Knife Skills

By Wendy Church

"Armchair travellers and foodies, rejoice!" Booklist Starred Review on Murder on the Spanish Seas

Sagarine Pfister is a great cook but has been blacklisted by almost every restaurant in Chicago. She gets her chance at Louie's, a below-average restaurant, the only place that will give her a job.

Things change when she finds head chef Louie Ferrar dead in the walk-in freezer of his restaurant. But instead of closing the place down, the owner, Russian gang boss Anatoly Morzov, not only offers her Louie's job, but also the position as his personal chef. Sagarine agrees, and while she knows she's playing with fire, the chance to turn out extraordinary food at both the restaurant and for Morzov's extravagant private parties is just too tempting.

While the Chicago P.D. searches for Louie's killer, the FBI pressures Sagarine to inform on the gang. She has no choice, but things take another dangerous turn when she falls for one of Morzov's lieutenants. As Sagarine becomes more deeply involved with the gang and with her lover, the FBI's demands put her at increased risk of discovery. She has to make a decision about where her loyalties lie as she finds herself running for her life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Severn House
• Release date: Mar 5, 2024
• ISBN: 9781448312603

Wendy Church

Wendy Church, PhD, has authored a variety of nonfiction works, including a PhD dissertation in bioresource engineering, a few textbooks and book chapters on global issues, and a number of inappropriately long Facebook posts about navigating gluten free pizza, and the relationship between yoga and Lord of the Rings. She is the author of the Jesse O'Hara mysteries, the first of which, Murder on the Spanish Seas, was named by Booklist as a Top 10 Debut Mystery & Thriller of 2023. She lives in Seattle, Washington with her partner and several animals.

Book preview

ONE

Louie was lying on the floor in the corner, a spray of frozen red in a pattern on the walls around him. His eyes stared up at the metal rails that ran in tracks across the ceiling. Solidifying blood trails wound down his neck, staining the collar of his white chef’s coat.

I wasn’t an expert on dead bodies, but the blood, along with the gaping wound across his neck, suggested he wouldn’t be getting up any time soon.

Louie Ferrar. My boss. Dead, in the walk-in freezer of the restaurant that bore his name.

I stood there staring at him until I felt my fingers growing numb. Then I pulled a tablecloth over him and walked out, latching the heavy door behind me.

I walked past the exit door and through the small hallway, into the kitchen that was just now coming to life. Louie’s meals were uncomplicated, and one of the ways he controlled costs was to bring in all of the staff as late as possible on service days. Other than me of course. I was always here.

It’s not like I wasn’t grateful. Louie was the only chef to give me a chance; nobody else would touch me at this point. But he’d gotten me on the cheap, and he’d taken advantage of it.

I skirted the cooks and continued through the swinging doors, into the main dining room. Our host, Stephen, was at the front door, politely telling some potential customers that the restaurant was closed on Tuesdays for a private party, but we’d love to see them any other night. The bells above the door chimed softly as he closed it and turned around. As always, he was nattily attired, wearing a custom-fitting black blazer, a black shirt and a skinny red silk tie, all capped off by perfectly coiffed short white hair.

‘Hey, Stephen, can you come with me for a minute?’

‘Sure. What’s up?’

I put my finger to my lips, and he followed me into the kitchen. We walked through it and down the hallway to the freezer. The clanging of pots and pans vanished when we stepped inside and I closed the door. I walked to Louie’s corner and lifted up the tablecloth.

Stephen screamed and jumped back, his manicured hands covering his mouth.

‘Shhhh.’

‘What do you mean shhhh? He’s dead, isn’t he? We need to call someone.’ He took out his phone and frantically started punching in numbers.

I grabbed it out of his hand. ‘That won’t work in here. And it’s Tuesday.’

Stephen’s eyes grew big. He took the phone from me and slipped it back into his coat pocket.

‘How long has he been dead? And’ – he inhaled, looking around the empty room – ‘do you think whoever did this is still here?’

‘I doubt it. He’s been in here for a while. He looks frozen.’ I covered Louie back up and moved some boxes in front of him. We walked out of the freezer and back to the kitchen.

I glanced toward the door to the bar. ‘Are they here yet?’

‘Yes.’ His eyes were fixed on the back exit, probably thinking that maybe we could make a run for it.

That would leave everyone else here holding the bag.

I pulled the evening’s menu off the counter and looked it over. ‘We can do it without him.’ I did all of the ordering and inventory, and knew what we had and what we could do.

