by Robin Allen
She shrugged again then picked up her cigarette.
“Why were you in debt?” I asked. “The restaurants are doing well from what I see.”
“What do you expect? Évariste Bontecou is the best chef in the world. He has a Michelin star. But why we owed money is not any of your business.”
“Would your investors kill Évariste?”
“For what purpose?” She stood up and I exited the bathroom ahead of her. She walked to the tray on the bed and lifted the silver dome. “Merde!” she cried and threw the dome across the room. It clanged against the wall, then thudded on the carpeted floor. She snatched up the phone and pushed a button. “Where are my bloody fries!” she screamed. She listened for a moment, then slammed down the phone. “Idiots! I hate this one-horse town!”
She fixed me with an icy stare. “Why are you still here? Are you waiting for a tip?”
Weren’t we just having a conversation about Évariste’s death? “Sorry to disturb you, ma’am,” I said, and backed out of the room as she picked up the phone again.
I left the delivery cart in the hallway and took the guest elevator instead of the service elevator to ground level. I would have to walk around the hotel to get to my car, but I didn’t want Luis to ask me to deliver her bloody fries.
On the walk around the block, I had time to process this revelation that Belize and Évariste had been engaged in an affair. Or at least BonBon thought so. She said it was nothing, but no woman is entirely okay with her man knocking boots with another woman, unless she despises her husband or she herself is having an affair. Was BonBon involved with someone? The investor perhaps? Maybe the investor wasn’t the type of man to kill someone who owed him money, but he was the type of man to kill the husband of the woman he loved.
I was making this too complicated. The killer used Ursula’s knife, so he or she had to be someone close to home. I wouldn’t take BonBon off the list of suspects, especially after that Madame Hyde tantrum. She had a short fuse and obviously liked to use it to incinerate other people.
I had a good parking spot on 7th Street, so I left my car where it was, walked up Congress toward the capitol building, and hung a left on 11th Street.
Time to see Ursula.
On my first visit to police headquarters, the cop had told me that Friday visiting hours started at 6:00 PM, but he didn’t tell me that I would have to sign in and wait until actual visitation began at 7:00 PM. He also didn’t tell me I should get there early. By the time I arrived at the jail, the waiting room already overflowed with the worried parents, crying babies, and disappointed friends of loved ones whose last name began with T through Z.
They say that every choice you have ever made in your life brings you to the exact moment you are currently living. If that is true in general, then it would have to be true about Ursula. Although I couldn’t imagine what choices she had made that led up to being arrested for murder. Arguing with Évariste? Becoming the chef at Markham’s? Taking her first job in a restaurant?
I was finally led into a private room and Ursula came through a door on the other side. She smiled at me through the Plexiglas and we both picked up a receiver at the same time. “I’m so glad to see you, Poppy.”
“I’m glad to see you, too. I think I’m making progress.”
“First tell me how Mitch is doing.”
I told her about speaking with the surgeon, then said, “Nina told me about the partnership.”
“Oh, my mother cannot keep a secret!”
“Why did y’all keep this from me?”
Ursula shook her head. “You know too many people in the industry and Mitch didn’t want it to leak out.” Same reason Nina had given me.
“I can keep a secret! First,” I said, counting on my fingers, “I never told anyone about your mammary enhancement, did I?”
She scowled at me.
“Second,” I went on, “why would a restaurant partnership need to be a secret? It happens all the time.”
“Mitch told me he didn’t want anyone to think Markham’s was in trouble.”
“Is it?”
“Not that I can tell,” she sad. “We’ve been busier than ever, and not just because of the fat fox. But Mitch and Mom spent a lot of money on the renovations.”
“Ursula, this partnership would have made Évariste your boss, which gives you a major motive for killing him.” I couldn’t keep the stress out of my voice. “Another one.”
“I didn’t do it! I didn’t do it! I didn’t do it!” she screamed, punctuating each statement with her open hand on the counter. The door on Ursula’s side opened. A large black female guard with close-cropped hair revealing a shiny scalp looked in. Ursula held up the offending hand. “Sorry.”
