And so, the hunt began. Barley's workstation had no hidden treasure to offer, unless enough spilled flour to write a name in counted.

 

          "Crème caramel," Maya read from a bent, greasy recipe card, "Oh, that sounds so good! We should try making some, Nick!"

          "Please don't borrow any recipes from them," Phoenix muttered, brushing at the stubborn flour smearing his suit's blue pant leg, "We'd be lucky if all Cherry did was sue."

          "Oh, you're no fun." She returned the card and sulked in his general direction.

 

          But Phoenix couldn't begin to imagine a cook's scattered mindset, never mind where a little package of peppers belonged.  They wandered the storage corridors, and wondered whether the locked door was an office, and then braved the silver door: it was a refrigerator after all, one bigger than Phoenix's bedroom, not that that was saying much. A fan's hum and one naked-bright lightbulb filled the room, and the cold air skin-prickled contrast to all the oven heat. Phoenix folded his arms, examining a rack cluttered with jars -- honey mustard, grainy mustard, Dijon mustard, and nothing that looked like it belonged on a hot dog. No chile peppers, either.

          And then he paused. "Did Barley say what kind of package it was?"

          Maya looked up from a crate of forest-leafy vegetables. "I don't think so ... Just a little package." She dropped a head of something healthy-looking, and nudged the crate back into place with her foot. "Maybe he meant a box, or a plastic bag?"

          Plastic crates and mysteriously huge cardboard boxes lined the walls, nothing that could be described as little. And unless Phoenix was just terrible at identifying condiments ...

          He rubbed his neck. "Let's try somewhere else."

 

          The next room over smelled dust-dry; flicking on the light revealed enough colourful packages and bins full of food to rival a supermarket.

          "Well, we wanted boxes," Phoenix sighed.

          "Come on, Nick!" Maya skipped past him. "Let's get cracking! No rest for the hungry!"

          Hadn't she already eaten half a bakery? Phoenix lifted a plastic bin's lid, and something sand-like stared back at him. Cornmeal, maybe? There were more details here than just the peppers' hiding place, he was sure of it. He closed the bin, and peered around and behind it, and ended up staring at the scuffed lid for a moment. Unease roiled in him the way it always did when he sat right on top of an important detail -- warmer, warmer, boiling hot.

          "Foxx?" he tried.

 

          Silence. Except for Maya's sandals clicking along the shelves' length.

          "Here's some pasta," she murmured, "There's some pasta, and some little curly pasta." Up onto tiptoes to peek at a higher shelf. "Noodle pasta, funny pasta, pasta, pasta ... rice!"

          He was sure he had heard that somewhere.

 

          "Sorry, Phoenix," Foxx replied -- quickly, like the last of a liquid gulp -- "Went for latté. What is it?"

          Hopefully not a carrot juice latté. Phoenix raised a brow, moving on along the bins.

          "You said the Orchard attracts Agent attention, right? And J noticed a music sense disturbance, and ran to the alley ..."

          "You're thinking that Ms. LaFlamme or Mr. Dempster caught his attention?" She murmured thoughtful. "I suppose they could have ... The target J lost fled through the alleys behind the Orchard, the fence door was presumably unlocked. But J would recognize the cooks, he patrols that area on a regular basis."

           Cake flour, pastry flour -- what the heck was the difference? With a last glance around the bins, Phoenix moved on to the towers of canned tomatoes.

          "There's no evidence of who that target was?"

          "All we know is what J-- oh, one moment."

 

          "Nick!"

          Maya, crouched by the biggest bag of potatoes Phoenix had ever seen, shot a look at him.

          "Are you going to talk all day while I search this whole pl-- oh, what's this?" A pause, and she rose to her feet -- clear plastic glinted in her hand.

          "You found them?"

          "Uhh," Maya tried, "How long ago did Barley drop those chile peppers?"

          And then he came close enough to see the bag's contents -- black, shrivelled, and not food by Phoenix's definition of the word.

          "He ... didn't say. Are you sure those are chile peppers?"

          "They've got little stems on them! ... I think." Maya pressed the cellophane and its contents with her thumbs, experimentally, and then held the package out like a freshly dragged-in gift. "Here, Nick, you'd better carry these!"

