Featured Excerpt: Sleep in Heavenly Pizza by Mindy Quigley

Chapter One

Melody Schacht bounced into the kitchen, her springy blond curls accentuated by an enormous reindeer antler headband. The perennially cheery hostess at Delilah & Son, my upscale pizzeria, straightened her headgear as she deposited an armload of used plates into a waiting

bus tub. “Everybody loves the food,” she said. 

The plates she’d brought in from the main party room were practically licked clean. I was too tense to be pleased, though. “What’s with the antlers?” I asked.

“Oh, cripes.” Melody’s hand flew to the headband and plucked it off. “They have a photo backdrop with props. One of the girls asked me to be in a picture ’cuz they needed another reindeer to even the numbers, and then everybody started talking about how much they loved the food, and then I started clearing up the dishes, and I forgot I was still wearing antlers…” She spoke at her usual rapid-fire pace, the blush in her cheeks forming matching circles on her porcelain-doll complexion.

“Keep your eye on the ball, okay? Don’t get distracted.” I lifted a basket of cheese curds from the vat of the deep fryer, setting the sizzling golden nuggets on a wire grate to drain.

Melody hung her head. “Sorry, chef.”

“Lay off her, Dee,” Sonya Perlman-Dokter, my best friend and sous chef, said, moving next to me to plate the freshly fried cheese. She added ramekins of cranberry-orange dipping sauce to the platter. “It’s a party. People are having fun. That’s a good thing.”

“Delilah and Son isn’t some kind of street-corner, dollar-a- slice pie joint,” I countered. “Even with off-site catering, we have standards.”

Part of me knew that my mini-sermon was unnecessary. Sonya and Melody had been with the restaurant since the beginning. Sonya, in fact, was the namesake “Son” of Delilah & Son, and Melody had been the one to come up with the restaurant’s name in the first place. But I couldn’t keep my edginess from bubbling over.

We’d been hired to furnish the nosh at a glitzy late-December Chrismukkah house party, providing a menu that would cater both to guests who were here celebrating the first night of Hanukkah and those who’d be gathering around their Christmas trees the following week. The buffet menu was an eclectic mash-up of the traditional offerings of Hanukkah and standard Christmassy fare, jazzed up with my usual emphasis on high-quality, locally sourced ingredients. In addition to unctuous cheese curds with citrusy-sharp cranberry ketchup, the spread included smoked salmon dip with homemade bagel chips, a tear-and-share Christmas tree–shaped pizza bread, and jelly-filled Hanukkah donuts, called sufganiyot. And, of course, my restaurant’s

signature menu item: deep-dish pizza.

I’d sworn to steer clear of off-site catering gigs after our previous foray ended with me and my entire crew trapped in a mansion with a murderer. But when I got an email telling me I could practically name my price, my misgivings evaporated. With the winter dead season coming, I had no qualms about cashing a check so fat I could practically fry donuts in it.

“I don’t want anything to go wrong,” I said.

“Nothing’s going to go wrong,” Melody replied, balancing platters of food on her arms to carry out to the waiting party guests. “I’m telling you, chef, this party is a hundred percent perfect.”

Sonya winced and simulated spitting three times over her shoulder—a superstition for warding off evil. “Don’t say stuff like that. After what happened the last time we catered a fancy party, are you trying to jinx us? We’ve still got almost an hour to go.”

“That was nuts for sure, but it’s not going to happen again,” Melody said.

I hoped she was right. “Have the hosts said anything about the food?”

“Um, which ones are the hosts?” Melody asked.

“Daffi and Adrian Hoffman. Tall, well-groomed, expensive clothes…” I began.

Sonya turned to me with a wry arch in her perfectly shaped eyebrow. “We’re catering a holiday party at the most expensive property at the most luxurious resort in Geneva Bay. They’re all tall and well-groomed and well-dressed.”

