Trimmed to Death Read online

  “Is Tristan Marsh here tonight?” Dalton asked the waiter after placing their order. “If so, we’d like to talk to him when he has a spare moment.” He handed over a business card.

  Marla knew he’d confirmed the pastry chef’s schedule after she’d made their reservations. Too bad they couldn’t go straight to dessert. At least there they couldn’t go wrong.

  They’d finished their meals and had asked for the dessert menu when Tristan came into view. He headed to their table and bobbed his head in greeting. His white chef’s uniform seemed large on his slim figure.

  They shook hands and exchanged pleasantries before Marla offered her excuse for their visit. “My hair salon is doing a fundraiser for the history museum. Would you be interested in donating desserts? It would be great publicity for the restaurant.”

  Tristan stroked his clean-shaven jaw. “That wouldn’t be my decision. I’d have to ask my boss if he’d be interested in participating.”

  “Would that be the owner, or the executive chef?”

  “Paolo is the new head chef, but I don’t take orders from him,” Tristan said with a disdainful sniff. “He got hired after Jeff quit. We had no warning. One day Jeff tells me his suspicions about things, and the next day he’s gone.”

  “What sort of suspicions?” Dalton asked in a mild tone.

  “I can’t talk about it here.”

  “Wait, I’ve another offer for you,” Marla said as Tristan looked about to turn away. “You won’t need anyone’s permission, either. My cousin Cynthia runs Taste of the World each December. Would you be interested in being one of the featured chefs? She’d be thrilled to have you.”

  Tristan’s eyes brightened. “Let me know the exact dates for these events, and I’ll let you know.”

  The host chose that moment to lead another couple to a nearby table. Tristan spoke in a loud voice meant to be overheard.

  “I’ll send you a sampling of my best desserts. After you’ve finished your meal, I’d be happy to give you a tour of the kitchen. Thanks for suggesting me for the fundraisers.”

  Marla enjoyed the exquisite confections he sent their way. The Key lime tartlet melted on her tongue. The guava dumplings served with brandy sauce left a trail of fire mixed with sweetness down her throat. And the chocolate rum torte left her craving more. They should have skipped the entrées and ordered a selection from the dessert menu for dinner.

  Once Dalton had paid the check, which came to a substantial amount even without the sweets, they wound through the different rooms toward the rear kitchen. Marla held her stomach, eager to go home. She’d eaten too much, and it made her feel uncomfortably bloated.

  Tristan, holding a spatula, gestured to them from a back corner of the kitchen. He proceeded to give them a tour, explaining what went on at each station. The place bustled with activity. Marla got an impression of gleaming stainless steel counters, steaming pots, and stacks of plates. A variety of cooking smells met her nose, which didn’t help her unsettled state.

  “What were you saying about the executive chef?” Dalton said once they’d relocated to the pastry station. Flour covered the surface, and Marla noted dough in a nearby bowl.

  Tristan leaned inward after casting a nervous glance over his shoulder. “Jeff was a good guy. He and I got along well. It wasn’t until Paolo arrived that things got tense. Paolo is friendly with Mr. Romano, the owner. They buy supplies from Amalfi Consolidated. It’s not my fault if I have to use inferior ingredients. Jeff protested, and look where it got him. I don’t want to get fired.”

  “I don’t understand,” Marla replied. “Are you saying these inferior products come from Tony Winters’ specialty import company?”

  “I’ll show you what I mean.” He went to a shelf and withdrew a bottle of extra virgin olive oil. “Let me give you a taste, but don’t let anyone see us.”

  Dalton tasted first, his expression thoughtful. “It tastes all right to me.”

  Tristan waved a hand in an effeminate gesture. “Perhaps you lack a discerning palate. Marla, dear, what do you think?”

  The spoonful of oil sank to her stomach, which roiled in protest.

  “I’m afraid this isn’t agreeing with my dinner. Is it outdated, do you think?”

  “No, that’s not the problem.” Tristan frowned at her, as though she should know what he meant.

  “I don’t follow, but it doesn’t matter right now. You’ll have to excuse us, Tristan. I need to go home,” Marla said.