          What an honour. Rolling his eyes, Phoenix took the package: its contents were yielding, not fossil-hard, and he wasn't about to debate which was worse.

          "Let's just find out if this is what we're looking for."

 

          "Phoenix?"

          He stopped -- Maya neatly stepped around him and took the lead.

          "Foxx?"

          "We've got a contact with some new evidence for you, in the Orchard's alley. Stop by as soon as possible, all right?"

          "A-All right."

          An Agent, he could only assume. Phoenix resumed walking, quicker this time to follow Maya's robe fluttering around the corner.

 

          Barley Dempster, thankfully, wasn't a difficult man to find -- his frantic-mumbling voice gave him away, pacing circles in his bakery and fidgeting with his hat fit to rub all his hair off.

          "--A-and then the herb shipment came, put those boxes away, m-maybe in with the tarragon? No, no, LaFlamme would have--"

          "Hey, Barley," Maya chirped, "Are those chile peppers you lost supposed to be old and dried out and ugly?"

          He started, and smiled at the sight of them, brushing nothing in particular off his whites. "Oh, i-it's you! The p-- uhh, the peppers? They're-- did you ...?"

          And he brightened like Christmas morning as Phoenix held up the little package.

          "Ohh, goodness, thank you! I-I, Cherry, she-- uhh." Barley stopped, craning his neck thoughtful. "I-I guess they are awfully ugly ... Dried things usually are."

          "So," Phoenix ventured, "You cook with these?"

          "Chile syrup! For the Orchard's signature Cherry Fiesta tarts, they're Chef LaFlamme's most prized recipe! I-I just need to cook them in sugar syrup for a while. Uhh, y-you know, to get the flavour from them, like tea, almost."

          Maya shot a grin at Phoenix, and said, "We'll have to try those tarts, too!"

          Managing not to roll his eyes, Phoenix asked, "Can we bring these to Cherry for you?"

          Blinking, Barley thought a moment. "If ... y-you'd like, I think that'd be-- uhh, it's fine, you d-don't need to, she probably won't yell ... much. F-for her, anyway."

          The poor guy must have taken more beatings than a punching bag during his typical workday. The thought made Phoenix braver in saying, "It's all right, we can do it. I was hoping to ask her some questions, anyway."

          "You should stay here and focus on your baking," Maya prodded, "It'd be a shame if you burned anything!"

          "If I--" Barley's eyes widened, and he scrambled to open an oven. "T-the baguettes! They're-- they're, oh dear, they're fine. Uhh, perfect timing, a-actually." Reaching for a well-loved pair of oven mitts, he smiled meekly over his shoulder. "Y-You're right, I'm needed here, s-she-- Thank you so much!"

          And with answers to find, and a culinary peace offering, Phoenix and Maya left to face the chef herself.

 

          The upstairs kitchen was a slightly different flavour of mayhem than when last they saw it -- a mountain of dirty plates had gathered around the dishwasher, and pans lay scattered everywhere. Cherry darted to the stove, stirred her simmering cream mixture, frowned at it like a warning, and returned to aggressively rolling dough.

          "Uhh, Ms.--" Phoenix caught himself. "Chef LaFlamme?"

          "Ehh?" She glanced poisonously at them, flinging a white plume of flour across her rolling pin. "You're still here?"

           "Are these muffin pans?" Maya asked, peering at a stack -- probably hoping to find more fresh-baked snacks.

          "Tart pans, kid," Cherry muttered, attention fixed on the dough, her shoulders studiously hunched.

          Maya looked to Phoenix. "What's the difference?"

          How was he supposed to know? Phoenix shrugged.

          "There must be some important difference ...?"

          She put a finger to her cheek. "I don't think so, Nick. It's not like we're talking about stepladders."

          "If it's frickin' peachy with you people," Cherry said, loud and pointed, "I'm tryin' to work here, Fiestas don't make themselves. Helluva lot of nerve being in here in the first place."

          Fiestas -- she was in the middle of her signature recipe. Phoenix approached, staying carefully clear of Cherry's pistoning elbows.

