by Sandi Scott
She was annoyed that, after all that work she’d done to be accepted, her business could be facing closure. Seagrass locals weren’t your typical southerners. They didn’t all come installed with that famous southern hospitality. The tension between established residents and The disruption of tourism development had hardened the locals (whose families, like Ashley’s, had lived there longer than Texas had even been a state) to outsiders.
When Ashley made her homecoming after two years in Paris, she did so with peace offerings of blood orange cupcakes and bags of Patty’s truffle oil popcorn. This, along with approval from Smoke Daddy Lee, the King of Texas Barbecue and purveyor of local attitudes, helped her and Patty start building a reputation as the town’s first caterers of fine French cuisine and desserts. Luckily, Lee’s approval of The Southern Bird had survived the cream puff fiasco, as his birthday party dessert order was the only other booking that hadn’t cancelled yet.
As the wedding guests were drunkenly dancing to bad 90’s pop music, Patty and Ashley finished cleaning the kitchen and escaped to the stock room to play cards and gossip with the dining room staff. There was something about eating out that made guests forget service staff wasn’t deaf to private conversations or that their waiters and bussers could take these secrets with them after their shift. Most Seagrass dining room staffers took shifts at venues all over town, so if one kitchen knew something, they all did.
After Ashley collected a carefully selected team of busybodies, it only took one round of Rummy in uncomfortable silence before she realized that, for once, they had nothing to dish. All the juicy tidbits they’d overheard were about Ashley.
“Okay.” Ashley dropped her cards on the table. “Just go ahead and ask me.”
She’d barely finished her sentence before Sabine Clemons, a usually timid teenaged busser who had recently reinvented herself with a nose stud and dyed-red tips in her light brown hair, exhaled with relief, as if holding her breath had been the only thing keeping the words from escaping.
“You couldn’t have made a mistake like that, right? That’s what I keep tellin’ people—I say there’s no one more careful about what goes in food than Ashley.”
“I’ve been sayin’ the exact same thing.” Mark Griffin joined in. He was a graying, seasonal waiter who only picked up shifts when the fishing wasn’t good. Thanks to his ever-present hat tan, Mark always looked like he was wearing a pale, mismatched, bald cap.
Across the table, Patty smirked at Ashley with one of her poor attempts at covertly sharing a pointed look. After enduring so many years of over-eager flattery from wannabe-protégé chefs, Patty had no tolerance for yes-men. Being “too afraid of her kicks to kiss her feet” was what initially earned Ashley her approval. As smooth as Ashley wanted Patty’s transition into Seagrass to be, it sure was fun to watch her ruthless, but somehow playful, cynicism mix with the country folk.
Maude Nehls, the dining room manager, was impatiently tapping her foot, hungry for Ashley’s scoop. She always pulled her tortoiseshell glasses slightly down the bridge of her nose when she sniffed privileged info in the air, her middle-aged gossipmonger senses tingling. If you wanted to spread word fast, Maude was the most infectious patient-zero.
“There’s just no way,” Ashley stated. “I keep going over it and over it in my head. I know I did everything by the book. Everyone ate the same ingredients, but no one else got sick. The symptoms appeared too soon to be food poisoning, and it doesn’t really make sense for a fatal dose of E. coli or norovirus to accidentally fall on one exact portion unnoticed, right?”
“Unless someone brought something like a syringe of poison to directly inject into the cream puff,” said Maude, adding quickly, “oh, I suppose I read too many murder mysteries.”
Mark gasped. “No, that’s what I thought, too. I was like—wow—you could really squeeze some poison in one of those puffers!”
The table murmured thoughtfully, and Ashley saw Patty’s eyes light up with excitement while she fingered the silk scarf she had tied around her neck. Unlike Patty, Ashley understood service industry social politics well enough to know that, when it came to initiating this kind of information extraction, it was better to avoid coming out directly and asking questions. Not that Ashley’s side of the story was particularly shocking, but an expert busybody was more likely to reveal their hard-earned commodity if it felt more like an exchange of goods. She had to incite intrigue by delicately tipping over the pot and directing the conversation with her own hesitant spillage; then, the small-town gossips wouldn’t be able to resist tipping until they had spilled the whole dish.
