Recipe For Suspicion
Dorothy "Dot" Finch straightened the final cookbook display with practiced hands, her keen librarian's eye for detail ensuring each spine aligned perfectly with the edge of the antique oak table. After thirty-two years managing the Charleston Library's special collections, she could spot a misplaced decimal or crooked label from across a room. Today, those observational skills would serve a different purpose at the Low Country Heirloom Recipe Bake-Off.
"Everything looks perfect, Dot," Eloise Jenkins, her former assistant and the event organizer, adjusted her glasses as she surveyed the display. "These family cookbooks are the crown jewels of our community's culinary history."
Dot nodded in satisfaction. "Each one contains more than recipes—they're family histories preserved in food traditions." Her fingers lingered on a well-worn leather-bound volume. "Like preserving with salt—it keeps the past fresh for future generations."
"And you've done a wonderful job preserving these treasures for our community," Eloise said warmly.
The community center buzzed with activity as contestants arranged their dishes on tables adorned with checkered cloths. Fragrant aromas of cinnamon, vanilla, and butter created an invisible cloud of anticipation. Dot breathed it in appreciatively, mentally cataloging each scent like she once had the Dewey Decimal System.
She spotted familiar faces among the fifteen contestants. Three in particular drew her attention: Marvin Wilson, owner of the popular Sweetgrass Bakery; Jasmine Taylor, a food blogger whose perfectly styled creations always garnered the most social media attention; and Corinne Davis, the sharp-tongued critic whose traditional approaches had earned her the nickname "The Flavor Enforcer" among local chefs.
"The judges will be arriving in twenty minutes," Eloise announced. "Everyone, please make your final preparations."
Dot watched as Corinne approached the cookbook display, her red reading glasses perched precariously on her nose. The woman's lips moved silently as she read recipe titles, occasionally nodding or frowning in judgment.
"Looking for inspiration, Corinne?" Dot asked pleasantly.
"Inspiration? Hardly." Corinne sniffed. "I'm making sure my grandmother's sweet potato pie recipe is properly represented. That book with the blue binding—that's the Davis family collection from 1923." She pointed with a manicured nail. "My entry today comes straight from page forty-three."
Before Dot could respond, Corinne's phone chimed. With a dramatic sigh, she hurried away, leaving Dot alone with the cookbooks. As head of the library's community outreach committee, Dot had been instrumental in this collection's preservation, digitizing many volumes while keeping the originals safe in climate-controlled rooms. These cookbooks on display were precious loans from their permanent homes.
The next hour passed in a flurry of activity. Judges circulated among the tables, sampling and making notes. Contestants hovered nervously or confidently explained their culinary heritage. Dot kept a watchful eye on both the cookbook display and the competition, mentally assessing which dishes seemed most authentic to the Low Country tradition.
Her peaceful observation was shattered by a piercing cry from across the room.
"It's gone! Someone has taken it!" Corinne's voice cut through the gentle hum of conversation. She stood by the cookbook display, face flushed with anger or distress—possibly both.
Dot hurried over. "What's missing, Corinne?"
"The Davis family cookbook. It was right here." Corinne pointed to an empty space in the display. "My grandmother's secret technique for sweet potato pie is in there. Without it, the judges won't understand what makes my recipe authentic!"
Eloise joined them, her calm demeanor a contrast to Corinne's agitation. "Let's not jump to conclusions. Perhaps someone borrowed it briefly for reference?"
"Borrowed?" Corinne's voice rose an octave. "These are priceless family heirlooms! No one should be removing them from the display."
Dot surveyed the room strategically. The three judges had paused their evaluations and were watching with concern. Several contestants had turned to observe the commotion, some with genuine concern, others with barely concealed interest in the drama.
"I'll help you find it," Dot offered, her librarian's sense of order offended by the missing book. "When did you last see it?"
"About forty minutes ago, right before the judging started," Corinne said, her voice tighter than an over-cinched corset.
Dot nodded, mentally calculating who had been near the display during that time frame. "Let me see what I can discover. In the meantime, Eloise, perhaps you could ask the judges to delay Corinne's evaluation?"
As Eloise led the still-protesting Corinne away, Dot began her investigation, the methodical approach she'd honed through decades of library work guiding her steps. First, she checked under tables and behind the display, in case the book had simply fallen. Finding nothing, she began to observe the contestants more carefully.
