Lucky Catch Read online

  Smoke and mirrors kept me together. Abject fear propelled me forward.

  My favorite venue for meetings, the Golden Fleece Room appealed to my cynical side, or maybe it was my sarcastic side . . . sometimes, the two blended. Regardless, the name usually suited the gatherings, and this one was no exception. The folks at the top of the gourmet world were notoriously . . . difficult.

  The murmur of voices through the closed doors sounded like a swarm of bees, excited and ready to sting. Oh, joy. I paused, tucking in my shirt one more time, fortifying my resolve. Pasting on a smile, I threw back my shoulders and strode into the room with conjured confidence.

  No one noticed me.

  The contestants and staff clustered in the middle of the room, talking animatedly, their voices rising with their tempers. Everyone gestured, emphasizing points that no one listened to as everyone talked at once. I was used to this fire drill, so I took a moment to size up my challenges. Scanning the room, I noticed Jean-Charles was absent. Of course, I hadn’t expected him to be there, not really, but his absence extinguished the last, tiny glimmer of hope.

  Something was terribly wrong.

  And the killer could be in this room right now . . . or not.

  Again, I tried to focus on the gathered throng. Curiously, Adone was there, as was Chef Gregor. The other two contestants besides Jean-Charles were Christian Wexler, a young chef riding a high after winning one of those Food Network shows, and Chitza DeStefano, a tatted, whippet-thin, rising local star.

  I’d first met Chef Wexler when he had wanted to rent the space formerly occupied by Gregor’s Italian place and currently home to the Burger Palais. I’d accepted Gregor’s bid. In retrospect, not the right choice, but I’d had good reasons at the time. One being that Wexler had wanted a huge amount of participation from the hotel. Gregor came with money in hand. I knew better than to make a choice based totally on dollars and cents, but I did it anyway, and lived to regret it.

  After we turned him down, Chef Wexler had opened an eatery in Summerlin to much fanfare and continued success. I’d snuck away to eat there a couple of times. While his dishes were innovative, they were still accessible to culinary neophytes like me . . . I could identify everything on my plate, which was big with me. Even in an obscure location, his restaurant was filled each night with Vegas foodies.

  Shorter and rounder than average, Chef Wexler wore his dishwater-blond hair pulled back and up into one of those ratty, samurai-looking man-buns. While the younger women apparently liked the look, it was totally lost on me—not that Chef Wexler cared. With his dark eyes, smooth skin unmarred by even the hint of facial hair, and an oversized mouth with thick lips, he was the human equivalent of a room decorated in contrasting styles—somehow, the odd combination worked. In addition to his obvious skills, Christian Wexler also exhibited that elusive, intangible it-factor of a true celebrity.

  Spying me, Wexler separated himself from the others, who continued to worry the topic at hand like a pack of wolves tearing at a downed deer. “Miss Lucky, might I have a word?”

  “If it’s quick.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” His eyes flicked to mine, then returned to their lowered position, as if my covered belly button held an incredible appeal. “It’s about the ingredients for the competition. You will be providing them, correct? And they will be the same for each of the contestants?”

  The answer was easy, but I had a question of my own. “Why?”

  “Some of us can get the products we need more easily than others. And consistent quality can be an issue.” This time, when his eyes met mine, they held a hard look.

  “We will provide each contestant with the same ingredients, in amount and quality.”

  He looked relieved. “I’ve been struggling with the quality issue with my supplier, but it is hard to find a replacement—the hotels and top chefs get first crack at the good stuff. I can’t serve good food without good ingredients.”

  “A dog-eat-dog world, is it?”

  That got a hint of a smile out of him. “Yes, ma’am. Thank you.” He dipped his head and stepped away.

  I returned my attention to the gathered throng.

  While Christian had a shy, Southern manner, Chitza was the opposite. Half Venezuelan, half French, she had heat and distinction. Her deft culinary creativity, coupled with brash beauty and an exuberant personality, made her a hit with the moneyed thirty-somethings. Of course, she knew most of them—they’d all grown up with Vegas. Born to a Venezuelan exotic dancer, who had turned her back on her family of hardworking farmers, fleeing to Vegas to take up with a French gymnast whose specialties included a particular skill with a unicycle—I couldn’t recall exactly what—Chitza was a local girl made good.

