by Delia Rosen
“In any event,” Liarson said into the silence, “I’ve been eager to have a conversation with you. On behalf of Mr. Ramsey.”
“Mister? I thought you just told me you’re the attorney for—”
“Ramsey Holdings is the name of a corporation whose president and major shareholder is Royce Ramsey,” Liarson said. “Technically I manage his personal affairs. But I will on occasion handle his more important commercial ventures.”
My eyebrow shot higher up my forehead. Granted, I was overtired, irritable, and admittedly ready to pounce. But Liarson’s pushiness had been getting on my nerves…and finding out Thom was keeping secrets bugged me to no end.
“Look,” I said, “I’m busy, so can you get to the point?”
“Absolutely,” Liarson said. “I would like to make arrangements between you and my client—”
“What for?”
“A meeting.”
“About?”
“Mr. Ramsey would rather tell you in person.”
“And I’d rather hear it from you over the phone.”
A pause. Liarson cleared his throat. “Yes, certainly,” he said. “I read about the incident at your restaurant in today’s paper. Our community has suffered a profound loss. But as an attorney, I’ve seen opportunity arise from the worst of tragedies. It turns out Mr. Ramsey has prepared a generous offer for your property at precisely the right moment to divest yourself of a financial albatross—”
“What are you talking about?” I asked, the cigarette hanging from my mouth. “Are you saying your boss wants to buy my deli?”
“He isn’t my boss, Ms. Silver…our relationship is that of an attorney and client,” Liarson said, betraying the faintest hint of peevishness. “Also, I’d make a distinction between the restaurant and its location. It’s the second that primarily interests Mr. Ramsey despite its low market value.”
“Hang on. You’re joking, right? We’re in the busiest part of town.”
“In a passé sense, perhaps—”
“Passé, schmassé,” I said. “The convention center’s practically across the street. Bridgestone Arena’s right over on Fourth—”
“Yes, yes. And in a sense that’s my point.”
“How so?”
“My client is best suited to explain, which is why he would prefer meeting with you face-to-face,” Liarson said. “In the meantime, suffice it to say trends change…even downtown. Mr. Ramsey has built his reputation on foresight, vision, and maximizing his acquired assets. He has the resources to absorb current and near-future losses and look toward eventual redevelopment. Your neighbors came to understand this to their considerable gain.”
That raised my curiosity. It also raised my eyebrow some more. In fact, I was thinking that if it got any higher, it would probably reach the top of my head and start down the other side.
“What neighbors?” I said, taking his bait.
“It isn’t my place to say, but as a newcomer to the Metro area you might want to make some inquiries,” Liarson replied in a cryptic tone. “Ms. Silver, kosher dining has never been the vogue in Nashville. But my employer respects your restaurant’s longevity…its niche popularity. As a generous quid pro quo, therefore, he has made it plain he’s willing to consider a singular, mutually attractive arrangement.”
I frowned. “Actually he hasn’t made anything plain, since we’ve never even spoken—”
“And again, he would like to remedy that as soon as possible,” Liarson said. “You may find this offer comes at an opportune juncture.”
“You’re repeating yourself—”
“Last night’s incident aside, I mean,” Liarson said. “Our market surveys indicate Murray’s Delicatessen was an owner-driven establishment. Which is to say your uncle’s personality gave it a unique stamp of appeal—and drew its clientele. Upon his death, it instantly became a fading landmark.”
That made me bristle. “Last time I looked, your boss wasn’t privy to my cash receipts.”
“Ms. Silver, if you would please listen to me—”
“Forget it.” I’d nestled the receiver between my chin and shoulder and was waving my Pall Mall around in the air. “I think your attitude’s condescending and insulting…”
“Ms. Silver—”
I heard a beep in my ear, glanced at the telephone, and noticed a second button light up on the console. A call was coming in on another line.
Enough was enough. Disconnecting Liarson with a jab of my finger, I pushed the flashing button. “Murray’s.”
