Cobblered to death, p.12
Cobblered to Death, page 12
“I guess I don’t, but I see how uncomfortable it makes you when anyone brings up your background. You know nothing about fishing. You were surprised to learn that during planting and harvest season, farmers sometimes eat in the field. That, combined with your taste in designer clothing, tells the story.”
“I don’t wear designer . . .”
Skylar used his palm as a stop sign. “You do. I recognize designer clothes and shoes because my mother wears them. She is a society woman who taught me to appreciate the finer things in life, and my grandparents on my father’s side were farmers. I know the lifestyle differences.”
I opened my mouth to deny his statement, but something different came out. “Don’t tell anyone.”
Moisture sprang to my eyes. I tried to blink it away.
“Oh, Courtney.” Skylar wrapped me in a hug, then held me at arm’s length. “I won’t tell anyone. Your secret is safe with me.” He smiled and winked, then disappeared into his individual dressing room.
My legs trembled, making my knees wobble. If Skylar had guessed my background, could others tell too? I grabbed the knob of the door to steady my balance. I glanced at the dressing-room door. Who was I kidding? My reaction wasn’t from someone knowing and possibly spilling my secret. It was because the last man who said those same words to me and punctuated them with a wink had ended up dead.
CHAPTER TWELVE
While changing out of costume, I talked myself down from Skylar’s words and expression. His turn of phrase had to be a coincidence. An eerie coincidence. There was no way he could have heard Mick whisper those words in my ear. He’d stationed himself across the room from us during the meet and mingle. Now, I focused on his ability to see through my farm-girl façade.
Returning to the set, I pulled my set chair into a far corner, away from people and equipment. I needed to think and talk to Eric. Obviously, my lack of farming background showed. Or was it just to a trained eye? Could Skylar tell because he’d been schooled in designer clothing?
Barb’s words came back to me from our meet and mingle the first night. She’d believed I was raised on a farm. A farm girl herself, I’d convinced her. Or had nostalgic memories clouded her vision, not allowing her to see the fine nuances?
Or was it a fifty-fifty split? Some people saw through me, while others didn’t? So really, anyone could tip my hand. I wanted Eric’s thoughts on the subject. I pulled my phone from my jacket pocket. They’d dressed me in a pink pencil skirt with a matching jacket. Paired with a light gray tank and strappy gray sandals with kitten heels. Skylar’s clothing, gray trousers and a lightweight gray sweater, coordinated with my outfit.
My thumbs tapped on my screen. I wasn’t certain Eric would answer or even walk to the set, as out of sorts as he was this morning. Besides, he was trying to stay away from this show’s taping because he had nothing to do with its production and didn’t want his name thrown back into the hat of suspects. I couldn’t blame him; I wanted my name removed from the derby too.
When my phone didn’t vibrate immediately, I decided to people watch and think. My line of vision landed on Skylar first. He sat a little slouched in his chair, legs outstretched, reading a book. Clean-cut and handsome, he didn’t fit my image of a murderer. Yet many murderers did have those characteristics. Between his flimsy alibi and strong throwing arm, he could very well have killed Mick. But why? Had their paths crossed early in Skylar’s career, as I’d previously pondered? Somehow, I had to find out if he knew Mick.
My thoughts switched to Harrison. I’d bet money he and Mick knew each other, maybe not friends, and not acquaintances either. The thin line in between. They knew each other well enough that Mick knew what buttons to push to fluster, anger and, in my opinion, intimidate Harrison. Speed walking late at night to relieve stress had been Harrison’s activity the night of Mick’s murder. Was it Harrison’s shadow I saw lurking in the tree line? A trained chef, I’m sure he could heft and heave a full cast-iron fry pan. Although Harrison’s and Mick’s physiques were in opposition—Harrison lean and trim, while Mick carried more than a few extra pounds around his middle—they were even in height.
My eyes sought out Harrison. His thumbs skimmed over his smartphone. His proper chair stance, back straight with both feet planted on the floor, matched his tailored navy suit. From this view, he looked confident, cool and in command. I’d tried to get him to open up about Mick to me in the kitchen. Instead, he’d shut me down. I learned nothing about him I hadn’t already known. He had expert knife skills, his gloved hands a blur while slicing the apples.
