If You Can't Stand the Heat

by Robin Allen

  In the wait station, I pulled a half-full coffeepot from the burner and sniffed it. Decaf. It was the only thing Markham’s brewed after 9:00 PM. Blech. Coffee is decaffeinated with the same chemical they use to preserve frogs, pigs, and starfish for dissection in high school science classes. I headed for the bar.

  I sat on one of the barstools and watched Andy pour hot water into the ice bin. “How’s the mighty Mitch?” he asked, placing a bevnap in front of me. “We’ve been thinking about visiting him.”

  It reminded me that I hadn’t heard from Nina. I took that as good news. “Nina tells me he’s been singing.”

  “Mitch? Singing?”

  “Brush up on your Sinatra and you can harmonize with him.”

  “That’s way before my time,” he said. “You look like you need an espresso.”

  “Double.”

  Andy ground the espresso beans, tamped them into the filter basket, then pulled the strong coffee into a heated demitasse cup. He handed me the cup brimming with a perfect head of foam, a twist of lemon on the tiny saucer.

  I heard a yelp and turned to see the three men laughing as Belize stormed back to the wait station. The men pushed back from the table, scraping their chairs against the tiles, standing and hitching up their waistbands. They looked to be in their mid-fifties. All three had graying hair and ruddy complexions. Two had goatees, and one a bristly moustache. They wore expensive-looking suits and conservative ties that had been loosened at the neck. Except for undertakers, TV anchormen, and politicians, no one in Austin wears a suit. They had to be from out of town.

  I turned back to Andy. “If only all our customers were like them.”

  “Hardly.”

  “But they have two bottles of Diamond Creek on their table.”

  “After they sent back a bottle of Atlas Peak, a bottle of GunBun, and a bottle of Treana. Said they tasted corked.” He shook his head. “In four years here, I’ve never served a bottle of wine that’s turned. And three in one night to the same table? No way.”

  I felt lightheaded. “We ate six hundred dollars of wine for those guys?”

  “Probably more like eight for wine and brandy and another two for food. Unless they ordered the specials, in which case add another bill to the food comp.”

  “Their food is comped!” I knew my rage wasn’t fueled by the jolt of espresso because I hadn’t touched it yet.

  Andy drew back and raised his hands in confused surrender. “I’m just assuming. Will usually comps them.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Not sure,” he said, restocking wine glasses in the overhead rack. “They come in two or three times a week and always sit in Belize’s section. I’m surprised you don’t know them. I think they’re friends with Mitch.”

  I thought they looked familiar. They were the Easter Island guys I had seen Mitch talking to at the party. I abandoned my espresso on the bar and marched back to Will’s office. I stopped when I heard voices behind the door. Will and Belize. I couldn’t understand their words, but there was enough emotion in their voices to fuel a Broadway production of The Taming of the Shrew. Belize yelling and Will calming, which only seemed to provoke her. I tried the door handle. Locked. I still needed to ask Will for a key.

  I rapped hard on the wooden frame of the door and the voices stopped, then Belize flung open the door. “What the devil do you want?” Then, “Oh, I didn’t know it was you.” She wiped her runny nose on her sleeve.

  “Everything okay in here?” I asked.

  “Tell her,” Belize said to Will as she tramped past me out of the office.

  “Tell me what?” I asked.

  Perspiration dotted his upper lip and wet stains had formed under his arms. “Just restaurant business.”

  “I assumed so since we’re in a restaurant, Belize is a waitress, and you’re the general manager.”

  Will sat, his body relaxing into the squeaky leather of his executive chair. “She got stiffed on a big check.”

  “So she came into your office, locked the door, and yelled at you?”

  “Storm in a teacup.” He rubbed his eyes, then leaned forward. “Now, what brings you in here?”

  My anger simmered up again as I remembered why I wanted to talk to him. “Who are those three men she was waiting on when I came in tonight?”

  “Those would be the stiffers.”

