If You Can't Stand the Heat

by Robin Allen

  BonBon wouldn’t pay attention to what I did, but she might notice if I didn’t do anything. I held out my cell phone as if it were a light meter, then lifted the camera I had slung around my neck and took a couple of photos just to keep her from getting suspicious. It had the opposite effect. I looked up to see her staring at me. I quickly looked away and moved to one of the curtained windows.

  “You were speaking of compromises, Mrs. Bontecou,” Jamie prompted.

  “Oui. Yes. Like coming to this God-forsaken town. Ow-steen. With its stupid accents and car jams and rude sales girls with steel sticking out from their faces. I hate this place.” She leaned back into her chair, recrossed her legs, and drank more champagne.

  “Why did Évariste come to Austin? To Markham’s?”

  “It does not matter, now,” she said, waving off the idea with her cigarette. But I knew it did, and Jamie knew it did. He wrote something in his notepad, waiting her out. She leaned forward in her chair. “Do you want to know something, Monsieur Sherwood?”

  My heart pounded out exclamation points. This was it!

  “I’d like to hear anything you’d like to tell me,” Jamie said.

  She looked at the tape recorder. “How do you say ‘off with the record’?”

  Jamie reached over and clicked a button. “Now it’s just between us.” He gave her a full smile, dimple and all.

  She hesitated as if she had changed her mind, but her eyes looked liquid and dreamy. Was she still trying to entice him?

  Jamie prodded her. “Évariste had gambling debts.”

  “Oui. Yes.”

  “Was he in trouble with the people he owed money to?”

  “Évariste was to get another Michelin star and we had to increase the standards of the restaurant. Both of them. It took a lot of money.”

  “Did you borrow the money?”

  “Investors came to Le Château. We did not want them. Évariste does not like to work for other people. But it was the fastest way. After the second star, we could charge three times the price to twice the people and would pay them off in one year’s time.”

  BonBon stood up and pulled the champagne bottle out of the ice bucket. Ever so subtly, she grazed Jamie’s knees with her leg. As she refilled her glass, he looked up at me and winked.

  I glared at him. Harmless flirting, until he was drunk and she was drunk and it just happens.

  BonBon continued. “Men came into the restaurants and did things their own ways. They cared only about money, and the food suffered. We could do nothing. Our contract stopped us. Las Vegas was busy every night. Americans know nothing about food. But in Monte Carlo, everything is noticed. We had to use the money from Las Vegas for Le Château.”

  “Which meant you couldn’t pay off the investors within the year as you had planned,” Jamie said. “It must have been a strain to your marriage.”

  “Pft,” she said, stubbing out her cigarette. “Everything is a strain.”

  “Is that why you argued at Markham’s the night he was killed?”

  Her head snapped up. “How do you know about this?”

  “There are no secrets in a restaurant, Mrs. Bontecou.”

  “Of course there are, Monsieur Sherwood. Évariste has very many of his own secrets.” She didn’t wait for Jamie to light her cigarette. “He was smarter than you think.” She took a long drag, then leaned back in her chair and blew out the smoke.

  And then I started sneezing.

  “Mon dieu!” BonBon cried. She sat forward in her chair, craning her neck around Jamie to look at me. I turned toward the window, and the sunlight made me sneeze again. Kee.

  Jamie stood and tried to block her view of me. “Please, let’s get back to our interview.”

  “No!” she said, standing. “I know this noise.”

  Before she could unmask me herself, I took off my hat and glasses.

  “You!” Her nostrils flared. “Out from my room!” In an instant she realized that Jamie had been part of the deception. “Both of you. Out!”

  Jamie grabbed the tape recorder as BonBon herded us toward the door, cigarette in one hand, champagne glass in the other.

  “BonBon, please,” I begged, backing away from her. “Ursula didn’t kill Évariste. I need to know who did.”

  Jamie reached the door before I did and opened it, but I wasn’t giving up. “Why did you call Trevor?” BonBon stopped at the mention of Trevor’s name. I had nothing to lose. “Did you kill Évariste and Trevor helped you frame Ursula?”

