If You Can't Stand the Heat

by Robin Allen

  I sipped my black coffee, which didn’t taste as good without a shot of maple syrup. “Will won’t discuss anything with me and I can’t bother Mitch right now.”

  “Nina?”

  “If I have to, but I may have been successful in getting her to stop speaking to me altogether. In the meantime, try to get to them through Will.”

  I told him about my meeting with BonBon to get information about the partnership. “I didn’t learn much from her, but Brian told me she comes in there with four men, three of them in suits, who I assume are Will’s partners, so the fourth is probably Will.”

  Jamie looked out the window toward the marina. “Nothing odd about that.” He turned back to me. “As Évariste’s business partner, she owned, owns, two percent of Markham’s.”

  I hadn’t thought about that. “Okay, but listen to this.” I put my elbows on the table and leaned in. “When I happened to mention that Trevor was cooking Évariste’s dishes, she shot out of her chair like I’d told her where she could find fifteen Dalmatians.”

  “The more you dig, the deeper it gets, doesn’t it?”

  “And my shovel keeps hitting Trevor at the bottom of the hole.”

  I left Jamie taking notes for his review and went back to the restaurant. Belize was pulling out of the employee parking lot as I pulled in. I motioned for her to stop, but she kept her eyes forward, ignoring me. She had probably been begging Will for her job back. It happens all the time, waiters quitting in a huff only to slink back when their rent is due or their party buddies stop buying them drinks.

  I parked next to Trevor’s motorcycle and saw a message written in vivid red lipstick on the black vinyl seat: “CALL ME!!!” Why do people use multiple exclamation points? One is enough, and often one too many.

  Belize must be desperate. But about what? And why drive all the way here when she could just call Trevor, or open the back door and see him face to face? Perhaps Trevor had turned off his phone or she didn’t want to take the chance of seeing Will if she went inside. But the method of the note wasn’t friendly. In fact, it seemed threatening. Did they break up? Or maybe they had gotten into an argument and stopped speaking. What was so urgent? Jamie was right—it kept getting deeper.

  Regardless of why Belize needed to talk to him, she knew he would respond either kindly to her message or unkindly to her method. He couldn’t ride his bike until he cleaned the seat, and lipstick didn’t come off very easily.

  Inside the kitchen, Shannon alternated between two cutting boards, chopping parsley on one and onions on another, wiping his watering eyes with a grill towel. Another prep cook wrapped bacon slices around stuffed artichokes and poked them with toothpicks. And Amado scrubbed hardened cheese off large baking pans, preparing to run them through the dishwasher. The atmosphere, though, seemed tense rather than pressured.

  Shannon jerked his head to the side when he saw me. “If you’re looking for Trevor, he’s in the walk-in. Conceiving.” He set down his knife to put air quotes around the last word.

  I opened the door and almost ran into the blond Adonis on his way out. “Hello again, Poppy,” he said, no welcome in his voice. “Here to lend a hand?” Pure swagger. He placed a carton of eggs on the counter. “We’re gettin’ more behind with every minute.” He looked at Shannon, who answered him with his own accusing glare, then went back to work. Cooks never think they have enough time to prep.

  “I need to talk to you,” I said.

  “Four Corners is hostin’ a gallery opening tonight and I have no idea what to make for a special.” The Johns usually served wine and finger food, but a lot of people would dine at Markham’s before attending the opening.

  Trevor at a loss? Not likely. More likely he didn’t want to answer any more questions. I played along anyway. “Well, the show is for a Catholic Hispanic artist with six sisters and a matchmaking mother.”

  “So that means I should serve …?”

  “Fish,” I said. “With some sort of tomato-y sauce.”

  “Vera Cruz?”

  Not very imaginative. “Perfect.”

  I followed him back into the walk-in. Once inside, he turned to me and said, “If people didn’t know you had a job, they might mistake you for my intern.” Whatever had been weighing on his mind in the parking lot earlier had been lifted.

  “I thought of another question to ask you.”

