I worked steadily, with hardly any interruptions, and by early evening I was starving and ready for my dinner with Robin and weirdo Nelson. The grilled cheese and tomato sandwich that I’d eaten for lunch hadn’t satisfied this gourmet girl, and I was really hoping that the fare at Marlee’s restaurant would be better than the Boston Mystery Diner claimed.

I showered, dried my hair, and stood disgruntled in front of my closet, unable to find anything I was in the mood to wear. Then I remembered that I still had a bag of Adrianna’s prepregnancy clothes to root through. In spite of my loyalty to Adrianna, I dreaded the inevitable day when her fabulous clothes would once again fit her, and she’d demand their return. In the meantime, I was making the most of the goods. Until now, I’d been wearing her summer things, but it was relatively cool this evening. In almost no time, the fall clothes that had been stashed in a large bag in my front closet were strewn all over my bed, and within minutes, I was wearing a brand-new outfit. Ade’s pants were a mile too long for me, so I opted for a camel-colored wrap skirt that could’ve been meant to be long and an off-white scoop-neck top. I pulled on some nylons and shoes, and feeling like a crazy cat lady, ordered Gato and Inga to behave themselves. Then I left for Alloy.

On-street parking in the South End can be tough to find, but I lucked into a legal spot about a block away from Alloy—a block away according to Google Maps, anyway. Still, I had a hard time finding Alloy, mainly because I expected it to occupy one of the charming old brick town houses that are typical of the South End. In fact, the outside of the restaurant was so modern that I couldn’t even figure out how to enter the building. Large metal-framed glass panels covered the face of the eatery. Peering in, I saw Robin and Nelson seated at a stainless-steel table off to the left. Robin was talking on her cell phone but caught my eye and waved. I casually waved back and pretended to inspect the architecture. The glass panels all looked the same to me, and I could not for the life of me determine which one was the entrance. No welcome signs, no door handles, no overhead awning! Metal light fixtures that hung equidistant from one another across the length of the restaurant facade provided not a hint about where to enter the restaurant. I walked slowly to my right and watched Robin’s face pinch in confusion. I then headed left and, in desperation, ran my hand along the side of the building in hope of discovering a tactile clue about how to get in and have dinner here.

Aha! I touched a barely noticeable keyhole and pushed. What was presumably the door hardly moved, so I gave a kick and, at last, found myself in the interior of Alloy, which was so hard to break into that it should have been named Fort Knox. If the food was as crummy as the reviews claimed, maybe the owners were deliberately trying to keep customers out.

Finding no hostess up front to greet me, I simply joined Robin and Nelson at their table. “Hello,” I said but was unable to take a seat because there were no more chairs at the table. “Oh, I guess I better ask for a chair.” I whirled around to find a staff member to help me.

“No, Chloe, you have a seat. There’s a stool under the table,” Robin explained.

Indeed, hidden beneath the table was a backless stainless-steel stool. Doing my best to hide my surprise, I pulled it out. “I see. How . . . modern.”

Who the heck wanted to eat while sitting on a cushion-less, backless metal stool? First I’d been unable to come in, and now I didn’t want to sit down. The entire room was so heavily decorated in metal that I wondered whether I should have worn the Tin Man’s outfit out to dinner. Perching on the stool, I silently vowed to avoid alcohol tonight lest I get off balance and tumble off my seat.

“So,” Robin said with a bright smile, “Marlee should be out any minute. As soon as she gets a break.” I looked at Robin’s beady eyes and was struck by the realization that she quite strongly resembled a hedgehog: a cute, delicate little body that you just wanted to pick up in your hand and cuddle. Except that I knew what a nasty bitch she could be while directing a shoot.

Despite the unusual and, I thought, unfriendly decor, Alloy was about three-quarters full of diners. I suspected that the would-be patrons who’d have made up the fourth quarter had been unable to locate the door.

“How are you, Chloe?” I barely recognized Nelson without his camera pointed in my face. His plaid golfer’s cap, which concealed his bald spot, seemed to violate Alloy’s unofficial dress code, which evidently called for trendy formality. And the hat made it unattractively obvious that Nelson’s ears were three sizes too big for his head. I was glad that I’d raided my cache of Ade’s fall outfits.“You doin’ okay after what happened with Francie?”

“I’m all right, I guess. Still in a state of shock, I think, but I’m okay.” I really did not want to rehash the details of that fatal day. Besides, to ferret out anything incriminating about Robin or Nelson, I’d need to use subtle methods; I couldn’t just blurt out the questions I actually wanted to ask, such as whether either one of them had murdered Francie. Thankfully, we were interrupted.

