"Yup,” he said. “Come on in.” He snatched the page that had just chugged out of the printer, stuffed it in his pocket, and exited from whatever site had been showing on the computer screen. “This guy who's bothering Howard,” he said, “he's got a nasty look in his eye, like any second he could flip out, get violent. That doesn't scare you?"
It's my job not to get scared, I wanted to say. All my life, I've wanted to say something like that. But I imagined the look Miss Woodhouse would give me if she heard me say it, and I held back. “Not really,” I said. “Do you know what kind of car he drives?"
"A beat-up white Chevy,” he said. “Dirty, lots of dents. Y'know, I don't like the idea of you going up against him alone.” He opened a file cabinet drawer and took out a revolver. “I keep this handy, just in case. You could borrow it—just in case."
"No, thanks,” I said. Once again, the image of Miss Woodhouse's reaction held me back. I walked over to inspect an architect's drawing tacked to the wall. “This is your restaurant, isn't it?” I said. “I love the new entrance. And the landscaping!"
"Yeah, we're doing a major renovation.” His eyes brightened. “Probably get started this spring. So, I'm supposed to show you around. What do you want to see?"
"I'm not sure,” I said. “Where's your wife?"
"Terry?” he asked, as if unsure of which wife I meant. He paused. “She's probably at the hostess station.” He paused again. “She's the hostess."
"Interesting,” I said, casting about for a way to keep the conversation going. “And Brenda's a waitress, right? Is Chuck a waiter?"
"Sometimes,” Little Dave said. “Mostly, he shops in the morning, sets up in the afternoon, buses tables, cleans up at the end of the day. Plus he's my sous chef."
"Sounds like he keeps busy,” I said, and was relieved to hear the back door open and shut and to see Brenda walk in. She took off her dripping black raincoat and slung it on the coatrack, gave me a quick hug, gave Little Dave a longer one.
"Sorry!” she exclaimed. “Late again. I had an audition in the District—mostly dancing, and that's not my strength, but I did okay. Is Terry steamed?"
"Not too bad,” Little Dave said. “It hasn't been real busy—she and Anne have managed. But you better get out there."
Pointing toward the dining room, he gave her a little swat on the behind. That didn't necessarily mean anything in particular. When I was a secretary in Cleveland, some of the men in the office gave me little swats like that when they told me to do something. I never liked it, but I knew it usually didn't mean anything in particular. But now, when he gave her that little swat, and she turned around halfway and met his eyes and half giggled, I thought maybe this time it did mean something in particular.
The door from the dining room opened and Terry stepped in, just in time to see the little swat, the half turn, the half giggle. She, too, seemed to think it meant something. “Finally,” she said to Brenda. “Will you please get out there. Well, Miss Russo. You're here too. I thought you'd want to look around. At eight, you can come in through the front door and be seated at a table. Will you please come with me."
"Hey, I can show Harriet around,” Little Dave said. “I'm heading back to the kitchen anyway, to see if Chuck needs help with—"
"He doesn't,” Terry said. “In the last two hours, we've had nine customers; Chuck has coped with the rush. Should a tenth customer arrive, I will alert you. In the meantime, will you please circulate in the dining room. Charm customers. This way, Miss Russo."
Without hesitation, he headed for the dining room; without hesitation, I followed Terry down the narrow hallway that led to the kitchen. In the center of the room, Chuck stood at a butcher-block table, sneezing, lethargically chopping shallots.
"Chuck, will you kindly show Miss Russo around,” Terry said. “And will you please cover your mouth when you sneeze. You'll infect our customers."
With that, she was gone. Chuck, who seemed wrapped in gloom, glanced at me briefly before refocusing his attention on his shallots. I attempted a smile.
"Slow night,” I said. “Well, it's Thursday."
"It could be Saturday. It'd still be slow.” Suddenly, he grabbed a small pot from the stove, thrust in a spoon, and handed it to me. “Taste,” he ordered.
It was a cream sauce, specked with green and black and red. I tasted—hesitantly, then incredulously. “My God,” I said. “This is so good."
"Isn't it?” he demanded. “And it's my recipe. I'm going to ask Little Dave to let me drizzle it on his damned poached scallops. He'll say no. Know why?"
