Call me naïve, but as I watched programs from the comfort of my home, I imagined the actual set would be, well, cozy. Cooking shows always looked as if they were filmed in the star’s home, and though I knew that wasn’t practical, I still thought the actual set would be an average-sized kitchen with some floor level chairs set up for optimum intimacy.
Instead, retractable metal bleachers, the same kind we had in our tiny high school gym in Loon Lake, lined the wall and faced a brightly lit kitchen that reminded me of a prom date getting the final touches on her makeup and hair. Crew members swarmed over it, polishing the blue refrigerator and testing the burners that sat in the middle of a white countertop. On the other side of a large window positioned in the back wall, a man adjusted a Ficus tree until a woman in the kitchen signaled that the plant was centered. Another man in shorts and a t-shirt stood on a ladder and adjusted a camera that pointed down toward the countertop below.
Two more men stood idly next to a second camera on a rolling stand to the right of the set. A third camera of the same type was aimed directly at the island, giving the view of the studio audience. It seemed excessive to me. After all, they were filming food. How much action were they planning to capture?
Next to this last camera, an African-American woman with shortly cropped hair and a headset resting around her neck looked to be the most popular person in the room. The surrounding crew members fluttered around asking questions, and she calmly gave answers and sent them on their way.
Fake walls stuck out on either side of the set, but where they ended, I could see into the cavernous warehouse behind. It felt like Mickey Rooney and Judy Garland had set up a stage in a very large garage.
“Here you are,” the page said, directing us to mount the stands by a center stairway. They had marked the first row reserved, but we found seats halfway down the fourth row, scooted in and took our places. Auntie folded down the chair seat and settled her plump rump in place. She pulled a tissue out of her purse and dabbed at her bulbous nose, while her gaze searched the set for any interesting tidbits she could share with the gals back in Loon Lake. In deference to the show’s name, she had tied a blue ribbon around her salt-and-pepper bun.
Once seated and facing the set, I noticed two 55-inch televisions suspended from the ceiling on either side of the kitchen set. Currently, they displayed the Baking Channel logo—a white chef’s hat crossed by a spatula and a wooden spoon.
“I wonder if they plan on showing the Diamondbacks’ game to keep the male audience members interested.”
Auntie had other things on her mind. “Do you think anybody famous is going to show up?”
“I doubt it. It’s not like this is a world premiere that matters.” I shifted my butt to try to get more comfortable on the thinly padded seat. “You said this was a live show, right? So that means, what, a half hour? My rear can’t make it more than half an hour on this seat.”
Auntie responded with a gurgling noise. She stared, mouth open, at a group of people who took their places in the front row.
“Who’s that?” I asked. “Don’t tell me the celebrities have arrived.”
I didn’t recognize any of them, but since I haven’t watched a television series since ER, I’m not in the know.
“It can’t be,” she whispered.
“Spill.”
She didn’t answer, so I pointed and gasped. “Is that Rachel Ray? She looks much taller in person.”
She broke out of her trance. “Where?”
“My mistake. Now tell me who those people are. You obviously know them.”
She made a face. “How would I know someone all the way in Arizona? Don’t be ridiculous.”
But her eyes strayed back to the group. If she leaned forward another few inches, she would have nosedived into the third row. She seemed focused on one person in particular—a tall man wearing a jean jacket and a cowboy hat. His sideburns were snow white, and his face bore the creases of an outdoor type. Though he might have been seventy, he had features women would always admire—square jaw, full lips, good teeth.
Auntie hadn’t looked at another man since Uncle Pitt passed away twenty years ago. I didn’t believe she had a boyfriend on the sly. She’s missing the sneaky gene necessary for a clandestine love affair. I realized with a cringe that I had come to think of her as a kind of lay nun.
I checked him out again with more interest.
He looked down with a fond smile at the woman at his side, who was in her late thirties. She had curly, unnaturally bright red hair which contrasted well with her navy-blue jacket. Her white blouse strained against a large bosom and exposed a touch of cleavage, giving her a huge dose of Sex Appeal. There wasn’t anything lusty about the old man’s gaze, as if he were trying to recapture his youth in the company of a woman more than half his age, so she wasn’t his date. Maybe his daughter?
When three little girls climbed into the empty seats next to the woman, her smile faltered. I could relate. Kids wouldn’t make the best seatmates at a baking show. They’d be bored out of their little skulls.
The man bent forward to adjust something at his feet, and all three girls squealed, abandoned their places, and crowded around him. I craned my neck to better see.
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
He was having difficulty tucking a gigantic bird cage out of the way of passers-by. Inside, an enormous beast with white feathers paced sideways on some kind of tree branch, turning its head to-and-fro like an angry con memorizing faces, ready to exact vengeance if he ever broke free. One child stuck her finger in the cage. The redhead gently pulled her hand away seconds before the bird’s beak snapped shut. After that, the girls lost interest.
The bird let loose a squawk when a loud voice announced over the sound system that we were in for the treat of our lives via comedian Sonny Street.
Curious to see who could warrant the urgent attention of the teenage boy with slouching pants, I watched with interest as a good-looking man in his early forties, dressed in a dark gray suit and a tie in the requisite blue, stepped in front of the audience and said, “Good afternoon ladies and—gosh! I guess it’s mostly ladies!”
