The Body in the Landscape (A Cherry Tucker Mystery Book 5) by Larissa Reinhart Read Free Book Online Page B

“They made a special menu for us. Now that I think of it, eggrolls sound pretty good.”
    “Todd, my sister and Pearl have had a kitchen war for months. Do you know what I had for Thanksgiving? Frozen pizza.” I held back a sniffle. “Even Cody got served turkey in jail. His arrest ruined Thanksgiving and Thanksgiving’s my favorite holiday. I haven’t had a decent meal in weeks. I might end up cooking for Christmas too. Which leaves us with Cup o’ Noodle as the holiday dinner.”
    Todd massaged my shoulder. “You act like you’re selfish, but I know you’re just worried about Cody.”
    “Maybe when it comes to food, I am selfish, Todd.”
    “It’s not the food that has you upset.”
    “I’m not upset.” I blinked away unwanted tears and slammed shut the mental box containing my issues. “I’m heading to the kitchen to see if I can rustle up something normal. I’ll get something for you too. If they serve you a foie gras eggroll, you’re going to get some kind of surprise.”
    I didn’t tell Todd, but I had another plan. Besides food, kitchens also rustled up good gossip. Someone might know why Rookie Holt had so much antagonism toward Rick Miller and poor departed Abel Spencer. Were they friends? Or enemies?
    And where was Rick Miller?

Seven

      
    I let my stomach guide me toward the kitchen. A pass-through blocked entry into the long, narrow area. Behind the stainless steel window, a thickly mustached man in a white chef’s jacket and hat paused to look up from his task. Before him, a collection of plates held dry toast points sprinkled with tiny leaves and globs of mush. Even the pretty Gamboge Yellow Lake color could not disguise the globs as anything but goo. While I gaped in abject horror, the chef returned to shaving slices of what looked like a hunk of dirt on the plates.
    “Are you Viktor?” I asked.
    “Da,” he said, his focus on the dirt. “What are you doing in these kitchens? We are busy with the dinner.”
    “Is that what you’re serving the hunt contestants?”
    He nodded, confirming my fear. Much worse than foie gras eggrolls.
    I abandoned my line of questioning for stomach self-preservation. “I heard you were good. But I was wondering if you had something simpler. I’ve got real simple tastebuds. They like chicken and waffles. Shrimp and grits. Ribs and pulled pork. That sort of thing. Chicken nuggets, even . ”
    Viktor’s icy blue eyes cut me a scathing glance before returning to his hunk of dirt. “I have the carefully planned menu. You will enjoy.”
    I tried a new tact. “You sound just like my friend. Same accent. Where are you from, Viktor?”
    “Friend?” Viktor’s eyes narrowed. “Where is your friend from? What is his name?”
    “I always get those countries over by Russia confused. But he’s from one of them.”
    “I see.” He set the dirt clod on the counter and crooked a finger to beckon me behind the pass-through.
    Knowing full well the importance of following orders from someone at the head of my food chain, I trotted around the stainless steel shelf and stopped a few paces away. Beyond Viktor’s station, three more cooks worked in the back of the kitchen. One dredged fish fillets in a flour mixture. Another stirred a pot that smelled like Brunswick stew. The last wielded a spatula over the griddle. My stomach barked its approval, but I refused it service to fix my attention on Viktor.
    Folding his arms over his chest, he stared down the length of his nose. “You are friends with Maksim Avtaikin?”
    “You know Max? He doesn’t associate much with—” I stopped myself from saying “fellow foreigners.”
    “What does he not associate with? The cooks? Or the honest citizens ?”
    Max seemed to be losing a popularity contest on this trip. First with Bob Bass and now Viktor. I didn’t care for the hostility that showed in the white-knuckled grip on Viktor’s arms. I hated to think of what that negativity did to his food. Perhaps that was why