Stick a Fork In It

by Robin Allen

  I sipped some water and decided that I didn’t want to be a health inspector anymore. I should do what Nina did several times and marry well so I wouldn’t have to work. I could concern myself with who should sit next to whom at tea parties instead of why someone thought it was a good idea to keep their teacup poodle warm in a soup bowl near the oven during the dinner service. I would dress like Joan Crawford instead of like Johnny Cash. I would never have to wear a hard hat or carry a backpack full of rubber gloves and alkaline strips. I would spend my days in air-conditioned department stores. And I would sweat only if I chose to sun myself by the SNOBS club pool instead of all day every day in hot kitchens.

  That kind of life would surely bore me to alcoholism, but it would limit the number of corpses I stumbled upon.

  “The grass is always greener, isn’t it, Miles?”

  “Ma’am?”

  “On the other side of the fence.”

  Miles looked back at his guys, and they shook their heads.

  “When will the floor be dry?” I asked.

  “Tomorrow afternoon.”

  I picked up my hard hat, and Miles stood and held out his calloused hand to help me up. “Why didn’t the snack truck show up today?” I asked.

  “I couldn’t say, ma’am.”

  I didn’t ask Miles if he knew that Pizza Pig didn’t have a permit to serve food. He had other things to worry about, like what would happen if he didn’t get this place finished in six days. It could be done if everything really was working as he said and they got their permit, and if Danny had hired a good crew, and if everyone stayed on task, and if someone didn’t get arrested for Troy’s murder. It wouldn’t be pretty, but pretty wasn’t the idea behind this place.

  “Is the ventilation system working in the kitchen?” I asked.

  “Yes ma’am,” he said. “Ever’thing is working now.”

  “But I can’t see ever’thing working until tomorrow,” I confirmed.

  “Afternoon,” he said.

  x x x

  Miles and his guys went back upstairs, and I went to the kitchen door. I didn’t have my cell phone to check the time because it, too, was in my backpack, but I figured I had been away from Todd and Ginger for about fifteen minutes, and I might could overhear something good.

  I put my ear up to the space between the door and the jamb and heard voices but couldn’t make out any words. I put a finger in my other ear to block out the sounds of hammering. I still couldn’t make anything out, so I used my knee to crack the door open an inch.

  When I peeked inside, I spied with my little eye Danny MacAdams. I wondered if I had suffered brain damage during the few seconds I had been gasping for oxygen in the stairwell. He appeared to be searching Ginger for lost tennis balls.

  thirty

  I pulled my finger out of my ear and pushed through the door. “Oh, come on! You’re cheating on Todd, too?”

  Todd charged out of the office. “He’s trying to comfort her. She’s been crying since you left. Just how many conclusions do you jump to in a single day?”

  Danny said, “What does she mean, ‘cheating on Todd’?” He looked at Ginger and then Todd. “You mean you two…”

  Oops.

  “At ease, Danny,” Todd said, then to me, “Are you done here?”

  I didn’t like the attitude with which he said that, either to Danny or me. I may have discovered his affair with his brother’s wife and accidentally let Danny know about it, but I was still a health inspector on official business. He didn’t have to respect me, but he had to respect the badge. I crossed my arms and gave them a couple of seconds to pay attention. “Do y’all hate the entire Travis County health department or just me in particular?”

  Todd softened. “Neither. We’re all—”

  “Because I’m trying to do what should be a very simple inspection. I’ve been here about a hundred and twelve times since Monday, which was a holiday, if you recall, and if you also recall, it was the day I found Troy because none of you bothered to pick up a phone and tell me the power was out and I didn’t need to come back. And now I’ll be returning tomorrow, a Saturday. Maybe again on Sunday, or perhaps Monday. Or maybe you want me to keep coming back every day until June freakin’ eleventh!”

  “We appreciate your patience,” Danny said. “Whatever it is, we’ll get it fixed.”

  “Tell Miles I’m inspecting this place tomorrow whether you’re here or not.”

