Luna City Behind the 8 Ball: Chronicles of Luna City, #8

By Celia Hayes

Welcome to Luna City, Karnes County, Texas ... population 2,456, give or take. Fugitive former celebrity chef Richard Astor-Hall is beset with new travails in his attempt to build a new life in tiny Luna City: an old girlfriend turns up as the bride at a lavish society wedding, the original family of his pet cat and cooking partner, Captain Kitten in the Kitchen, turn up and demand that the cat be returned to them ... and his junior staff want to enter a chili-cooking contest. And then there is the matter of the long-lost artistic treasure, the Gonzaga Reliquary, which may still be hidden somewhere around the old Gonzalez fmaily home ranch! Folklore, home folks and gentle comedy abound in this eighth visit to the most perfect small town in Texas!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Celia Hayes
• Release date: Jul 17, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393891321

Celia Hayes

Celia Hayes works as a restorer and lives in Naples. Between one restoration and another, she loves to write. Don't Marry Thomas Clark reached #1 in the Amazon Italian Ebook chart.

Book preview

Luna City Town Square

Cast of Characters

(An asterisk marks those who are deceased)

Brief Encounters

Rich! the willowy blonde woman in a superbly-cut ivory satin gown exclaimed, in delight. You’re here! A little bird told me that you would be – and there you are!

Richard nearly jumped from his own skin – all too familiar, that voice, adorned with the plummy accents of an expensively-educated woman from the Home Counties. He turned, just barely able to affect an expression of mild puzzlement; a veil behind which he was thinking furiously. Samantha. Samantha Colquhoun, the former Page-3 girl now better known as Sammi, famous for being famous, presently famous for being the latest in a long string of Mrs. Collin Wylers. One of Rich’s own and most notorious ... companions. Live-in lovers. Regular escorts. Whatever the current euphemism was. Of one thing he desired more in the world, it was to never, ever encounter her again, in any guise and name.

Que? he stammered, recalling in a rush Araceli’s suggestion that he pretend to be ... no, not Manuel from Barcelona, but ... yes, that was it. Ricardo from Jalisco, and ... "No habla Ingles... he offered, seeing the faint flicker of doubt cloud Sammi’s perfectly made-up countenance. Almost there! He searched his mind for any phrases in Spanish he might throw into the mix. Limpie sus pies...Levántate y brilla!" he gabbled. Yes, that should do the trick; commanding mottoes worked into those little wool work-rugs created by Abuelita Adeliza, the doyenne and ultimate ruler of the whole entwined network of Gonzalezes and Gonzaleses in Luna City. If Abuelita’s queenly power had any juice at all...

Sammi’s perfect, pale and heart-shaped face was clouded with doubt.

But you’re not Rich? she ventured. Richard shrugged elaborately.

"Que? he replied again, hoping that a) he wasn’t overdoing it, and b) that Sammi did not retain any memory of watching Fawlty Towers, even if she had appeared once on the series as a guest with three lines of dialog. Levántate y brilla! The strains of a Lehar waltz drifted in from the ballroom, accompanied by laughter, and the gentle clinking of expensive crystal and silverware. It sounded as if the dancing was well underway. Behind Richard, another door – the door into the kitchen – opened and closed with an almost silent pneumatic breath. To his enormous unspoken relief, Araceli appeared, almost silent in her thick-soled trainers. He shook his head, shrugged again, and repeated, Limpie sues pies..."

Sammi’s gaze went from Richard, to his assistant chef and sometime Café manager – who, bless her, was insanely quick on the uptake.

Chef, te buscan en la cocina! Araceli commanded, adding in deliberately slow, carefully enunciated English. They need you in the kitchen, Chef.

Gracias, Richard mumbled, thereby completely exhausting his Spanish vocabulary, as Araceli assumed command of the situation.

He’s from Jalisco; he doesn’t understand much English, she added, by way of apology to Sammi. Just enough to cook. Good thing that we all ‘round here speak Spanish anyway. Is there something I can help you with, Mrs. Wyler? Is everything OK out front?

Yes, Sammi still sounded theatrically baffled. She lifted a manicured hand to her expertly Botoxed and un-furrowed brow, brushing back a wisp of blond hair, which had been quite content, thank you, to languish where it had been combed back into a perfect Grace Kelly knot under a pearl and platinum tiara. But ... he looks so like an old chum of mine, at a distance. From England, you know. I was so certain...

No, this is Ricardo from Jalisco, Araceli replied, giving Richard a surreptitious nudge from her sharp and expert elbow. Been with us for ... I don’t know how many years now. And he’s never learned much English. Seriously, we think he must be a bit retarded, or something but he’s a darned good pastry cook. The cinnamon rolls of his at the Café are to die for. Seriously. Araceli shot a barbed look at Richard, who gratefully took the hint, although not going so far as to tug, serf-like, at his nonexistent forelock; a mere deferential nod sufficed before he set his steps kitchenwards. Although as he did so, he overheard Araceli ask, with a gratifying show of customer-relations concern,

Is everything satisfactory, Mrs. Wyler? The Cattleman reopened officially just this afternoon, and this is our first big event in this venue. You should let us know about any problems you have seen – if we can’t fix it tonight, at least we can take note for the next wedding...

