Roux Morgue

by Claire M Johnson

  “I don’t know a Mary Ryan,” he drawled. “The Mary Ryan I used to know, the one who was Amos’ friend, is dead as far as I am concerned. Would that she were dead to Amos, because then I wouldn’t have to listen to him bitch about what a—”

  “This isn’t about Amos—” I interjected.

  “As far as I am concerned, if it’s not about Amos, then this conversation is over.”

  Amos Savage is Thom’s boyfriend and my ex-best friend. We met right after I’d graduated from École. He is the son of a Baptist minister who interpreted his son’s homosexuality as a sign he was Satan’s minion. After being bodily thrown off the front porch of the family home, Amos kissed his mother good-bye and booked a ticket on the first Greyhound out of town.

  Like most gay men of a certain age I’ve cooked with, he’s HIV positive. Gobbling a truckload of pills everyday, he keeps chugging along, his T-cell count holding its own. Like most bullies, I cave when someone calls me on my bullshit, and he does this pretty well. Three days into working together, he said to me after some caffeine-fueled diatribe on my part, “You have that hissy fit all by your lonesome. Just be quiet about it. We got a shitload of work still to do, and I want to get home sometime before midnight. Hush.”

  I hushed.

  We’d leap-frogged from pastry chef job to pastry chef job together as I slowly worked my way up, each kitchen being a little more prestigious than the last until we found ourselves cooking at the late American Fare, which was named one of the premier restaurants in the United States only three months after the opening.

  “Look, I need your help.” I tried to keep my voice even and non-confrontational. “I don’t need you to lecture me on what a shitty friend I’m being.”

  So much for non-confrontational.

  That got a pause, then, “My help. Surely, I heard you wrong, sugar. You couldn’t possibly want to pollute your soul by consorting with me of all people.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that because it was true.

  “He’s forgiven me, Mary, why can’t you? It was stupid and skanky, and I’m sorry I did it. I don’t really care if you absolve me of my sins or not. But why are you punishing him for staying with me?”

  That was also true.

  “I….”

  “Look, I make him happy.” His voice, low and somber, had temporarily lost its characteristic bitchiness. “We have a lot in common. We both work in the food industry, we both like boys, and we both have religious nuts for fathers. God knows how it works, but it does. So, honey, can you get off your high moral horse and cut him and me some slack?”

  When a member of the pastry staff at American Fare was murdered, it started a domino effect of events, which ended up with Amos revealing his relationship with Thom, who was the controller of American Fare. Who was now currently paying fines to the tune of $200,000 for manufacturing illegal green cards and selling them out of the restaurant so that he could afford five-hundred-dollar dress shirts. Funding his penchant for expensive clothes on the backs of illegals was pretty damning in my eyes. Once his nasty little sideline had come to light, my dislike had morphed into hatred. Hence my issues with Amos having a relationship with Thom. It didn’t elevate Thom in my eyes, it debased Amos.

  “How could you sell those cards?” I blurted out.

  “The only person who is more ambitious than me is you. It was stupid, and I did it because I thought I had to dress the part. I was getting paid some nice money but not enough. Those S.F. society matrons? They wouldn’t have given me the time of day if I’d turned up in a tie I’d bought at Nordstrom Rack. You know what it costs to live in this town. I’m sorry. I’ve said it at least twice in this conversation and am in debt for the rest of my life. Can we move on, for Christ’s sake?”

  I backed up and started over.

  “I need someone who knows food and can hack into a computer. I can do the food part but not the computer end of it.”

  “You need someone who knows food and can hack into a computer,” he repeated. “You’re full of surprises! Let me get this straight. You can’t stand the thought that I sold fake green cards on the black market, but you have no trouble asking me to break into someone’s computer system?”

  Putting it that way made me feel like a total troll. Thom and I were now neck and neck in the immoral Olympics. Oh sure, I could do some pretty mental acrobatics justifying that this illegal act was in search of the truth about Allison’s murder, whereas his illegal acts were for nothing more than a tawdry desire to clothe himself in Ralph Lauren’s latest, but at least he hadn’t colluded with anyone else. No matter what way you sliced it, if we got caught, he was at serious risk for prison time.