She had a point. Geneva Bay, Wisconsin, was a posh vacation destination with no shortage of good-looking bigwigs. The glamour was further concentrated at tonight’s party location—the Grand Bay Resort. The huge property boasted two golf courses, a man-made ski slope, and a massive Frank Lloyd Wright–inspired lodge. Communities of owner-occupied villas and townhouses dotted the resort’s grounds, and the four-thousand-square-foot home whose kitchen we were working out of tonight was among the largest and best-located of the resort’s private residences.

Melody reached across the counter and picked up a stray cheese curd. She dipped it in the cranberry ketchup and popped it into her mouth. “Mmm. I wish Lutherans had a holiday that revolved around fried food. Hanukkah is awesome.”

“We live in Wisconsin. There’s not exactly a shortage of opportunities to eat fried cheese,” Sonya pointed out.

“Yeah, but it’s not, like, a religious obligation,” Melody said.

“Cheesiness is next to godliness.” Sonya picked up a curd of her own and bit into it. “I’m pretty sure that’s written somewhere in the Books of the Maccabees, and if it’s not, it should be.”

I waved them away, rearranged the ramekins of sauce, and garnished the plate with parsley sprigs. “Stay focused, ladies.”

As Melody opened the kitchen door to leave, Robert “Rabbit” Blakemore, our dishwasher, back-waiter, and all-around kitchen minion, hurried in carrying an empty buffet pan.

“Everything okay out there?” I asked.

Usually, Rabbit and Melody were a yin-yang dynamic duo, with Melody working the front of house and Rabbit in the back. Rabbit, recently paroled after spending the better part of  the previous decade in prison, wasn’t much of a people person, while farm-girl Melody could carry on a two-way conversation with a Pet Rock. Although their personalities and life experiences were in many ways opposite, they both had internal remote controls that were stuck on fast-forward. Tonight, Rabbit was taking that to the extreme, exhibiting a quick-twitch jumpiness that would make an actual rabbit look sluggish.

“Yeah, good. You sure you don’t need me in here, though, chef?” His eyes darted toward the door he’d just come through as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

The first strains of “Winter Wonderland” emanated from the sound system, along with the noise of happily chattering guests and clinking dishware. I didn’t want to jinx it, but it really did sound like a perfect holiday party.

For home-based catering gigs, we typically packed out everything we brought,  dirty dishes and all, leaving the host with little-to-no clean-up, and Rabbit with little to do on-site. “It’s a well-oiled machine back here,” I said.

Sonya raised a freshly fried latke, a look of delight on her face. “Well-oiled! Get it?”

Rabbit, typically one of the few living beings who appreciated Sonya’s dad jokes, couldn’t muster even the slightest hint of a smile.

I shook my head and groaned. Turning back to Rabbit, I said, “What I meant is we’re going to do one more round of the fried stuff so it stays fresh, but we’re starting to wind down. Why don’t you take some gear out to the van?” I suggested. “The snow’s coming down pretty heavy, and it’ll be harder to load if it gets much worse.” Rabbit hopped to, seeming grateful for the chance to escape.

Once he was out of earshot, I turned to Sonya. “Something’s off with him. Do you think he’s upset that I put him out front? I know he doesn’t like being in crowds.”

“I’m not sure it’s that,” Sonya said. “He doesn’t love being front-of-house, but he’s never seemed so on edge about it before. Maybe the holidays are upsetting for him. It’s a hard time of year for a lot of people.”

“True,” I agreed, readying another batch of mulled-spiced sweet potato latkes for the fryer.

“For my family, Hanukkah is a pretty low-stakes holiday—light some candles, eat some latkes, and boom.” Sonya mimed dusting off her hands. “Bob’s your uncle. Well, Avi, or Morrie or Lev’s my uncle, but you get the picture.”

“I’ve resigned myself to crummy Christmases.” I sighed.

“I take it your sister declined your invitation again?” she asked.

“Yeah, they’re busy. As usual,” I said. My only sister, Shea, and her family always seemed to have unbreakable commitments that kept them from traveling for the holidays.