“No more of that, young lady,” the guard said. She spoke as if she’d had the authority of a gun behind her voice her entire life. “No ma’am. No more.” Ursula nodded meekly at the guard, then turned back to me. The door closed with a soft click.
“Great,” Ursula said, “that probably got me half rations of bologna sandwiches.” She looked into my eyes. “Poppy, I swear. I did not kill Évariste. I know it looks like I did, and I know I had a lot of reasons for doing it, but I didn’t do it.”
As my resentment withered, I took in Ursula’s black-and-white jumpsuit, her defeated slouch, her limp hair, the circles forming under her eyes. I felt bad about coming at her so strongly. It was her future dangling by a filament, not mine. She had her own feelings of betrayal and desperation to deal with. I tried to sound soothing. “I believe you. It’s just that if someone doesn’t come up with another suspect soon, the police are going to be more determined to pin this on you.”
“Where’s Ari Gross? You’re the first person I’ve seen since I’ve been in here.” She plucked at the front of her jumpsuit. “Besides a bunch of jerk detectives who keep saying that things will go easier on me if I just confess.”
“Ari and Ira have been in Monte Carlo. They’re already on their way home.”
“How nice,” she scoffed. “My lawyers are gallivanting around Europe while my career is going down the toilet.”
“No one is flushing just yet,” I said. “In fact, the phone hasn’t stopped ringing for reservations.”
“Are you serious?” she asked, her smile returning briefly.
“Looks like everyone wants to eat food prepared by an accused murderess.”
“Do you think I should get a press agent?”
I couldn’t tell if she was joking, but I laughed. “Let’s wait until you’re not referred to as an inmate, okay?”
“Oh, no,” she said, blubbering suddenly. “I’m going to spend the rest of my life in prison for killing Évariste Bontecou-hoo-hoo.”
“No you’re not,” I said, putting the palm of my hand against the Plexiglas. “We’re going to figure this out. Or at least divert suspicion from you onto someone else to give the police reasonable doubt.”
Ursula leaned forward, her blue and red eyes hopeful. “Who?”
“Trevor had a good reason for killing him.”
“Trevor?”
“Nina said you told him about the partnership to protect his job. He had a lot to lose if Évariste took over.”
“Trevor is such a hot—” Ursula tried to slump back in her chair, but the short connector cord snapped the receiver away from her mouth. She sat back up. “—a hothead. And he ran hot and cold with Évariste. Sometimes he’d be kneeling at that greasy gourmet’s feet, asking questions and making suggestions, in complete awe of his greatness.” She made a face like she had slammed a dram of vinegar. “Then something would happen. Évariste would do something that rubbed Trevor the wrong way and Trevor would sulk and throw things around.”
“What did Évariste do to him?”
“Trevor would never say. I thought maybe he insulted Trevor’s cooking. Or he found out something about Trevor and teased him about it. You saw how mean Évariste could be.” She glanced around the tiny room as if weighing her situation then aga
inst her situation now. “Anyway, I told Trevor about the partnership to calm him down and make him play nice. It mostly worked. Until the night of the party.”
“Do you know why Trevor attacked him that night?”
“I asked Trevor about it later, but he wouldn’t tell me. He said it was a guy thing.”
“That could mean anything from one owed the other money over a pool game to they had the hots for each other.”
“That’s more creative than what I came up with. I assumed it had something to do with a woman.”
I sat up straighter. “Who?”
Ursula hesitated. “Belize Medina.”
First BonBon and now Ursula had dropped Belize’s name in connection with Évariste. Ursula didn’t have anything more than a suspicion about Belize, but at least it gave me an angle to work. I promised her I would visit again the next morning, and left her with genuine hope that she would be out soon.
As I walked through the streets of downtown Austin, it struck me that I was the only person in my family who could do that. With Mitch confined to a hospital bed, Nina tied to the waiting room, and Ursula stuck in jail, I felt a little guilty about my freedom. I needed to do whatever I could to return the status quo.
