Turn Up the Heat

by Jessica Conant-Park

  “Owen, you’d better call nine one one, too.”

  Owen reluctantly pulled his cell from his pocket and punched in the emergency number.

  Snacker, followed by Santos, Javier, Belita and her assistant, and Isabelle, flew out the kitchen door. “Chloe? What’s going on? Belita said something about—” Snacker stopped speaking as I pointed to Owen’s truck. He bounded down the stairs and rushed toward the truck.

  “Snacker, don’t go in!” I hollered.

  He came to an abrupt halt in front of the open door. “Is that Leandra? Oh, my God!” He turned back to face me, his hand over his mouth, and walked away from the truck. “Did you call someone?”

  I nodded. “Owen just did. I’m going to call Josh.”

  I went to retrieve my cell phone from my car while Snacker talked to Simmer’s employees. Chefs have a show-must-go-on mentality; they believe that if food can be prepared and served, then it must be prepared and served. A typical chef, Snacker insisted on the need to continue prepping for lunch.

  I called Josh repeatedly until he finally picked up his phone.

  “I’m up, I’m up!” he grumbled into the receiver. “Is Snacker mad I’m not there?”

  “No. There’s a bigger problem.” As I told Josh the little I knew about the unexpected appearance of Leandra’s body in Owen’s truck, a police cruiser pulled into the alley. As it did, Santos and Javier vanished. I wondered, of course, about their immigration status. “Josh, police cars are starting to show up. I think you’d better get down here.”

  “Tell Snack I’ll be right there. I’ll call Gavin, too.”

  More official vehicles arrived, including a medical van and additional cruisers. Owen’s truck was quickly swarming with EMTs and cops. Snacker gave up trying to get his group inside. When he approached a uniformed officer, I joined the two of them and said that I’d been the one who’d found the body.

  “Ma’am, do you know who owns the truck?”

  I glanced at the policeman’s ID tag. Officer Trent looked about twelve years old. His teenage appearance made me resent being called ma’am.

  “Um, the truck actually belongs to my friend Owen. He’s right over there.” I pointed to the distraught Owen. “Well, it really belongs to the Daily Catch. That’s the seafood company Owen works for. But I can assure you he had nothing to do with this.”

  “Sir? Could you come over here, please?” Officer Trent called over to Owen.

  Owen and I briefly described what had happened, and Owen confirmed what I’d said about the truck. “Look,” he added, “I don’t mean to be insensitive, but I really have to get to work. I haven’t been at this job very long, and my boss is going to kill me if I’m much later. Sorry,” he hung his head. “That was obviously a bad choice of words.”

  “You won’t be getting to work anytime soon. We’ll need to have everyone inside so we can get statements from each of you. Call your boss.”

  “Wait!” Owen looked up quickly. “I’m not in any trouble, am I? This is my truck, but—”

  “We’ll sort everything out inside,” the officer said brusquely.

  I waited in the hope that he’d somehow go on to say that Owen was off the hook. I waited in vain.

  FIVE

  I don’t understand why they’re even in the restaurant,” Snacker said with exasperation, “or why they’re keeping us here. Leandra was found outside the building. In Owen’s truck.”

  Owen glared at him. “Thank you for pointing that out. Anything else helpful you’d like to add?”

  Owen, Snacker, and I, together with the other employees, were all in Simmer’s main dining room, where Officer Trent and his colleagues were keeping what felt like a close eye on us, as if they expected one of us to make a run for it at any minute. Santos and Javier hadn’t bolted after all, but they looked uncomfortable and stayed close to Snacker. The police had sealed off the alley and all of the restaurant except the area at the front of the dining room where all of us waited. Snacker had unlocked the front door so that other employees arriving for work could be quickly ushered into what had become a holding area.

  “I don’t know, Snack,” I said. “And Owen, nobody thinks this is your fault. I wish Josh would get here, though.”

  Snacker looked irritated. “Did you hear that cop tell me that we can’t even open today? Gavin and Josh are going to flip out. We had a party today for one of our best customers.”