  She flung the glass against the wall, exploding it into shards and foam. “I did not kill my husband! If Trevor framed your sister, he is on his own.”

  Jamie twisted my sleeve and pulled me into the hallway just before BonBon slammed the door.

  “Darn your sensitive nose,” he said on our way to the elevator.

  “This nose sniffs out a lot of things people want to hide.” I had caught Jamie in his fling because I smelled the other woman’s perfume in places that a friendly hug wouldn’t reach. I will never forget that fragrance. “We almost had her.”

  Jamie interlaced his fingers and placed them on top of his head, an unconscious gesture he makes when he feels frustrated.

  “Do you think she killed Évariste?” I asked as we stepped into the elevator.

  He dropped his arms. “She certainly has a motive and the temper, but gut feeling? No.”

  BonBon hadn’t actually said Trevor framed Ursula, and for all I knew, she doth protested too much about killing Évariste herself, but her comment about Trevor was enough to double my interest in him. “I don’t think so either, but I wish I knew why she called Trevor.”

  “Let’s ask him,” Jamie said. “I’ll drive.”

  I tucked in my shirt, then took off my hat and ran fingers through my hair. Trevor. Again. I said, “On Law and Order, Briscoe and Green talk to someone once and move on.”

  “Those guys have very good scriptwriters.”

  We arrived at Markham’s around 6:00 PM. Land Rovers, Suburbans, and BMWs idled in the valet line, discharging short skirts, glittery jewelry, and shined shoes. It could only be the Four Corners crowd that early. Jamie drove me around to the back door and said he would wait for me at the bar.

  Trevor would say he didn’t have time to talk, but a lot of cooks say that to me. I had just taken hold of the door handle, when the door flew open and Trevor stepped out, a lit cigarette dangling from his mouth. “Cripes, Poppy! Again?”

  “I’ll be done when your cigarette is,” I promised, then got to the point. “I just saw BonBon.”

  His sharp drag on his cigarette let me know that I had his attention. “So?” He overplayed his nonchalance by blowing a perfect ring of smoke toward the sky.

  “Why does she want to talk to you?”

  “Didn’t you ask her when you saw her?”

  Yes, and she stopped short of accusing you of murder. “I’m not sure I believe what she told me and I want to hear your version.”

  “She got it into her head that I have Évariste’s recipes.”

  Recipes? What darn recipes? “Do you?”

  “No.” He took off his white beanie and ran his hand over the part in his hair, then down his ponytail, pulling out a few loose hairs and dropping them to the ground.

  “Then why does she think that?” I asked, trying not to look guilty as I realized the answer. She assumed it earlier when I mentioned that Trevor would be cooking Évariste’s food the rest of the weekend. That was why she ran off in the middle of our talk.

  “I guess because of the sous chef deal I had with him. He kept them on one of those little keychain things.”

  “A flash drive?” BonBon had probably trashed her room the day before looking for the drive.

  He blew smoke out of his nose. “Yeah. She thinks he gave it to me, but he didn’t. She’s drivin’ me crazy! Callin’ me all the time leavin’ messages. First threatenin’ me, then bribin’ me, then promisin’ me stuff.” He held his cigarette between his l
ips as he readjusted his hat. “And now Belize thinks I’m cheatin’ on her because of a note BonBon left on my bike.”

  BonBon wrote the note in lipstick? Good thing I hadn’t tried to put my wrong assumption into play.

  His body jerked and he reached into his pocket. He pulled out his vibrating phone and looked at the screen. “BonBon again. I haven’t heard from her for about an hour and thought she finally gave up.”

  No, she had just been busy giving a fake interview to Jamie Sherwood. “That can’t be the only copy of his recipes,” I said.

  He dropped the phone back into his pocket. “It’s not, but it had the latest updates. And BonBon thinks there’s some other stuff on there. Something about a deal he was workin’ with Mitch. I swear, if I had the thing I’d give it to her just so I’d never have to hear her voice again.” He shuddered. “I used to think her accent was sexy.” He held up the cigarette butt to show me he was finished, then let it drop to the ground. “Break’s over.”

  He walked toward the back door, then turned and looked at me. “I’ll be glad when all of this is over and you stop thinkin’ I eighty-sixed Évariste.”