Gloved hands. I did find out something! With everything that had happened, it had slipped my mind that he’d told me he always wore gloves in the kitchen. He’d carried the pair he wore as my sous chef in his pocket. Did he have a pair tucked away on his person now? Or the night he’d been jogging? If only my fingerprints were on the pan, the murderer wore gloves.
Had Mick underestimated Harrison? Had a blackmail attempt gone wrong? Or was it a love triangle involving Tabitha?
“Miss Archer.”
My body started at Kinzy’s words.
“I’m sorry. I thought you saw me walk up to you. They’re ready for you on the set. They want you and Skylar to call the challenge time.”
I hurried behind Kinzy to my mark. Skylar pulled up beside me. “Courtney, you’re standing on Shannon’s tape line.”
“Oh!” I’d been so deep in thought, so preoccupied with the murder and the lack of Eric answering my text, I’d stood on the first piece of tape I’d seen. “Sorry.” I moved around Skylar to the green tape.
“That’s better. This is my best side. Maybe stand closer; gray washes me out. I need some color reflection from your pink.” Skylar made a disgusted huff. “I wish wardrobe would listen to me.”
I sidestepped toward him until our arms grazed.
The makeup artists brushed away our shine. Brenden drew a chair close to give us instructions. “Courtney, start the countdown with ten minutes. Action.”
“Bakers, you have ten seconds left.” I grimaced. “No, sorry. Keep rolling. Bakers, you have ten minutes left.”
“Cut.” Brenden stood and approached us. “It’s important we get these lines right. It is the only warning the bakers get for the countdown. Skylar, be ready at five minutes.” Brenden looked at me when he enunciated the word “minute.” “Courtney, take one minute. Skylar, you say, ‘Stop baking.’ Got it?”
I nodded and drew in several deep breaths. I needed to clear my mind. Focus on the job at hand.
“Five minutes,” Skylar warned.
Yet I kept going back to those gloved hands. Was anyone looking for gloves? I suppose it was obvious to Drake and Sheriff Perry, yet when they’d interviewed me, they’d stressed my fingerprints on the pan. Should I bring it up to either of the men?
“Courtney,” Brenden’s voice hissed.
Drat, I’d missed my cue. “One minute, bakers.”
Nervous muttering erupted around us. Cameramen went in for close-ups of stressed faces.
I watched Barb put the finishing touches on her biscuit presentation.
“Come out,” Tabitha yelled. My gaze flew to her in time to see her lift her cast-iron fry pan over her head one-handed and whack it, hard, open side down, on the countertop. She didn’t seem to notice the direct stares or sneaked glances from the other contestants. She peeked under the pan. Something must have loosened. Grabbing a spatula, she poked it into the pan.
“Stop baking.”
All the contestants raised their hands at Skylar’s command. Except Tabitha.
Tabitha looked up at us, wild-eyed. She checked the clock before she whacked the pan against the counter again. This time, biscuit fragments splattered the countertop and floor. She swore. Fury reddened her face. She lifted the pan again, then noticed the cameraman. She dropped the pan and hid her face in her hands.
“Cut!” Brenden yelled. “Hands off the food. We will take five and get reset for the judges to visit and sample each challenge. Courtney, you are accompanying them. Feel free to sneak a bite or ad lib a comment or quip.” After his announcement, he cut a straight line to Tabitha, who now tried to clean up the mess. “I said, hands off the food. Leave the mess. You are being judged on what you accomplished.”
The icy glare Tabitha shot Brenden made a chill run down my spine. Shannon and I traded a worried glance.
Working from the back to the front, we started with Rhonda. She’d displayed her biscuits on a rustic, wooden cutting board in a tiered, cakelike fashion. She’d chosen a small, cut-glass bowl for her spread.
“Your plating is lovely.” Harrison broke open a biscuit and spooned a dollop of her sauce on the edge.
“Tell us about your biscuits.” Shannon took the other half of the biscuit and spread the topping across it.
“I went savory, with diced ham inside my dough, and a brown sugar, pineapple chutney.” Rhonda’s lips trembled before breaking into a strained smile while she listened to Harrison and Shannon talk about her fluffy dough and the slightly runny consistency of her spread.
