"Actually, Avery named her. We usually call her Liz. You know, Liz, as in lizard. I'm surprised Avery never mentioned her to such a close friend." It probably goes without saying that the words "close friend" were spat out sarcastically.
"Oh." Now I was the one at a loss for words. The steaming doctor was probably not far off when he asked if I was nuts. I was thankful he was able to calm down before he continued with his explanation.
"Liz is a chuckwalla that originally came from the Mohave Desert. She was Avery's pet before we got married. But now I'm fighting for joint custody, anyway."
"Oh, I see. You've understandably grown attached to Liz over the course of your marriage." I spoke with insincere sincerity, in a lame attempt to atone for my own errant assumption.
"Oh, hell no!" He looked at me as if I'd implied he'd grown fond of a hairy wart on the tip of his nose. "Did you not hear what I just said? It's a lizard, for God's sakes! I can barely stand to look at the ugly thing."
"Huh? So why are you—"
"Fighting for joint custody of a big, repulsive reptile?" He broke in, finishing my question for me. "The truth is I think that kind of arrangement would be beneficial to my future relationship with Avery. For starters, joint custody would ensure we stayed in con—"
Dr. O'Keefe stopped speaking abruptly. It no doubt had suddenly occurred to him that he should not be discussing his divorce or revealing too much information about his covert intentions to his estranged wife's friend. A friend of such questionable affiliation with her, no less.
He trembled anxiously as he picked the folder up off the counter that held bottles of Q-tips and cotton balls, along with several boxes of different sized latex gloves. He opened the door to signal it was time for me to go. As I stood up to leave, he said, "I see no obvious signs of a virus, but you can pick up a script for antibiotics on your way out."
"Thank you." I'd pick up the prescription along with my insurance cards at the check-out desk so as not to look like an imposter, but had no intention of filling it.
"By the way," Dr. O'Keefe added. "The doctor/patient confidentiality clause works both ways. I expect you to keep our conversation to yourself. I'm having a rough enough time dealing with Avery as it is. Because of her, I had to go give a statement at the police station this morning."
There was no need to ask why he'd been called to the station. It was in regards to the murder of Cooper Claypool, not his dissolving marriage, I was certain. His last remarks also explained what "unexpected family obligation" had caused him to be a late arrival at work that day. But, most importantly, the red-headed doctor with the strong Irish brogue had presented me with a motive that put him high on my list of murder suspects.
Chapter 9
"I haven't been resting on my laurels either," Rip said, after I told him about my health clinic visit. "I was limited to what I could do to further our progress without wheels, since you needed to take the truck. But after you called me from the clinic's parking lot, I managed to speak with the manager at Jugs 'n Mugs. He told me Avery was off on Saturday, a normal working day for her, and took off again Sunday and Monday on bereavement leave. But she's expected to report for the evening shift later on this afternoon. I don't know about you, but I'm craving some hot wings."
"Me too! Let's go out for supper tonight. I'd planned on cooking liver and onions, but—"
"Liver and onions? Then it's most definitely a date, my dear!" He quipped playfully. Fixing liver and onions was an inside joke. Knowing Rip despised liver, I used the liver-and-onions ruse on the rare occasions I wanted to go out for supper.
I was tickled to see his morning funk had dissipated and he was looking forward to our dinner date as much as I was. But I had to wonder if Rip's enthusiasm was based on the possibility of obtaining useful investigative information from Avery Curry, snarfing down a boatload of hot wings, or being served by some young topless broad with bazookas the size of coconuts.
* * *
At five that evening, Rip and I were sitting at the bar holding a pager to notify us when a table was available. We'd been warned it'd be a good forty-five minutes before we would be seated in the dining area. Normally, we wouldn't wait ten minutes when there were other restaurants around that weren't as crowded. But this was not a normal situation. Besides, a mixed drink or two sounded very appealing to both of us, since we'd missed our usual afternoon highball.
The rough-hewn bar was straight out of an old John Wayne movie. Both the bar area and the kitchen had double swinging doors like the saloons often depicted in western movies. There was even an old leather gun belt with an empty holster hanging over the corner of the large mirror behind the bartender. I liked the old West ambiance the place embodied.