  I’ll be glad when this is over, period, I thought as I walked around the building to the front door. Although I had to admit that, except for someone trying to burn me alive and being forced to share living quarters with John Without, I was enjoying myself. When I investigate health violations, I almost always know what I’m looking for—proof that an owner is serving catfish that his cousin Ed caught at Lake Buchanan or that one of our own has been trading a higher health score for a $4.99 lunch, including chips and a drink. The answer isn’t always obvious, but it’s always there. I just need to keep digging, keep thinking, keep puzzling, and be patient.

  I saw Jamie at the end of the bar, his back against the red brick wall. We waved to each other, and I threaded my way through the well-upholstered crowd that buzzed with mirth and wine-drenched conversations. Instead of talk of investments, tax shelters, and golf handicaps, I heard, “Where was he killed?” “Did you see any blood?” “Do you think she really did it?”

  I thought of Ursula walking out on me earlier in jail. I hoped she hadn’t given up hope. Hang on, I told her, I’m getting close.

  When I reached Jamie, he stood and bent to kiss me on the cheek. “Hello, Timmy.”

  “Bon soir, Monsieur Sherwood,” I said, trying to mimic BonBon’s accent and tone, which came off more silly than sultry.

  I leaned over the bar to get Andy’s attention. When he saw me, he held up an index finger and mouthed, “One minute,” then went back to pouring pineapple juice into the only blender behind the bar.

  Jamie helped me onto his barstool then stood next to me and cupped his hands around the top of a glass of Guinness. “So did you get Trevor to confess?”

  I slid his glass out of his hands, then grimaced at my mouthful of bitter stout. “No, but he threw a wrinkle into all the details I’ve been ironing out.” I told him about the flash drive that contained all of Évariste’s recipes and other documents that BonBon wanted. “Trevor insists he doesn’t have it.”

  Jamie gave some thought to this new motive. “Someone could have killed Évariste to get his recipes, or BonBon killed him to get the documents.”

  “I saw a laptop in BonBon’s room when I delivered her duck sandwich. She could have downloaded whatever was on the drive while Évariste was sleeping. No need to kill him just for that.”

  “Assuming he was coming back to the room at night.”

  “Good point,” I said. “But assuming he was coming back to the room, and everything was being downloaded to the laptop, then BonBon just wants the flash drive to make sure no one else gets their hands on the files.”

  Andy appeared and placed a napkin in front of me. “Sorry for the wait, Poppy.” He substituted a look around the bar for an explanation. “Will got his hands on a really nice red. Want to try it?”

  “Does a crab crawl sideways?”

  “Thought so,” Andy said. “It’s in Mitch’s office. Give me a sec.”

  I took another sip of Jamie’s beer. “I don’t know how you can drink that bitter stuff.”

  “Like this,” he said, taking a generous gulp of the dark brown juice. He smacked his lips. “Yum-my.”

  A bottle blonde with a salon tan tried to squeeze between me and Jamie. She turned her body to face him then cast her doe eyes up. “Excuse me,” she said with a hopefulness that he would do anything but excuse her.

  That kind of thing happens only when Jamie is drinking at a bar. Or putting gas in his car. Or shopping at the grocery store. Or walking down the street. Or just standing and breathing. It didn’t bother me when we dated because I was sure of his feelings for me, but I was no longer sure. We also weren’t dating, so logically, I no longer had a claim on him and had no right to be jealous. So why did it feel like jealousy?

  “Sure thing,” Jamie said, stepping away from the bar to let her in. Then he moved around her to stand next to me again, turning his back to her. “Dennis Hopper and Seymour Cassel,” he said.

  “You’re playing dirty.”

  “You’d be a lot better at this game if you had misspent your youth watching B movies and playing Galaga.”

  “Instead of working every night at this restaurant?”

  “It boggles the mind that you never saw a single episode of Dallas.”

