by Robin Allen
“Lost tourists looking for Zilker Park,” he said.
I nodded. “Mitch is in the hospital and Ursula is in jail.” I assumed he already knew, but told him to let him know that I knew everything too.
“I just got off the phone with Nina,” he said. “I asked her to assure Mitch that I would handle everything and not to worry.” He patted my hand on the passenger’s seat. “You either.”
“You’re a gem, Will,” I said, because that’s what he looked like in his obsidian pants and sapphire shirt: a sparkly, well-rested gem.
He knocked on the dashboard then shut the Jeep door. I turned my car around in the parking lot and saw Amado coming around the side of the building, an empty plastic trash bag in his hand. He usually washed dishes at night, but occasionally came in during the day to work on special cleaning projects. The parking lot was littered with flattened cups, straws, paper napkins, and cigarette butts. The blacktop had been resurfaced for the party, so the debris stood out like dandruff on a tuxedo. Seeing Amado there made me feel even better about going home. No matter the mess, he would get it cleaned up. I waved to him, suddenly okay with Will paying everyone triple-time.
Before I could exit, a dark blue minivan pulled in and parked in a clearly marked handicapped space by the front entrance. Five young men with carefully sculpted bed hair and precise facial stubble filed out and began unpacking cameras, lights, tripods, cords, and canvas bags. All of the television stations had gotten their stories last night, so they could have come back to get file footage of the front of the building. But five people?
This portended something more.
A bantam man with a very long neck that exaggerated his Adam’s apple strutted toward Will. I pulled the emergency brake then hopped out of my car and reached them seconds later. The man looked at the building, his eyes seeming to both assess and condemn it at the same time. He addressed Will in French. Will turned to me for help.
“The only French I know is what I learned from Évariste,” I said, “and I don’t think insulting this man’s provenance or cooking abilities is appropriate here.”
The man nodded vigorously. “Oui! Évariste. Où est Évariste?” When neither of us answered him, he placed his hand on the top of his head then raised it high into the air, indicating either a toque or Évariste’s inflated ego. “Le chef,” he said, his voice rising. “Où est le chef ?”
“How can he not know?” I asked Will.
Will shook his head, then said slowly, “Évariste is dead.”
The man rubbed his stubble. “Comment?” It sounded like, “Como?”
I looked over at the group of guys who had stayed by the minivan, smoking cigarettes and pouting like a bunch of bored underwear models. “Does anyone speak English?” I asked. They mumbled amongst themselves and shrugged their camera-laden shoulders.
Amado had worked his way to the front sidewalk, which gave me an idea. Something I had done a few weeks earlier when I investigated a flea-infested convenience store whose owners spoke only Portuguese. “Amado, please ask this man if he speaks Spanish.”
Amado addressed the man in Spanish and the man nodded. They exchanged a few words, then Amado turned to me and held up a half-inch of space between his thumb and forefinger. “A little bit,” he said. Using Amado as interpreter, we asked the man, who we learned was named Jean-Michel Laroche, to send his crew into the restaurant for coffee, then took him to Mitch’s office.
Jean-Michel told us that he and his men had traveled to Austin to film part of a documentary about Évariste Bontecou. They had flown in from France just that morning. He looked distressed as he conveyed that flight delays in New York had caused them to miss Évariste’s debut. His eyes flitted around the room and he seemed anxious to be done with this conversation that had nothing to do with anything.
He was one of the only people in Austin who didn’t know Évariste’s fate, but it couldn’t be kept from him any longer.
As Jean-Michel processed what Amado explained to him, wet rims formed around his brown eyes. “Mon ami,” he murmured, slumping back in his chair. His Adam’s apple worked up and down as he choked back tears. He wanted to know how he died. A heart attack?
“No,” Amado said, then told him Évariste had been stabbed. Jean-Michel didn’t seem to understand, so Amado curled his fingers around an imaginary knife and made a stabbing motion toward Jean-Michel.
“Sacrebleu!” the Frenchman exclaimed, his hands flying to his chest. “Et BonBon?”
I had forgotten about BonBon until that moment. I hadn’t seen her after she slapped Évariste in the kitchen and she hadn’t come back to the restaurant after the murder. She may have decided to be done with him and hopped on the first flight to France. More likely she had gone out partying and was waking up to the news that her husband had died. I asked Amado to tell the distressed filmmaker that BonBon was probably at her hotel.
Jean-Michel bolted out of the chair, and we followed him into the restaurant. He clapped his hands quickly and yelled something at his crew. Did every Frenchman act as if he ran the world? Within two minutes they were packed up, through the dining room, and out the front door. Will and I followed them out and watched their minivan lurch into the street.
“American foodies report every time Évariste Bontecou trims his nose hairs,” I said. “You’d think news would travel the other way just as fast. He’s still the lead story on CNN.”
“Good thinking to get Amado involved,” Will said. “Mr. Laroche won’t soon forget his dramatic re-enactment.”
“It got the point across.”
“Indeed.” Will took in my mussed hair and ragged outfit. “You look exhausted and I need to get back inside. I’ve done nothing but field phone calls all morning.”
