Recipe for Murder

  There was a loud whoomph! and blue flames exploded from the oven. Richards stumbled backward, his sleeve smoldering. Frantically he tried to beat out the sparks with his other hand.

  It was no use. In front of Nancy’s eyes, flames leapt up and licked at Richards’s arm. In another minute the fire would engulf him!

  Chapter

  Three

  SOMEONE IN THE class screamed. Chef Richards’s arm was ablaze, and acrid smoke was filling the room. “Help me!” Richards shouted frantically.

  “The fire extinguisher!” Ned yelled, yanking it off the wall.

  Then abruptly the flames shooting from the oven vanished—as if someone had turned off a spigot. But Chef Richards’s jacket was still burning.

  “Look out!” Ned shouted. He shot a stream of white foam onto the chef’s arm, and the fire died instantly.

  “Are you all right?” Nancy asked Richards, who looked dazed.

  “It’s not too bad,” he said, staring down at his arms. His jacket was ruined. Huge holes were singed through to his shirt beneath.

  “Are you sure?” Nancy asked.

  “I’m fine,” Richards said. He yanked off his coat and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. The skin beneath was red, as if he’d been in the sun too long.

  “You’re lucky it’s not any worse,” Nancy said quietly.

  “Better get away from that oven,” Ned told Richards.

  “The oven’s fine now,” Richards said flatly. “The gas is off. The pilot light isn’t even on.”

  “How can that be?” Nancy asked. “It was on just a moment ago.”

  “Was it?” Richards gave her an unreadable look.

  “Well, yes. That’s how the fire got started, isn’t it?”

  Color was returning to the chef’s pale cheeks. It flooded over his face in an angry dark-red wave. “Yeah, right. That’s how it got started,” he spit out. He brushed past her and charged out of the room.

  Nancy followed him into the hallway. “Are you leaving? What should we do?”

  “Stay there.” He waved her back. “I’ll send someone along.”

  When Nancy walked back into the room, Ned was bending over the oven. “Maybe everyone should go out to the hall,” she suggested.

  “No, it’s all right.” Ned stood up, wiping the oily grime from his hand onto his white apron. “Richards was right. The pilot light’s out, and there’s no gas leak.”

  There was a collective sigh of relief from the class. Nancy walked to Ned’s side, staring at the oven.

  “Then what started the fire?” she asked, chewing on her lower lip.

  “Uh-oh,” Ned said. “I recognize that look on your face.”

  “What look?”

  “That on-the-trail-of-a-mystery look. I don’t think your mind’s on cooking.”

  “There might be something more going on here than meets the eye,” Nancy said. “First Claude DuPres collapses in the auditorium, and now an oven bursts into flame. A pretty unusual first day, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Well, yeah, when you put it that way.” Ned looked thoughtful.

  Just then another chef walked into the room. Nancy glanced his way—and did a double take. The new chef wasn’t much older than she was, and he was the stuff dreams were made of: tall, dark, and handsome, with a rakish smile and brooding gray eyes. She looked at Ned, who whispered in her ear, “You always get upset when I look at girls the way you’re looking at him.”

  Nancy’s blue eyes sparkled. “Just because I’m on a diet doesn’t mean I can’t look at the menu.”

  “One more cooking joke and you’re history,” Ned groaned.

  The new chef strode to the front of the room as the students sat down again. Placing his palms flat on the counter, he had to duck his head to see the class from beneath the wrought-iron pot rack that swung from the ceiling. “Well,” he said with a smile. “I understand there’s been some excitement around here today.

  “My name is Jacques Bonet.” He introduced himself in a voice that had only a trace of a French accent. “I’ll fill in for Chef Richards today. This was a frightening accident. And until the oven is checked out and repaired, we won’t use it.”

  Nancy could tell that Bonet wanted to get back to a business-as-usual atmosphere. He opened the cupboard in front of him and pulled out a skillet. “To understand French cuisine, you must first understand what makes a good sauce. Let me demonstrate.”

