Haunted Homicide

by Lucy Ness

  He didn’t get the joke. In fact, he still looked as mortified as any big, muscle-bound guy could. He clenched and unclenched his hands into ham-sized fists. He held his arms close to his sides as if it were the only thing that would keep him from shooting up like a rocket and banging a hole in the ceiling and into the Lilac Lounge, directly above us. His nostrils flared and his mouth flapped.

  Pot holder attack aside, I couldn’t stand to see him look that ill at ease. I stuck out a hand and introduced myself.

  He hung his head and looked down at his super-sized feet. That is, right before his jumbo hand swallowed mine. “Quentin Cruz. I’m the cook around here.”

  “You’ve got lousy aim, Quentin.”

  The laugh that bubbled out of Quentin sounded as if maybe it hurt. “Sorry.” He brushed a finger under his wide, doughy nose. “It’s just that sometimes, I see red. You know what I mean? And I came in here today and the grill, it isn’t working, and—”

  Not that I know all that much about grills, but I stepped nearer for a closer look. “And?” I asked him.

  He bit his lower lip.

  “He don’t want to tell you on account of how he don’t want to get in no trouble.”

  When the voice came from behind me, it was the first I realized Quentin and I were not alone there in the kitchen with its vintage appliances, its walk-in freezer, its prep counter that was as clean and as shiny as a table in an operating room. I turned and found myself face to face with a scrawny woman with stick-straight hair the color of straw. Her face was unremarkable—pale skin, pale eyes, small features. The restaurant hostess/waitress who’d brewed a pot of tea for us the day before, when Agnes was in full I-started-the-fire meltdown.

  “Geneva.” I’m not psychic (whatever Aunt Rosemary might like to believe); I was just reading the nametag she had pinned to her maroon cardigan. “What kind of trouble could Quentin possibly get in because the grill isn’t working? And what does it have to do with Muriel?” I glanced Quentin’s way. “I did hear you threaten to wring her neck, didn’t I?”

  Waitress and cook exchanged looks.

  Quentin clamped his mouth shut.

  Geneva pretended to find something very interesting to watch on the ceiling.

  It was early in the morning, and I’d just come downstairs from my rooms on the third floor. I never slept well, not the first night in a new place, and the lumpy mattress on my bed didn’t help. After tossing and turning all night, I was groggy and that coffee I’d smelled earlier was brewing nearby. The aroma was heavenly and provided just the distraction I was looking for to diffuse the situation.

  I slanted Quentin a look. “Can I have a cup?”

  “Coffee?” He hopped to and got a cup and filled it for me. “Milk? Sugar?” he asked and when I told him both, he got that and added it too and presented the cup to me, hot and steaming.

  I sniffed, sipped, and sighed. Dark roast and hearty, the best coffee I’d had in as long as I could remember. My coffee craving satisfied—at least for a moment—and the fog in my head beginning to lift, I stepped back and leaned against the prep counter, the better to see both Quentin and Geneva when I said, “Maybe we’re getting off on the wrong foot.”

  “I wasn’t actually throwing the pot holder at you,” Quentin burbled, and with a wave of one hand, I told him that wasn’t what I was talking about.

  “We’re all there is of a staff around here,” I said. “And if we’re going to make this work, we’re going to need to be on the same page. If there are problems, I need to know about them. Especially if it means keeping you from wringing Muriel’s neck.”

  Quentin’s top lip curled. “That woman boils my blood.”

  I leaned forward, the better to catch his eye. “Because . . . ?”

  “Because Ms. Sadler . . .” He spit the words out from between clenched teeth and I couldn’t help but think of a teakettle at full boil and about to let off steam. “She just doesn’t listen! I told her about the grill. Told her six weeks ago. Told her a month ago. Told her every time I’ve seen her since. The grill, it needs a new thermostat. I told her that.”

  “And Muriel said what?”

  “Said she’d talk to Bill Manby about it. Only if she ever did, Bill never did anything about it, and that’s not like him at all. Johnny-on-the-spot, you know? And now . . . well, now he can’t fix anything around here, can he?”

