by Robin Allen
“You’re unbelievable,” I said.
He turned to me, smiling, as if I had paid him a compliment.
“I came in here because I wanted to help you, but you don’t deserve it. Ursula is right. We do all the work; you complain. We make you look good; you insult us. Our hands are full of burns and cuts, and you whine about a tiny nick on your face.”
Évariste looked out the doorway into the kitchen. “You are right.”
“Huh?”
“I do not need your ’elp.” He toodled his hairy Vienna sausages at me. “You weel leave me alone now.”
I scrunched my apron into a tight ball and aimed for his face. He looked me in the eyes and smiled again, daring me to do it. It would have felt good to me, but better to him, so I threw it in the bag of dirty linen. Then I snatched my backpack from a hook near the door and left. As I pushed through the back door, I admired Ursula’s self-control. I would have killed him already.
As soon as the door clicked shut behind me, I felt like I had been released from prison. My lungs ballooned with fresh oxygen and my mind relaxed as sounds faded to tolerable decibels. I unbuttoned my chef’s coat and let the breeze, still in the upper eighties, cool the sweat on my body and face.
Amado backed through the door, dragging two plastic bags of trash. He hadn’t seen me, and it would have been so easy to slip behind the dumpster and let him struggle with the bags alone. But he would do this two or three more times before the end of the night, while the heaviest thing I’d lift would be a glass of champagne. I grasped the top of one of the bulging bags and dragged it to the dumpster. It felt filled with wet sand.
“Muchas gracias, Miss Poppy,” he said after we heaved the bags over the top.
“You did a great job tonight, Amado.”
He dropped his eyes shyly and tucked both hands inside his wet apron.
“Mitch really appreciates how hard you work. Ursula too.”
He looked up at me and displayed a grill of silver teeth behind chapped lips.
“See you later, amigo,” I said.
“Adios, Miss.”
I started to tell him that I would be right back, that I wasn’t abandoning everyone. I was just going to my car to get a change of clothes and had hours of work ahead of me, too. But he had already disappeared into the restaurant.
Mitch hired a valet service for the guests, but employees were told to park a few blocks away in a residential neighborhood. I walked up the sidewalk, taking long strides to stretch and revive my muscles. My feet, legs, and back were on fire from hours of standing, squatting, spinning, and reaching, and I could smell myself. That’s when you know you really stink. Gallons of sweat, steam, and grease had seeped into the fiber of my clothes, into the cells of my hair and skin.
I slowed my pace to enjoy this short reprieve from hostilities and surveyed the dreary landscape of “Closed” and “Going Out of Business” signs that had quietly shown up in the windows of neighboring businesses. For years, south Austin had done a good job of laying low while over-coiffed developers rumbled into town on sleek black bulldozers hauling in troughs of cash, reconfiguring the rest of the city in the name of profits and growth. But the scourge had started to flow south. Just dribbles at first, a gas station here, a taco stand there, eventually consuming strip malls and entire square blocks. Protestors barely had time to organize before a construction crew shored up a formerly tree-lined embankment with rebar and concrete.
One of the great perks of living south is opening your front door to a rough and ready world teeming with danger and entertainment. But when all of the cool old buildings that house noodle shops and all-night video stores are razed to make way for generic high-rise condos and chain drug stores, what would be the point of living there? Choices would be limited, experiences would be managed, and everything would look exactly the same. I didn’t believe Austinites wanted such homogenization, but it’s what greed and resigned acceptance has gotten us.
I picked my way around dirty orange pylons and chunks of concrete, glad that Mitch had declined the dozens of offers to buy the restaurant over the years. Even if I was no longer part of the daily operations, Markham’s was still a part of me. I grew up there, first bussing tables and prepping food in high school, then waitressing and cooking in college, eventually managing the restaurant. I became head chef when my father’s ancient chef, Rolly, suffered a heart attack in the middle of a Valentine’s Day dinner rush.