  She’s studied at the Culinary Institute, then had apprenticed to first the local chefs, then moved up the ranks of the celebrity chefs. Her entire training had been in Vegas, giving her the local knowledge and local association to put her at the forefront of the off-Strip Vegas dining scene. She’d gained a bit of national attention by making the finals of the Best Chef Test—one of the more popular contest shows on the Food Channel. Many chefs appeared on the show, including Jean-Charles—it was a feather in one’s toque to be asked.

  Chitza opened her own place on the west side last spring and, by all accounts, it was a success. Although, I had that on hearsay alone. I’d yet to break away to eat there—but soon . . .

  I clapped my hands. “Everyone, if I may have your attention?”

  They turned on me like a pack of rabid wolves caught briefly in a flare of lights. A moment of silence, then they pounced, shouldering each other aside, jockeying for my attention, shouting questions.

  Everyone, that is, except for Chitza, who stood casually off to one side, one arm crossed across her stomach, her other elbow resting on her forearm, a cigarette nipped between the fingers of her raised hand. Periodically, she would take a drag, then tilt her chin and blow a stream of smoke toward the ceiling. Then she would return to look with disdain on the pack of circling dogs. Her black eyes tilted up at the corners, giving her an exotic Elvira, Queen of the Night, kind of look. She wore her jet-black hair in a short, severe, hip style, like Rooney Mara in that Dragon Tattoo movie. With the sharp angles of her face, and a jaw that looked cut from granite, it would be easy to picture her as the high priestess of some select foo-doo cult. Cool and aloof, Chitza brought heat to the kitchen, and the world was finding a path to her door.

  “One at a time.” I lowered my voice, not even trying to raise it above the ambient noise—competing to be heard only added to the cacophony and encouraged the others to shout louder.

  Everyone settled down.

  “Better.” I took a deep breath.

  Chef Gregor muscled his way to stand in front of me. “Where is my truffle?” Underneath his bluster, he looked white as a ghost.

  The truffle—I’d forgotten. Two bodies had sort of pushed it down my priority list. “I’m working on it.”

  He stepped into me, his face inches from mine. “That’s not good enough.”

  I could smell his fear. “That’s all I got.”

  The other chefs murmured and shifted, like caribou sensing a wolf, but they didn’t press me. The fact was, there were plenty of nice white Alba truffles to be had. Maybe not one the size of Chef Gregor’s, but whether we found his or substituted a smaller one, the chefs would have a truffle for their creations.

  Chef Gregor grabbed my arm. At my scowl, he let his hand drop. “You don’t understand. If I don’t have that truffle, I’m a dead man.”

  Considering I already had two dead bodies, I paid a bit more attention than I normally would have. “Why?” Mona always said bad things came in threes. Why that didn’t work with good things as well was an enduring mystery.

  Chef Gregor stepped back, out of my space. “It is worth much money—I am to auction it after the competition. Surely you remember?”

  I remembered, but my priorities had shifted. Like I said, two
dead bodies sort of trumped a missing truffle. “Are you going to have all the participants autograph it first?”

  A dangerous shade of red colored his jowls. “You are not taking this seriously.”

  “I’m sorry.” And I really was, too. He was being a jerk, but he also seemed truly scared. I made a mental note to try to catch him when he was feeling vulnerable, and we weren’t on stage, to see what I might get out of him . . . if anything. We weren’t exactly on the best of terms since I was responsible for closing him down. But, as they say, business is business. “I just don’t understand how this is my problem.” I had to play dumb, at least for now—given that the Bouclets were up their eyeballs in this whole truffle thing. Pulling their cojones out of the fire was at the top of my to-do list—if I only knew where to begin.

  “The truffle, it was under the care of your kitchen staff, Jean-Charles assured me of its safety personally. And now it is gone.” Chef Gregor raised his voice. “Perhaps we should notify the Babylon’s insurance company?”

  “Don’t you have to wait twenty-four hours before filing a missing persons report?” My snark was showing. “Perhaps you can give me as long?”

