The Last White Truffle: A Jennifer Pope Mystery, #1

By K.P. Kennedy

Revel in the light-heartede mystery romance and follow Jennifer Pope as she tries to solve murder at Monroe Manor.

Jennifer Pope's life was predictable and, at times, restless. Being a smart, attractive, accomplished woman at the age of 32, she thought she had everything planned out. What she didn't expect was that her well-designed life at Monroe Manor is about to be interrupted, as she discovers her old flame and executive chef has been murdered.
 

As Chief of Staff, she feels responsible. Now determined to find the killer, she teams up with San Francisco Inspector Abigail Trent to uncover the mystery that led to murder. But when a colleague and close friend, Matt Stewart, joins Jennifer on her crusade, things are about to get a bit steamy.

Will Jennifer manage to solve the murder? Will the spark between her and Matt turn into flame? Follow Jennifer as the mysterious events unravel, and her life is changed forever in this light-hearted romantic mystery filled with twists and turns.

The Last White Truffle is a delectable and page-turning mystery romance that will shock you, surprise you, keep you on your toes and leave you yearning for more.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Collins Roche Press
• Release date: Sep 4, 2021
• ISBN: 9781737087212

Book preview

Chapter 1: Jennifer

In less than seventy-two hours, the world as Jennifer Pope knew it would be rocked off its axis, and Monroe Manor would never seem quite the same again.

The Independence Day Gala, which had happened every year for the last twenty-eight, depended on clear skies. But standing out on the gray cement balcony of her town house, all Jennifer could detect was the smell of imminent rain, followed by a flash of lightning and a clap of thunder. Fog had even started to roll in, and puffy white masses that resembled a mix between the Pillsbury Doughboy and the Michelin Man took over the July sky. Jennifer was fairly confident they were what meteorologists referred to as cumulus clouds, and she prayed they were not a sign of inclement weather for the weekend. It just couldn’t happen.

The planned fireworks extravaganza could still go on if it rained, but the bigger dilemma was how eight hundred guests at Monroe Manor would watch it and stay dry at the same time. The rotunda in the Versailles Ballroom was set to open precisely at ten thirty p.m., so every single guest would technically have front-row seats as they gazed up at the exquisite spectacle lighting up the night sky.

Jennifer’s boss had made it quite clear that the board of directors was expecting—no, demanding—absolute perfection at this year’s gala if she desired the coveted promotion to vice president. Jennifer closed her eyes and sat down on the balcony in the Cobbler’s yoga pose and took a cleansing breath while murmuring, "Flawless evening, perfection. Flawless evening, perfection." Tiny drops of rain sprinkled the deck all around her. Yoga on the balcony was over. Before moving inside, she changed her mantra to a quick prayer to St. Jude, patron saint of the impossible. And promised she would find time to stop at St. Gabriel’s on her way home to drop off a few dollars in the poor box to seal the deal.

Her prayers were interrupted when her phone chirped, and she read the text from her assistant, Rachel: Chef having meltdown.

Jennifer changed out of her yoga clothes and drove to the Manor, settling in at her desk shortly before eight a.m. She fired up her computer and said good morning to the girls gathered around Rachel’s desk viewing the latest fashion trends on the Kate Spade website.

She did a quick run-through of her email inbox and was happy to note no new emergencies had popped up. She looked at her watch and figured she could take five minutes to open the package someone had left on her desk. Inside was a beautiful crystal bowl along with a thank-you note from the mother of the bride from a wedding she’d organized two weeks prior. How cool, she thought, that’s such a nice touch.

Next, Jennifer jumped into a golf cart, drove over to the master kitchen, and headed for Chef Robert’s office. At the opposite end of the kitchen was the bullpen where Chloe Dawson, administrative assistant to Chef Robert and his minions, sat.

Morning, Chloe, Jennifer said. Thought I would stop by as I heard there was a bit of an upset early this morning. Everything okay now?

Chloe laughed out loud. Chef was in a snit over some missing truffles.

I believe he refers to them as his ‘prize possession,’ Jennifer scoffed. 

You know he keeps them under lock and key in a glass jar in that little refrigerator in his office. He wants to be the only one to dole them out in the kitchen, Chloe said.

