by Ann Myers
Flori reached for her own spoon. I waved her away. “Hot!” I wheezed.
She took a big bite anyway and declared the soufflé magnificent. “Fiery,” she said. “I may have forgotten to tell you. I had extra habaneros so I mixed them with our mild New Mexicans to spice them up.” She took another bite. “You’ll have a hot date night for sure if you serve this.”
Yeah, hot as in a flaming tongue and throat. My eyes watered and my ears rang as I rushed for the walk-in fridge in search of ice cream. All I found was some lemonade frozen into ice cubes. I popped one in my mouth before realizing it was the frozen form of Flori’s hot-chile-spiked lemonade.
“The texture is lovely too,” Flori said, bravely savoring another bite. “Now, what are you making for dessert?”
I couldn’t answer right away. I’d spit out the ice cube, run to the fridge, and was now swirling milk like mouthwash. I swallowed. “Maybe a fruit crisp?” My tongue felt slightly better. My lips still burned. I was trying to dip them in the milk glass when Flori handed me an oozing branch of aloe vera, fresh from a plant by the sink. I pressed the gelatinous end to my lips and found that aloe went terribly with the tastes of milk and remnant hot lemonade.
Flori pursed her lips too, although her distaste was with my dessert idea, which she slammed with faint praise. “Well, warm fruit sounds nice. Healthy. Light. Very, ah, midwestern.”
At least my midwestern homey dish wouldn’t set mouths aflame. I thanked Flori for the aloe cure and told her that she could take the rest of the soufflés home to Bernard, who shared her love of hot food.
“He’ll adore them,” she said. “I know who else will like one too. My informant.”
“You’re planning to torture information out of someone?” I joked.
Flori shoved the tote bag closer to me, shaking her head as she did. “Ida Green hasn’t had taste buds for decades. At least, I hope not. Otherwise, there’s no explaining that woman’s food.”
She and Addie left a little later. I headed out too, walking slowly and shifting the heavy tote bag between shoulders. I supposed I should have been glad that Addie had volunteered to accompany Flori to Ida Green’s notorious bail bonds/diner on the south side of town. Out of the two-dozen restaurant owners Flori had called, only Ida would admit a run-in with the health inspector. Others had hung up (suspicious), said they never heard of Jenkins (also suspicious), or warned Flori never to utter his name (very suspicious). Ida, however, was more than happy to dish on Jenkins. She’d invited Flori to tea, a scary prospect, as Ida’s cooking is riskier than her high-interest bonds. The joke goes that Ida’s tortillas can serve as prison shanks and her tamales as blunt-force weapons. Her green chile stew ranks among the infamous, gray and gelatinous as if made with a gravy of old shoes.
On the other hand, Flori’s information-gathering was out in the open. I was off to secretly interrogate a would-be friend. For support, I stopped by to see a true friend first.
I found Cass in the soldering studio at the back of her shop. “I’m a bad person,” I told her, leaning against the door frame.
Cass turned off her torch and lifted her goggles. The flame gulped for air, popped, and disappeared.
“I’m sure that’s not true at all,” she said. Using copper tongs, she picked up a ring, black from the flames, and dropped it in a chemical bath called “pickle.” The name, she once told me, came from real pickle brine, an old-fashioned, all-natural way to remove fire char from metal. Chemical pickle worked best when warm, and Cass simmered hers in a mini Crock-Pot. I reminded myself yet again to never borrow any of her Crock-Pots, tongs, or pickles.
“Oh, it is true,” I said, going over to peek into the miniature cauldron. “I’m pretending to be a supportive friend to a woman in mourning, but really I’m pumping her for information.”
“There’s worse stuff going around,” Cass pointed out. “Murder. Running over dead guys with tamale carts. Cockroaches. That kind of stuff.” She fished a different ring from her pickle vat and held it up. A single raised ridge snaked around the wide band. A man’s ring, I guessed, or a ring for a bold woman. I glanced at my unadorned fingers. Cass had volunteered to outfit my fingers, but since my divorce, I hadn’t wanted rings of any sort. I wouldn’t, however, mind one of her gorgeous necklaces. I picked up a pendant from the nearby table. Using a saw blade slimmer than angel hair pasta, Cass had sliced the outline of a crow into the center of the metal. Her work was so intricate that she’d captured an open-beak caw and hooked feet.
