Macaroni and Freeze Read online

  Connie Benson, a Tri-Gam, opened the door. “Thank goodness you’re here, Trixie. A busload of crazy ladies showed up a little while ago looking for Priscilla Finch-Smythe. I’m not sure where they went, but they seemed like they wanted her head on a platter!”

  “Yeah, well, so do I. I can’t wait to get rid of her once and for all, after this fund-raiser is over.” I handed Connie my purse, mug, and carafe of coffee.

  “I phoned Megan,” Connie said. “She said that Priscilla and her entourage are in her car and that her husband, Milt, is driving them around, showing Priscilla some of the beauty of our village first and what improvements we’ve made since she lived here back in the day.”

  “Well, Megan has to bring her here sooner or later,” I said. “Priscilla is the final judge of the mac and cheese contest. And I really hope I win. I want to be on TV and get the publicity for my diner and cottages!” I was getting excited, not just for me, but I wanted success for the whole contest.

  “And, Trixie, have you heard the buzz? Chef Walton DeMassie is here from New York City. Can you believe it? I have his line of cookware.” Connie was positively giddy. “I watched his show all the time, until it was canceled. Apparently he’s been telling everyone that he wants to make a comeback and that winning this contest is just the way to do it.”

  I doubted that our little contest would help in his comeback. But what did I know?

  “Kip O’Malley is here, too. He’s the head cook over at the Watertown Jail.” She rolled her eyes. “He told me that he’s dying to quit and be on TV. He said that he wants to share his culinary artistry with the world and that he didn’t go to correspondence cooking school just to cook for prisoners.”

  Correspondence cooking school? I chuckled, wondering how that worked.

  “Teacher, my guests ate my homework.”

  “Well, then, Mr. O’Malley, you get an A.”

  “Oh, and Chef Jean Williams is here from the soup kitchen in Syracuse. Looks like she wants some TV glamour, just like you, Trixie. And she wants to work with Priscilla. She said that Priscilla is her heroine, and she wants to follow in her footsteps,” Connie said, helping me set my things down on a table. “What about you, Trixie? Do you want to be a TV chef, too?”

  I shook my head. “Nah. I’m pretty happy being the chief cook and bottle washer at my own place. But if I did get on TV, I’d talk up the Silver Bullet and my cottages and hopefully the money would increase. Then I could expand. Put on additions. I could even franchise! Man, the sky’s the limit.” I was getting carried away again. “Anyway, that’s what I’d do.”

  “Sounds like a great plan, Trixie.”

  Quickly, I unloaded the rest of the things I’d brought and put everything at my table, which was clearly marked with my name and contest number. There was a name tag, too, which I picked up and clipped on to the collar of my jacket.

  Nice job by whatever committee was in charge, I thought.

  Then I parked my car where Lou had indicated, avoiding a fire hydrant that was dug out next to my car. I prayed that there wouldn’t be an avalanche from the snowbank during the cook-off, or my car—and all the others that would have to park there—would be buried.

  Two hours later, the contest was organized chaos and the building smelled divine. Sixty-two chefs had made it to Sandy Harbor, which meant a gross of sixty-two thousand dollars. We’d have to pay out the prizes for first, second, and third place and give a cut to the state fair to rent the building, but that wasn’t too shabby.

  Finally Priscilla Finch-Smythe arrived with Megan and Milt Hunter and her entourage, which consisted of Jill and Peter. Reporters surrounded her, shouting questions. Flashes flashed and cameras rolled as the audience stood and clapped.

  Megan and Priscilla walked up onstage together. And then Megan called me up to the stage. I balked. I just wanted to stay behind the scenes. But many hands propelled me up to the stage, and reluctantly I climbed the stairs and waved to everyone.

  That was enough for me. But it wasn’t enough for the Tri-Gams. I was presented with a dozen long-stemmed red roses. Much to her surprise—not—Megan was presented with the same.

  After a long welcoming cheer from the Tri-Gams, complete with choreography in spite of some of their walkers and canes, it was Priscilla’s turn to speak.

