Murder Al Dente

by Nancy Skopin

  I took out my cell phone and documented everything that had occurred, so I could transcribe it later in my report for the owner.

  Troy did not bring my latte immediately, but served it when he brought my side salad. The latte was lukewarm, so I asked him to bring me another that was at the appropriate temperature. His face reddened, showing some color for the first time, but he nodded and took the latte back to the barista.

  My salad had been dressed with the shiitake vinaigrette I’d requested on the side, but I wasn’t going to bust Troy’s chops about something so insignificant. It would, however, be noted in my report. I took a few bites while I watched the barista build me a new latte. As soon as he’d filled the cup, Troy, who had been waiting nearby, collected the beverage and promptly delivered it to me. I thanked him politely, and he nodded and turned away.

  All food servers are trained to check on customer satisfaction within the first five minutes. Troy did not inquire as to my satisfaction with my salad. Instead he walked to the kitchen pass-through, picked up my oysters on the half shell, and deposited them on my table.

  “Bon appétit,” he mumbled, and moved on to another unsuspecting victim.

  Not even terrible service could dampen my appetite for fresh oysters. I savored every one, adding only a few drops of lime juice to enhance their natural flavor. By the time I’d finished my mollusks and my salad, no to-go box of diced chicken breast had arrived at my table. Good thing Buddy wasn’t waiting in the car.

  I had to wave at Troy to get his attention so I could request the check. When he delivered it I read each line item, and noticed that I had been charged for the diced chicken breast. I took out my cell phone and photographed the tab while considering whether or not I wanted to press the issue. The nature of my job makes anonymity important, but on a personal level I hate being taken advantage of.

  After more waving to get Troy’s attention again, he huffed back over to my table. I held the check up in front of him, pointing to the item I’d circled. He leaned in to read it, glared at me, then turned his attention to the kitchen pass-through. My to-box was sitting on the counter. Troy let out an exasperated sigh and stomped over to the pass-through, snatched up the box, and returned to my table where he tossed it, unceremoniously, into my lap. That did it. No tip for this guy. I extracted exact change to cover the bill and handed it to him. After counting my money and realizing he wasn’t going to be receiving a gratuity he clearly hadn’t earned, he gave me another glare and stuffed the check and cash into his apron pocket. I smiled and asked the question that had been nagging at me since my arrival. “Hey, Troy, what would you rather be doing?”

  I’d caught him mid-turn and he spun back to face me with a puzzled expression on his face. “Excuse me?”

  “It’s obvious you hate waiting tables,” I said. “What would you rather be doing?”

  He furrowed his brow, perhaps trying to figure out if I was being sarcastic or if my interest was genuine. He finally made his decision and sat down in the chair across from me.

  “I have a Master’s degree in interior design from the Art Institute of Portland,” he said.

  “Holy shit,” I blurted. “Sorry. So what happened?”

  Troy looked disconsolately around the restaurant, his shoulders sagging, and said, “Life happened. I moved to California thinking there would be more of a market for my skills. I eventually got an internship and worked my ass off while the people who were getting paid for the job I was doing took all the credit. I guess I chose the wrong firm. When I complained to the managing partner, he sided with the woman I’d been working with, and I got canned. Can you believe it? I got fired from a job I wasn’t even getting paid for. That kind of took the bloom off the rose.”

  It was obvious that losing his dream had made Troy bitter. For some twisted reason, I wanted to help him.

  “How long ago did this happen?”

  His pale face reddened. “Two years.”

  “So you’ve been waiting tables for two years?”

  “Actually, I’m new here, but yeah, I’ve been waiting tables for the last two years.”

  Well, shit. Now I was going to feel guilty when I turned in my report. I pulled a twenty out of my wallet and handed it to him.

  “You can’t give up on your dream, Troy. I don’t know much about interior design, but when I was looking at houses a couple of years ago, I learned that realtors employ decorators to do something called staging for open houses. Maybe you can get some part time staging jobs, just to keep your creativity alive.”

  Troy tilted his head to the side, letting the idea sink in. “You’re not so bad for a spotter,” he said.