  He turned on one of the burners and slid a fat pat of butter expertly around in a shallow pan until it had melted. Then he tossed in some flour. For a minute or two he worked the butter and flour together with a whisk, then lifted the pan from the gas flame. “This is called a roux,” he explained. “A mixture of fat and flour. It is important that the roux be mixed well, or the sauce will be lumpy when the liquid is added.”

  Deftly he added two cups of milk. The mixture sizzled enticingly. “Keep stirring constantly,” Bonet warned, “or your sauce will burn and stick to the bottom. Especially if you add milk. Milk has milk sugar—lactose—in it, and sugar burns easily.”

  Ned glanced from Bonet to Nancy. “You need a degree in chemistry for this!”

  Overhearing him, Bonet said, “Courses in chemistry are almost a must for a true master chef. One cannot understand why food reacts as it does without breaking it down into its particular elements. Voilà!” He finished and placed the pan with the smooth, creamy white sauce on the tile counter. “It is fini!”

  “I’ve made lots of sauces before,” a girl said. “But I never knew why I did what I did.”

  “Tomorrow you will all get a chance to make your own sauce. That is all for today.”

  The rest of the class began to file out, but Nancy paused by the door. “I want to ask Chef Bonet a few questions about Trent Richards,” she murmured to Ned.

  Nancy walked slowly back to where Bonet was clearing off the counter. What was the best way to get the information she wanted? “When is someone coming to fix the oven?” she asked.

  “Probably this evening. Or maybe tomorrow morning.” Bonet sounded unconcerned. “The school has a maintenance man who will see to the oven as soon as he can.”

  Smearing some of the blackened grime from the oven onto her finger, Nancy rubbed it thoughtfully with her thumb. “Chef Richards seemed kind of concerned about the accident.”

  “I imagine he was,” Bonet answered soberly.

  “No, I mean he acted as if he wasn’t totally surprised it had happened.”

  “What do you mean?” the chef asked, straightening up to stare at her.

  “I don’t know exactly. Could it be that the pilot light wasn’t really the problem? Could the accident have been caused by something else?” Or someone else, she thought to herself.

  Jacques’s gray eyes searched Nancy’s. He seemed to take a good hard look at her for the first time—and it was obvious he liked what he saw. Reading her name tag, he asked, “What are you getting at, Mademoiselle Drew?”

  “I’m a detective—” she started to explain.

  Ned, who had been walking slowly across the room toward them, interrupted her. “She likes to get to the bottom of things.”

  “Are you a professional detective?” Bonet asked incredulously.

  “Amateur.”

  Bonet was silent for a long time. Then he inclined his head. “Well, in that case I think the best thing for you to do is talk to Trent. I’m not sure where he is right now, but you can check with the main office.”

  Before Nancy could ask any more questions, Ned’s hand had clamped around her arm. He steered her firmly out of the room.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded, shaking off his hand.

  “Trying to save your neck! If there’s really something going on around here, you’d better be careful whom you confide in.”

  “Confide in? You mean Chef Bonet? I was just asking him some questions.”

  “I don’t really like him. Just who is he, anyway? He’s pretty young to be
a master chef.”

  “Trent Richards is young,” Nancy pointed out.

  “But he’s not of Bonet’s caliber.”

  “We don’t know that. Richards didn’t get a chance to show us what he knew.”

  “Well, Bonet sure did,” Ned muttered.

  Nancy couldn’t help smiling. “Are you a little jealous? Would it help if I said he isn’t my type?”

  Ned was about to protest. Then he seemed to think better of it. “Yeah,” he grumbled. “It would help a lot.”

  “He’s not my type.”

  Ned laughed in spite of himself, and they left the cooking school and walked back to the hotel.

  They met Bess and George in the main lobby. Bess was reading a pamphlet whose pages were covered with pictures of pastry. “Tomorrow we get into dough. I mean, really into dough,” she said rapturously. “Puff pastry with Bavarian cream filling.” Bess closed her eyes in mock ecstasy. “This is what I call heaven.”

  “Hog heaven,” George remarked, which earned her a withering glance from Bess.