  “What a wonderful reception I’ve received from Sandy Harbor. It is a pleasure to be among such warm and dear people. I am so honored that you asked me to judge your macaroni and cheese contest. The winner will create his or her winning dish on my TV show, which will be broadcast throughout the United States and Canada. And don’t forget to check out my newest cookbook: Comforting Comfort Food by the Countess of Comforting Comfort Food. Thank you. Now let’s get started, and best of luck to all the participants.”

  “Cheater! Stealer! Priscilla steals recipes for her cookbooks and claims them as her own!” said a woman with a walker.

  Oh, no! I’d forgotten all about the ladies Connie had mentioned to me before. Priscilla wasn’t going to be happy about this.

  “Priscilla Finch-Smythe stole from our church!” said a woman wearing a royal-blue parka. “The Church of the Covenant of Saint Dismas in Poughkeepsie, New York!”

  “Thief! Cheater!” A woman with orange earmuffs pumped her fist.

  I looked at Priscilla, and she was frozen in place. Then she turned to Jill, her assistant, and whispered something to her.

  Jill was furiously shaking her head, and I could hear her saying, “No. No way, Cilla. No way. I don’t know what they’re talking about.”

  Covering the mike with her hand, Priscilla motioned for me to come over to her. “Shut them up, Trixie, or I’m leaving.”

  “What’s going on, Priscilla?” I asked.

  “How the heck would I know what those hicks are bellowing about?”

  Hicks? Bellowing? Priscilla certainly had a gracious way with words.

  I took the microphone from Priscilla. “Ladies, please sit down and be our guests. The contest is going to begin soon.”

  “We’re not going to go quietly! Priscilla, we want to talk to you first!” the lady in the purple full-length parka yelled. “Don’t you dare ignore us!”

  Right then Ty Brisco appeared. He had gotten rid of his coat and was dressed from head to toe in all navy blue with the exception of a colorful shield-shaped patch and various insignias. A black belt circled his waist, which held a variety of cop regalia—a Glock, bullet clips, pepper spray, handcuffs, and other stuff. A black radio was clipped to his shoulder. He didn’t have a hat on, and his dark hair was disheveled in a sexy way.

  I wanted to run my fingers through it in an effort to make it a little tidier.

  Although, it looked kind of cute the way it was.

  Ty got the church ladies all seated and quiet. He was in cop mode and had turned on his Texas charm; they didn’t stand a chance.

  Neither did I.

  After everyone quieted, Megan nudged me and handed me a typewritten piece of paper. I took a deep breath. “I’d like to thank Gamma Gamma Gamma, along with their husbands and significant others, for all of their help before and during this event. Without them, this weekend wouldn’t have been possible. And I’d like to thank the entrants—chefs from all over the Northeast—who braved these horrible weather conditions for a chance to re-create their signature mac and cheese dish on TV with our final judge, Priscilla Finch-Smythe.”

  “Boo! Hiss! Plagiarizer of cookbooks!”

  Ty sent the ladies of the Church of Saint Dismas a stern look, and they quieted instantly.

  I read on, wondering why Megan didn’t want to read her speech herself. “Our prizes are two thousand dollars for first place, eighteen hundred dollars for second place, and twelve hundred dollars for third place. Our preliminary judges are: Mayor Rick Tingsley, Fred Henderson of the Gas and Grab on Route 3, and high school senior a
nd computer expert Ray Meyerson, representing the younger crowd. Pause for laughter.”

  Huh? Oh! Oh, no! Did I really read “pause for laughter” out loud?

  With the exception of Priscilla, everyone in the room started laughing hysterically, and I actually did have to pause and wait until it subsided. As I stood there, I had to laugh myself. Then I was laughing so hard, it took me a while to be able to talk again.

  Thanks to my gaffe, the sticky situation between the church ladies and Priscilla was forgotten for a while. And the tension in the room eased dramatically.

  Megan hesitated, looked at me, and then added, “While our preliminary judges are tasting the entries, Priscilla will be autographing her latest cookbook, Comforting Comfort Food by the Countess of Comforting Comfort Food. Please form an orderly line for purchase and autographing.”