“Ms. Silver?”
Déjà vu. Or maybe not so much. I’d recognized the voice and it didn’t resemble the attorney’s a bit. “Detective McClintock?”
“Yes,” he said. “I’m glad I caught you.”
“Oh?”
“I wasn’t certain what time you’d be at the restaurant. We need to talk.”
I shoved the Pall Mall back in my mouth. His tone bothered me. It sounded…I don’t know. Loaded. But plucky native New Yorker that I was, my first instinct was to tackle whatever he had to say head-on—
Okay, I’m lying. Maybe it’s the post-traumatic stress of seeing my fraud of an ex-hub led out of our apartment in handcuffs, but dealing with the cops always makes me want to dive into a rabbit hole.
“I’m a million kinds of busy right now,” I said, figuring the same remark, more or less, had worked to put Liarson in a defensive position. “How about you call back this afternoon—?”
“I need you at the station, Ms. Silver.”
My heart knocked. “When?”
“The sooner, the better. As I said, there are things we need to discuss.”
I took a deep, long breath and almost sucked my cigarette down my windpipe. “What sort of things?”
McClintock didn’t answer. I hung on, waiting.
“Look, I’ll give you a heads-up, although I probably shouldn’t,” he finally said in a low voice. “Keep this in your pocket all right?”
Knock-knock-knock. “All right,” I said.
“The medical examiner’s turned in a preliminary lab workup,” McClintock said. “They don’t usually come this fast. But Buster Sergeant’s a VIP, and that tends to speed along the process.” His voice dropped another notch. “I’m the first to see the report and it isn’t good.”
I scanned the floor for that hole I felt like bolting into. No go. “What’s it say?”
“It indicates Sergeant was deliberately poisoned at your restaurant,” McClintock said.
“Poi—how?”
“Ms. Silver, we can discuss it when you get here. I’m right up the street. The precinct’s right in the tower at Bridgestone. Take the elevator to the third floor—”
“I know where to find it,” I said. “Give me fifteen minutes.”
McClintock grunted. “I’ll be in my office,” he said.
Chapter Five
“How’s it now?” I glanced over at Luke from behind the counter. “Still crooked?”
“Push it thataways,” he said, motioning slightly to the left.
I made the adjustment to the picture frame, looked at him again. His face screwing up with concentration, Luke tilted his hand leftward by added degrees.
“A little more, little more…there you go,” he said.
I came around into the aisle, gave the photograph of Murray and me an approving look. Before rushing off to see McClintock, I’d decided to finish what I had started at the deli.
“My lucky charm,” I said, thinking it had better radiate some positive vibes but fast.
Luke nodded appreciatively. “It fits, Nash. I mean, like, I kinda feel this is where it’s always belonged,” he said, his eyes on the photo. “You an’ Murray together straight outta the Wayback machine.”
I gave him a sidewise glance. “Rocky and Bullwinkle?”
“Got all their cartoons on DVD.”
I was impressed. I also knew I’d stood there admiring the picture as long as I could.
“I’d bette
r get a move on,” I said.
“Where you goin’?”
It was a good question. Unfortunately, McClintock had asked me to stay mum. “Out…I have to head out for a while,” I replied. Slick, huh?
Luke gave me a look. “But you just got here.”
“I’ll explain later,” I said. “You hold the fort in the meantime.”
“This is about whoever was on the phone that second time,” Luke said. “Ain’t it, Nash?”
I didn’t answer. Considering how obnoxious McClintock had been the night before, I couldn’t figure out why he’d tipped me off to the coroner’s report. But whatever his reasons, I appreciated it.
Luke was staring at me in silence, open concern on his face now.
I smiled faintly, squeezed his elbow.
“Later,” I repeated.
