“You asked me what I found valuable about my chef’s training since I no longer work in the kitchen. I’ve thought about it, and knife skills are at the top of the list.”
“You mean which knives to use for a particular task?”
“That’s part of it, yes. Not that complicated—you’ve named the three every chef buys. It’s also a good idea to have a knife with a serrated edge. ‘Buy the best knives you can afford’ was one of the first edicts I learned. I did and have used the same set for more than 25 years, Jack. How to keep them sharp and care for them matters, too. For that, you need a honing steel—see?” I pulled the honing steel from the shelf below the magnetic strip that held my knives.
“More important is safety. Rule number one is that a sharp knife is safer than a dull one. So, store it in a way that allows it to keep its edge. My first set came with a knife bag—a roll up pouch. I prefer a magnetic strip now.” I picked up the French knife and began sharpening the blade on the steel. Whisk, whisk. I love the sound the blade makes as it slides at an angle over the steel.
“Sit down and I’ll show you a couple of tips if you’d like. Just let me slip the scallops into the oven under the broiler. Two or three minutes and we'll be ready to eat.” Jack walked around the corner of the kitchen island and slid onto one of the barstools. He let Miles loose. My curious Siamese cat sensed something was up. Not willing to stray too far with that “treats” word still hanging in the air, he took a seat on the barstool next to Jack. Miles’ whiskers were at attention, spread out in an array around his wedge-shaped face. He and Jack peered at me curiously as I went through my little demo.
“Work with a flat bottom whenever you can.” I cut a cucumber in half and turned both halves flat side down. “Then form your hand into a claw. No fingers sticking out makes it less likely that you'll nip one of them. That’s a necessary precaution whatever cut you're using, like slicing.” Jack's eyes grew wide as I sliced my way through half of that cucumber. I’m not as fast as I used to be when using a knife day in and day out, but I finished in a flash.
“We also have dicing, mincing, or doing something a little fancier like a chiffonade or julienne. Well, the terms are fancy. The cuts, not so much.” I demonstrated each cut with items I then added to the salad bowls sitting on the granite counter top in front of me. I gave the vinaigrette I’d made earlier a whisk and poured some over each salad.
“Voila. Time to eat.” As I turned to pull our scallops from the oven, I caught Miles eying Jack. His gaze was fixed on the detective, concentrating as he delivered his best cat version of the Vulcan mind probe. Miles had a single aim in mind, getting the human to carry out his prime directive. FEED THE CAT. It worked. Jack hopped off the bar stool and hollered the magic word.
“Treats.”
Miles dove off his seat and stood alert, his tail high as a kite as Jack dished up a tablespoon of tuna. It always amazes me how much enjoyment Miles derives from such a small thing. A lesson to his human companions. One of many our furry feline friends teach us—like gratitude for a job well done. Miles stopped, looked up, and blinked at us with what’s darn close to a wink, accompanied by a throaty hurrah.
In minutes, we were all settled into the dining room. Jack and I devoured our dinners as Miles lounged near the wall of windows that gave him a view of the veranda. Despite my chef’s training, cooking dinner for others makes me anxious. It had been years since I prepared food in a kitchen at Marvelous Marley World, where I started straight out of culinary school as a chef. To be honest, these days I hardly cook at all. Fresh fruit and yogurt is dinner most nights. Once in a while, I hold a dinner party. That always gives me the jitters, too. I sighed as I finished my food.
“The house has outdone itself, tonight. May I tip the chef with a kiss?” Jack asked.
I leaned in to collect my gratuity and felt a wave of relief. Not to mention the tantalizing dance of sensations that goes along with one of those kisses.
“Ready for dessert?”
“Am I ever. Bring on the mousse.”
“Chocolate mousse. You know I have to get my fix.” I admit it. I’m a chocoholic. Jack stood up to help me remove the dirty dishes. As we headed to the kitchen, Miles jumped to his feet and unleashed an earsplitting yowl.
“What on earth, Miles? You don’t get dessert; why are you yelling at me?” I looked at Jack. “Have you been slipping him extra treats after dinner?”