  “What did you say?”

  “I know who you are. One of the cooks has seen you in here a couple of times and told me I needed to impress you. That pissed me off, you may have noticed.”

  “How did the cook know what I do for a living?”

  “He saw one of your reports on the owner’s desk. Said he remembered you because you always order the oysters. He read the date on the report, saw the oysters listed, and put two and two together.”

  “So you intentionally did a lousy job of serving me?”

  “Pretty stupid, huh?”

  “Are you trying to get fired?”

  “Maybe.”

  I shook my head. If all the employees knew who I was, I was screwed.

  “Can you do me a favor?” I asked.

  “What?”

  “Can you not tell the other employees about me?”

  “Doesn’t matter. I’ll probably lose my job when you turn in your report on my performance today.”

  “I’m not going to write a report on today’s... experience. Clean up your act here and take care of your customers. I’ll be back, and next time I’ll follow through and report everything that happens. Also, promise me you’ll look into the staging idea.”

  Troy smiled for the first time since I’d entered the restaurant. It was a nice smile and it totally changed his face.

  “I can do that,” he said.

  “I’ll see you soon. Good luck, Troy.”

  CHAPTER 3

  When I returned to the marina I stopped by Kirk’s boat and split the diced chicken breast between Buddy and D’Artagnon, then Buddy and I hiked up to my office. Since there wasn’t anything I could do on Chet’s case until the CIS reports came in, I opened my bar and restaurant schedule. I had a dinner survey at Benedetto tonight. My reservation was for two at 7:00 p.m. I wondered if Bill would join me. Normally I’d invite Elizabeth, but the thought of more wedding angst made me shudder.

  I called Bill on his cell. One of the things my mentor, Sam Pettigrew, drummed into me was to always note how many times a phone rings before the subject answers. Now I automatically make a mental note of that detail. Bill answered on the fourth ring.

  “Hey, babe. What’s up?”

  “Are you working late tonight?”

  “Not if I can help it. Why?”

  “I’m doing a dinner survey at Benedetto at seven. Thought you might like to be my beard.” Eating alone draws attention, so whenever possible I bring along a beard, which is PI speak for a companion with whom you are less conspicuous that you would otherwise be.

  “Sounds great. I should be home by six.”

  “Perfect.”

  I shot a quick e-mail to the owner of Caliente, apologizing for a scheduling error and promising I’d get that lunch survey done in the immediate future. I didn’t bother waiting for a response.

  Buddy and I walked over to the marina mailboxes and collected my personal mail. My business mail is delivered to my office. Most of what I’d received was junk, so I tossed it in a trash can outside the Diving Pelican restaurant. We then strolled down to the docks and stopped to visit with D’Artagnon again before continuing on to my boat, Turning Point.

  I called Elizabeth to see how she was doing with the latest wedding dilemma while going through my hanging locker to select an ensemble for this even
ing. She picked up on the third ring.

  “Hi, honey.”

  “Hey. Made any decisions about the menu, flowers, and cake?”

  “Not really.”

  “Tell me the options again.”

  “Chicken or salmon, orchids or lilies, Swiss chocolate cake with cream cheese icing or vanilla cake with raspberry compote between the layers and vanilla butter cream frosting.”

  “Yum. I think I just gained ten pounds. Would you like to hear my opinion?”

  “Of course.”

  “Great. Salmon, orchids, and the Swiss chocolate cake with cream cheese frosting.”

  “Noted. So what are you up to?”

  “Trying to pick an outfit for dinner with Bill at Benedetto. I can’t decide between the sleeveless red sheath and the strapless indigo blue.”

  “Benedetto is in Belmont, right?”

  “Yes. Why does that make a difference?”

  “Well, if you were going to San Francisco for dinner, you’d need to bring a jacket. It’ll be in the low seventies in Belmont, though the restaurant is probably air conditioned.”

  “I hope you’re going somewhere with this.”

  She laughed. “Not really. I’m just messing with you. I think you should wear the blue strapless number. It looks great on you, and since Bill will be there, you won’t have to worry about other patrons following you home.”