A waitress approached our table to deliver menus. She held up a pitcher of ice water. “Would you like me to refill your drinking vessels?”

Our drinking vessels? You had to be kidding me. But the pretentious phrase was oddly appropriate: the cylindrical metal tubes that sat on our table certainly were not glasses. “No, thank you. I’m fine,” I said while sucking in my cheeks to hide my smile.

The waitress poured water for Nelson and Robin while she robotically recited the specials. “Alloy uses herbs that the chef grows in her own garden. All of our dishes are complemented by fresh herbs. Tonight we have a cucumber soup made with organic cucumbers, crème fraîche, and homegrown dill, and garnished with a spiral of lemon zest.” She looked down and flicked a piece of lint off her apron. “Then there’s a farm-raised chicken leg encrusted with fresh herbs and roasted with a mélange of organic mushrooms and topped with a truffle foam.”

Are the herbs fresh? I wanted to ask. Could you tell us one more time? I also refrained from asking whether it was only the leg of the chicken that had been raised on a farm, whereas the rest of the bird had grown up elsewhere. And no way was I going to eat foam. I’d seen enough Top Chef episodes to know that gastronomic foam meant a substance that looked like spit. The waitress left the table without so much as a nod.

Robin raised her glass. Whoops! Pardon me. Robin lifted her drinking vessel. “Cheers to the wedding!” She took a sip and opened the menu. “Let’s take a look at what else Marlee has for us.” Addressing me, she advised, “Sometimes it’s best to order off the menu.”

The menu had such long, grandiloquent descriptions that it was all I could do to decipher what was actually being offered. Also, I had the sense that I was reading a culinary version of the “The Twelve Days of Christmas”: nearly every dish included numbers: Six Clams Simmered in White Wine and Five-Herb Garlic Butter, Two Slices of Pork Loin Seared and Served with a Three-Potato Gallette, and A Tower of Four Shrimp with Seven Seasonal Vegetables.

“Fiiiive golden rings!” I sang in my head.

Because I wasn’t sure whether Robin was paying for dinner, the high prices had me scanning the menu for the cheapest items. Furthermore, the reports on the Mayor’s Food Court had left me leery. Under no circumstances did I ever go out of my way to order a dish garnished with food-borne illness—Salmon with Salmonella, let’s say, or Sole on a Bed of E. coli Spinach—but now, a few days before Adrianna’s shower, I especially wanted avoid the risk. I decided on the cucumber soup and roasted cod. As I decoded the description of the fish, the dish had something to do with pureed chickpeas and, needless to say, a mountain of fresh herbs.

“So I gather that fresh herbs are the theme of this restaurant, huh?” I asked the table.

“Absolutely,” Robin answered.

“I wonder how Marlee finds time to garden? Considering that she must work here all the time.”

“Oh, she’s an avid gardener. And the herbs are very important to her.”

Hmm. An avid gardener who might grow more than just herbs? “Does either of you garden?”

Nelson shook his head. “Nah. I don’t care about flowers and all that. I’ve got a small apartment with no yard, anyhow.”

“Same here,” Robin said. “I’ve got a black thumb when it comes to flowers. Not that my apartment has a yard or a balcony, even, but I can’t keep so much as a houseplant alive. I forget to water them. Marlee!” Robin stood up and smiled as Marlee made her way through the dining room.

The female chef looked even pastier than the last time I’d seen her, and her soiled white chef’s coat did nothing to flatter her stocky figure. “I heard you were out here, Robin.” Marlee tucked her short hair behind her ears, a move that only exaggerated her round face. I caught sight of her dirty fingernails and desperately prayed that she was cooking with gloves on. “I’m so glad to see you. Hi, Nelson. Hi, Chloe. I have to get back in the kitchen, but I wanted to say hello and let you know that I’ll send food out for you, so don’t bother with the menus, okay? I’ll pop out again if I can.” Marlee smiled curtly and waved.

Robin reached under the table and pulled a yellow note-pad from her bag. “Now, I want to talk about the process of obtaining permission to solemnize a marriage. This is going to be a great piece. We’re not filming today, because I want to run the story by the station first, but they’re just going to love it.”

Phew! So I’d continue to be spared Nelson’s camera. I went over the simple process of solemnization with Robin, while Nelson munched on a green bread stick that, according to Robin, was flavored with pureed fresh thyme.