The only detail that seemed out of place was the dozen or so televisions lining the wall, all with different pro-basketball games being broadcast on them. At least they'd keep Rip occupied while we waited. With Rip riveted to the television screens, I opted to use this time to consider what I might say to Avery should I get the opportunity to speak to her.
I ordered a Tequila Sunrise and Rip requested a dark beer they had on tap. It was a quarter to five according to the clock on the wall, cleverly crafted using a mirror fit snugly into a horse collar.
We were accustomed to eating early, and on this night it was especially necessary if I were to get to my bunko party on time. Anything we ate after six was an open invitation to heartburn during the night. The refreshments at the party would result in enough acid reflux to choke the horse the aforementioned collar had belonged to without a heavy dinner added to the mix.
I was hoping Mabel Hicks had made her to-die-for cocoa and caramel cookies to offer us that evening. I'd asked her for the recipe every single time she served them in the past, but so far the old hen hadn't cut loose with it. Mabel was sitting on that egg so tight, it'd never hatch. Even still, I knew I'd give it another shot if the cookies were on the refreshment menu tonight. I reckon it's on the order of asking a fisherman where he caught his nice mess of fish. Around here, anglers most often replied, "In the mouth."
While Rip waited for our drinks to be served, all the time eyeing the busty brunette behind the bar, I decided to go back to the reception area and question the young lady taking names at a podium. Her black clothing and fingernails, along with unnaturally jet black hair, were unnerving. She wore enough black makeup to seal the parking lot. I'd heard about the gothic subculture before, and figured she must be one of those spooks.
I told Rip I'd be right back. He nodded without taking his eyes off the stunning barmaid. Before I departed, I whispered, "Be careful, dear. You don't know where those 'jugs' have been."
As I approached the freak of nature at the check-in stand, I said, "Excuse me, miss. I meant to ask you earlier if Avery Curry was on duty this evening."
The eerie lady was struggling to keep up as people poured in the door faster than she could take their names. Handing a customer a pager, and without even turning to look at me, she replied, "Yes. Our head cook called in sick and Avery talked Archie into letting her cover in the kitchen tonight. According to Avery, she was just too upset to face customers."
"Why's that?" I knew why, of course, but was happy to hear Avery was emotionally affected by her recent loss. Sincere sorrow indicated to me she wasn't likely to have been involved in Cooper's death.
Blackie continued to work as she replied, "Someone just iced her boyfriend." She said this as dispassionately as if she were telling me one of Avery's goldfish had jumped out of the fish bowl and been consumed by her cat.
"Oh, my! Poor thing. Well, thanks for your help." The stoic young gal merely nodded in response as she asked another customer for his name.
Dang it, I thought. That definitely makes this harder. But I've faced and conquered challenging tasks before and, by Jove, I'll find a way to do it again.
As I made my way back to the bar, I wondered briefly if the lady in black sacrificed goats in her basement on slow days. With n
othing to do but wait, I sat back down on the barstool and sipped my drink while I mentally chewed on how I could get into the bar and grill's kitchen. Finally, when I realized I wouldn't be chewing on anything else for a good long while, I decided I might as well spend the waiting time usefully.
I figured the best approach was to just walk into the kitchen like I owned the place. I've used that tactic successfully numerous times in the past. When you march in somewhere you have no right to be as if you have every right to be there, people tend to take for granted you are supposed to be there.
I set my empty glass on the bar while Rip was being handed his second beer. As he was busy thanking the bartender, I said, "I'll be back in a few minutes."
Leaving no time for Rip to impede my departure, I walked out of the bar area and straight into the kitchen.
"Oh, thank God you're here! Get in here and help me get caught up." A blond-haired gal I assumed was Avery exclaimed. At a respectable height of five-eight, I still had to look up to make eye contact with her. She had to be nearly six-feet tall, and her long thick mane hung below her belt. She was a striking woman. It was no small wonder Cooper Claypool had snatched up this knockout following her divorce from the fair doctor.
I'd anticipated the likelihood of being thrown out of the kitchen, but I'd never imagined someone would so eagerly welcome me back there. I smiled as she enlightened me. "Archie told me he'd called in extra help for me, but I didn't expect you to arrive so soon. I'm Avery, by the way. I saw some clean aprons hanging on a hook behind the walk-in freezer."