Marvin Wilson stood proudly by his peach cobbler, the golden- brown crust perfectly latticed. As the owner of Sweetgrass Bakery, he had a reputation to maintain—and a commercial interest in winning. Dot had noticed him hovering near the cookbook display earlier, though she couldn't say precisely when.
Jasmine Taylor adjusted her display for the fifth time, ensuring the lighting was perfect for photographs. Her deconstructed pecan pie—with individually torched meringue clouds, pecan praline crumble, and caramel spheres—garnered appreciative murmurs from passersby. Dot recalled seeing her leafing through one of the cookbooks about an hour ago, though she couldn't confirm which one.
A methodical circuit of the room revealed no sign of the missing cookbook. Dot returned to the display, looking at the volumes with fresh eyes. Something tugged at her memory—a detail noticed but not fully processed.
"Excuse me, Ms. Finch?" A young volunteer appeared at her elbow. "Ms. Jenkins asked if you've made any progress. The judges are almost finished with the other entries."
"Tell her I'm still looking," Dot replied, her attention caught by a cookbook that seemed somehow different than before. The Williams Family Collection, bound in faded green fabric, was now positioned with its spine facing inward—contrary to how she had originally arranged the display.
With careful hands, she removed the book and opened it. Inside, tucked between pages, lay a folded sheet of paper with handwritten notes. The handwriting wasn't familiar, but the content immediately caught her attention: adjustments to a sweet potato pie recipe, with instructions to add "an extra pinch of salt to enhance the sweetness" and "half the nutmeg called for in the original recipe."
Dot's mind worked like the card catalog system she'd maintained for decades—systematically connecting pieces of information. Earlier, she'd overheard fragments of conversation as she arranged the display:
"—absolutely robbed of that blue ribbon last year—" "—judges don't appreciate traditional methods anymore—" "—wouldn't know authentic if it hit them in the taste buds—"
Those bitter words came back to her now as she considered who might have taken the Davis family cookbook, and why. Not simple theft—this was about competitive advantage.
With measured steps, Dot approached the judges' table where they were currently sampling Jasmine's creation. She waited patiently until they acknowledged her.
"Pardon the interruption," she said, "but I believe I've found something related to our missing cookbook situation."
The head judge, a renowned chef from Charleston's historic district, raised an eyebrow. "Have you located the book, Ms. Finch?"
"Not yet," Dot admitted, "but I've found evidence suggesting someone may have copied information from it." She didn't elaborate further, unwilling to make accusations without certainty.
"We need to resolve this before judging Ms. Davis's entry," another judge sighed. "Perhaps we should call a brief recess."
"That won't be necessary," Dot assured them. "I have one more place to check."
She moved deliberately toward the preparation area, where contestants had assembled their entries before presenting them. Most stations were now cleaned and organized, but three remained partially disheveled—belonging to contestants who'd been scheduled for later judging.
At Marvin's station, she found nothing but a dusting of flour and a lingering scent of peaches. Jasmine's area was immaculate, as expected from someone who documented every step of her process for social media.
It was the third station that yielded results. Behind a mixing bowl, partially concealed by a kitchen towel, the corner of a blue binding peeked out. Dot carefully slid the Davis family cookbook into view, confirming her suspicions.
She didn't remove it immediately. Instead, she surveyed the room, noting the position of each key player. Marvin chatted confidently with attendees near his display. Jasmine was still with the judges, animatedly describing her modern interpretation of traditional methods.
And Corinne—Corinne was watching Jasmine with thinly veiled contempt, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. The woman's gaze repeatedly darted toward the preparation area where Dot now stood, her expression an uncomfortable mixture of anxiety and indignation.
The pieces locked into place like the library's old wooden card catalog drawers sliding home. Dot picked up the cookbook and walked toward Eloise, who was attempting to placate an increasingly agitated Corinne.
"I believe I've found what we're looking for," Dot announced, holding up the blue-bound volume.
"My cookbook!" Corinne exclaimed, reaching for it with evident relief. "Where was it?"
"Behind your mixing station," Dot replied evenly, watching Corinne's face. "Hidden under a kitchen towel."
A flash of something—panic? guilt?—crossed Corinne's features before her expression hardened into defensive anger. "Someone must have put it there to frame me. Why would I hide my own family cookbook?"
