by Robin Allen
I had allowed enough time to feed and coffee myself, but if I wanted to start my day without a confrontation with an enraged elf, I would have to either find nourishment on the way or do without. I groomed and dressed, then tiptoed through the house and out the door to catch Epicrustinaceous doing whatever it is Magda Z wanted me to see. Tips like hers, from a reliable source who isn’t trying to start trouble or get even, always pay off, and I felt wide awake from the excitement and the briskness of 80-degree morning temperatures, but I still needed coffee. Surprisingly, not many coffee places are open that early.
My choices were either a convenience store or an all-night restaurant, so I resigned myself to doing without. But then I remembered that it was Friday and Markham’s baker, Hannah, would have been there since 3:00 am preparing rolls, cakes, and muffins for Sunday brunch. She also prepares the most righteous breakfast blend.
I had two surprises when I pulled up behind the restaurant. The first was that there were two cars: Hannah’s vintage gold Mercedes sedan, which she claims was a gift from an Arab oil sheik, and a gray truck. The second surprise was that the truck had Colorado license plates. What was Drew doing there so early? I sat in my Jeep trying to decide if I should go inside, because really, not even a stray dog would believe that I went there at 4:30 in the morning for coffee and Drew just happened to be there.
My idling Jeep motor must have made Hannah curious, because the back door opened to reveal her warm smile ahead of the noble fragrance of baking sourdough and cinnamon. Drew and the stray dog could believe whatever they wanted. I was going in.
Before I made it through the door, she bussed me on both cheeks and assessed my physical appearance. “I like you in black,” she said in her lingering German accent. “Come, come, have some breakfast. It has been too long.”
“You look wonderful, Hannah,” I said.
She hugged me again, then waved me through the door. “In, in, before my babies are ruined.” Meaning that the slightest change in kitchen humidity would turn her rolls into gooey blobs.
I waited while she put a warm lingonberry muffin on a plate, then poured coffee into a mug. I knew better than to touch anything under her gray-blue gaze. While Hannah was there, the kitchen belonged to her. Even Ursula deferred to her when their schedules overlapped.
Hannah set my breakfast on the counter. “Now,” she said. “Eat.”
She began to punch down a batch of dough on the counter as she dined on my moans and yums, filling with pride while pshawing my compliments. “A little flour, a little sugar,” she said. “No magic.”
“Is Drew here?” I asked, waving off another muffin.
She put it in a white paper bag along with a couple of warm sourdough rolls. “Drew who?”
“Cooper. Mitch brought him back as the manager. His truck is outside.”
She sprinkled flour on the dough. “That was here when I came, but I have been alone all morning.”
I excused myself to the bathroom but checked the office instead. Door locked, light out, no Drew. Had he gone home with someone? With Ursula? My heart revved with something that could have been either too much coffee or a little bit of jealousy. It had to be the coffee. Jamie and I were mostly mended, and as long as Drew and Ursula kept Mitch happy and Markham’s prospering, why should I care what they did in private?
On my way back through the wait station, I caught sight of yesterday’s date on the specials board: June 3. That put Ursula’s birthday two days away. My heart decelerated. If Drew had gone home with someone, and that someone wasn’t Ursula, and Ursula found out about it, someone else might win the Diva Pot.
x x x
By the time I arrived at Lunch and Larder at 5:15 am, several go-getters had already prepped and loaded and were filing past the guard shack, eager to get a good location or defend their territory. I showed my badge to the guard and parked near the main building.
Shepherded by my flashlight, I made my way down aisle 100 toward my quarry. One row back and two spots over from 218 was empty in both directions, so Epicrustaceanality had caught a break, but spot 218 wasn’t so lucky. Olive didn’t say that our experiment doing inspections on location had to be done during certain hours, and while I would have preferred the assistance of daylight, Pizza Pig was getting inspected whether they liked it or not.
The truck looked as Magda Z had described: plain white with no markings, and the typical flap doors that opened into awnings during service. I saw no lights or activity, but thought I heard movement inside. I hoped the operators weren’t sleeping in their truck. Serious no-no.
I stepped onto the running board of the driver’s side and looked in, then tapped the window with my flashlight. “Health inspector,” I called.
In less time than it takes for lightning to strike, a snout and fangs appeared in the window, barking out a very clear instruction. I did as ordered and backed off, falling off the truck and landing on my rump. How can anyone think it’s okay to keep a dog trapped inside a food truck overnight? Not only for the health violations, but for the cruelty to the animal.
My rational mind assured me that the dog couldn’t open the door, but my instincts insisted I get far away. I scooted toward the back of the truck and stuck the butt end of my flashlight between my teeth to free both hands to pull myself up. My light fell across something on the back of the truck, which I hoped might be some sort of identifier I could use if I saw the truck out on the street.
Indeed it was: scrapings of bright yellow pylon paint decorating a large dent in the bumper.
So, not only had Pizza Pig been hiding in plain sight at Capital Punishment, they were serving junk food without a permit. Olive and Jamie would both need to know, but not at 5:30 in the morning.