I shook my head. I didn't know, I didn't care. I just wanted more sauce.
"Because he didn't come up with it,” Chuck said. “And as far as he's concerned, nothing I come up with can be good enough to serve because I'm a sous chef. Sous chef! How the hell can I be a sous chef? To have a sous chef, you gotta have a chef, right?"
"I guess,” I said. “And you don't consider Little Dave a real chef?"
"Him? Please.” He brought his knife down brutally, reducing the shallots to goo. “He's never come up with a decent recipe in his life, and he burns half the stuff he cooks, leaves the other half raw. You know the only thing he's good at?"
Maybe if I humored him he'd give me more sauce. “What?” I asked.
"Buying useless junk.” He yanked a drawer open and started holding things up. “Just look at this stuff. A garlic press. A garlic peeler. A garlic pulverizer. A deluxe Sir-Chops-A-Lot. A Minute Marinator. A nutmeg juicer. He shells out good money for these stupid gadgets, then never uses them. You know the only thing a real chef needs?"
"What?” I asked, my eyes still on that little pot simmering on the stove.
"A good knife.” Chuck held up the knife he'd used to butcher the shallots—broad grooved blade, bright orange handle. “With one good knife, a real chef can do everything he needs to do. But Little Dave—he leaves all the prep work to me, insists on doing the actual cooking himself, and botches everything.” He shook his head. “Big Dave—he was a real chef, built this place up from nothing. I started working here when I was a teenager—I was like a son to him, and he taught me a lot. But he left Chez Cubbe to Little Dave, and Little Dave's running it straight into the ground. It's not right."
Brenda slipped into the kitchen. “Howard's here,” she said, keeping her voice unnecessarily low. “Terry says Harriet should come watch him.” She walked over to me. “Hey, cool brooch—nice vintage look. I design jewelry, did I tell you?"
"You mentioned it this afternoon,” I said. “And you also audition for shows?"
"Yeah, well, most celebrities these days design stuff,” she said, examining the brooch more closely. “So I figure when I finally get my break in acting or singing—I'm real good at both—I should have a few lines of merchandise ready to go."
"You'll get that break.” Chuck gave her a look heavy with adoration. “You should've got it long ago. Those guys must be crazy. Crazy and blind."
Brenda smiled at him—warmth, gratitude, real affection, no matching adoration. “You're sweet,” she said. “Harriet, better get out there."
Obediently, I walked to the front door and entered as a customer. Doing a good job of pretending not to recognize me, Terry led me to a table a few yards away from the table occupied by a man who had to be Howard—seventyish, gaunt, thinning gray hair, thick gray sweater, water glass and martini glass both still full. He had a sweet, trusting face, I thought, and a sad, quiet way about him.
After Brenda came to my table and recited the specials in a falsely casual tone, I gazed around the dining room. It was spacious—too spacious, making the few customers look like castaways in an ocean of threadbare carpet. Once, it might have been described as quietly elegant or subtly luxurious; now, the only phrase it brought to mind was “deferred maintenance.” The figurines at the center of each table were intriguing, though. I picked mine up—eight inches tall, so heavy it had to be iron, polished to a grudging sheen. It was a lion cub wear
ing a chef's hat, jauntily holding a spoon aloft. It took me a minute to figure it out—Chez Cubbe, lion cub. Cute, I thought, and set it down.
As I worked my way through a limp salad, I kept sneaking glimpses at Howard, hurting my neck but learning little: He ate slowly, he looked gloomy, and that was all I could say about him. At one point, Chuck brought him asparagus topped with creamy sauce—that amazing sauce, I thought, envying Howard. At another point, Little Dave came to his table to chat and slap him on the back. Finally, just before nine, just as I got my grilled chicken and Howard got his turkey club, the mystery man arrived. I perked up.
This guy looked like trouble, all right. He matched Brenda's description tattoo for tattoo, piercing for piercing, ratty red knapsack for ratty red knapsack, but she hadn't mentioned the constant over-the-shoulder glances, the fidgeting fingers, the general twitchiness. As he spoke to Howard in a low, urgent tone, he kept picking things up, turning them around, setting them down—fork, spoon, iron lion cub chef figurine, salt shaker, pepper grinder. Even at a distance, his jitteriness put me on edge.