  Gregor eyed me coldly. “My truffle. Or your company can pay.”

  I’d give my eyeteeth to see the look on the insurance guy’s face when he took that claim—not your run-of-the-mill slip and fall. “I will try to find your truffle. And if you wish to file a claim, please do so through our legal department.”

  Chef Wexler elbowed Gregor aside, with moxie. He had the look of someone who wanted to try his hand at besting the best. Or maybe I had read that in his profile, I couldn’t remember. “Where is Jean-Charles?”

  Good question. My chef owed me some answers. Okay, he owed me a whole lot more, and his answers, or the lack of them, would support or refute my all-men-are-pigs theory. Right now, the man was punching all of my buttons. But, being the mouthpiece for the Babylon, I swallowed that and segued into party-line mode. “Chef Bouclet is unavoidably detained.” My eyes met Adone’s and held for a moment. He didn’t look away. I thought I saw a flash of fear, and then it was gone.

  “Adone has been telling us about Fiona Richards.” A man I didn’t know stepped into the conversation. He mopped his brow with a stained handkerchief—the stains looked like fresh blood, but I hoped they were tomato sauce. He stuffed the piece of cloth back into the rear pocket of his chef’s pants before I could ask, stilling my overactive imagination.

  “And you are?” I arched a questioning eyebrow at him.

  “Baker. Brett Baker.” He licked his lips as he glanced nervously around the group. “I have one of the local food trucks. One Fish, Two Fish, perhaps you’ve heard of it? Voted Best of Vegas in the Review-Journal?”

  “The sushi truck, sure.” I nodded as my stomach growled, getting smiles from the group. “Been meaning to try your stuff. But why are you here? I wasn’t aware of your participation in the competition.”

  “Chef Bouclet, he asked me to be his sous chef.” The young Mr. Baker wrung his hat in his hands and shot a sideways glance at Adone, who glowered. “I’m also the point man for the food-truck fest the day before the competition.”

  “Got it.” I looked at him for a moment longer than necessary. He seemed sort of twitchy, but maybe I was imagining it. This whole event had everyone on edge, and now with the murders . . . well, they were a match to dry tinder.

  “Sort of intriguing, don’t you think?” Chitza purred from the periphery. “The young gladiators, with the truck guy elevated to the kitchen and the chef stuck in a food truck. Leave it to Jean-Charles to stir the pot, eh? It’s not the first time someone close to him has died.” When she looked at me, I could’ve sworn the temperature in the room dropped.

  Not only what she said, but also the way she said it, left little doubt as to the implications riding the undercurrent, which left me feeling a bit off-center. Was she telling me something, or was I reading something that wasn’t there? Should I show my hand or keep it close? Unfortunately, these days, everyone was guilty until proven innocent, tried and convicted in the media practically overnight. The truth got buried under heaping piles of misinformation and conjecture, if not outright lies.

  “Let’s get started. I know you all have preparations to make.” Amazingly, everyone settled down and at least pretended to listen as I went over the basic rules of the upcoming competition. Basically, Friday, the day after Thanksgiving, the three chefs, assuming we found Jean-Charles, would assemble in Teddie’s theatre. They would be given the same ingredients, the white truffle being the final one—I’d been told it was something you put on the final dish, not in it. I had no idea one didn’t cook with white truffles. Of course, the array of things I didn’t know was so vast, I’m surprised it wasn’t listed on the register of national landmarks.

  Then, they would have an hour to prepare a three-course meal. The judging panel,Chef Omer, Gordon Ramsay, whom I had yet to meet, and Jordan Marsh, as the amateur gourmand, would chose the winner and most likely add to the fireworks. The whole thing was actually a huge fundraiser, part of the Vegas Feast for Famine, a cringe-worthy name in my opinion, to raise money for Three Square, a local charity that provided food to the disadvantaged.

  The food-truck fest would be a prelude to the main event and a more wallet-friendly affair to bring the locals into the fun. One of the main attractions I’d managed to score was a White Castle burger truck. The original sliders, those little White Castle gems, inspired foodie lust bordering on the absurd. Last year, the line had stretched for over three hours. And still, no plans for a Vegas location. The White Castle folks were either brilliant or stupid beyond belief, I couldn’t figure out which.