I had so much to do—confront Todd and Ginger about their affair; get a look at Troy’s suicide note; find Troy’s notebook and the secrets hidden inside; and look through John Without’s photos. But my home computer was fried, and I couldn’t use my office computer for personal business, so I would have to use Jamie’s. Except letting Jamie see those photos might be considered a breach of confidentiality. I would have to work that out later.
I also had to check the ventilation system and who knows what else at Capital Punishment. Even if Miles was already working at this hour, it was unlikely that Danny or Todd would be there, so Miles wouldn’t let me onsite.
If the Pizza Pig guy saw me hanging around his truck, he would never show his face. Better to catch him later at Capital Punishment. Plus, I didn’t know how long he would be and didn’t have time to wait.
I drove west to surprise a few sleepy breakfast cooks in Gavin’s district and was able to inspect three restaurants before the smell of fried bacon made me sick. I knocked off around 9:30 am and headed south.
As I drove down Slaughter, I could barely contain my excitement at finally coming face to face with my work nemesis. I hadn’t even been inside the Pizza Pig truck and I already had so much on them—operating without a permit, keeping live animals in a food prep area, evading a health inspection. Okay, I’m making that last one up, but it should be against health regulations to miss inspection appointments. As far as I was concerned, they had already failed, and today would be their last meal service.
When I pulled around to the back of Capital Punishment, I couldn’t decide if it was Pizza Pig’s lucky day or mine.
twenty-nine
The food truck wasn’t there, but GSHARP and 88 were, probably celebrating their illicit love now that Troy was out of the way. “Not so fast,” I said to myself as I walked through the back door.
The office door was open, and Todd sat behind the desk holding a piece of paper. Ginger stood behind him and dropped her hand from his shoulder when I appeared in the doorway.
“There’s Poppy!” Todd said. “I hope today is the day.” He sounded in high spirits.
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br /> “Me too,” I said. “Where are Miles and Danny?” I hadn’t seen their cars outside, but I wanted to make sure they couldn’t get an earful of the conversation we three were about to have.
“The snack truck didn’t show up,” Todd said, “so Miles is out getting food for his guys, and Danny’s on his way.”
“So it’s just you two love doves this morning,” I said. Their faces changed to what? Anger? Shock? Guilt? All of the above. “I saw a photo of you two kissing.”
“That’s impossible,” Ginger said.
“Why?” I asked. “Because you were so careful to hide your affair?”
Todd looked up at Ginger. “We’re not having an affair.”
Had I thought to print the photo and bring it with me, the part where I whipped it out would have been much more dramatic and effective. Instead I had to paint them a picture with words. “Late Monday morning. Troy outside dealing with the protesters. You two by the bar. You in your tennis whites. You with your hands all over her. Don’t tell me you were searching for lost tennis balls.”
Ginger said, “No one was in the building…”
“Except the photographer Troy hired,” I said. “Up on the catwalk.” I would never have another chance like this one, so I went for it. “If I were the police, I would think maybe you two killed Troy.”
Todd shot out of his chair. “That is completely out of line!”
Ginger didn’t surprise me when she insisted, “Troy killed himself,” but she did surprise me when she got weepy and asked Todd, “Do you think because of us?”
“No, no,” Todd said tenderly, pulling her to him. “The photographer hadn’t given us those pictures yet. Troy couldn’t have known.”
“Did he say why he killed himself in his suicide note?” I asked.
Ginger pulled away from Todd. “What is she talking about?”
“I have no idea,” he said, a warning in the look he gave me.
I ignored it. “Yes, you do, Todd. Danny wants to take it to the police, but you don’t want Ginger to see what it says.”
Her eyes held a mixture of danger and disbelief. “Give it to me.”
“Ginger,” he pleaded.
“Todd,” she cautioned.
He opened the desk drawer and pulled out a yellow sticky note—the one with my handwriting. The note I had left on Troy’s hard hat on Tuesday. What was he trying to pull? At that moment, though, my face was so neutral, I could have won the World Series of Poker with a pair of deuces.
Ginger wiped tears from her eyes then took the note from Todd. “I can’t make this out,” she said, handing it back to him.
I knew what I had written: Checked sinks. No hot water. CU Th at 8.
Todd said, “Checks sink. In hot water. Cut out eight.”
I had written the note with my hurt hand, so those words and letters could have looked like what Todd read. But why would he think those were Troy’s last words?
Ginger sniffled and took the note out of his hand. She repeated what Todd had read, then said, “I don’t understand.”
We both looked at Todd and waited for him to explain how that could be interpreted as a suicide note and what it meant. I also wanted to know what it told Ginger that she wasn’t supposed to know.
Todd launched a handful of eye daggers at me, then said, “Troy got into trouble writing bad checks.”
“Again!” Ginger cried. “That bum!”
“We hired a lawyer,” Todd said. “She was working it out, but in the meantime, she told him to stop writing checks and start paying cash.”
Shoot a doughnut! Everything had an explanation. That knocked out the mystery of the COD requests with his vendors and why Todd and Danny needed to meet with Suzi Grimm. A felony conviction for Troy would mean no liquor license, and an Austin restaurant that doesn’t serve liquor is an abandoned building. And if my note was Troy’s suicide note, that blew away my theory that it had been planted by the killer. Todd and Ginger had the best motive, but if they believed my note to be Troy’s, could they still be suspects?
