FROZEN IN PARADISE (EBOOK)

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FROZEN IN PARADISE
Chapter 1

Harriet Monroe, Public Relations Director for the Island Resort, chided herself for losing track of the time. She was scheduled to meet with the resort’s world famous chef Simon Fritola . . . ten minutes ago.

“Crap, crap, crap.”

She groaned and began to jog slowly along the pink crushed shell road that connected the south end of the island to the north end. It figured that on a day when she needed one of the resort’s golf carts that were found everywhere for anyone’s use there wasn’t a single one in sight.

Harriet ran nearly every day on the beach after work but trying to run in a skirt and moderately heeled sandals was far more difficult and just wrong.
She slowed back down to a walk. There was no point in arriving all hot and sweaty and disheveled. Mr. Fritola would not appreciate it. She had called him and apologized for running late and hoped his scowl was for something happening in the kitchen and not directed at her personally.

Despite feeling stressed over her late start Harriet couldn’t resist taking the time to appreciate the beauty of the tropical island. She’d arrived three months before and still marveled over how different it was from her native New England.

Sugar fine white sand separated the road from the sun-speckled turquoise water on her left. Lush jungle plants filled with colorful birds, lizards, and insects bordered the road on her right. Large, exotic blossoms perfumed the air and coconut palms soared overhead.

The gentle whoosh of waves lapping the shore accompanied a symphony of birdsong. It made her smile to realize that she could pick out a few individual tunes.

She approached her office but didn’t stop, skirting around the pale stone building to the kitchen building behind it. All of the buildings on the resort were built from the same pale limestone and ranged in color from white to soft yellow.

Every building on the island was also built to withstand a Category Five tropical storm. Easily replaced thatching disguised solid concrete roofs that made the buildings strong as bunkers.

No expense had been spared in constructing the resort by its owner Douglas Wade, the wealthiest man on the planet. Wade was also a recluse. Harriet hoped to meet him one day to thank him for hiring her and for all he’d done for her since.

She pulled open a wide, carved wooden door and entered the kitchen building’s small courtyard. Open to the sky, the unusual entry held a round, dark stone fountain with three bronze dolphins arcing out of the top. Water spouted from the creatures’ mouths, cascading down several tiered catch-basins. Small peach and green plumed lovebirds flitted in the fountain’s middle tier, picking up tiny insects with soft chitters.

Large, perfumed, tropical flowers in brilliant reds, pinks, and yellows grew around the courtyard’s edges and three palm trees stretched far above the roof edge. There were several seating areas with cane chairs and small round glass tables for the kitchen staff’s breaks. To Harriet’s eyes the peaceful courtyard looked like a small zen garden.

While the Island Resort provided over the top luxury for its guests, it hadn’t neglected the staff who looked after those guests and made sure the place ran smoothly. The staff housing was well above average and working conditions were enviable. She felt incredibly blessed to be working there.

Remembering how late she was, Harriet hurried across the courtyard and through a door opposite the entrance. A short, functional, white-tiled corridor led her to the resort’s largest kitchen–the strictly-run domain of Chef Fritola.

She found the world renowned chef standing in the center of the spotless white tiled room with his arms crossed over his chest, scowling at everyone. Tall and portly, the famous chef wore his silver streaked black hair slicked back into a ponytail. His dark brown eyes darted everywhere and missed nothing.
Chef was master and commander of his domain and his loud baritone voice made sure everyone within shouting distance knew it. Harriet had been thoroughly intimidated by the chef the two times they’d met in person.

She sucked in a deep breath and squared her shoulders now as she prepared to confront him for the third time.

“Third time’s a charm,” she whispered. The man had no power over her, she reminded herself. She had no reason to fear him. They were equals in the resort’s employee hierarchy.

Dozens of droids and humans, all dressed in resort-blue double breasted chef coats and toques, worked at the three long rows of stainless tables that dominated the center of the kitchen. Some chopped vegetables on large wooden cutting boards, some fed freshly made doughs through pasta machines.

In an alcove off to one side a man wrapped in a bloody apron butchered a large meaty leg Harriet couldn’t identify on a thick wooden slab. The sight made her feel slightly nauseated and she focused on the droids washing leafy greens at the food only sinks instead.

The room smelled of yeast and fresh herbs and roasting meat and blood.