  Andy returned with the wine and poured the deep ruby liquid into an extra-large goblet. If this wine had been under lock and key in Mitch’s office, it was not a wine to be gulped. I swirled the wine in the glass and looked at its legs. Jamie nodded his approval. I put my nose into the glass and inhaled the bouquet. Jamie smiled. I took a sip and closed my eyes, enjoying the elixir gliding down my throat and warming my insides. “Mmmm.” When I opened my eyes, I put my hand on Jamie’s arm then leaned into him and whispered, “King of the Mountain.”

  “Darn. Thought I had you.”

  I leaned against the back of my barstool so he could see my self-satisfied smirk. “You must have forgotten I’m a fan of Seymour’s.”

  “Yeah, musta,” he said, then pointed to my glass. “May I?”

  “You may.”

  He went through the motions I had gone through, but he took them seriously. “Opus One,” he said, then took another sip. “Nineteen ninety-seven.”

  “Showoff.”

  Jamie called Andy over to show us the label. He was right about the winery and the vintage. “Lot of cake for that wine,” he said, rubbing his fingers against his thumb. “Retails for about five hundred a bottle.”

  Curious about what our customers paid for it, I called Andy back to us. “How much are we selling this for?”

  “We’re not. It’s Will’s private stash. He said I should share it with worthy customers.” He topped off my glass. “You fall into that category, I think.”

  I looked at my goblet feeling more worried than worthy. How could Will justify giving away $150 glasses of wine?

  _____

  After we ate a couple of appetizers and finished our drinks, Jamie drove me back to my car near the Driskill before heading to Emo’s to play an early set with his jazz band, Zzaj. He didn’t ask about my plans for the evening, so I didn’t tell him I had agreed to be the pretend wife of a gay man I’m temporarily living with in order to fool an old woman into showing her son’s work at an art gallery.

  I had to park a few blocks away, and as I stood on the sidewalk in front of Four Corners, I understood why. The huge picture window framed a colorful fresco of live models bathed in soft golden light. Artists, clients, critics, photographers, and reporters flowed elegantly around the room like cursive handwriting. Several stained-glass pieces already had discrete silver “Sold” tags on them. John With was right. Four Corners was finally on its way.

  When I walked through the door, I caught sight of a reporter I knew casually, and felt like a dolt. Lots of people there would know me as Poppy Markham, not Poppy Jones. I turned a
way, but not fast enough. “Miss Markham,” she called, shouldering her way through the crowd. “Can I ask you a few questions?”

  I panicked and looked around for the Johns. We needed to get this over with before my cover was blown. When the reporter reached me, I cut her off with, “Mitch is fine and Ursula is innocent,” then found a waiter.

  As I accepted a glass of white wine, John Without appeared and grabbed my wrist spilling liquid over my hand. “Hey!”

  “Sorry,” he said, like he didn’t mean it. “John and I just got some bad news and he’s not handling it very well.”

  “What is it? Where is he?”

  “That’s not important now,” he said, one hand on my elbow, the other at the small of my back, guiding me through the room.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  He took the wine glass out of my hand and handed it to a passing waitress. “You need to be my wife tonight.”

  My feet cemented to the very spot. “No way.”

  “Poppy, please,” he said, pulling me, “we don’t have time for this.”

  I wrenched my elbow away. “The deal is I’m John’s wife, not yours. Even if it were an arranged marriage, no one would believe I’d marry you.” This is exactly why I don’t like doing favors. I knew I shouldn’t have threatened him so I could use his camera. I shouldn’t have even agreed to this charade in the first place.

  He looked at my neck, probably sizing it up for a hand necklace.

  “What’s going on with John?” I demanded. “Why did the plan change?”

  “I don’t want to get into it now.” He looked around the room, then bared his teeth into a smile at a woman walking through the crowd toward us. She was short, but moved with the bearing and assurance of a rear admiral. Rodrigo’s mother, I presumed. John stood by my side and put a stiff arm around my waist. “I’ll do anything you want,” he said, not moving his lips. “Please just go along.”

  “Say please again.”

  He ghrfed, then said with absolutely no emotion, “Please.”

  “And take your hand off me. I might ralph on her.”

  When the woman stopped in front of us, John removed his hand from my waist and I thought he was going to salute her. “Mrs. Luna!” he said, all sweet and fake excited, shaking her hand with his right and patting it with his left.