That segment of the audience responded with whoops.
He put a hand over his eyebrows and did an exaggerated search of the stands. Then he jumped back and pointed at an elderly man wearing a pink polo shirt.
“There’s at least one gentleman in the audience. You, sir! Can you tell us why you came today?”
The man jerked a thumb at the woman seated next to him—a solid specimen who looked capable of nursing an entire clan through the chicken pox while baking cookies for the parish summer social.
“Had to. She doesn’t drive.”
The entertainer gushed, “That’s beautiful! What a good husband he is. Let’s give him a round of applause!” He suited actions to words.
The banter, accompanied by bad jokes that the audience ate up, continued for another twenty minutes, until Sonny wrapped up his act with a few instructions for the audience.
“Each of you received a card as you walked in. Hang onto it, because that’s how you’ll cast your vote for the Blue-Ribbon Queen during the last commercial break of the show. If anyone doesn’t have a voting card, please raise your hand and one of the pages will take care of you.”
A few hands went up, including Auntie’s.
“You’re holding a card,” I said.
“I want an extra for a souvenir.”
I pulled her hand down. “You’ll have your memories. And photographs, if you brought your camera.”
She foraged through her purse and pulled out a surprisingly sophisticated cell phone, but as she jabbed at the ON button, Sonny put the kibosh on audience photography.
“Pictures are not allowed during the taping,” he said, “but a souvenir package including a photograph signed by the contestants will be mailed to each member of the studio audience. And please, folks,” he held out his hands in an imploring gesture, “remember to turn off your cell phones. This is a live show, so no do-overs.”
The lights over the audience dimmed, and the same deep, male voice that introduced Sonny Street echoed through the room accompanied by a drum roll. The hanging televisions came to life, giving the audience a view of what the audience members watching from their living room sofas would see. I guess that was in case we got bored watching the live version.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the Baking Channel, sponsored by Cocolite Chocolate Chips—a low calorie treat used by responsible bakers—and the Scotch Girl Flour Company—To make it with class, bake with the Lass—is pleased to present the premiere episode of Blue-Ribbon Babes! And now, coming to you live from Saguaro Studios in sunny Arizona, here’s your host, Heather Ozu!”
A petite Asian woman wiggled out in a tight-fitting orange dress with a mandarin collar. Her outfit stopped just short of sexy because a full-length white apron with Blue-Ribbon Babes embroidered on it in cursive letters covered her front, though the cinched waist emphasized her curves. She wore her short, black hair stylishly spiked except for long bangs that sported a blonde streak. When she reached an “X” taped to the floor dead-center in front of the kitchen counter, she waggled her long, orange talons at the audience to acknowledge their applause.
“Good afternoon, and welcome.” She spoke with a slight accent, but it was Valley Girl, not Japanese. When the fresh wave of applause died down, she continued reading from large cue cards held by a scrawny crew member.
“Blue-Ribbon Babes is a brand-new show that’s dedicated to those hard-working women who somehow find time in between raising a family and taking care of the household to enter county and state fairs…and win!”
More cheers and applause.
Auntie nodded. “It is an underrated profession.”
“Which one? Housewife, mother, or contestant?”
“Yes.” She shifted in her seat and leaned forward to better hear our host.
“Every show will feature a Blue Ribbon winner who will show you exactly how to make her prizewinning recipe at home, so you can wow your friends and family at that next holiday party or reunion! But this first show will feature three Blue-Ribbon Babes! That’s right. We have an entire hour of live entertainment, just for you!”
“An hour?” I groaned. “We’re stuck here for an hour?”
Auntie squashed my complaint with a sour look.
“Now, to add some extra excitement today,” Heather continued, turning toward the camera to her right, “we’re depending on participation from our viewing audience. At the end of the final demonstration, call the toll-free number at the bottom of your screen and vote for your favorite contestant. That’s 888-555-2583, or 888-555-BLUE. And make sure you vote, because the winner will receive a check for $2,000 and claim the title of Blue-Ribbon Queen!”
Voices formed a chorus of oohs and aahs. I noticed they hadn’t given the option to text, but I guess they knew their audience. My mother couldn’t operate a cell phone if her life and the lives of her loved ones depended on it, though considering Auntie’s fancy phone, maybe there actually were seniors who didn’t break into tears at the site of a computer screen.
“Let’s first meet those talented folks responsible for today’s show. Our producer, Bert Hamilton!”
A tall man in a business suit turned and nodded in response to scattered applause. The hanging television screens gave us a close up of Bert scratching his nose after he thought the cameras were off him.
“Next to him, that beautiful woman is the show’s director, Natasha Young!”
After a nudge from Bert, the African-American woman, deep in conversation with her headset, turned and waved, first to the camera, then to the audience.
“Now let’s meet our first contestant! Donna Pederson comes to us all the way from Billings, Montana.”
“Billings, Montana.” Auntie murmured. “They really know how to bake there.”
“How would you know? Have you ever been there?”
“It’s common knowledge. If you have to drive six hours to get to the grocery store, you tend to favor homemade.”
