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  “Family first.” Kenny acquiesced and moved down a seat.

  “I might have found his soft underbelly.” Sherry sat and turned her attention toward the woman on stage.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, again let me remind you, I am Brynne Stark, spelled with a ‘K,’ although, I’m hoping to drop the last letter soon. I’m your official OrgaNicks Cook-Off hostess. Who has seen my appearances on National Public Broadcasting’s TV show Kitchen Heat? My segments were titled ‘Table Manners with Brynne.’”

  A gray-haired woman in the audience cheered.

  “Thank you. I love you, too.” Brynne grinned and fluffed her hair with a shake of her head.

  Sherry swore Brynne mouthed “thanks, Mom,” before continuing.

  “I just witnessed some of the most talented home cooks in the United States broil, bake, and fry their hearts out. Having been in beauty pageants most of my childhood, I know how harrowing contests can be.

  “The judges will now begin tasting the contestants’ food. It’s a blind judging, meaning the judges only see a number associated with a plate, not a name. Runners will bring the prepared plates in one by one in no particular order.

  “While the important task of picking a winner is going on, let’s meet the cooks who have just joined us. Contestants, please rise when I call your name. First up is Sherry Frazzelle.”

  Sherry winced when Brynne mispronounced her last name as “frazzle.” “It’s Frazzelle, rhymes with ‘la belly.’” Sherry stood and gave the audience a wave.

  Brynne waited for Sherry to take her seat before continuing. “Amber Sherman.”

  Sherry glanced down the row of seats at Amber. She hadn’t come across the woman with the pale auburn hair in any other contest, but she had shared a pleasant conversation with her before the cook-off began.

  Brynne watched Amber rise and lower herself before referring back to the sheet of paper in her hands. “Diana Stroyer.”

  “She’s a tough cookie,” Kenny whispered to Sherry. “She’s won a ton of contests. But word is she’s the Queen of Mean Cuisine when it comes to contestant sportsmanship.”

  Marla leaned across Sherry. “Kenny, would you please shush?”

  Kenny’s mouth was left hanging open.

  Sherry muffled a nervous snicker by putting her hand over her mouth, but a high-pitched squeal managed to sneak out. Marla swatted her sister’s knee.

  Brynne cleared her throat. “Kenny Dewitt. Am I pronouncing your last name correctly? Is it De-Witt or Dew-itt?”

  Kenny stood amidst laughter and applause. “Hey, guys! You know Kenny can do it!” He raised his arms as if signaling a touchdown. “Over there is my posse. They traveled all the way from Cali to cheer me on!”

  “Thank you, Kenny. Please have a seat.” Brynne paused until the laughter died down. “Jamie Sox.” Brynne drew in a dramatic breath before repeating herself. “Jamie Sox.”

  “Mr. Vomit,” Marla whispered. It was Sherry’s turn to give a knee swat.

  Sherry saw Diana, who was seated next to Jamie, jab him with her elbow.

  “Present.” Jamie removed the iPhone earbuds.

  Again, the audience erupted in laughter. Jamie sunk back down in his chair and pocketed his listening device.

  Brynne waved her paper and brought it down to her side. “And Marla Barras.”

  Marla stood up, waved, then flopped back down.

  “You’ve met our outstanding judges, Chef Tony Birns, Chef Brock Lee, and Chef Olivia Baker.” Brynne pointed to the trio seated on stage. “Ladies and gentlemen, feast your eyes on the task at hand.”

  Sherry sat up a bit straighter and began flexing her ankles. As she waited for the judging to be completed, Sherry’s senses were working in overdrive, trying to sort out the aromas of savory spices, roasted meats, and complex sauces that thickened the air in the school’s auditorium. The lighting in the room was dim, except for center stage, which was illuminated by overhead spotlights. The judges’ arm gesturing, finger wagging, and head bobbing mesmerized Sherry. The room was abuzz with passionate debate. She overheard audience opinions being dished out like coleslaw at a barbecue. Her racing thoughts were questions desperate for answers. Which dish is more visually appealing? Which recipe title best describes the most delicious entrée? Is my pork dish succulent? Will the pizza have a balance of flavors? Who deserves to win the title of “Best Recipe?”