Yes, I heard that too. Guess they’re a bit expensive.

Like, two thousand dollars a pound, I was told. Chloe rolled her eyes.

Jennifer paused. So maybe there is some justification for his tantrum this morning.

He was told that today was his last truffle purchase for at least a year, and I think that sent him over the edge. Chloe turned her back and pulled out the invoice from her printer and handed it to Jennifer.

She looked at it and saw the bright red PAID stamped across the invoice. How odd. He’s famous for his dishes with truffles. Why take them away from him? Jennifer said.

Rumor has it that someone high up in the company made cuts to his food budget when they were slashing dollars to finance Chef’s kitchen renovation, Chloe said.

That explains it. No wonder he’s in a snit.

Chloe surveyed her immediate area in the kitchen, checking that no one else was around. She leaned in toward Jennifer. Lately, he’s been zero tolerance about any change in the kitchen, and he always ends up having a tantrum. He goes berserk, Jennifer. Earlier this morning, he threw an entire pot of marinara sauce—only, it hit one of the dishwashers and burned his arm. Course, Alexi never said a word to anyone and just cleaned it all up. Come to think of it, it happened right after Tom left Chef’s office.

Jennifer nodded her head. Tom Stone from finance?

Yes. Chef gets a little crazy sometimes, Jennifer, really scary.

I hear you. Think it’s time to address his outbursts once and for all. Talk to you later.

And, Jennifer, please don’t ever let Chef and his cronies know I implied it’s anything but heaven to work here in his kitchen. Otherwise, those guys will make my life a living hell. 

My lips are sealed. She swiftly moved her fingers across her lips in a zipping motion and smiled.

Jennifer meandered her way through the kitchen and noticed the incredible amount of activity. The crew was busy preparing appetizers and side dishes for a wedding the Friday before the gala. Staff were focused, heads down busy at work, bodies rhythmically moving back and forth in time with the music blasting from the CD player.

She passed the refrigerator section, turned the corner, and headed toward Chef’s office. As she got close, she heard shouts coming from inside about missing truffles and filet mignon, so she continued to walk straight ahead as if that had been her intention. The blinds to his office were closed halfway, but out of the corner of her eye, she could see a visitor dressed in a white coat and wearing a black baseball cap with the company logo on it. 

She made a quick circle of a few of the changing rooms, which were mostly used by brides before wedding receptions, then spoke with members of the banquet staff, stalling for time. She returned to the kitchen and saw Alexi Petrov over by the deep sinks with his right arm wrapped in layers of gauze from his wrist to his elbow.

Alexi, you got a minute?

Yes, ma’am, what’s up? He squinted his eyes, turned sideways to Jennifer, and dropped the blackened pot back in the sink.

I heard there was a problem this morning and you burned your arm. Want to talk about it?

Nothing to say. His head twitched to the left, and he scrunched up his mouth. A minor burn from a pot of sauce, nothing more.

Rumor has it that Chef threw the pot at you.

Alexi stepped back a bit and stared directly at Jennifer, raising his eyebrows. No. He threw the pot against the wall, and some sauce splashed back on me and Chef. It was an accident, and nothing more.

Okay. Thanks for clearing that up.

Jennifer saw Chef’s office door was now fully open. She headed back over, then knocked quickly and poked her head inside.

Chef Robert looked up and smiled when he saw Jennifer.

Bobby, how’s your morning going? Jennifer asked.

Look who’s here, my best neophyte cook. He chuckled.

You wound me, sir. I think of myself as intermediate, at least, after all your culinary tutoring, she teased back.

Bite? He held up a spoonful of glop toward her face. The smell alone was off-putting.

Good Lord, what is it? She reeled backward from the smell.

Haggis.

I thought it was banned in the US years ago.

Right, you can’t import it from Scotland. That’s not to say you can’t make it on your own. Chef friend of mine makes it once a year on his wedding anniversary. Robert picked up papers on his desk and started opening all his drawers, one by one.

I’ll pass. I tried stopping by earlier, but I heard arguing. Is everything okay with you? Jennifer picked up the stapler off his desk and handed it to him.