  “Andy tells me they come in once a week, Belize always waits on them, and you always comp their check. He thinks they’re friends of Mitch.”

  “In a way.” Will stood, signaling the end of the conversation.

  He needed a reminder about who he was talking to. “Will,” I said evenly, “I’m very tired, and not getting straight answers from you is making me a lot cranky. Until Mitch comes back, I’m Mitch. Comping three thousand dollars worth of food and wine every week is going to stop.” He looked up at me, surprised at the decisiveness in my voice. “Tell me who those men are.”

  “Very well.” Will’s smile told me I wasn’t going to like the answer. “Those three men are my business partners. Together we own forty-nine percent of Markham’s.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “Mitch and Nina own forty-nine percent.”

  “And the other two percent?” I asked, my voice almost a whisper.

  “Évariste Bontecou.”

  A tsunami of questions, speculations, and accusations converged in my mind. I couldn’t grasp onto any thought long enough to form a coherent string of words. I left before I became the second woman to spill tears in front of Will that night.

  I didn’t realize where I was going until I turned onto my street. The frat boys on the corner had engineered an especially grand weekend party and I ran a gauntlet between cars, trucks, motorcycles, and even a golf cart, lining both sides of the street. I couldn’t get inside my house fast enough and shut the door on all of the chaos threatening my mental balance.

  I knew I should wait to talk to Mitch in the morning and get real answers instead of make assumptions and jump to conclusions, but my brain wouldn’t turn off. I called Jamie, hoping he could help me make sense of everything. No answer. Where could he be at midnight?

  When I’m feeling lost, I crave the comfort of cold-weather rituals. But since I live in south Texas where a morning temperature in the high-eighties in May is often referred to as “a bit cool,” I had to fake winter conditions. I set the air conditioner to fifty degrees, slipped on my favorite pair of hand-knit cabled socks, then prepared a mug of vegan hot cocoa, sprinkling in a little cayenne pepper for some bite.

  On the couch, I snuggled under my mom’s afghan, then turned on my little television and played a Cracklin’ Fire DVD, video footage of a large stone fireplace, complete with crackling and popping sound effects. I pretended to be safely ensconced in a warm Swiss chalet high atop a picturesque mountain instead of trapped under a dark, suffocating avalanche of deceit.

  But I couldn’t relax. The socks felt scratchy and my butt sank into the break in the couch cushions giving the zipper an opportunity to scrape my back. I had put too much cayenne in the cocoa, and my house would never be cold enough to make me forget that my family no longer had controlling interest in Markham’s.

  I flung the blanket to the floor and sat up, my mind scanning fact after fact. Évariste wasn’t negotiating with Mitch as Ursula told me, he was already a partner. If Will owned part of Markham’s, it should have been his idea to re-open the restaurant early. And no waitress gets that upset about a bad tip. Will had tried to calm Belize, but he didn’t really have to listen to her complaints in the first place.

  The video had played through to my favorite part. I sipped my cooling cocoa and watched the flames start to die out. My puddle of suspects had grown into a pool. Now splashing around were Trevor, Belize, BonBon, Will, and three obnoxious men in suits. And to be completely objective, I had to include Amado, Mitch, Nina, and Ursula, regardless of what I thought I knew about them. The only person I was sure didn’t kill Évariste wa
s me.

  I started to feel drowsy from the fake fire and late hour, so I restarted the video with the volume turned up as I fought to stay focused. I needed to get my mind around some conscious thoughts about this situation so I could figure out what to do next.

  Mitch bringing investors into the restaurant—especially strangers, and most especially out-of-town strangers—confounded me. He loved Markham’s. He knew everything about it and still loved it, like a father loves his child. When I was little, he used to joke that he had made a deal with a man on a farm to trade me for a yellow puppy. At my wide eyes, he would laugh and pull me to him, saying he was kidding; he wouldn’t trade me for the world. He never even joked about trading Markham’s. And he had turned down generous offers over the years to buy the restaurant.