But what was he saying? I strained, but couldn't hear. I couldn't blame Terry for not seating us closer together—in a mostly empty dining room, it might've seemed odd. At least sawing off slivers of petrified chicken kept me busy.
Shortly before ten, the mystery man pitched his voice still lower, twitched still more sharply, and handed Howard a bedraggled sheet of paper. Howard glanced at it and put it in his shirt pocket. Fine. Brenda had already boxed up my nearly intact dinner, and I'd already paid and tipped. Casually, I strolled to the parking lot, got in my car, and waited. At least the rain had stopped, I thought. That would make my job easier.
Moments later, the mystery man came out, got into a dented white Chevy, and pulled onto the street. I counted to ten before following, pleased to see a Corvette and a Mitsubishi between us. He won't spot me, I assured myself, I was being discreet as hell.
He crossed the bridge, heading for the historic district, and stopped at a mildly seedy coffee house. Luckily, a spot was open across the street. For nearly an hour, I waited in my car, sometimes nervous, sometimes bored. Finally, he came out and drove on. I followed. He crossed the bridge again and got on Ritchie Highway, heading toward Baltimore. Maybe he was a commuting con man. When we reached Arnold, he got off the highway and drove to a waffle house with an “Open All Night” sign blinking sleepily in its window. He pulled into the lot in back; I parked across the street, wondered who'd want to eat waffles all night, and settled back for another long wait.
Then the door to my car was yanked open, and the mystery man stood inches from me, pale, shaking, furious. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded. “Why are you following me?"
Time for a tough, clever comeback, I thought. “Excuse me?” I said.
"Don't give me that,” he shot back, though as far as I could tell, I hadn't given him anything. His eyebrow ring quivered. “You were in the restaurant—you kept watching me. You work for Eddie Three Ears, don't you? So he figured it out. Well, tell him it won't do him any damn good. She's not coming back—I won't let her. So he damn well better back off. And you—you back off, too, or I'll make you sorry you didn't."
He slammed the door and was gone. Good grief, I thought, and it was a solid minute before I could calm down enough to think anything else. The next thought that did come was that I'd better call Miss Woodhouse and tell her I'd messed up.
I didn't have time to feel bad about that, though, because already someone was rapping sharply on my window. I shrieked, jerked forward so hard my seat belt nearly knocked the wind out of me, looked to my left, and saw Little Dave's face pressed against my window. “Hey,” he said. “Come out."
Numbly, I got out of the car. “What are you doing here?” I asked.
"I told you I didn't feel right about you going up against this creep all alone,” he said. “So I followed you—I been following you the whole time. You didn't spot me?"
I shook my head. Of course I hadn't spotted him. Idiotic excuse for a private detective that I am, I never spot anyone. Instead, people spot me.
"Well, I was pretty cagey,” he said smugly. “Oh man. When he ripped your door open, I thought you were dead for sure. But I brought you something. Here."
He stuffed it in my jacket pocket. “No,” I said. “No guns. Miss Woodhouse—"
"That's not all,” he said. “His car's parked behind the waffle house, beside the dumpster. I sneaked a peek while he was hassling you, and that red knapsack is in the back. Let's grab it—I bet that'll tell us what he's up to. I bet the car isn't locked."
"No,” I said. “What if he comes out and—"
"Hell, he's been in that place two minutes at most,” Little Dave said confidently. “Waffles don't cook that fast. We got plenty of time. Come on!"
He raced off. For a moment, I stood frozen. Call Miss Woodhouse and tell her how I'd botched things—let Little Dave get himself killed and feel guilty for the rest of my life—follow him into the parking lot and risk getting killed myself. On the whole, the last option seemed most attractive. I raced after Little Dave.
He stood next to the dirty white car, hissing into his cell phone. “Damn it, Terry,” he said in a harsh whisper. “I told you not to call me. No, I won't tell you where I am. Just go home. I'll see ya when I see ya.” He snapped his phone shut and yanked on a back door of the car. It didn't budge. He looked straight at me, grinning sheepishly.
