Small Town Spooky (Cozy Mystery Anthology)

  Small Town

  Spooky

  Cozy Mystery Anthology

  This is a collection of fiction. The names, characters, places, and events depicted in this book are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, either living or deceased, is purely coincidental.

  Murder

  in the

  Mix

  Anisa Claire West

  Chapter 1

  Sleepy Hollow, New York

  Baron’s Bistro

  Stormy Saturday Afternoon

  Brutal thunder boomed and lightning sizzled across the late afternoon sky as I ran for cover, spontaneously tying a plastic shopping bag around my head as I dashed towards the restaurant. My black pants and white blouse were soaked through to my skin and I felt a cough tickling the back of my throat. Breathing raggedly, I pulled open the heavy door and hurled myself inside. Soft laughter echoed across the empty restaurant as I untied my shopping bag hat and collapsed against the wall.

  “Is it raining outside?” Kristin, the 20 year old tart of a hostess asked me with a mean spirited giggle.

  “Uh, what do you think?” I retorted, trying to smooth out my shoulder length chestnut hair enough to look presentable for the wealthy customers that would be pouring in like spring raindrops in a few hours.

  “Baron says he wants you making salads tonight,” Kristin informed pompously. “And it’s just as well. You don’t really look like hostess material right now, Charlotte,” Kristin giggled.

  “Fine,” I replied, unwilling to tangle with the rude girl who was more than 10 years my junior. Besides, my demotion to salad duty wasn’t her fault. Baron LeFort was, simply put, a jerk. He was every drop as arrogant as you’d expect someone who named a restaurant after himself to be.

  Disappearing into the kitchen, I waved hello to Rolf, the head chef who was stirring up a pot of Hollandaise sauce. Oh how I longed to be standing in his shoes! Well, not literally his shoes, as Rolf was 6’4” and easily weighed 250 pounds while I was a mere 5’2” and could still fit into the same shoes I wore in 8th grade. No, what I wanted was to manage a gourmet kitchen, be a true culinary artist sculpting delectable dishes that made customers want to meet me and thank me personally.

  Since I had graduated from the culinary arts program at Westchester Community College nearly a decade ago, I had dreamed of opening my own restaurant but never had the start-up cash needed to launch a business. Instead, I had been tossing romaine lettuce and vine ripened tomatoes at a gourmet restaurant to gain experience and “build up my resumé.” Competition was so stiff among chefs in the New York area that I actually considered myself lucky to be chopping raw onions on a nightly basis. Many of the students I had graduated cooking school with worked for minimum wage as front desk agents at local hotels or short order cooks at greasy diners.

  “Smells delicious, Rolf,” I commented as I soaped up my hands.

  “Thanks Charlotte,” Rolf smiled as dimples surfaced on his rugged face. “I made the mustard from scratch this time. Usually I cheat and pour in a bottle of Grey Poupon, but don’t tell Baron!” He winked at me and set his wooden spoon down on the counter.

  “It’ll be our secret,” I promised.

  “Are you going to be making salads all night?” He asked.

  “Apparently,” I sighed, slipping on a pair of sanitary gloves and rinsing off a head of lettuce.

  “I don’t know why Baron hides you away in here. It would look much better for the place to have an actual grown up greeting the customers!” Rolf said as I smiled gratefully. Despite his brawny size, Rolf was anything but macho. He wasn’t a big teddy bear; he was a cool, classy Richard Gere in a football star’s body and chef’s hat.

  “It’s okay. Maybe one of these days, I’ll graduate from salad girl to sous chef,” I said doubtfully. “Don’t these restaurant guys know that some of the greatest chefs in history have been women? Haven’t they ever heard of Julia Child? Or Nigella Lawson?”

  “You need to find a job somewhere else. Baron isn’t fair to his women employees. He treats them like second class citizens,” Rolf said as though he were personally insulted. With a trio of younger sisters, Rolf had an enormous amount of respect for women.

  “I’m trying, believe me. But no one is hiring right now,” I raised my voice as a clap of thunder fought for control.

  “What a storm!” Rolf whistled.