          "Actually, we found these ..." He held the chiles by a cellophane corner. "Barley said he misplaced them."

         

          She stared at them. She stared at him. And, eyes closing, Cherry rubbed her forehead with a knuckle and hissed a sigh.

          "Fine." She plucked the package from Phoenix's hand and beelined past him, to yank a small saucepot from its wall rack. "Fine, if you're not leaving until you get your corn-shuckin' questions answered, go right ahead. Whattaya want to know?" She glared at Phoenix and Maya in turn, all feline contempt. "Just, for the love of Carême, stay outta the way. You."

          "Uhh," Maya squeaked, "Me?"

          "Move your keister, sassafras, the second I need a damn baking sheet you're gonna get trampled. No, not there, either! By the stove. Yeah, right in the corner, that's good."

          Maya looked hesitantly around at her new nook -- grease-splattered, and lacking anything shiny or edible. And with a quick flurry of ingredients -- including one of the ugly little chiles -- Cherry slammed her pot onto a stove burner hard enough to make Maya flinch.

          Shuffling a step back, wondering what defined out of the way, Phoenix rubbed his neck. "Err, so, Chef LaFlamme, what were you doing yesterday morning, around eleven?"

          "Working, unlke some pe-- Wait, you said you're accountants?"

          "Lawyers. We're investigating the murder of--"

          "Yeah, close enou-- what, murder?!" Cherry snapped upright, glaring cleavers. "You're investigating? Why in my kitchen?!"

          If she let Phoenix get a full sentence out, maybe she would know. He took another step back, eyeing the suit-ruining counter edges and oven surfaces around him.

          "Just inside Foster Park, yesterday morning," Phoenix said, "Someone in this restaurant might have witnessed it."

         

          A long moment passed, and then Cherry's glare shot back to her work.

          "Well, I was busy then," she growled, grabbing a small knife. She scribed leaf shapes in the dough, wrist limp-deadly as a whip. "A whole busload of tourists, cut it brunoise, they just pull up and take over the whole place and it is beyond them to leave a tip, I swear! Ran out of ragout and then, it toast-munchin' figures, every table's full and I had to turn one of the bridge biddies away, and everybody's ordering the risotto but Barley's on the dishes and I've only got two hands, why don'tcha just stick a fork in me?!"

          "Wait," Phoenix pressed in, "Bridge biddies...?"

          "Oh, yeah." Cherry waved a hand. "Buncha old hens, they go out for lunch and usually take over a whole Bavarian-cream-filled restaurant to play cards and fuss over every French-fryin' detail of everyfrickin'thing."

          Another glare at Phoenix -- odd, he didn't recall running over anyone's pet dog lately.

          "Have you ever made a coffee," she hissed, "With one and three quarter sweeteners? Peas and rice, coffee shouldn't involve fractions, what the hell is wrong with people?!"

         

          And Cherry darted to the ovens, plucking a pair of tongs from her apron, to fuss with whatever was baking at the moment. Sparing a thought for the ill-fated soufflés, Phoenix wished hard that he could see into that oven, or maybe past it to keep an eye on Maya -- but being out of Cherry's way was much preferable.

          "So," he said, passing his briefcase to his other hand, shifting on his feet, "This bridge group comes often?"

          "No."

          Cherry holstered the tongs on her apron strings, and stormed back to the dough. Phoenix hadn't thought to look earlier -- screeching rage could be a very effective distraction -- but Cherry had all sorts of things tucked into the strings circling her waist: the dangling tongs, a few food-stained rags, a thermometer-looking clip, and that wasn't counting the untold troves in the apron's full-looking pocket. It never hurt to be prepared, Phoenix supposed.

          "Most of the bridge biddies don't grace my establishment with their whiny blue-haired presence anymore," Cherry growled, "Which is fine, nuts to that, but--" She paused, and ran a narrow, considering gaze over Phoenix. "Have you heard of the place? Other than the flyer?"

          "The Orchard? No ..." But then, Phoenix always seemed to be out of the loop on these things.

          With a huff, Cherry retrieved a bowl of dark-rich filling from the opposite end of the countertop.