  “We’ll be in touch,” Dalton promised the fellow. He put a hand to Marla’s back to guide her toward the exit. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “My stomach is upset all of a sudden. I think this place is off my list. The menu is too weird for my tastes. Tristan’s desserts are the only good thing about it.”

  He opened the front door for her. “Olive oil on top of those sweets wasn’t the best idea.”

  As Marla swung into the passenger seat of their car, she wondered if that was the case. Something had made her feel queasy.

  She didn’t feel quite herself the next day, either. Dalton went into work on Sunday to make inquiries into Amalfi Consolidated. Marla took a walk in the park with Brianna in the morning and then tried to relax when the teen went to do her homework.

  Her appetite had fled, and she barely picked at her lunch salad. Maybe that piece of fish from the restaurant had been undercooked, but Dalton had eaten the same item and he’d had no ill effects. Hopefully, things would resolve within the next few days. She took the afternoon off and ignored her chores to watch TV and read her salon magazines.

  On Monday, she’d planned to stay home and rest until Tally called. “I thought I’d drop by Raquel’s studio today. How about joining me?”

  Marla sat up straight in the desk chair where she’d been catching up on household bookkeeping. “I’d like to interview her about the bake-off contest, but what reason do you have for going?”

  “Becky gave me a couple of tickets for the studio audience. They have vacancies at today’s filming. Besides, Raquel knows I’m a fan of her show. She said I could come by anytime, and she’d find me a seat. I gather they hold some in reserve for VIPs.”

  “I didn’t realize the show had a live audience. I’ve watched it but can’t remember the details.”

  “Can you be ready by ten? We have to get there a half-hour early for check-in. I’ll pick you up.”

  Marla winced. She’d have to change her clothes, fix her hair, and grab something to eat. Her stomach churned at the thought. “Okay. Have you taken Luke to day care already?”

  “Yes, we got an early start today. See you soon.”

  Tally showed up on time, and shortly thereafter they headed south down the highway toward the film studio. Marla filled her in on last weekend’s restaurant date with Dalton.

  “Did the olive oil taste off to you?” Tally asked, after Marla complained about her queasiness since then.

  “It had no taste at all. Isn’t extra virgin olive oil supposed to have more flavor? From what I’ve read, it’s first-pressed oil and may contain bits of olive. Regular olive oil, on the other hand, is refined through charcoal or chemical filters. Sometimes producers add a bit of virgin grade product to enhance it.”

  “Are you certain which one Tristan gave you?”

  “I saw the label. It said extra virgin olive oil. Maybe it was old. It didn’t seem rancid, though, and Tristan indicated it wasn’t outdated.”

  “And you’re still not feeling up to par? Maybe you picked up a stomach bug.”

  “That’s possible. Dalton is okay, so it couldn’t be what we ate. We had the same meal. And we had wine with dinner. You’d think the alcohol would kill off any germs.”

  “Let’s hope you get over it quickly. I’m excited about seeing Raquel in action. She reminds me of Julia Child back in the day.”

  “How did she get this gig?”

  “She said the producer liked her pitch and gave her a slot that had opened. Her cookbooks are
popular, and her shows get high ratings. I expect they’ll renew her contract when the time comes.”

  “Isn’t she in competition with Becky regarding their recipe books?”

  Tally shook her head, blond waves of hair fanning her face. “Not really. Becky’s focus is on historical lore along with recipes derived from early Florida settlers. Raquel’s emphasis is on modern techniques and using locally produced ingredients.”

  More questions hovered on Marla’s tongue, but she held them back through the show. Raquel kept up a running banter while slicing and dicing in front of a live audience. Marla was interested to learn about the different varieties of salmon while the chef demonstrated how to prepare an Alaskan salmon terrine with asparagus sauce. The accompanying dish, a corn and cilantro couscous, didn’t appeal to her because she had a distaste for the herb.

  “If you’re one of the few people who don’t like cilantro, blame it on your genes,” Raquel said in her Southern accent. “You have an olfactory gene that allows you to detect the smell of aldehyde chemicals, found in both cilantro and soap. So to you unfortunates, cilantro has a soapy taste. You can avoid the issue by using parsley instead of cilantro in your recipes.”