  “Yeah, it’s Creepy Hollow today, not Sleepy Hollow,” I giggled as I yanked scarlet tomatoes off the vine.

  “Chop chop!” Clapping hands accompanied the dreaded voice of Billy the restaurant manager. While not nearly as strict as Baron the owner, Billy still prided himself on running a tight ship.

  “Hi Billy,” I said dryly. “I’m chopping, alright. Chopping up all these yummy vegetables,” I forced a smile as Rolf chuckled in the background.

  “That Hollandaise sauce smells very odd,” Billy pinched his pug nose as his thin gray hair rustled in the wind blowing from the open window. “And why is the window open on a day like this?” He snapped and slammed the window shut.

  “Proper ventilation,” Rolf said through clenched teeth. “And how does the sauce smell weird?”

  “Something’s off with the mustard,” Billy replied, his face crinkled as though he were sniffing cow manure. “Very off.”

  “I’m experimenting tonight,” Rolf said, protectively placing a lid over the saucepan and allowing the recipe to simmer.

  “Saturday is not the day to experiment,” Billy frowned. “Tuesday maybe, or Wednesday. Any day but Saturday when half the town shows up for dinner!”

  In a huff, he exited the kitchen as Rolf and I exchanged disgusted but amused glances. “That man wouldn’t know good food if it fell from the sky and knocked him unconscious!” I assured as Rolf’s dimples reappeared with an appreciative smile.

  “You’re the best, Charlotte,” he said. “You should be wearing this hat.”

  “Okay, then I will,” I joked, zipping over to him, standing on my tippy toes and pulling the chef’s hat off his head. Adjusting the brim over my eyebrows, I grinned impishly at my co-worker as he roared with laughter.

  Popping his head through the door, Baron shot us a deadly glare through penetrating brown eyes. “The only noise I want to hear in this kitchen is oven timers ringing!” His thin lips twitched inside his salt and pepper beard as he reprimanded us like we were children rather than thirty something adults.

  “Yes sir,” I saluted him with an irrepressible giggle. Even though I hadn’t scraped together my rent money for my stinky high rise studio in White Plains, I didn’t care if Baron fired me on the spot. Working under his rule had been marginally bearable in my twenties, but now in my thirties it was beyond degrading.

  “Have you been drinking the cooking sherry?” Baron asked as remnants of a French accent danced on his tongue. Living in the United States for almost three decades, the Parisian business man hadn’t fully lost his French style, although it seemed he had lost his joie de vivre. The man really made Gordon Ramsay look like a demure little pussycat.

  “Cooking sherry? No, maybe just a little of that Dom Pérignon you keep on reserve,” I said sarcastically as his eyebrows raised.

  “I’m not amused,” he said with the bitterness of unseasoned broccoli rabe.

  The first customers of the evening pulled Baron away from the kitchen as I heaved a sigh of relief. “That man is oppressive.”

  “That’s a nice way to say it,” Rolf g
ritted. “I ought to poison the Hollandaise sauce and let him drink it from a thermos. And a big thermos for Billy too.”

  I gazed up in surprise at Rolf’s usually innocent blue eyes that glimmered as a flash of lightning ignited the room. “Don’t even say that! That’s horrible!”

  “They deserve it. They’re rotten eggs,” Rolf groused, pounding a fist onto the counter.

  “Don’t even pay attention to them. Just keep working your magic even if they don’t appreciate it,” I sweetened my voice to candy-coated, hoping Rolf would relax and stop spewing such craziness.

  “Hey guys,” Jed, the chef’s assistant, swept into the kitchen, sticking his umbrella in the corner of the room and grabbing a towel to dry his rain-drenched face. At 25, Jed was already closer to my dream career than I was and he wasn’t a very skilled chef. His claim to fame was gluten-free pasta cut from scratch, but other than that specialty item, he barely knew a fork from a knife. I knew Baron had only hired him last year because of his gender. The old crone had it programmed in his thick skull that only men could be great chefs. How I’d love to prove him wrong with my signature seafood creation of Fresh Prawns with Spicy Chili Sauce!