  “She fired him!” The words escaped Geneva on the end of a horrified gasp. “Just like that. In one swell foop.” The snap of her fingers ricocheted around the kitchen. “No warning. No nothing. If she can do that to him, she can do it to any of us.”

  True, and not exactly something I wanted to think about, not my first morning on the job.

  It was the wrong time and place to take sides, I knew that. Years of working in the hospitality industry had taught me that as easygoing as waitstaff and cooks could be, they were a tight-knit bunch. One wrong word and I’d risk the possibility of both Quentin and Geneva walking out on me. Or maybe instead, they’d decide that I couldn’t be trusted, that I wasn’t supportive, that I’d never see things the way they did, and they’d shut me out completely and do whatever the heck they wanted, whatever the heck way they wanted to do it.

  Needless to say, neither scenario would be a good thing for me while I was not only trying to make the club run like clockwork but while I was also trying to establish myself in the hierarchy of management.

  But I had to stay loyal to the club, too.

  My head told me that.

  So did my gut.

  And like it or not, as president, Muriel was the club.

  I drew in a long breath. I took another drink of coffee. I considered my options.

  “I’m sure Muriel’s been a little overwhelmed,” I told them, even though I was not sure of this at all. “Without a business manager to keep things under control, I bet she’s had lots of extra responsibilities. And then there’s the fire, of course. That’s got everyone preoccupied. There’s a lot going on, what with trying to get Marigold back in shape.”

  “Fire!” Quentin had a wide mouth and lips so plump they’d be the envy of a runway model. When he folded his mouth in a grim line, it looked as if an artist had added a broad stroke of a fat pencil above his square chin. “She was never easy to work with. Not before the fire. Not after.”

  “Then I’ll tell you what . . .” I finished the coffee in my cup, and nodded when Quentin stepped forward with a look on his face that told me he was offering to refill it. “From now on, I’ll run interference for you. You won’t have to deal with Muriel directly. Not about anything.”

  “You’d do that?” Quentin asked at the same time a smile of what I could only call relief brightened Geneva’s face.

  “I’ll do it.” I accepted the second cup of coffee and glanced around. “Toast?” I asked, and Quentin was only too happy to oblige.

  He managed eggs and bacon too, though he had to keep a careful watch on the grill while they cooked so they didn’t go up in smoke, and within a couple minutes, the three of us were sitting down at a table in the corner near the door that led into the dining room, sharing breakfast.

  Geneva sopped up egg yolk with a piece of wheat toast. “She don’t . . . She doesn’t like me neither,” she grumbled, and I knew exactly who we were talking about. “Always talking about nobles oblige, whatever that is, and she says I’ve got no class.”

  With a snicker, I told her exactly what I thought about that. “You got the job here, didn’t you? And I bet you work plenty hard.”

  “Would like to,” Geneva admitted. “We ain’t . . .” As if Muriel was actually there watching and tallying her every grammatical error, Geneva glanced over her shoulder. “We’re not all that busy. Not like we used to be. What do we have for reservations this week? Two lunches?” She looked Quentin’s way for confirmation.

  “And th
ree last week.” He chomped a slice of bacon. “Not like the old days, that’s for sure.”

  “You’ve been here long?” I asked them.

  “Me,” Quentin said, “six years this August and every day’s the same. That Ms. Sadler . . .” He tore into a piece of toast with his teeth. “Woman’s like a broken record. She never gets tired of telling me to cut my hair. She even expects me to wear one of those sissy white chef hats. Yeah, like that’s going to keep my hair out of my eyes when I’m working. I ask to have things repaired and well, you see how she’s ignored me so far when it comes to the grill. I order food and she calls our suppliers and changes the order. How am I supposed to plan a menu when she does crap like that? The other day, I wrote jambalaya out on the board and I heard a couple of the ladies, they talked about how that sounded so good. Only when I went to start cooking it, I found out the tomatoes I ordered never came. Ms. Sadler, she called and canceled the order.” He growled, a powerful, throaty sound. “She drives me up a wall and one of these days . . .”