  “Forget it. I’m going to hang up now, and we’ll both pretend that this little conversation never—”

  “Why do you want me to do this?”

  “One chef who worked at École has been killed outright, and another chef has also died. She was a pretty good friend. I think she was murdered, but I can’t prove it. I need to hide someone in the school and hack into the system after hours.”

  Silence.

  I thought of Allison, all of that beauty and talent now gone. I remembered the jagged twist of metal that used to be the door to her locker. My pride and common sense took a hike.

  “I’m groveling here, Thom. Gro. Vel. Ing.”

  More silence and then, “Pity I’m not in the room because groveling is a very good look on you, honey. I suggest you hone those groveling skills, because that’s exactly what you’re going to do with Amos when this is done,” he hissed. “On your hands and knees if necessary. You’ve really hurt him, you heartless bitch, and while you can hate my ass as much you like, I do not appreciate you hurting him. Why he cares is beyond me, but he does. So I do your dirty work for you, then you get over here and beg for his forgiveness. And I want to hear every word.”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  No sooner had I hung up my cell phone, than it rang again. Benson called to say, first of all, did I know my home phone was out of order—he’d gotten a busy signal for the last two hours—and second, the school will be open for business on Wednesday, and I was on double shifts until they hired someone to replace Allison, which probably wouldn’t be until the beginning of the next semester—as in April. But being a seasoned pro, two months of double shifts would be nothing! Oh yes. Nothing. Great. Greatness even. And did I know anyone who was looking for work because we needed to cover Shelley’s classes as well.

  My back seized up in anticipation.

  Memo to self: stock up on support pantyhose.

  When I heard the thud of the newspaper hitting the porch at 5:30 a.m., I sprinted to the front door. Over a double espresso, I poured over the San Francisco Chronicle searching for some mention of Shelley’s murder, but didn’t come up with a single paragraph. Benson must have called in a ton of favors to squelch that news.

  It was a pretty silent drive into the City. I doubt any of us got more than three hours of sleep. I’d snagged the shower first and managed to rustle up a thermos so that we could keep refilling our coffee mugs as we crossed the bridge. Marc rode shotgun and was placed in charge of the coffee. Coolie sat in the back, her iPod cranked up so loud I could hear the tinny feedback of the music leaking out through her head phones. Aside from the occasional request for more coffee, followed by her mug appearing over Marc’s shoulder, she didn’t say anything, nor did Marc. Apparently Marc was pissed off at me for outing him about his father and was indulging in a good old-fashioned pout by not speaking to me. He’d shuffled in the kitchen around six, his eyes at half mast, still sleepy despite his shower. I’d pointed to the fresh pot of coffee and said, “Help yourself.” That got nothing more than a grunt of thanks.

  Bite me, Marc.

  The homicide inspector hadn’t been too pleased with Marc for withholding information (like that was my fault), and had had him on the phone for several hours the previous evening. Plus, he had to g
o down to headquarters after his shift today so they could grill him again. I couldn’t muster up any sympathy for him, because, hello, murder investigation? But apparently Coolie had that covered. I’d thrown an extra pillow and a couple of blankets on the couch, and they were left untouched when I got up that morning. I could hear them talking most of the night, the soft tones of their voices leeching through the lathe and plaster from the room next door.

  It had been a long time since I’d had someone next to me, someone to talk to in the dark of night. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, just the low rumble of Marc’s voice, occasionally punctuated by a higher-pitched cadence. It was hard to imagine what an East Coast blueblood and a Texas redneck had in common besides being the children of assholes.

  Both of them were young, so youth, I guess.

  Cooking.

  What they had listed on their iPods.