  “Did anything exciting happen in your classes?” Nancy asked. Both girls shook their heads. “Ours was a real doozy,” Nancy added. Quickly she filled them in on what had happened with the oven.

  “Nancy thinks there’s some kind of mystery going on,” Ned told them. “This school seems a little too accident-prone.”

  “And there was Claude DuPres’s remark about someone being after him,” Nancy reminded them. “I wish I knew how he was doing.”

  “Why not call the office?” George suggested. “Maybe they’ve heard from the hospital.”

  “Good idea. I’ll see if I can find out where Trent Richards is too.”

  Nancy went to a pay phone and called the office. The receptionist told her that there had been no word on Chef DuPres’s progress. He was being carefully watched at the hospital, and he had definitely had a heart attack. When Nancy asked how she could contact Trent Richards, the receptionist told her that she wasn’t at liberty to give out his address.

  “I guess I’ll have to wait and talk to Richards tomorrow,” Nancy said, returning to their group.

  Bess rubbed her eyes. “I’m bushed. Let’s get something to eat and then go to bed early.”

  “Good idea,” said Ned.

  They ate dinner at the hotel coffee shop, but Nancy didn’t have much of an appetite. Her head was too full of the events of the day. She kept thinking about Chef DuPres and Trent Richards.

  A heart attack and an unforeseeable accident. But was that all that was going on?

  After dinner Ned walked them toward the south tower and to the glass elevator that led to the upper floors. “See you tomorrow,” he said.

  “Right. Tomorrow,” Nancy answered distractedly.

  “Still thinking about the fire?”

  Nancy sighed. “Yeah. Among other things. You know, Chef DuPres collapsed right after he ate that hors d’oeuvre. Do you suppose . . . ?” She left the thought unfinished.

  “Didn’t the school tell you it was something to do with his heart?” Bess asked.

  “Yes, but he was afraid. I distinctly heard him beg for help.” Nancy shook her head. “And then that fire in our classroom and the way Richards reacted.” Nancy turned to Ned. “He got mad, remember? He raced out as if he were ready to tear somebody apart.”

  “Come on,” George said. “Let’s hit the sack. I’ve got another big day of chopping and slicing ahead.”

  Ned kissed Nancy and said goodbye. Then the elevator doors closed in front of the three girls’ faces. The elevator whizzed upward, and soon they were on the seventeenth floor.

  “This hotel is really nice,” George said sleepily as she unlocked the door to the room she was sharing with Bess. “Lucky we got a reduced rate through the cooking school.”

  “My room’s right next door,” Nancy said, unlocking her own door. “I’ll knock on the connecting door and wake you guys up in the morning.”

  As Bess followed George inside their room, Nancy heard George warn her cousin, “Just don’t leave your makeup all over the bathroom counter this time.”

  “You worry about the silliest things,” Bess answered with a yawn. Then the door closed behind them.

  Nancy smiled. She wished either Bess or George would give up the idea of sleep and come talk to her. She wasn’t the least bit tired.

  She sat up for a while, reading. Her stomach started to rumble, and she was thirsty. Well, she decided, there had to be a soda machine nearby.

  Nancy stepped into the elevator and it sped to the ground floor. After finding a soda machine and drinking half a can, she still didn’t feel like returning to her room. Instead she wandered around the hotel lobby, thinking about the events of the day.

  When she noticed a sign pointing the way to the sun deck and pool, Nancy decided to head that way. It was too late for a swim, but maybe she’d be able to find a place to sit and think and watch the water.

  She was heading down the corridor marked Pool when she heard two men talking. Her heart beat faster. One of the voices belonged to Trent Richards!

  “I want a bigger piece of the pie,” he was saying coldly. “And don’t try any more stunts like that one today, or I’ll put you out of the way for good!”

  Chapter

  Four

  A BIGGER PIECE of the pie! Nancy ran on tiptoe to the corner of the hall, straining to hear more. Something really was going on! Trent Richards was in the thick of something sinister.

  The other man’s voice was indistinguishable. Did it have a French accent? Nancy leaned forward as far as she dared without stepping into the connecting hallway, but she couldn’t keep her heel from scraping against the wall.