  Snacker was extremely loyal to Josh and had been working just as hard as my boyfriend at making Simmer succeed against all restaurant odds. Snacker was an old friend of Josh’s who had moved back to Boston for the opportunity to work with Josh at Simmer. The two of them and their friend Stein had an apartment in Jamaica Plain. I avoided the place, which was messy and smelled like boys because no one was ever home long enough to clean it. Periodically, Snacker would put in the effort to tidy the place up and make it presentable enough to bring women there. He was cute, there was no denying that, and since he’d been in Boston, he’d maintained a steady stream of smitten young ladies. Many a customer and waitress had been taken in by Snacker’s dark hair, olive skin, and lean build, and he’d quickly become Simmer’s resident heartbreaker. He had no interest in a long-term relationship unless it was between him and a restaurant, which was at least working out for Josh if not for the heartbroken stream of Boston women.

  Josh entered through the front door, nodded to us, and was greeted by one of the many uniformed people who had taken over the restaurant. After speaking for a few minutes with a severe-looking woman whose brown hair was knotted in a tight bun, he came over to us, wrapped his arms around me in a big bear hug, and said, “Jesus, Chloe. Are you okay? Tell me again what happened.” He sat down.

  As Owen and I recounted our story, Josh sat motionless with his chin in his hand. “I just don’t believe this. God, poor Leandra.”

  “Chef?” Javier leaned in to Josh and began whispering quickly in Spanish. Santos stood nervously behind him.

  Josh nodded repeatedly. “I know. I know. It’ll be okay. I’ll vouch for you, but I don’t think they’ll ask. Don’t worry.” Javier and Santos moved to another table, where they sat quietly. “There’s Gavin,” Josh said. “When I called him, I didn’t tell him what happened, just that he needed to get down here fast. Chloe? Do you think you could tell him about Leandra? He’s going to take it hard.”

  Snacker clapped his hand over his mouth then mumbled sheepishly, “I didn’t even think of that. I feel like such an ass.” Owen smiled triumphantly, as if Snacker had just proved himself to be what Owen thought he was, namely, a dirtbag.

  The shock and confusion had somehow made me forget just how involved Gavin and Leandra had been. If Snacker was right, Gavin would be upset to hear that Simmer would be closed for the day. But Gavin’s distress about the loss of business would be nothing by comparison with what he’d feel when he learned about Leandra’s death.

  “Oh, Josh, please. I don’t know Gavin that well. Maybe it would better for him to hear it from you.” Breaking the news would’ve been hard under any circumstances, but I especially didn’t want to have to tell Gavin that Leandra’s body had been discovered in such a smelly, undignified place.

  “As the resident social work student, I think you’re the one to handle this. Please?”

  As usual, Josh was irresistible. I gave in. But I rose from my seat only to realize that the police were already telling Gavin about Leandra and that I was thus too late. When Gavin finished listening to the officer’s devastating words, he walked toward us. Everything about him was somber: his expression, his posture, and his slow gait. “I assume you all know?” He wasn’t crying, but his eyes were watery, and he avoided direct eye contact with any of us. As soon as we’d offered words of condolence, Josh, Snacker, and Owen suddenly made themselves scarce, leaving me to talk to Gavin.

  I spoke softly. “This must be a terrible shock. Can I get you anything?”

  He shook his head. “No. Thank you. I just…well,
I just don’t understand it. Everyone loved Leandra. Who would do this to her? Why would anyone want to kill her? She must have been killed after she left work. Some asshole probably mugged her for her tip money and then killed her. I’ve told all my employees not to walk to their cars or the T alone at night. What the hell was she doing? She’s young and beautiful, and it was stupid of her to walk out of here with a wad of cash in her pocket. But my God!” Gavin rubbed his eyes. When he removed his hands, I could see that the whites were even redder than they’d been before. “But this has nothing to do with Simmer. She is great…was great to work with, did her job well, and all that. No one here would’ve had any reason to hurt her. It was obviously an urban crime that’s got no connection with us. With Simmer. So why are we all being held here for questioning?”

  “I don’t have an answer for you,” I admitted. “But obviously the police need to gather as much information as they can right now if they’re going to find out exactly what happened to Leandra. So we’ve just got to help them in any way that we can. At this point, that’s the best thing we can do for her, right?”