  Sherry was also busy tracking Brynne Stark, as she strutted around the judges’ table, monitoring their deliberations. Balanced on silver high heels, Brynne hustled to and fro between the chefs. Her light brown hair, accented with brassy highlights, brushed across her shoulders with each step. Her drop earrings reflected the spotlights, creating an aura of sparkly dots around her. After circling the table, Brynne raised the microphone to her red lips. The audience hushed.

  “OrgaNicks Foods, the cook-off sponsor, would like to again thank the home chefs who made it to the final round of this competition. As the saying goes, ‘If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the contest kitchen.’ These cooks turned up the heat and left the kitchen only when their very best was achieved. The competition today was dog eat dog. It was a food fight for the ages. One that will reward the last man or woman standing with ten thousand dollars.” Dramatic pause. “Who will claim the title of OrgaNicks Supreme Home Chef?” Brynne lowered the microphone and stepped into the shadows.

  Sherry’s arm hairs began to spring up. Her skin prickled and her palms chilled, as they grew damp. Recognizing the signs of an impending panic attack, Sherry drew in a deep breath and released it to the count of one-one thousand, two-one thousand. Much to her relief, her sprinting heartbeat steadied to a jog.

  The deliberation lasted until the head judge, Chef Tony Birns, gave a nod. Following the chef ’s line of sight, Sherry located Nick Andime, made visible by the shiny luster of his synthetic-fiber suit coat. The lights throughout the auditorium brightened. Sherry was forced to blink the brightness away before her eyes adjusted. Nick gave Brynne the signal to address the crowd. She flipped her head forward, sending her hair cascading over itself, and then snapped her head back. Her hair, now more airy than a perfect popover, created a striking frame around her porcelain-skinned face. The only blemish Sherry could see on the woman’s clear skin was the distinct mole just below the corner of her eye. Brynne centered herself under the stage lights and opened her mouth to begin her narrative.

  “Wait, wait, time out!” Mac clambered toward the base of the stage with his cameras. “I need to frame the shot.”

  In unison, Sherry and the other five contestants blew out their breaths.

  After the photographer took his position, Brynne pointed to the first plate on the judges’ table, checked her notes, and read, “In front of the judges sit six food masterpieces created by our cook-off finalists. The first plate is Cherry Glazed Short Ribs and Couscous.

  “Please don’t stand, sir,” Brynne warned. “But ladies and gentlemen of the audience, please feel free to applaud.”

  Kenny Dewitt, having already lifted his backside off his chair, plunked back down and scowled.

  “Next, we have Chutney Glazed and Farro Stuffed Pork Tenderloin.” Brynne swept her arm in its direction.

  From her seat, Sherry smiled at the visual presentation of her plated food. She rubbed her perspiring palms on her pant legs. They left a moist smudge.

  “This plate is Chicago Style Bison Sausage and Greens Pizza on Whole Grain Crust. The next plate is Cheesy Chicken and Grits. Here we have Cowboy Pork Chops with Black Bean Compote, and finally, New England Seafood Flatbread.” Brynne released a breathy sigh between recipe titles. “The judges were unaware of who made which dish as they were being sampled.”

  Brynne waited for the applause to die down before she handed the microphone over to Chef Brock Lee. Someone in the audience let out an unfiltered howl, while another projected a piercing whoop. Sherry made an attempt to locate the noisy audience members, but each face she saw was as intoxicated with
the excitement in the room as the next.

  Chef Lee wiped his weary eyes with his sleeve. “So, once again, thank you all for being here and making the inaugural OrgaNicks Cook-Off such a success. Remember, OrgaNicks motto is ‘Bugs Have Mothers Too—Eat OrgaNicks.’”

  The audience unleashed another round of applause.

  “Imagine you are one of these six men and women who have a chance at ten thousand dollars. How would you feel right now? By the way, thank you, Hillsboro High School, for providing our venue.”

  “Go Fighting Sea Urchins!” bellowed Mac, from his perch just below the stage.

  His cheer resulted in half the audience raising their hands and wiggling fingers skyward in honor of the school’s official mascot, the spiny sea urchin.

  “Well, I see we have a partisan crowd.” Chef Lee handed the microphone to Chef Tony Birns.

  To Sherry, it appeared as if Chef Lee whispered something to his colleague. After which, Chef Birns ran his index finger across his front teeth to dislodge some greenery.