  “Oh, goodie.” He started gathering tomatoes, garlic, and jala-peños for the Vera Cruz sauce.

  “Did you know that Évariste already owned two percent of Markham’s?”

  He stopped with his hand on a jar of capers and slowly turned to look at me. “Since when?”

  Oh, goodie. I finally had his full attention. “I don’t know since when. I only just found out myself.”

  Trevor pulled the jar off the shelf and handed it to me. “That little Napoleon must have been buildin’ an empire. He said he was goin’ to be the next Emeril.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Actually, he said Emeril would be callin’ himself the next Évariste. That guy was trippy.”

  “How so?”

  “Full of himself, but at the same time kind of … encouragin’, even when he was yellin’. It’s like you knew he really cared about the food. He knew his stuff.”

  “I’m really sorry this happened to him,” I said. And I meant it.

  “Me too, but now I need to make things happen for myself. Évariste made me see how much I already know. I have talent that I’ve been wastin’.”

  Wasting? I felt my throat constrict around the verbal thrashing I wanted to give him. But I swallowed and said, “Being second in command under one of the best chefs in Austin is a waste?”

  He scanned the shelves for more ingredients. “It’s not about Ursula. But, she didn’t go to culinary school, you know?”

  No, it was about the divide between the two kinds of chefs in this world. The first kind were chefs like me and Ursula who worked our way through the ranks, some of us starting as dishwashers, learning and earning our way into a respectable position, perfecting our craft on-the-job by expensive trial and error. The other kind were the formally trained chefs who attended culinary academies where mistakes were included in the price of admission. They sat in air-conditioned classrooms and took notes on the perfect temperature to cook a sea bass. They arrived in the kitchen wearing a pleated toque and a sense of entitlement.

  One kind isn’t better than the other, because regardless of how a chef comes to the job, at the end of the night, you either got it done or you didn’t. How it gets done is a matter not of education, but of attitude.

  “Her lack of a formal education never seemed to bother you before Évariste came on the scene,” I said. “She taught herself everything she knows, and then she taught you. Your talent is her talent.”

  “Look, I’m grateful for everything she’s done for me. It’s just that Évariste went to the Cordon Bleu. He has a Michelin star. He knows food like Stevie Ray Vaughan knows the guitar.”

  “Stevie Ray was self-taught. And you think that Évariste’s opinion of you—or your opinion of yourself because of what he said—is more valuable to you than Ursula’s?” Even though I knew what he meant, he didn’t have the right to discount Ursula as some sort of home cook.

  “Come on, Poppy, that’s not fair. You know I respect the heck out of Ursula. I know I wouldn’t be where I am if it weren’t for her.”

  I wanted to make him confirm his last statement in writing. I wanted him to take out a sheet of paper and make a list of every technique, every recipe, every skill he had learned from Ursula or in Ursula’s kitchen, which he was working in only because of Ursula. Who taught him how to manage people? Who taught him diplomacy? Who showed him how to deal with suppliers and managers and owners you didn’t agree with or get along with? Who showed him how to do the same thing day after day and make it look easy and fresh and fun? Who taught him how to do what he needed to do to get the food out, because all that ever matters is ge
tting the food out? Arrogant little Narcissus.

  “You’d still be prepping enchiladas at a school cafeteria if it weren’t for her.”

  “Maybe yes, maybe no.”

  I couldn’t tell if his tone was only slightly less cocky or slightly more contrite. I looked into his eyes and saw craftiness and ambition. And I knew right then that an idea I had only toyed with had become a true possibility: Trevor really could have killed Évariste and then taken advantage of subsequent events to further his career.

  However, I hadn’t gone to Markham’s to argue with Trevor about his job. “Why is BonBon upset that you’re cooking Évariste’s recipes?”

  “Where do you get this stuff ?”

  “You’d be surprised how often it just falls into my lap,” I answered. “So?”

  He pulled a white tub of something from a top shelf. “First of all, Will doesn’t want to serve Évariste’s recipes. He wants me to come up with my own dishes.”