Watching Sabine purse her lips, Ashley knew she’d have something. “Ya know, Mark and I worked that banquet. The McCays’ table got riled up from all directions that night even before Colleen got sick.”
Mark nodded. “Yeah, I told Sabine. Remember, Sabine? When we brought out the dessert wine, I said, ‘Something going on with Bobby. He looks sick and tired.’ ”
Sabine laughed. “Bobby looked tired until Emma Phee sauntered over, running her fingers up and down his arm while asking him how he liked the food.”
“That’s right,” Mark replied. “That kept him happy until his wife came back from the bathroom and Emma left, giving Colleen the evil eye.”
“The evil eye?” Ashley asked. “Why?”
Mark smiled slyly. “Turf wars, I suppose. Emma Phee is an eligible bachelorette, but I think Colleen had already filled the vacancy. Bobby is getting pretty old, you know. One mistress is probably enough.”
“What?” said Ashley. “Colleen and Bobby were having an affair?”
Mark raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t hear it from me, doll.”
“I didn’t even notice all that,” said Maude. “I was just on the lookout for that ole mister Monty big shot. He was watching the McCay table all night, and I was just waiting to see why, see if he’d go over there.” Maude was chewing her soda straw and wearing a far-off look.
“Monty? How do I know that name?” Ashley asked.
“Oh, Monty Gahn,” Maude replied, peeking over her glasses for emphasis. “He’s that mineral rights broker trying to get his hands on every natural gas deposit on the Gulf Coast.”
Sabine giggled. “Wearin’ a bolo tie, snakeskin boots and a cowboy hat, like he’s tryin’ to be some cheesy oil tycoon villain. Lived in Texas all my life, and I’ve never even seen anyone dressed like that before.”
This was the man Ashley had been hearing so much grumbling about since she’d returned to town. The Seagrass community was so protective of its local character, even talks of building new hotels over four stories tall could cause an uproar. When this outsider came around hoping to drill into the natural beauty that Seagrassians held so dear, Ashley was surprised that they hadn’t chased him out with torches and pitchforks.
“And if hassling property owners wasn’t enough, I heard he’s trying to settle down here in Seagrass—even tried to buy a parcel in the marshland, right next to the McCays’ Mouth,” said Maude. “But I can’t imagine Bobby was having any of it; that piece of land is priceless.”
“Oh, darling, everything has its price.” Mark leaned forward and lowered his voice to a near whisper. “I heard Bobby was selling the Mouth to a hotel developer, Bayview Development, from Houston. Maybe old Bolo Tie is a sore loser.”
“Probably why Colleen steered Monty over to the corner of the room. Didn’t wanna stress out Mr. McCay,” Sabine remarked. “Poor Colleen. Being the personal secretary to Bobby McCay couldn’t have been easy, but I never woulda guessed it’d get her killed.”
Maude flashed a smile. “Colleen was pretty unassuming, but she could be fierce when she needed to be. After she talked to him, Gahn got outta there quick. You know,” she added, gesturing with the ace of spades for emphasis, “if I was going to poison someone, I wouldn’t stick around long after.”
“Oh, yeah,” Mark said, crossing his arms, “you’d get outta there.”
Leaning over the ta
ble, Maude lowered her voice. “You know, honey, you might be on to something.”
“You think Monty Gahn might have killed Colleen?” Ashley asked. “What would be his motive?”
“That guy’s a creep who doesn’t like taking no for an answer. Colleen believed in protecting the marshlands just as much as Bobby—maybe he got sick of her telling him he couldn’t buy the land to drill.”
That seemed far-fetched but, then again, so was a murder in quiet Seagrass. Ashley needed to find out more about who this Monty Gahn character was and what exactly his business with Bobby McCay involved.
“Any news about the phone?” Ashley asked.
“Oh, you mean the one you stole from the dead lady?” asked Ryan.
“First of all, I didn’t steal it,” said Ashley, “I found it. Second of all, Colleen had a name. I’m just not used to the idea that she’s—well, let’s just call her Colleen, OK?”
Ryan looked a bit startled by her response. “Of course, Ash, I’m sorry.”