“Do you think it’s because Shea’s husband is Jewish?” Sonya spooned jelly into a squeeze bottle to pipe into a batch of sufganiyot. “You know me, if it’s a party, I’m there.

I have a special outfit just for Festivus parties, and Festivus isn’t even real. But Christmas and Hanukkah don’t have a lot in common, other than the time of year and the lights. Some Jews prefer to steer clear of all the Christmas hoopla.”

“I don’t think that’s it,” I said. “Jonathan’s not all that observant. They served bacon-wrapped shrimp at their wedding reception. Plus, I’ve offered to host a Hanukkah celebration instead, or any combination of Christmas and Hanukkah. Hell, I’d cook a five-course pagan-themed winter solstice banquet and dance naked around a fire circle if it would get them here. Shea just doesn’t want to make the effort.”

My voice wobbled a little, betraying more emotion than I’d intended. I turned my back to Sonya and pretended to check the oven.

At nearly thirty-six years old, I was staring down the barrel of middle age. I wasn’t sure if I’d ever have kids of my own, and I longed for the chance to spend time with my sister’s children. Ten years ago, Shea had married Jonathan, taking an active role in the upbringing of Piper, Jonathan’s daughter from his previous marriage. Then, three years ago, they’d adopted Caleb, when he was a newborn. They were both great kids. Since my mother died when I was twelve, I’d had more than my share of lousy Christmases, and I wanted so badly to make some better family memories.

“The worst part,” I continued, “is that it really hurts Aunt Biz. Besides me, Shea and Shea’s kids are her only living family. The one time Shea deigned to let us host them, Biz went all out. She cooked for days and decorated every inch of her house.”

“How could I forget?” Sonya asked. “It looked like Liberace was staging The Nutcracker in there.”

“Exactly. That was five years ago, before Shea’s youngest was even born. I’m still finding tinsel under her couch cushions,” I said. My octogenarian great-aunt and her tinselly couch had recently moved in with me, as had Melody, who, in addition to being my restaurant’s hostess, also served as Biz’s live-in helper.

“Biz is a totally different person during the holidays,” Sonya observed. “Honestly, knowing her, you’d think she’d be a little Scroogy, but she’s freaking Tiny Tim.”

It was true—the holidays transformed Biz from her usual cagey, curmudgeonly self into someone effusive, overtly loving, and cheerful. But only if everything went according to plan. She needed everyone around her to play their parts, and it seemed that Shea and her family were refusing to even show up for the performance.

“At least this year it’ll be more than just me and Biz,” I said. “Daniel’s mom is visiting from Puerto Rico, and they’re going to come over for Christmas dinner.”

Sonya let out a knowing chuckle. “Well, if Daniel’s going to be there, there’s a decent chance that Melody will show up, too.”

“She did mention something about sticking around ‘in case Biz needed her help,’ ” I replied, adding air quotes. Melody had been pining after Daniel, Delilah & Son’s suave bartender, since the moment she laid eyes on him and rarely missed a chance to bask in his radiance. I had little doubt she’d find her way to the table around dinnertime on Christmas day.

Sonya wiped her hands on her apron and looked around. “Hey, where are Melody and Rabbit? These donuts are ready to go out. Melody said the ones on the buffet are almost gone.”

“I’ll go outside and find Rabbit,” I said. “He should’ve been back by now.” 

I loaded my arms with empty Rubbermaid containers and made my way out the side door. As soon as I opened it, I was hit with a shivery blast of air that contrasted sharply with the cozy warmth of the kitchen. The snow fell around me in large, feathery flakes. I’d lived in the Midwest long enough to know that the slow, zigzagging descent of this kind of snow belied how

quickly it could accumulate. It had only kicked off an hour or so earlier, but already our rented catering van was frosted with an inch-thick layer of the stuff.