  “I’m glad to know it’s not just me,” Marla murmured to Tally, sitting beside her.

  “Now here’s a handy tip for removing corn kernels,” Raquel continued, picking up a knife. “Take your freshly cooked ear of corn and hold it over the hole in a bundt pan like this. Scrape down the sides of the corn, and voilà. No mess!”

  Marla watched entranced until Raquel finished production and had a free moment.

  “Your show was wonderful,” she told the chef. “And this kitchen set is amazing.” She gestured to the cherry wood cabinets, granite countertops, and stainless steel appliances that were surrounded by a bevy of stage lights, wiring, and other production equipment. The seating area, now darkened, faced the stage.

  “Thanks, although the clean-up is a bitch. Thank goodness for Carlos. Isn’t that right?” Raquel flicked a seductive smile toward her assistant, scrubbing dirty dishes in the sink. The lanky man didn’t bother to turn around and respond.

  “It was generous of you to participate in the bake-off contest at the fall harvest festival,” Marla mentioned.

  “Sorry you two didn’t win. Your entries were really quite good.” Raquel took off her apron and tossed it onto a counter. She wore a flowery top with a straight skirt and costume jewelry with jade stones that enhanced her green eyes.

  Marla glanced at the woman’s piled-high blond hair. Darker roots were coming in that would better match the woman’s olive complexion. She should offer her salon’s services in case Raquel needed a colorist.

  “Tally and I had a good time at the event, at least until I found Francine,” Marla replied instead.

  Raquel’s eyes narrowed. “That woman got what she deserved. Too bad Alyce didn’t join her. Neither one of them is... or was... on my friend list.”

  “Why is that?” Marla asked, while Tally wandered off to examine the fine points of the kitchen studio. She leaned against a counter, aware that Carlos might be listening.

  “Alyce has accused me of using shortcuts for my behind-the-scenes preparation methods.”

  “You perform the demos in front of a live audience,” Marla pointed out. “We can see how you do everything.”

  “Yes, but then I pull out my previously prepared dishes to show TV viewers and to give audience members a taste.”

  “Does it really matter how you complete those dishes?”

  “It does to me. I won’t have anyone damage my good name. No one, you hear?”

  “O-kay. How about Francine? Had she ever featured you in her magazine?”

  Raquel lifted her chin. “Sometimes, such as when I’ve had a guest chef, but she didn’t go out of her way to feature my show. That woman rubbed lots of people the wrong way.”

  “Oh? Like who?”

  “Talk to Tristan about her, and ask him what she said about his restaurant. It wasn’t complimentary. But I suppose your detective husband has been learning all this on his own.”

  “He’s been interviewing everyone present that day.”

  “I didn’t like it when he showed up at my door. I won’t have this nasty business affecting my daughter, you hear? None of the rumors floating around about me are true. People are jealous of my popularity, that’s all.”

  Marla raised an eyebrow. “I hadn’t realized you were married.”

  “I’m divorced. It isn’t easy putting my child through private school. Her father doesn’t have enough money to pay child support. Occasionally, I’ll get a publicity gig that pays a hefty fee. I like those events, because I can meet more high rollers. Otherwise, I’ve been fortunate with this show and my cookbook sales.”

  And the producer? Marla wanted to ask but didn’t. The fellow had been present during the filming that morning but had vanished since then along with the rest of the crew.

  “I’m a business owner, so I know what it’s like to make your way in the world,” Marla commented. “Here’s my card. Please stop by if you’re in the area, and I’ll give you a discount on your first service. Do you happen to know who will take over Eat Well Now magazine with Francine gone?”

  Raquel snorted. “Francine was listed as editorial director and publisher, but a conglomerate owns the publication. It’ll be up to them to appoint a successor. Since we’re being open with each other, Francine made a remark at the festival that bothers me. She said Kinsdale Farms might not host the event next season. Bless their hearts, those family members are always so supportive of our community. Do you know what she meant?”

