Crime Chowder

by Hillary Avis

  “Don’t even think about it. After all you’ve done for me tonight, the least I can do is get out the tarts.”

  Late-night snacking was kind of their thing. It started out as a way to reward themselves after a tough exam in culinary school, and had morphed into one of Bethany’s favorite routines. Every night after work, they’d share dessert or special drinks and catch up on the day. Sometimes it was after midnight when Kimmy got home, but they always took a few minutes to connect.

  As Bethany reached into the fridge to pull out the foil-wrapped tarts, a sleepy voice from the sofa drawled, “I dearly hope there’s one in there for me.”

  “Yep, she brought three,” Bethany called over her shoulder. “You woke up just in time.”

  Amara sat up, dislodging Sharky’s ham bone from her lap, and the dog jumped to the floor to grab it. Amara slid into a seat at the table and stifled a yawn. “I wasn’t sleeping.”

  “Of course not.” Kimmy shared a bemused look with Bethany. “We must have imagined those snores.”

  “I heard everything you said. Bethany, child, if you’re going to barbecue, you know you won’t be able to serve that other stuff at the same time. I better come along.”

  Maybe Amara had heard everything they’d said. Bethany nodded and set a small dessert plate down in front of her. “You’re right. I need more help at the main table. But I can’t let you do that! Not when this party is happening because...well. It’s not right. I’ll find someone else. Maybe one of our classmates from culinary school.”

  Amara stabbed the tart with her fork. “Nonsense. This way I’ll repay your hospitality. Besides, I was the outdoor cooking champion of Orleans Parish when I was a girl. I can out-grill anybody from your fancy school.”

  “Is that even a real thing, Auntie?”

  “Of course it’s real! Nineteen forty-nine. You can look it up on your gadgety-goo.” Amara motioned with her fork to Kimmy’s phone. “All my friends from the neighborhood will be there anyway. Maybe they’ll have some ideas about who lit fire to my beautiful home. You know how fast news travels on Hosanna Street.”

  Kimmy nodded. “It’s not a very big neighborhood, and everyone’s pretty close.”

  “Well, I can’t say no to that.” Bethany looked back and forth between the two women. She’d never really thought that Kimmy was much like Amara, but she could see more similarities now. Both were loyal and generous, maybe to a fault. “The grilling will mostly be at the beginning, so you should have time to find out what your friends know about the arson. And if your friends don’t know, maybe one of Todd’s people do. Somebody at this gala has to know something.”

  Kimmy straightened up in her chair and spoke through a mouthful of tart. “You think maybe you can figure it out at the event?”

  “Oh honey, I am going to get to the bottom of it, I’m telling you.” Amara dusted crumbs from the front of her bronze silk caftan. Sharky left the splintered remains of his bone on the sofa and darted underneath her chair, where he gobbled the crumbs from the floor. When he’d vacuumed them all up, he stood on his hind legs and bounced up and down, begging for more.

  As Bethany watched Amara fuss over the dog, she wondered if it was a mistake accepting Amara’s offer to help. This menu was perfect, exactly the kind of fresh, casual, seasonal food she dreamed of serving at her future restaurant. If Amara offended Don by grilling him figuratively while she grilled the vegetables literally, Bethany’s chance at owning her own place would go down the tubes.

  But on the flip side, Amara couldn’t live here forever, either. The woman deserved answers to who set her house on fire so she could collect the insurance money and move on. Assuming, of course, that Amara hadn’t set it on fire herself, whether by accident or on purpose.

  “Just out of curiosity, why did you build the porch addition?” Bethany asked as she cleared the dessert plates from the table.

  Amara propped her elbows on the table and surveyed its worn top as though she were looking at a spread of tarot cards. “I suppose it reminds me of my growing up years down south. Every house had a screen porch. You had to have one to enjoy yourself in the summertime. People would have a screen porch before they’d have a car or even a telephone, it was that much of a necessity. I don’t understand why it isn’t the same up here. The mosquitos are just as big and just as nasty.”