‘Without Louie?’ he whispered. ‘He does … he did … all of the sauces himself. And he always does final plating …’

‘I know. It’s OK.’ Louie was the executive chef, but getting a restaurant with his name on it had more to do with his Chicago connections than his cooking ability.

‘Do you think they did this?’ he asked, looking back toward the bar.

‘No idea. But who knows?’

Turning to the rest of the kitchen staff, I raised my voice. ‘Everybody, listen up.’

The washing and chopping stopped, and the room went silent. Everyone looked up.

All but one.

‘Hey,’ I yelled.

Milena dropped her knife loudly on the counter and stared at it.

‘Louie isn’t coming in tonight.’

I heard whispering. They were used to Louie showing up late to do the finishing touches on the meals, and he often didn’t come in on off-nights. But he’d never missed a Tuesday dinner.

‘Where is he?’

‘He’s, uh, indisposed.’

I heard more whispers, including numerous references to Tuesday.

‘Don’t worry – we’re fine. I’ll do plating. And we’re changing the menu.’

‘Are you kidding?’ said Aaron, looking at his watch. ‘We start service in fifteen minutes. And who put you in charge,’ he sneered.

‘I’m not kidding. And I put me in charge. You have a problem with that?’

Aaron was our titular sous chef, and technically second in command to Louie. And while Aaron was a legend in his own mind, he was at best a mediocre chef.

‘I’m the sous chef. That puts me in charge, and I say we do the menu as is.’

‘OK.’ I put the menu back down on the counter. ‘You can do it without me.’ I turned and started to walk away.

Stephen’s head whipped around toward me, his eyebrows raised to his hairline.

‘Uh, Aaron, are you sure you’re up to this?’ asked Zoe.

‘Of course.’ He had an unfailing belief in his own abilities, such as they were.

Milena was still staring down at the counter. ‘If she’s leaving, I’m leaving.’

I wasn’t surprised. Milena was a good chef, and she’d have her own place someday. If she left, she could get a job anywhere in the city. I was a little surprised she’d lasted here this long.

Zoe said quietly, ‘I’m sorry, Aaron. I think Sags should do it.’

‘You guys would rather have her run the kitchen, with a new menu, than work for me?’ He looked around, incredulous.

To a person they nodded – Stephen so vigorously I thought his head would pop off. Everyone else knew what I knew – that Aaron didn’t have the chops to run a kitchen – and Tuesday wasn’t the day to take chances with someone they knew wasn’t up to it.

I picked the menu back up. ‘The first course is shrimp scampi. We’re replacing it with sea scallops and romesco. Use the peppers we roasted yesterday. Let’s get it out in twenty. OK with you, Your Highness?’ I said to Milena.

One side of her mouth turned up in the semblance of a smile. In addition to being a pretty good cook, she was an imperious asshole. Funny how those things often went together. She pushed aside the shrimp she’d been cleaning, wiped down her station and started on the romesco.

‘Aaron. Second course is pasta. We’ll move that to third course. Lose the gnocchi. Make the handkerchief pasta and the lavender pesto to go with it. Let’s do it with the smoked duck. The recipes are in my folder.’

‘Make pasta? There’s not enough time.’

‘Sure there is. Ten minutes to make the dough, fifteen to thirty to let it rest, ten to roll it out and cut it. Three to five minutes to cook, a few more to assemble. You have seventy-five minutes. That’s more than enough time.’

He stared at me, scowling.

‘Aaron. If you’re not on board, then you can leave.’

Unlike Milena, he wasn’t likely to get a job anywhere else. He nodded, lips pressed tightly together.

‘Zoe, you’ve got fish. Ditch the snapper and pull out the black cod that came in today.’ Unbeknownst to Louie, I’d bought some from our fishmonger this morning. It looked beautiful, and I’d decided it was worth the argument I’d get from him about the cost. I was excited we’d get to serve it. ‘Get it into a miso marinade ASAP. Wait until the last minute and then broil it. Put together some pickled cucumber to go with it.’

She nodded and went to the refrigerator.

I turned to Elliott, our meat guy. ‘We’ll keep the braised short ribs, but do it with the duck demi, and add in some carrots. Use the pressure cooker.’ The ribs were already cooked the day before, and one of the few of Louie’s dishes that was excellent.

He was eager, as always. ‘Can I swap out the potatoes with celery root?’