Grabbing my purse from the counter, I hurried out the door and walked east toward Bridgestone, which looks like the flying saucer from The Day the Earth Stood Still parked smack atop a Broadway office building. Metro Police Central’s entrance was set back under the saucer’s jutting outer rim, and came up right before you reached the Nashville visitor information tower at the corner of Fifth Avenue.
I turned in, rode the elevator to the third floor, then gave my name to an officer at the precinct desk and told him Detective McClintock was expecting me. He’d no sooner pushed his intercom button than McClintock appeared through a doorway.
“Ms. Silver.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “Right on time.”
He was smiling politely, but I still hadn’t forgotten his brusque manner when we were introduced.
“Always,” I said with a neutral shrug.
His eyes briefly met mine. Then he pushed the door open wider with his arm, stepped aside, and gestured toward the hall beyond. “My office is the third on your right.”
I went into the corridor. One, two, three. We stopped in front of McClintock’s office, and he held the door again and followed me through, motioning to a chair in front of his desk.
I sat. Though the room was probably about the same size as my own office over the deli, it gave the appearance of being much larger absent all the carnage Murray had left behind. In fact it was uncluttered and sparsely furnished—there was the desk, a metal credenza, a file cabinet, and nothing else. The desktop was clear except for a computer screen and keyboard, matching wooden pen and paper-clip holders, and an autographed baseball in a round plastic trophy case.
I should also point out the single manila file folder that seemed to be waving howdy-doo from the middle of the blotter.
As McClintock sat down opposite me, I stopped staring at the folder long enough to notice an obligatory police tackboard on the wall. That and the framed photo of a baseball team to his immediate right. A younger version of him was crouched in the front row of players. Their orange-gold uniform shirts had bold white Ts on the left breast. Keen guesser that I was, I figured it for a high school or college varsity team.
McClintock regarded me a moment, his fingertips on the edge of the desk. “I want to thank you for coming on short notice, Ms. Silver—”
“You’re welcome,” I said. “And Gwen would be fine.”
He nodded. “About last night, Gwen…I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
The desire was mutual. “Is that the folder?” I said, dipping my chin at it.
McClintock gave me a questioning glance.
“I assume that’s the lab report on Buster Sergeant,” I said. “The one you mentioned when you called.”
He nodded. “The initial tox findings, yes.”
“Tox as in…”
“Toxicology, sorry,” McClintock said. “We’ll get to it, I promise. But first we should talk.”
I considered reminding him that he hadn’t made any such stipulation over the phone, but decided against it. I had nothing to hide.
“Sure,” I said. “What can I do to help?”
“For openers, can you tell me how a serving of food goes from the kitchen to the table for a catered event.”
I shrugged. “It all depends.”
“On…?”
“Different things. Is it an appetizer, main course, or dessert? Do you mean a beef dish? Poultry? Latkes?” I paused. The latter weren’t exactly a Southern staple. “Those are—”
“Potato pancakes, I know,” McClintock said. “Let’s stick to a main dinner course for now. Roast beef hypothetically. Be as specific as you can.”
I looked at him. He didn’t sound like he was being too hypothetical.
“Well, the first step’s actually when the roast beef’s ordered. For an event the available dishes are set ahead of time. There’s an online ordering process so whoever’s throwing the affair can choose what courses are served for dinner, give us the number of guests, and then pay or leave a deposit electronically when the event’s booked.”
“Sounds like a pretty modern system.”
“I think it’s two or three years old,” I said. “My uncle was anything but modern. But he hated catered parties.”
“Why’s that?”
“He felt they were unprofitable. I don’t know why. It does get a little complicated when guests start asking for extras. Some restaurants have a firm policy of sticking to the preordered course list.”
“And Murray’s?”
“If we can whip a dish together, and the booker’s okay with it, we’ll try to make the diner happy,” I said. “Anyway, my uncle’s accountant came up with the computerized system when the deli’s website was designed.”
“That’s Artemis Duff.”
I looked at McClintock. “Yeah…do you know Artie?”
