out to Javier, who took it only reluctantly. “The girls made a mistake. They won’t do it again.” He turned to Tate, who shook amicably. He turned to offer his hand to Gina, but she’d already walked off in the direction of the Fresh Start set.