Mumbo Gumbo by Jerrilyn Farmer

Author:Jerrilyn Farmer [Jerrilyn Farmer]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: cozy, mystery, recipes, women sleuths
ISBN: 9780062013996
Google: v3QbXYPOJrkC
Amazon: B003JBHVNQ
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2010-06-01T20:28:16.300000+00:00

Chapter 17

Normally, most of Freak’s office staff arrive at work sometime between nine-thirty and ten. Some gogetters are in earlier. They, and the one or two individuals who draw excellent paychecks but have come to discover that their positions serve no earthly purpose on the show, tend to arrive just a hair before nine, the better to impress Artie, who usually pulls his Cadillac onto the lot a few minutes later. At seven-thirty, however, even the most insecure production executive is at home in bed. At this hour of the morning, our side of the studio was a ghost town.

I used my key to unlock the glass door to Food Freak’s reception area, and then, once inside, to lock myself in again. No reason to take chances. I turned on the lights and Chef Howie was everywhere, smiling down at me. Chef Howie frying bacon. Chef Howie flipping flapjacks. Chef Howie frappéing a banana smoothie. Gigantic framed posters of Chef Howie filled three walls. As it had been left by the hardworking contestant department the previous night, everything in this room was in readiness for that department’s great daily quest, to sift through hundreds of amateur chefs and find for the show just the right talented home cooks with just the right telegenic personalities to make it on the air.

I walked past a credenza where an instant camera and ten boxes of film were staged near a section of plain white wall. Pictures would be taken of every hopeful Freak contestant, to be attached to his or her application. Across from a large reception desk were rows of black plastic seats with wide arms on one side like college desks. Aspiring contestants were seated here, in groups of thirty, to fill out forms.

I walked across the empty room to one of the stairwells located on either side of the open reception area. Again, I flipped a light switch and this time illuminated the staircase. I had never been the earliest one in the office before, and with each of these steps, I began to wake up the building.

Up on the second-floor landing, I tried a few switches until I found the one that lit up the hallway, and as the fluorescent fixtures buzzed into brilliance, I listened for a moment to the slight tickings and faint hummings that make up the silence in a silent and empty office suite. I walked down the hall, watchful, careful, and thought about Honnett’s directive of not being alone in the building. I hadn’t meant to. I had agreed to never again stay at work after-hours, not alone. But for some reason, maybe from lack of sleep or lack of some basic talent for paranoia, I had forgotten to consider how deserted this floor was likely to be at this early morning hour. Rooting around in my bag, my fingers identified my cell phone by touch, and I grabbed it. I punched the numbers—911—and held the instrument in my left hand like a weapon,

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