Macaroni and Freeze (5 page)

Wait. That's not right!

“Priscilla, there's a
dinner
special named after you. It ran all this week. It ends on Monday,” I said, trying to remember the checklist detailing Priscilla's demands Megan had given me.

“Isn't that nice of you!” she replied. “I'll have to sample that, too. But I'm definitely sure about the breakfast special tomorrow at breakfast, so I'll be expecting it. Good night, everyone.”

Crap. Now I had to go to the diner and make something unique for Priscilla for breakfast and incorporate it into the menu . . . or maybe just the chalkboard. How about a poster? Yes, a poster. Delores, one of the night waitresses, is pretty creative. She'd be able to make it look nice and not like it was an afterthought.

As I looked at Jill, who was still grinning at Ty, I remembered my manners. “Jill, how about you? Would you like a snack, too?”

“Oh, I definitely found the snack I want,” she said, taking Ty's hand and guiding him toward the parking lot. Ty looked over his shoulder at me and raised an eyebrow, but he still let Jill lead him away.

Jill certainly knew what she wanted, and she wanted Ty.

I was going to go to Ty's rescue but then decided that he could handle her himself, if he wanted to. He was a grown man, after all.

That left Peter and me.

“I have chocolate chip cookies and milk.”

Good Lord, I sounded like a mother.

“I'll make you up a plate, but I'm not going to join you. I have to get to my diner. I have a zillion things to do, and it's my shift.”

I put the cookies and milk on a tray and showed him to his room down the hallway. I pointed to where Jill's room was located in case she came back anytime soon.

“Good night, Peter. If you need anything, just give
me a call at the diner. The phone number is on a pad on the nightstand next to your bed.”

“Thanks, Trixie.”

He seemed like an okay guy, for the most part. I wouldn't open my house to anyone I didn't get a good vibe from, celebrity chef's stepson or not.

I hurried to my room, washed my face, and ran a brush through my hair, thinking the whole time what kind of breakfast dish I could create for Priscilla. After all, the place was crawling with media. Maybe my diner could get some of that attention, too.

But first I had to fix the breakfast mistake.

Hopefully the Tri-Gams wouldn't kill
me.

“P
riscilla, welcome to the Silver Bullet,” I said, greeting her with my hand out.

She didn't shake my hand but instead looked around intently. I thought she was going to give my diner the white-glove test, but instead she pulled off her white gloves and handed them to me along with her matching leather hat.

Peter was already assisting her in removing her coat.

“I've been here before, you know. I used to be friends with Stella and Porky. We had some great times on this property, especially during the summer. Now, where is my breakfast special?”

I pointed to Ray's poster and let her read it.

“Potato pancakes? With kielbasa?” She grimaced. “How very . . . uh . . . old-fashioned, but I'll give them a try. I haven't had potato pancakes in years—the grease and the starch, you know, they just kill my stomach. We won't even talk about the kielbasa!”

Oh, you're very welcome!
I wanted to say, but instead
I said, “I'll have Nancy bring the horseradish and mustard with it.”

I escorted Priscilla to one of the tables in the side room so the rest of the Tri-Gams could enter and take off their coats. Then I turned to Peter and Jill, who had followed closely behind, and gestured to seats on either side of Priscilla.

Just then I noticed Ty Brisco walking into the diner, and the crowd separated like oil and water. With a couple of “Hello, darlin's,” the Tri-Gams were eating out of his hand—and not ordering off my menu.

He walked over to me, took Priscilla's garments from my hands, and pulled out a chair next to her. I thought it was for Jill Marley, like I was planning, but then I felt it on the back of my knees.

“Have a seat, Trixie, and get to know Priscilla. Besides, Juanita told me that you needed some time out of the kitchen. She said that she and Cindy have it covered.”

“Oh, no. I couldn't,” I protested. Besides, Priscilla and I had nothing to talk about.

“Sit and relax. That's an official police order.”

Priscilla laid her hand on mine. “Do what the handsome man says, Trixie. Talk to me.”

“Are you enjoying your stay here, Priscilla?”

“I am. One of the highlights of my trip is being able to spend so much time with my dear stepson, Peter, of course.”

Jill coughed on the other side of me and quickly chugged down her water.

Priscilla turned her head toward Peter, who was holding up Priscilla's coffee mug for Nancy to fill. “Isn't he just so thoughtful?” Priscilla said.

“He certainly is,” I said, wanting to point out that it was Jill who'd given Peter the idea by reaching for Priscilla's cup earlier. Peter had snatched it from her hands.

“Jill and I are going to teach Peter the ins and outs of my business,” Priscilla said. “It's about time he finally took an interest. Isn't that right, Jill?”

“Oh, yeah . . . sure. Whatever you think is best, Cilla.”