          "Okay, good, somebody knows us as something other than the place with terrible service, then." Filling balls formed between her fingers, dough leaves pinched into place around them, practice-swift as Cherry glared wistfully into space. "This is a tough industry, you know, it's not just throwing mozza sticks in a deep fryer and calling it a day but it'd cream-whippin' kill people to understand that."

         

          And it tingled at the back of Phoenix's mind, the tight-wound spite in Cherry's voice and the thought of an old woman turned away from the restaurant. There was more to this story; he slipped a hand into his pocket, fingertips finding the crystal-smooth magatama.

          "You're worried about your bistro's reputation?"

         

          That dimension of colour and sound revealed itself, soaked Phoenix in and began a fine, echoing tune. Cherry wore heavy chains and a quartet of Psyche Locks -- they rattled as her head snapped toward him to glare, and again as she set a half-formed tart down.

          "Well, chicken-fried amazing! You must be some kinda genius to figure that out!"

          It's buried deep, Mr. Nick. A sudden memory of robes brushing his knee, of Pearl worrying her thumbnail between her teeth.

          He hummed inside, like nerves and gooseflesh. With this much blazing anger and this many coils of chain and lock, Cherry would fight him for every inch -- he didn't want to remember how agonizing that could be.

          "I think--" his thoughts scanned frantic through everything he carried, every paper and trinket, "--There's a particular person you're worried about."

          She tightened, bristling red. One lock shivered.

          "Yeah, smart guy?"

          But who was it? The melody shifted, warbled counterpoint to a low-humming beat and Phoenix held Cherry's glare.

          "It's someone you need to worry for every day, and during every shift," he said. And no one customer could be that important, could they? Who else would loom in a mind as stress-filled as Cherry's? Someone in her very kitchen, two choices and an impulse-hot coin flip-- "It's you."

          A twitch through her aura, a slow narrowing of her eyes.

          "Yeah, I worry for myself and my business, obviously. Of all the pudding-brained--"

         But the lock's shiver was easing, panic spurred Phoenix and he blurted, "And Barley! H-He looks up to you, he's followed you for years. You must want to protect him."

 

          No change in Cherry's glare. A swirl of velvet-soft gone as soon as it appeared, and then the lock fell still.

         "You don't have a macadamia-crusted clue what you're talking about," Cherry hissed, and the pain began, "Mind your own damn business."

         

          It always took a moment for the acid blaze of failure to fade, for his mind to gather and his breath to unhitch. And then Phoenix stared hard at Cherry's carved scowl and dough-plying hands -- the magatama's low beat stirred and changed, he had a handful of fragments and just needed one that fit--

          Mr. Nick, you need courage to know when to stop.

          Such high, fine worry in Pearl's voice. And Phoenix had focus, that perfect razor's edge but nothing fit -- he didn't know Cherry and had no cracks to pry at. He sighed, and let the colours slide away; focusing so hard left a mark in him, flute notes' imprint in sand and a quiet like the ones after Mia spoke.

          You can always try again. Now just isn't the time.

          He sighed, and nodded. Phoenix released the magatama, watching the world return to three dimensions of plain -- he stood alone between a towering stove and sauce-streaked counters, and Cherry selecting a rubber band from the collection around her wrist.

          "Everybody and their dishboy's gotta have an opinion," she grumbled, sliding the tray of tarts aside in favour of rolling and binding abandoned bags of colourful spices, "Think you can just show up once and-- crème anglaise, what a--" She froze. "Crème anglaise!" And, bolting toward the stove, "Filet of sole en frickin' papillotte with hollan-- oh."

 

           Phoenix eased out of his safe corner: Maya stood stirring the pot of cream mixture. Why, why hadn't she learned not to touch things?

          "It was bubbling," she explained in a small voice, "So, I thought I should stir it ... Is that okay?"

          The pause lasted forever, and then Cherry moved, took the whisk from Maya's hand and prodded her work.

          "It's ... Yeah, it's okay." Cherry slumped. She lifted her cap, and resettled it over her braids like summoning new strength. "Crème anglaise clumps like hell if you don't stir it, s'good, kid."