  Sherry elbowed Marla. Now there’s a friend for you.

  Chef Birns stood. The room hushed. He plunged back down, appearing to lack stability. Sherry sat up as tall as possible in her chair to assess the situation. Chef Birns put his head in his hands.

  The simultaneous exclamation, “huh?” blanketed the audience. Sherry turned toward Kenny to say something, but her thoughts were too muddled to continue.

  “Is this part of the show?” Kenny ran his fingers through his lamb-chop sideburns. “What’s going on? Come on already!”

  On his second attempt, the chef was successful at standing. He placed one hand on the table for stabilization. He took a labored breath, unbuttoned his shirt collar, and cleared his throat. “So, without further ado, I would like to announce the ten-thousand-dollar winner of this year’s OrgaNicks Cook-Off.” Chef Birns spoke sluggishly. He coughed between words.

  Chef Lee pounded his colleague on the back, as if he were preparing veal for scallopini.

  The urgency in Chef Birns’ voice was palpable. “Sorry ’bout that. It was a very close competition, but the dish the judges feel best represents the theme and essence of the contest is the: Chh, sorry, the Chhh, again sorry, the Chhhh . . .”

  Chef Tony Birns’ legs collapsed. His head plummeted face-first into the Seafood Flatbread Pizza. Crustaceans and tomato sauce flew in all directions. The sight of the gray pallor of the chef’s exposed skin bathed in the rosy sauce made Sherry’s stomach lurch. The audience shrieked. Some leapt up from their seats. Chair legs creaked and scraped. Someone on stage barked instructions. The noise level became deafening.

  “What’s happening?” Sherry tried to see beyond the milling crowd. “Is he okay?”

  “Maybe the pizza gave him a heart attack.” Kenny slumped in his seat.

  “Man down,” yelled Mac, who looked over his camera viewfinder but kept the camera aimed at the chef.

  “Help! Can someone help?” cried Chef Baker.

  “Is anyone a doctor out there?” Chef Lee called out.

  “Sherry, you know CPR.” Marla leaned across Kenny to poke Sherry. “Get up there!”

  “I took that course ten years ago.” Sherry’s face blanched. Her heart rate accelerated. She searched Marla’s eyes for reassurance but only saw distress. An adrenaline rush propelled Sherry forward toward the stage.

  Once at the fallen chef’s side, Sherry explained, “I have CPR training. Can you turn him over for me, please?”

  Chef Lee repositioned the stout body of Chef Birns from belly down to faceup. Sherry made a fist and encased it with her other hand. She hummed the Bee Gees’ hit song “Stayin’ Alive” to get her compression rhythm correct, as she had learned in class. After a short time, she realized the chest compressions weren’t successful and her arm muscles were throbbing from exhaustion. She used her filthy apron to wipe food off his mouth. She stifled an involuntary gag reflex and closed her eyes. Just as she leaned in to begin rescue breathing, the EMTs arrived.

  “Thank you, ma’am. We’ll take it from here.” A medic, who Sherry wasn’t sure was more than sixteen, set his medical equipment next to the body.

  Sherry shut off the song loop playing in her brain. She hoisted herself from her crouched position on legs stiff from clenching her muscles too hard.

  Chef Birns was placed on a gurney and rolled out to a waiting ambulance while Sherry watched in horror. She was left standing idle next to Mac, who was wiping tomato sauce off his cameras.

  “You gave it your best shot, but to put it in terms this audience can appreciate, I think you can stick a fork in him—he’s done.”

  Staggering on weak knees, Sherry made her way back to her seat. A few people gave her a consoling pat on the back as she passed by.

  When she arrived at her seat, Marla enveloped Sherry with a hug. “Sherry, you’ve got guts. You tried your best.”

  “If it weren’t for your push, I’d never have had the courage to go up there. I’m a little ashamed of myself.” Sherry hung her head.