I stared. “Six hours? Are they driving in covered wagons?”
“Shh!”
“She’s the three-time winner of the Special Diet Division at the Montana State Fair, and she’s twice been named the People’s Choice.” Heather rubbed her flat stomach. “I’m always eager for new diet recipes, so let’s welcome Donna and find out what she’s going to make for us today!”
A slim, mousy-haired lady stepped out from behind the kitchen set and greeted Heather with the hesitancy of a bunny rabbit in a room full of beagles. When asked to tell the viewers about herself, Donna quietly recited a resume that included mother of three, a graduate of UCLA, and professional nutritionist.
She lost me at nutritionist. Thoughts of steamed fish and boiled, skinless chicken breasts filled my head, and my taste buds rebelled.
“Now,” Heather said, “tell us what you have in store for us. My stomach’s growling!”
“Mine, too,” I hissed at Auntie. “But for real food. They are serving snacks at the reception after the show, right?”
“Hold your horses,” she responded. “An hour’s not that long.”
Donna clasped her hands together, her only show of excitement so far. “Today, I’ll be mixing up a batch of Chocolate Chip Miracles.”
“Miracles, huh?” Heather raised her hands to encourage applause. Once the audience responded, she leaned her head in as if to share a private confidence. “What’s the miracle part?”
“They’re gluten free!”
Donna’s grand announcement met with a smattering of polite clapping. Her hands clenched into fists, and her entire body went rigid. She seemed to sense this was the moment when she would either lose the audience to her flour-friendly competitors or make a grab for gluten-free respect. As timid as she looked, Donna wasn’t going down without a fight.
She raised her trembling voice and proclaimed, “I use a mixture of rice and tapioca flours!” This didn’t impress the audience. In a last-ditch effort, she pumped her fists in the air and cried, “And then I add Cocolite Chocolate Chips for some kick!”
At the mention of a sponsor, Heather raised her hands over her head and clapped. The audience responded in kind. Then she beamed into the camera. “We’ll just have to see for ourselves when we try the finished product. Why don’t you begin?”
From under the counter, Donna pulled out a tray already lined with several bowls of pre-measured ingredients.
“They measure everything out beforehand so they don’t waste time,” Auntie informed me, as if she were a baking show expert.
Donna proceeded to mix and chatter. Uninterested in the variety of flours available or cooking temperature variations, I settled back for a snooze.
Auntie poked me. “Did you see what she did there? She added tapioca flour instead of regular flour.”
“Yeah. I got it. That’s what makes them gluten free.”
“There are actually people who can’t eat gluten, poor souls. Life is so unkind. It makes me want to cry.”
“They’re not confined to cages. Nasty children don’t poke them with sticks. They just can’t eat certain things.”
“Still, it’s sad not to be normal,” Auntie sniffed, getting in the last word.
Donna finally pulled a pan of cookies from the oven and presented one to Heather on a spatula. The host took a delicate bite and raved about how light and fluffy they were.
“I can’t even tell that these don’t use regular flour.” She shrugged her shoulders, amazed. “They taste just like normal cookies!”
Donna winced at the host’s choice of adjective. I’ll give Heather credit. She made an immediate correction.
“Wait. Let me change that. They—taste—simply—amazing!”
Donna left the stage held in much higher esteem than when she’d arrived. As soon as the show cut to a commercial, a crew member swept all signs of her treats under the far end of the counter. We weren’t spared the commercials, though they played on the hanging television sets without sound so as not to compete with Sunny Street.
In the stands, pages passed pre-baked batches of Donna’s delights down each row. Audience members took one, sampled, and made notes on his—or more likely, her—voting card.
I popped a cookie in my mouth and chewed. “The chocolate chips are waxy.”
“They’re fine.”
“I think they’re waxy.”
“You’re so critical. The woman did her best with a difficult recipe. And she probably had to use the sponsor’s chips. Don’t blame her.”
“So, I should give her a pity vote?”
Auntie conceded that the cookie wasn’t up to her standards when she said, “If I had known about this competition, I would have sent in my recipe for Lemon Blueberry Buckle.”
I balled up my napkin, and as I waited for the page to pass our row with the garbage bag, I heard a click. “What was that?”
“Nothing.” Auntie shoved her hand into her lap, under her purse. I lifted the edge.
“That’s your cell phone, isn’t it? Were you taking pictures? You’re going to get us thrown out of here,” I said. “I wouldn’t mind that, but there would probably be an embarrassing scene.”
She dropped the phone into her purse and tucked it between her feet. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I was looking for a cough drop, and then I decided to make sure my phone was turned off.”
After Sonny Street waved and returned to his chair on the sidelines, we were subjected to the next guest—a Hispanic Betty Crocker wannabe in a bright pink dress, appropriately named Betty, who insisted on scrubbing the countertops in between each step. She radiated a frenzied joy while she stirred up Cajun Cornbread in a cast iron skillet, using Scotch Girl cornmeal. The woman next to me took copious notes.
Betty encountered a little trouble when she got distracted by a handprint-removal mission at the refrigerator and left the cornbread on too long. It slid out of the pan and onto the plate without a problem, but the edges were dark brown.