On the other hand, no authentic note meant that it was even more likely that Troy had been murdered.
“Why do you think it was Troy who wrote that note?” I asked.
“‘Cut out eight,’” Todd said. “Since high school, Troy has always been number eight. He was cutting out, signing off.”
“Does that look like his handwriting?” I asked. “It could be fake.”
What Todd said was, “According to the autopsy report, he was pretty drunk when he died.” What he didn’t say was, “Why would someone write a fake note?”
“Troy really did commit suicide,” Ginger said, “but not because of us.” Apparently that was a load off her mind because her eyes had stopped drizzling.
I had a Hamlet-inspired question to answer: to tell or not to tell? Troy’s killer was probably quite happy that the note existed. If the police started questioning their own ruling of self-inflicted death, he or she could trot out the note as proof that Troy did it to himself. If asked why the note hadn’t surfaced until now, they could say they didn’t want to bring attention to Troy’s financial troubles. If I kept mum, Troy’s killer might get comfortable enough to make a mistake. But if I revealed myself as the note’s author, Troy’s killer might get nervous enough to make a mistake. And these two might be the killers.
I decided to bluff and see if I could get them to go all in. “Now that Ginger knows about the note, there’s no reason not to go to the police with it.”
“No!” Ginger cried.
What was this? I raised a questioning eyebrow.
“The insurance company thinks it’s an accident,” she said.
“But Troy is a multimillionaire,” I said. “You get his estate.”
“A multimillionaire? Is that what he told you?” She glanced at Todd. “Troy had millions of lies, not millions of dollars.”
“This place has all of us in serious debt right now,” Todd said.
“Another reason for you to kill Troy and make it look like an accident,” I said.
Todd took a step toward me, forcing me to step back into the kitchen. “First you accuse me and Danny,” he said, “and now me and Ginger. Why are you so hot to prove that someone killed my brother?”
I had bet big and didn’t expect them to raise, however small, and it stopped me. I couldn’t tell them that I had seen the crime scene photos because I would have to explain how I got ahold of them. And I didn’t want to tell them about the missing flashlight because it would reveal a key piece of evidence and give them a reason to kill me. I also didn’t think it would be a good idea to let them know how invested I was in my pursuit of the truth.
“I’m not,” I said. “This note proves that he killed himself, but if you want to keep it from the police and the insurance company, I’m not going to say anything.”
They both relaxed, then Todd said, “Where are we on the permit inspection?”
“Close,” I said. “The guys were sealing the floors yesterday and I couldn’t get to the bathrooms and check the water, so I still need to do that, and I need to check the vents above the grill.”
“Everything should be working.”
I had heard that so many times, it should be their tagline. “Give me a hard hat and I’ll get started.”
Ginger and Todd wouldn’t talk about anything important with me in the kitchen inspecting the vents, so I started with the upstairs bathrooms to give myself time to work out a new strategy and give my prime suspects time to conspire.
I went into the dining room to check progress. To keep the sealed floors looking nice, slightly elevated board planks had been placed throughout the room, with a network of boards leading to the bar, the double doors, and the downstairs bathrooms. Most of the construction workers ig
nored the walkways, imprinting the floor with their dusty footprints as they assembled the gallows scaffolding for the lights.
I turned back to the stairs in the wait station and ran into yet another obstacle, this one physical. The door to the stairs was blocked by a wheelbarrow full of cinder blocks too heavy to roll out of the way without help. I’m so used to doing things myself that I didn’t think to ask one of the guys to lend me their brawn. I leaned across the wheelbarrow, opened the door, then heaved myself over it and into the stairwell. I felt on the wall for the light switch, but nothing happened when I flipped it on. I reached for my flashlight, except I didn’t have my backpack with me. In my haste to confront Todd and Ginger about their affair, I had left it in my Jeep.
I also didn’t have the rest of my inspector supplies, but I didn’t need a thermometer to check the hot water. My fingers know what the heat from 100 degrees feels like. And I could feel my way up the stairs in the dark, which I decided to do.
As soon as the door clicked shut, I felt like the air had been vacuumed out along with the light. I heard scuffling and felt something bonk against my hard hat. It didn’t hurt, but I lost my balance and fell forward onto the stairs, landing at precisely the right angle to knock the wind out of me.
x x x
Next thing I knew, I was sitting on the floor at the entrance to the stairwell, propping open the door, my hard hat and a paint can next to me. Miles sat on the second step, with Rudy and Mingo behind him, higher up on the landing.
“You hurt, ma’am?” Miles asked. He opened a bottle of water and handed it to me.
“I need to inspect the bathrooms. The hot water.”
“It’s working,” Miles said.
“I believe you, but I still need to check it.”
“The thing is, ma’am—”
I closed my eyes. “Now what?”
“We’re staining the upstairs,” he said. “We blocked the door so nobody’d come up. We toss the cans down the stairs as we empty them.”