  Hearing the high and low of their voices though the walls reassured me that his momentary fascination with me was as fleeting as my momentary fascination with him. Not that I thought Marc and Coolie were doing anything but confiding in each other. Marc’s passion for Shelley had never been in question. Although when you’re young you feel so much, yet you heal so much faster. I was beginning to think I’d never escape the failure of my marriage. It was like a scab that kept breaking open. I’d nurture it, do all the right things, then move wrong, and it would tear open again.

  They were probably talking about their fathers. Benign neglect—something I could relate to—or not-so-benign neglect versus control masquerading as love. A part of me wanted to climb in bed with them and snuggle under the covers, regaling both of them with my childhood horror stories. I had a shitty father, too! Can I play with you guys?

  And if the conversation had shifted to doomed love affairs, hey, I can compete on that score as well! I had one foot on the floor, giving serious thought to joining them under the pretence of asking if they were okay, when I heard Marc crying and then corresponding murmurs. Whether it was crying for Shelley or his father, it didn’t matter; I doubted I was needed or wanted. The fact that I needed and wanted didn’t mean a thing.

  Which sucked.

  Though I’d rather give myself a lobotomy with a clam knife than let Marc touch me again, at the very least I wanted a shoulder to cry on at two in the morning—or not cry—but have the frigging option.

  Memo to self: time to hit www.Match.com.

  When we reached the school, the three of us parted at the elevator, each to our respective locker rooms. Me: “Uh, I’m working double shifts for a while, so, uh, can’t give you guys a lift home,” with the tacit tagline that I had to work double shifts because Shelley wasn’t alive to help me cover Allison’s shift, not to mention her own. Marc mumbled through his exhaustion, “No problem. My van’s still here. From yesterday. So…” To which Coolie replied, “I’m going down with him to headquarters after class. We’ll wait up for you.”

  I guess my place was chef central until Uncle Dom got her an apartment.

  “Don’t bother. By ten tonight, I’ll be virtually comatose with exhaustion. I’ll spend the night with my aunt and uncle,” I lied.

  The thought of spending the night in a closet and being cheated yet again of a decent night’s sleep caused me to suppress a scream of frustration and turn toward the locker room. Ignoring her insistent, “We’ll have a nightcap together,” I shuffled off to the chef’s locker room to change into chef’s whites for class.

  No sooner did the doors to the elevator open than Antonello grabbed my arm and pulled me aside, waited for everyone else to exit, then pushed me back into the elevator, and punched the button for the basement. He didn’t even bother to wait for the doors to close before he started screaming at me in Italian. I started screaming back at him in English, neither of us stopping until we had reached his car. He opened the door, and with a flick of his wrist he bade me get inside and sit. When I didn’t move, he shoved me into the front seat of his Lancia with a look that said if I moved a muscle he would kill me, got in the driver’s side, and locked the doors for good measure.

  “We have class,” I reminded at him.

  “Yes, that is true. Now why are you so furious with me?”

  “As if…” I sputtered.

  Even in the tiny confines of the Lancia he managed to throw his hands up in frustration.

  “Couldn’t you have least gone to the jewelers with her to pick out the ring? I don’t think that was too much to ask.”

  His face went smooth, lost all expression.

  “What do you know about her ring?”

  “Dum dum de dum,” I hummed. I never knew that you could hum belligerently. You learn something every day.

  “Then you know it would have been most inappropriate for me to go with her to the jewelers.”

  I stared at him.

  “Cara?” he questioned.

  “Never call me that again. Never!” I hissed. “How could you? She trusted you. She bought all this lingerie for you and you inscribed cookbooks to her and she loved you so much and you treated her like total shit. And your wife and…”

  By this time I was blubbering into my hands. The visuals of that apartment frozen in time did me in. The carefully folded peignoirs, scented with Chanel No. 5; the cookbooks sorted first according to type (general all purpose, Italian, dessert), then alphabetized, the plethora of kitchen gadgets, the overblown flowers on the upholstery, the cool, sexy satin in the bedroom.

  “How…how could you?” I repeated through my tears.

  There was silence for several seconds, then a string of Italian at the top of his lungs.