  Gavin shifted gears from bereaved boyfriend to restaurant owner. “You’re right, Chloe. Okay, I have to talk to Josh and Snacker and figure out what’s going on with our schedule.”

  So much for intensive grief counseling.

  Gavin beckoned Josh and Snacker over. “We need to make plans about when we can open. What have the police told you?”

  “We’re definitely not opening today and maybe not tomorrow,” Josh said. “They won’t even let us in the kitchen to cook for everyone here. Can you believe that? I’ll call everyone with reservations and see who I can reschedule. Maybe we can offer that party an extra course on the house to keep them happy. Snack, why don’t you see if you can convince someone to let us in the kitchen.”

  I remembered Josh telling me that on September 11, 2001, the restaurant where he’d been working had stayed open. He and everyone else in the kitchen had spent the day cooking and talking to one another and to the few stray customers who’d drifted in. Preparing food and feeding people had helped him to get through that miserable day. When in crisis, chefs want to lose themselves in their work while simultaneously nurturing others. Now, Josh and Snacker wanted to take care of their employees by offering the solace of comfort food.

  Gavin took a deep breath. “I’ve been told that I need to get all the other employees down here for questioning, too. Oh, here comes Blythe and Wade. Good. They can help with that.”

  Noticing that Owen was pacing back and forth, I rose and went to him in the hope of calming him down. “Owen, do you want me to call Adrianna?”

  “What? God, no! Just…not now! Chloe, they’re taking my truck away as evidence. I’m supposed to be picking up and delivering fish right now, not dealing with this.”

  “Owen, your truck is…it really is evidence. The police need it. They can’t just remove Leandra’s body and let you drive off, can they?”

  Owen shrugged. “I guess not.”

  “Besides, the Daily Catch must have other company trucks, right? I’m sure your boss can let you use another one.”

  “I don’t know.” Owen paused, looked away, and muttered some very bad four-letter words. “Maybe. I’ll go call my boss now and tell him what’s going on and see if somebody else can make my deliveries for me. This sucks.” I left him alone to make his calls.

  Kevin, the head bartender, entered the restaurant, and then someone finally had the sense to get the coffeemaker at the bar going. Finally, with the apparent blessing of the police, all of us had coffee, if not food. I filled up a mug, added milk and a few teaspoonfuls of sugar, and joined Blythe, Wade, and Isabelle at one of the few tables we were permitted to use.

  To me, Wade embodied everything obnoxious about Newbury Street. He was the essence of what’s nastily called Eurotrash, except that he was merely a Eurotrash wannabe. Two things kept him from actually being Eurotrash. First, he was obviously American and had never come close to jet-setting around the world. Second, far from being a trust fund child (who am I to talk?), he actually had a job. But Wade liked to give the impression that money was falling out of his pockets, and although he’d grown up a few miles outside Boston, he spoke with a peculiar accent evidently intended to make him sound multilingual. When not at Simmer, Wade could be found at any one of the posh coffee shops and bars along this upscale street, where he’d hang around smelling of expensive, unadvertised cologne and receiving air kisses from anorexic, Valentino-attired young ladies who sported oversized sunglasses. But Josh liked him as a GM—general manager—and when Simmer’s original GM had left after only two weeks, Wade had stepped in and done a great job.

  “Dammit,” Blythe complained, “I can’t believe we’re closed for the next two days. I was scheduled to work doubles as a server, and for once, I could’ve made some money. And finally someone actually scheduled me without six other servers working at the same time. I would’ve made serious tips.” Leave it to Blythe to look stunning in the middle of a crime scene. My old friend was so naturally beautiful that even her poorly applied purple eyeliner didn’t detract from her looks. She’d pushed her short hair back with a headband and, flat-chested or not, she managed to make Simmer’s uniform look sexy and chic. Thank God I hadn’t thrown on sweatpants this morning.

  Instead of commenting on her coldhearted attitude, I said, “Snacker mentioned scheduling problems this morning. What’s been going on?”

  “You don’t want to get us started.” Wade laughed. “But everyone keeps losing money because Gavin is fanatical about plugging us all into his computer system and relying on whatever idiotic schedule it generates. And half the time we’ve got too many servers and bartenders working during the slow times, so nobody’s making any money. And then when we’re swamped with customers, we don’t have enough people, so service isn’t what it should be, and then tips are low.”