  “Sorry, I’m in the dark in that regard,” Marla hedged. “I overheard you speaking to Alyce that day. You stated that Francine wouldn’t win the competition despite her threats.”

  Raquel leaned inward and lowered her voice. “Francine tried to blackmail the judges into voting for her. None of us would have it. We try to play fair, you understand, or we wouldn’t be asked back again.”

  “Who invited you to be a judge? Was it Janet Winters?”

  “She’s a peach, that one. I love her to death. She’s so good at organizing these affairs. Too bad her old man is such a snob.”

  And you’re not? Marla fumbled with which thread to follow up on. “What did Francine have on Carlton Paige that would rile him?”

  “Have you read his column lately?” Raquel asked with a snicker.

  “I’m afraid not. I did speak privately to him, however. He acts resentful toward Alyce, not Francine.”

  “Just so.” Raquel tapped her chin with a painted fingernail. “Am I mistaken, or was Francine wearing Alyce’s jacket when you found her?”

  “How did you—?”

  “It was on the news. And I have an eye for detail.”

  Was it public knowledge? Marla didn’t remember if Dalton had mentioned that tidbit in his media updates.

  “I’m leaving,” Carlos announced, approaching them. “You’ll turn out the lights, yes?” he reminded Raquel.

  “Naturally.” Raquel stroked his head like a pet. “See you later, hot stuff. Don’t forget to get those supplies I ordered.” She gazed after him as he left, undisguised interest in her eyes.

  Tally rejoined them and addressed Raquel. “I have a message for you from Becky who says hello. She’d like to treat you for lunch as thanks for endorsing her latest book.”

  Raquel gave a wide grin. “Becky is a sweetheart. I love what she does at the museum. Her research is fascinating, and she has a talent for transcribing it into her recipe books to share with readers.”

  “We heard one of her lectures,” Marla remarked. “It’s too bad she didn’t win the bake-off contest. She’d planned on using the prize money to purchase a new collection for the museum. I agreed to help her with a fundraiser. We’re going to do a bad hair day clinic at the salon.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Marla. Becky is one of my strongest supporters. Sh
e needs all the help she can get.”

  “Really? I thought she was doing well between her curator position and her authorship.”

  “Things aren’t always what they seem. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a radio interview in thirty minutes, and I need to prepare,” Raquel said with an air of dismissal.

  Tally’s cell phone rang. Her gaze clouded as she glanced at the caller ID. “It’s the day care center. Hello?” A brief silence ensued while Tally listened. “Okay, I’ll be there shortly.” She hung up and turned to Marla. “Luke is fussing. He might have a fever. I have to go pick him up.”

  Raquel grabbed Tally’s arm. “You shouldn’t leave your kid at those places. Hire a nanny and keep him home until he’s school age.”

  “Excuse me?” Tally shook her off. “I have a career to restart. Besides, Luke likes having other people around. It helps with his socialization.”

  “Like they know the difference at that age? Heed my warning. One little mistake and...” Raquel seemed to recover herself and straightened her spine. “Never mind. What you do with your child is your business. It was good seeing you, ladies.”

  Marla noticed Raquel’s accent became less pronounced when she got emotional.

  “Thanks for speaking to us,” she replied with a polite smile. She grasped Tally’s elbow and herded her toward the door. “What was that about?” she asked in a hushed tone.

  Tally gave her a troubled glance. “I don’t know, but I believe Raquel is right in one regard. None of these people are what they seem. I wouldn’t trust any of them past the door.”

  Chapter Nine

  Marla had the rest of the day free once Tally dropped her off at home. She didn’t want to sit idle when she could learn more about the suspects in Dalton’s case. The sooner he put the killer behind bars, the sooner their life could return to normal. She decided to pay a visit to Alyce Greene, the food blogger. She took off in her car once she’d freshened up and let the dogs out.

  Alyce’s address led her to a single-story ranch house in Cooper City. She resided in one of those gated communities where lines of service people waited to get in and the guards swiped your driver’s license. Marla appreciated the added security layer but knew from Dalton that smart burglars could jump the surrounding hedge or enter the community via the lake in the back. A barking dog was the best deterrent.