At home I took a quick rinse-off shower, then dressed in black capri pants, an aqua t-shirt, and black sandals. I had just shut my front door when Jamie called my cell phone. “How’s your dad?” he asked.
I updated him quickly on Mitch’s surgery, Nina’s disclosure, Ursula’s confirmation, and my new suspicions about Belize. “She’s working tonight, so I’m going to try to talk to her.”
At 8:00 on a Friday night, everyone at Markham’s would be too busy to keep iced tea glasses filled much less answer questions about their involvement with a murder victim. But even if my investigation didn’t progress, I could slip into the role of the good daughter who kept promises to her sick father.
“Care for some company?” he asked casually.
“Not really. I’ve gotten rather used to doing things on my own the past few months.”
“You’ve always been independent,” he said, ignoring my snark. “We’ll stay for dinner. I can review Trevor’s debut.”
“Oh, Jamie, you’re terrible!” Formally reviewing Trevor on his first night under those circumstances was just plain mean.
“You’re right.” He chuckled and I knew that the left side of his mouth had turned up. “Okay, not a real review, a sort of pre-flight check. We’ll make—”
I couldn’t hear Jamie over the high-pitched whine that started in the next yard over. “Hang on,” I said. “The Johns just started drilling.” I went back inside my house. “What did you say?”
“I’ll meet you there in fifteen,” he said, then hung up before I could respond.
I brushed out my hair and ran a flat iron over it to smooth out the ponytail kink, then applied mascara and a bit of pink lip color. Then I changed into a black skirt.
The marquee at Markham’s read, “Open — Call for Reservations,” which everyone in Austin had done. The valet service Mitch had hired for the duration of Évariste’s visit had a line ten cars long. I was glad Will had had the foresight not to cancel them, even if they were expensive. I didn’t want to wait, so I pulled around to the employee parking lot.
I opened the back door to a rumble of chopping, banging, stirring, and sizzling. Amado moved like a cheetah from sink to line, carrying double stacks of steaming plates. Trevor ripped a blizzard of chits off the printer and yelled, “Orderin’! Two nachos, five salmons, three primaveras, eight filets, two well, four medium, two rare, makin’ twenty-two all day.”
Restaurants have a reputation for hiring the dregs of society. Over the years, Markham’s has employed people just out of prison, kicking a drug habit, in the early stages of Alzheimer’s, and two steps away from homelessness. But the great thing about working in a restaurant, whether in the front or the back of the house, is that it doesn’t matter who you are or where you come from. What matters is that you can get the food out and keep tables turning. Even if Trevor was a murderer, he could do the job.
“Where’s that cheese?” Trevor called. He looked at Shannon who thwacked the butt end off a head of romaine lettuce with a knife.
“Coming,” Shannon said. He dropped the lettuce and hurried to the walk-in.
Trevor saw me and took in my outfit. “Me like,” he said. “Stayin’ for dinner?”
“Absolutely. I wouldn’t miss your debut.” I left out the part about dining with a food critic.
I followed Shannon through the kitchen, stepping over the rubber mats on my tiptoes, side-stepping splatters of sauce and grease, and a mound of carrot greens that had fallen to the floor. I didn’t look as elegant as BonBon had when she chased Évariste into the kitchen, but it didn’t matter. Unless I could be grilled, garnished, and arranged beautifully on a plate, no one had time to pay attention to me.
Shannon stood in the middle of the walk-in with his hands on his hips, scanning the shelves.
“It’s right in front of you,” I said.
He turned quickly, surprise making him look like a teenager. He wasn’t much older than one. “What?”
“The parm,” I said, pointing to a middle shelf. “Right there.”
He blinked. “Man, I’m so off tonight.”
“Has it been like this all night?”
“Since the doors opened.”
“You guys seem to be keeping up okay.”
He grabbed the wheel of parmesan cheese and held it under his arm like a football. “Trevor’s just barely keeping it together.”