  It disturbed me to hear people focus on the business and not on the death of a fellow employee. Even Josh was wrapped up in trying not to lose customers. But I knew Josh, knew that he had a good heart, and understood that he was just trying to do what had to be done. Even so, I felt upset that the primary concern at Simmer was the restaurant’s well-being and not Leandra’s sudden and horrible loss of life. Evidently, the restaurant world did not stop for death.

  SIX

  BLYTHE and Wade were both asked to give statements to the police. As I watched them move away, I wondered what they might know. How well had they even known Leandra? Realizing that everyone here was going to be questioned by the police triggered my sense of responsibility for Isabelle and prompted me to move in close to her. Of all the employees at Simmer, she was the one who seemed most alone. Yes, she now had roommates, but she was coming off years of fending for herself, years in which she’d had no family or no close friends. Now, just as she’d been settling into a job she loved and into a new life, a dreadful crime had occurred and, worse yet, had occurred in a place that she must have seen as the representation of her newfound safety and stability. “How are you holding up, Isabelle?”

  “I’m fine. I mean, it’s really sad and all about Leandra, but I didn’t know her too well or anything. But you know what I can’t help thinking? If Leandra had lived, Gavin might have married her, and she really wasn’t such a nice person. I know I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but it’s true. Gavin deserves much better than what he got from her. He is really so nice, Chloe!” Her face colored, and she fidgeted with a paper napkin on the table. “I know there are a lot of complaints about Gavin, but he’s doing the best he can. Really he is. He just wants Simmer to run as smoothly as possible, and it’ll take a while to get everything going perfectly, right? I know everybody hates that restaurant management program on the computer, but eventually it’ll even out and all the problems will be fixed. He has a plan.” She spoke with confidence that went beyond optimism. What I heard in her voice was more than hope; it was absolute belief.

>   “I’m sure he does,” I said with a reassuring smile. In fact, I felt far from reassured. I still wasn’t used to hearing about staff discontent with Simmer’s owner. Most of my knowledge of Simmer came from Josh, who’d painted a picture of harmony among the staff and grateful respect for Gavin.

  A female voice called out, “Chloe Carter?” It was my turn to be interviewed by the police. A detective, Patricia Waters, had me sit with her at a table for two. Detective Waters tucked her shoulder-length auburn hair behind her ears and flipped a notebook open to a clean page. I provided basic information about who I was.

  “And your boyfriend is the chef here? Josh Driscoll?” she asked, scanning her previous notes.

  I nodded.

  “Take me through everything you can remember from this morning, okay?”

  I narrated the details of picking up Owen and talking with Snacker. The linens had been delivered, I said. Owen had used the office for faxing. Finally, I described the gruesome discovery of Leandra’s body. I consciously opted to avoid mentioning the lines of cocaine I’d seen in the bathroom, and I said nothing of my suspicion that not all the employees here were legal residents of the U.S.

  “Tell me why Owen’s truck was parked here overnight. And did you know Leandra well? Were Owen and Leandra involved?”

  I explained that Adrianna was pregnant and went on to say that because she’d been exhausted last night, she’d wanted Owen to drive her home. He’d done what Adrianna asked, and then he’d walked to his nearby apartment. In response to the question of whether I’d known Leandra well, I said no. I added that she’d been involved with Gavin Seymour, who’d seemed to be crazy about her. No, there was no relationship between Owen and Leandra. Owen was going to marry Adrianna. Just because Ade and Snacker had had a meaningless fling a while back didn’t mean that my friends weren’t perfect for each other! I stressed that no one should listen to anything Snacker had to say about Owen, because Snacker was not his biggest fan. As I didn’t say aloud, I resented the implication that Owen had had anything to do with the murder. Instead of saying outright that Owen shouldn’t be treated as a suspect, I emphasized his loyalty to Adrianna. I didn’t say this aloud, either, but if Owen had been going to kill someone, it would’ve been Snacker! “Owen was the one who wanted me to see his truck,” I said. “It’s not like he was hiding it from me.”