  And Ursula. Évariste’s two-percent ownership trumped her lowly stepdaughter status. His vested interest gave her the same two choices she had given him that night: help or leave. But within a much bigger context. Had she taken a stab at a third option?

  I was exhausted, and frankly, tired of major news being revealed to me by-the-by. I laid down on the couch, fuming. If Mitch and his new family wanted to keep secrets from me, why should I bother to help any of them? If Ursula really didn’t do it, the police would figure it out, and she could ferment in jail until they did. Why should I risk my job, which I had been neglecting, and spend my precious free time trying to find the real killer when none of them valued me enough to tell me about all the significant changes at Markham’s?

  Sleep chased me down like a hawk after a hare. I set my mug of cocoa on the table, then pulled the blanket up to my chin and closed my eyes. I had finally figured out what I would do next: absolutely nothing.

  _____

  I awoke with a start to someone banging on my front door. “Poppy! Poppy! Wake up! Poppy!”

  I recognized John Without’s voice and jumped off the couch, tripping over my blanket, slipping on the floor in my socks. I flung open the front door.

  He grabbed my arm and jerked me into the front yard. “Your house is on fire!” he screamed.

  I pulled back, twisting my arm to wrench free of him. “No, John, it’s just a video,” I said, still groggy. “A Swish chalet. With the volume loud.”

  He tightened his grasp and yanked me into the street. I heard sirens and saw John With at the top of a step-ladder in their back yard aiming a hose at my house, the puny stream of water doing no good against the blaze.

  Firemen arrived, and within moments confirmed that I had neither spouse, nor child, nor pet to be saved inside. “Just save my house!” I yelled at their backs. I felt helpless as I watched them battle a force of nature intent on complete consumption. Within a few minutes, the firemen had won, but not before the fire had snacked on my bedroom.

  A thin, soot-streaked fireman approached me and asked if I knew what may have caused the fire. Had I left a cigarette burning or a gas stove on? I hesitated, but after a stern look, I broke down. “Just a Cracklin’ Fire DVD.” He didn’t see the humor.

  I didn’t notice that John Without had been holding onto me until he let go of my arm and shot me a “how embarrassing” look. He had no room to scoff, dressed in shiny pink shorts and a white tank top.

  John With jumped off the ladder and ran toward us, flushed and panting. “You’ll stay with us tonight,” he said, putting a sweaty arm around my shoulder. “Let’s go make up your bed while these guys finish up.”

  “I need my phone,” I said, turning toward my house.

  John With stopped me. “John will get it. Where is it?”

  I started to direct him to my night table, but remembered I had fallen asleep on the couch. “I don’t know where I left it,” I said.

  “Wonderful,” John Without said testily. “Go with John. I’ll find it.”

  John With walked me to their house and into their guest bedroom, which doubled as a temporary lumber yard during the renovations. We worked together in silence putting fresh sheets on the bed.

  “Thank you,” I said as we cased a pillow together.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  I felt better when I looked into his sweet brown eyes, but not okay. How could I be okay after almost being burned alive? “Not sure yet.”

  “Come on,” he said, hugging me from the side. “Tea makes everything better.”

  I sat at the kitchen table and watched him pour water into a kettle and turn on the stove. He opened a cabinet and moved a fiery red cup out of the way to get to a tranquil green mug. I smiled at the sweetness of that gesture. I disliked John Without all the more for not appreciating him.

  “Chamomile okay?” he asked.

  “Perfect.”

  The kettle whistled, rousing me out of my moment of amiable domesticity with John. Then John Without banged open the back door and trudged into the kitchen, jarring me out of the moment completely. “The charger was in your room, but I had to call your cell phone to find it.” He threw two backpacks onto the table. “They were in your Jeep.” He held up a third one, the one I had left in the living room the day after the murder. “This one stinks.” He let it fall at his feet. “So it must be important to you.”

  “Thanks J,” John With said.

  John Without ran a hand over his shiny head. “I need a shower.”