  “Plus you had that swan from the carousel just sitting in a shed,” Kimmy added. “You’ve always wanted it to see the light of day.”

  No mention about the developers funding the project. Why was Amara omitting that detail? “Seems like an expensive project.”

  “It wasn’t too dear. I scraped it together.” Amara picked up Sharky and nuzzled him, avoiding Bethany’s attempts at eye contact.

  Maybe she’s embarrassed that she took Todd’s bribe. Bethany rinsed the dishes and stacked them in the dish drainer as she debated whether or not to push the issue. On one hand, she really wanted answers. If Amara had been planning this porch addition for a long time, then maybe she just took advantage of an opportunity when the developers came with their checkbook.

  But if she hadn’t been planning this swan porch, maybe it was what Fancy Peters claimed—maybe Amara took their free money and built the addition so she could burn it down later and collect the insurance payout on a house with a higher value.

  She dried her hands on a dish towel and sat back down at the table where Kimmy and Amara were still chatting. When their conversation paused, she asked, “How long did you save up for the addition?”

  The instant the words were out of her mouth, she regretted it. Kimmy looked at her with an eyebrow raised. She clearly thought that the answer—whatever it might be—was none of Bethany’s beeswax.

  Bethany felt her cheeks flush. She fumbled for the right words. “I mean...have you been planning it for a while? I just wondered about the timing.”

  “I wanted the porch to be done for the summer,” Amara said coolly. “So I could sit outside without being eaten alive.” Her face was smooth and placid, but Bethany could hear an undercurrent of anger in her voice.

  Great. Just what I need—two roommates upset with me. As usual, her suspicious nature was making her enemies. She needed to smooth things over before there was a full mutiny and Kimmy bailed on letting her use the kitchen tomorrow. “Makes sense. I bet that didn’t sit well with Fancy Peters, did it?”

  Amara laughed, and the tension in the room broke. “That woman wanted me to go through their whole historical society rigmarole. She came to my house every blessed day with paperwork to fill out. I said no thank you, it’s my house and I’m not waiting until you people say it’s all right. By then it’ll be too late and I won’t be able to enjoy my porch until next summer. I’m not a young woman, I told her. I can’t wait a year.”

  “Weren’t you worried there would be some consequence for not following the rules?”

  Amara snorted. “Those rules were just made up by some white ladies so they could tell us how to live. Black folks have been taking care of Hosanna Street since it was built, haven’t we? That’s why it’s historic. The society doesn’t own it just because it’s old—we own it. They can go boss their own neighborhood.”

  “She has a point,” Kimmy said. “Hosanna Street was built by free African-Americans back when most were still enslaved, and for a long time it was considered the wrong side of the tracks, literally. The historical society only cares about the neighborhood now because it’s old and well-maintained—it was never demolished to build office buildings or whatever because nobody thought it was worth investing here.”

  “Of course I have a point!” Amara sniffed. “Besides, I looked it up, and the historical society doesn’t have any legal legs to stand on. They can’t even impose a fine. All they can do is vote my house off the historic registry, and then I can paint it any color I want. I can turn it into a hot air balloon if I choose. But I knew they wouldn’t do that, because the street wouldn’t have enough historic buildings to be a h
istoric neighborhood, and the developers would get their way, anyway. So Fancy Peters had to put up with my swan porch.”

  “If she penalized you for it, the historical society would lose their battle with the condo developers. So you took the developers’ money because you thought it was a chance to build your porch without the society coming down too hard on you?” Bethany clapped her hand over her mouth—she hadn’t meant to let it slip that she knew Amara had taken money from Todd’s company.

  “That’s right.”

  Kimmy’s head swiveled toward Bethany and then back to Amara. “What do you mean, the developers’ money?!”

  Now Amara avoided eye contact with Kimmy. “They were going around writing checks to people for home improvements. No reason why I shouldn’t get mine, too.”

  Kimmy pushed her chair back and stood up. “Your boyfriend was doing this?! Why?”