No, Richard heard over his shoulder, as Sammi sighed in rapture. It’s all been perfect, the loveliest wedding dream come to life that I have ever had. Our cake was a marvel – so much what my ... friend would have done for me. I so believed that it was his secret gift. We broke up – under the most tragic of circumstances – but we are still perfect good friends, you know!

Our catering team does excellent work, Araceli replied, and then the door to the kitchen closed behind Richard. He heaved a sigh of profound relief, leaning his back upon the doorjamb.

God, that had been a close one, he thought, and then; Do I really look that different now, that Sammi could be convinced I was Ricardo from Jalisco? Well, she was always as thick as a plank, and nearsighted as well, but you’d think that she wouldn’t have been fooled so readily, when it came to a man she had been intimate with on every level for two years and some... Do I really look that different?

A moment later, Araceli burst through the kitchen door, exclaiming, Whew – that was a close one, Chef! Aren’t you glad that I thought of the Ricardo-from-Jalisco dodge! What were the chances that she would catch you, coming out of the men’s restroom! Though, I think she bought it, hook, line and sinker.

Alas, Miss Colquhoun-that-was, was never known for the power of her intellect, Richard admitted. In fact, rather the reverse.

Araceli barked a short laugh. "Beats me what you ever saw in that puta, Ricardo; you’re a smart man. From what Abuelita says, she had her claws into you real good – guys, you think with your ..."

Sammi had amazing skills in other ways, Richard answered, annoyed at this late date over how devotedly Abuelita Adeliza had followed his once-magnificent career as an international celebrity chef. And you just now termed me as ‘a bit retarded’! Pray, what is the merit in that bit of calumny?

"You had just told her, in Spanish, to ‘wipe her feet,’ Araceli replied.

You have a point ... set and match, Richard yielded ungracefully. Do I really look that different now, from when I was on all those ghastly cooking shows?

Araceli shot him another one of those basilisk-looks. You do, at that, Chef. You’re thinner, and fit as all get-out, from riding that bicycle back and forth. Clean-shaven, rather than that designer stubble – I swear, it made you look like the cover of a romance novel. And tanned – about as dark as Patrick, instead of looking like sunshine would make you curl up and burst into flames like a vampire. You look like a whole different person. Not Rich Hall anymore – just Ricardo. You’re much better off here, Chef. And much better off with Katie. Is it OK if we let the staff have dinner, now that the wedding cake has been plated and sent out?

Yeah, perfect, Richard agreed – and yes, now that it was mid-evening, and all was done but the final run-through of the small dessert plates upon which the magnificent five-tiered wedding cake had been served – his staff could settle down to their own meal. The back-stage offices of the Cattleman included a spartan room suitable for a staff dining-space, or conference room; two long tables with lots of chairs, all depressingly modern, in contrast to the Belle Epoque splendors on display at the front of the house. Still – gratitude was owed, and he brought it all to bear, when he said, Thank you, Araceli – all this couldn’t have been possible without your help.

I’ll add that to my bill, Araceli replied.

No, he could never get the last word with her.

The kitchen was calming down; only the one pearl-diver on staff was still at work, processing the last of dinner plates and wine glasses, and a full tray of small dessert plates, adorned with the crumbs and frosting from the grand wedding cake. Richard helped himself to a smidge of beef tornedos Rossini, a few boiled baby potatoes, crab mousse, and some salad, and carried his plate into the staff room, where he found – to his mild astonishment – Lew Dubois, tucking into his own supper with considerable gusto.

The chief local manager of Mills Farm, and one of the managing directors of the parent company, clad in formal black evening gear and splendidly-knotted black silk necktie, was notorious for turning up in working gear and turning his hand to any task going, generally the grubbier and more menial the better. An experienced manager of VPI’s various high-end international resort properties, Lew was single-handedly responsible for the miraculous renovation and revival of the Cattleman Hotel. This was the man who was also responsible for Mills Farm not turning into some ghastly modern water-park at the bidding of the multinational corporation who was the second (or possibly the third-biggest) land-owner and employer in the area. It was only expected that he would now eating with the behind-the-scenes restaurant staff. Richard had to hand it to him; the man knew how to lead from the front, his craggy-late-middle-aged countenance at decided odds with the elegance of his evening attire.

H’lo, Lew, Richard said, as he set his own plate down at the next place at the unadorned utility table. I take it that everything is going well? My old ex-girlfriend, the bride – she is content? She spoke with Araceli just now, and says that everything was lovely, a wedding dream come true. You have heard nothing otherwise? From Mr. Wyler, or Mr. McNamara?

No, cher Richard, Lew replied, a-beam with contentment. The arrangements for the ballroom were of the perfection that my dear wife and I require of our staff to achieve, new as many of them are to this place. The supper ... sublime. Not even in France – our beautiful France – could this splendid meal of yours be equaled! Your skills in the kitchen have not rusticated in the slightest. For that we are grateful.

I have my brief moments, Richard mumbled, feeling the usual English embarrassment at being fulsomely complimented. He regarded his plate – yes, his staff at the Café had outdone themselves, in the manner which he had come to expect. Obviously, Lew had come to expect the same. Everything perfect; perfectly seasoned, perfectly cooked, expertly and