But as much as I loved Markham’s, I did not want to go back inside to make small talk with people I barely knew. It would be so easy to jump in my old green Jeep, drive to my placid little house, pour myself a fat glass of meritage, and watch The Big Lebowski for the hundred and thirty-ninth time. In ten minutes, I could be far away from crazy cooks and their bloated egos, watching the Dude try to get his rug back.
I didn’t have that choice, however. As the owner’s daughter, what I did have were capital-O Obligations. Nina would buzz around the more prominent guests, meaning her country club cronies and Lance Armstrong if he showed up, but Mitch counted on me to make the B-listers feel like A-listers. The more important people feel, the more money they spend.
It was later than I thought, 9:07 PM according to the Jeep’s dash clock, one of two extras that still worked. The other was the “Check Engine” light. I grabbed a second backpack that held my hostess clothes and a few toiletries, then headed back to the restaurant. I could at least look forward to changing my outfit and brushing my teeth.
I wondered how much trouble Évariste had caused, and whether I had missed anything good. He had seemed calmer when I left him nursing his head, but he could have taken that time to stew about Ursula’s constant combat, Trevor’s bizarre attack, and BonBon’s hostile allegations. I hoped he had returned to the dining room where people didn’t know him personally and would be glad to see him.
As I neared the back of the restaurant, I heard cars honking, policemen blowing traffic whistles, women laughing, and the staticky babble of valet guys calling to each other on walkie-talkies. Guests were still arriving and it looked like my fourteen-hour work day had a good chance of going the distance to twenty-four.
Crossing the gravel parking area, I noticed movement at the top of the dumpster. A herd of cats clawed at the garbage bags to reveal the tasty delicacies of rabbit ears and slimy frog feet inside. I ran toward the cats, waving my arms. “Scat cats!” Most of them bounded into the darkness, except for a yellow tomcat that had prevailed over worse than me, if his empty eye socket and patchy fur were any indication. He looked up and twitched his whiskers, then returned to his feast. I walked around to the back of the dumpster and pushed over one side of the heavy lid. With a disgruntled yowl, he leaped off the edge, landing among his hungry comrades on the other side of the fence.
When I came around the side of the dumpster, there at my feet, on his back in the sparse grass between the dumpster and the fence, lay Évariste Bontecou, a knife sticking out of the Markham’s logo embroidered above his little cinder heart.
I heard a police whistle and started toward the street. That’s what you do when you stumble upon a scene like that, right? You tell the nearest policeman. But then I stopped. Because maybe, just maybe, Évariste was still alive.
I tiptoed to the edge of the gravel until the toes of my clogs barely brushed the grass. “Évariste,” I stage-whispered. “Are you—” And then I saw it. What I mistook for the dark shadow of Évariste’s stomach cast by the moon, was a pool of blood. A lot of it.
Yes, the man was dead.
I should tell a policeman, but then what? Police cars would converge from all directions, lights twirling, sirens screaming, announcing “an incident” at the restaurant. Then the television crews covering the party inside would rush out and film Évariste’s body as it lay undignified in the grass.
There was only one thing to do.
Just in case Évariste had a soul, I commended it into the care of Saint Macarius, the patron saint of chefs, then r
an through the back door. Nothing had changed inside, except that Amado looked even more behind on dirty dishes. I watched Trevor pick up a filet from the grill and flip it in the air, wink at me before catching it mid-fall with his tongs and place it back on the flames. How could anyone be in a good mood at a time like this?
I ducked through the swinging doors ignoring Ursula’s demand to come back and help.
Filled with pulsing, overindulged bodies, the dining room gave no relief from the heat of the kitchen. A buzzing congregation of voices rose above tinkling laughter and clinking glasses at the perfect party. Ursula had outdone herself.
But Évariste would steal her limelight one more time.
