Cook the Books

by Jessica

  I froze. “Did you say chef?”

  “Yeah, that’s right. Frankly, he got what he deserved. He started the fire and got himself killed.”

  I started to panic. Okay, I told myself, Digger is not the only chef in Boston. Far from it! Boston is so flooded with restaurants that there could practically be one chef per building, couldn’t there? Or maybe this guy meant chef in the casual sense—in other words, an enthusiastic amateur cook who thought of himself as a chef.

  “What’s your name?” I asked the man.

  “Norris.” He crossed his arms and rested them on his potbelly.

  “Norris, I’m Chloe. How do you know it was a chef? What do you mean it was his fault?”

  “That’s his apartment,” he said, pointing to the damaged first-floor unit. “That stupid chef was cooking all the time, day and night, and stinking up the whole neighborhood. He didn’t care that my apartment smelled like fish or onions or whatever, but with me on the first floor right next door, he should’ve known that those nasty smells were going to seep into my place, right? He didn’t care.” Norris stroked his full beard and shook his head. “Jerk. There’s what? Ten feet between these buildings? He could have killed me!”

  Digger could have spent the night at Ellie’s, right? In fact, if Ellie was like most other women, she wouldn’t want to stay at a boy’s icky apartment, especially a chef’s. I’d slept at Josh’s place only a handful of times when we were dating. Digger must have discovered the disaster when he’d arrived home this morning. Now, he was milling around here somewhere. Or maybe Digger had a roommate who was also a chef? I dug my purse out of my bag and called Digger’s cell. While it rang, I listened and glanced around, hoping to hear a phone ring, but I got Digger’s voice mail and hung up. Okay, maybe Digger had had a friend staying with him. A terrible idea hit me: what if Josh had come to visit him and had been sleeping on his couch?

  I approached the police officer. “Sir! Can you help me? I was supposed to meet someone who lives in that building. Can you please tell me who was killed in the fire?”

  “Ma’am, I’m sorry. There hasn’t been a formal identification yet. He was someone who lived here.” The officer adjusted his hat and pulled his gloves on tighter.

  “How can you not know who it is yet?” I paused. “Oh God.” The dreadful image of an incinerated body, a body burned beyond identification, flashed through my head. What a monstrous way to die! “It must have been so awful . . . for . . .”

  “We don’t know much at this point, but I can tell you that it appears the victim died of smoke inhalation.” He cleared his throat. “The guy was probably asleep and just never woke up. It looks like the fire started in the kitchen, probably at the stove, and the smoke detectors had been disabled. People do that sometimes, you know, if something has set them off, and then they just leave them that way. So it looks like this was all a terrible accident.”

  Oh no. Disabling the smoke detectors was just the sort of thing Digger would do, especially if he’d been doing a lot of cooking for the new restaurant. Chefs were used to big flames and lots of smoke while they cooked. After repeatedly setting off the smoke alarms, he’d probably gotten sick of opening the windows and fanning the rooms to get the noise to stop; I could easily picture Digger yanking the damn alarm out of the ceiling just to get it to shut up. But it looked like there were two apartments on the first floor, so maybe the fire hadn’t started at Digger’s place. I asked the officer.

  He shook his head. “Thankfully the other person who lived downstairs is away for the week.”

  “That’s right,” Norris barked. “She went to Arizona. Joked she was excited to get away from the smell of ginger and coriander for a while. For me, that goddamn grease smell was the worst. Like we live at a McDonald’s, for Christ’s sake! In fact, grease is probably what started the fire. Grease fires are the worst, you know.”

  My knees began to buckle under as the reality of Digger’s death hit me. I shot Norris a look. “That was my friend who died in the fire, you jerk. And his food wasn’t greasy, ever! He was a talented professional chef, not some hack who did nothing but plunge frozen foods into a fryolator.” My eyes began to sting, and I could hear my voice tremble.

  “She’s right.” I felt a gentle hand on my back and looked to my right. A woman with graying hair pulled into a braid stood next to me. “That young man was a lovely person. He was sweet. He used to bring me food when he’d made extra, which happened a lot recently. He said he was working on a menu for a new restaurant, so he was cooking all the time, that boy. Yes, Norris, some of his food was sometimes a little peculiar, I’ll give you that. He loved funny spices and strange vegetables that I’d never heard of, but that boy never made anything greasy, that’s for sure. You watch your mouth, Norris, and don’t speak ill of the dead,” she warned.

