Death of a Chocolate Cheater: A Food Festival Mystery by Penny Pike Read Free Book Online Page B

“With a tie!”
    Dillon actually blushed. “Chill out. It’s just a costume. I’m going as a waiter to blend in and do a little eavesdropping at the party.”
    “Clever,” I said. “All you need is one of those half-aprons those avant-garde servers wear.”
    “You mean, like this?” he said, pulling one of Aunt Abby’s aprons from a drawer and folding it over before tying it around his waist.
    “Perfect!”
    “So, Mom. What are you nervous about? The competition?”
    “No, no. I plan to ace that.” Aunt Abby checked her reflection in her shiny kitchen toaster. “It’s this damn party! I hate these fancy froufrou things.”
    “Well, you look adorable,” I said. “Cute earrings. And with that outfit you’re going to
kill
at this party as well as at the competition.”
    She shrugged. “I’m only going so I can chat up the judges like all the other contestants are probably going to do. Thanks to Dillon, I know something about each of them, so I can carry on a decent conversation.”
    Dillon had been researching the judges and contestants on the Internet and filling his mother in on whathe’d found. I doubted any of his information would help her win the contest—the proof would be in the pudding, or in Aunt Abby’s case, the whoopie pies—but I supposed a former cafeteria lady could use all the help she could get.
    Dillon turned to me and frowned. “Why are you dressed like me?”
    “I’m not going as a waiter, if that’s what you mean,” I said. “I’m just keeping it simple. We’re only backup players in Aunt Abby’s gastronomic theater, remember?”
    Dillon shook his head. “Copycat.”
    “Dork,” I said under my breath.
    “Time to go!” Aunt Abby announced before we started a food fight.
    I put on my black linen jacket and led the way. We would have taken my VW, but the backseat was a little snug. Dillon’s dirt bike was out of the question, so we opted for Aunt Abby’s Prius. I drove us to the Maritime Museum on Beach Street, located between Aquatic Park and Ghirardelli Square in the Russian Hill area of San Francisco.
    It would be hard to miss the museum, even on a foggy night. The Works Progress Administration had funded the construction of the Art Deco Moderne building back in 1939 as a public bathhouse, but today it was part of the San Francisco Maritime National Historic Park Service. From the outside, the museum looked like a ship, painted white with round portholes, two decks, and a naval flag at the top of the third story. The inside had been renovated several times andcurrently featured colorful murals from the WPA era by artist Hilaire Hiler. The building included a steamship room, showing the evolution of sailing power, photo murals of the city’s early waterfront era, scrimshaw art and whaling weapons, and an intact shipboard radio and teletype.
    I found parking on the street and squeezed the Toyota into a space between a Smart car and a Fiat to avoid valet parking. Tonight’s party was being held on the veranda overlooking the bay, so we entered through the gray double doors, held open by a man wearing a crisp naval uniform, and headed across the room and out the door. Outside, the area was filled with round tables covered in white tablecloths, each featuring centerpieces made of long-stemmed chocolate roses. I glanced at the spectacular view of sparkling yachts moored at Aquatic Park, and Alcatraz, Angel Island, and Tiburon beyond. Although the spring night was clear—unusual for San Francisco in any season—most of the guests still had on their suit jackets or elegant wraps against any sudden chill, as they drank from fancy wineglasses and champagne flutes to warm their insides. The conversations seemed animated—no doubt focused on the topic of chocolate. A three-piece jazz band played softly in one corner, mostly ignored by the attendees.
    We checked in at the welcome table and found our name tags. I looked around for the bar and spotted it on the far side of