  Bethany bit her lip. “I didn’t know, Kimmy. I asked him about it after Fancy Peters told me, and he said it was to fix up the neighborhood so the property values would rise, and then he’d be able to get better buyers for his condos. But honestly, I think it might be because he was hoping the historical society was crack down and kick some homes off the registry. The condo development was not going to be approved unless that happened.”

  “They tried to buy some places, too. Tried all kinds of things. They thought we were stupid.” Amara scratched Sharky under the chin. “But we aren’t stupid, are we? No, we aren’t. We played their game, but we won.”

  “But you didn’t win, Auntie,” Kimmy said in a small voice. “Someone made sure of that.”

  Chapter 10

  Wednesday

  BETHANY PRIED HERSELF out of bed at the crack of dawn, relying on coffee and sheer will to pedal to the growers’ market to buy produce and then down to the marina to order the clam shooters. She managed to deliver the vegetables to Café Sabine, where Kimmy kindly opened the door early for her, and make it to the Seafood Grotto with about seven seconds to spare before her shift started.

  She had just dropped the basket on her second order of fried oysters when Alex wandered into the kitchen. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him peer over the shoulders of other cooks on the line, checking their work one-by-one, until he got to her station at the fryer. There he stopped, breathing on the back of her neck as she jiggled the basket so the oysters wouldn’t stick together.

  “What?!” she finally snapped, when she couldn’t stand it anymore. She pulled the basket out of the fryer and nabbed the oysters out with her tongs. They were perfectly done. “Sorry. You’re just freaking me out standing there.”

  Alex took a step back. “I was just going to say that you’re doing a great job on those oysters. They look awesome.” He smiled at her.

  Bethany frowned. Why was he being so weirdly nice? He never gave compliments.

  “Come on; let’s have a chat.” Alex smiled again, which looked out of place on his face—he literally had never smiled at her before—and headed for his office.

  He’s definitely going to fire me. Why else would he act so nice? She sighed and called to one of the other cooks to cover her station.

  She closed the door behind her and took a seat across from him. He looked down at a piece of paper on his desk and cleared his throat. Here it comes, the “we have to let you go” script.

  “You’re really an asset to the business. I want you to know that.”

  She groaned internally. She’d have to put up with more compliments before he had the courage to deliver the bad news. “If you really thought that, you’d listen to me more.”

  “What do you mean?” He looked genuinely taken aback.

  “Well, like when I offer easy improvements to recipes, you don’t even consider it.”

  He sighed. “I do consider it, but I have to factor in cost. If I change the cost of an order, it throws everything out of whack. Even if it’s just a penny’s worth of garlic powder.”

  Bethany cringed. He must have noticed her tweak to the fish batter recipe the other day, even though he hadn’t said anything about it. “Couldn’t you just adjust portion size or add a couple cents to the price the customer pays? Doesn’t seem like a huge deal.”

  “It’s not.” He rolled his eyes, exasperated. “I mean, it wouldn’t be, but—this is why I called you in here.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Why’s that?” she asked, although she was already pretty sure of the answer. Things are tight, can’t afford a staff this size, blah blah blah—spit it out, man!

  “I’m franchising the Seafood Grotto. I put together a whole franchise package, and that includes a set menu, food costs, décor, everything. There’ll be Grottos up and down the coast soon!”

  “So that’s why you’re so obsessed with consistent mediocrity.”

  “Yes. I mean, no. I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that, because I can’t get mad at you right now. I need you on board for the meeting.” He tapped the paper in front of him.

  “What meeting?” Bethany craned her neck to read the paper on Alex’s desk upside down, but couldn’t make out what it said. “I’m confused. Are you firing me?”

  His face turned red. “What? No! I need you to be the demo cook for the meeting with my franchise investor. I want to show him the full menu, and you’re the best cook on staff.”

  She was pleasantly surprised to hear the words you’re the best come out of his mouth. “OK, sure. When is it?”

  “After close this afternoon, four o’clock. I’ll pay overtime.”