  “That only happened one time, and the guy was a multiple murderer.”

  “Still.”

  “Okay, I’ll go with the blue.”

  Bill arrived home a little before 6:00. I’d already fed and walked Buddy and was decked out in my indigo dress along with the turquoise necklace and earrings Bill had given me for Valentine’s Day last year. His reaction to the ensemble was enthusiastic, and we barely made our reservation.

  CHAPTER 4

  Benedetto is a Northern Italian restaurant with a charming, old-world atmosphere. It’s on Ralston Avenue, just a block from Alameda De Las Pulgas. Even though they have patio seating, we’d left Buddy at home. We would only be gone a few hours, and he was getting better about being left alone on the boat.

  We were seated promptly by a blonde hostess in a little black dress and four inch stiletto heels. She spent more time admiring Bill than she did paying attention to her hostess duties, not that I blamed her. Bill is eye-candy. He’s five-eleven, lean but muscular, clean-shaven, and has wavy black hair just beginning to show some gray around the temples. His brown eyes turn hazel when he’s feeling amorous, his lips are full, and his nose slightly Roman. His complexion is dark, due to his Native American heritage. Bill is Lakota Sioux on his mother’s side and Irish on his father’s. Tonight he was wearing a navy-blue Calvin Klein shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, a pair of black Bachrach slacks, and black cap-toe oxfords. Delicious.

  When the hostess finally pulled her attention away from my sig-other, she deigned to mention that our server, Emilio, would be with us shortly, and handed each of us a menu. Now the fun begins. One of the things I love about Benedetto is that they serve a number of entrées which are low in both carbs and calories. Not what you’d expect from an Italian restaurant. The reason for tonight’s survey was the new chef. The owner, Anna Maria Miola, utilized only recipes of her own creation, which she expected her staff to follow, but on occasion the more creative among them would improvise. I’ve been doing surveys for Anna Maria for three years. I’ve sampled every entrée on the menu and my palate has an excellent memory.

  Emilio greeted us warmly and asked if we had any questions about the menu. We did not. He then asked if we’d like to hear the evening’s specials. I listened with interest as he described the Melanzane al Forno, which is baked eggplant with Parmesan and mozzarella in a marinara sauce, and the Red Snapper alla Picatta, which is pan seared with lemon, capers, and a pinot grigio sauce over sautéed spinach. See what I mean? Fish and spinach. A perfect Zone meal.

  Emilio left us to consider our options while he placed our drink orders.

  “What’s good here?” Bill asked.

  “Everything,” I said, and I wasn’t exaggerating. “I’m going to have the Insalata Trevisana and the Osso Buco.”

  Bill checked his menu, reading the ingredients of the salad and entrée I’d chosen. “I’m not crazy about lamb,” he said. “I think I’ll try the Kobe Burger.”

  I know what you’re thinking. You don’t go to an authentic Italian restaurant and order a hamburger, but I’ve had the Kobe Burger. The hamburger patty is grilled and served as a panini within a freshly baked baguette, with exotic lettuce, organic beefsteak tomato, and red onions, and with the best shoestring fries I’ve ever tasted on the side. It was a good choice.

  Emilio returned to serve our drinks and took our orders. We both requested the Insalata Trevisana, and I ordered the Osso Buco and the Bresaola, without the grana cheese, in a to-go box, for Buddy. Bresaola is thinly sliced air-cured beef, in this case served with arugula. My boy loves his greens. Bill ordered the Kobe Burger medium rare.

  Fifteen minutes later, when our salads were served, I noticed a bit more radicchio and a little less arugula in the Insalata Trevisana. Not a difference the average patron would spot, but Anna Maria was a stickler for balance. This did not bode well for the new chef. The endive, crumbled Gorgonzola cheese, and caramelized walnuts were the usual ratio, and the vinaigrette tasted as it should. I polished off my salad and decided the additional radicchio wasn’t unpleasant, even though I’m partial to arugula.