  Dead. My stomach twisted into a solid knot, and I dropped my head down between my knees to keep the world from spinning. I inhaled deeply, but all I took in was the rank smell of burned air. I stood up and managed a weak smile at the kind woman.

  She nodded slightly at me and pulled a blanket tightly around her shoulders. “I’m Barbara. I lived upstairs. Chef Digger cooked for a living. He’d know all about kitchen fires. Norris, you know as well as I do that he’d be the last person to start one. Something else started that fire.” She coughed. “Or someone else.”

  I froze and stared at Barbara. She was right. Even if Digger had been stupid enough to disable the smoke detectors, he was too skilled and too careful to cause a fire. He was just as fastidious as Josh was about keeping kitchens sanitary. Chefs were accustomed to unannounced visits from health inspectors and were keenly aware that inspection scores could affect their salaries and bonuses. Besides, Digger prided himself on maintaining a sterile kitchen. Even if the rest of his apartment had been a complete dump, there was no way that his kitchen would have had the layers of smelly grease and gunk that posed a fire hazard. He wouldn’t have left an oven or burner on, of course. And if he had actually been cooking in the wee hours of the night and had somehow managed to start a fire, he certainly would have known how to put it out; he and Josh both kept bins of baking soda near their restaurant stoves so that they could dust out flames in an emergency. I’d have bet anything that Digger did the same at home.

  A car horn blared. Turning, I saw a black Hummer idling in back of the police barricade. The driver was arguing with an officer. Until that moment, I’d totally forgotten about Kyle and Hank Boucher.

  “Excuse me,” I said to Barbara and Norris.

  I made my way to the environmentally unfriendly vehicle that Hank had no doubt rented for his stay in Boston. I couldn’t imagine that Kyle had chosen this monstrosity. My guess about who’d picked the Hummer spoke well for Kyle. In any case, his father was in the driver’s seat—yes, probably in every sense of the phrase. Hank was just as well groomed off camera as he was on. He was a tall, lean man with graying hair that was slicked back, creating a severe look that I found unpleasant. I wondered if his deeply tanned skin was the result of his worldwide traveling or if it was one of those spray tans that were so popular with celebrities.

  I approached the passenger’s side of the Hummer as Hank was complaining about the neighborhood. “Nice work, son. You’ve managed to put us smack in the middle of luxury here, haven’t you?” Hank gestured grandly. “We’re sure to find culinary greatness living in one of these stupendous buildings. And just because there’s a serious police presence in the neighborhood doesn’t mean that we should be thwarted by the threat of gang violence, does it? Where the hell are we supposed to park around here, anyway? Not that I’m overly anxious now to get going with this supposed tasting you’ve set up, but since we’re here, we might as well get it over with. I don’t imagine there’s valet parking nearby, is there?”

  Kyle squirmed uncomfortably.

  I pursed my lips. “Hello, Mr. Boucher,” I said coldly. “I’m Chloe Carter. I hardly think you need to worry about gang
violence or valet parking right now. There’s been a fire in my friend Digger’s building. He apparently died in the fire.”

  “Typical!” Hank barked angrily. His face barely moved, and I suspected a good dose of Botox was preventing any expression. “Good job, Kyle. This book is coming along swimmingly, isn’t it?”

  “Dad!” Kyle glared at his father. “You can’t blame me for this.”

  “Christ, let’s get out of this hellhole before something else happens.” Hank started to back the car up to make a three-point turn.

  Kyle shot me an apologetic look. “I’ll call you later, Chloe.”

  I watched in disbelief as the pair drove off. Hank had hardly glanced at me, and Kyle had been too wrapped up in his father’s obnoxious behavior even to ask how I was. I wanted to get out of there, too, but as I began to head toward my car, I realized that Digger’s girlfriend and manager, Ellie, might not know of his death. Backtracking, I found Norris and Barbara still staring at the charred, sopping remains of the building.

  “Does either of you know whether Digger’s girlfriend has been here? Whether she knows what happened?” I asked.