He laughed. I forgot you could read my mind. Anyway, everything is fine. Just a little misunderstanding. I’m handling it, he said, wadding up a piece of paper and tossing it into the wastebasket as if he were an NBA star shooting hoops. He missed.

Okay, but HR is here to help if you need advice. Olivia can even handle matters without your presence, if that makes you feel more comfortable. And, of course, you can always count on me if you need to vent.

I get it and appreciate that, but it’s really unnecessary. I can handle this on my own.

I heard they eliminated your famous truffle dishes from the menu. What’s going on?

Ask your friend Matt. Tom, that penny-pinching account man, cut the expenditure, so today was my last order. My truffle chive fettuccine is a draw, and we all know it. He paused and narrowed his eyes. Don’t fool yourself into thinking people won’t notice the change on the menu. It’s embarrassing, and I’m really pissed about it, he said as he threw a wad of menus with large red X’s across them on top of the credenza behind him.

I can tell you’re pissed. Sorry.

We just won our second Michelin star, so now’s not the time to go cheap on me. And that frickin’ idiot told your boyfriend we could save over a hundred thousand dollars annually by eliminating the truffles. Robert drummed his index finger on his desk with every word he spoke. 

Matt is not my boyfriend, and you know it, so don’t start, she warned.

Matt Stewart was the VP of operations at Monroe Manor and a close friend to Jennifer. They had formed a good working relationship on many projects at the Manor. But their close personal friendship was sealed when the two of them collaborated twenty-four seven for six days straight on setting up the strategy and promotional efforts to win another Michelin star. They worked seamlessly together day and night; she had become the yin to his yang.

Hit a nerve, did I? My apologies, Robert teased. He stroked his beard and put on his black framed glasses.

Not at all. And that’s megabucks for mushrooms, I might add.

Pocket change. And don’t call them mushrooms, Jennifer, your ignorance is showing, he said, squinting his eyes and nodding his head thoughtfully.

What I don’t understand is, why are they so expensive?

Mainly because they are so hard to locate. White truffles are predominantly found in Italy, Chef said.

And pigs sniff them out, right?

Some places, yes. But more likely, they use specially trained dogs now, as they don’t try to eat the truffles the way pigs do.

Okay, I get it, but how does that drive up the price so much?

Simple as the fact they are scarce to find and a delicacy. Some experts even say truffles have a reputation as an aphrodisiac. But, bottom line, they just taste so fucking good.

You’re right, they do. Jennifer let out a big laugh, putting her hand in front of her mouth, an old habit from her teen years.

I always did love your laugh. You laugh and then a little giggle smoothly slides down your throat, all the way to your pretty painted toes, he said.

Jennifer smiled, and a slight pang lurched in her heart. When Chef’s charming, there’s nothing like it, she thought. Nothing can compare. She took a deep breath and realized now was not the time to talk with him about his temper. Jennifer remembered the days when she and Bobby were a couple and he could be charming and fun. But then a mere few hours could pass, and he would turn morose with feelings of hopelessness. That was long before he was diagnosed as bipolar. Once he found out the reason for his feelings, he got on board with therapy and started to enjoy the benefits of change.

Bobby offered Jennifer a seat on the couch so they could spread out the menus for the gala on the coffee table. The gala and two wedding receptions over the weekend accounted for the forty-plus people already busy at work. It was going to be quite a memorable holiday weekend.

Chapter 2: Jennifer

Jennifer had a restless night and woke very early and decided to go on a run with her Bernedoodle, Sophie, through the neighborhood. Hardly anyone else was out this early, except for the senior dog walkers who merely stepped outside their front doors, still in their bathrobes. Jennifer ran a good thirty minutes before returning home. 

As she unlocked the front door, her phone rang. She would have ignored it, except it was Todd, the sous chef.

Good morning, Todd. What’s up?

Sorry to bother you, Jennifer, but we can’t reach Matt. No one has seen Chef this morning, and he’s not answering his phone either. His office is locked, and I don’t know anyone besides Matt who has a master key.

Okay. You sound panicky. Something you’re not saying?

We need the truffles for today’s tasting for the upcoming digital convention. I’m also worried Chef may be in his office, passed out, Todd said.