“Oh, Trixie? Just so you know, I'm expecting a very important package today. I had it addressed to you here in Sandy Harbor, since I wanted to make sure it was delivered quickly. It's being overnighted from New York City. Will you please see that I get it immediately when it comes?”

“Of course,” I said.

Priscilla took a sip of coffee. “Oh dear. This is much too bitter,” she said, reaching for the creamer and sugar. “When are we going to be served, Trixie? I don't have all day.”

“Soon,” I replied. People from her party were still being seated, and I thought it was only right to wait for them before I gave the okay.

“So, Priscilla, when do you plan on leaving Sandy Harbor? Right after the contest?” I asked, hoping.

I knew what the Tri-Gam Departure Committee had said, but I wanted to hear it right from the TV chef's mouth.
The sooner, the better
, I thought.

“It depends on the weather,” she said. “I don't have to be in Ottawa for . . . um . . . I forgot when I was supposed to be there.” She turned to Jill. “Darling, when am I supposed to appear in Ottawa?”

“In three days,” Jill said.

“No. That can't be right. Are you sure?”

Priscilla's voice had become a little thin, and she was definitely getting upset.

Jill put her hand on Priscilla's. “I'm sure, Priscilla. Three days. Don't worry. I'll take care of you.”

“I'm glad I can depend on you, Jill.”

Priscilla stared at the roof of my diner until I asked her, “So, you have to leave in three days?”

“Yes. Three days, just like I told you,” she snapped. “So I have a little time to spare. If Peter is too tired to drive, we can stay for a while longer with you, Trixie. I assume that won't be a problem.”

I wanted to say,
You assume wrong, Countess,
but instead I said, “No, of course, it's not a problem at all.”

Since everyone who was having breakfast with Priscilla dared not order anything else but the special named after her, we were all served breakfast rather quickly. Coffee was set out in carafes as well as hot water and tea bags for tea. As planned, bowls of sour cream and applesauce were placed on the table at various intervals. A jar of horseradish and mustard joined them.

Nancy and Chloe, who were serving us, were efficient and friendly. The breakfasts came out of the kitchen hot and delicious.

I thought it was a pretty nice event until Mayor Rick Tingsley got up to give another welcome speech to Priscilla.

Priscilla leaned over to me and whispered, “Richard Tingsley always was a windbag. Likes to hear himself talk. I can't believe you people elected him to be the mayor.”

“Don't count me in on that one. I wasn't living in Sandy Harbor when that happened.”

“Oh, and, Trixie? Your potato pancakes, although a little unimaginative, are tolerable. If you give Jill the recipe, I'll put it in my next cookbook.” She waved her hand as if she didn't care what I did.

Unimaginative? Tolerable?

Sheesh. I'd given up sleep to give Priscilla her breakfast special.

I swallowed my coffee before I choked on it. “How nice of you, Priscilla. I'll be sure to keep that in mind.”

*   *   *

After breakfast was over, I thawed out my car and drove the three hundred yards from my diner to the Big House. It seemed ridiculous, but there was no way I could lug the heavy cooler full of my mac and cheese supplies through the foot of ice and snow that had accumulated from yesterday's storm.

I left everything in the car and hurried inside to take a shower. Kicking off my boots and shucking out of my heavy coat, scarf, hat, and mittens, I tossed them on a chair and hurried upstairs.

Finally, after a nice hot shower and a blow dry, I was as presentable as possible, with my moussed hair and my puffy, sleep-deprived eyes, which I tried to hide with concealer and purple eye shadow.

Just as I was about to pull out and head to the fairgrounds, an overnight-delivery truck pulled up and parked right behind my car. It had to be Danny Morrison. He normally had the Sandy Harbor route.

“I have a package addressed in care of you, Trixie. It's for a Miss Priscilla Finch-Smythe,” Danny said, handing me a large vanilla-ice-cream-colored bubble mailer. He was dressed all in brown, and his words came out in puffs of vapor. “Sign my machine, would you?”

He held out an electronic clipboard–looking thing and offered me a stylus. I handed him my purse, as well as the carafe and mug I was carrying, for him to hold while I signed.

“See you at the contest?” he asked.

“Yup. I'm on my way there now.”

“The way you cook, I bet you'll win first place.”

“Thanks, Danny. Too bad you're not a judge!”

He nodded, shivered, and climbed the stairs to his delivery truck. He drove off, leaving a cloud of gas fumes in his wake.

I looked at the thick mailer. It's not that I'm nosy, but the return address seemed to jump out at me. It was from a bunch of New York City lawyers.

It must be really important for Priscilla to send it in care of me with instructions to get it to her immediately.

I tossed the package and the rest of my stuff into my frozen car and started it. After a couple of sputters, the engine finally came to life. Back outside, I chipped off the ice and brushed the snow off again. It looked like one or two inches had fallen since I'd driven here.

I started to worry about the turnout for the contest due to the weather. There would be a massive Tri-Gam breakdown if a lot of people didn't come.