Just then, Dizzy bumbled up to Ryan, trying unsuccessfully to climb up his legs to sit on his lap. They both laughed, which cleared the tension in the room.
“I love that she still wants to be a lap dog,” said Ashley. “I’m glad our years in France didn’t turn her into a refined dog.”
“A visit from you would have been enough, but bringing her derpy face to butter me up for news about the phone didn’t hurt either,” Ryan stated, swiveling his chair back and forth as he rubbed his dark stubble, pretending to ponder. “You know, it wasn’t that long ago that you were on this side of the desk, complaining about all the friends and family that came to you with their crumb-clogged keyboards and shattered touch screens. Now you come and drop a cracked toilet phone into my hands.”
Ashley was secretly thrilled with the idea that Ryan liked her visits. She placed a bow-topped Tupperware container next to his “bang head here” mouse pad. “But wait, there’s more. I’m offering brown-butter, chocolate chip cookies too.”
Ryan sobered. “I haven’t had time to touch the phone yet. You know, it’s not too late to just give the police the phone. Won’t messing with it make any evidence inadmissible anyway?”
“You know as well as I do that we are not messing with the original data. Just copy the SD card data and the internal memory card onto fresh cards and then mess with those. And not just that email, her pictures, texts, or whatever else we can recover. It could tell us more about what’s going on.”
Dizzy turned in circles over Ryan’s feet like she always did before dizzily plopping down. It was a habit which had earned her the name. Ryan nodded; Ashley knew that he’d get the phone data for her and that she wouldn’t have to ask again.
“Listen, I’m catering Smoke Daddy Lee’s Birthday Bash at the Smokeground this afternoon. Can I convince you to sneak out of work a few hours early and join us?” she asked.
“Are you kidding me? My mouth is just watering at the mention of it, like one of Pavlov’s dogs.” At that comment, Dizzy barked and jumped up, making them laugh again.
“Great, why don’t you meet us there in a little while? Maybe after you’ve copied the SD cards?” She knew she was pushing her luck with Ryan, but she also knew he’d say yes.
Ashley crossed the street with Dizzy in front of Ryan’s office to get to her car, parked next to a green-space where they had stopped to let Dizzy chase squirrels before going in to see Ryan. She had to let her burn out some of her infinite energy or an office visit could be a disaster. Just as Ashley opened the back door to let Dizzy jump in, the dog saw a bunny on the other side of the park and made a mad dash for it, somehow seizing the exact moment that Ashley had put down her leash. “Dizzy! You silly mutt, get back here!”
When Ashley finally caught Dizzy and was heading back to the car, a jogger ran by on the path and nearly right into them. It was Emma Phee, local socialite extraordinaire. She balked at Dizzy’s enthusiastic jumps at her feet and snapped at Ashley.
“Would you mind?” Recognizing Ashley, she calmed down and back-pedaled. “Oh, hello.” Her tone, though civil, was haughty.
“Hey, Emma. Dizzy—back off!” She pulled Dizzy back to her side. “How are you?”
Emma regarded her with slight disdain mixed with what seemed to be pity and courtesy.
“Wonderful, and you?”
Ashley was nervous about Emma taking a dig at her about the cream puff fiasco, but her mouth took over before she could think.
“Great—thanks for asking—although I’m still trying to come to terms with Colleen’s death.”
Emma tilted her head and nodded, still with her nose in the air. “Yes, it’s awful, isn’t it? But you know what the good Lord says, you reap what you sow.”
For a moment, Ashley was so shocked at Emma’s lack of sympathy for the dead that she didn’t know what to say. Emma gazed at Ashley with a look that hinted slightly at baiting a trap, and Ashley took the bait. “How do you mean?”
“Well, it’s not like me to speak ill of the dead, but rumor has it that Ms. Colleen was doing more than just secretarial work for Bobby, if you know what I mean.” Ashley honestly didn’t know. She waited, hoping it would become obvious.
Emma could wait no longer. “They were having an affair.”
Dizzy was tugging on the leash, anxious to keep moving, but Ashley felt like she had been given a great gift, the gift of information from someone who had been giving Colleen the evil eye the night of her death. Give a little, take a lot. That’s how it usually went with the gossipy types.