Heather chewed her sample with determination. Unable to talk, the host smiled, and still chewing, gave two thumbs up.
Of course, the samples that the audience members got were precooked, so our cornbread came with perfectly browned edges. I’m not a big fan of cornbread, but Betty had put in plenty of canned corn and cheddar cheese, so she moved ahead of the Chocolate Chip Miracles on my voting card.
We came to another commercial break, so I took the opportunity to stand and stretch.
“These seats aren’t very comfortable.”
“At least they have seats,” Auntie said in the same tone grandparents use when they tell you they used to walk ten miles in the snow to get to school. “I once stood through an entire pinewood derby event just so I could cheer on your cousin Will from the sidelines. That was the year that wacko woman attacked the scouts for not letting in girls. Parents came from three counties to show their support for the boy scout troop. There weren’t any chairs left by the time I got there. Even the girl scouts showed up with a banner that said What’s wrong with us? They hurt so bad; I had to soak my feet in Epsom salts for an hour that night. Now that was a real pain.”
“It’s not a competition.” For good measure, I added, “And I’m not soaking my butt in Epsom salts.
From my standing position, I had a good view of the entire room. Crew members loaded the baking supplies for the next guest under the counter, wiped down the appliances (though Betty hadn’t left much for them to do in that arena) and generally straightened things up. The used utensils went back under the counter opposite of where the new items were placed.
Sonny Street suddenly shot out from behind the scenery, a scowl on his face as he jogged to his position in front of the crowd. By the time he started his first joke, the music cued a return to the final segment.
“I guess someone needed a potty break,” Auntie snickered. Sonny just had time to ask if everyone was having a good time before Heather Ozu began to read from the cue cards again.
“Our third baker has blue ribbons from as far away as Loon Lake, Wisconsin.”
“Loon Lake?” I sat up and poked Auntie’s side. “I wonder if it’s anyone we know?”
“She’s currently a resident of Fountain Hills, Arizona,” Heather continued. “Please welcome Elvira Jenkins.”
Auntie gasped, and her entire body went rigid as a plump woman with the size and confidence of a navy ship steamed out from behind the back wall. Her curly steel-colored hair reminded me of when Grandma used to sleep in rollers and then forget to pick out the curls. When she grabbed Heather’s hand and pumped the life out of it, the host winced.
Auntie, in an unconscious imitation, grabbed my hand and squeezed. Hard.
“Ow!”
She let go. “Sorry about that. I’m just excited.” But she spoke with the flat tones of a zombie.
Heather opened her mouth to speak, but Elvira slapped two meaty hands on the counter, leaned forward and let loose with, “Yee-ha! I’m here to show you ladies how the country gal’s do it!”
The audience, none of them looking particularly countrified, went wild.
Heather seemed torn between the benefit of an engaged crowd and a desire to assert her host status.
“Tell us about—” she began, but Elvira stampeded right over her.
“By the time I whip this Lemon Blueberry Buckle into shape, it’ll float right off the plate.”
“Lemon Blueberry Buckle? That’s a coincidence,” I whispered. Not a happy coincidence, if Auntie’s body language was anything to go by. Her lips clamped together, her hands bunched into fists, and her concentrated stare should have bored a sizzling hole right through Elvira Jenkins’ forehead.
“What type of ingredients should ambitious bakers have on hand to make a buckle?” Heather asked.
“There’s the fruit, of course. I don’t think there’s anything better than what you get at the farmers’ market, but you can use frozen if it’s not the right season.”
“Your buckle isn’t gluten free, is it?”
Elvira threw back her head and let loose a full belly laugh. “I may be old fashioned, but I use flour.”
The host winked at the audience. “I suppose Scotch Girl Flour is high on your list?”
“Never used it. Gold Treat flour is what’s in my pantry.”
Heather’s smile faltered. “But you could use Scotch Girl.”
“What I always say is, if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. But I realize you have sponsors to satisfy, so go ahead and say Scotch Girl will work if you think it will.” Elvira looked straight into the camera. “But don’t blame me if your buckle turns out like lead.”
Heather’s frantic gaze went to Bert, who stood, arms crossed, next to the cue card holder. The producer closed his eyes in a pained expression. Heather’s panic showed in 55-inch color on the screens above us. Natasha Young made frantic signals to one of the cameramen, probably to suggest he move the camera from the host’s face. It wasn’t necessary. Ever the pro, Heather plastered on a smile and forged ahead.
“All that fruit just cries out for ice cream, right?” Heather gushed. “I’m sure those of us who love chocolate could melt some Cocolite Chocolate chips for a little yummy sauce. Chocolate goes with blueberries. You can even buy chocolate-covered blueberries in your specialty shops.”
That last bit sounded desperate. Even I, who considers chocolate a food group, thought the combination sounded ghastly.
With a superior sniff, Elvira said, “I’ve never used Cocolite products, but then I’m very careful to avoid ingredients that are filled with chemicals, which foods labeled lite often are.”
“See?” I poked Auntie. “I told you those chips were waxy.”