Cass rubbed the ring with a buffing cloth. “So, I’m guessing you’re on your way to see Brigitte?”
“Yes. I want to ask her about Napoleon’s dealings with a dirty health inspector and our old bartender pal, Don Busco.” I filled Cass in on our main suspects so far. “And I have to consider Brigitte a suspect too,” I said, trying to laugh off this last part. “Colleagues and the closest people to the victim, you know.”
Cass snorted. “Well, if you’re feeling guilty, I can help. You don’t have to worry that Brigitte killed that awful little man, although I can see why anyone might want to. I can alibi her.”
“You?” I asked, about to add, That’s great!
Cass frowned and buffed the ring harder, revealing the deep shimmer of silver. “That night, the one when Napoleon died? We were both at a benefit dinner. It lasted forever,” she said with a groan.
I stifled a smile. My glamorous friend, blessed with charm and beauty, poise and bravery, and more dating offers than she can rebuff, becomes a cowering introverted wimp at parties.
“We were both stuck there until midnight!” she exclaimed, making it sound like the partygoers had been held hostage. “I wanted to leave after dinner, but I’d foolishly let Salvatore accompany me. There was a band he wanted to see that didn’t start playing until eleven, and people began dancing. Of course, Sal insisted on staying for that.” My single friend managed a smile, which I thought completely reasonable. Salvatore is an amazing woodworker and a gorgeous man who has the confidence to knit in public. I’ve seen him knit, and if he can make that sexy, he’s probably causes swooning on the dance floor.
Cass shrugged. “Sal is a good dancer. I told him, though, at midnight I turn into a wicked witch. We left at 11:59 sharp. Brigitte did too. I remember because we were all collecting our coats, and she got her English wrong and said she’d turn into a squash.”
If only I had an exotic French accent to blame when I mixed up words. A natural propensity to dance would be nice too. However, if Cass could fill me in on Brigitte’s alibi, one of my wishes would come true. I could cross Brigitte off the suspect list and drop by as a supportive friend trying to solve her boss’s murder. I asked Cass about the benefit.
“It was for art in public schools,” she said. “It’s a wonderful cause, although we had to listen to endless boring speeches. The speeches went on over dinner, and I sat at a table with a view of Brigitte, so I know she suffered through them all.”
She grimaced, looking like she wanted to tell me something more.
“And . . . ?” I asked. Was it the food? Had Ida Green catered with her bail-bonds fare? Were the speeches that bad?
“Then there was a silent art auction,” Cass continued. “Brigitte was there. She and Salvatore joked about a piece of art glass they both bid on. She won.” She shrugged. “Just as well, I told Salvatore. Glass is not his style. Too fragile and transparent.”
“Okay,” I said, seeing why Cass had been exhausted by the evening. “So, she’s there for dinner, the auction, and then there was dancing?”
Cass shook her head. “I know, right? Way too much! I’d have paid double to stay home.” She put the ring aside and picked up an amoeba-shaped bit of silver, likely on its way to becoming a pendant. Using a round-headed hammer, she tapped gently around the sides of the pendant, curving the metal as she created a ripple of dimples.
I raised my voice to be heard over the hammering. “And you saw her dancing and then leaving around the same tim
e you did?”
Cass nodded, tight-lipped. So what was the problem? She couldn’t still be grumpy about socializing past her witching hour. I used a Flori technique and waited, staring at her in silence.
“Okay!” Cass said after a minute. She stopped hammering. “Here’s the thing . . . Jake was there.”
“Okay,” I said. Repeating what the other person said is another one of Flori’s interrogation techniques, acquired from a Senior Center class on boardroom success.
“Don’t worry,” Cass said quickly. “He was there with a business date. Not a date, date. A client. He was with Georgio Andre the art thief.”
“Alleged art thief,” I said automatically and with a wry smile. “Jake got him acquitted in time for Christmas last year. I hear he’s facing new charges, though?” My smile came easier now that I could see Jake enduring dinner speeches with Georgio, a tall, dark, and flashy art collector who favored suits the colors of eggplants and was rumored to acquire some of his pieces in not-so-legal ways.
