Murder On The Menu: A Romantic Comedy Culinary Cozy Mystery (A Celebrity Mystery)

Murder On

The Menu

A Celebrity Mystery

By Zanna Mackenzie

Murder On The Menu (A Celebrity Mystery) © 2015 Zanna Mackenzie

The moral rights of the author have been asserted. All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. All plots, incidents, characters, locations, organisations, names etc. are fictitious, created from the author’s imagination and any resemblance to real persons, incidents, locations, organisations, names is purely coincidental.

No part of this book may be stored, shared, copied, transmitted or reproduced in any way without express written permission from the author.

ABOUT THIS BOOK:

After Lizzie's new boss, celebrity chef Armand, is stabbed in his own kitchen, Lizzie finds herself at the top of the suspect list. 

Determined to clear her name, she’s forced to enlist the services of her new neighbour, Celebrity Crimes Investigation Agency (CCIA) special agent Jack Mathis, who’s been suspended from his duties for reasons unknown.

Given his reputation, Lizzie figures it’s best not to ask too many questions of him; she only needs the rogue agent to help her catch Armand’s real killer. The fact that Jack is a good-looking guy is not lost on her, but he’s clearly also trouble. And Lizzie’s got more than enough of that in her life already.

Can Lizzie save herself from getting arrested and manage to resist her special agent sidekick’s considerable charms and gorgeous smile? Will they solve the culinary murder mystery or will her new life land her in a prison cell?

CHAPTER ONE

The door to the kitchen at Viande Et Deux Légumes slams shut behind me and I pause, breathing in the blissfully cool night air. Phew. I survived another shift. It’s been a long day and having to stay late with my creepy chef boss Armand didn’t help matters. The only good things about working at this horribly pretentious restaurant are that I get paid (though it’s a pittance) and sometimes I get to bring home cake. I pat the box in my right hand. Chocolate sponge packed with luscious cherries and laced with eye-wateringly expensive liqueur. Yum. Not only a delicious dessert to savour but also, I admit, a form of culinary comfort. Comfort which I seem to be in desperate need of these days, thanks to fate throwing the proverbial spanner in the works with all the power it could muster. Before, in my old life in London, I had family, friends and a job I loved which paid handsomely. Oh – and there was Adam too. Then that life slid dramatically and chaotically into an almighty mess. Humiliating? Yes. Scary? Definitely. Heart breaking? Absolutely. So, now things are…well, let’s just say they’re pretty different.

Oh, and I’m eating a lot of cake.

For the past six hours I’ve been stuck indoors serving ungrateful restaurant patrons and being shouted at by Armand Seville, the chef who owns this place. My feet ache. My head aches. Come to think of it, my whole body aches. Not surprising really, giving the physical demands of my dual jobs. I’m juggling days spent learning how to farm with nights being a waitress, and I’m trying to forget the pain of what went before and instead determinedly embrace the new. I have taken a sabbatical, which is the trendy, slightly less scary term, I believe, for ditching my old life.

I scurry towards my car which is lurking, as per instructions to staff, right at the back of the dimly lit restaurant parking area. Employees are forbidden from taking up the precious spaces nearest to the doors, those are strictly reserved for customers. I always feel nervous walking across this dark patch of ground, all alone, at this late hour. Which is crazy because the restaurant is in a village called Amswick in the middle of the Cumbrian hills, and I can’t imagine there are any muggers or murderers hiding in the bushes around these parts. Even so, a shiver works its way down my spine. Diving inside my little yellow car, I slam the door shut behind me and start her up. I know, I know, I said
her
door. Yes, I’m one of those people who names her car. My little yellow VW Beetle is called Daisy. She’s all I have left of my old life. She’s totally impractical for my new rural one, but I can’t bear to part with her. Something catches my eye and my fingers grip Daisy’s steering wheel as I peer into the night. A shadowy figure sprints across the edge of the car park, hood up, only visible for the briefest of glimpses between bushes and patches of moonlight. I gulp. Why would somebody be out here at this time of night?

Somewhere in the depths of my bag, my mobile phone bursts into life, shattering the stillness of the night. Checking all of Daisy’s doors are locked first, I fumble around and eventually locate my phone. My anxiety hitches up a notch higher when I see who my late night caller is – Adam. I never answer his calls, but I don’t block them either. I suppose seeing his name and getting his calls serves as a painful reminder of how stupid I was and it warns me not to fall into that same trap in the future.

Slipping the phone back into my bag, I press my foot on the accelerator, eager to get out of here.