  “It was all you,” said Marla, “and don’t forget it.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Brynne broadcast from the side of the auditorium. “Due to circumstances beyond anyone’s control, the conclusion of the cook-off will now be postponed to a later date, yet to be determined.” Behind Brynne, Nick Andime appeared to give her a push forward. Brynne lifted what appeared to be a script up to her face with great effort, as if it weighed a ton. “When you get home, please ‘like’ the OrgaNicks Foods Facebook page, and you will gain access to all the information needed to learn the outcome of the contest as it becomes available. We are hoping to get to two hundred additional ‘likes’ by the end of the day with your help.” Brynne aimed a smile toward the scattering crowd. “Thank you for coming and enjoy your complimentary recipe card collection. You’ll find the gift box under your seats. Please exit to the rear of the building. I would also like to invite you to follow me on Twitter @BrynneStark after the cook-off concludes.” Brynne clicked off the microphone, turned, and walked away.

  “Did anyone notice that before he collapsed, the chef might have said Cherry Glazed Short Ribs and Couscous? I think he named Cherry Glazed Short Ribs and Couscous as the winner! I heard him say a word started with Chhh. My recipe starts with Chhh!”

  Sherry shook her head. “Kenny, we may never know for sure.”

  “I hope he’s okay. Nice job, kid.” Kenny added.

  As the audience dispersed, Sherry and the other cook-off contestants were left milling about anxious for guidance. They only relaxed when a police officer approached and told them they were free to go after they completed a brief round of questioning.

  Chapter 4

  Sherry dragged her tired legs up the front porch steps. Two other women remained at the first step. Once at the door, Sherry was glad to be sheltered from the summer sun by the cedar-shingled overhang. She set down the gift basket she’d received at the cook-off and the newspaper she picked up from the end of the driveway.

  Sherry held up her key ring and groaned. “How did I grab the set with no house key? I need to remind Charlie again to return his copy, so I can attach it. You wait here while I run around back and sneak in through the unlocked patio door.”

  After a few moments the reclaimed wood front door opened. “Come in, ladies. Make yourselves at home.”

  Sherry’s guests entered the modest saltbox house.

  Marla, the last one in, closed the door behind her and set down her overnight bag. “You almost forgot these.” She handed her sister her gift basket and the newspaper. “Let me tell you again how much I love your house. So quaint, so New England. The show house of Augustin, Connecticut.”

  Sherry removed her shoes and squared them up with the doormat. “Thanks, Mar. But that’s a bit of an exaggeration, don’t you think? Watch out for my sleeping guard dog over by the steps. He’s hard of hearing, so he won’t wake up until he catches our scent. Not even this commotion will wake him
.” Sherry searched her sister’s eyes. “I’m sorry you got in too late to stay over last night, but Dad’s sofa wasn’t too uncomfortable, was it?”

  “I don’t even remember. After he picked me up at the airport, I zonked out in the car. Let’s just say, I may have had one too many glasses of my special calming elixir during the flight. As soon as I saw thunderstorms in the forecast, I loaded up my flask before I left Oklahoma.”

  “What if you had to make a life-or-death decision during the flight? You couldn’t even find the plane’s emergency exit if you were so out of it.”

  “That’s the difference between you and me. You like to be in control as much as possible, and I might be a little more laid back.” Marla kicked off her shoes one by one. They landed next to Sherry’s after somersaulting in the air several times.

  “Nice shot, Mar. You haven’t lost a bit of your soccer skills. Amber, you can either take off your shoes or keep them on. Whatever you’re most comfortable with.”

  Amber parked her overnighter next to Marla’s. She followed the sisters’ lead and placed her shoes by the door.

  “Yikes, my stink could wake the dead.”

  “Marla! What a thing to say.” Sherry clicked her tongue on the roof of her mouth.

  Marla inclined her head toward her shoulder. “My God, I’m sorry. You know when someone says really dumb things at inappropriate times? You’re looking at the worst offender. Maybe you can speak to that, Amber.”

  “It’s actually a form of social anxiety,” Amber said.

  “Watch out, Sherry. Having a therapist as a house-guest could be a gift or a curse,” laughed Marla.

  “Actually, ladies, I’m a marriage and family counselor to be specific.”

  “Well, let the record show, Amber Sherman barely knows us and she has already diagnosed you as the anxious one. All my life ‘anxious’ was my label. Who knew?” Sherry gripped her basket brimming with plastic-wrapped OrgaNicks boxes and jars. “Grab your gift baskets because the best place to put them is on the kitchen counter. I don’t think you’ll forget them there when you leave.”