  I knew better than to ask what he had planned for one of these days.

  I also knew better than to let him carry on and just get angrier.

  I turned in my chair to look at Geneva. “And you? How long have you been here?”

  “Six months, and I don’t think Ms. Sadler wants me around neither. I got hired by Ms. Martingale, the club’s last president. Real nice lady. She said she didn’t care how I talk or nothing like that. She said after a while my rough edges, they’d get smoothed. She said what really mattered was how hard I worked.”

  “So Muriel must be new to the job as president.” I don’t know how, but this was something that had escaped my notice until that moment. I guess because I thought it wasn’t important. I still wasn’t sure it was. Well, except for how Muriel taking the club’s reins affected Quentin and Geneva.

  I finished the last of my bacon, pushed back my chair, and told Quentin, “I hope you don’t think I’ll expect breakfast every day.”

  He waved one meaty hand in my direction. “Anytime. You live here, right? The way I see it, the kitchen’s yours to use. Feel free to cook for yourself, anytime you want. Only check the pantry before you do to make sure you have everything you need. And keep an eye on that grill.”

  Point taken.

  I took my dishes over to the sink and rinsed them, then set them in the dishwasher. It was the first I noticed a sign hanging high up on the wall across the room. It was a funny little sign, homemade. Yellow background. Red letters, some of them a little wobbly, a little crooked.

  Even if the sign didn’t read Dodie’s Dumbwaiter, I would have known what was behind the door it hung over.

  I’d seen dumbwaiters in a number of the restaurants I’d worked in. They were a type of elevator, only they weren’t big enough to carry people. They were designed to deliver dishes, like from the basement where they were washed to the first-floor kitchen, and they were usually operated by hand thanks to a system of pulleys.

  “Who’s Dodie?” I asked.

  Quentin shook his head while he grabbed his dish and Geneva’s. She shrugged.

  “Whoever she was, she was gone long before we ever got here,” Quentin told me. “The sign, I hear it’s been there forever, and it just sort of stays there. You know, like a memorial or something.”

  It was one of the things I liked about PPWC from the moment I found the job opening online. There was a real sense of history in the building and, thinking about it, I made a mental note to myself to find someone to fix the grill and was smiling when I went upstairs to the Lilac Lounge to get it ready for Jack. It was the first I noticed the dumbwaiter on the far wall in there. So Dodie’s Dumbwaiter ran from the kitchen directly up to Lilac. Or at least it used to. Something told me a dumbwaiter carrying hot food was not exactly something needed much these days at PPWC.

  I’d just finished checking out the dumbwaiter when I saw Agnes out in the hallway.

  “Good morning,” I called to her.

  She stopped dead in her tracks. “Good morning to you. It’s awfully early for you to be working.”

  I glanced at the mess that was the Lilac Lounge. The day before, I managed to get two small writing desks and two reading chairs out of the way to (hopefully) make room for a desk big enough for Jack to work on. Before he left the day before, he’d told me he’d also need room for things like a worktable, supply shelves, and bookcases.

  “I’ve got my work cut out for me,” I told Agnes.

  “I’m sorry.” From the way her lips puckered and her nose twitched, I figured another fire apology was coming and I ignored it. As far as I was concerned, the woman didn’t need to spend eternity doing penance for one stupid smoking mistake. She stepped into Lilac. “If there’s anything I can do to help, let me know. It’s the least I can do.”

  “You can tell me if we have tables somewhere. Big worktables. And a desk. And I know I shouldn’t ask because there’s no way it’s in his job description, but do you think Quentin would mind helping me move some furniture?”

  “He’s got a good heart. And not much else to do down in the kitchen these days. You’ll find some of the stuff you’re looking for up in the attic, I think. Just don’t let Muriel catch wind of what you’re doing. Quentin and Muriel, they don’t get along.”

  Sure, it was only my first day on the job, but I figured there was no time like the present to start understanding the lay of the land. “Does she get along with anyone?”

