As Mel came down the stairs, she heard voices drifting out from the living room. She peeked in and saw Stuart standing near the windows, his arms crossed in front of his chest. He was frowning. His glare was directed to the person opposite of him, the painter, who was sitting on the arm of the couch. Was it just her imagination or did the man look a little pale? She shook her head and decided to leave Stuart to his interrogation. He was the reporter after all.
She turned around the corner of the banister and headed toward the dining room. It was darkened and none of the places had been set yet. The numbers on the face of the grandfather clock sitting in the corner of the room gleamed.
“Oof!” A crash sounded in the next room. Curious, she put her ear to the door leading toward the kitchen and listened. There was more clattering and cursing. She pushed open the door and found herself in a large industrial sized kitchen with gleaming marble counters and copper pans strung up on the ceiling. Stainless steel stoves and refrigerators lined one side like smart soldiers at attention. At the back of the kitchen was a door, and it was open. A rather plump woman in a bright red knit hat and a gray woolen dress was backing into the kitchen, attempting to drag in some very hefty brown bags.
“It looks like you need some help,” called out Mel.
The woman raised her head and spotted the photographer standing near the door leading to the dining room. “I should say I do,” she replied.
Mel strolled over to the woman and began scooping up some of the bags and putting them on the counter. “Stocking up on groceries?”
“That and several other things besides,” the woman huffed. “Thanks for the help. I would shake your hand, but mine are full at the moment. I’m Pat.”
“Mel. The Townsends said that you are the cook here?”
“That’s right.” Pat set down the last of the bags on the counter and gave a relieved sigh. “Nice work if you can find it. The hours are a lot more flexible than some other places, I’ll tell you.”
Mel nodded. “I’m sure.”
The cook began taking food out of the bags, putting some in the refrigerator and leaving others out, ready to be prepared. “You’re one of the guests here, I take it?”
“Yes.”
“Why aren’t you back out at the Harvest Festival. I think there are still some events scheduled for tonight.”
She shrugged. “I thought I’d stay in tonight. There are plenty of other things happening tomorrow, right?”
“I heard that the last competition for the Horned King is going to be held tomorrow and the winner is going to be crowned the next day,” said the cook as she puttered around, taking some of the pots and filling them with water. She put them on the stove and turned up the heat. “I suppose if you’re going to really get the whole essence of the entire festival, the crowning of the Horned King would be the thing to go to. It is quite spectacular, even if you’re an old-timer like me.”
“Hm. Yes. My partner and I were planning on going to that.”
The cook nodded as she started to take out the things out of the last brown bag. All of these were pans—or more appropriately, cast iron skillets—which had the bed and breakfast log embossed on the handles. “You’re welcome to stick around and watch although I pretty much guarantee that all this cooking stuff is going to be someone boring.”
“That’s all right. I’d imagine that I might be able to learn something. What are those?” she asked nodding towards the pans.
“Skillets. Actually, we had them specially made. Ida had placed an order with the hardware store and well, I was picking them up. We were going to give to each of the guests when they left, but well, since you’re already here, you can take your pick.”
Mel raised an eyebrow. “Skillets? What an unusual gift. I suppose I could use it to fry eggs or something. That’s one of the few things I can cook without burning hopelessly.”
The cook laughed. “Perhaps your original idea was a good one. If you stick around for the next hour or so, you’ll learn a couple more things to do with that skillet.”