  “Oh, I can’t! I’m catering the gala, remember?”

  His face turned an even deeper shade of red. “I told you not to take that gig, didn’t I?! This is important! Way more important than playing at being a caterer for your boyfriend’s party. I swear, if you can’t come through for me on this, I will make sure you never have a restaurant career in Newbridge!” By the end of his tirade, he was shouting. He seemed to realize that he’d stepped over the line and pressed the back of his hand to his mouth, his chest heaving.

  “I’m sorry, Alex. I really am—but I already committed. I can’t back out now. Can’t you move the demo to tomorrow?”

  “I can’t, genius, or I would have. Tonight’s the night. If the Grotto can’t perform, the investor is out—and so are you. If you’re so committed to catering, fine. Kiss your job goodbye. I’m done with you.”

  Chapter 11

  Wednesday

  SYLVIA BROUGHT A SECOND box of Kleenex into Todd’s office and gave Bethany a sympathetic look as she closed the door behind her.

  “Look on the bright side, Bethy,” Todd said, squeezing her shoulder. “Now I can tell people I’m dating someone who owns their own catering business.”

  Yeah, instead of lying to them about what I do, Bethany thought darkly. She snuffled and dabbed her nose with a tissue. “Alex said he’s going to sabotage me. He said I won’t be able to get another job in Newbridge.”

  Todd rolled his eyes. “You don’t need a job! You’re self-employed now.”

  She hiccupped. “Getting hired by my boyfriend for one gig isn’t exactly a career. It’s not easy to get catering jobs without a ton of connections and experience.”

  “Now who’s sabotaging you?” Todd prodded her shoulder again. “You are. Tonight, you’re going to make all kinds of connections with important people and add some experience to your resume, too. And I’m sure we’ll use you again to cater our events, too. We’re going to have a lot to celebrate around here. Everyone’s excited to bring Hosanna Street into the twenty-first century!”

  She raised her head. “Speaking of Hosanna Street, have you asked around about the arson? Does anyone know anything about it?”

  “It’s been so busy...”

  “You haven’t even asked?!”

  “Of course I did—I said I would.” He looked slightly miffed, and Bethany felt a twinge of guilt for assuming the worst. “I had one of the assistants ask around. He said someone saw a creepy old guy lurking
around there on Sunday.”

  “Was it George Washington?”

  Todd shrugged. “They didn’t ask his name. They just noticed he seemed interested in her house. Kept looking over there.”

  Bethany rolled her eyes. “He lives next door. Where is he supposed to look? Any direction he looks, he’s staring at someone’s house.”

  Todd put up his hands defensively. “Hey, I’m not accusing the guy of anything. I wasn’t even there. I’ve been way too busy planning the gala to play detective. This is just what someone saw, and you wanted to know about it. Don’t shoot the messenger!”

  The door to Todd’s office swung open and Don Hefferman stuck his head in. “Hey! If it isn’t Ms. Bradstreet. Sylvia said you were here. Todd’s been telling me how great you are, and I can’t wait to finally taste for myself.”

  “Don.” Todd nodded at him.

  Bethany stuck out her hand, hoping the last of the tears had dried on her cheeks. “Good to see you. Hope you like clams.”

  “Boy, do I. I’ve got a real thing for seafood.” Don shook her hand firmly. “What else is on the menu tonight? No, wait, don’t tell me. Surprise me along with the rest of the crowd.”

  She chuckled. “Will do. I’m sure you’ll want to talk with everyone there, so stop by the table early, before the food’s all gone! Actually, speaking of talking to everyone, have you heard anything about the arson on Hosanna Street? I mean, heard any rumors when you’ve been around the neighborhood or whatever?”

  Todd shifted uncomfortably, and Don’s broad smile faded a bit.

  “Oh, well, I’m not really a man-on-the-street type. I leave that to this guy here.” He clapped Todd on the back. “I’m just the bank account. Frankly, I haven’t heard about any arson. What’s she talking about?” He looked at Todd, who seemed to be very interested in rearranging items on his desk.