  “Don’t mind him,” John With said after he had left. “The only thing he likes less than getting out of bed in the middle of the night is having dirt on him.”

  “I won’t envy you when he’s old and has to get up every half hour to pee.”

  John sat down and looked into my eyes. “I want you to stay with us as long as you need to.”

  “Thank you,” I said. Being doted on by John With for a few days was a nice fiction, but the fact of John Without couldn’t be ignored. I could endure him in small doses, but spending a significant amount of time around him would chip away at my sanity. I prayed the damage to my house would be minor, but if it needed major work, I would probably move in with, Heaven help me, Ursula or Mitch and Nina.

  John With patted my hand. “You don’t need to decide anything tonight, Poppy Markham.”

  My phone rang and I fished it out of my inspector’s backpack.

  “I’m standing in front of your house,” Jamie said. “Where are you?”

  Moments later he knocked on the Johns’ back door. John With handed him the cup of tea he had prepared for himself, then busied himself at the sink.

  “What are you doing here at this hour?” I asked as Jamie pulled out one of the high-backed chairs and took a seat at the table.

  “Police scanner.” I had forgotten that he often fell asleep with the scanner as background noise. “When I heard the name of your street, I woke up, then I heard the address.”

  “Don’t you run a food website?” John Without asked, pulling on a fresh tank top as he walked into the kitchen.

  “You know I do.” Jamie dislikes John Without as much as I do, but often found himself united with him in their silly mission to keep me and John With apart.

  “Why would you be listening to a police scanner?” John Without asked. “Think you’re going to get a big story when someone expires in their spinach?”

  “John!” John With said, and we all turned to John Without.

  “Oh, brother!” he said. “That French guy was stabbed. I’m talking about food poisoning.”

  We stared at him and he walked down the hallway in a huff. “Sorry,” John With said. “He’s—”

  “Just being himself,” I said. “Don’t worry about it.”

  John With stood up and stretched. “Morpheus beckons,” he said. “You should have everything you need for tonight, but if not, tap on the wall and I’ll come running.”

  “Sure,” I said, then, “John?” He turned to me. “Thanks for hosing down my house until the fire department came. You’re my hero.”

  He blushed, deepening the hue of his suntanned face. “Don’t mention it.”

  When he had
gone, Jamie said, “I can’t leave you alone for a second. How did the fire start?”

  I hadn’t cooked anything when I got home, and I had made the cocoa by heating water in my coffee maker, which turned off automatically if I forgot to do it manually. Even my kitchen appliances were more nurturing than John Without. “I know I didn’t set it, so insurance should cover it.”

  The look on Jamie’s face told me he was about to say something I would rather he didn’t. “What if it wasn’t an accident?”

  I blew on my cup of tea that had already cooled. “You think John Without decided he wanted a new neighbor?”

  “Be serious, babe. You’ve been asking a lot of questions about Évariste’s murder. What if someone doesn’t want you to ask any more?”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “No, it’s not. I know I’m only a food writer,” he glanced down the hallway where John Without had gone, “but things are starting to add up in the wrong way.”

  “It’s probably just faulty wiring,” I said, trying to convince Jamie as much as myself. “That house is like eighty years old.”

  “Mitch had the wiring redone before he sold it to you.”

  If someone had set fire to my house, that would mean I was onto something, even if I didn’t know what that something was. But if it was an accident, life would go on. I needed to know for sure how the fire started. I pushed back my chair and stood up. “Come on.”

  Warmed by adrenaline and confusion earlier, I hadn’t noticed how cool the night had become. Light from the waning moon cast long shadows throughout the neighborhood. I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply, enjoying the comforting fragrance of wood smoke—until I remembered it was coming from my own house.

  I removed my socks, then Jamie and I picked our way across ankle-high grass made wet and sloppy by the firemen’s water, and stopped in the driveway. The firemen had stripped off their heavy protective gear and worked in their shirt sleeves. A couple of them rolled up the big fire hose while another talked into a hand radio.