“I think we may have met.” He drummed his fingers on the manila folder. “Okay, I think I’m clear on the ordering procedure. Getting back to the night of the event, and our roast beef…”
“Right,” I said. “Once it leaves the oven, our head cook sets it on a platter—”
“That’s Mr. Trout.”
“Newt, yes,” I said. “He’ll carve the roast according to how many orders he’s gotten, put each slice on a plate, and spoon or drizzle some of the cooking juices onto them.”
“So they stay moist.”
“Right.”
“And then?”
“Our waiters garnish the dishes.”
“With parsley, that sort of thing?”
“Could be parsley, a carrot flower, a pineapple wedge…again, it’s determined by the meal. Newt has his staff prep his garnishes ahead of time. His sides too.”
“And the side orders are also added by your waiters.”
“Yes, exactly.”
McClintock nodded. “Okay, what’s next?”
“That’s about it. Guests at an affair have a choice of three or four main courses. Since this usually means there’ll be multiple portions of the same dish at a table, our servers will bring them out to their stations together on delivery carts.”
“And then serve them off the carts, yes?”
“Exactly.”
McClintock thoughtfully drummed his fingers against the desktop.
“One or two more questions,” he said. “If I remember correctly, when a waiter writes an order in his pad, he gives a carbon copy to the kitchen staff. Hangs it on a rail…that’s the kitchen ticket, right?”
“Right,” I said. “Nowadays, most places have gone over to electronic systems. Rather than turn in a handwritten ticket, the waiter keys the order into a computerized cash register. Then it either shoots out of a printer or appears on a display screen in the kitchen. It’s considered more efficient because nobody has to decipher a waiter’s scribbled handwriting. But we still do it the old-fashioned way at the deli.”
“Any particular reason?”
“Impractical as it might be, I want things to stay the same as when my late uncle ran it. Whenever possible, that is. The only change I’ve made is having our waiters turn in the originals.”
“Instead of the carbons.”
I nodded. “If you don’t press down hard enough with your pen, the writing can be light and illegible even for someone with decent penmanship. It eliminates that problem.”
“And the copy…?”
“Ordinarily becomes the guest check. It’s different with catered affairs, since the host almost always covers the entire tab.”
“In which case, there wouldn’t be any guest checks.”
“That’s right.”
“Since everything’s paid for in advance.”
“Right.”
“Online, yes?”
“Again, that would depend. Our minimum deposit is fifty percent. So the host can pay the full amount online when the event’s booked, or make a partial payment. The rest is due by the day of the event and can be made in person,” I said. “As far as the checks, we toss the carbons and keep the originals for our records—and for whoever booked the affair in case they want Xeroxes for their own bookkeeping.”
The detective was drumming his fingers again. “Can everyone in the kitchen see the tickets? Say, for instance, a dishwasher?”
“I suppose. But I don’t know who’d bother reading them besides the cooks. And the waiters when they make their pickups.”
“How about access to the kitchen? Am I right that any member of your staff can go in and out?”
“Why not? It doesn’t exactly hold classified nuclear secrets.”
McClintock gave me a blunt look. “Good of you to share that information,” he said.
I instantly regretted my little snipe. While you could argue he’d earned it the night before, I had to admit he was making nice…well, very nicely.
“Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t get much sleep and it’s left me kind of ragged this morning.”
McClintock studied my face. He’d stopped his finger tapping for the moment.
“I understand,” he said. Then hesitated. “You don’t look it, by the way.”
“Hmm?”
“Ragged.”
“Oh.” Was that a compliment I’d heard? My over-and-under eye makeup at work.
McClintock was still watching my face. “As for what you said about only cooks and waiters reading the kitchen tickets…”
“I meant that when you work in a restaurant, you’re really just concerned with your own job,” I said. “The kitchen’s a busy place. Nothing gets done unless everybody sticks to whatever they’re supposed to be doing.”