  Agnes had to think about this, and she never did answer. Maybe because she figured I already knew the answer.

  “You’ll want to be very careful,” she said instead. “You know she’s just itching to find some excuse to fire you.”

  I sucked in a breath. “But I just got hired.”

  “Uh-huh.” The small smile that played around Agnes’s mouth told me she felt a little sorry for me being simple. She stepped nearer, glanced over her shoulder, lowered her voice. “If it was up to Muriel, you never would have been. The rest of us, we loved you from the moment we met you. We knew you were the right woman for the job. But Muriel has other plans.” Another step closer. “Muriel would like to see her granddaughter manage the club. Oh yes, make no mistake. That’s exactly what she’s been working to do ever since she took over as president. You don’t need to be afraid.” Agnes patted my hand because she apparently thought that me standing there with my mouth hanging open meant I was afraid rather than just stunned. “But you do need to watch your every step.”

  I guess there was no time like the present to start because no sooner were the words out of her mouth than Muriel swept into the room.

  “Be careful.” Agnes mouthed the word before she turned to Muriel to say good morning.

  Muriel didn’t bother with any pleasantries. “Need you downstairs, Agnes. Victoria Oldham is coming in this afternoon with her card group and you know how Victoria gets when the cushions on the chairs in the Carnation Room aren’t just right. You’re the only one who knows just how to fluff them.”

  “Certainly, Muriel.” Agnes smiled. “I’ll be along in a minute.”

  “And if you spend another minute in here, that’s one more minute Avery’s going to stand there doing nothing.” Muriel lifted her chin, turned on her heels, and left.

  Agnes didn’t have much of a choice but to follow.

  Muriel was like a winter cold front. She left everyone frozen in her path. Once she was gone, I shook the ice away and darted into the hallway.

  “Muriel,” I called after her. “I need to talk to you. It’s about the kitchen.”

  She was nearly at the stairs and she moved aside so that Agnes could go down, then came back in my direction. “What about the kitchen?”

  “The grill isn’t working right. It needs a new thermostat. And Bill Manby isn’t here to fix it.”

  Her lips puckered. Her eyes narrowed. �
��So they’ve got you on their side, do they?”

  “I’m not sure who they are. And I don’t think this is anything to take sides about. I only know the grill’s not working right and someone needs to fix it.”

  Muriel turned away. “There’s a toolbox in the basement somewhere,” she told me. “I’m sure if you look hard enough, you can find it and get to work on the grill.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Remember what I said about Muriel’s superpower? The one she uses to freeze people solid?

  Like an evil sorceress, she used it again and again and I was rooted to the spot. At least for a second. Then a rush of anger melted the ice in my veins. Was I crazy to ignore Agnes’s warning about how Muriel wanted to sack me? Maybe. But sometimes outrage trumps crazy.

  “Hold on there, Muriel!” I stepped forward and I guess such a bold move caught her off guard because Muriel actually stepped back. “I don’t think maintenance and repairs are something I’m supposed to be doing. You’re the one who fired this Manby guy. Maybe you should be down in the kitchen fixing the grill.”

  That morning, Muriel was a vision in pink. Pink sheath dress. Pink jacket. Pink lipstick that matched both. But even the pink blush on her cheeks couldn’t hide the fact that every ounce of color drained from her face. She lifted her pointy chin.

  “How dare you!”

  I closed in on her and hey, being nearly six feet tall has its advantages. From my lofty height, I was able to look down on Muriel—and on her condescending attitude. “I’ll tell you how I dare. I’m here to make sure this club runs smoothly and efficiently. To handle the schedule, to make business contacts. To keep this place from sinking like a brick. I can’t do that if I’m fixing a thermostat on a grill. And besides that, I can’t fix the thermostat on a grill. I’ve got a lot of talents, but electrical engineering isn’t one of them.” I twirled around and marched to the other side of the room, the better to put some distance between myself and Muriel.

  It worked. Away from the gravitational field that surrounded her and pulled everyone and everything into her nasty orbit, I was able to think more clearly.