“Moi? Non. Not after dinner. What is it, Miles?”
I tried to hide my smile realizing that Jack had advanced to the next level of cat ownership. By that, I mean being owned by a cat, the point at which you talk to the cat like it's a person. If Miles intended to respond, he had no chance to do so because my phone pinged to indicate someone sent me a message.
Next, Jack’s phone began to ring. We both dashed into the kitchen and grabbed our phones.
I froze as I read the message on my phone.
ACTIVE SHOOTER. MARVELOUS MARLEY WORLD HEADQUARTERS. OFFICE CAMPUS ON LOCKDOWN. SHELTER IN PLACE.
Chapter 2: Eat Dessert First
“There’s been a shooting. At least one man is down, according to the call that came into the police,” Jack said. I felt a sudden wave of nausea.
“At Marvelous Marley World?” I wracked my brain, trying to imagine who would be sheltering in place on a Saturday night at Marvelous Marley World Headquarters. The building was empty on weekends. Occasionally, an associate or a group of associates with a big deadline went in to work on a weekend. All the planning was over now for this weekend's festivities and that celebration was in full swing. The kickoff last night had gone well, so I couldn’t think of a single person with a reason to be in that building tonight.
“Yes. It sounds like a member of security interrupted a burglary while it was in progress. The thieves shot and killed a guard. His partner came running and returned fire. He claims he hit one of them, but the intruders got away. The guard was more concerned about saving his colleague than giving pursuit, so I presume that’s how they got out of there.” Jack was on the move. He scrambled to put on the jacket he had taken off when we sat down to dinner.
“Since someone called homicide, I guess the injured person didn’t make it.”
Jack nodded. Before he could say anything, Miles wailed—a mournful cry that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. My phone rang, and a small gasp of alarm escaped my lips before I could stop myself. Jack looked from Miles to me and then back to Miles.
I took that to mean Jack had reached another new threshold in his relationship with Miles. The one where, like me, he wondered if Miles has some special sense that allows him to anticipate events. Mostly little things, like my alarm going off in the morning, and the ringing of the doorbell or telephone. In the past, I’ve attributed this behavior to superior hearing. Perhaps his enormous ears can detect footsteps coming up the walkway. Or a click that’s inaudible to the human ear as a mechanism in the clock triggers the alarm. A mystery, but not one I dwell on too much. Then there were other times, like this one, that caused me to do a double-take at Miles as I answered that call.
“Hello.”
“Georgie, it’s Max.” My heart picked up speed. “We’ve got a problem here at World Headquarters.”
I had not considered the possibility that Max might be in his office on a Saturday night, but it made sense. After disappearing for several months following the murder of his daughter in Arcadia Park, he had returned to his leadership role at Marvelous Marley World Enterprises.
For a few months, he remained rather apathetic about matters at the conglomerate. He had founded the organization decades before as he, and he alone, had imagined a future in which tens of thousands of people worked at the Cat Factory.
While Max was grieving, those of us in leadership positions in various divisions at Marvelous Marley World Enterprises continued to make what decisions we were empowered to on our own. Other decisions that required input or consent from colleagues in various div
isions were taken to our Executive Committee. There we were able to get things done by vote or acclamation, even without Max’s participation.
Only recently had a familiar, maniacal spark reappeared in our founder’s eyes. A new project rekindled his zest for life, perhaps fueled by the hope that he might, at last, outdo his greatest rival: the even more famous “Imagineer,” Walt Disney. Max Marley vowed to do what Disney had failed to do—create a fully-functioning, utopian community. New Arcadia, already on the drawing boards, would be much more than the theme parks bearing the Arcadia name, it would be the creation of an entire city. It was an enormous project that reinvigorated Max.
“Max, are you okay?”
“Yes, but our company—our good name--is not. There’s been a break-in and shooting. Georgie, I know public relations is no longer your role, but I want you here to help handle the fallout from this mess. Stacy Peterson’s good at her job, but she’s still new at it and she doesn’t have your history with the company. She might not fully grasp how to address this travesty.” Max’s voice grew raspy, wavered, and then broke.