This was a fortuitous and well-timed opportunity to converse with Avery, and I jumped right on it. A little reluctant to introduce myself, I was relieved when she hastily pulled an extra hairnet out of her apron and handed it to me. It made the hairs on my arm stand on end when she said, "I hope you know more about cooking than I do. They offer a lot of oddball dishes here I've never heard of before, but I'm anxious to learn, and I just couldn't wait tables tonight."
She didn't elaborate on why she'd rather attempt something with which she had no experience than perform her normal duties. I already knew why, of course, but didn't want to show my hand that quickly. I also hated to inform her I probably had even less of a clue about cooking in a restaurant than she did, so I didn't. I thought I could fake it long enough to get her to divulge some valuable information. To quell her fears, I replied, "Oh, poo! Don't give it another thought. I've been working in kitchens all my life."
I didn't add those kitchens I referred to included my own, Lexie Starr's while she was wrongly incarcerated, and my daughter's.
"Oh, cool. I am so, so, so relieved to hear that you're an old pro at this." I smiled and nodded at Avery, thinking, Well, you're half right. I am old, at least compared to your forty-some years.
The next off-the-cuff statement I made was not well thought out. It was a misfortunate and highly fallacious claim. "Went to culinary school, you see."
"Really?" Avery's ears perked up, as did her mood. She'd appeared extremely gloomy up until then. "Which one?"
"Which one you ask? Um, well, you know, that famous one in Paris. Can't recall the name at the moment."
"Le Cordon Bleu?"
"Yes. Yes, that's the one." I should have left it at that, having already foolishly over-played the fictional "seasoned chef" card. As if it wasn't bad enough already, my next remark approached moronic. "Worked at Maxim's for a spell, honing my skills, as a matter of fact." Or not, I thought. More like a matter of fiction, actually. But I was mentally patting myself on the back for being able to come up with the name of a famous Parisian restaurant at the drop of a hat. Truthfully, it wasn't all that remarkable, since we'd watched a segment about Maxim's on the Food Channel only a week ago. But Avery Curry, an impressionable wanna-be culinary expert, didn't know that.
"Cool!"
"Do you happen to know of a certain young chef named Wolfgang Puck? He worked there too." Or so the recently aired documentary claimed.
"Wow! Did you get to meet him?" I could see in Avery's eyes her respect for me had just ratcheted up several notches.
"You bet! Puckie and I are old cronies now," I boasted. Good Lord, Rapella. Put a dinner roll in your pie-hole and quit talking, for God's sakes, before you claim to have had an affair with the dude! I chided myself. It was as if I physically could not stop telling one mind-boggling lie after another. I would have slapped some sense into myself if I weren't afraid Avery would get on her cell phone and call for the men in the white coats.
"Oh, man! That's so awesome! The Le Cordon Culinary School is my dream. I'd like to learn enough I can one day move on from waiting tables. Schlepping food and drinks around to often rude and demanding customers is just not my thing. Particularly when I'm half-naked like they require the waitresses to be here."
"Been there, done that, young lady." Like her ex-husband, she gave me the once-over and shook her head, not quite able to picture me waiting tables half-nude. I scanned the room for a fire extinguisher. If I told one more lie I'd probably need one to extinguish my Levi's. Liar, liar...
"I hope you'll teach me some tips and tricks while you're here, ma'am. Anything to help me improve my skills."
Uh-oh. I wondered if she already knew how to butter toast because that was about the extent of the culinary skills I could muster up under pressure. Just when I thought it couldn't get any worse, it did! The boss, named Archie I presumed, came rushing in the door, all aflutter. He looked curiously at me for a few seconds and then apparently realized he didn't have time to even inquire who I was.
"I need an order of 'Blooming Barramundi' − yesterday!" He exclaimed breathlessly. Archie was nearly hyperventilating. "I can't afford to keep this lady waiting. I want the absolute best one you've ever made and it needs to be served with flair."
He glanced at Avery for a split second and then turned to speak directly to me. He must have known Avery didn't have the training to handle it and assumed, because I was a senior citizen, I must have had decades of experience.