The look Heather Ozu gave Elvira Jenkins should have dropped the old lady where she stood, but then Heather, perhaps putting the show before her personal feelings, or maybe realizing that an angry expression emphasized her frown lines, put on a sweet smile and melted into the background, which allowed Elvira Jenkins to take over the show.
The host got her own back when she sampled a forkful of Lemon Blueberry Buckle. She blinked and swallowed hard. “Interesting! That wraps it up for our guests today. After the commercial break, we’ll come back and find out who will reign as the Blue-Ribbon Queen!”
When they cut away, Elvira rounded on the host, her cheeks flushed crimson red. “You deliberately blew off my buckle!”
Heather put her balled fists on her tiny hips. “How dare you diss our sponsors!”
Elvira picked up a square of buckle with her spatula. “The truth is the truth, honey. Look at this baby. It’s perfect.”
Heather’s voice lowered to a growl, which didn’t affect the volume. I could hear her just fine, as could the rest of the audience members, who leaned forward as one.
“Is everybody having a good time?” Sonny Street raised his voice in an attempt to distract the audience from the argument.
When an old woman shushed him, the comedian looked to the producer for direction. Bert turned his hands palms up and shrugged.
I took my sample of buckle from the passing tray and enjoyed it along with the live entertainment.
“You signed an agreement. Your recipe must include at least one of our sponsor’s products.”
“You’ve got a lot of nerve, talking about agreements!”
Heather jabbed Elvira’s shoulder. “You’re in breach of contract. You don’t deserve to win.”
“I said you could use Scotch Girl flour if you wanted.” Then she got a malignant gleam in her eye. “And who cares if I win? Big loss! It’s my reputation I’m protecting.”
A page, her head turned to follow the argument, tripped over my feet and righted herself using Auntie’s shoulder for leverage.
“Sorry about that. Could I have your card please?”
I quickly marked my vote for the Lemon Blueberry Buckle, with extra points for entertainment value. She and the rest of the pages collected the voting cards and carried them to several women at a small table who worked with furious speed to tally the votes.
The announcer broke in to introduce the final segment. By the time the show began again, Heather’s furious breathing had subsided into what could pass for excited panting. Elvira didn’t seem fazed at all. She merely brushed her hands off with a kitchen towel.
“If we could have our first two guest join us, we can get down to business and present the prize!” Heather waved them onto the set as a page jogged up with a sealed envelope. The show’s host opened it and pulled out a slip of paper.
“Our new Blue-Ribbon Queen is… Elvira Jenkins!”
When Donna Pederson gave Elvira a congratulatory hug, she held her shoulders and head so stiffly that I thought she would break on contact. The second contestant didn’t seem to mind losing. She probably figured her chances were nil because she burned her cornbread. Instead, Betty slipped behind the counter and contented herself slicing Elvira’s buckle into neat squares.
Heather Ozu held up a large, cardboard check and smiled for the cameras. She quickly said goodbye to the viewing audience. The minute the cameraman signaled that they were off the air, she shoved the check at Elvira and stalked off. The lights went up and Linda the Page, as I was starting to call her, announced that delicious treats awaited us in the next room.
“Exit through the door to your right.”
“Let’s go,” Auntie said.
“I’m starved.” I gathered up my purse and resisted pushing my way through a crowd of elderly women who tottered their way down the metal stairway.
“I mean home. I’m tired.”
“That’s because your blood sugar has dropped. We need food, and I’m not leaving here until I eat.”
When I looked back to make sure she was handling the stairs all right, I noticed my aunt had left her untouched Lemon Blueberry Buckle on her chair.
“You didn’t even try the buckle!” I waggled my finger in front of her face. “I hope you didn’t vote, because it wouldn’t have been fair.”
We exited the room and followed the crowd down another short corridor into an enclosed area that was supposed to reflect Home Sweet Home. The decorator, probably a woman who lived out of a single-room bedsit and never cooked a meal beyond heating up a microwave dinner, had envisioned that every home baker must salivate over gingham and lace. Several couches and chairs covered in that fabric were arranged in the center of the room. Frilly curtains lined false windows painted onto the drywall, and several wooden kitchen tables placed around the room’s edges overflowed with trays of bite-sized treats set out on gigantic paper doilies.
I grabbed a couple of bacon pinwheels—rolled puff pastry filled with bacon crumbles and parmesan cheese. To make certain I got the day’s calcium intake, I added a few cheddar cheese sticks and handed two off to Auntie. She ate absently while her eyes roamed the room.
“You’ve eaten,” she said. “Let’s go.”
“Is that Bourbon Bob?” I asked, pointing to a round man with a buzz cut. “The cook who put all my favorite ingredients together in the Gruyere-Covered-Bacon-and- Mushroom-Smothered Steak recipe? I want to propose marriage to him. Come on.”
“I thought you never watched television,” Auntie grumbled.
“I don’t watch baking shows. Cooking shows aren’t the same thing. They’re all about education and household management. Practically like taking a college course. He’s from the Grilling Channel. It must be a sister company.”
“You don’t grill.”
“That doesn’t mean I don’t like to watch other people do it.”
“I’m surprised. You didn’t seem to want to be here tonight, yet here you are a big fan of the Baking Channel.”