“Adrianna is really excited at the idea of having her wedding filmed,” I said. “If it weren’t for you, the only footage she’d have would be from a home video camera, and the result would be shaky images and bad lighting. With the baby coming so soon and the shower this weekend, this is one less thing she needs to worry about.”

Robin’s eyes lit up as I talked. “So, wait! Adrianna is giving birth soon after the wedding?” She looked at Nelson.

“Cool. Now I’m really interested in filming the wedding. Maybe she’ll go into labor! Talk about good film.” Nelson’s eyes brightened, probably in the hope that Adrianna’s water would break in the middle of her vows.

“Well, we must film the shower then, too! What an exciting time for your friends, Chloe. And maybe I can use some of the footage of the shower in the piece on solemnization. This will be wonderful!”

“Sure. I guess that would be okay with Adrianna.” I made a mental note to add two more people to the guest list for Saturday. “And Adrianna will still have a few weeks before she’s due. So,” I said lightly as I eyed Nelson, “let’s plan on filming the shower and the wedding and not the delivery on the same day.” As if Nelson’s hopes could induce labor! Still, I had the superstitious sense that his greed for dramatic events to film could jinx Adrianna.

Robin’s cell phone rang shrilly. When she pulled it out of her purse, its color—metallic hot pink—should have told me that she had no desire to use it unobtrusively. Foolishly, I expected her to turn it off. Instead, she not only answered but spoke loudly. “Hello? What? I can’t hear you. Speak up. This isn’t really a good time. Not now.” Although the people at the next table glared at her, Robin kept talking. Meanwhile, Nelson and I sat in uncomfortable silence, unable to converse even if we’d wanted to over Robin’s noisy phone call. She finally snapped her phone shut.

Food began to arrive. Mindful of the Mayor’s Food Court, I looked nervously at my plate as I inspected its contents for signs of improper storage or rat poop. Finding nothing noticeably wrong, I picked up my fork and stared in disbelief: the fork had only two tines. I looked at Robin and Nelson, and then glanced around at other customers who were eating. Was I the only one who found it completely bizarre that we were expected to use this prong? Evidently so. Reconciling myself to impaling my food or possibly balancing it, I turned to a dish that Marlee had sent out, a shrimp tower of sorts that initially resisted the attack I mounted with the not-a-fork. After a couple of failed efforts, I had to use my fingers to yank out a rosemary spear that elevated the shrimp above a mountain of thick brown mush almost covered in what appeared to be grass clippings. Although the shrimp were terribly overcooked, I managed to chew and swallow a few bites, but I nearly choked on a small prongful of grass.

“It’s got a kick to it, huh?” Robin handed me my water. “That’s the jalapeño Marlee puts in her mushroom and sprout puree.”

“Very unusual,” I sputtered.

Robin’s cell phone went off again, and she began another loud exchange. A male server approached our table. “Ma’am? I need to ask you to turn off your phone.” He pointed to a prominent sign on the wall requesting that all cell phones be turned off in the restaurant.

“Oh, all right,” Robin said sharply to the server. “Shit, I’ll go outside.” She made quite a display of stomping across the floor and rolling her eyes as she marched out of the restaurant. At least she found the exit. I made a mental note of its location. Looking embarrassed, the server left the table.

“Just you and me, Chloe.” Nelson chomped happily on the vile food. “I’ve been hoping to get a chance to talk to you. Maybe we can find some time to talk on Saturday at the shower.”

Eeek! To cut Nelson off, I signaled the server who had asked Robin to leave. She’d been so rude to him that I felt compelled to apologize, as I couldn’t do in her presence. “The sign about not using cell phones is pretty clear,” I said. “I’m sorry for what happened.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Friend of the chef. That’s how it is. Thanks, though. Excuse me, I have an order to bring out.”

Nelson was gazing at me with strange intensity; he almost seemed to be in a trance. In what I intended as a startling tone, I said, “I didn’t know that Robin and Marlee were friends. I thought they just knew each other from Chefly Yours.”

“Oh, yeah. They’ve been good friends for a while. Robin wants to keep that quiet, though, because she doesn’t want it to look like she’s playing favorites on the show.”

Well, Robin most certainly was playing favorites! And having a chef friend of hers in the competition was bad enough, but keeping the friendship secret was even worse. Granted, Robin couldn’t control the number of viewers who actually called in to vote for each chef, but for all I knew, she could falsify the voting results. What if Marlee ended up winning the show because Robin had tinkered with the numbers?