          Muttered praise had to be worth its weight in gold, coming from someone like Cherry. Stiff, bustling energy flooded her once more and she carried off the salvaged mixture.

          "Cream angles?" Maya followed -- puppishly, willing to chance a kick. "What are you going to use that for?"

          "Crème anglaise, pay attention, crêpes! It goes with the Fiestas, gives a sweet, creamy counterpoint to the cherries, I use May Dukes for the nice little sour kick at the end. Now, the real trick is using the right amount of the syrup, mulato chiles taste like an tea-steepin' ashtray if you go overboard--"

 

          Hardly any of the food words snapped harsh, and the knot between Cherry's shoulders slowly eased -- amazing, sometimes, to watch Maya win people over like springtime sun working at ice. With a glance around him for suit-hazardous surfaces, Phoenix headed for the stairs, an idea forming to spur him.

 

 

          "I-I really can't thank you enough, Mr. Wright."

          A dozen baguettes sat on Barley's countertop, golden brown and powerfully fragrant. Barley himself perched against the counter's edge -- probably as relaxed as he could physically manage. He fidgeted at his cap and smiled apologetically at Phoenix.

          "Those chiles, goodness, they'd be two w-weeks in the mail, if we had to order new ones. A-and I'm not very good at looking for things ..."

          "So," Phoenix tried, scratching his head -- how to begin? "Chef LaFlamme uses only the best ingredients?"

          A convulsive nod from Barley. "Oh yes, she's very particular! Food is only as good as the ingredients you start with, that's w-what she tells me!" And he straightened as he said it, like his personal credo, "Insist on the best, and never settle! S-So I try."

         

          His smile turned wan, his gaze wandering off in thought. And Phoenix had hoped for more than that, maybe if he asked about some other--

          "This bistro is going to be great someday," Barley said, "Cherry j-just-- She has plans, really wonderful things!"  His hands lifted, like he could paint the picture. "Five-star dining, dark wood furniture, m-maybe some nice mahogany and table service on carts. M-mirrors on the ceiling, pink champagne on ice, a live band playing soft jazz music, you should hear her talk about it!"

           "Cherry has big dreams?" And daily reality to struggle through to get there? Everyone felt like that sometimes.

          Barley nodded, smiling again, and his gaze fled to the floor.

 

          A hunch Phoenix couldn't name pulled at him, ran in his blood until he palmed the magatama. Darkness and melody swirled in around them, chains clanked and Barley had a Psyche Lock, one ruby-gleaming lock huddled over his heart. That meant--

          "And ... you want to help Cherry with her dreams?" Phoenix tried.

          Clicking in the lock, and a tremor through Barley's chains. Echo ran through his notes, drumbeats rising from deep, warm earth: had Phoenix noticed anything like that before? He was usually too focused on the grating of a jimmied lock to notice tunes much.

          "I do. I want to help her. A-And ... that's all I can say right now, until I'm sure."

          Another thoughtful pause -- until Barley was sure of what? There had to be a wedge to drive in, maybe evidence, maybe he had seen something--

          "I think you know something about the Foster Park murder, Barley. Did you see something yesterday morning?"

          Shock washed orange from him, widening his eyes, sending his hands flying up to adjust his cap.

          "Oh dear, no, I kn-know that's serious, I-I wouldn't ...!" Barley paused, eyes darting everywhere. "I-I cut mirepoix until service began, mostly onions and celery for the fish fumée, and then I w-was on dishes for the rush-- oh, but I plated desserts for Cherr-- f-for LaFlamme, even though she's m-much better at it, just a few portions of millefeuille. And then I w-was back on dishes until, uhh, two o'clock? Maybe three? I-I'm sorry, I s-should have checked the time but I can testify if you need me to!"

          That matched with Cherry's story. Phoenix rubbed his chin. "So, you didn't see anything unusual yesterday? What was Cherry doing?"

          Regret washed over Barley, water-chill.

          "Uhh, s-she was very busy with the c-customers and the food, and I was focusing o-on all the dishes I had to do, Ch-- LaFlamme hates spots on t-the glassware ... I'm sorry, I w-wasn't watching her much, e-except when she yelled for m-me to get more coffee or something, I s-should have been paying m-more attention ..."