Cass shivered. “Honestly, I get crawly skin if that man slithers within ten feet of me.” She waved her hammer as if fending off Georgio. “I’m sure he was involved with that latest break-in on Canyon Road. Not far from your house, Rita! And he’s rich enough to buy his own art, so he must be a crazy kleptomaniac or thrill seeker. I don’t know how Jake does his job sometimes. If I had to stand up for people I knew were guilty and try to get them free . . .”
“Some must be innocent,” I said, to reassure myself as much as Cass. “Like Linda.”
“True,” Cass said. “Others aren’t so innocent.” She looked me in the eye. “Like Brigitte Voll, who spent the night flirting up your Mr. Strong. There! That’s what I didn’t want to tell you! That’s why I kept an eye on her the whole evening!”
“Flirting up?” I asked over my quickening heartbeat.
“Definitely flirting. And dancing,” Cass replied darkly. “Lots of dancing.”
Chapter 11
When I divorced Manny, I instituted a dating moratorium for perfectly reasonable reasons. One was to fend off the pressures like the un-asked-for advice that everyone from grandmas to supermarket checkers feels free to give: “Get on Match.com or Hookup or Tinder,” or other such cringe-inducing online dating site. “Everybody’s doing it!” This command is usually followed by anecdotes like, “That’s how so-and-so’s cousin met her fifth husband and look at them!”
I could be happy for so-and-so’s cousin. I just couldn’t imagine myself posting my photo and chatting and emoticon winking or electronic poking or flirting. And then actually going out to meet strangers? No way.
Another reason I fended off dating was one I wouldn’t admit to anyone but Cass. Emotions. Namely, I was sick of them. I wanted none of the ups and downs I’d had with Manny. The arguments and accusations, the blind love and make-up bliss followed by the nagging worries and sorrows. I also feared reverting to my teenage anxieties, although those needed an update as much as my dating wardrobe. In high school, Mom had screened my sister’s and my landline calls. The thought of hovering by my cell phone or waiting at my computer keyboard seemed somehow worse. Plus, I had no call screener, although Flori had volunteered. Imagining Flori’s over-the-top flirting as my call screener made me smile. I summoned my adult sensibilities and assured Cass that I wasn’t upset in the least.
“Brigitte was the one doing all the flirting!” she clarified, hammer raised. “Jake was merely seated beside her. We had assigned seats.” She waved the hammer. “Anyway, I thought you should know. But you have no need to worry. He’ll be smitten more than ever after you feed him that green chile cheese soufflé. This Friday, right?”
I knew Cass was trying to make me feel better. Little did she know of my soufflé flops and dessert dithers and relationship anxieties. “Yeah, Friday,” I said, mentally confirming that this was really Wednesday afternoon. I wished I had another week . . . or more. “Jake can dance with whomever he wants,” I said, hoping I sounded more resolute than I felt.
Cass, a single mom who vows to remain unencumbered by marriage and any relationship prompting a registry or paperwork, would have said the very same thing. Hearing me say it, she narrowed her eyes to imply, Who are you and what have you done with my friend Rita?
“Really!” I said, now sounding on the edge of psychotically perky.
“Okay,” Cass said, still eyeing me skeptically. “That’s a good, healthy attitude.”
Healthy, I reminded myself, after letting Cass get back to her work of firing up metal. I was walking—a healthy activity—toward my original destination, OhLaLa Bistro, where I hoped to find Brigitte. Well, “hoped” was the wrong word. I still dreaded meeting her, although at least now I didn’t have to accuse her of murder. I chided myself once again. I’d meant what I said to Cass. Brigitte was free to flirt. Jake was free to dance. We hadn’t expressed love or promises. We were friends. Except when my friends gave me a peck on the cheek, I didn’t tingle down to my toes.
I walked another block, swinging the overloaded tote and forcing myself to focus on positives. The weather was certainly one. It was another gorgeous spring afternoon with a sky the color of turquoise. As I turned the corner, I spotted Brigitte stepping into OhLaLa. I’d correctly guessed that the statuesque blonde wouldn’t face grief like me, lodging myself on the sofa and sniffling through reruns of Law and Order or rereading Wuthering Heights. No, she’d grab ahold of work and routine. At this time of day that meant OhLaLa, which, unlike Napoleon’s fancy flagship, opened for lunch.
The French bistro occupied an adobe house with square-edged walls, a deep covered porch, and a line of brick trim along the roofline. A rustic picket fence, painted a muted gray-blue, enclosed a brick patio set with metal café tables. In the herb garden lining the fence, daffodils and tulips turned their faces to the sun and the soil smelled cool and damp.