Was he crying? I wondered. My concern for his well-being was growing by the moment. Had this new murder rekindled the trauma provoked by the loss of his daughter, Mallory, in such a despicable manner less than a year ago? Having survived a similar tragedy in my youth, I understood what he might be feeling.
“I’ll be right there. Are you in your office?”
“No, I’m in the Gallery where the devastation occurred. Security is here, and the police are on their way. I’m not going anywhere until they arrive. I will insist they put a full forensic team on this now.”
Uh-oh. I thought. Jack was going to have his hands full. Max had gone from weepy to furious, with a hint of hysteria seeping into his tone. The imperious side to his nature was likely to affect a complete takeover by the time Jack and I arrived at the scene.
“I’m on my way. I’m going to call Stacy and get her to join us, too, okay? We’ll figure out how to handle this.”
“Sure, sure. She and her team will need to get on top of this ASAP. Get her down here.” Conversation over. The call ended.
“Could you make sense of that, Jack?”
“Mad Max is good and mad, right?” Jack knew that our nickname for the genius behind Marvelous Marley World Enterprises was “Mad Max.” It was a moniker that suited Max Marley all too well when his emperor persona took over.
“Oh, yes. He’s not only angry but frantic and loose. I’m afraid for the guy. I don’t mean to suggest that he’s an uncaring man, but it’s not like him to get this upset about the loss of an associate. Even in such a horrible way. I don’t get it unless this is also about Mallory.”
“It could be. You’ve taught me enough about your experience of trauma to believe that. The idea that his beloved corporation has become a murder scene for the second time within a year can’t be easy to bear either.”
“True. He’s also under a lot of pressure now that he’s launched his plans to build New Arcadia. He can’t afford for company stock to take a big hit if bad news gets out.”
“Let’s take my car. I can use my lights and siren. We’ll get there much faster that way. You'd better grab a jacket. It’s likely to be chilly by the time we get out of there.”
“Okay. Riding along with you will give me a chance to explain why Max wants me in the middle of this.”
“No explanation needed. I’d want you at my side in a crisis. You’ve got experience from your stint in PR. I’m sure it’s more than that. He trusts you. That's no small feat given the crock of nonsense his lovely daughter must have fed him about you before her untimely demise.” Jack had a point. Mallory Marley-Marston had not been my biggest fan, one reason why I had come under suspicion for her murder.
“I hope Stacy Peterson is as understanding about Max's reasoning. It’s not easy to do your job with the person who turned it down still in the room. She might feel threatened even though I took the Food and Beverage Management director position instead. On more than one occasion, Max has asked me what I think about something she’s proposed, right in front of everyone. Max was still out of the loop when we hired her, so it could be he’s still trying to figure out whether he can trust her or not.”
“Well, it's a shame for Marvelous Marley World that you couldn’t have taken both jobs. You’re an argument for cloning, Georgie Shaw.”
Incredibly, I found myself smiling. Jack is as resilient as Max is brittle. All the years Jack’s logged as a cop would have worn me down, but he finds strength in holding the line against villainy.
“Miles, you’re in charge while we’re gone, buddy. Don’t let any bad guys in here while we’re out, okay? No running around here like a party animal either, right?”
Miles stretched and yawned, before sidling over to Jack for a goodbye, man-to-man. The agile cat leaped effortlessly up to the table near the door. Miles loved that spot because it’s at “petting-level.” Jack got the message and did his duty.
No matter what Jack said, however, Miles would have his way with the house while we were gone. Miles demonstrates his feline prowess as part of a ritual greeting when I return home from work at dinner time, and again at bedtime.
I dashed down the hall to my room to grab a blazer to wear with the sweater and slacks I had on. The bathroom mirror revealed nothing in my teeth, no hair standing on end, or makeup in need of a touch-up. A splash of red in the jacket helped brighten my mood and added a touch of color to my cheeks. It also happens that red is Jack Wheeler’s favorite color.
“You look great. Let’s go. I hope this teaches you a lesson, though.”
“What?”
“Eat dessert first.”