“Notice I said I like cooking and grilling. Not baking. Baking takes too long. A batch of brownies doesn’t stand a chance against a juicy steak.”
Auntie shook her head; her lips pressed together in a pained expression. “I never thought a niece of mine would be an anti-baker. You’re a culinary snob, Sissy.”
“You bet.”
I held my plate in my mouth and grabbed two glasses of red wine from a passing page’s tray and handed one to Auntie. “Drink this,” I said after I pulled the plate from my mouth. “You need to relax.”
Bourbon Bob was surrounded by gaping, twittering women and most of the male members of the audience. I pushed my way through. When his warm eyes—the color of steak sauce—met mine, I sighed and said, “You’re my hero.”
His gaze went past me to Auntie’s discontented face. “I can recognize a fellow cook anywhere. Know how? Because you’re bored. You’d rather be home whipping up something on the stove. Am I right?”
That was part of Bourbon Bob’s appeal. He called himself a mere cook, and he related to his audience because he enjoyed food and the accompanying social experience of serving something delicious to people he loved. His own family and friends were a regular part of the show. When they sat down to eat the finished product, they didn’t offer savvy comments about the texture of the sauce or the flakiness of the fish. They ate like normal people and said things like Yum.
Auntie batted her eyelashes and gave him a coquettish smile.
“I can’t say that I’ve ever seen your show, but I’m going to make a point of watching now.”
“Next week is my special brunch episode.” He put an arm around her shoulder and leaned his head in. “I’m making omelets on the grill in a cast iron skillet. Have you got a favorite filling?”
“I used goat cheese and leftover pot roast once, because it was all I had in the fridge. We’d had a party, or else I wouldn’t have had such a fancy cheese hanging around. Turned out pretty good once I added some green onions.”
He considered her suggestion. “Hmmm. You can find goat cheese at any grocery store these days, so it won’t annoy my viewers.” He broke into a grin. “I’ll do it, with a few changes of my own, but I’ll dedicate it to you. What’s your name, honey?”
She handed him her business card and told him to consult her before he made any big career decisions. He raised his brows as he read the card and then tucked it into his shirt pocket. I may not have qualified as a fellow cook, but I still walked away with an autographed picture and a coupon for Real Men’s charcoal briquettes.
“This isn’t so bad.” I snatched a miniature egg roll from a tray and took a bite. “In fact, it would have been perfect if we had just skipped the show.”
On a table next to the partition wall, skewers of grilled shrimp called out to me. I munched on three—or four—and I only stopped chewing when raised voices came from the other side of the wall.
“That information is confidential,” said a desperate voice.
The response came across in a hiss. “The truth is the truth, honey.”
That was the end of the conversation, at least as far as I could hear.
“Excuse me.” It was Linda the Page. She stared at Auntie as if she was the star of her own cooking show. “I couldn’t help seeing the card you gave to Bourbon Bob. You read tarot cards?”
Ever the professional, Auntie gave her a coy smile. “I’m off duty right now, but for you, I’ll do a sample reading. I just happen to have my cards with me.”
Auntie dug her pack out of her purse and switched into Madame Guinevere mode, Word of mouth made her a popular woman over the next half hour, which left me free to roam the room, stopping to graze at every station I passed. I skirted the clusters of women whenever baking techniques were the topic of discussion. The wisest woman in the room is the one who keeps her ignorance to herself and her mouth shut, right? The only danger point came when an audience member clutched my arm and said:
“What do you think? We need a tie breaker.”
I recognized her as Lola from the line outside the studio. She pulled me toward a gang of women who had taken sides behind Bea and Jane. There was some kind of standoff taking place.
“Think about what?” I was certain that my thoughts and their thoughts didn’t travel in the same circles.
“Butter or shortening?” asked Bea.
“Butter or shortening what?”
“Butter flavored shortening,” said Jane. “Big difference. Which one makes flakier cookies? Or would you use a combination?”
The way they all stared at me with narrowed eyes, leaning forward, I could tell my answer was going to change the future of baking for women everywhere. I pointed at Lola, since she was to blame for getting me into this conversation.
“I agree with her.”
Half the women seemed vindicated; the other half took on the appearance of vigilantes out to nab the killer of small kittens, so I fled.
I recognized a few audience members who had sat near us, and there were several minor celebrity chefs. Sonny Street worked the room, making jokes and shaking hands as if he were the star of the show. People certainly reacted to him as if he were. Blushing ladies; chuckling men. He was a hit.
“Thinks he’s God’s gift to women.”
The woman who spoke was dressed in the most hideous assortment of mismatched clothes I’d ever seen. It was as if she had fallen into her closet covered in Velcro and thrown on whatever stuck to her. A pink-and-white pinstripe blouse was open to reveal a military green t-shirt, and the gypsy skirt in browns and blues did nothing for the black fabric scarf she used as a belt. Her bleached-blond hair formed a high pile on top of her head, and her tattooed eyeliner came straight out of the eighties. Other than that, her face was bare, so it surprised me when she introduced herself as the makeup artist.