  “Yes, okay,” Danny said. “Tomorrow.”

  x x x

  By the time I swung into the driver’s seat of my Jeep, familiarity had bred a rabbit warren’s worth of contempt inside me. I despised Todd and Ginger for cheating on Troy. I despised Troy and Todd for the way they treated Danny. I despised Danny for being so spineless. And I despised Miles for taking on a construction job he wasn’t qualified for. The delays kept my murder investigation alive, but all my digging hadn’t gotten me anything except a bucket full of vexation.

  As nice and neat as it would be for Todd and Ginger to have killed Troy because he discovered their affair, they believed that Troy wrote a suicide note, which didn’t make sense if they did it, which meant that they probably didn’t. So that left Danny and Miles, and the best motive I had ever come up with for either of them was poor treatment by Troy. Only crazy people kill someone because of name calling, and neither of them appeared to be crazy.

  I had the rest of the day to kill, so I started running through my options. I could call Olive with an update on my permit inspections, but I didn’t want to because I never want to call Olive. I could work Gavin’s district, but driving in Friday lunchtime traffic makes my teeth hurt. What’s so special about Fridays that people allow themselves to eat lunch in a restaurant? Why not Tuesday? I could go shopping with Nina, but the fact that I didn’t want to was a good enough reason not to.

  It wasn’t quite noon, so I couldn’t call Jamie. Besides, with my elevated level of contempt for everyone at Capital Punishment, I might blab everything I know about that restaurant. I could work on Trevor’s drink, but I would get tipsy tasting all of my experimental creations, which would make me worthless for the rest of the day.

  But since I didn’t give a flip about the rest of the day, I fired up the Jeep and drove to Markham’s.

  x x x

  Back when the Yellow Pages listed us as Markham’s Bar & Grill, back when my mother was alive, back when Drew managed and I cooked, we opened for lunch and dinner. Now Markham’s opens only for dinner and Sunday brunch. So instead of starting her day at seven or eight in the morning, Ursula could roll in as late as noon if she had stayed out late with the new GM.

  When I walked into the kitchen at noon:10, no one was there. Except someone had to be there because I didn’t need my key to get inside.

  Just when I began to wonder if I had been left behind during the Rapture, I found Mitch staring at the ceiling of his little office off the second dining room, singing, “‘Fly me to the moon…’”

  “I know that look,” I said.

  “Hi, honey.”

  “Who do you have to fire?”

  “Coop,” he said.

  “Seriously, Daddy, who?”

  “When he left, he made you miserable and worthless, and now he’s making Ursula happy and worthless.” He picked up his signed Babe Ruth baseball. “I liked it better when she was seeing Trevor.”

  “You know about that?”

  “There are no secrets in a restaurant.”

  “You can fire Drew, but you can’t stop them from dating.”

  “Yes, but Ursula won’t be very happy, which is what I’m after.” He smiled. “The food she sent out of that kitchen the two weeks Évariste was here could restore sight to the blind.”

  “You can’t fire Drew because Ursula is in a good mood.”<
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  “Yes, I know.” He place his elbows on the desk. “What brings you here?”

  “I had some time and thought I’d work on Trevor’s drink. Where is everybody?”

  “Coop is either getting a new battery for his truck or at CapTex looking at ovens, and Ursula took her guys to lunch at Mostaccioli’s. She’s trying to convince them to come in on their off days to help work on her cookbook.” He looked at his watch. “They should be back by now.”

  Dead battery. That’s why Drew’s truck was here this morning. Wait…“Drew is buying Ursula a new oven?”

  “I’m buying the oven.”

  “First a slicer and now an oven? Just for a stupid cookbook? How many times when I was cooking did I ask you, beg you—”

  “Please, honey, the oven is for Hannah. The old one is ruining her babies.”

  Oh. “Well, as long as you’ve got your wallet out, I could use a new car and a new wardrobe and a London vacation.”

  “Nina still wants to take you shopping.”