‘Good idea. Put together some frisée to go with it. Nothing complicated – use a shallot vinaigrette. And can you do Anatoly’s fries?’

Regardless of the menu, Anatoly always got a plate of French fries. Nothing special – just plain, salted fries.

‘You got it, Chef.’ He turned and headed to the pantry.

‘Declan, if you could do whatever you wanted for dessert, what would it be?’

‘Semifreddo,’ she said without hesitation.

Declan was our pastry chef, and a damn good one. Not that anyone would ever know it. Louie didn’t care for dessert, usually opting for ice cream. He served any flavor you wanted, as long as it was vanilla. I wasn’t sure why he kept her on staff.

Well I guess I was sure. Declan was tall, blonde and thin. Just his type. How she stayed thin as a pastry chef was a mystery. I was about the same size, but I didn’t work with desserts every day.

‘Can you do it in an hour?’

‘No.’ She grinned. ‘But I’ve got some in the freezer I made last night for staff meal. Enough for tonight.’

‘Great.’

She trotted off happily toward the freezer.

I put my arm out as she walked by me. ‘Uh, I’ll pull it out of the freezer. I’ve got something going on in there and don’t want it disturbed. Why don’t you start on the sauce?’

She shrugged and went to the pantry.

I turned to Stephen. ‘Can you get Stuart in here? We’re going to do service a little differently tonight. And send in Courtney.’

He nodded and left, the double kitchen doors swinging behind him.

The noise ramped back up in the kitchen. I grabbed some cold smoked salmon and cream cheese out of the refrigerator, along with a small jar of sturgeon caviar hiding in the back that had been a gift to Louie from our friends in the bar. I mixed the cream cheese with some crème fraîche, adding in lemon zest and fresh dill. I laid the salmon out flat and thinly spread the cheese on it, then rolled it up and sliced it into small cylinders, garnishing the top of each one with a dollop of caviar and a small sprig of dill.

I popped one in my mouth. Tasty, but it needed some crunch. I grabbed a handful of shallots, sliced them and fried them on the stove for a few minutes, then put a couple on top of each roll.

Stuart was standing next to me. I hadn’t heard him come in.

‘Take this out to our friends in the bar. One each.’ I placed each roll on a small plate and put them on a serving tray.

He examined the small bites. ‘These are tiny.’

‘They’re supposed to be tiny.’

‘What are we calling it?’

‘It’s an amuse-bouche. Serve it with the Taittinger.’

‘The Taittinger? That shit’s expensive.’

‘Yep.’ I held the tray out to him.

He stood with his arms at his sides, staring blankly at the tray.

‘Tell them the dinner’s changed for tonight. We’re doing a tasting menu.’

He looked up at me, his brow furrowed. ‘Where’s Louie?’

‘He’s not here. I’m doing the meal. Listen, either serve the food or get out of here.’

He glanced back toward the exit, considering my offer, then reluctantly took the tray from my hand and walked out.

Courtney walked in, stepping aside for Stuart to pass her in the doorway. She looked around the kitchen. ‘What’s up? Where’s Louie?’

‘He’s not here. We’re changing the menu, and I want to pair the wine. Stuart’s starting them with the Taittinger. When that’s gone, give them a light white for the scallop and pasta courses, then something with a little more body for the cod, like a Chardonnay. Pick a red for the meat. We’ll give them a good port to go with the dessert. Try to keep them from drowning in vodka between courses. Get Stephen to help you pour.’

‘Are you sure that’s a good idea?’

Louie had drilled into everyone the importance of being frugal. In addition to limiting staff hours, and paying me like a busboy for sous-chef work, his cost-cutting moves had included serving mediocre wine that he marked up and sold as premium. It usually worked with our Tuesday patrons – after a few shots of vodka they couldn’t tell what they were drinking.

‘No, but let’s see if we can elevate their palates,’ I said, turning back to the counter.

Milena had finished the romesco and put the bowl in front of me with a spoon. I dipped in to taste. Of course it was perfect. I nodded, and she went back to her station to finish off the scallops. A layer of salt, a quick sear in clarified butter on each side, and they were done. We worked together to spoon the romesco on fourteen individual plates already arranged on a serving tray, then topped each little mound of sauce with a perfectly seared scallop.

‘Where the hell is Stuart?’ I handed the tray to Milena. ‘Never mind. Take these out.’

Milena shook her head. ‘No way.’

‘Yes way. These are perfect right now. They can’t sit.’

