If this was true, Maddie had risked a lot to put her plan in place. The original building was an important piece of her family history, but why was reclaiming it worth putting everything she, her father, and her grandfather had built on the line?
What was she trying to prove?
The first person I saw when I walked in the shop was one of the last people I’d expected to see.
“Tariq. What brings you here?”
The young cook stopped pacing. “’Bout time you showed up. I got five minutes before I have to run for the bus. I can’t be late for prep.”
Lateness, if I recalled correctly, had been a problem when he worked for Alex Howard. Maybe he was finally maturing.
We sat in the nook and Tariq placed a small plastic bag on the table between us. I felt like a rogue drug dealer.
“Where did you get this?”
“Filched it when Chef wasn’t looking. It’s his version, not Edgar’s.”
“But how did he get it? Chef, I mean.”
Tariq’s dark eyes flashed. He swiped the screen on his phone and held out a photo for me to see.
“How do I know that woman?” I asked. “She looks familiar.”
“Bartender at my current gig. Fills in at Edgar’s place. And guess, what, she’s Chef’s boo.”
“Seriously? How did she get into Edgar’s stash? He keeps it in his private office. And how did you figure it out?”
“Heard her bragging to Chef. She pranced into Edgar’s office to plead for more hours, then pretended she’d lost an earring and snuck back in to find it while Edgar was tied up during service.”
The bag held a reddish-brown mixture dotted with seeds and crystal specks. So much trouble over an innocent blend of sea salts, peppers, and herbs. And the secret ingredient I could never divulge. Such is the history of spice.
“You’re a prince, Tariq. And I’ll make sure Edgar knows it. Now scoot—I don’t want to make you late.”
He stood, hitched up his pants, and sashayed over to the side door, then stopped and blew me a kiss.
“I can’t even,” Sandra said, hands on her hips, staring after him.
I reached for my notebook, a stack of small square plates, and a jar filled with tiny tasting spoons. “Sit.” She did and Cayenne joined us. The copycat version looked like the real thing, but how did it taste? We each dipped a spoon in the mixture, sniffed, touched it to our tongues, scribbled notes, compared. Sandra and I had the advantage of having worked with Edgar on the formula; we knew what should have been there. And we both knew right away what was missing.
“It’s so close,” Sandra said. “But that one thing makes so much difference.”
“We split, what—three or four dishes?” I said and she nodded. “They were all like that. Close, but not quite.”
Cayenne leaned across the table, reading our notes upside down. “Ohmygosh. And this chef guy tasted Edgar’s blend, but he didn’t detect that?”
“We went through a dozen versions before we came up with exactly what Edgar had in mind,” Sandra said. “You tweak, tweak, and finally, you toss in a pinch of thyme, you switch one salt for another, and voilà!”
I sat back, arms folded. “So now what do I do?”
“Now nothing,” Sandra said. “Leave him to his own devices. He’ll succeed or fail based on the food and service.” “That won’t solve my problem with Edgar.” “How about this?” Cayenne laid out a plan so perfect I instantly wanted to hug her.
There is nothing like the right woman for the job.
Twenty-Six
Tell me what you eat and I shall tell you what you are.
—Jean Anthelme Brillat-Savarin,
French politician and gastronome
THE DOOR TO MY BUILDING WAS FIRMLY LATCHED WHEN ARF and I reached it. In a day this crazy, that counted as a big relief.
Leftovers for dinner. Fine with me—Nate would be home tomorrow, and I needed to clean, not spend the evening cooking. Not that he cared, but I did. Happily, spiffing a place this small doesn’t take long. Airedales don’t shed much, thank goodness.
I finished my whirlwind cleaning spree before the first pitch. The National League team led two games to one, but I was sure my guys could turn things around, now that they were back in their home park with a W in their column. Leftover noodles, reheated broccoli beef, and a light red wine in a clean house.
It was a good life.
During a commercial break, I picked up Maddie’s album. Inside the cover was a name, in thick, old-fashioned script: Tamar Gregorian. Below that, in a different hand, another name: Rose Gregorian Petrosian, Maddie’s grandmother and, I guessed, Tamar’s daughter. The early pages showed a young woman, dark hair brushing the collar of her white blouse and dark jacket. At her somber expression, the phrase “fresh off the boat” leapt into mind. More photos of the young woman followed, then one of her smiling, next to a handsome, slender man, both in dark suits. I slipped it out and turned it over. “Jacob and Tamar,” it read. “March 4, 1924.” A courthouse photo of the happy day.
After that came photos of the couple with a small boy. Haig, the mysterious uncle? The back confirmed it. A baby girl followed— Rose.
I flipped forward, one eye on the game. Stopped at a wedding picture, a young man in an Army uniform, dark hair shining, and a woman in a white gown, blond wisps escaping the veil pushed off her face. Next to him stood a stern couple I recognized as Jacob and Tamar. Beside the bride stood her parents, both fair-haired and looking pleased. I slipped it out. “Haig and Elizabeth,” it read, in the