  Addressing the throng, I hit the high points. When I’d finished my spiel, I fielded a few questions, then the gathering disbanded.

  One question they had asked lingered: where was Chef Bouclet?

  The Burger Palais had been the last place I’d seen him. Seemed like as good a place as any to start.

  * * *

  Romeo had beaten me to the punch. “You’re late.” He glanced at me, but didn’t smile.

  “I made some calls.” I sidled in next to him, taking a stool at the bar of the Burger Palais, which was now absorbing the full brunt of dinnertime. “Was I supposed to meet you?”

  “No, but I knew where to find you.”

  “Then could you tell me where to find me? I seem to be having trouble getting a handle.” I encircled his shoulders and gave him a quick squeeze—he just looked so down-in-the-mouth. “Have you found Jean-Charles?”

  He shook his head. “Next time you run off on me, take me with you, okay?”

  “Is that even possible?” I motioned to the bartender for a glass. Having made good on his promise to return for the Wild Turkey 101, Romeo had already laid claim to the bottle. “I hope you saved a drop or two for me.”

  “Could you stifle the glibness? You know what I mean.”

  “Glibness is my last defense against reality.” Reaching across him, I grabbed the bottle by the neck and poured two fingers’ worth into the double old-fashioned glass the bartender slid in front of me. She knew me well enough to have forgone the ice—my father had taught me ice just bruises good bourbon. I had no idea what that meant, but sometimes I took his advice on the off chance I might be missing some subtlety. Although, in my experience, Wild Turkey 101 was designed to hit you over the head, not sneak up on you. “Shouldn’t you be slaving over a hot crime scene?”

  “I left it in capable hands—the coroner and his staff are doing their thing. I figured my time would be better spent looking for answers.”

  “In the bottom of a bottle of bourbon?”

  To his credit, he didn’t hit me. Instead, he jiggled the ice in his glass. “Your Chef Bouclet is riding to the top of the suspect list. Don’t you think it’s odd that he is nowhere to be found?”

  I refused to agree on principle, although he was right. “So, what do you think?” />
  “Like I said, we put an APB out on him. But, other than that, I haven’t a clue. I was hoping you might have some insight.”

  While digesting that for a moment, I stood on the foot rail. Leaning over the bar, I snagged a dish of cashews. My stomach growled as I popped a few in my mouth, then slid the dish toward Romeo. “Not offhand.”

  “What about the note?” Romeo tossed that line in front of me like a kid with a cane pole hoping to catch a crappie.

  I arched an eyebrow at him. “That’s an over-broad question. What about the note?”

  “Why do you think it said ‘Lucky no more’?”

  “Well, the two victims certainly ran though their allotment of luck. Getting smoked, the other broiled.” I shivered—I couldn’t help myself.

  “You’re deflecting. ‘Lucky’ was capitalized. . . .”

  “We’re back to that, are we?” I stared into my glass, but it was fresh out of tea leaves. “What beef would the killer have with me?” Romeo opened his mouth—I saw a quip lurking there, so I shut him down with a glare. “It must’ve been a typo.”

  “A typo?”

  “Yeah, well.” I swirled my drink around in my glass, careful not to spill even one small drop. “A writer is his own worst editor.”

  “Really?” He looked at me like I’d lost my mind. “Where’d you hear that?”

  “Everybody knows it.” I waved away any more on that topic. “Do you have an ID on the second body?”

  “Yeah, that’s why I texted you.”

  “You did?” I snatched my phone and squinted at the screen. Sure enough, his text was one of many I had missed. None from Jean-Charles. Nor any calls. “I didn’t hear anything.” I checked the switch on the side of the phone—it had flipped to silent mode. “Every time I stuff this thing into the holder, it flips to silent. Can’t get used to it.” I scrolled through the messages quickly—nothing that couldn’t wait, even the half dozen from Mona—if it was really important, she would’ve found me. This time, I put the phone in my shirt pocket, even though the weight of it gapped the thin fabric away from my skin. Showing my cleavage, such as it was, wouldn’t even cause a ripple in Silicone City, so I didn’t worry about it. “Who was it?”