Slice and Dice
THIS LITTLE PIGGY WENT TO MURDER
“Strong characters and a rich Lake Superior setting make this solidly constructed mystery hard to put down. Another winner for Ellen Hart!”
— M. D. Lake
“There are some good, nail-bitingly-tense scenes and lots of red herrings.”
— Publishers Weekly
FOR EVERY EVIL
“A dilly… A fair-play plot and contemporary characters that leap off the page… Stir in Martha Grimes with P. D. James and add a dash of Christie and Amanda Cross and you begin to get the idea: a cozy with a brain.”
— Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine
“Another splendid specimen of the classical mystery story, nicely updated and full of interesting and believable characters.”
— The Purloined Letter
HALLOWED MURDER
“Hart’s crisp, elegant writing and atmosphere [are] reminiscent of the British detective style, but she has a nicer sense of character, confrontation, and sparsely utilized violence. Hallowed Murder is as valuable for its mainstream influences as for its sexual politics.”
— Mystery Scene
VITAL LIES
“This compelling whodunit has the psychological maze of a Barbara Vine mystery and the feel of Agatha Christie…. Hart keeps even the most seasoned mystery buff baffled until the end.”
— Publishers Weekly
STAGE FRIGHT
“Hart deftly turns the spotlight on the dusty secrets and shadowy souls of a prominent theater family. The resulting mystery is worthy of a standing ovation.”
— Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine
A KILLING CURE
“A real treat… Secret passageways, a coded ledger, a mysterious group known only as the Chamber, experimental drugs, blackmail, sexual assault, betrayal: all the ingredients of a good whodunit.”
— Lambda Book Report
Ellen Hart
Copyright © 2000 by Ellen Hart
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author or publisher.
Edition: November 2010
For Joe Blades, editor, mentor, dear friend — with gratitude and much affection
Every great man nowadays has his disciples, and it is always Judas who writes the biography.
— Oscar Wilde
The Critic as Artist
Many thanks to Rick Nelson, food staff writer at the
Minneapolis Star Tribune,
for his insight into the inner workings of restaurant reviews and reviewers. Also, thanks to Dr. Tom Rumreich for his always fascinating forensic expertise. And finally, thanks beyond measure to Kathy Kruger and R.D. Zimmerman for reading the book in manuscript form and offering not only patient encouragement, but sound advice.
A Conversation Between Ellen Hart and Sophie Greenway
Sophie Greenway:
Owner-manager of the Maxfield Plaza hotel in St. Paul. Restaurant critic. Wife of Bram Baldric. Mother of Rudy.
Bram Baldric:
Radio talk-show host for WTWN in the Twin Cities. Sophie’s husband.
Constance Buckridge:
Cookbook author. Founder of the Buckridge Culinary Academy in New Haven, Connecticut. Mother of Nathan and Emily. Stepmother of Paul. Wife of Wayne.
Nathan Buckridge:
Chef. Director of the Buckridge restaurant chain. Son of Constance. Sophie’s old boyfriend.
Paul Buckridge:
Chancellor of the Buckridge Culinary Academy. Chef. Brother of Emily. Stepbrother of Nathan.
Marie Damontraville:
Writer-biographer. Lela Dexter: Guest at the Maxfield Plaza.
Emily Buckrjdge-Merlin:
Photographer. Wife of Kenneth. Daughter of Constance. Half-sister of Nathan and Paul.
Kenneth (Kenny) Merlin:
Constance Buckridge’s attorney. Husband of Emily.
David Polchow:
Chef at the Belmont.
Harry Hongisto:
Owner of the Belmont. Old friend of Sophie’s father.
George Gildemeister:
Restaurant critic at the
Times Register
in Minneapolis.
Arthur Jadek:
Author. Professor. Clinical psychologist. Constance’s brother.
Wayne Buckridge:
Paul and Emily’s father. Owner of Buckridge Construction. Husband of Pepper. Later, husband of Constance.
Pepper Buckridge:
Mother of Paul. Wayne’s first wife.
Late October, 1963
It wasn’t fair. Pepper had waited for years to have a child, and now that she had a beautiful little four-year-old boy, she was too sick even to play with him. She sat in a wooden lounge chair at the edge of the water, watching her son, Paul, dig in the sand next to the dock. He was such a sweet child. Wispy blond curls and a sunny smile. He had her husband’s aqua-blue eyes and his intense scowl, but in every other way he was a miniature reflection of her. He even had her love of the outdoors. It didn’t matter that the air was chilly and a dreary fog hugged the shoreline. Every afternoon after his nap, come rain or shine, little Paul had to have his time down by the dock.
When her husband, Wayne, had first started construction on their Lake Minnetonka house six years earlier, the forty-eight steps leading from the back porch down to the lake had seemed like nothing. Now it was a daily struggle. If her health didn’t improve, it wouldn’t be long before she couldn’t make it at all.
Pepper had spent the last five months visiting one doctor after another, trying to find answers. She’d seen at least a dozen specialists, taken more than three dozen tests, and been prescribed a mountain of pills. And yet, except for the dizziness, the tiredness, the stomach pains, the eye problems, and her growing anxiety, nobody could agree on what was wrong with her. Her husband had tried to remain supportive and loving, but she could feel him losing patience.
“Mrs. Buckridge?” came a soothing voice.
“Yes?” she said, removing her eyes from her son and fixing them on the young, attractive, blonde-haired woman who was leaning over her chair. “Oh, Connie. It’s you.”
Connie Jadek had been a maid at the Buckridge home for almost two years. Last spring she’d taken over as the cook. Although she seemed competent enough, Pepper didn’t like her. Her constant cheerfulness was enough to drive anyone to drink.
“I brought you another blanket,” said Connie. “I thought you might be cold.” She spread it over Pepper’s legs.
“What about my rum and Coke?”
“It’s on the table right next to you.”
Pepper glanced to the side.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like something to eat?”
“No, nothing.” Even the idea of food made her sick to her stomach.
“Can I get you anything else?”
Before she could respond, she heard Paul calling, “Nonnie! Nonnie!” He tossed his tin shovel in the sand and ran to show Connie what he’d found.
She bent down to look at the small feather in his hand. “Oh, that’s beautiful, Paul. We’ll have to put it with all the others.”
Pepper was instantly furious. Why hadn’t Paul shown
her
the feather first? He’d spent so much time with Connie lately that she’d almost replaced Pepper as a mother figure. She fed him all his meals. Played with him on and off during the day. Read him stories and then tucked him in bed at night. It was insidious, but because she was too weak to do anything else, Pepper had to sit by and watch it happen. She’d mentioned the situation to Wayne just last night, said it was becoming intolerable. But he wouldn’t hear of any more staff changes. They’d already gone through three nannies. Nobody did anything well enough for Pepper’s high standards. What the hell did she want, anyway?
She’d screamed at him that she wanted her life back. She wanted to be healthy, to take care of Paul herself, the way she had when he was a baby. She ached for the feel of him, for the smell of his hair.
She
was his mother, for God’s sake — not these strangers! Couldn’t Wayne understand how hard it was for her to watch her son transferring his affections to others?
“What’s the solution?” Wayne demanded. “You’re too sick to take care of him yourself. What am I supposed to do? Let him fend for himself while I’m away at work? Do you want him crawling around the house eating bug killer and stuffing marbles in his ears?”
She knew there was no good answer. Connie would stay, of course, as would the rest of the staff. Until Pepper felt better, she’d simply have to live with the consequences of her illness. But she’d be damned if she’d let anyone take her son away from her.
“Paul,” she said softly, reaching out her hand. “Come sit with Mommy.”