  “Baron’s on the hunt tonight,” Rolf warned. “And you’re an hour late. I’d get right to work if I were you.”

  “Are you keeping tabs on me?” Jed asked with a smirk.

  Rolf said nothing and disappeared into the storage room. The two men mixed like sardines and cheesecake. They were at each other’s throats every single dinner shift as professional, hardworking Rolf just couldn’t accept Jed’s smug slacker attitude.

  “Man this place is for losers!” Jed said ironically as I refrained from telling him that his brilliant observation meant he was a loser as well.

  Miranda, one of the waitresses in training, rushed into the kitchen with a frazzled expression on her pretty face. She was as young as snippy Kristin but a far easier person to work with. Unfortunately, she was also one of the most inept food servers on the entire eastern seaboard and had already spilled hot soup on more than one irate customer.

  Clasping her order pad to her chest, the redhead babbled, “I hope I got their orders right!”

  “You didn’t enter them on the computer?” I said softly.

  “Um, no, I was too confused! They were talking so fast!” She cried as I pursed my lips compassionately. Miranda would likely be fired by the end of the night.

  “Let me see,” I skimmed her chicken scratch notes and identified one item that I needed to make. “Okay, looks like someone ordered the Blood Red Strawberry & Beet Salad. Coming right up,” I walked over to the chef’s station and handed the pad to Rolf who was frowning impatiently at our poor newbie.

  “Beef Bourguignon and Chicken Marsala for entrées,” he mumbled. “At least I think that’s what this says. The words aren’t spelled right.”

  “Yeah, beef whatever and chicken something or other, that’s what they said!” Miranda said quickly as Jed’s eyes settled salaciously over her slender frame. Ugh, I wish he would be fired by the end of the night too!

  “And they said to hurry!” Miranda called over her shoulder as she scooted out of the kitchen in a fluster.

  “Who said to hurry? Baron? Billy? Or the customers?” Rolf grumbled as he oiled up a sautéing pan.

  “Go easy on her. The poor girl isn’t going to last long here,” I said.

  “Neither am I, the way things have been going lately,” Rolf said with that strange glitter in his eyes that looked unnerving even without the glow of lightning on his face. Chefs were notorious for being temperamental, but Rolf was propelling that stereotype to a scary level.

  “Good, then I’ll take your job,” Jed smirked as he poured himself a glass of Chianti Classico.

  “You have to pay for that, you know,” Rolf said rigidly.

  “Uh-huh,” Jed muttered as he guzzled the red wine.

  Shaking my head with consternation, I turned away from the bickering boys and started preparing my salad. Slicing up half a dozen organic strawberries and marinating them in balsamic vinaigrette, I tried to tune out the strife all around me. Cooking was usually a peaceful activity for me but not when everyone in sight was acting like Oscar the Grouch. Sighing, I cut a selection of pickled beets into round shapes and tossed them in with the strawberries. In a separate bowl, I mixed some crisp arugula and endive, relishing the smooth licorice fragrance of the latter. Finally, I poured all the ingredients into a large metal bowl and spooned in some more of the tangy vinaigrette.

  Silently, I wondered what had made the customer choose this particular salad. Generally, customers opted for the tried and true Caesar Salad or the health conscious Spinach Salad. The Blood Red Strawberry & Beet Salad was one of the least popular items on the menu and I was curious about who had ordered it. Setting the bowl aside for a minute, I snuck out of the kitchen and into the dining area to steal a glance at the mysterious customer.

  Chapter 2

  Dressed in a green plaid shirt, the gentleman was deep in conversation with his male dining partner. Both in their fifties, the men appeared to be discussing some sort of business, although I couldn’t hear what they were saying over the combined crash of thunder and Frank Sinatra’s “Stardust” thrumming through the restaurant’s audio system. The men were the only two customers in the restaurant, which wasn’t surprising since it was only 5:30 pm and prime time for early bird bargain hunters but not the sophisticated Saturday night dining set.