“Yes, I’ve heard that too,” she said. “I also heard about a suspicious email. One of the wait staff mentioned that they overheard an argument in the bathroom—between Colleen and a man!”
Emma’s reaction was not what Ashley would’ve expected. Her eyes widened and she started blabbering.
“Well—yes—but who knows what that argument was about? It probably had nothing to do with her death. Besides, Colleen wasn’t as sweet and innocent as everyone makes out.” She stopped blathering as quickly as she’d started, like there was a voice in her head reminding her not to say too much. “I’m sure the police have it all under control.” She breezed past Ashley as she began to make her way to her car.
“Nice to see you Ashley. Good luck with your business.” Emma started jogging again and, after only a few strides, was too far away to hear a goodbye.
Ashley was taken aback. It wasn’t just the smirk on Emma’s face when she’d wished her good luck, it was the way she’d responded to the conversation about Colleen. Maybe Colleen and Bobby had been having an affair and Emma was jealous. And what did she mean by “not as sweet and innocent as everyone makes out”?
Before she could ruminate any further, Dizzy jerked forward and began dragging her back toward the car and the smoked meat that was in their future.
CHAPTER 6
“HURRY! PUT THE fork down, Patty, before someone sees you.” Ashley stage whispered, looking around at the other tables in mock alarm.
Before its bed and breakfast revitalization, people only knew the name Seagrass for two reasons: fishing and the Smokeground. Tourists still didn’t consider their trip complete without getting a taste of Smoke Daddy Lee’s famous Texas brisket and ribs, but for the locals it was practically a religious experience, and eating barbeque ribs with a fork was the number one mortal sin.
Patty scoffed and dropped her plastic fork in disgust. “You know, I really do respect this whole barbeque thing—as I do any artfully crafted roast—but if you’re going to make something messy and sticky, let a girl have her fork.”
Seeing Patty in shorts for the first time was like the surreal feeling one would get seeing their high school principal in swim trunks. Not only did she seem much less intimidating (and shorter) without her chef hat, but Ashley was still not accustomed to seeing Patty in civilian clothes. After seeing her “pit-bull in the kitchen” persona every day in the restaurant, it was easy to forget that she actually possessed a
delicate, petite frame.
Patty studied her ribs carefully, which was her standard evaluation procedure for any new dish she thought could be worthy of praise.
“Think of all the time spent wiping your mouth between every single bite, inelegant and inefficient.”
Ashley felt a familiar comfort in knowing that—shorts or not—there was no setting casual enough for Patty to abandon her culinary etiquette militarism.
“Well, yeah, we’re not savages,” Ashley replied as she grabbed another wet napkin from the tabletop dispenser. “Besides, everyone knows ribs taste better straight off the bone.”
She really didn’t expect Patty to fully embrace the spirit of Seagrass’s favorite watering hole. Smoke Daddy Lee had always defiantly preserved the original setup of his oak tree-shaded riverfront oasis, consisting of: a pull-behind smoker latched to a food truck, a herd of wooden picnic tables covered with disposable tablecloths and Uncle Bertrand as the front of house manager, who could always found sitting in his polyester folding chair to accept cash-box payments and scare tourists with his tall tales.
As Ashley breathed in the scent of burning hickory and applewood, she thought of all the nights she’d spent sitting on the Smokeground dock as a kid, dangling her feet in the river as she ate off a paper plate in her lap. It was a simple pleasure that hadn’t worn off as she got older.
Carefully avoiding contact with the habanero lime barbeque sauce, Patty picked up her ribs by the very edge of the bones, slowly tugging them apart. Dizzy was sitting upright on the bench watching her every move and ready to pounce on any falling scraps.
Patty took a small, thoughtful bite. “Hmm.” She followed with one slow nod, the rarely witnessed Sign of Patty Approval. “Tender. Pulls clean off the bone without totally falling apart—and still juicy—even after all those hours in the smoker.” She looked over at the adjoining campground, packed with tents and RVs for the Smokeground Campout. “No wonder people camp here just to watch Lee cook.”