That would be odd. Bobby doesn’t drink to that extent anymore, not since he met Tracey.

I know. Sorry I said it, but since no one can find him, it crossed my mind, especially since his car is here in the garage.

Okay, give me twenty minutes, and I’ll be down there. I have a master too, and can let you in.

The days were running hot and fast for everyone on the premises of Monroe Manor. The gala cochaired by Edith Farnsworth, a legend in the realm of fundraisers, was the largest moneymaker in the food and beverage department annually.

Jennifer arrived at the Manor in less than fifteen minutes. She strode into the master kitchen and was immediately engulfed by the most amazing aromas as she opened the swinging doors from the Versailles Ballroom. The bright, fresh smell of Meyer lemon zest, along with tantalizing wafts of basil and rosemary, permeated the air as she walked through the doors. She weaved her way among a group of twenty-plus culinary staff working hard, heads down, focused on perfection for the upcoming gala. As several of the cooks yelled jokes in a lighthearted manner, she could hear bursts of jovial laughter among the staff.

Todd, dressed in jeans and a white chef’s coat, was waiting for her outside Robert’s office. His brown eyes were hooded from lack of sleep, and he had noticeably dark circles under his eyes. 

Good morning. Let’s see if we can get this door open, she said brightly.

Jennifer and Todd continued to talk while she fumbled with all the master keys on the ring, trying to decipher which one would unlock the office door. As was typical when in a hurry, the keys were sticking and not cooperating. 

How many masters are there? Todd asked.

The Manor is so large, and each building has a separate master key. Unfortunately, the labels have obviously rubbed off, and it’s hard to tell which key goes to which building now, Jennifer said, still sifting through the mass of keys on the ring.

Got it, Todd said.

When I walked in this morning, I couldn’t help but notice the aroma. Lamb on the menu today?

You have a good nose, Jennifer. Yes, we’re doing a lamb shank entrée, a Moroccan lamb cassoulet, and, of course, your favorite, rack of lamb. The convention people want lamb for sure but can’t decide how they want it prepared.

Jennifer smiled as she tried the fifth key, and it clicked, and the door opened. Voilà. And I vote for rack of lamb persille.

The two took a one-eighty look around the office in a matter of seconds. For Jennifer, her first impression was the heat. Either Bobby had turned up the thermostat to high, or the air-conditioning had conked out. Either way, the office was like a sauna, which accounted for the overwhelming stench of stale food that assaulted her squarely in the face as she entered. Memories of bloody fish parts from the summers when she and her sister, Julie, would go fly-fishing with their grandfather on Puget Sound came to mind immediately as she started to gag.

Oh my God was Jennifer’s automatic response. Her heart sank, and her chest felt heavy and tight. Chef was planted facedown on the carpet between his desk and the leather sofa, surrounded in blood, his left heel wedged between the burgundy-colored seats. Jennifer could see an enormous gaping hole by his left temple, with dried blood caked on his cheek and near his eye. 

She kneeled to take a closer look. Todd removed the thermometer from his cook’s jacket and poked the executive chef, just in case. Chef didn’t move a muscle and didn’t seem to be breathing.

This is terrible. I think he’s dead, Todd said.

I agree. I’m afraid he is, Jennifer said softly. She felt for a pulse. Nothing. She gently placed her hand on the back of Chef’s head and held it there for a moment. My dear, sweet Bobby, she whispered.

She straightened up and tried to get a hold of herself while looking around the office. Stacks of files piled high, a computer, and two plates of half-eaten hamburgers covered the desktop. Two ceramic oyster trays were teetering on top of each other, ready to fall. In the middle of the top tray was the lighthearted message: Shuck the front door. All that remained on both trays were oyster shells, puddles of water turning green and dotted with blue specks of mold, and leftover shaved horseradish. The stink permeated the room and was unnerving. Beside the oyster trays were two highball glasses with liquor in them. 