  I looked at the wall behind Mitch, his “love me” wall, hung with a lifetime of photographs—Mitch with Governor Ann Richards before the rift, Governor George Bush and then President George Bush, Governor Rick Perry, Tommy Lee Jones, Oliver Stone, Willie Nelson, Anthony Bourdain, my mother—his beard and ponytail getting longer and grayer over the years until the last picture with Évariste Bontecou. Mitch’s head is shaved, his full beard snipped into a goatee.

  “Why does Nina try to change everything all the time?” I asked. “First you, then the restaurant, now me. Why can’t she let people be themselves?”

  “That’s not fair, honey. She doesn’t try to change everything.”

  “Come on, Daddy. She bought Chinese Hairless Cresteds, then rubbed them with Rogaine to make their hair grow.”

  “It was winter,” Mitch said, smiling. “She didn’t want them to be cold.”

  I laughed.

  “She wants to thank you for helping Ursula.” He stood up and came around the desk to give me a hug. “Give her another chance.”

  “I’m not buying anything pink.”

  He hugged me. “Oh, Penelope Jane.”

  “And can you please send Drew to the Toyota dealership to buy me an FJ Cruiser?”

  “Sorry, honey. All my extra money is in the Diva Pot.”

  x x x

  I picked up a champagne bucket in the wait station, took it to the kitchen and filled it with ice, then carried it to the bar. I dropped a few cubes into a highball glass and thought about Trevor. Young, cocky, flirty, tattooed Trevor Shaw. His drink should be something simple but different. Nothing blended or shaken. A little sweet but with an edge.

  I started mixing, tasting, tossing, then mixing again. I poured sweet liquor into savory mixers. Southern Comfort and tonic. Gross. Grand Marnier and soda. Adult and boring. I tried savory liquor with sweet mixers. Scotch and Sprite. Gag. Vodka and Coke. Maybe.

  Thirty minutes later I heard deep voices and chattering coming from the kitchen. Ursula and her guys were back, the restaurant coming alive with pans banging down on burners and knives hitting cutting boards.

  I saw Ursula walking—no, bouncing—through the dining room, but she didn’t see me until she had almost reached the bar. “Poppy?”

  “Taste this,” I said, handing her my most promising concoction. She sipped and made a face. “Try it again,” I said. “It grows on you.”

  She gave me a look but sipped again. “Tastes like something Trevor would drink.”

  “Does it?”

  “So that’s why you’re here.” She came behind the bar and uncorked an open wine bottle. “What are you going to name it?”

  “I’m still working on that. Any ideas?”

  “Let’s see,” she said, tilting her head to the side. “Jealous Junior. Silly Shaw. Big Blue-Eyed Baby.”

  “I take it he’s not happy about your interest in Drew.”

  She smiled. “Not one bit. How about Two-Timing Trevor?”

  “Calling the kettle black, aren’t you? With who?”

  She sniffed our house red wine. “That awful waitress.”

  “Belize? That ended a couple of weeks ago.”

  “Ended or not, it happened.”

  “While y’all were on a break.”

  “So?”

  Something about this whole situation didn’t smell right, and I thought I knew what. “Things must be going really well with you and Drew for him to buy you an oven.”

  She uncorked another bottle. “I guess.”

  Her answer should have been enthusiastic agreement or at least a knowing grin. “Oh, Ursula.”

  “What?”

  “You’re not interested in Drew. You’re mad that Trevor threatened Évariste over Belize, and you’re using Drew to make Trevor jealous.”

  She smiled again. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You’ve been in such a good mood because it’s working.”

  “I’m in a good mood because I’m writing a cookbook and I’m going to be famous.”

  “If you think Trevor is going to put a meat cleaver to Drew’s throat, that’s not going to happen. Do you really think he’s dumb enough to get in the middle of the chef and the GM?”

  She stopped sniffing wine and I knew that she hadn’t considered things at that level.