That's pretty much the last thing I remember—I have some vague impression of something crashing down against me, of sharp pain and sudden darkness. But my next definite memory is of fading slowly back into consciousness—of hearing sirens blare, of feeling the cement against my back, of seeing Little Dave sprawled a few feet away from me, of spotting a small iron figurine next to him, of falling into darkness again.
* * * *
"I have some questions for you, Miss Russo,” the man said.
Groggy as I felt, I knew who he was—Detective Barry Glass, the man Miss Woodhouse had dumped over a decade ago when the professor had some kind of breakdown and made her daughter give up her fiancé and her police career. I tried to sit up, didn't make it, and looked around. I was on a cot in a small, white, nearly empty room with a heavy antiseptic smell. He sat next to the cot on a straight-backed chair.
"Is this a hospital?” I asked.
"Yeah,” he said. “The doc says you're fine—probably not even a concussion."
I tried to sit up again and made it this time. “I should call Miss Woodhouse."
"I already called her. She's in the waiting room just outside.” His whole face twitched hard, brow to chin. “With her mother."
Poor Barry Glass. The professor despised him, always treated him like dirt—I couldn't figure it out, nobody could figure it out, because he's really an awful nice guy. I rubbed my forehead as memories came back. “Little Dave,” I said. “Is he all right?"
Barry Glass shook his head. “He's dead. That's why I gotta ask you questions. How did you and him end up in that parking lot?"
"He followed me,” I said. “I was working on a case—Miss Woodhouse probably told you. Well, I followed this guy to a coffee house, then to the waffle house. But he'd spotted me, and he came to my car and threatened me. Then Little Dave rapped on my car window and said he'd been following me the whole time."
Wincing, Barry Glass shook his head. “Now, I know that's a lie. Try again, Miss Russo. Tell the truth this time."
"That was the truth.” I stared at him, confused. “Little Dave followed me from—"
"No he didn't,” Barry Glass cut in. “You and David Cubbe arranged to meet in that parking lot, didn't you? What was the plan?"
"There was no plan,” I insisted. “I didn't want him to follow me. He just—"
"No.” He handed me a plastic-wrapped sheet of paper. “We found this in his pocket—see? He did a Mapquest search at 7:28, had the route from Chez Cubbe to the waffle house all mapped out. He knew exact
ly where he was going—he didn't have to follow you. You knew exactly where you were going, too, didn't you?"
I remembered walking into the office at Chez Cubbe and seeing Little Dave grab a page from the printer. It must have been the map. “This doesn't make sense,” I said. “Why hire me to follow this guy if he already knew—oh no.” A horrible thought came to me. “Little Dave stuffed a gun into my pocket. You said he's dead. Was he—?"
"He wasn't shot,” he said. “We found the gun—his prints on it, but not yours, and it looks like it's never been fired. Don't worry about that. Just come clean with me."
"I have,” I said. “I was hired to follow this man, and that's all I did."
Barry Glass sighed. “You said this man threatened you. What did he say?"
"Crazy things,” I said. “It was all like, ‘I saw you at Chez Cubbe,’ and ‘You must work for Eddie Three Ears,’ and ‘Back off or else.’”
He straightened up. “He mentioned Eddie Three Ears? You're sure?"
"Positive,” I said. “Have you heard of him? Is he a real person?"
"He's real, all right,” Barry Glass said grimly. “He's bad news—pimp, drug dealer, works out of Baltimore. So Stanley Carson's mixed up with Eddie Three Ears."
"Stanley Carson?” I said. “Is that the name of the man I was following? Is he the one who knocked me out and killed Little Dave?"
"That's his name,” Barry Glass said. “We got it from the cook in the waffle house; Carson's his friend, stops by every Thursday night to visit for a few minutes. As to what Carson did, we're working on that. Somebody knocked you out and killed Little Dave. And stole some things, presumably. Little Dave's watch and wallet and phone were gone. What about you? Were you wearing a watch? Any other jewelry?"
I looked down at my wrist and realized my trusty Timex was missing. Carson must be hard up to steal a Timex. “Yes, I was wearing a watch,” I said, “and a turquoise ring, and—oh God. The brooch. The professor's brooch. Oh no!"
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