"Flair?" I asked.
"You know, parsley, slice of orange, that kind of fancy-shmancy presentation. We have a food critic in the house who's a columnist for the Corpus Christi Times. We don't want to give her any reason to give Jugs 'n Mugs a bad review in the paper. Just a derogatory comment or two in her weekly article, and the owner of this place will tie a rope around my neck and hang me out to dry."
He raced out of the kitchen as quickly as he'd raced in. Before he disappeared from sight, he voiced a resounding "Chop, chop, ladies!"
Avery looked at me expectedly. I knew I had no choice but to tackle the problem and try to create a presentable meal in a short amount of time. Where was the World Wide Web when I needed it? Rip would never give up his flip-top model with the huge numbers and keypad, but maybe it was time I invest in a smart phone for myself. Of course, I'd also have to adopt a five-year old child to teach me how to use it. The snowball-effect of upgrading to a more sophisticated cell phone could get pricey for some of us senior citizens who weren't born with an electronic device in our hands.
So now what? I asked myself. Could the critic not have judged the restaurant on their chili dogs, or even some dish in the fowl department? I could whip out a mean blackened chicken breast in a matter of minutes.
But a Blooming Barramundi? No matter what meat it entailed, I could almost guarantee it would end up in the "foul" department, too. For starters, what in the world was a barramundi? I'd have to find out somehow without appearing to be dumber than the spatula I was holding in my hand. I turned to Avery with an air of superiority and asked, "So, let's get to it, my dear. I assume we have some barramundi on hand. Can you grab it for me?"
Avery rushed to the large freezer and came out with a frozen package of something I couldn't recognize. I asked her, "How can we unthaw that thing in a flash and serve it in the allotted time, which according to Archie, was yesterday? Haven't we got one that's fresh, or at least thawed already?"
&nb
sp; "I don't think so, but I saw a fresh mahi-mahi fillet in the refrigerator. Will that work?"
Okay, good. Now I knew barramundi was a fish. That was a good beginning for winging my way through this. All thought of questioning Avery about her dead boyfriend had flown out the window. I felt obligated to stick around and help as best I could with this challenge facing the two of us. I certainly didn't want to get the lady fired. "It will have to work."
I imagined most people were like me and couldn't tell a tilapia fillet from a grouper. One fillet of fresh fish looked very similar to most other fillets, so how could they taste all that different from one another once they'd been doused in seasoning spices? Oh, dear. What now? I wondered. "Who'd you tell me was the head chef here?"
"I don't think I did, but it's Bobbi Jo Jons."
"Just to make certain I fix it the way it's usually served here, rather than the way I usually do when serving the rich and famous, does Bobbi Jo bake, broil, or fry it?"
"She grills it."
"Perfect! That's my go-to choice, too. And just to make sure we're consistent, which seasonings does she put on it?"
"I'm not sure," Avery replied. "But I know for certain she isn't a Le Cordon graduate, or have any culinary school training at all. So it'd probably be tastier if you use your own recipe, anyway."
Don't bet on it, sweetheart. Rip was a meat and potatoes kind of guy. That blackened chicken breast I mentioned, served with a green bean casserole, was about as complicated as supper got in my kitchen. Since I was a "three-ingredients-or-less" kind of cook, even that meal was on the upper limits of my culinary repertoire and was reserved for special occasions only.
"Yes, of course, Avery. I see your point. It's probably best I use my own recipe if we want to make an impression on the food critic." I slapped the fillet on the hot grill.
We'll make an impression on her, all right. I just hope I'm not around when it happens. If Avery knew what was good for her, she'd probably skedaddle, too, I thought. So, under pressure to deliver the meal quickly, and with no clue how to prepare it whatsoever, I grabbed the closest spice bottles and seasoned the already browning fillet. Afterward, I glanced at the labels, something that would have been wise to do before I liberally sprinkled them across the already browning fillet. I didn't know how the combination of cinnamon, curry, and ground habanera, a.k.a. the 'ass kickin' seasoning from hell,' would taste. But I was almost positive I didn't want to sample it.
Rip Tide (A Ripple Effect Cozy Mystery, Book 2) Page 11