“Better you than me,” I said, shielding my eyes against the sun. “I can’t stand talking to reporters.”
“Neither can I, but a lot of customers are calling to ask if we’re open and whether we’re taking reservations.”
“Are you serious? What are you telling them?”
“That we’re closed for the weekend and we’ll re-open our usual business hours on Tuesday.”
The police had asked the restaurant to close until they released the crime scene, which they said usually took anywhere from twelve to twenty-four hours. Closing for the entire weekend had been Mitch’s decision, but I didn’t see the wisdom of that. Business and profits slowed in the warmer months as people preferred picnics in the park to porterhouse steaks. We couldn’t afford to lose what little business we had, especially with all the money Mitch had spent on the upgrade and grand re-opening. And if customers still wanted to eat at Markham’s …
“Are the police still looking for clues?” I asked.
“They’re working right now and expect to be finished this afternoon.” He checked the time on his watch. “What are you thinking?”
“We both know Markham’s can’t afford to be closed for four nights. I know my dad’s heart is in the right place, but I think we should open. Especially if so many people want to make reservations.”
Will put his hands on his hips and looked up at the marquee. Évariste’s and Ursula’s names had already been removed from the sign, replaced with “Closed Til Tuesday.” Will’s stance emphasized his slim waist building into a broad back. He had nicked his chin shaving, which made him look human. I knew he was going to say no.
“With the police gone,” I continued, “there’s no good business reason to stay closed.”
“You’re forgetting that we don’t have a chef.” He looked at me, one eyebrow raised. “Unless you’d like to take the helm.”
Will didn’t know it, but his simple request tested my commitment to Mitch and to Markham’s. The restaurant needed to open, but was I prepared to do the actual work? For a couple of days, maybe, but I didn’t know how long Ursula would be out and I couldn’t do it for the foreseeable future. On top of that, did I still have what it took to run a kitchen? Wednesday night had just
about killed me, and I hadn’t even been on the line. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other and they both flared in agreement, giving me the answer: no. But I had promised Mitch I would watch over things. “Sure,” I said.
Will must have heard the hesitation in my voice, or maybe saw the pain on my face. “Actually, I have a better idea.” He seemed to be running through the idea once more, then nodded as he saw it working in his mind. “Never let it be said that Will Denton shied away from a challenge.”
“Whatever you want to do has my blessing,” I said.
“But if Mitch takes issue with us opening, it was all your idea.”
“Of course.”
“If I can get a crew together, we’ll open tonight,” he said and went inside.
Out of curiosity about the crime scene, I walked around to the back of the restaurant. A company of serious men and women picked through garbage, grass, and gravel. A crime scene photographer took pictures of little plastic triangles with numbers on them that I assumed identified evidence. In the spotlight of the sun, surely they would find something that pointed to Évariste’s real killer.
My cell phone rang. “Markham,” a voice growled, “be in my office within the hour.”
I had almost forgotten I had another job. “Olive, how nice to hear from you.”
“You’re supposed to be here for a face-to-face.”
Olive hadn’t been my boss for very long and we were still feeling each other out. Well, I did most of the feeling. She stayed busy scheduling an excessive number of meetings to make sure I was “cooking at the same temperature as everyone else.”
“I don’t suppose you’ll cut me some slack because a famous chef was murdered at my father’s restaurant last night, my stepsister is in jail, and my dad is in the hospital.”
She swallowed whatever she had been masticating, then said, “Yeah, I heard something about that. Sorry. But Kowsaki’s leaving this afternoon and we need to get some stuff straightened out.”
“I’ve been up for thirty hours and I smell like a meth addict going through detox.”
“You can spare a few minutes. Then you can have the rest of the day off.”
She hung up before I could respond. I had planned to take the day off anyway, but since it was Olive’s idea, maybe she wouldn’t leave me a thousand messages asking my whereabouts. Besides, I had gotten used to my own smell.
My tummy grumbled, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten anything except for a few sautéed artichoke hearts Trevor had given me during the rush. I stopped at Whole Foods for a veggie sandwich and tangerine juice, then feasted on the way to the offices of the Austin/Travis County Health and Human Services Department.
Olive’s door was shut, so I went to my desk to check email and vmail messages.
“You look like you’ve been through the spin cycle a few times,” Gavin Kawasaki said as I dropped my keys on the desk next to his. It isn’t unusual to see an inspector, or Registered Sanitarian, which is our official title, in the office during prime inspection hours, but I hardly ever see Gavin. I would see even less of him in the next two weeks because he was going on vacation.
I slung my backpack to the floor, then sat down in the most uncomfortable chair in the office, which somehow always ends up at my desk. “At least ten spin cycles.”
“Hey, did you hear about those naked people in Nashville awhile back?” he asked. Gavin collects bizarre restaurant stories and gives them a new ending.
“Tell me,” I said as I turned on my computer.
“This couple is staying at a no-tell motel near a waffle house. The man gets drunk and decides to seduce his woman by choking her. She gets away somehow and runs next door to the waffle house in her birthday suit and hides in the bathroom.”
“That is exactly what I would do,” I said.
