by Delia Rosen
An easy smile, and he studied my eyes through the scope. Then he rose and turned to McClintock. “Vitals are normal, no signs of shock,” he said. “She’s a little pale, though. Probably some mild hypothermia.”
McClintock grunted and took the EMT’s place crouching over me.
“Are you able to stand? There’s a stretcher in the kitchen…the techs can bring you to the hospital, have a doctor check you out to be on the safe side.”
“That’s all right,” I said. “I’m good.”
He looked at me. “I saw you favoring that wrist a minute ago.”
I shrugged, powder trickling from under my blouse sleeves. “I might have turned it the wrong way…it won’t kill me,” I said. And then remembered one of the things I’d wanted to know from him. “What was keeping the door shut? I pushed the panic bar but it didn’t budge.”
McClintock looked at me, taking gentle hold of my elbow. “We’ll get to that in a minute,” he said. “In the meantime, how about I help you up? We’ll be extra careful of that wrist.”
I nodded and slowly got to my feet, his hand bracing me. Though I wouldn’t have said I was faint or dizzy, I still didn’t feel quite right and was thankful for his assist.
“Ma’am, if you please, could you tell me what set off the alarm?” said one of the firemen. He was looking around the refrigerator, which I realized had gotten warmer inside. Probably the fire-suppression system had cut the power to the cold-air blowers. “I don’t notice that anything’s burned…other than the fuse.”
“And that’s all you’ll see,” I said, summarizing how I’d gotten stuck in the fridge, then tripped the system with my lighter. “I was afraid I’d freeze or run out of air if I couldn’t get out.”
“Good thinking too,” said the EMT who’d examined me. “The temperature would have been almost freezing in here before things shut down…I’ve seen people suffer from severe exposure in warmer conditions.”
So much for my second thoughts about what I’d done to raise a commotion. I drew the ends of the blanket together over my shoulders, wanting to get back to the question I’d asked McClintock a moment ago. “Detective—”
“Beau,” he reminded me.
“Beau,” I said. “Someone snuck up on me from behind…pushed me hard enough to knock me out. Whoever did it…do you think…that is…in your opinion, was the person trying to…?”
The words I was shooting for were kill me. But I couldn’t get them to leave my mouth.
McClintock’s eyes settled on my face. “When the fire alarm was reported, I headed over with a few men right away…and with headquarters being so close, we were at the scene before the firemen and EMS ambulance,” he said. “We broke the lock on the side door, came through the kitchen, and saw a chair wedged against the refrigerator’s outer door handle.”
I looked back at him. My vision was a little blurry, and I felt granules of the fire suppression chemical in my eyes and tear ducts. “Just before I walked into the refrigerator, I heard a loud noise from the restaurant,” I said. “I went to see what caused it and found a couple of chairs knocked over on the floor.”
“You didn’t find it suspicious?”
“No,” I said. “It seemed to me that they fell off a table. We set them there, you know—”
“When you’re doing your cleanup.”
“Exactly,” I said. “Sometimes people are in too much of a hurry to go home and get careless.”
“So you didn’t consider it unusual.”
“Right.”
I shook my head, pushed a stray lock of hair from my face. It was gritty with powder. “If one’s a little unbalanced, it can tip over and have a domino effect. I’ve gotten here in the morning and found three, four chairs on the floor. That’s almost a whole table’s worth.”
McClintock rubbed a fingertip over his cheek, his gaze holding on me. I heard his nail scrape a light stubble of beard. “Gwen, do you have any idea who might want to hurt you?”
I shook my head again.
“There’ve been no incidents? With customers? Staff members?”
“No,” I said. “Unless you want to count what happened to Buster Sergeant.”
He scratched his cheek some more. “The restaurant’s doors were locked, right?”
I nodded. “You told me you had to break in the side door. And I’m the one who let Thomasina out the front entrance. That takes care of both.”
“Then it seems probable that whoever attacked you would’ve been hiding here,” McClintock said. “Waiting for you to leave your office.”
I hadn’t gotten that far in processing what had occurred, but it did make sense from one perspective. “I guess,” I said. “This isn’t a huge restaurant, though. It’s hard to come up with places where somebody could stay out of sight the whole time we were closing.”