Due to my insider information, I passed on trying a taste.
Shannon and Harrison took a bite and began to chew. Both of their expressions soured. They swallowed hard.
Clearing her throat, Shannon put a hand on her chest. “I believe you made an error in your recipe.”
Harrison coughed and looked around. “We will need some water over here.”
Kinzy came on the run with two bottles of water. After both judges took long swigs of water, the critique began.
“Like yesterday, you used too much salt. What did your recipe call for?” Harrison asked.
Rhonda shrugged. “I used a recipe I know from heart. I must have added the salt more than once.” She wrung her hands. “I am nervous about the competition and,” Rhonda tilted her head to the kitchenette behind her, “the murder.”
Harrison pursed his lips. I wasn’t sure if it was from the oversalted food or Rhonda’s excuse.
“I’d say you failed this challenge. Next time, measure out your ingredients into individual bowls to avoid this error.” Harrison didn’t wait for Shannon or Rhonda to respond; he moved to the next station while pulling a long draw from his water bottle.
I glanced back at Rhonda, who wore a satisfied smile. I shook my head. It made me sad to know someone would sabotage their baking and a chance for the top baking prize.
Barb had baked a sweet dough biscuit with a thick strawberry jam.
“This is good. Add whipped cream and you’d think you were eating strawberry shortcake.” Shannon licked her lips. “You’re a country girl like us.” She drew me into a side hug. “I can tell because that’s how we like our strawberry shortcake, over a sweet biscuit. Isn’t that right, Courtney?”
I checked my shock and guilt before I smiled wide into the camera while nodding my head in affirmation. In truth, I’d always eaten that dessert on pound or angel food cake.
“You have my stamp of approval too.” Harrison dipped a spoon into her jam. “Unlike Shannon, what makes the dish for me is the jam. Kudos.”
Barb beamed.
I snatched a biscuit and some jam. The light, airy biscuit melted in my mouth. The jam burst with freshness, like biting into a ripe strawberry. “This is delicious. I could eat it every morning for breakfast. Is it a family recipe?”
“No.” She giggled. “I’ve been hungry for strawberry shortcake, so I thought, why not try it for my biscuit challenge? To be honest, it took days to perfect the recipe. I sure wasn’t hungry for strawberry shortcake anymore.”
“I’ll bet you weren’t.” Harrison chuckled.
Anthony had prepared a bacon-infused biscuit with a maple butter spread. It was tasty. Harrison and Shannon thought the biscuit needed more leavening. Daniel had overcooked his biscuits. In what I thought bordered on the rude side, and a little too showy, Harrison banged one on the counter to see if it would break. It didn’t. Daniel did win praise for the blueberry-whipped honey spread.
“Brace yourself,” Shannon whispered.
I took a deep breath. Tabitha was next. Harrison’s demeanor changed completely. Instead of a chip on each shoulder, he sported blocks of wood. He met Tabitha’s glare with more bravado than I’d seen him display since we’d arrived.
“What happened here?” He threw out his hand over the counter.
Pinch-lipped Tabitha opened her mouth; then she must have remembered the cameras were rolling. “I had trouble getting the biscuits out of the pan.”
What I knew was anger or resentment toward Harrison would come off as tension on camera.
“We can see that. Did you not temper your pan?” The pointed look with which Harrison pinned Tabitha told me he was really referencing her anger. I wasn’t certain she understood.
“I don’t know. This was my second batch. The first batch didn’t turn out of the pan either.”
“Well, usually, biscuits lift right out of the bottom of your pan even if it isn’t greased.” Shannon’s raised brows asked the unspoken question.
Tabitha hung her head.
Did she feel bad? Or was that for the camera’s sake?
Harrison’s lips pursed. He pulled a bit from what was left in the pan. “This tastes like flour and baking soda.”
“I tried to make a lighter version. A skinny-girl-friendly version.” Tabitha looked up and spat out the words. “I wanted to present a calorie-friendly biscuit and spread. Obviously, what I substituted for shortening didn’t work in the biscuit. I’m sure the spread is good. I whipped spreadable olive oil with cinnamon and nutmeg.”