  Barbara shook her head. “Sorry, hon, I don’t know anything about a girlfriend.”

  Norris rolled his eyes. “There’s another thing. Not only did this guy smell up the entire street, but there was a whole business of women in and out of the place. Like we’re some sort of brothel here!”

  Before I could ask Norris what in the world he was talking about, a young man chimed in. “I live in the building. Or I did. And I know who you’re talking about.” He pulled a hat down over his ears. “She hasn’t been here this morning. I’ve been out here since the fire, and I haven’t seen her.”

  I thanked him and took off. On the way to my car, I imagined Ellie hearing about the fire on the radio or innocently turning on the television and seeing the blackened ruins of her boyfriend’s apartment. I had to get to her first. I called her from my cell phone as I started my car.

  She picked up almost immediately. “Yes? Chloe, is that you? Are you at Digger’s?”

  “Sort of. Ellie, I need to come see you right away.”

  “Is something wrong? I’ve been calling him all morning about the meeting with Hank Boucher. He decided he didn’t want me there, if you can believe it, because his kitchen is so small. Did he screw something up?” she demanded.

  “Not exactly, no. Ellie, I really need to come and talk to you. What’s your address?”

  Ellie paused. “Okay. I’m in Cambridge, not too far from Harvard Square.” She gave me her street address and hung up.

  A trip down Mass. Ave. followed by a few turns would get me to her place in no time. Despite the cold, I rolled down the window, and as I drove, I took gulps of fresh air. Of the many things that were upsetting me, what stood out most was something Barbara had said: her suggestion that someone else besides Digger could have started the fire. What if the fire hadn’t been an accident, but arson? What if his death had been murder? But who on earth would want to kill Digger? Was Norris so fed up with the chef that he’d burned down the building, even at the risk of destroying his own apartment? Maybe Ellie would have some idea.

  SIX

  ELLIE lived in half of a gorgeous old two-family house on a charming side street. To live in this part of Cambridge, right in the midst of Harvard University territory, she had to have money.

  Announcing a boyfriend’s death was not how I’d normally choose to meet someone. I had no idea what to say. In fact, all I could think of was what not to say. Hi, nice to meet you. Your boyfriend is dead. Beautiful apartment, by the way. What’s the rent like?

  When I rang the bell, Ellie called for me to come in. I pushed open the heavy front door and stepped into the living room, where a roaring fire heated the cozy room.

  “Chloe.” Ellie smiled as she emerged from a doorway. “It’s great to meet you. Come in and grab a seat. Would you like some coffee?”

  “No, thank you. Um, Ellie . . .”

  I stared at the young woman, who looked perky and chipper and incredibly voluptuous—big hair and big boobs. Her bouncy chestnut hair fell just below her shoulders, and her crisp clothes hugged her shapely curves.

  I said, “You need to sit down.” I nodded at the cream love seat by the fireplace.

  “I knew something happened! Don’t tell me Digger blew off Hank Boucher, of all people!” Ellie sat neatly on the cushion and crossed her legs. “If Digger would just listen to me, then he would have his own line of cookware by now. What am I going to do with him?”

  “Ellie, there’s been . . . I have something terrible to tell you. There is no easy way to say this, but . . .” I simply couldn’t get the words out. I stared at her dark red lips, momentarily entranced by the thick layer of lipstick. “Last night . . . Digger . . .”

  Ellie’s face darkened as she listened to me struggle. “What is it? What is it?” Panic crept into her voice.

  I had to spit it out. “There was a horrible fire at Digger’s place last night. He died. No one has confirmed it yet, but I know that it was a chef who lived on the first floor of his building. It’s obviously him.”

  Ellie threw her hands over her face and held still. Feeling hopelessly inadequate, I waited for her to fall apart. Her shoulders began to tremble, and tears soon leaked from behind her hands as she moaned and sobbed. I moved to sit next to her. Resting my hand on her back, I said, “I’m terribly sorry.” I wiped my own cheeks. “This is such a tremendous shock. I can hardly believe it myself. I don’t know what to say.”

  Ellie finally dropped her hands from her face. She looked positively heartbroken and miserable. Having no idea what to say, I reached out and wiped the mess of black mascara that ran down her face.

