“It would’ve been perfect,” said Flammé. “But when I cut into it, instead of creating a starry night, it stunned the judges, turning them stiff as these fish.”
Sylvie knew, in cooking, sometimes all it took was one missing ingredient for a dish to go from spectacular to disaster.
Flammé dug out a plastic container. She pointed to the red tape on the lid. “This is your team’s color.”
Sylvie now noticed that her mother’s chef’s coat was red, whereas Josephine’s was blue.
“Mrs. Jones. Can you explain how your team’s tape ended up in Team France’s kitchen?” asked the tiny man seated in the middle. His hawkish eyes darted between the two women, as if searching for some hidden piece of proof.
“I … I don’t know, Monsieur Treusso.”
“BOOO!” chanted the rowdy French crowd.
Abby got that little crinkle between her brows, like she did whenever she tried to work her way out of an uncomfortable situation. “Check my Blade!” Her mom pulled out her eight-inch polished Santoku knife. “You’ll see. I didn’t do anything to her recipe.”
A low murmur erupted.
Monsieur Treusso leaned forward, eyeing the knife as if it were an overcooked piece of meat. “I may be the head of the Council of Culinary Sages, but I can’t check your Blade, at least not this time. The container with Mademoiselle Flammé’s gilead buds was simply swapped with butcher’s-broom … so there’s no spell to trace.”
“Coupable!” the French spectators cried.
Sylvie wasn’t exactly sure of the meaning, but it didn’t seem good. Once again, Balthazar tried to quiet them, to no avail.
“The tape from your team’s kitchen is circumstantial evidence at best,” continued Monsieur Treusso, “but the butcher’s-broom—it was the key ingredient in Team USA’s spell. No other team had access to it.”
Josephine gave a satisfied nod.
Sylvie searched her mother’s face for a clue. A twitch of a smile. A flicker of fear. But there was nothing. She simply looked as if a ship had carried her off into a stormy sea.
“Wait!” A young man in a red chef’s coat hustled forward. “This is my fault.”
Sylvie blinked. She’d seen pictures of this guy. His belly was smaller here, but the bulbous brown eyes were unmistakable.It’s Boris Bergen. My mom’s old teammate.
Boris turned to the judges. “I picked up our supplies. But when I was heading back to the competition floor, I sort of spilled the ingredients. We still had enough butcher’s-broom for our recipe. So, I didn’t think I needed to mention it. I’m sorry.”
Sylvie’s mom gave Boris’s arm a pat. “It’s not your fault.”
“This certainly sheds new light on the situation,” said Madame Godard. She no longer had the look of a lobster about to be tossed into boiling water. “Anyone could’ve picked up the butcher’s-broom and swapped it for the gilead buds.”
“Of course you’d say that,” said one of the portly female judges. She tightened the green scarf around the collar of her purple blouse, looking very much like an eggplant. “Because your American team will benefit from having Team France out of the way.”
“Team France was the favorite to win,” Godard said calmly. “So, I’d say all teams would benefit from France’s failure. The question now is, what do we do? Do we punish someone who claims they’re innocent?”
“We must put it to a vote,” said Balthazar.
The crowd let out a united gasp.
Sylvie knew how it all ended. Agnes had told her.Balthazar LeGrande threw his son’s team under the bus.Yet Sylvie still found herself holding her breath, waiting to see what would happen next.
Balthazar leaned into his microphone. “Would France’s lead assistant and the commis for both teams step forward?”
A young girl with mousy brown hair scuttled out of the shadows. “I am the commis for France.” She fiddled with her apron as she shifted her weight from side to side.
“Commis for Team USA. Go USA!” said a young boy with a heavy French accent. His brown eyes twinkled as he smiled at the judges.
Even though he was younger, and not yet wearing the signature eye patch that had earned him the nickname “Culinary Pirate,” Sylvie instantly recognized him.Guy Fabre.
“Je suis ici!”Someone new raced forward. His voice was soft as pelting rain. He reminded Sylvie of a young giraffe. Long. Lean. Still unsure of his footing.