McClintock seemed to let his mind hang on that a moment. Then, after a silence, he said, “So I don’t forget to ask…what time was it when you heard the noise?”
“Maybe two o’clock,” I said. “Could’ve been a little afterward.”
McClintock looked thoughtful.
As he started asking another question, I abruptly realized that I didn’t know what time it was and checked my watch. It was after four in the morning. Incredibly—or incredibly to me—I’d been stuck in the refrigerator for a couple of hours.
“…by the time you heard them,” McClintock said.
I looked at him. My attention had momentarily drifted. “Excuse me? I hope I don’t seem too scatterbrained…but I must’ve missed something.”
“Not to worry, it’s been some weekend around here.” He paused. “You’d said it was about two A.M. when you heard those chairs crash down. And that made me wonder if you always stick around that late.”
“No,” I said. “I was straightening up my office…my uncle left it in a state most of us would call chaotic.”
McClintock nodded, a thin smile gradually spreading across his lips. “I’m not surprised,” he said.
That smile…I couldn’t interpret it. But I did recall the weird vibe I’d detected between him and Thomasina after the Buster Sergeant catastrophe, and then remembered Thomasina’s angry ballplayer comment from earlier in the night. Well, last night now.
“Beau,” I said, “did you know my uncle well?”
He appeared surprised by the question. “Well enough,” he said. “Why do you ask?”
“Just curious,” I said without elaboration. I’d picked up on some hesitation from him, and it convinced me that wasn’t the right time to share my reasons. Meanwhile, the firemen and emergency workers had begun filing out of the refrigerator and kitchen, making me want to get going myself. “Anyway…if it’s okay with you, I’d like to head on home.”
McClintock studied my features again. “I’ll need a full statement from you for my report…but we can do that at my office tomorrow afternoon,” he said. “Meanwhile, you sure you’re feeling up to the drive?”
“I’m a little sluggish,” I said. “But I’ll be okay with it once those techs give me the pressure bandage.”
“And there’s somebody to give you a hand if you need it?”
“I can always call my neighbor Cazzie,” I said. “We have adjoining condos.”
“You live alone?”
“Unless you count Southpaw and Mr. Wiggles.”
He looked at me.
“My two cats,” I said.
McClintock grunted. “I’d be happy to give you a lift, Gwen,” he said. “As a precaution.”
“Thanks but no thanks,” I said. “Really. It’s a short trip up to Antioch.”
He went on looking at me without seeming to be persuaded. “How about I tag along behind you in my car? This way we can be positive you get home safe.”
I sighed. Bearing in mind what had gone on at the restaurant over the last couple of days, I strongly doubted his persistent concern was limited to my driving. I also couldn’t find a reason to quarrel with it.
<
br /> “Sure,” I said finally. “As long as you won’t tail-gate.”
McClintock’s smile was very quick this time. “You’ve got a deal,” he said.
Chapter Fourteen
Between my getting home in the fuzzy hours between Saturday and Sunday and returning to the restaurant, it was a lightning-fast turnaround.
After waving good night to McClintock—who chivalrously pulled in front of the condo and waited there for me to park the car, then walk inside from the attached garage and turn the lights on—I had enough time left over to feed the kitties, pop a few Tylenol to quiet my achy wrist, shower the chemical dust out of my hair (since I hopefully wouldn’t have to worry about it bursting into flames otherwise), and catch about three hours’ sleep before getting up at seven A.M. to phone Thomasina and Newt and throw them into separate but equal panics with my account of my little adventure in Fridge-land.
And you think that was an earful to hear, imagine having to live it.
I had no real clue if we’d be able to swing our regular Sunday noon brunch as I staggered blearily back to my car amid chimney puffs of cigarette smoke, a dull throb in my wrist and paper cup of black coffee in hand. I was determined to give it a shot, though. Although the refrigerated goods had been ruined, we had everything that was out front in the prepared food and unrefrigerated dessert cases, all the cured meats hanging behind the cases, and whatever was in the freezer. My inclination was to open the doors for business, wing it with whatever dishes we could serve, and hope for the best.