I didn’t know how much time I would have with Shannon, so I ignored that comment and asked him what I had followed him in there to find out. “You remember when Évariste ran into Belize and all the guys pointed at you and said ‘you called it.’”
“Yeah,” he said warily, looking past me to the door.
“What was that all about?”
“It’s dumb, really.” He drummed his heel on the concrete floor. “A couple of days after Évariste got here, the kitchen started betting on how long it would take him to call someone an idiot. We called it the Idiot Pot. That night, most of the guys thought it would be some time during service, but I bet it would be before service even started. I didn’t think I’d win, but he said it when he ran into Belize.”
“How much did you win?”
His face brightened. “Fifty. We had another Slacker Pot going for when he would skate out without helping to clean up, but then …” His voice trailed off and he looked at the floor.
“Évariste seemed to like that word, ‘idiot.’”
“Yeah, it was one of his favorites. He also liked ‘stupid American’ and ‘ignoramus.’ Someone taught him ‘chowderhead,’ and he called me that for an entire day.” Shannon clenched his teeth. Anger made his face look more mature.
I waited, letting him work through his thoughts, hoping he would feel chatty. He didn’t disappoint me.
“Man, all of us were so sick of him by opening night. It’s like degrading us was his idea of fun. If you hadn’t gone through cooking school, you may as well be a porter in his eyes. Intuition didn’t count unless you had a degree to back it up.” He shifted the parmesan to his other arm and stopped tapping his heel. “After a while, everyone quit talking to him and just did what he said. But even when we followed orders, no one could do anything right.” He snorted. “Except Trevor.”
We had been in the walk-in for a few minutes and the cold seeped through my thin clothing. My words came out stammered. “Why was T-trevor special?”
“Look, I need to get back out there,” Shannon said, turning toward the door.
I stepped in front of him, which wasn’t such a great idea. He would have no problem getting past me if he had a mind to. I put my hand on his arm. “P-please, Sh-shannon, this is important. T-tell me how T-trevor was special.” I sounded pitiful.
He switched the wheel of cheese in his arms again. �
��He just was. Évariste got on him too, and at first Trevor hated him as much as the rest of us, but then one day, everything was different.”
“D-different how?”
“Évariste wasn’t as harsh with Trevor. He seemed to … I wouldn’t say like Trevor more. It was more like respect, like Trevor had finally passed some sort of test. Which is ironic because Trevor didn’t even graduate from high school.”
“If they were so ch-chummy, why did T-trevor threaten Évariste with a m-meat cleaver?”
“No idea. But I can tell you that it happened right after Évariste said something to Belize.”
The walk-in door flew open with such force, the backdraft parted the plastic strips of the octopus. Trevor yelled, “Where is that cheese!” He stopped when he saw us, confusion turning to suspicion as he looked from Shannon to me. Then he smiled. “Aw, Popstar,” he said, “here I thought I was your favorite cook.”
_____
Jamie hadn’t arrived yet, so I decided to wait in Will’s office, maybe peruse any financial statements left lying around or look for a file labeled “Secret Deals I’m Keeping from Poppy.”
He had locked his door, but I had a master key. I hesitated to use it though. I wouldn’t appreciate someone letting themselves into my office, but if I milled about the restaurant, I would either get in everyone’s way or be put to work. I inserted the key and turned the door handle. Nothing.
Daisy says that the amount of fun a person has is inversely proportional to the number of keys on their keychain, so the more keys, the less fun. I have only three keys on my keychain, which, Daisy also says, is the exception that proves the rule. I knew I had inserted the restaurant key, but just in case, I tried my house key. Nothing.
As I contemplated my chances of picking the lock without being caught, I felt a hand on the back of my neck. “What are you doing?”
I jumped at the sound of Jamie’s voice, my heart taking off at a gallop before I realized that I wasn’t in any danger. At least not in danger of being caught snooping. Jamie was dangerous in other ways.
I turned around too quickly. “Nothing,” I said, also too quickly.