  The ladies stood up, looked at Ty, but didn’t say a word. Instead they formed an orderly line as instructed, but not one person picked up Priscilla’s cookbook.

  Ty moved next to them. So did the media. One of them interviewed the woman in the purple coat, who spelled her name for the reporter twice and repeated it twice: Marylou Cosmo. The lady with the orange earmuffs was right next to her and said her name was Dottie Spitzer.

  Those two seemed like the ringleaders of the church ladies.

  Priscilla held out her hand for the microphone. “No one asked me if I’d like to say a few more words before they put me to work.” She laughed, and it sounded like a rusty hinge. The audience remained silent, not suspecting that Priscilla had attempted a joke.

  At least, I thought it was an attempt at a joke.

  “I’d like to thank the lovely people of Sandy Harbor for inviting me here. Everyone has been so nice. And thank you to everyone, especially to the wonderful Tri-Gams. Now, I’d like to proceed without any more immature heckling.”

  Ty and I made eye contact across the room, and we both raised an eyebrow. It seemed that we were both thinking the same thing—that Priscilla shouldn’t antagonize the ladies who were already unhappy with her and who’d driven here on a bus in a blizzard to confront her about stealing their recipes.

  The church ladies were lined up and waiting for Jill Marley to finish setting up her equipment for credit-card payments and whatnot. Peter McCall was arranging piles and piles of Priscilla’s books.

  Judging by the lack of interest from at least the church ladies, Peter would soon be putting all those books back into their cartons.

  Priscilla waved one of her arms in the air. “Without further ado, let’s get started with the book signing while the preliminary judges begin tasting.”

  She turned to me, and I thought she was going to shake my hand. Instead she handed me the microphone and adjusted her red silk scarf.

  Oops! I looked at the microphone and took the opportunity to remind everyone that the judging would take a while with the number of entrants we had. “So feel free to wander around the building and visit the booths that our organizations are sponsoring. You will be notified when the finalists are going to be announced so you can return to your seats.”

  Peter McCall was walking around, shaking hands and talking to the entrants. First he was engaged in a quiet discussion with Jean, the soup kitchen chef. When I looked over a little bit later, he was hunched over with Kip, the prison chef. Still later, with another person, whom I didn’t recognize. Then he moved on to Walton DeMassie, the chef whose show was canceled. Then I lost track of where Peter went.

  Ty stood near Priscilla, listening to what the church ladies were saying to her.

  Priscilla looked uncomfortable after each discussion and kept on turning to Jill with an angry look on her face.

  It looked to me like Jill was getting the blame for everything.

  Jill looked around, probably for Peter, because she made a face and unloaded another box of cookbooks by herself. Sales were picking up due to those in line behind the church ladies.

  One of the ladies held a bubble mailer in her hand, and it jarred me.

  Oh, fudge! I had forgotten to give Priscilla the package that had arrived from the New York City lawyers.

  I ran to my area—well, I walked fast—plucked the mailer out of my tote, and hurried over to Priscilla.

  Jill saw me coming, package in hand, and hurried over to meet me. “Trixie, is that the item that Priscilla was expecting?”

  “Yes, it is. She wanted me to give it to her immediately, but I forgot about it due to all the excitement.”

  “I’ll take it,” Jill said, pulling it from my hand. “I’ll see that she gets it. She’s quite busy signing her cookbooks, as you can see.”

  Priscilla was in another heated discussion with a church lady. They had two cookbooks open, Priscilla’s and the church’s, and it appeared that they were comparing recipes.

  Jill glanced at the return address on the mailer and smiled. With a bounce in her step, she went back to Priscilla’s side, put the package in a navy blue tote bag, and then returned to handling money.

  I noticed that Dottie was waiting in line again to talk to Priscilla and watching every move the diva made.

  I walked back to my station. The preliminary judges were nearing my area, and I needed to take my mac and cheese out of the oven and let it cool for a while.