A row of industrial dishwashers and several more sinks big and deep enough to hold a large adult man sat against the wall to Harriet’s left. One long wall held a row of eight burner gas stoves, six double stacked built-in ovens, and several charcoal grill tops. Two pair of huge stainless doors on the fourth wall lead to the industrial chillers.

An old-fashioned wood-fired oven took up one corner. Wood fired ovens were rare, found only in exclusive restaurants that could charge enough to cover the cost of the wood fuel since cutting trees for firewood was prohibited worldwide. The wood fired pizza made here had quickly become one of Harriet’s favorite meals.

Several chefs dressed in head chef whites stood before the stoves or barked out orders to the blue-coated staff working at the prep tables.

To Harriet the scene looked chaotic, but she knew that the flashing knives, leaping flames, and abundance of activity was actually a finely choreographed dance orchestrated by Chef Fritola. Chef would accept nothing less. She stepped into the fray and approached the regal ruler of all she saw.

“Chef. I apologize again for keeping you waiting.”

Chef Fritola turned his scowl her way. “I don’t have time to waste, Ms. Monroe. As you can see I am a very busy man. My constant attention is needed to ensure that every morsel that leaves my kitchen is perfect.”

Harriet looked around the kitchen. The staff was hopping, it was true. But Chef was doing little more than standing around and terrifying his crew as far as she could tell.

“Of course, Chef.” There was no point in arguing. She needed to maintain a civil relationship with the man since she had several publicity ideas for the resort that involved the restaurants.

“This shouldn’t take up much of your time,” she continued. “I simply want to verify that the ice sculptures for the Pelookie anniversary dinner are correct.” She saw Fritola stiffen and knew she’d said the wrong thing. Damn temperamental chefs anyway!

“I’m sure they’re superb, Chef,” she added quickly. “I expect nothing less from you, but I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t check on them myself. You understand, surely. I’m sure you are the same way with everything that leaves your kitchen.”

The chef looked mollified and Harriet breathed a sigh of relief. Coddling temperamental co-workers was not one of her strong suits.

She followed Chef to the left set of stainless chiller doors. He punched in a code which she knew meant that the freezer hadn’t been opened yet that morning. The set of doors to the huge walk-in refrigerator were in constant use, but no one had needed anything from the freezer.

That was a good thing as far as Harriet was concerned. The four large ice sculptures for the Pelookie party were fragile and had taken nearly a week for Chef to make. If one was damaged there was no time left to replace it. The Pelookie anniversary party was scheduled for that evening.

One hundred family members and close friends had descended on the resort for a week-long celebration culminating with tonight’s party. Many of the resort’s staff would be happy to see them go. The Pelookies had a tendency to be demanding and autocratic.

An icy blast of air hit Harriet as the chef opened the door, making her shiver. She should have thought to grab a sweater or a jacket, she thought ruefully. Her silk suit that was perfect for the island’s mild temperatures offered little protection against the sub-zero temps of the industrial freezer.

A row of LED lights set in the center of the freezer’s ceiling snapped on when the door opened, lighting a ghostly fog that formed as soon as the cold air met the warm, moist air of the kitchen.

Stainless steel shelving lined the walls to the left and right. The shelves were filled with plastic containers and boxes, contents unknown to Harriet. The air had a slightly stale, chemical odor to it.

Chef Fritola moved deeper into the freezer with Harriet right behind him. She crossed her arms over her chest, hoping to retain some of her body heat. Damn, it was cold.

“You’ll see that I did a superb job on the ice sculptures, Ms. Monroe.”

“Call me Harry, please, Chef. Everyone else does.” Not realizing that he’d stopped, she bumped into Chef’s back.

“Sorry, Chef. I wasn’t watching where I was going.”
A strangled sound came from the man in front of her.

“Chef? Are you all right?”

Chef turned around and grabbed Harriet’s arms. His mouth gaped open and his eyes were wide. “It’s-it’s–”

“Chef?” Harriet pulled her arms free and stepped around the chef’s large body to see what had upset him. Had someone broken one of the ice sculptures?

“Oh no. No, no, no.” Harriet shook her head as she reached into her knapsack with trembling hands for her link. It didn’t work inside the freezer so she hurried back into the kitchen and jabbed number two on her autodial.

“Alex? I think you’d better come over to the kitchens right away.”

Harriet turned to look inside the freezer again.
“Come as soon as you can. There’s a body in the freezer.”