  “Trevor is going to wait for you like he always does,” I said. “Just make sure this little game of emotional blackmail doesn’t hurt Mitch or Markham’s.”

  Ursula’s face darkened, but she recovered quickly. “You worry too much,” she said, then picked up half a bottle of Merlot and walked, not bounced, back to the kitchen.

  I wanted the old Ursula back as much as Mitch did, but for different reasons and not until June 7. My Diva Pot winnings wouldn’t buy me a new car or pay for a trip to London, but it would give me something even better: bragging rights for life.

  “What are you smilin’ about?”

  “Trevor, hey. I didn’t see you.”

  “I seem to be invisible to women in this place,” he said, looking at himself in the mirror behind the bar. “I’m thinkin’ about cuttin’ my hair and wearin’ a tie.”

  “I vote no on both,” I said. “Need a drink?”

  “Yeah, actually.” He hopped onto a bar stool. “Mr. Wonderful just got back from CapTex, and Ursula…” He completed his thought with a sigh. No wonder Ursula was having so much fun. Trevor was adorable when he was jealous.

  I started mixing a weak version of his own drink. “I understand from Mitch that the Diva Pot is still on.”

  Trevor nodded, looking as forlorn as Snoopy laying on top of his doghouse. “Shannon started makin’ plans for the money when we heard her yellin’ at you in the wait station the other night, but when she came back to the kitchen, she was fine, so it didn’t count.”

  “She freaked out when I tried to get her to say hello to George and Laura,” I said. “It was weird.”

  “Ursula never goes out to meet guests. She gets stage fright.”

  “You’re not serious.”

  “I thought everyone knew.”

  “No, but that explains quite a few things.” I handed him the drink I made.

  “I can already smell the Dr. Pepper.” He drank half of it and grimaced. “Tequila?”

  “What do you think?”

  He drank the rest, and his face stayed smooth. “I like it.”

  “Good,” I said, pointing to a black board behind me that listed the house drinks. “It’s yours.”

  He smiled a big, happy, genuine Trevor smile. “Mitch named a drink after me?”

  “He wants to thank you for keeping Markham’s alive during that mess with Évariste. We both do.”

 
“It was nothin’,” he said. “What’s it called?”

  I went over to the board and picked up the white marker pen. I wrote the name, then turned to face him. If he felt hurt or offended, I would erase it and call it Trevor’s Treat. After a dramatic pause, I moved aside and pointed to it.

  He laughed. “Ursula gets credit for the name.”

  “I’ll let Mitch know we have a new drink called the Immature Churl. Tequila and Dr. Pepper on the rocks.”

  “Thanks, Popstar.” Trevor stood and raised his arms in a stretch. “This is just what I needed.”

  “Do me a favor?” I said. He lowered his arms and looked at me. “Don’t cut your hair or start wearing a tie. You’re still MVP, and you’ll be playing first string again soon.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Trevor was ready to run his own kitchen, but he stayed at Markham’s because of his personal relationship with Ursula. If Ursula kept this going for much longer, Trevor might quit, which would not be good for Markham’s. I said, “Promise me you won’t use what I’m about to tell you to manipulate the Diva Pot.”

  “I can’t promise until I know what it is.”

  “Ursula is using Drew to make you jealous.”

  His face got hard, then relaxed into another big, happy, genuine Trevor smile.

  “Trevor, promise,” I said as he bounced back to the kitchen.

  x x x

  I made and drank a double espresso with a weak head of foam that Jamie wouldn’t award half a star to, then called him. “I want credit for letting you sleep two extra hours,” I said when he answered.

  “We didn’t go that late,” he said. “I could have met you at L and L this morning.”

  “You would have wasted your time.” I told him about missing Epignaceous, the attack dog in the Pizza Pig truck and their unauthorized food distribution, confronting Todd and Ginger about their affair, and the suicide note that wasn’t Troy’s.

  “Let me get this straight,” he said, amused. “You were right about the suicide note being planted, but you’re the one who planted it?”

  “That’s about the size of it.”