"Perhaps," Dot suggested gently, "because it doesn't actually contain your grandmother's sweet potato pie recipe at all."
The silence that followed hung heavy as molasses in January.
"I don't know what you're implying," Corinne said, her voice tight.
Dot opened the cookbook carefully, turning to page forty-three as Corinne had specified earlier. "This page contains a recipe for corn bread, not sweet potato pie." She continued leafing through the book methodically. "In fact, there's no sweet potato pie recipe anywhere in this volume."
Eloise's eyes widened in understanding. "Corinne, did you—"
"It's been years since I actually looked at the recipe," Corinne interrupted hastily. "I must have confused which family cookbook it was in."
"I believe," Dot said, keeping her voice neutral, "that you took your own cookbook and hid it, planning to 'find' it missing so you could claim someone had stolen your family recipe. That would explain why your entry couldn't be properly judged against the original."
"That's absurd," Corinne sputtered, but her protest lacked conviction.
Dot continued, the pieces fitting together with satisfying precision. "You've entered this competition three years running with the same recipe, claiming it was your grandmother's secret technique. But last year, Jasmine's modern interpretation won instead of your traditional approach."
"Because the judges have no respect for tradition!" Corinne blurted, then pressed her lips together as if regretting the outburst.
"So you created a story about a stolen family recipe," Dot concluded. "You borrowed legitimacy from this collection of authentic cookbooks, knowing no one would question your claim about a recipe on page forty-three."
The head judge had approached during this exchange, his expression grave. "Ms. Davis, is this true?"
Corinne's shoulders slumped slightly, the fight visibly leaving her. "My grandmother was an amazing cook, but she never wrote anything down. I've been trying to recreate her sweet potato pie for years." Her voice caught with genuine emotion. "Everyone always talks about their precious family recipes handed down through generations. I just wanted to be part of that tradition too."
The quiet admission hung in the air, a mixture of deception revealed and vulnerability exposed.
After a moment, Dot spoke gently. "Preserving tradition isn't just about recipes written on paper. It's about the spirit of the food and the love that goes into making it." She placed a hand on the cookbook. "These records are important, but so is the effort to keep food memories alive, even without written instructions."
The head judge nodded thoughtfully. "Ms. Davis, while we cannot condone deception in this competition, your entry will still be judged on its own merits." He gestured toward her sweet potato pie, its cinnamon-dusted surface gleaming. "Though without the heritage claim attached."
As the tension gradually dissipated, Dot returned the Davis family cookbook to its proper place in the display. Her fingers traced the embossed title, appreciating how these collections preserved more than recipes—they safeguarded stories, relationships, and community connections.
"That was impressive detective work," Eloise commented, joining her at the display. "You should have been an investigator instead of a librarian."
Dot smiled, adjusting her glasses. "Being a librarian is investigative work. We preserve information, organize knowledge, and help people find what they're looking for—sometimes even when they're trying to hide it."
The bake-off continued, the missing cookbook mystery already becoming part of community lore—another story to be preserved alongside the recipes themselves, seasoned with just the right amount of suspicion and resolution.
The judges awarded Jasmine's innovative deconstructed pecan pie first place, with Marvin's peach cobbler taking second. Corinne's sweet potato pie received an honorable mention for taste, though without its fictional heritage.
As Dot helped pack up the cookbook display, Corinne approached, her earlier defensiveness replaced with subdued respect.
"How did you figure it out?" she asked.
"Details," Dot replied simply. "Thirty-two years of paying attention to what people say versus what's actually on the page." She closed the last cookbook carefully. "And understanding that sometimes, what's most valuable isn't the recipe itself, but the story we tell about it."
Corinne nodded slowly. "My grandmother really was an amazing cook."
"Then perhaps next year," Dot suggested, "your entry could honor her by telling that true story—how you're working to recapture flavors remembered but not recorded. That's a heritage worth preserving too."
As Corinne walked away, Eloise slipped an entry form for next year's bake-off into Dot's hand.
"The committee thinks we need a special judge who can spot the authentic from the artificial," she said with a wink. "Someone who knows how to preserve tradition while recognizing when somebody's adding too much salt to their story."
Dot accepted the form with a smile. In cooking as in life, the right balance of ingredients made all the difference—including just a pinch of suspicion when things didn't quite add up.
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