I was fuming. It ticked me off to realize that Josh could lose to a chef who served such disgusting food at her restaurant. In the single episode that Marlee had done, the food had looked better than the revolting stuff I’d eaten tonight, but Josh’s cooking was incomparably better than Marlee’s, and his on-camera personality outshone Marlee’s by light-years.

Nelson’s hand slithered across the table toward mine. I swiftly yanked my hand away while desperately looking around for Robin. Mercifully, she was on her way back to her stool.

“Sorry about that. That waiter is an asshole.”

I pushed my food around on my plate and watched in awe as Robin polished hers clean. Nelson ate all of his food, too, but he struck me as someone who’d be unable to discriminate between a dinner at a run-down roadside shack and one at La Tour d’Argent. When the entrées appeared, I repeated the process of pushing my food around and managed to ingest only a tiny portion of the lavender-and-oregano-infused salmon that Marlee had chosen for us. Chosen for us? Inflicted on us, I should say.

To avoid Nelson’s ogling, I shifted around to face Robin and concentrated on giving her a detailed description of the wedding plans. Robin sounded delighted to have the opportunity to produce Adrianna and Owen’s wedding video and assured me she’d edit the footage down and set it to whatever music the couple wanted.

“Another delicious meal!” Robin pronounced as the waitress cleared our plates. “After that, I think I’m too full for dessert tonight.”

“I agree. Stuffed. I’m absolutely stuffed.” The last thing I wanted was cilantro-scented ice cream or whatever other vile dessert Marlee would send out. I was already brainstorming about where to stop on the way home to buy an edible dinner.

“Would you like to go see the kitchen? I know Marlee wouldn’t mind.” Robin put her napkin down and gestured to the depths of the restaurant. “Nelson, we’ll be back in a minute. Here’s my credit card. Will you get the check?”

“I’d love to see Alloy’s kitchen,” I said cheerfully. I went on to thank Robin for treating me to dinner. Thank God I hadn’t paid out of my own pocket for that terrible meal.

A restaurant kitchen was no novelty to me—I already knew the ins and outs of Simmer’s—and I was less than eager to examine the source of dishes that had made me gag, but I could hardly say so to Robin, who was Marlee’s friend and who was footing the bill. Still, a visit to Alloy’s kitchen would give me the chance to see for myself whether there were any signs of all those code violations I’d read about. There presumably wouldn’t be rodents or insects in sight, but I was so used to Josh’s exceptionally sterile kitchen that I should be able to detect iffy conditions in Marlee’s.

As it turned out, no experience was required to spot unhygienic areas in Alloy’s kitchen. Chicken pieces lay uncovered on a plastic cutting board, their juices running onto the counter and floor. The floors were wet and filthy, and the one drain I could see was covered in gray gunk. In contrast to the minimalist metallic dining area, the entire kitchen had an air of chaos. I did notice a spray sanitizer, but its nozzle hung over containers of chopped vegetables that sat on a long stainless counter. The soap dispenser over the sink was empty, its drip spout clogged. I shuddered to think of the bacteria that must already be growing in my poor gut.

“How was your meal?” Marlee rounded the corner from behind a high shelf that held teetering pots and pans. “Not too shabby, was it?” She smiled at what she assumed to be her outstanding culinary skills. She wiped her forehead with a dish towel and then slapped it onto the counter, where it landed in the chicken juice.

“Brilliant, again, Marlee,” Robin chirped.

“Thanks. Business has been up and down.” Marlee shrugged and examined her filthy hands with no visible alarm. “What’re you going to do, right? I just do the best I can and put out a great product. Anyone who wants to complain can get out.”

“Thanks so much, Marlee,” I said politely, resisting the impulse to douse her with a bottle of sanitizer. “And, Robin? I’ll give Adrianna your number so she can call you tomorrow and talk to you about the shower.” I couldn’t wait to escape. “I should get going,” I said. I gave Robin quick directions to my parents’ house and said good-bye.

As I turned to leave, I noticed a large corkboard by the doors to the dining room. Pinned to it were the usual permits and postings from the state, but what stuck out was the Boston Mystery Diner’s damning review of Alloy. The article was covered in black marker: a large X ran across the typeface, and “Eat Me!” and “Screw You!” were printed in angry letters at the top of the page.

Most noticeable, however, was a gleaming, stainless-steel knife that had been plunged into the center of the review.