She grabbed the tray and left the kitchen.

Zoe looked at me, and I nodded. She opened the salamander and slid the large pan of marinated black cod steaks into it. It would only take ten minutes, during which time we arranged the pickled cucumber in large white bowls and laid them out on the counter.

Shortly after we served the cod, Aaron put the duck pasta in front of me, the dish clanging on the counter.

‘Jesus Christ, Aaron, what is this?’

‘It’s the duck pasta you wanted.’

‘No, what is this?’ I asked, pointing to the smear of pesto he’d spread around the sides of the shallow bowl like a Nike swoosh. ‘Dude, the nineties called. They want their plating back.’

He reached for the bowls, but I pulled them away. ‘Never mind.’

I dipped a spoon into the pesto. It was good – he’d followed my recipe to the letter. I grabbed another set of bowls and replated the dish, putting pesto at the bottom of each bowl and folding the handkerchief pasta delicately around it. I framed the dish with some fennel stalks I’d quick pickled, then sprinkled on a few micro greens.

‘Where the hell is Stuart?’

‘Right here.’ He was coming through the swinging doors backward, balancing empty plates. ‘They want more scallops.’

‘Tough.’ I helped him stack the pasta bowls on his arms. ‘Serve this with the bread.’

He nodded and turned around, managing to grab a few bread baskets as he headed back through the doors.

The one thing Louie had gotten right was the bread. Baked daily down the street at a Polish bakery, it was crusty on the outside, soft on the inside and delicious with anything.

I walked over to check on Elliott. Louie had hired him because he was young and cheap, but we’d gotten lucky. Elliott had good energy and was great with meat. I watched him open the pressure cooker and take out the celery root, then put it into a bowl with a heart attack’s worth of butter and a little cream. He used the hand mixer to turn it into a puree then sprinkled in some salt.

I grabbed a spoon. ‘May I?’ He nodded, and I dipped in the spoon to taste. ‘Pretty good. It needs more salt.’

That was a mistake most young chefs made, being afraid of too much salt – unless they were smokers, in which case you’d have to hide the salt from them. Anything smokers made ended up tasting like sticking your tongue into a saltshaker.

‘Add a splash of Frangelico.’

The hazelnut liqueur put it over the top. It didn’t actually taste like Frangelico when it was mixed in, but it added an interesting depth of flavor.

We’d been moving dinner along at a good clip, but after the pasta course was served, I left a little more time before we put out the short ribs. I looked up each time Stuart returned to the kitchen with trays of dishes. Every single one came back empty. Some looked like they’d been licked clean.

The kitchen was almost silent, all of the staff looking at me.

‘Has she poured the red yet?’ I asked Stuart, who was waiting next to me.

‘She was opening it up when I left.’

‘OK, let’s get them out.’

Everyone worked together to plate the ribs, taking them out of the warming pan with the demi, laying them on top of the celery-root puree. On accompanying salad plates we put a handful of the frisée Elliott had put together.

‘Elliott, help Stuart take these out.’

He grinned and picked up a platter. He hadn’t been here long and didn’t know who he was serving. Probably a good thing. On his way out, Milena handed him Anatoly’s fries.

Once the empty meat plates started coming back, I worked with Declan to finish off the dessert – raspberry lemon semifreddo from a loaf pan, cut into slices and laid on top of fresh raspberry sauce. Against each piece we leaned a thin shortbread wafer. She topped them with a leaf of candied lemon verbena. Beautiful, light and delicious. Kind of a bummer we wouldn’t get to eat it for staff meal.

The desserts went out, and we were done. I leaned against the stainless-steel countertop and pulled the tie out of my hair, letting it flow around my shoulders. I peeked at my watch. Two hours since we’d started dinner. They’d passed in minutes. Zoe walked by, and I put my hand up to meet her high five. I felt myself smiling.

Damn. Louie.

I walked to the host stand where Stephen was checking the reservation sheet for the next day. ‘How’d it go?’

His eyebrows rose, and he tilted his head to the side. ‘Very well. Perfect in fact. Nice work.’ Like me, he’d gotten into the flow of a perfectly prepared meal. It wasn’t haute cuisine, but it was better than anything that had ever come out of this kitchen.

‘Thanks. I think it’s time to call the police.’

‘Oh, right.’ He’d forgotten too.

He pulled out his phone, and I went back into the kitchen.