This would be contingent on how Thomasina and Newt weighed in once we got together, however. I was very matter-of-fact about my professional strengths and weaknesses, and wasn’t ashamed to fess up to being the least experienced of the three of us. They’d know best what we could swing in a crisis.
As I drove past the alley between the restaurant and Trudy’s Country and Blues Club at ten-thirty, I saw a locksmith working on the side door, and automatically handed it to Thom for rustling him out of bed…no small feat on a Sunday morning in Nashville. Whatever coercive tactics she’d used—physical violence, blackmail, waterboarding, or threatening to drag him to one of her church functions—I figured she’d spared no effort imposing her will on the poor guy. I was also hoping it might be a sign that Thom shared my determination to serve brunch to anyone that showed up with a need to eat.
Leaving the Kizashi in its usual spot behind the restaurant, I came around to the front entrance with a semi-optimistic feeling in my heart, a near bounce in my stride, and maybe a flicker of extra glowiness at the tip of my second smoke of the young morn. My wrist wasn’t even throbbing too badly, thanks to my washing down another dose of Tylenol with the dregs of my coffee. Life might not be good, but I would embrace more or less acceptable for now.
Alas, all things must pass, hare hare. With apologies to George Harrison. I’d obviously never met Royce Ramsey or his slime-acious legal flunky…er, dutiful counselor-at-law…Cyrus Liarson in the flesh. But some people exude a certain unique eau de creep, and I pinned those two stinkers the second I looked through the door and saw them slinking around Thom’s hostess station.
The tall, lean man I took to be Ramsey was wearing a Stetson Panama hat with a leather band and feather, exactly like the kind Thom described from when he’d stopped by the deli after my uncle’s funeral. No white suit this time, but a tan sport coat that shouted high-end Canali to me, a tieless white shirt tucked into his blue jeans, and high-heeled, pointy-toed Western boots. His eyes were covered by dark aviator glasses, and his hair seemed very close to buzz cut under the hat. I assumed he was going for the Rugged Intimidator look, although Cattleman Entrepreneur was a straightforward possibility.
Liarson, meanwhile, was a short, pudgy man of average height with a receding hairline, small eyes, pencil mustache, and peculiarly undershot chin. I guessed his plain navy blue suit was supposed to convey Can-Do Professional, but his tasseled loafers with their punched-hole pattern instantly got me stuck on Grown Up Buster Brown. Though he’d left his old-fashioned sailor hat, bowtie, and loyal companion Tige home that morning, I did notice a brown leather portfolio-style briefcase tucked nattily under his arm.
I rolled my eyes skyward. Was it okay to pray for people to so completely vanish from existence that they didn’t even leave behind sub-molecular trace particles? I didn’t know. Not any more than I knew if a Jewish girl could pray on Sunday period, since it might mistakenly route the request through the wrong channels and muck up the heavenly works.
This was really and truly the last thing I’d needed. I had braced for a rough day. I’d been prepared to spend part of it coming to grips with the knowledge that some skulker had lingered in the restaurant after closing the night before, by all appearances planning to kill me. I’d understood I would need to assess the financial hit that would stem from having the contents of our walk-in refrigerator rendered inedible by chemical powder. And I was all too aware that I might have to cast a decisive vote on whether we opened for brunch or kept our doors closed to business—knowing full well the latter could only send a terrible message to patrons whose confidence in us was already shaky at best.
Still, I hadn’t been ready to dosey-do with Royce and Liarson. Seeing them in the deli was almost enough to make my untameably curly lid flip on arrival…which was why I decided to go into full denial mode and pretend they weren’t there as Thom came around her podium to let me in.
“Good mornin’, Nash,” she said, opening the door. And jabbed her chin at the unwelcome visitors. “Leastways, I’m wishing for a good one. Poor as the outlook might be, it’s best to stay on the sunny side.”
I gave Thomasina a cheerful look, flicked my cigarette butt to the sidewalk, crushed it out with the bottom of my shoe, then picked it up so I could dispose of it inside. “I’m heading upstairs…is everything under control here?”
“There ain’t a nuisance on earth I can’t handle.”