Shannon picked up the funky plastic bowl Tabitha had used for presentation. She dipped in a spoon and took a small taste. “The taste is passable, and the texture is good. I understand what you were trying to do here. It wasn’t a bad idea; however, you had plenty of time to perfect this recipe before the competition.”
Harrison must have considered the interview with Tabitha finished. He moved on to Otto.
The remaining contestants had few flaws in either their biscuits, spreads or sauces. The offerings were as varied as the contestants with either sweet, savory or a mix of both. It seemed to me that Shannon and Harrison would have a hard time choosing the winner of this round, and an even a harder time determining whether Tabitha or Rhonda had the biggest failure. Of course, they both had a chance to redeem themselves in the afternoon challenge.
We broke for lunch. The contestants’ commissary was somewhere in the resort. Kinzy herded them off the set. Shannon, Harrison, Skylar and I shared a buffet table with the crew. I guessed the segregation had to do with a judge becoming friendly with a contestant and playing favorites.
Shannon and I filled our plates with mixed greens and all the trimmings. She chose an Italian dressing, while I went with a lemon and olive oil dressing I had requested when filling out our preference sheets for catering. I’m sure the resort’s kitchen staff were apprehensive feeding chefs, especially Harrison. I was of the opinion they were doing a fantastic job.
Once I’d grabbed a sparkling water, Shannon and I stepped up to the wardrobe room where we’d eaten breakfast five hours earlier. This time, we were on our own. I had noticed Skylar ate and visited with the crew during lunchtime. Harrison always seemed to disappear.
I pulled out my phone. Still no response from Eric. Always the professional, even when we disagreed, he returned my texts and calls.
“What’s with the frown?” Shannon drawled.
“Eric hasn’t answered my text from midmorning.” I sighed and laid my phone on the table. I drizzled my special-order dressing over my salad before I forked some arugula and a chickpea.
“He’s probably busy tying up loose ends for taping tonight. I’m looking forward to coming. I need to do something besides work.” Shannon nibbled at a snap pea.
“Yeah.” I picked up the phone and checked it again. Nothing. I sent him another message. What I really wanted to talk to him about still felt important to me. I wanted his take on Harrison always wearing gloves in the kitchen. Would Eric think that included if he planned to murder someone there? I put the phone back down and looked at Shannon. I really wished I knew her well enough to confide my suspicions. Maybe someday.
“Wow. That is your second sigh since you sat down. Did you and Eric have a fight?” Shannon sipped from her bottle of sweet tea.
“I don’t know if I’d call it a fight.” I picked through my salad and absently stabbed a green pepper with my fork tines.
“Was it about Drake?”
My head snapped up. My gaze met Shannon’s blue eyes filled with knowing.
“It was.” She nodded her head, her lips pulled into a grim line. “He found out you and Drake had dinner together last night.”
It took me a second to realize my mouth hung open in surprise. I closed it. What else did she know? Had Drake told others? Or had someone else eavesdropped on our conversation, the way I had on Harrison and Mick our first night here? “How do you know that?”
A puzzled expression crossed Shannon’s face. She leaned back in her chair. “It’s obvious.”
“What is obvious?” I drew my brows together.
“Courtney, are you being serious?”
I nodded.
“Eric likes you. It shows all over his face when he looks at you.”
It took a second for her words to sink in; then I burst into laughter. “No, he doesn’t. I mean, I know he likes me, but not in the way you are indicating.”
Shannon reached across the table and palmed my forearm. “I am serious. He does. Up until the moment you met and flirted with Drake, I thought you two were a couple.”
I stopped laughing. “No.” I shook my head.
“Yes,” Shannon said, nodding. “He takes care of you the same way my husband takes care of my needs.”
I opened my mouth to rebut her statement, then closed it. Eric did bring me coffee every morning. He knew my likes and dislikes. What I was comfortable cooking on our show. He stuck close to field uncomfortable questions. He texted me often when we weren’t together to see what I was doing. We had shared many lunches and dinners where he paid. I’d assumed the show reimbursed him for those. He’d never said they were dates. Had he assumed I knew?