“The guy, thinking she’s playing hard to get I guess, hightails it after her, so now there’s two naked people in the waffle house.” He sat back in his chair and tapped his pen on the desk. “Would you shut them down or just take off points?”
“Were the lovebirds cooks or waitresses or anything like that?”
“Just naked people passing through town.”
“It wasn’t the waffle house’s fault the girl chose their place to hide from Johnny Loverocket, and it’s not agaiinst health code to serve customers not wearing shirts or shoes, or, uh, pants or underwear, but something like that should be addressed. I guess I’d do a page two.”
A “page two” is what we call the second page of the inspection sheet where we document noncritical violations, which is anything we can’t officially ding the restaurant for, but they need to fix or improve. Stuff like the personal hygiene of the staff or leaky bus tubs or the manager not being vigilant about catching naked patrons before they run onto the premises.
“After getting hitched by the same judge who assessed a two-hundred dollar fine on the couple,” Gavin said, “the bride’s mother was quoted as saying ‘I’m so proud of my baby marrying a famous man with money.’”
“You should write romances,” I said.
“No thanks. And don’t forget you’re covering for me next week.”
“What’s happening next week?” I asked, pretending to look for my desk calendar. Gavin started reminding me about his vacation three months earlier after he planned a two-week visit to Florida to visit family. My email inbox showed five new messages from Gavin with the subject line of “My Vacation.”
He stopped moving and I looked up. “I heard about that mess at Markham’s on the news,” he said. “Were you involved?”
If you counted finding Évariste’s body first and not telling anyone about it, then yes. “Not really,” I said.
“Everything will turn out okay.” Gavin stood and grabbed his inspector’s vest from the back of his chair. “I’m off to see sun, sand, and sisters. Be nice to my restaurants.”
Olive’s door banged open and she shot out, coughing frantically. She ran to the water fountain and slurped like a hound after a hunt until her normal breathing resumed. She was dressed in her usual personal uniform of black polyester pants and one of several short-sleeved shirts from golf courses throughout the United States. That day’s shirt came from the Useless Bay Golf and Country Club. We call her Golferina, although I doubt she would have the stamina to play a round of miniature golf, much less go a full eighteen holes. Flabby and pale, she often came to work with an Ace bandage binding an elbow or a knee.
Olive looked around the room, water dribbling down her chin. She caught my eye, then invited me into her office with an epileptic jerk of her head. I nodded an acknowledgment, then took a moment to prepare myself for our face-to-face.
Olive would be a good boss if she could wrap her nine-to-five sensibilities around the helter-skelter nature of my SPI position. I don’t have an assigned division or set schedule like everyone else. I work on special projects and my responsibilities and working hours change depending on where I’m needed. Most inspectors work regular daytime hours and concentrate their inspections during breakfast or lunch. Sometimes they do nighttime inspections, but it’s rare, and weekend inspections are even rarer. Who wants to work their day job at night? I do, it turns out. I spent most of my life working those odd hours at Markham’s, so it’s comfortable and familiar to me. Plus, no restaurant owner or manager expects a health inspector to show up in the middle of the dinner rush.
Rather than trust that I’m a dedicated employee who knows the job, Olive keeps constant tabs on me. She calls me whenever she feels like it, often waking me up after an overnight stakeout that I reminded her about in advance several times, the idea being that she wouldn’t call me and wake me up. After I spend a long night in the field, she demands to see my paperwork immediately, but gives the other inspectors days to turn theirs in.
At first, I tolerated her hands-on management style because my position was so new. I reasoned that eventually she would figure out that I would have a better chance of preserving the
public health against Salmonella, E. coli, and Scombroid ichthytoxicosis if I spent more time in the places where the good citizens of Austin would likely come into contact with these foodborne pathogens. But after three months, she hadn’t figured out anything.
I stopped for a refreshing drink of water, but noticed food residue in the basin and kept walking. I stood just inside the door to her office, a smile pasted on my face. “Yes ma’am?”
Two corn chips disappeared into her mouth as she said, “You know you’re covering for Kowsaki next week.”
“Kawasaki, yes, starting tomorrow. He’s taking a month-long Alaskan cruise through the Congo, right?”
“Visiting family in Florida,” she said, batting crumbs off the front of her shirt and onto her desk.
Now that we had caught up, I waited for the real reason Olive wanted to see me. Even Nina knew that I was covering for Kawasaki.
“Valdes will inspect Markham’s,” she said, inserting one, two, three chips into her over-glossed lips. “If necessary.”
I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. That was why I had to drive over? I never inspected Markham’s, even when it was in my district. Then when I became the Special Projects Inspector and started working all over the city, Gavin took over my district. He had recently inspected Markham’s and they had scored a perfect one hundred, as usual, and wouldn’t be up for another random inspection for several months. This unnecessary reminder, and one she could have made on the phone when she called me, must have come out of the “Micromanaging for Maximum Exasperation” mail-order course she had been studying in secret.
I said, “Regardless of who inspects Markham’s, it’ll pass.”
Olive snorted. “Even with a dead stiff out back?”
I narrowed my eyes at her. “Anything else?”
“I don’t need any more phone calls from you in the early AM hours.”