“All right then.” I started past the two men. “I’ll be in my office.”
“Ms. Silver, if we may speak for a moment.” The guy I had assumed was Liarson moved in front of me to block the aisle. “I’d like to introduce you to my client, Mr. Ramsey. I contacted him after my excellent telephone conversation with you was cut short yesterday…I presume because of trouble on the line. To avoid further lapses in communications, we concluded it would be useful to take the initiative and—”
“Thom, something seems to be making objectionable noises.” I paused, turned to face her. “Have you noticed?”
“Buzzards,” she said.
“Really?”
Thom nodded. “That’s what I meant by a nuisance. I saw this pair hoverin’ around when I drove up and recognized the one with that straw nest on its head.” She gestured at Ramsey and Liarson. “This pair’s the ugliest in creation…you know the birds mate for life, right?”
“No,” I said. “But I see how it could be true.”
“One sinks its claws into another, what’re the odds it’ll get lucky a second time? So they stay together. Repugnant as they are, even buzzards find it hard lovin’ other buzzards.”
“That makes absolute sense,” I said. “Listen, I want to meet with you and Newt. Let’s make it in about ten minutes…”
Ramsey abruptly stepped between us. “Ms. Silver, I’d hoped for five minutes of your time when I came on down from my ranch this morning.” he said. “If we could sit down and chat privately at one of your tables, I don’t even reckon it would delay your meeting.”
I craned my head, looking around him at Thom. “Those vultures—”
“Buzzards.”
“Right, sorry, I get my carrion eaters confused,” I said. “Anyway, I’m afraid those two revolting scavengers might’ve flapped in the door.”
“That’s the case, we’ll want to have one of the boys chase them out with a broom.”
“You think?”
“Either a broom or a water hose to wash away the filth they’re boun
d to have carried in with them…”
“There’s no call for this verbal abuse,” Liarson objected, turning his attention my way. He’d positioned himself alongside Ramsey so they both had their backs to Thom now. “My client’s driven over fifty miles to see you on a Sunday morning, and asks only that you show the basic courtesy of hearing out his offer—”
“All right, that’s it! Never mind her, you stink-mouthed, roadkill-pickin’, snake-gut-suckin’ low-life.” Thom took a giant step away from her podium and came around to where I stood facing the men, parking her broad form next to me, jabbing her finger across the aisle in their direction. “You want to hear real insults, go ahead and show me your backsides again. Because I hate rudeness and ain’t nowhere near warmed up yet.”
I resisted the urge to glance over my shoulder at Thom. My God, were we bonding?
Meanwhile, Ramsey was giving her a long, lingering look of his own. It seemed to show disdain and mild astonishment before he regained his poise. “Come, Ms. Silver, why not give yourself a chance to evaluate my proposal? It’s surely in your best interest.”
I looked at him. “That so?” I said, figuring it was my turn to follow Thom’s lead and plague his existence. “How can you presume to know what’s in my interest?”
“Because I am a real-estate developer,” Ramsey said. “My success depends on evaluating whole neighborhoods to find out how they might be bettered. How they might grow. And I’ve learned to view every business as a community in miniature.”
“Great speech if you decide to run for office,” I said. “But it’s got nothing to do with me.”
Ramsey’s eyes bore in on mine. “With utmost respect, I would suggest it has everything to do with you,” he said. “May I be frank, Ms. Silver?”
I couldn’t have explained why it annoyed me that he kept repeating my name. But it did. “Be my guest,” I said. “Just don’t think I’m giving you all day.”
He lifted his straw hat off his head, brought it down in front of him with both hands, and held its brim flatly over his heart. The picture of bogus sincerity. “We can’t pretend your delicatessen isn’t struggling right now. It’s no shame. When I was a young boy, I learned that even a star goes through a natural life cycle. It’s born. It shines. It might even become the hottest, most brilliant thing in the sky…but sooner or later, it fades,” he said. “Restaurants are akin to that. Some dining places last longer than others, but not even the most popular ones stay hot forever. Public tastes are fickle. The competition moves in and everyone has a yen to see what it offers. Before long, it’s the trendy place to be. Toss in fad diets and what they call demographic shifts, meaning—”