Todd undid his white neckerchief, a necessary accessory for a chef in a hot kitchen, and handed it to Jennifer, who covered her mouth and nose, making it easier for her to avoid the rancid smell that was making her gag. Todd backed out of the office, a green pallor about him as he stood by the doorframe deeply inhaling the clean air. Jennifer could feel hot, sour acid coming up her throat as she came close to puking right there near the desk. She looked to the left of Bobby’s body. Magazines and truffles covered the carpet, and one of the two guest chairs was overturned on its side. In the far-left corner, dozens of puzzle pieces were scattered on the carpet under a table. Connected strands of the half-finished puzzle were dangling over the edge of the table, waiting to collapse on the floor. The room showed evidence of a terrible struggle. 

Jennifer let it all sink in and sighed deeply. She needed to keep her head and remain cool. Matt needed to be here, she thought; he was the highest-ranking executive on property, as the GM was on vacation this week. She knew the higher-ups would be judging her once the board of directors found out she and Todd were the first on the scene, and would point the blame or praise in her direction. She drew in a ragged, powerful breath and almost lost her shit as a gnawing and burning sensation exploded in her stomach. Jennifer’s phone rang, and she saw it was Matt calling her.

Hey, I came in early. Want to go get waffles? he asked.

Sorry, can’t do that. Todd’s been looking for you, but no answer on your phone. We have a problem in the kitchen. Can you meet me and Todd near the walk-in refrigerators?

Huh, been here in my office since six a.m., but yeah, on my way. Can you tell me what’s happened so I’m not blindsided by an employee?

Better for you to come here than talk on the phone. You won’t be blindsided by an employee, trust me.

On my way, he said.

Jennifer dialed 911 and gave them all the details she knew so far. They promised to be on site within ten minutes.

Todd, the police will be here shortly. I’m closing the door right now and waiting for Matt. Stay nearby, as the police will want to talk to both of us. You okay, my friend? You appear a little green around the gills.

Sure, I’m okay. You know Bobby brought me here—we worked at two other kitchens together before coming to the Manor. We met years ago when I was down on my luck, and he picked me up and gave me a job. More than that, he gave me his friendship, Todd said, his voice cracking as he mopped tears from his face with his jacket sleeve.

Jennifer put her arm around Todd’s shoulders and gave him a squeeze. "I know. Bobby told me how you two met and how much he valued your friendship. Those of us who really knew him loved him a lot. Why don’t you go get some fresh air outside?"

Jennifer saw Matt approaching the walk-in and went to meet him. At six feet one, it was easy to spot the trim, self-assured man whose piercing blue eyes were generally the second thing most women noticed about him.

Hey. Hate to throw this at you, but something horrible has happened in the kitchen involving Bobby, Jennifer said.

Chef? Just tell me what happened, he said.

Okay. I’m afraid he’s dead, Matt.

Shit, Robert’s dead? How? Matt ran his hand through his dark-blond hair and loosened the knot of his tie.

Looks like someone attacked him. His office is a wreck.

Let me take a look. The two walked back to Chef’s office, and Jennifer unlocked the door. She stayed back near the doorway, as she didn’t want to see Bobby on the floor again.

Matt glanced at Chef’s body, then walked around the office checking out the mess before coming back outside.

Sit, Jennifer. You seem like you may fall over. Matt started to bring out one of the plastic chairs before Jennifer stopped him.

We probably shouldn’t touch anything, as it’s a crime scene, she said, and leaned against the stainless-steel island right outside Chef’s office.

You’re right. I presume you called nine-one-one?

Yes. They should be here any minute, and I’m going to need to be with them for a bit of time, as will Todd, since the two of us discovered Chef’s body.

As manager on duty, I should be there too, Matt said, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand.

Yes, for sure. I can’t believe this has happened to him. You know Bobby and I lived together for a couple of years while he was a chef at Alice Waters’s place in Berkeley.

Yes, I remember hearing that when he started. Didn’t you recommend him for the job? Matt asked.

No. He made quite a name for himself when he worked at The French Laundry, and the board of directors sought him out. He was so talented. This is unbelievably awful.

I am so sorry, Jennifer. I know how much you cared for Robert, and his death must be a shock for you. Matt put his arm around Jennifer’s shoulders and gave her a small squeeze.

She nodded and regained her composure. I’d like to help in contacting his family. His parents are gone, but he was close to Kate and Christopher, his siblings.

Matt confirmed he would pull the file and that he and Olivia in HR would figure out who to call. "Maybe we should