Diners already occupied a few of the tables. I let myself in the front gate and couldn’t resist glancing at their plates. My stomach rumbled at the sight of a croque-madame, a French wonder of ham and cheese. Open-faced, the sandwich was draped in creamy béchamel sauce, broiled to bubbling deliciousness, and topped with a fried egg. I slowed to gawk at the dish.
“They’re open,” the lucky lady with the croque-madame told me, mistaking my gaze as one of surprise that the bistro had opened its doors. “They’re carrying on to honor Napoleon.” She raised a fork toward the heavens.
I murmured some thanks and made my way to the front porch. Brigitte had her back to me. Her sleek short hair fell perfectly into place and she wore trendy tight-hipped black slacks, a black shimmery top, and wedge capri sandals that would have me tripping into the tulips. The server who hurried by also wore black, so I couldn’t necessarily attribute either of their looks to mourning. Brigitte certainly wasn’t weeping at the moment. She was chewing out a red-faced waitress.
“No, no, no! Croque-monsieur with a q, DeeDee. “Mon dieu! Now of all the times, I cannot tolerate your spelling mistakes. Fix this at once before anyone sees it!”
Before I could catch her attention, she disappeared into the building.
“Sorry. So sorry!” the hapless DeeDee cried after her. When she saw me, she blocked the blackboard with her body. She was in her twenties, I guessed, and prettily curvy in a way Addie would kill for.
I smiled at her. “Tough day,” I said, hoping to glean some information before me and my emotions faced Brigitte. “I’m sorry about your boss.”
DeeDee ran a hand through her curly hazel hair, revealing a tattoo of a whisk pricked into her soft underarm. “I can’t believe he’s gone. He was so big for such a small guy.”
A big bully, which is probably what got him killed.
DeeDee, thankfully, couldn’t read my thoughts.
“Ms. Voll says we have to stay strong in Mr. Napoleon’s memory,” she said. “He’d want it that way. He’d want everything perfect. He always wanted things perfect . . .” She glanced down at the sign, spelling d
esperation evident.
“I work at a café too,” I told her. “The pace can be frantic sometimes. Hard to be perfect.”
She shot me a then-you-understand look. “The last time he spoke to me, it was the day before yesterday and he was mad that I was three minutes late. He demanded punctuality. Then today, I already dropped a plate and spilled a water pitcher and I can’t spell the stupid sandwich right. Mr. Napoleon would yell that I’m stupid. I can’t disappoint Ms. Voll. She’s working really hard to keep the place going.” She sniffled.
“Here,” I said, feeling for her. “Let me see that blackboard. I think I can help.” I’m no spelling-bee champ, that’s for sure. In fact, since computerized spell-check entered my life, I’ve lost much of my spelling ability. Still, I knew a glaring food error when I saw one. Croak Monsieur Napoleon, the chalkboard read in lovely cursive script. A shiver ran through me. Monsieur had indeed croaked.
I set down my tote and fixed the spelling. DeeDee thumped her forehead with her palm. “Stupid,” she muttered. “That’s where the Q goes.”
I knew I didn’t have much time with DeeDee before a customer or Brigitte demanded her attention. “How did the staff get along with Napoleon?” I asked.
She stopped abusing her forehead. “We all got on fine,” she replied quickly. “It’s an honor to work here. He is—was—a great chef. We’re honored.”
She sounded brainwashed. Or scared. I tried to assure her that she could tell me if anyone had a grudge. “Someone killed your boss,” I said. “Murdered him. If you can think of anyone here . . .” I let the idea hang, hoping she’d catch on.
She did, almost too much. Her eyes widened with fear and I was afraid she was about to bolt. “Oh my gosh! No! You think someone here . . . ?”
I nodded, and her eyes darted toward the kitchen, where several sous-chefs labored. “He fired a bunch of people,” she said. “Henri and Vickie. Val . . . Oscar . . . that guy who did the dishes whose name I never got. Mr. Napoleon threatened Estevan and Lila the other day for kissing by the Dumpster, but they had to know they had that coming.” She ticked off several more names, a lot of people fired, threatened with firing, yelled at, or otherwise abused. Midway through the list I reached for the notebook in my tote.