Chapter 3: Cel Theory
On our way to Marley World Headquarters, I had another chance to wish I’d eaten dessert first since at the speeds Jack drove, it might have been my last. I hung onto the door handle for dear life, even after checking that I had securely fastened my seat belt. We made the commute from my home overlooking Crystal Cove to the corporate headquarters near Arcadia Theme Park in record time. On a good day, my commute takes 45 minutes. With no traffic slowing us down and Jack’s heavy foot on the gas, we arrived in twenty.
I remained silent as Jack navigated the roadway, lights flashing and siren blaring. I didn’t want to distract him. While we were still winding our way out of my gated enclave and down to the Pacific Coast Highway, I filled him in on the details of my conversation with Max. It wasn’t until Jack exited onto Catmmando Tom Drive, the main avenue that runs through the Marvelous Marley World Headquarters office complex, that I felt it was safe to speak again. I gave him directions to the Gallery.
“Max is talking about the large open area that joins the main administrative building, where my offices are, to the Communications Pavilion. There’s parking just outside, opposite the lot in which I usually park.”
“I know where you’re talking about. The Gallery's not on the ground floor but on a level you get to by using the elevator or an escalator. It exits to a walkway that runs between the buildings, as I recall.”
“Yes, that’s it. There’s plenty of exhibition space, so we call it the Gallery.”
“I ended up there more than once while wandering around the administrative building to interview folks about Mallory’s murder. No wonder the thieves got away. It’s a maze.”
“That’s true, but it’s odd. Under normal circumstances when there’s an incident in the Gallery, bulletproof acrylic partitions slide down and close off various sections. Those should have trapped the intruders. You have to wait until security resets the controls to raise the partitions again, unless you have a keycard and know where to insert it.”
I gulped, thinking this might mean the incident involved an insider. It had taken me months to feel at ease at work again after learning what some of my former colleagues had done. Another death, with or without the involvement of Marley World staff, would be an enormous challenge.
The murder at Catmmando Mountain had created a stir that lasted weeks. I had been second-in-command in the PR department at the time of Mallory's murder. That had put me on the front lines, trying to explain what was going on without interfering with the police investigation or allowing rumors to run wild. It had also been challenging not to let the awful tale of murder and mayhem become the only story out there about Marvelous Marley World. I dreaded the thought of a new fight ahead to keep the All Hallows' Eve Heist from becoming headline news. This would be trial by fire for our new Director of PR.
“Here we go again,” I muttered aloud as Jack pulled the car into a spot close to the door. An ambulance was already in the lot, along with a squad car and a couple of SUVs bearing our corporate logo.
“Chin up, Georgie. This crime scene won’t be as bad as the one involving Mallory. You can hang back and let me go in first if you’d like.”
“No, that's okay. I’m not looking forward to seeing another murdered associate. But what I dread even more is the prospect that someone employed by Marley World was in on this, using a corporate keycard to get away. My skin is crawling already and we haven’t even entered the building. Maybe that’s what sent Max into overdrive. The betrayal by a family member and his colleagues has to be doubly disturbing for him.”
“The Gallery is a public area that could have been targeted by outsiders, but I hear what you're saying about that keycard. Let's see what's going on before we jump to any conclusions.”
A security guard posted at the side entrance took a look at Jack’s badge and my I.D. card before letting us in. I did a double-take at him as I entered the building. The guy had red smudges on his face. He must have noticed me staring.
“Sorry, Ms. Shaw. Do I still have makeup on my face?”
“Is that what it is? Thank goodness it's not blood.”
“Not real blood, for sure. I was decked out as a zombie. You know, in the spirit of the celebration going on in the park? I was assigned to patrol the guest parking lots tonight, and we like to get into the party spirit. It didn’t seem right to wear it here under the circumstances with one of our guys down and all. I ditched the costume, but the makeup’s harder to wipe off than I thought it would be.” He had a handkerchief out now and was rubbing away at his face. The streaks on that handkerchief made it clear he had tried that already and failed
Happy Homicides 4: Fall Into Crime: Includes Happy Homicides 3: Summertime Crimes Page 31