The lights are still on inside the restaurant kitchen as we whiz past and I spot the lanky silhouette of my boss Armand, probably triple checking everything is done to his exacting standards before he goes off upstairs to his apartment above the restaurant.

Come to think of it, if there
were
any murderers lying in wait around these parts, then I have a sneaky feeling Armand might well be their first victim. Chefs have a reputation for being volatile, especially the famous ones; it seems to go hand in hand with culinary creativity. Armand, the winner of TV show
Culinary Cook Off
two years ago, definitely fits that stereotype. He’s loud, obnoxious and nothing is ever good enough. He yells at all his staff. The young guy who started working here a week ago, straight from college, has been hiding in the walk-in fridge every day sobbing his eyes out. Armand is also a sexist pig. He hits on all of the women who work in the kitchen, the restaurant and the bar. One night, only a week after starting my job, he cornered me behind the bins as I took the rubbish bags out. I can still remember his hot garlic breath on my cheek and his hand grasping my wrist. I lied through my teeth and said I was flattered by his offer but I had a fiancé with a black belt in karate waiting for me at home. He’d reached for my left hand and asked where my engagement ring was. I’d conjured up yet another little white lie and told him I always left the ring at home when I was working at the restaurant. Then I’d pushed past him as fast as I could, holding my breath and crossing my fingers as I did so, hoping he wouldn’t try anything else. Thankfully, he hadn’t.

As Daisy and I turn onto the lane and head for home, I shudder at the memory of that night. The following day, still a bit shaken up, I’d nervously shared the details of my unfortunate experience with two of the other waitresses, both of whom had nodded their heads in a sympathetic way, having been through the same thing themselves. Katya, who brings fresh produce to the restaurant, must have overheard us because she looked all uncomfortable and her cheeks flushed red. She scurried out of the kitchen like a scalded cat. I wonder if she’s another female on the end of unwanted attention from Armand. Anyway, it’s shaping up to be like one of those indoctrination ceremonies – all of the young females get hit on by Armand during their first week of employment, and all of the men get constantly yelled at until they become snivelling shadows of their former shelves. Everybody hates Armand with his long hair, beady eyes and faux French accent – he’s actually from Manchester and his real first name is Michael. Even the name of the restaurant is pretentious -
Viande Et Deux Légumes
– in English it translates as Meat And Two Veg. That’s why, much to Armand’s annoyance, the locals refer to the place as the ‘Veggies’. There are loads of great restaurants in the touristy areas about thirty minutes away, but it’s Armand’s celebrity status which draws people to drive over the scary mountain pass which traverses some of the highest fells in the area, separating there and here, in order to sample the food at the Veggies. Plus, I have to confess, the food is extremely good. He may have his faults, but he’s an amazing chef.

This area isn’t exactly riddled with employment opportunities; most work is in the aforementioned holiday hotspots and is seasonal, so getting a local job that lasts all year round is like finding gold dust in your breakfast cereal. With that in mind, people put up with working at the Veggies, keep quiet and generally try to stay out of Armand’s way as much as possible. Tonight though, I was in the unfortunate position of being the last member of staff to leave the kitchen. Armand had specifically asked me to stay back and help him with checking over some adverts and new menus he’d got a design company putting together for the Meat And Two Veg. He knows I used to work in promotion and advertising in London and is always out for free advice. If he knew what my former employees charged for that advice in my old life… Well, maybe he does know, which is why he’d told me the last hour had been 'off the clock' since I wasn't actually serving customers. Cheek of it!

As I navigate the potholed track down to the farmhouse that is now my home, my hands are holding the steering wheel so tightly that my knuckles are taking on a deathly white shade in the moonlight. As always the dreaded track seems to go on forever, but eventually we reach the yard. I park Daisy in a barn (I swear I hear her heave a sigh of relief) and head indoors to collapse into bed. Originally, I was planning to do a couple of quick jobs tonight, like mix the chicken feed, in an attempt to get a head start on things in the morning, but it’s later than usual and I’m exhausted. I’ll just have to get up even earlier tomorrow instead.

I wonder what tomorrow has in store for me. It can’t get much worse than today, surely.

Cows. Two of them. Staring right back at me, an interested expression on their black and white faces. I know, with everything else on my plate, I’m bone-tired lately but is my mind going now as well?

