“She’s so naïve,” the chef said and climbed down from his stool. “No one will talk to a detective, or any outsider, during the run-up to the taping. I doubt you’ll even be allowed on the set.”
“Why not let the police handle the investigation, then?”
“The police,” Chef Clyde said, a sneer on his pointy face, “did a cursory investigation and found nothing irregular. Pilar isn’t a minor. Adults can disappear if they want to.”
“Back to my idea,” Emmett said. “Ms. Pennington here can pose as our new culinary assistant.”
“What?” The chef and I said at the same time.
“Think about it, Chef. I’ll assist you, like in the old days, and she can assist me. That will provide the perfect cover. She’ll be assistant to the assistant, so no one will pay any attention to her. She’ll find out things we’d never be privy to.”
“What about the release for Pilar’s recip—”
Indicating the kitchen with a Vanna White sweep of his hand, Emmett silenced the chef mid-sentence. “We’ll practice preparing the menu here,” he said to me and gave his final pitch, “I have an old co-worker at the studio who will get you set up.”
“I hope you know what we’re doing,” the chef said, sing-song, and turned back to his critters. He was through with me.
“The only thing that matters,” Emmett said as he walked me to the door, “is that we get Pilar home safely.”
I agreed to the scheme. I wanted to solve this case to show my appreciation to my aunt for offering me a job and for opening her home to me. I might be sleeping on a divan on her sun porch, its sheets falling way short of the thousand thread count I’d grown accustomed to during my high-end marriage, but on the bright side, I was getting exfoliation treatments for free.
* * * *
I was feeling a little cocky as I sped down the sidewalk. I’d survived my first interview on my first assignment. Then the heel of my shoe caught in a crack in the flagstone walk just outside the iron gate. As I bent over to ease the heel out of the hole without marring the delicate alligator leather, a man walking toward me from the yard next door called, “There you are. Thought you done run away.” The snowman-shaped gardener reached me. “Oh. Sorry. Took you for Pilar. Same color hair.”
My shoe popped free.
“So, I take it you haven’t seen Pilar recently,” I said brushing crumbled mortar off the hem of my pant leg.
The man continued to look me over, all five feet of me, plus my three-inch cheat heels and said, “If I was her, I’d stay gone.”
Trying to follow my aunt’s instructions not to discuss a client’s case while being nosy and chatting people up at the same time (wha?), I tried my hand at questioning the witness.
“Why do you say that?”
“‘Cause everyone knows she’s the real artist in that kitchen. Chef Creepy Critter makes use of her recipes and talent, then he takes all the credit.”
I was out of questions. This looked so easy on TV. Luckily for me, it appeared the guy took my hesitation as skepticism and added, “You think I’m full of it? I wasn’t always wider than I am tall. Pilar brought me her practice dishes, sometimes two or three a day.” He kissed the fingertips of one hand.