  “Translation please. I don’t speak perfect asshole,” I spat out.

  He gripped the steering wheel, the knuckles of both hands gleaming white from the furious hold he had on the leather.

  “How could you?” he repeated back to me. “How could you think I would…with Allison? She was like a daughter to me. Both of us. We…what is wrong with you, Mary?”

  I had my first fissure of doubt, but with my usual bull-in-the-china-shop style, I didn’t let that stop me from digging my own grave.

  “You know about the wedding ring,” I accused.

  He let go of the steering wheel, ran his fingers through his hair, and threw his head back against the headrest. Closing his eyes as if exhausted, he said slowly, as if every word were an effort, “What do you think?” he said slowly. “She told me. She did not tell me who. Although I can guess. Bastardo,” he murmured under this breath, and he hit the steering wheel. Hard. “It was not me. How you could believe—”

  “The cookbooks. In her kitchen, they are inscribed to her,” I protested. “They all say ‘To Cara.’”

  “And this, this is the brush you, you…” Whenever he is upset his English goes. He brought his head forward, turned to me and opened his eyes. Waiting. And like a thousand times before, I supplied him with the right word.

  “Tar? Tar you with the same brush?”

  “Yes, tar me with. Is it my handwriting?” he demanded.

  What had that handwriting looked like? I’d probably killed most of those brain cells after downing all those martinis at Foghorns, but what I remembered was a sort of a scrawl.

  He pulled a pen out of his chef jacket pocket, grabbed my wrist, shoved up the cuff of my jacket, and wrote “Cara,” on the inside of my forearm.

  It was nothing like the writing in the cookbooks. Like all Europeans, his writing was delicate, with lots of curlicues on the edges. Almost feminine. The writing in those cookbooks had been spikey and determined, the serif of the “r” particularly brutal.

  “There. Is it the same?” he demanded.

  I shook my head and raised my head to meet his eyes, which were so cold with disgust that I knew he never would call me “Cara” again. I had broken the faith irreparably.

  “Her funeral is Friday afternoon,” he said. “You will be working. I will send your condolen
ces to her parents. So there are no more misunderstanding between us: I did not give her those cookbooks; I was not her fiancé. Lock the door before you leave. I don’t want CD player stolen.” Then he got out of the car, slammed the door, and headed to the elevator.

  I pulled down my sleeve in a futile effort to hide my shame.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  We’d left my house with no time to spare, so those few minutes spent in the garage destroying my friendship with Antonello meant I was late getting to class. The worried pinch on the students’ faces told me that I looked about two seconds away from a nervous breakdown. Even though Coolie was still wearing the sunglasses, I could tell she was concerned and confused. She kept looking at me with her head cocked to the side and mouthing my name whenever I caught her eye, as if to ask if I was alright. I’d been exhausted and cranky that morning, but not upset. She hadn’t been in the elevator when Antonello commandeered it and me; however, enough students had, so that by the mid-morning break the whole school would know about our argument.

  By tacit agreement, I abandoned my usual place next to Antonello at the chef’s table and sat next to Marc. It was a subdued meal. Someone had thoughtfully removed the extra chair, but we all knew Shelley wasn’t there and why. Marc ate three bites, then got up from the table without saying a word. I didn’t manage to eat much more, before mumbling something about preparing for the evening class and fleeing the dining room.

  Which I needed to do, but I needed to call Thom first.

  ***

  “I’ve made you a reservation tonight under the name Tom Brown.”

  I couldn’t think of anywhere private I could call, so I ended up calling him from my car. The slim hope that the cameras had not caught Marc and me staggering toward his van in drunken lust the other night was dashed at the parking attendant asking me for a date when I walked by the parking kiosk. And if I wasn’t exactly sure what he meant by date, he repeated himself and then grabbed his crotch. I flipped him off and then hunkered down in the front seat of my car to call Thom. With the phone in one hand, I fished under the seats with the other, trying to find the flashlight I had in my car for emergencies. Aha!