  “What was that?” Trent demanded. “Someone’s there!”

  Sudden silence. Then footsteps quickly retreating. Nancy peeked around the corner, but all she saw was the exit door at the end of the hall slowly closing.

  She had to find out whom Trent was threatening!

  Nancy yanked open the door—and stopped short. Stairs led both up and down. She listened carefully and heard a door click softly shut in the basement.

  Nancy raced down the stairs and thrust open the door. She climbed up three steps and found herself outside in the warm night. There was no breeze, and the air was thick with humidity. Neither Trent Richards nor his companion was anywhere in sight.

  Nancy stood quietly in the shadows, listening for any hint of their voices, but her quarry was long gone.

  • • •

  The classroom was full by the time Nancy slipped through the door the following day. She grabbed her apron and hat and found her place beside Ned.

  Nancy glanced around. “Hi. Is Richards back?”

  “No one’s shown up yet.”

  At that moment the door opened and Jacques Bonet entered. “Looks as though I’m filling in for Chef Richards again today,” he said with a smile as he walked to the front.

  “What happened to Chef Richards?” Nancy asked. “Is he all right?”

  “He’s fine. He just asked for a couple of days off. Now, I want everyone to make a white sauce, just as I did yesterday.”

  There was no time for further questions. Nancy would have to push the mystery aside for a while and concentrate on cooking.

  She and Ned were working together on one range top. While Nancy looked on, Ned measured off a square of butter and dropped it into the hot skillet. It started sizzling wildly and instantly turned brown.

  “Quick, get the skillet off the burner!” Nancy said.

  Ned slid it to one side, but it was too late. The smell of burned butter wafted up from the pan. “Great,” he said between his teeth.

  “Can I help?”

  Turning, Nancy saw Jacques Bonet’s handsome face within inches of hers. “Uh—yeah,” she said. “I guess.” She moved back and watched as Jacques helped Ned get started again. This time the butter melted slowly, but as Ned dumped the flour in, Bonet shook his head.

  “To
o much flour,” the young chef told Ned. “Some people would try to add more butter, but me—” He spread his hands. “I would start over.” As Ned groaned, Jacques turned to Nancy. “Perhaps your pretty friend would like a try?”

  Feeling put on the spot, Nancy cut off a fat wedge of butter and skimmed it around the bottom of the hot pan. When it was melted, she added some flour.

  “A bit more, I think,” Bonet said, so close to her ear that Nancy could feel his breath on her hair.

  She shook in more flour, then quickly whisked the mixture together until the flour was completely covered with butter.

  “Now add the milk to the roux,” Jacques said, handing her the cup.

  Nancy poured in the milk. The liquid hissed and bubbled. Quickly she lifted the skillet from the flame, afraid it would burn.

  “Go on,” Jacques urged. “You’re doing fine.”

  Nancy started whisking again and kept going until she could see the sauce begin to thicken. When it was done she was pleased to hear Jacques say, “Voilà! Miss Drew, that is excellent.

  “Now, Mr. Nickerson. Try again and pay attention to proportions.”

  When the chef walked over to the next group of students, Ned let out a pent-up breath. And Nancy waited quietly while he tried again. She glanced at the clock. The morning was almost over.

  “I want to ask Bonet a few more questions about Trent Richards,” Nancy said to Ned. “I think I’m missing something important.”

  “Me too.” Ned’s gaze was glued to the melting butter. “There!” he said in satisfaction as it pooled evenly on the bottom of the skillet.

  Nancy gave him a quick smile. “Now you’re cooking. I’ll go talk to Bonet.” She waited until Bonet had finished helping some other students. “Excuse me,” she said when he glanced her way. “I was wondering if I could talk to you for a few minutes.”

  “Sure.” He smiled. “What’s on your mind?”

  Nancy took a deep breath. She wanted information, and for that she needed to gain the man’s confidence. Maybe a little flattery was in order. “Well, I’m just so impressed with your skills as a chef,” she gushed. “You must have quite a reputation.”