  The man in plaid noticed me staring at him and nodded politely. “Hello. Are you the chef?” He offered me an amiable smile that shone a little too brightly, as though he had just polished his dentures with pearl powder.

  “No, I’m not. I prepare the salads,” I replied meekly, wishing I could say, ‘YES, I’m the Executive Chef and I can fix you anything your palate desires!’

  He exchanged a funny look with the man across from him and then glanced down at his empty place setting. “Are our salads ready?” He asked with a whiff of impatience.

  “Um, yes, nearly. They’ll be right out,” I said, rushing back into the kitchen where Baron and Rolf were in the middle of yet another altercation.

  Rolf balled his meaty hands into fists as Baron admonished him in a low voice. Billy seemed to be immersed in a much lighter conversation with Jed as I heard the pair mention the just launched baseball season and betting on how the Mets would have a good year. Miranda was shifting her weight nervously between her feet and chewing on her pencil eraser as she stared into space. What a bunch of bananas.

  Putting the finishing touches on the salads, I quickly handed the bowls to Miranda who wobbled and nearly crashed into the door. “Are you okay?” I asked with concern. Maybe she had been the one dipping into the cooking sherry.

  “Yeah, I’m fine. This job is just so stressful,” she whimpered.

  Billy’s ears perked up as the girl complained about her job. “You know what they say: if you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen,” he drawled. “Honestly, sweetheart, I don’t think this is going to work out. You said you had experience, but I’m starting to think you…how can I say this nicely…you embellished on your resume.”

  “But you haven’t given me a chance yet and all the customers are so demanding!” She defended.

  “All the customers?” Billy parroted. “You mean the two guys who ordered salads? Sweetheart, I want you to turn in your apron after you serve those salads.” His tone was firm and unyielding.

  Nodding her head obediently, Miranda clumsily maneuvered her way out the door. “You really didn’t give her a chance. And now we’re short one waitress tonight,” I pointed out.

  “Not so,” Billy said, whipping out his cell phone. “Dottie can fill in. I’m sure the old goat is home on a Saturday night.”

  I frowned at Billy’s insulting description of Dottie, a woman whom I considered my closest ally at the restaurant. A career waitress for nearly 50 years, Dottie had battle scars of arthritic wrists and
permanent blisters on her feet to prove just how hard she had worked serving people over the decades. Despite her physical discomforts, the grandmother of five was always in a sunny mood and never had an unkind word for anyone…not even bullheaded Billy who condescendingly called her “Granny.”

  “Hey, hey, hey Granny, I knew you’d be home,” Billy said as I felt like gagging. “We need you. Can you be here in 15 minutes? Excellent! See you then.” He looked at me triumphantly and muttered, “Mission accomplished. I’m saving her the boredom of staying home and knitting another pair of hideous socks that no one wants to wear.”

  As Billy rambled on with his ridiculousness, an urgent male voice called from the dining room, “Help! This man needs CPR! Someone, help!”

  Baron and Billy dashed into the dining room as I tailed them, horrified to see the man in the plaid shirt clutching his chest. Curiously, though, he didn’t appear to be choking at all. Rather, he seemed to be suffering from some sort of seizure that was making his natural pink color turn phantom white and his limbs contort violently.

  “Doesn’t anyone know CPR?” His dining partner cried desperately.

  “The man is breathing!” I cut in. “He doesn’t need CPR, but he does need an ambulance. On autopilot, I dialed 911 on my cell phone and urgently told the dispatcher to send an ambulance to Baron’s Bistro on North Tarrytown Road.

  “He’s dying!” The man said in a strangled voice. “My brother is dying!”

  Surprised to hear that the two men were brothers rather than business associates, I bit my fingernails anxiously, wishing I knew some sort of life saving First Aid measure, but I knew none. As the poor man’s color became paler and he sank to the floor, Baron and Billy looked terrified that someone was about to die in their restaurant.

  “I’m telling you, he choked on one of those strawberries!” The brother threw me a menacing glare. “You cut them too thick and he choked.”

  “But it seems like he’s having an epileptic seizure,” I said softly, feeling utterly helpless.