Backing up towards my car, I debate what to do. I’ve never seen a cow quite this close before. Who knew they were so big?  What on earth are these two doing in my yard at Eskdale Top anyway? There are no animals on this farm other than the chickens which provide the free range eggs I sell to local bed and breakfasts, hotels, and cafés. Presumably these two have escaped from my neighbour Frazer’s place, but what should I do with them? Should I somehow try to stop them and catch them? Ah! As if!

The two cows trundle past me, and I hold my breath against the overwhelming stench which accompanies them. With another curious glance at me they head for one of the fields at the side of the farmhouse. I guess they must like the look of the lush grass - which I desperately need to cut. I’ll add that to my ever growing To Do list. The drone of an approaching quadbike becomes a roar, and I turn to see a red bike, complete with man and dog, enter the yard. Phew. Help is at hand. Frazer must be here to round them up and take them home.

Switching off the engine, the man climbs off the bike and heads towards me, casting a substantial shadow across the farmyard thanks to his height and build. He’s got closely cropped dark blond hair, broad shoulders and is wearing trendy sunglasses. Whoever he is, he certainly isn’t Frazer.

“Hi, you must be Lizzie, Joe’s niece.” He offers a hand to shake after first wiping it down the cargo shorts he’s wearing, which are teamed, rather fetchingly, with a pair of green wellington boots. “I’m really sorry about the cows; these two like to go off and have a wander around every so often.” He nods his head towards them. “I think they get a bit bored just standing around in our fields chewing grass all day. Maybe your grass tastes better.”

I shake his hand. It isn’t rough and calloused from outdoor work. The skin might be soft but his handshake is so firm that it squeezes my own hand tightly for a second before gently releasing it. “You’re from the farm next door? Well, the one down the lane.”

He nods and smiles. “Yes, I’m Jack. Frazer’s younger brother,” he explains. “I’m helping out on the family farm for a little while. Taking a bit of a sabbatical from the day job.”

Ah. Somebody else taking a sabbatical. Does that mean his life is as big a mess as my own?

“And your day job would be?” I can’t resist asking. My mum says nosiness is a family trait. She has it and so did my beloved Uncle Joe.

“I’m a special agent. Fighting crime in the world of celebrities,” he says nonchalantly, casually leaning against my car, right next to me, as though he’s perfectly at home here.

“Yes, right, of course you are,” I reply, annoyed he’s spinning me some line. This morning is getting more bizarre by the minute. First the unexpected bovine visitors and now a spy turning up on my doorstep. Why doesn’t he just tell me if he’s an accountant or something? I’m not one to judge. “And I’m Catwoman,” I retort grumpily.

He takes off his sunglasses and raises an eyebrow in interest. “You are? Brilliant. I’ve always had a thing for those skin-tight leather suits you wear.”

I tut. “Typical male.”

He leans closer and I spot the remnants of a black eye and a few cuts and bruises. Has he been fighting? I wonder if that has anything to do with this sabbatical he’s taking from his day job. Does that mean it’s more likely to be an enforced suspension than a voluntary career break? Without his sunglasses I can judge his age better. I’d peg him for being a couple of years older me. Probably in his early thirties.

  “Sorry? What?” he asks, beaming me a cheeky smile. “Did you just say typical male?”

I shrug. “Well, you wouldn’t give me an honest answer, which is something I know from experience men seem to have a problem doing, so...”

“I did give you an honest answer,” he protests, swiftly putting his glasses back on.

“So, who do you work for then?” I have heaps of things I should be doing. Standing around gossiping certainly isn’t one of them, but there’s something about Jack which is…intriguing.

“The CCIA,” he replies. “Otherwise known as the Celebrity Crimes Investigation Agency.”

“There’s no such place!” I erupt with a splutter of laughter. “I’ve never heard of them.”

“That doesn’t mean they don’t exist. There is a CCIA, I swear.” He raises his fingers in a Scout’s-honour type gesture.

“So, if you’re some kind of secret agent…” I begin.

“
Special
agent,” he corrects. “Not secret agent. Well, except when I’m working undercover, then it’s a secret.”

“Then you must have some sort of official identification, a CCIA badge.”

He nods. “I do indeed.”

I make a beckoning gesture with my hands. “So, come on then, let’s see it.”

He shrugs. “I don’t have it with me right now. I carry it when I’m on a case, not when I’m chasing down wayward cows.”

“Don’t believe you.”

“Geez, you’re a tough woman to convince, aren’t you?” he says with a sigh and a shake of his head.

“So show me the badge and then I’ll believe you. You must have it back at the farmhouse, right?”