“Fiona Flynn.” She pointed a stubby finger at the comedian. “I keep telling that man not to use so much hairspray, but Sonny Street thinks he knows everything. He’ll be lucky if it all doesn’t snap off by the time he’s fifty.” She followed her prediction of doom with, “I am a professional. I know what I’m talking about.”
My best friend trimmed my hair for me, and except for very rare occasions like dates, my makeup was limited to strawberry-flavored lip gloss. Even that was collecting fuzz on the bottom of my purse.
“Do you enjoy working with celebrities?” I said, hoping to disguise the fact that I didn’t care.
“It’s no different from working at a beauty parlor. That’s where I got discovered. I did the hair and makeup for a few employees at the club. The owner liked my work so much, I got hired on the spot. Paid pretty well, too, but you know how it is. I have bigger dreams. My grandmother lives near here, so when I found out about the opening of Saguaro Studios, I moved in with her and was first in line with my resume.”
“And here you are,” I said.
The guests broke out in polite applause as the remaining cast and crew of Blue-Ribbon Babes entered the room, followed by excited family members. The trio of children that had sat in the front row hung off Donna Pederson’s arm until she directed them to the dessert table. I noticed that the tall man in the cowboy hat had ditched the birdcage and wondered where he could have stowed his large, feathered friend. It really irked me when people treated pets as an accessory that could be tossed aside when inconvenient. During my time as an authentic pet psychic, I’d listened to enough complaints from animals to know that their feelings could be hurt.
Pages plied the VIPs with fresh supplies. A tall, young man in a gray suit hovered around Heather Ozu. When Linda the Page offered her a drink, he intercepted and snatched two glasses, one for him and one for the host. Bert and Natalie were in conference over an ornamental vegetable arrangement shaped like a cactus. The rest drifted to the sides of the rooms where the yummies awaited.
After the initial rush to meet and greet, the three contestants were left, standing alone, Elvira as the confident bride and Donna and Betty hovering behind her, like bridesmaids waiting for someone to ask them to dance.
“I’ll be a monkey’s uncle.” Fiona followed this surprising admission with a “Huh.”
“Is someone’s makeup out of place?” I joked.
“It couldn’t be.”
“You lost me. Who are we talking about?”
With a start, Fiona realized that she’d been speaking out loud. She didn’t seem pleased at the thought. In fact, as far as the makeup artist was concerned, our bonding moment was over.
“Bye.”
Before I had time to wonder if my deodorant failed me, Auntie walked up wearing a satisfied smile. “I’ve handed out so many business cards my fingers are on fire. I think I’ve roped in a few paying clients. We should leave while I’m riding a high. All it takes is one negative response and the spell is broken. We can go now.”
“Too late,” I said through clenched teeth.
I’d been staring in the general direction of the contestants when Donna’s gaze met mine. Mistaking me for an interested party, she nudged Betty. Together, they approached with hands held out in greeting and smiles firmly planted on their faces. Actually, Betty’s smile seemed natural.
“I’m so glad that’s over,” she said. “Too much pressure. It’s much more fun to cook for my family than a crowd of strangers.”
“Are they here?” I motioned toward the three little girls, bunkered down in front of the brownies. “I assume they belong to you,” I said to Donna, a logical assumption since children don’t usually hang on strangers. “They’re very cute.”
Donna broke into a big smile that transformed her from serious, gluten-free baker to proud mom. “Thank you.”
“My husband couldn’t take off work. I had to leave the baby with my mother-in-law,” Betty said with a touch of envy.
“I’m sure they watched you on television.”
“Speaking of television,” Donna said, “it does seem a teeny bit odd to include the votes of the viewing audience. I mean, how would they know which finished product should win? They can’t taste anything over the television set.”
“You didn’t have to taste my cornbread to see it was burnt,” Betty said. Her attention drifted to a woman who carelessly set an empty cup on the snack table. Betty bustled over and snatched it up, pausing to straighten out the underlying doily before she moved to the wastebasket.
“I think she’s OCD,” Donna whispered.
Elvira Jenkins had been watching us out of the corner of her eye and apparently decided we’d spent enough time with the riff-raff. It was time for royalty to move in. She stepped up behind Auntie and tapped her on the shoulder.
Auntie’s expression didn’t change as she beheld the new Blue-Ribbon Queen. Her face took on that immobility I’d seen her use to mask her excitement when tarot clients let slip an especially useful bit of personal information during a reading, such as If only I could meet someone like Brad Pitt, but in a sexy job, like a fireman.
“I need to use the facilities.” With that declaration, Auntie swept off. Elvira’s gaze followed her out of the room.
There was a shriek from across the room. One of Donna’s daughters stood in a puddle of punch. Donna rushed to her aid, leaving me with the Baking Channel’s best-in-show.
“I’m sure you’ve heard it already, but congratulations.”
“Can’t hear good news too often,” Elvira said, eyeing me as if I were an exotic ingredient. I wiped my upper lip just in case I had a crumb mustache.
“How long have you been baking? Professionally, that is.”
“All my life. It’s by doing your best at things that you become good enough to win ribbons and titles. And by having integrity.” She paused, giving me that kind of look that said somebody in the room wasn’t up to her standards. “What did you say your name was, honey?”