  Emilio collected our salad plates promptly and a few minutes later served our entrées. The Osso Buco was beautifully plated with a side of soft polenta and asparagus, but I found myself swooning at the aroma wafting in my direction from Bill’s Kobe Burger. I reached out and snatched one of his fries as he cut the burger in half. Maybe he’d be willing to trade half of his burger for all of my polenta?

  I sliced a small bite of the braised lamb shank and dipped it in the au jus before lifting it to my lips. I savored the multitude of flavors before slowly chewing the tender meat. Delicious, but something was different. I cut another small bite and this time I held the lamb up to my nose before popping it into my mouth. Did I smell fennel? There was a subtle aroma of licorice. I placed the morsel in my mouth and held it on my tongue until I was sure. Yep. Definitely fennel, and not part of Anna Maria’s recipe. She was going to be pissed, but I thought the fennel added something to the flavor of the lamb. I’d suggest she try it before firing her new chef.

  Bill took a tentative bite of his burger and groaned in appreciation. I made a note of his opinion for my report.

  “So how is Elizabeth doing with the wedding plans?” he asked.

  “She’s going a little bridezilla. Second guessing decisions she made a month ago. I hope Jack doesn’t change his mind about marrying her. She’s kind of hard to handle when she gets all OCD.”

  “Speaking of Jack, where did you decide to hold the bachelor party?”

  “We have a seven p.m. reservation at King’s Alley a week from Saturday. I hope you can make it. Jack doesn’t have many friends in this country.” Jack was born in the States, but after his parents were killed, he was raised by his grandparents in Ireland.

  “I have every intention of being there, providing I don’t get caught up in a homicide investigation.”

  “Lily’s holding Elizabeth’s bachelorette lingerie party at Jack’s estate on the same night. I hate to miss that, but since I’m Jack’s best man, I have to host his bachelor party. Elizabeth decided both events should take place on the sixteenth so she doesn’t have to kick Jack out of his own home while celebrating with her girlfriends. Lily says she’ll take pictures so I can see what I missed.”

  When we’d finished our entrées Emilio returned to remove our plates and silverware, then asked if we’d like dessert or coffee. We declined, and he placed a leather folder on the table, equidistant between me and Bill, and departed.

  I read all the items listed on the tab and verified that the pr
ices were accurate before slipping my credit card into the folder and handing it to Emilio as he passed our table on his way to the kitchen. He nodded his thanks and made his way to the register, returning with a credit card slip and an itemized receipt. I added a healthy tip, thanked Emilio for a lovely dinner, and turned to Bill expectantly. He raised his eyebrows in question before rising to pull out my chair for me. It’s a game we play. I pretend to be offended when he opens doors for me or assists me with my chair, and he pretends to take my objections seriously.

  Back at the marina, I walked down the companionway to the docks holding onto Bill’s arm. It was low tide, and the steel ramp was steep. I didn’t look up until we’d reached the bottom, then immediately noticed that Chet’s mega-yacht was no longer docked at his end tie. He’d apparently taken his own advice and decided to anchor out for as long as it took to identify and eliminate the threat. Hopefully CIS would get me something to go on soon. If not, I trusted that Chet’s yacht was well provisioned.

  Buddy was delighted with his arugula and Bresaola. I fed him alternating bites of lettuce and beef. He chewed the lettuce. The beef, not so much. When he’d finished his treat Bill gave him a Greenie dental chew and hooked his leash to his collar. Before they left for Buddy’s walk, I told Bill I’d be up at my office for a while. I wanted to change clothes before typing my report, so I ducked into the stateroom and stripped out of my dress and sandals and climbed into a comfortable pair of jeans, a red Hawaiian shirt, and my cross-trainers. I pocketed my keys and my cell phone, and hiked up to shore.

  I’m not one of those people who is kept awake by caffeine. I stay awake because I think too much. So I brewed a pot of coffee, turned on my laptop, and transferred my notes from my iPhone, fleshing out the details of the evening’s dining experience. Fifty-five minutes and two cups of Kona later I was hopeful that after reading my report Anna Maria would keep her new chef, though I was sure she would give him a piece of her mind for deviating, even slightly, from her prized recipes. I e-mailed her the report and an invoice, and called it a night.