I slid the containers into the back of the van and then scanned the surroundings. The night had the otherworldly, pinkish brightness of snowy skies. Further illumination came in the form of the elongated, yellow rectangles of the house’s windows. Sound spilled out as well. I could just make out the tinkly strains of Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas” over the guests’ chatter and laughter. But Rabbit was nowhere to be seen. He was a smoker, and given how on edge he’d been all night, I wondered if he’d ducked into a corner to sooth his nerves with nicotine. But in this weather, in the middle of service, surely he would’ve raced through his cigarette double-quick and hurried back inside?

I was casting my eye over the house for the likeliest hideaway when something stopped me in my tracks. Namely, somebody else’s tracks—two sets printed into the snow. One set originated from the kitchen door. The feet had scuffed the snow around the van—clearly made by Rabbit’s Crocs. The practical, water-resistant clogs were a favorite of professional dishwashers, and Rabbit was no exception. Not the warmest choice for a snowy December day, but Rabbit was a Wisconsin native, and for him, real winter didn’t set in until the lakes were frozen enough for ice fishing.

The other set of footprints, though, had me mystified. These came from around the side of the house and intersected with Rabbit’s. Someone had come out, encountered Rabbit, and then the two had headed off together. I looked more closely. A delicately tapering triangular sole, with a little needlepoint of a heel. Who was traipsing through the snow in stilettos, and why would Rabbit go with them?

As I followed the tracks to the back of the large house, away from the noise of the party, the muffled crunch of my own footprints gradually became the only sound. No doubt there was a simple explanation for Rabbit going off with a random high-heeled partygoer. The possibility of a tryst flickered across my mind. I adored Rabbit, but had a hard time imagining which stiletto-wearing millionaire’s taste ran to wiry, weathered ex-cons who lived with their mothers and washed dishes for a living. Maybe a drunk guest had wandered out into the snow and Rabbit was guiding her back inside? But then why not go through the front door, which was no more than twenty feet from where the van was parked? Or, if discretion was required for some reason, why not enter via the kitchen door, directly next to the van? If the guest needed help, wouldn’t Rabbit have come inside and alerted me and Sonya?

The trail ended at the house’s rear door—not the large glass French doors that opened from the patio into the party room, but another, more utilitarian entrance, shielded by a small phalanx of evergreens. An exterior light was on, spotlighting the falling snow. I looked side to side. Even though I had every right to be in the house, as I entered and then closed the door behind me, I felt like a burglar. This part of the house was dim and quiet, the sounds of the party audible only as the subdued thumping of music through the walls. I found myself at the base of a back staircase. Wet footprints marked the way up. I thought briefly of turning back. Rabbit was entitled to his private life. But a person would have to be almost pathologically incurious not to want to find out what was going on. Besides, I told myself, when my employees were on the clock, their business was, quite literally, my business.

I reached the second floor. Ahead of me was a short hallway, where a single door on one side stood ajar. I peeked inside to find a large storage closet stacked with cleaning and household supplies. Straight ahead was another door, this one closed. The footprints had become less obvious, but I could still make out the damp shapes of feet leading that way. 

I opened the door cautiously. Another longer and wider hallway opened before me, with two closed doors on each side. Beyond was a walkway, open to the room underneath. From here, the light and sound of the party surrounded me in full effect. As I came into the hallway, I almost ran smack into a young woman who stood next to the nearest door. She faced away, leaning in so that the mass of coppery curls on her head grazed the wooden doorframe. Eavesdropping?

Startled by my presence, she spun toward me. She wore a low-cut white dress, only a shade or two lighter than her pale complexion. A mottled blotch of livid pink crept from the top of her cleavage to her neck, melding with her abundant freckles. Her dark eyes, fiery with anger, met mine, and for a brief, strange moment, I thought she was going to punch me. Clutching a plate of half-eaten hors d’oeuvres, she pushed past me, not bothering to cover her anger with pleasantries. Her steps didn’t skip a beat as she marched down the hall I’d come from, not even when she threw her plate against the wall and sent the shrapnel of my carefully crafted menu flying in every direction, smashing it all to kingdom come.

Read our “Cooking the Books” review of Sleep in Heavenly Pizza