I was unbuttoning the top of my coat when Stuart grabbed my arm from behind. ‘Anatoly wants to see you.’

I buttoned my coat back up, took a deep breath and walked through the swinging doors.

TWO

Louie’s was in the northwest part of the city, just off Milwaukee Avenue on Hutchinson, in Chicago’s Portage Park neighborhood. Portage Park was a quiet, mostly residential community far from the lake, the Magnificent Mile and the Loop. Its main claim to fame was the Six Corners, an intersection of three somewhat major streets: Irving Park Road, and Cicero and Milwaukee Avenues. It was ostensibly Chicago’s 45th Ward, although the boundaries for the ward bore little resemblance to the established ‘community’ boundary, also not to be confused with the unofficial Portage Park ‘neighborhood’ designation. Most people who lived here thought of Montrose and Belmont as the north and south borders, respectively, and Cicero and Narragansett as east and west.

The restaurant was on the far east side of the neighborhood, a few blocks away from the Six Corners, in a large, free-standing building that had been built in the sixties as an abattoir. At the time the abattoir was built, Chicago processed more meat than anywhere on the planet, its famous stockyards supplying the entire country. The stockyards were centered in the southern part of the city, a few miles from the Loop, and the thinking was that there would be value in having some meat processing closer to the growing populations of Chicago’s northwest suburbs and, in particular, a kosher facility that could serve the primarily Jewish communities of Skokie and Morton Grove.

It all came crashing down in the late sixties with the decentralization of meat processing, and the stockyards closed for good in 1971. The Portage Park abattoir closed before it ever opened, then sat vacant for decades until it was purchased and turned into a restaurant.

As a meat processing plant, the building was medium-sized, but as a restaurant, it was huge. The bottom floor had been remodeled to include a large dining space, a bar, an industrial kitchen with pantry, refrigerator and service storage, and a walk-in freezer. A set of stairs led up to a largely unfinished second floor that was sparsely furnished with a desk, printer and computer, the latter sitting under the floor’s lone window. The second floor was ostensibly Louie’s office, but he rarely went up there, and the rest of us were told not to. Every week, Valentin would come in and disappear upstairs for several hours, presumably to do the books. The only other thing in the room was a safe, which I never saw anyone use except Valentin.

Between the kitchen and the dining areas were a set of swinging double doors. On the dining side were service stations with the usual water, napkins and utensils. The bar and the main dining room were semi-separated by long rectangular planters filled with fake trees. Directly behind the bar was another door leading to a hallway with the bathrooms. In one direction it led back to the kitchen, and in the other to an exit that went out to the alley and our dumpsters.

The kitchen itself was spacious, with long counters, two eight-burner stoves with ovens, a salamander, a fryer and a large dishwashing station, all surrounding a rectangular central island. The pantry was an entire room at the juncture of the kitchen and the door to the bar. On the other side of the kitchen was the short hallway that led to the other exit, this one to a small parking lot and to the walk-in freezer.

Our dining room had seating for fifty-four people. Tonight, as was the case every Tuesday, the dining room was empty, and the booth and tables in the bar were filled with Anatoly Morzov and thirteen of his closest friends.

I’d never had to meet Anatoly or any of his group – that had been Louie’s job – but Stuart and Courtney saw them every week and had filled us all in. Anatoly had helped Louie get his restaurant, fronting most of the money, as well as supporting it during the pandemic to keep us from closing. All of this was presumably for favors, including the meals Anatoly and his posse enjoyed pro bono every Tuesday.

Louie was always deferent around Anatoly. Not only was Anatoly the majority partner in the business, but rumor had it he was the head of Chicago’s only Russian gang. And while gangs were a fact of life in the city, it was rare to see signs of them in Portage Park. But here they were, nine of his men seated at the tables scattered around the bar, and the big man himself with four other people in the center of the bar’s lone booth.

Anatoly’s thick silver hair framed a square boxer’s face with a large bent nose and eyes that were little more than slits. He wore a custom gray suit and white shirt open at the collar. Pudgy fingers adorned with large rings drummed on the table. On his left was his girlfriend for the evening, a platinum blonde barely wearing a gold lamé dress. Accentuating her Tammy Faye makeup were large, ostentatious diamond earrings and a matching necklace that, despite its obvious cost, seemed cheap. Her manicured nails, like her lipstick, were bright red. She was young enough to be Anatoly’s granddaughter, the only clue that she wasn’t being the hand she kept on his thigh. At least, I