My car slowly chugged through the slushy muck on Route 3. Every now and then the wheels would grab and pull the car to the right or left. I didn't want to end up in a field or whatever was under certain bridges, like a river, so I drove slowly.

The drive, which was usually less than a half hour, since the fairgrounds were a straight shot from the Big House, took about forty-five minutes.

When I arrived, it looked like the husbands of the Tri-Gams, clearly outfitted in their lime-green vests, were assisting Deputies Vern McCoy and Lou Rutledge in parking cars. Then I noticed the huge snowbank that was as tall as some of the Adirondack Mountains. On both sides of the snowbank were cleared areas for parking. A couple dozen RVs looked like they had spent the night there.

I pulled up next to Deputy Rutledge. “G'morning, Lou.”

“Morning, Trixie. Hey, if you're unloading your car, go behind the Culinary Building.” He motioned to a semiplowed area behind the building. “Then move
your car over to that cleared-off area.” He pointed to his left. “Park over there as soon as you're done. We have to keep the area around the building clear for emergency vehicles.”

“Of course.”

“I'll bet my paycheck that you'll be happy to get this weekend over with,” Deputy Rutledge said with a sly smile.

“You have no idea, Lou. Priscilla is such a difficult diva, and I really, really dislike having her around. I can't wait to get rid of her.”

He nodded, and I drove around to the back of the building as instructed.

I was impressed with the efficiency of the Tri-Gam Parking Committee, although it was way too early to really judge if they had it all under control. The bulk of the people wouldn't arrive for another hour or more.

I knocked on the back door of the Culinary Building so someone could let me in. It was a bustle of activity when the county fair was in progress, but now I could barely hear a murmur of volunteers talking.

Connie Benson, a Tri-Gam, opened the door. “Thank goodness you're here, Trixie. A busload of crazy ladies showed up a little while ago looking for Priscilla Finch-Smythe. I'm not sure where they went, but they seemed like they wanted her head on a platter!”

“Yeah, well, so do I. I can't wait to get rid of her once and for all, after this fund-raiser is over.” I handed Connie my purse, mug, and carafe of coffee.

“I phoned Megan,” Connie said. “She said that Priscilla and her entourage are in her car and that her husband, Milt, is driving them around, showing Priscilla some of the beauty of our village first and what improvements we've made since she lived here back in the day.”

“Well, Megan has to bring her here sooner or later,” I said. “Priscilla is the final judge of the mac and cheese contest. And I really hope I win. I want to be on TV and get the publicity for my diner and cottages!” I was getting excited, not just for me, but I wanted success for the whole contest.

“And, Trixie, have you heard the buzz? Chef Walton DeMassie is here from New York City. Can you believe it? I have his line of cookware.” Connie was positively giddy. “I watched his show all the time, until it was canceled. Apparently he's been telling everyone that he wants to make a comeback and that winning this contest is just the way to do it.”

I doubted that our little contest would help in his comeback. But what did I know?

“Kip O'Malley is here, too. He's the head cook over at the Watertown Jail.” She rolled her eyes. “He told me that he's dying to quit and be on TV. He said that he wants to share his culinary artistry with the world and that he didn't go to correspondence cooking school just to cook for prisoners.”

Correspondence cooking school?
I chuckled, wondering how that worked.

“
Teacher, my guests ate my homework.”

“Well, then, Mr. O'Malley, you get an A.”

“Oh, and Chef Jean Williams is here from the soup kitchen in Syracuse. Looks like she wants some TV glamour, just like you, Trixie. And she wants to work with Priscilla. She said that Priscilla is her heroine, and she wants to follow in her footsteps,” Connie said, helping me set my things down on a table. “What about you, Trixie? Do you want to be a TV chef, too?”

I shook my head. “Nah. I'm pretty happy being the chief cook and bottle washer at my own place. But if I did get on TV, I'd talk up the Silver Bullet and my cottages and hopefully the money would increase. Then I could expand. Put on additions. I could even franchise! Man, the sky's the limit.” I was getting carried away again. “Anyway, that's what I'd do.”

“Sounds like a great plan, Trixie.”

Quickly, I unloaded the rest of the things I'd brought and put everything at my table, which was clearly marked with my name and contest number. There was a name tag, too, which I picked up and clipped on to the collar of my jacket.

Nice job by whatever committee was in charge, I thought.

Then I parked my car where Lou had indicated, avoiding a fire hydrant that was dug out next to my car. I prayed that there wouldn't be an avalanche from the snowbank during the cook-off, or my car—and all the
others that would have to park there—would be buried.

Two hours later, the contest was organized chaos and the building smelled divine. Sixty-two chefs had made it to Sandy Harbor, which meant a gross of sixty-two thousand dollars. We'd have to pay out the prizes for first, second, and third place and give a cut to the state fair to rent the building, but that wasn't too shabby.