Free Death is Semisweet by Lou Jane Temple

were walking on. It looked like the site of a big bonfire. Heaven wondered if Foster’s had come up with a new Kansas City wood-roasted flavor of chocolate just for all the barbecue lovers.
    “Are you Heaven Lee?”
    Heaven turned around to see who had asked. It was a pretty young woman with an official-looking Foster’s Hostess badge. “How could you tell?” Heaven said with a smile and a glance at her kitchen clothes. “The person from your office asked me to wear my whites,” she said by way of apology for her attire. Heaven did have on her chef’s coat, a hot pink ski vest over it, some black-and-white striped baggy chef’s pants and high heeled ankle boots in hot pink suede. The accessories helped.
    “We have a special place for you all to sit, right next to the stage. Rick Bayless is here from Chicago and Dean Fearing from Dallas, I think. And the pastry chef from the American Restaurant,” the hostess cooed as she slid Heaven out of the line and toward the open door of the plant.
    “We chefs don’t have to say anything, do we?” Heaven said in alarm. She was embarrassed enough wearing her professional clothes out in public.
    “Oh, no,” the young woman reassured her. “Mr. Foster will just talk about the event and the cookbook and have you stand up a minute. Are you shy in crowds?”
    Heaven almost laughed. This woman obviously knew nothing about her. “No, I just like to know what’s happening ahead of time.” The woman deposited her in a chair next to the stage and glided away.
    Heaven surveyed the room. Several big pieces of machinery were covered with white tarps. There must bemore to this gig than the announcement of a charity event; either that or the artist Christo had been working here. She saw three reporters from the
Kansas City Star
, two people from the business desk as well as the food editor. The area set up for the press conference filled up fast. There were assorted print writers from local lifestyle magazines that Heaven recognized, plus three television camera operators and their talking head reporters, and of course, various city officials.
    As people settled, more pretty women passed cups of coffee and chocolate chip cookies. Heaven snagged one as they went by, wondering why they were having baked goods instead of their own candy.
    Then she leaned up to the next row of chairs to say hi to the pastry chef from the American. Soon, the two out-of-town chefs were seated next to Heaven by Miss Hostess and the four cooks got into a deep discussion about Oaxaca and the seven different mole sauces, most of which contained some chocolate.
    The sound of microphone feedback from the small platform next to the chefs brought them back to the here and now.
    “Hello, everyone,” Junior Foster said to the crowd as he tapped the microphone nervously. It gave out another yelp of feedback. Someone jumped up on the stage and adjusted a knob under the tabletop podium, probably the guy who owned the PA system and rented it out for affairs like this.
    “I’m Harold Foster, Jr., and this is my brother Claude.” He indicated a gaunt man sitting next to him on the little stage. Brother Claude didn’t look so good. “We sure have enjoyed celebrating the fiftieth year of Foster’s Chocolates, the company our father started right here in Kansas City. Since our stock went publictwenty-five years ago, the value of our company has increased tenfold and we’re proud of that fact too. To top off the year, we’re sponsoring a gala New Year’s Eve Party at the Fairmont Hotel to benefit the food bank of Kansas City, Harvester’s. There will be lots of food and two bands and for dessert, we’ll be featuring the chocolate desserts of some of America’s most renowned chefs.” He looked over at the four people in chef’s outfits. Heaven was embarrassed about the “renowned” part. She certainly didn’t think she was in the same category with Rick Bayless. “These generous artists are each creating a