“I didn’t.” Why did she want to know? Was that somebody me? Did she still keep in touch with people in Loon Lake and had she heard about the exposé? My ex-boyfriend Jeff had exposed my cold reading methods to a buxom reporter. The story had been splashed all over the newspaper in an article about frauds. That same story had driven me out of Loon Lake.
“Frankie Chandler.”
I waited for the fallout, but she only held out a hand to shake. On her index finger was a ring, and perched on the ring was a canary. At least I assumed it was a canary, because it looked just like Tweety Bird.
“Chandler,” she repeated softly. “I seem to remember an Albert Chandler back in Loon Lake, years ago.”
“That would be my father.”
“Well, heavens to Betsy, isn’t that a coincidence.”
It could have been a coincidence, but it felt as if Elvira Jenkins deliberately sought me out. I wanted to know why, but before I could ask a few questions of my own, Linda the Page appeared at her side and respectfully addressed the Queen.
“The photographer would like to see you back on the set, Ma’am.”
“Duty calls,” Elvira said. With one last look, she charged out the door.
Linda remained behind.
“Your aunt is amazing! I only pulled one card from her pack. One card! And it was like she knew everything going on in my life.”
Linda was in her early twenties. There are two things on the minds of women this age—men and career. The problems with both hadn’t changed over the years. Instead of boyfriends who never called, these women had boyfriends who never texted. Nothing amazing about it, but I didn’t want to burst her bubble.
“Really. How exciting.”
“She’s going to give me an entire reading when I’m not at work. I can’t wait!”
“Is there anything left to drink?” A man stared pointedly at Linda’s empty tray.
“Coming right up,” she said, and she rushed off to reload.
Now that I was gastronomically satisfied, I suddenly felt guilty. In the rush to chauffeur Auntie to the premiere, I’d forgotten to feed my pets. When Auntie finally returned from the ladies’ room, her face had an unhealthy flush and she was a tad breathless, but I put that down as too much excitement and too much wine. I suggested we leave.
“If I remember right, we go this way.” I pointed to the doorway where we’d come in. A brief journey took us back to the set of Blue-Ribbon Babes. They’d brought down most of the lights, leaving the kitchen set in shadow. The only illumination came from battery-operated candles that marked the path out.
Halfway through the room, my footsteps slowed. I had goose bumps on my arms, and my air intake was coming in short, panting breaths. I scanned the shadows of the room expecting something nasty to jump out.
I stopped walking and sucked in a deep breath. I knew this feeling. I’d had it right before I saw a slideshow of deadly images projected by the golden retriever, Sandy. But I hadn’t been able to read an animal’s thoughts for over a month. A nice, quiet month.
“What’s wrong?” Auntie asked.
My gaze scanned the room again, searching for the source of this feeling.
“Meow. Squa-a-awk.”
The noise came from the kitchen set.
“Did you hear that?” I whispered.
“Hear what?” Auntie narrowed her eyes. “How many glasses of wine did you drink?”
I cocked my head and listened, but all I heard was a fluttering noise that reminded me of Tippi Hedren’s last sane moment in The Birds. Then I remembered the cage that belonged to the tall man in the cowboy hat. Had he left the poor thing alone in the kitchen?
“Squa-a-awk! Meow!”
“It’s that bird,” I said, crossing to the set. The cage was tucked into the corner of the kitchen counter, over by a stainless-steel sink. I gave a nervous giggle. That’s all it was. The bird was sending out waves of fear because he was afraid of the dark. Still, it was strange—and disappointing—that I’d felt them.
“That tall guy abandoned the poor thing. What a brat.”
“What are you doing?” Auntie asked, looking back toward the reception room. “I don’t think we’re supposed to touch anything.”
“Hey there, big fella,” I said, holding my hand out. I’m not overly fond of birds. In fact, they scare me, but it raised my hackles to think that anyone would set a pet aside while they went and had a good time, as if it were an accessory. I knew only too well that pets had feelings, and this bird was definitely afraid. “Did someone leave you all by your lonesome?”
The bird fluttered its wings. “Meow!”
“Bird’s got a screw loose. Thinks it’s a cat.” Auntie ran her hand over the island counter and clucked in disapproval. “You’d have thought the Baking Channel would have sprung for marble. It keeps your butter cool. You don’t even need a cutting board.”
The bird fluttered its wings. I stepped back, wary. “If you ask me, the whole set is pretty cheesy.”
Auntie apparently decided that we weren’t going to set off any alarms. Emboldened, she opened the refrigerator, reached for a box of butter and shook it. “Empty. Too bad.” So was the carton of sour cream. “I thought we could take home the leftovers, so they wouldn’t go to waste.”
“I think those are just props to make the fridge look full. Just like that window in the wall makes it look like it’s a real kitchen with a view of the backyard.”
I turned, and pointing at said window, took a step forward. “But if you look closer, there isn’t even any glass in the—”
My feet came in contact with a solid lump tucked behind the island, and I pitched forward. My hands stopped my fall before my face hit the floor.
“What in Hades is she doing down there?” Auntie shrieked.
With a knot of dread in my stomach, I turned my head. “Oh, jeez.”
And that’s how we discovered the body of Elvira Jenkins.