I had been on autopilot for the last couple of minutes, but what I had just seen began to sink in. Évariste Bontecou was dead. Murdered in the time it took me to walk to my car and back.
I scanned the dining room, desperate to find Mitch, and caught sight of his bald head on the other side of the dining room. He sat at a corner table talking to three men I didn’t recognize. Mitch wore the biggest grin I had seen on his face in months, but the men looked about as happy as the statues at Easter Island. Mitch had probably just finished one of his “you had to be there” stories.
I weaved through the tables, feeling like a fraud as I smiled and nodded at people without really seeing them. My mind hadn’t caught up with my instincts and I didn’t know how I would tell my father. Would I blurt out the facts or drag him out back and show him?
I had almost reached Mitch’s table when I bumped into a man’s very wide, very hard chest. “Poppy, my dear,” Will said, “this is a major social event.” He looked down at my clogs and worked his way up to my faded Achiever t-shirt beneath my stained chef’s coat. “Surely you’re going to put on something more appropriate.”
“I need to talk to my dad,” I said, trying to step around him.
He put his hand on my arm. “Mitch has been on his feet all night. Get changed and give him a few minutes to relax, okay?”
Every second Will delayed me was another second someone else had to wander back to the dumpster and discover Évariste, then come running through the restaurant screaming bloody murder.
And then Belize came running through the restaurant screaming bloody murder.
_____
The homicide detectives were like a live personality test, asking the same question in varied and off-center ways to see if they could catch you in an inconsistency. They finally questioned me around midnight, then I helped the wait staff serve coffee to the Markham’s guests who had been detained until they could give a statement.
I hoped I wouldn’t be questioned again because I knew that the police would finally break me and I would confess that I had discovered the body first. Then I would have to answer perfectly valid police-type questions about why I didn’t go straight to an officer, and—in light of my silence on the subject over the past few hours—why I didn’t mention it sooner. I couldn’t have given any other answer except, “I don’t know,” which was the truth. How could it matter anyway? I didn’t see the murderer or disturb the crime scene. But something niggled at me about what I had seen.
Around 5:00 am, just when I had figured out how I could assemble a comfortable bed with two tables, a tablecloth, and a bag of wild rice, things began to wrap up. I had been awake and working for a little over twenty-four hours and felt as abused as Apollo Creed after Rocky’s second wind. Even the blisters on my hands couldn’t muster the effort to finish forming. I felt sorry for the detectives draining their last cups of coffee and the news crews packing away their cameras and microphones. They still had hours of work ahead of them.
Despite Nina’s insistence that the publicity would be good for Markham’s, Mitch decided to close the restaurant for the weekend out of respect for Évariste. Will sent the wait staff home after they did their checkouts, telling them to come back in a few hours to finish cleaning up, not even waiting until they protested before promising them free food and triple pay.
After Mitch and Nina received final instructions from the police and saw them out the door, Mitch stepped behind the bar and Nina sat on the other side. They leaned across the bar, engaging in a quiet but intense conversation.
They pulled apart when I sat down next to Nina. I thought Mitch would pour his customary rum and orange juice, but instead he started putting away the olives and limes, bevnaps and straws. “No tasty beverage tonight, Daddy?”
“No,” Nina answered without looking at me. “Your father has stopped drinking.” It sounded more like an edict than an explanation.
“Has he stopped speaking for himself, too?” I asked.
Mitch ran a wet towel over his sweating face. “I’ve cut back.”
Nina stood and reached across the bar for Mitch’s chin. She pulled him to her for a kiss on the lips, then said, “Ciao, darling,” using her thumb to wipe at the dark red smear of lipstick she had branded him with. “We’ll figure this out later.” She looked as fresh as she had earlier when she complained about Ursula’s name missing from the marquee. Except she wore her purple Chanel.
“Goodnight, Duchess,” Mitch said. He made quick kissing sounds in the air. “I’ll be home soon.”
“You look terrible, Poppy,” Nina fired at me on her way out the front door.