  Gathering up my potholders, I lifted my dish out and put it in line with my contestant number. It looked gorgeous, and it was perfect timing on my part!

  The cheese on my entry was aromatic and bubbly, and I could smell a hint of garlic from the kielbasa. I would bet one of my cottages that the medium salsa I’d drained and mixed into the melted cheese would be the perfect touch, along with my assortment of dried herbs.

  This was going to be good! I could just picture myself on the TV set!

  Then the preliminary judges moved to Antoinette Chloe’s entry. There was a lot of smiling and additional sampling. ACB looked very pleased. So did the judges, right up until the gray plastic mouse and the plastic yellow cheese that she had glued to her fascinator dropped into her entry.

  The judges moved on.

  When they came to me, they seemed to like my mac and cheese with salsa and kielbasa. They didn’t say much, but I did get a couple of nods, and three out of three judges proclaimed it “Delicious!”

  Although I didn’t think it was fair to the other contestants that Ray Meyerson, who worked for me as a dishwasher and computer geek, should have judged my entry. When I’d pointed this fact out to Megan, she talked to Ray, and he assured her that he could be fair.

  I’m sure he could be fair, but he’d better vote for me!

  Oh, I’m kidding—mostly!

  After another half hour, the preliminary judges huddled together intently. They were supposed to come up with ten finalists.

  Then Priscilla was supposed to decide first, second, and third places out of those ten. Right now she asked if she could go on a break “to compose herself after her book signing.”

  I took that to mean that she wanted to go to the bathroom.

  Priscilla’s red silk scarf dropped off her shoulders, and I picked it up. “Hold that for me, Trixie. I’ll be right back.”

  After a while Megan announced that everyone should gather back at their seats. She had to say it three times before anyone began to move toward their seats. Finally they did.

  Then Mayor Rick Tingsley revealed the final ten contestant numbers.

  ACB and I were included in the ten.

  So were the big three contenders: Kip O’Malley, the prison chef; Jean Williams, the soup kitchen chef; and Walton DeMassie, the chef from New York who was trying to make a comeback.

  Megan instructed us to dish out more portions of our entries into a coffee cup, put them by our numbers on the table, and then take a seat away from the table.

  By this time Priscilla had returned, escorted by Jill
on her right and Peter on her left. Megan led the procession around the room to the finalists’ tables. The Sandy Harbor High School’s marching band, which stood in place, played what might have been “Happy Days Are Here Again” or it might have been their salute to Cher.

  Pricilla nibbled, huddled with her entourage, nibbled and huddled more. She made notes on the “official results ballot” Ray Meyerson had made. She smiled, nodded, and dabbed her mouth with a white linen napkin and nibbled more.

  Then she removed the page from the clipboard and handed it to Megan. Waving, she left the stage. I held out her red silk scarf, which I was still holding, and she took it from me and quickly draped it around her neck.

  Megan took a while to translate the contestant numbers to contestant names. While she was doing that, the audience was treated to a rendition of the Boy Scout pledge and “God Bless America” from our local troop.

  I always love watching the Scouts. They looked like little angels, although we all knew that at any second they’d be done singing and would be darting around the building like fire ants.

  I noticed that Marylou and Dottie’s chairs were empty. Since I didn’t see Priscilla, I wondered if I should look for her, assuming that she was being yelled at by them again. I was just getting up to look for all three when Megan called me up onstage to help her announce the winners. I waved no, that she could do it.

  After all, Megan liked the spotlight.

  ACB and I both got honorable mentions. And my dreams of TV were over.

  Third place went to Kip O’Malley of the Watertown Jail. He wasn’t happy and reluctantly walked up onstage to get his prize. Later everyone could hear him tossing his equipment into a container. He kicked open the doors and left.

  Everyone looked at one another and shifted uncomfortably at the childish display, but the best was yet to come.

  Walton DeMassie came in second place. He uttered a colorful expletive that had the church ladies covering their ears. He stormed onto the stage, plucked the check from Megan’s hand, and exited the building, yelling that the contest was rigged.