  “How could this have happened?” she asked. “Why? And he was just about to really make something of himself. He was finally going to have his talent recognized! It’s not fair! Do you have any idea what the competition for this new job was like? He was so proud of himself for beating out the other chefs. Rightfully so, too, because he was up against some very good chefs. This just isn’t right!” She dropped her head, crying hard.

  I snatched a handful of tissues from an end table and handed her the pile. “Can I call someone for you?” Ellie, I thought, needed the presence of someone she was close to, a friend or a family member, not the stranger who had delivered the devastating news.

  “Georgie,” she said through her tears. “Call Georgie. My phone . . .” She pointed to a purse that sat by the front door.

  I scrambled for her purse and found her cell phone. A quick scroll down through her contacts, past a list of numbers for Digger, revealed Georgie. I called the number and was relieved when Georgie answered immediately. I explained who I was and asked her to come to Ellie’s as soon as possible. Although I didn’t tell her about Digger, she must have caught the gravity of my request, because she assured me that she’d be right over. As we waited, I did what I could to comfort Ellie. My ineffectual efforts consisted mainly of emptying the box of tissues and murmuring words of condolence until the front door finally burst open.

  “What’s wrong?” A tall, thin waif of a woman stood in front of us, her short blonde hair tucked behind her ears. “Ellie?” she asked with concern as she knelt in front of her friend.

  “Digger is dead,” Ellie managed to whisper. “There was a fire and he’s dead!” More tears followed, of course, and more tissues.

  Georgie’s already fair skin paled as she crumpled to the floor, holding herself up with her hands. “Oh my God. No! No!” She burst into choked sobs. “Oh, Digger! No!”

  I shut my eyes for a moment. The grief was so painful to witness that I knew I’d be unable to hold myself together much longer. At least Ellie had a friend here who was compassionate and empathic, I told myself. Indeed, Georgie seemed to share her friend’s sorrow almost too much, but at least Ellie now had the support of someone she knew and trusted.

  Georgie looked up at m
e from the floor. “Chloe?” She wiped her eyes. “How did you find out about this?”

  I explained about the cooking demonstration that Digger was to have done for Hank, Kyle, and me, and I described arriving at his place to find the aftermath of the fire. “You knew Digger, too, obviously. I’m so sorry.”

  Georgie nodded. “Yes, I did. And my boyfriend, Jay, had actually been in a friendly rivalry with Digger for the job at the Penthouse. He’s the sous-chef now, though. Ellie and I are going to be servers there.” She glanced at Ellie, and the two fell apart. “I’ll have to let him know, too.”

  Ellie had told me that the chef who’d come in second for the job was furious. Was that someone else? But now wasn’t the time to straighten out the confusion, and I had no reason to care about who had or hadn’t become the executive chef at the Penthouse. Georgie’s boyfriend, Jay, would presumably take over for Digger. I didn’t envy him having to jump in at the last minute to get the restaurant ready to open. As I knew from watching Josh prepare for Simmer’s opening, he’d have a ton of work in front of him. Also, unless Digger had kept all of his plans at work, everything he’d slaved over must have been lost in the fire, so his successor would have to start from scratch. But maybe the new executive chef would have wanted to make the job all his own, anyway.

  “I’m so sorry to have had to break the news,” I said. “I should get going and leave you two alone.” I rose from the couch and walked to the door.

  “Thank you, Chloe,” Ellie whispered. She reached for Georgie, who joined her on the couch.

  I left the two tearful girls and drove toward home. The sky had clouded over and darkened the city. The gloomy atmosphere fit my mood. I shut off the radio, mainly to avoid hearing music that I would then forever associate with Digger’s death. I’d had high hopes that the day would go well for Digger and for me. Instead, it had turned into a nightmare. Whenever things went wrong in my life, I wanted to fix them by taking constructive action, but there was no fixing this situation. I pulled into my parking spot in front of my condo and looked up at the familiar brown house. It felt good to be home. I shuffled up the back steps to the third floor and opened the door, where Inga the white fluffball of a cat stood meowing at me as if she knew how I felt and was waiting to take care of me. Stupid, I know, but I choose to believe it. I dropped my tote to the floor, threw my coat on the coffee table, and scooped up my girl, who purred melodically.