          His chains lay perfectly still, and sincerity beamed bright from him-- Barley stammered over his nerves but he was telling the truth.

          He's protecting her honour, came Pearl's murmur, delighted.

          That was one way to look at it, but Phoenix had to be sure: he gripped the magatama tighter, listened hard to where the eretheral tune blurred and echoed to nothing.

          "You're very focused on Cherry, aren't you?"

          That rattled the bounds, turned tumbles in Barley's lock; his tune keened and he nodded.

          "But I-I told you, I can't talk about it yet."

          You're breaking into his heart and soul, Mr. Nick. Do you need to do that?

 

          The secret was plain enough, and no -- it didn't matter how Barley felt, he hadn't seen a thing.  Phoenix sighed.

          "It's all right, I understand." He released the magatama, the darkness and music whispering away.

          Barley sighed relief as his bakery faded back into being, a sheepish smile spreading over him.

          "Y-You can be really intense sometimes, Mr. Wright ...! I-I'm sorry, I really do w-want to help you ... And, Cherry, uhh, I guess s-she doesn't want to talk to you, does she? S-she does that. A-A lot, actually." He wiped his palms on his apron, glancing about. "Uhh ... Oh, maybe her side towels would help?"

          "Side towels?"

          Barley produced a rag -- it was damp, tattered and stain-streaked, hidden in his apron for good reason.

          "These things, t-they're a very important part of the uniform! They're potholders, washcloths, everything, no good chef is caught without a few of them!" He noticed the sad state of his towel, and stuffed it back into his apron, rubbing at his cap. "Goodness ... I-I'm not very good about t-taking care of mine, b-but LaFlamme, s-she changes hers like clockwork!"

 

          Barley hopped to a quick walking pace, headed for the corridor, motioning for Phoenix to follow.

          "I-I don't know what LaFlamme was doing yesterday," he said, fishing a jangling keyring from his apron pocket, "B-but her side towels, if she used them for e-everything she did in the restaurant, then t-they'd tell a story, right? T-They'd show what she was doing yesterday?"

          Why was he asking Phoenix? But it did make enough sense -- evidence of any food Cherry came into contact with, or didn't come into contact with.

         

          They arrived at the locked door Phoenix and Maya had eyed. Barley glanced warily behind them, unlocked the office with shaking hands, and vanished immediately behind the door. A worn couch and rack full of clothes took up most of the space, forcing a corner desk, a metal kitchen chair and a stack of paperwork to huddle in the corner -- maybe Cherry literally ate, breathed and slept her business.

          "H-Here you go."

          Phoenix turned to find Barley examining a handful of side rages, each tie-dyed with stains.

          "Tuesday morning's. She always has a wet towel," he explained, and his voice began straining at a leash, "For spills and s-sticky things and cleaning, and a dry towel, for handling pans out of the oven, and a customer towel for the front, that one has to be clean, s-so it looks good when she's wiping down a table. Uhh, l-let's see, red pepper coulis, she made that yesterday, r-right before the rush, and grease, this ... o-oh, the beef bones, for last night's stock! So this one--" and Barley lifted a towel dappled with creamy brown, "--Must be her customer towel. M-Maybe this is coffee on it ...?"

          Cherry worked at a furious pace -- figuring out her story from some smudged cleaning rags would be a jigsaw puzzle, but better than nothing.

          "Would it be all right if I took all three?" Phoenix asked.

          "Y-Yes, please do!" Barley pressed the towels into Phoenix's grasp -- still faintly damp with who-knew-what -- and wrung his hands. "I-I don't think she'll notice a few gone and ... uhh, I-I hope Cherry didn't do anything-- b-but she might have told me i-if--"

          He swallowed, thought a moment, and turned wide eyes to Phoenix.

          "P-Please don't-- w-what I mean is ... Don't blame her, M-Mr. Wright ...?"

         

          Stuffing the towels into his briefcase, remembering heavy chains and a trapped cat's glare, Phoenix said nothing. It wasn't a promise he could make.

 

 

Chapter 11