“Thanks for noticing.” I stood on the stool’s footrest to get a better look at my reflection in the new mirror behind the amber bottles of Chivas Regal, Crown Royal, and Grand Marnier. “I don’t look that bad.”
“We hired a lighting consultant for the renovation,” Mitch said. “No one looks bad in here.”
“Thanks … I think.” I sat down on a shiny leather swivel bar stool that had replaced the scratched, creaky wooden ones. I liked those old bar stools.
Mitch threw the towel over his shoulder. “What’ll it be, Miss?”
“Did Nina really cut you off ?”
“Back, not off.” He filled two highball glasses with ice, then mixed equal parts of dark rum and OJ into them. He slid one of the drinks to me, then lifted the other in a toast. “To cutting back.”
“And going home.” I clinked my glass against his and he drained half of his drink before I swallowed my first sip. “I was afraid Nina had taken all the fun out of your life.”
“She’s doing what she thinks is best.”
“For who?”
“Whom, not who.” He came out from behind the bar and picked up two cups of cold coffee and an untouched fig tart from a dirty table. He balanced two more plates on the first one and carried the dishes to the bus tub in the wait station. Then he pulled a large serving tray and tray stand from against the wall and set them up in the dining room next to the closest four-top. Given the choice between bussing tables or going home to Nina, I would have chosen the dirty dishes too.
I knew he wouldn’t take a break until he either fell asleep on his feet or he had cleared every table. If I stayed and helped, we could be done in an hour. My bed could wait that long. I left my drink at the bar, then set up a tray at the table next to his and placed empty glasses and crusty silverware on its cork surface.
“This is just about the worst thing that could have happened,” Mitch said.
“What did the police say?” I asked. “Do they have any idea who killed him?”
“They think maybe it’s a panhandler looking for drink or drug money.” He laughed. “As if it were that simple.”
“What does that mean?”
He looked up at me, then opened his mouth to say something, shook his head, then said, “It means I need to rethink a few things,” and went back to stacking dishes.
I raised my arms overhead and stretched and yawned as I looked around the quiet restaurant. “How much did this renovation cost? And bringing Évariste all the way down here? Can you afford to close for the rest of the week and make good on Will’s promise to pay the entire staff triple to clean up?”
“Don’t you worry your pretty little head, Penelope
Jane.”
Penelope Jane isn’t my real name, but my father uses it the way any parent uses their child’s full name. Which didn’t bother me. Neither did the condescension in his tone. It was the “pretty little head” comment that got me. If I had been close enough to him, he would have patted my head to make sure I got the point. He must have wanted an argument if he had taken a hammer to that particular nail. “Don’t talk to me like that, Daddy. I’m just concerned about the restaurant.”
“If you were so concerned you would have stayed.”
Or that nail.
“I did stay! For months, until I couldn’t stand working under Ursula another second. And the day I quit, you didn’t even bother to call me.”
Sweat trickled down his face. “And say what? That I’m proud of you for sticking it to your old man?”
“You married Nina, then hired Ursula behind my back and demoted me to sous!”
“You couldn’t get it together after Drew left you. I had no choice.”
“Drew left both of us, Daddy. And the situation you created with Ursula gave me no choice.”
“You should have stayed,” he said, sounding more disappointed than angry. He had to feel as fed up as I did arguing variations on an old theme. We were both right and both wrong, but the hurt would never go away.
“Well, I didn’t,” I said, too tired to raise my voice again. “And I’m glad. I was never a great chef, but I’m a great health inspector. So great, in fact, they made me the only Special Projects Inspector. I’m a SPI. Get it?”
He dropped a stack of plates in the center of his tray. He didn’t like talking about my job. Each story I told him, each success, took me further away from Markham’s. Not so long ago, we both believed I would take over operations one day, but that didn’t seem likely anymore, and neither of us knew how to relate to each other easily without this common ground.