  I looked around the walk-in, the shelves filled floor to ceiling with raw ingredients. “What about all of his food we have for the next two days?”

  “I’ll use up the vegetables, but Will said he’d take care of the wildlife.”

  “And second?”

  He looked puzzled for a moment, then, “Believe it or not, BonBon doesn’t confide in me.”

  “Fair enough,” I said. It probably didn’t matter what BonBon’s problem was, especially in light of Trevor’s first reason. “Why aren’t you speaking to Belize?”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Don’t worry about that, Trevor. Just tell me what’s up with you and Belize.”

  “Nothing’s up.” His voice had lost his sharp edge.

  “When was the last time you talked to her?”

  He thought for a moment. “A couple of hours ago, I guess. I came here straight from her place.” He held up his hand. “No, wait, I talked to her about an hour ago. She called and said she needed to talk to me about somethin’. I was busy and said I’d call her later.”

  I looked at him, trying to gauge whether he was telling me the truth, assuming that he wasn’t.

  “Cripes, Poppy!” he yelled, taking his phone out of his pocket. He punched some buttons, then held the screen in front of my face so I could see proof of an incoming call from Belize that lasted two minutes. “What does the last time I talked to my girlfriend have to do with anything?”

  Before I could answer, his phone vibrated in his hand and he almost dropped it. I had time to register the Austin area code and caught the last three digits: 911, and either a 4 or a 7 before it.

  Trevor looked at the screen, hit the “End” button to stop the phone from vibrating, and dropped it into his pocket. “I can’t mess around with this anymore,” he said.

  I couldn’t keep him from his job any longer if I wanted there to be a restaurant for Ursula and Mitch to come back to. I gathered a few more green bell peppers for the sauce and followed him to the prep station where I left him issuing orders to Shannon.

  In the parking lot, I stood next to my Jeep and looked again at the glossy red-lettered note on Trevor’s seat. Now this really didn’t make sense. Why did Belize write that note if he said he would call her later? Had Trevor lied to me about talking to her? I didn’t get a look at the date and time, so he could have shown me an old call. He also could have lied about the subject of the call. Perhaps they just argued some more and he hung up on her, so she drove over and splattered that note on his seat.

  I called Jamie and left a message asking him to see if he could look up the partial phone number I caught, then I took off for the Johns’ gallery to get a house key.

  I had a key when they lived to my right. They traveled often to visit artists they could turn into the hot new thing or to view estate sales, hoping to unearth a forgotten art collection. I used to take care of their yappy, high-strung Maltese named Judy. She had been run over in the driveway of the new house by the moving company the Johns hired to move them two doors down. John With poured acid on the concrete to remove the blood stain, which it did. But now the clean spot acted as a reminder of Judy’s death.

  The Johns hadn’t traveled much since they moved to the new house, in part because of grief over Judy, in part because they stayed busy with home renovations, and in part because they didn’t need to go hunting for artists anymore. Four Corners was becoming well-known as a gallery that could launch a career. Painters, sculptors, and photographers had started to call them.

  When I walked into the gallery, I saw John With standing on a ladder, adjusting a spotlight according to John Without’s directions. “Not like that!”

  I stood behind John Without and mimicked his head bobs and hand motions, which made John With laugh, a sound as comforting and rich as a glass of merlot.

  “What’s so funny?” John Without asked.

  He extended his hand toward me. “Say hello to Poppy Markham.”

  John Without whirled around and rolled his eyes. “Just what we need. Another distraction.”

  “I came to get a key to the house,” I said, “then I’m gone.”

  “Hang on,” John Without said, exasperated. “My keys are in back.”

  John With descended the ladder and stood next to me as we faced the glass picture. He embraced me in a one-armed hug and said, “How are you holding up?”

  I relaxed into his safety. “I’m concerned for Ursula and worried about my house.”

  “She’ll come out okay.” He wrapped his other arm around me and squeezed me into the sweetest, most genuine embrace I’d had in a long time. “You’ll both be okay.”

