Sweet sabotage
Chef and cooking instructor Lonette Frye leaned against her walk-in pantry counter and read the bottle label. Whether the new prescription would help Pumpkin leap and bound like before, only time would tell.
Lonette mixed the dose into the orange tabby’s food just as the doorbell chimed. After plating the cat’s doctored dinner, she hurried to answer. Tonight was a big night for the “Thanksgiving Dinner for Novices” course she taught from her home chef ’s kitchen.
The students would present their version of sweet potato pie for a chance at landing a page in Lonette’s holiday cookbook: a coveted prize for all of them, as each was an aspiring TV chef.
The best pie would be determined by a blind taste test. If necessary, Lonette would serve as tiebreaker.
At the door, one of her students, Hartley tried to balance his creation on one finger. “Yo, Chef. Wait’ll Justine tastes this!”
Lonette ushered him in with a shake of her head, as Hartley’s efforts to wow his fellow student and fitness enthusiast had already failed.
“My show,” Justine would often say, “will feature straightforward, healthful recipes.” There was no place in Justine’s world for Hartley’s experiments with offbeat ingredients.
Luckily, Mercer’s arrival changed the subject. “Make way, all, for subtlety and class.”
Just a whiff of his pie and Lonette knew it was made of quality stuff. Sights set on the good life, Mercer used only pricey ingredients.
“Tomorrow’s stardom,” he’d boast, “will pay today’s bills.”
Justine jogged up the walkway, clutching her pie carrier like a football. “Can’t wait for you to give this a taste, Chef!” she beamed.
Lonette herded the threesome to the pantry to deposit their pies on the counter. They ducked in and out of the pantry, fixing details and re-fixing them. Finally, the tasting could commence.
Lonette left the students in the kitchen, gossiping over the latest celebrity chef rumor, and headed for the pantry to ready the samples. She was unprepared for the scene she found.
Two of the pies lay facedown on the floor. Pumpkin sat alongside, sniffing them. Lonette’s gasp must’ve been heard in the kitchen. The students came running. All talked at once.
“What happened?” “Are you okay?” “Oh, no!”
Pumpkin gazed up at Lonette, a look of innocence about her whiskers.
“Somebody— or should I say some kitty— is in trouble,” Mercer intoned.
“Maybe,” Justine said, “we should’ve blocked the door to keep Pumpkin out.”
“No one can say that cat lacks spunk,” Hartley said.
Spunk, yes. Ability to leap high counters? No. Lonette knew the truth: Someone believed that if they ruined their competitors’ products, the cookbook opportunity would be theirs by default.
Over Lonette’s burnt turkey! But she knew nobody would remember who exited the pantry last or would admit doing so. To identify the saboteur, she needed a diversion.
“Hartley, bring a knife. Justine, a plate. Mercer, a fork.”
She waited for the bewildered trio to leave the pantry. As Pumpkin watched, Lonette salvaged untainted samples from the toppled pies. The flavor of condensed tomato soup stood out in one; nonfat evaporated milk, in the other.
Lastly, Lonette tasted the intact pie. There was no mistaking the telltale ingredient: rum. And there was no mistaking the saboteur.