  “Thanks,” I said, wanting so much to believe him. I looked at the piece they had been lighting, a stained-glass rendering of an Aztec calendar in jewel colors framed by what looked like driftwood. “This looks kind of amateur compared to what you usually represent.”

  “Isn’t it great?” John said, releasing his hold on me. “This guy’s an outsider artist.”

  “Outside of what?”

  “Art schools, society, museums. He’s self-taught.”

  “Like a folk artist?”

  He shook his head. “A lot of folk artists have gone to art school. This style is called art brüt, raw art that hasn’t been cooked by formal training.” He took a step back. “I love the energy of his pieces. And the fact that light can completely change the image. A lot of outsider artists are insane.”

  Maybe Nina and BonBon were outsider artists. I looked up at him. “Is Rodrigo insane?”

  “Possibly,” he said as he ascended the ladder to make another adjustment to the light. “But we’ve been waiting years for an artist like him. Rodrigo is going to put us on the international map.”

  “Stop!” John Without squawked from the back door, freezing both of us in place. “The light is perfect. Don’t touch it.”

  He walked up to me with a key ring in his hand, then removed a key with a leopard print design on it. “Take mine and I’ll have another one made.”

  “Thanks,” I said, “you’ll hardly know I’m there.”

  “Please,” John With said from the ladder, “don’t feel like you need to live small around us. Make yourself at home.”

  “What time should Mrs. Jones be back?” I asked.

  “Around eight,” John Without answered quickly. “You won’t need to stay long.”

  “Because I need to rush home to our kids?” I asked.

  “Actually, we told her you’re the assistant manager on the late shift at Wendy’s and need to supervise the cleaning of the Fryalator.”

  John With laughed. “We did not, J. We didn’t tell her anything, Poppy Markham. Just come by around eight and you can make some excuse whenever you need to leave.”

  My broken front door and jamb had been expertly repaired. The Johns must have fixed it for me before they left for the gallery that morning. Even with all they had to do to get ready for the party. John With couldn’t have done it by himself, so I momentarily d
isliked John Without a little less because he helped.

  My house smelled like the frat boys down the street had roasted a javelina inside. I picked my way around the pieces of drywall that had given up their hold on the ceiling here and there. The worse part of the house was my bedroom where the fire had started. My bed and favorite tapestry comforter had become a soggy, stinking black mess.

  My closet sat opposite the wall that had caught fire, so my clothes hadn’t burned, but they had been drenched and smelled of smoke. I gathered bras and underwear from my dresser, then went to my office closet where I kept my winter clothes and chose a few light pieces to keep me decent for the next couple of days until I could buy a new wardrobe. I don’t like shopping for clothes, but if I had to, why couldn’t it be for a better reason, like I had dropped a size or two?

  I stuffed my clothes into one of the canvas bags I use for grocery shopping, then walked next door to the Johns’ house. I had been between and among their housewares many times when I checked on Judy during their trips, so I had no curiosity about their stuff. Still, I didn’t want to be surprised by anything, like they had become fans of Thomas Kincaid, so I made a cursory review of the house.

  They had the best of everything—Ralph Lauren this and Tommy Hilfiger that, teakwood tables, silk window coverings, and a washer and dryer set that looked like it should come with its own astronaut. John With used to be a freelance writer and has traveled the world. I knew that he had the more down-to-earth tastes, because every time I asked them about something funky or cool, it turned out to be part of his dowry. John Without was a professional photographer, a very good one in my unprofessional estimation, and the label hound.

  I put some water on to boil, found a couple of crispy carrots in the fridge, then stowed my clothes in dresser drawers lined with rose-scented paper. The fabricated smell of roses makes me nauseous. Real roses I like, but no one ever gets rose essence right. I took out the scented sheets and placed them all in a single drawer.

  The whistling kettle called me back to the kitchen. As I poured the boiling water over a rooibos tea bag, I dialed the hospital to check on Mitch. “Stable and resting,” the nurse told me. I realized that this whole time, I should have been calling the hospital for information, bypassing Nina altogether.