by Don Bruns
“Joaquin Vanderfield,” James said. “He thought he should have been chosen as the head chef of your South Beach restaurant.”
“And?”
I glanced at James. In his white jacket with L’Elfe embroidered on the chest, his light brown hair falling over his forehead, he should have been a celebrity chef. A younger Bobby Flay. Given the right circumstances.
“Somebody threatened me.” James brushed back his hair. “Last night I found an apron with a catsup stain on it and a knife stabbed through the cloth. It was hanging in my locker. At least, I took it as a threat. And, today when I went to retrieve my knife and the one in the apron they were gone. It appears that whoever broke into my locker stole both of the Wüsthof knives.” He paused. “Apparently, we’ve pissed someone off.”
Bouvier looked away, studying a couple of his poorly framed certificates carelessly hanging from the wall. A Time magazine cover featuring the chef and his stocky wife also hung in a frame, with the title splashed on the cover, “Celebrity Duo Defines French/American Cuisine.”
“You could say that somebody is afraid that I’m grooming you for the South Beach restaurant.”
“That’s what we thought.”
“I know they think that,” he said. “It’s because I told the staff that you were the heir apparent.”
“What?” I studied him for a moment, and he gave me a wry smile.
“Why would you?”
“I wanted to flush out the killer. So we’re getting there.”
James’s eyes were wide open. “Are you trying to get me killed?”
Bouvier stared at James for a second, that faint smile still on his lips. “Mr. Lessor, if I hadn’t said it, everyone would have assumed it.”
“I don’t think that was a very good idea.” I felt the need to disapprove.
Squinting his eyes, he nodded at James. “I’ve made a very good living trusting my gut instincts. I tend to think it was a very good idea. Whoever killed Amanda is considering your immediate rise in the company. Don’t forget that.”
“Making me the target.”
“Mr. Lessor, you were a target the moment you walked into this kitchen. That’s why I hired you.”
“How do you figure that?”
Elbows on the desk, he crossed his plump fingers under his chin, resting his head on his hands for a moment. “You’re considered undercover right now. Am I right? You are assuming an identity that isn’t entirely yours.” He watched James, trying to gauge his reaction.
“Yeah. Sort of. I mean, I am a cook. I’m actually pretty good at it. I work fast and I understand kitchen protocol.”
“But you’re a detective pretending to be a chef. And I have to support that undercover role. I want people to pay attention, respect you on the job, and fear your position. If I don’t throw my full support behind you, no one will believe for an instant that you are really my chosen head chef.”
I had to admit it made sense. A simple background check would show that James lacked serious experience.
“You lack experience. You have almost none, at least not what we would expect for such a position. Do we agree on that?”
The guy was reading my mind.
“Thomas Keller, executive chef and owner of the French Laundry in Napa, was just a kid when he took over as staff chef at the Dunes Club. Early twenties. But,” he held out his hands, “he showed promise. He had the magic that can be seen by other chefs. Keller owned his own Wall Street restaurant in New York by the time he was thirty, and when he opened the French Laundry, one of the fifty best restaurants in the world,” he paused, “he hired a twenty-two-year-old girl as his commis. She impressed him so much, he gave her that job. Do you understand?”
We both nodded, although I’m not sure we did.
“I tell you this to prove my faith in James. As far as the staff is concerned, I believe he has talent that can’t be ignored, regardless of experience. Someone saw the talent in Keller, and he in turn saw the talent in the twenty-two-year-old girl.”
Pushing his chair back, he licked his lips.
“I see the talent in you, Mr. Lessor.”
For a brief moment, I think James believed it.
“I don’t hire people to fill a position. I hire them because of their gift. For two weeks we have to convince my staff that you have that gift and, more importantly, that I believe in that gift.”
If Bouvier made the case for James being groomed for La Plage, the staff would believe that somewhere, buried ever so deep, James had the talent. It was obvious that Chef Jean had a better understanding of undercover than we did.
Bouvier slapped his hand on the desk, the sound reverberating in the tiny office.
“You see. I tell you about Thomas Keller, who had little experience, and that proves the exception. I want people here to believe that you are my handpicked head chef. If I don’t tell them, then you lose believability. And if you lose that, you are no longer undercover and no longer of use to me.”
And I knew he was right. I also realized we had probably jumped off the deep end. It was as if we were puppets and Bouvier was pulling the strings. I’d often felt that James tried to control our relationship, positioning himself as a leader and me as his follower. But I could walk away at any time. Chef Bouvier had alerted his staff about James, and the only way James could regain control was to quit. Walk away. I didn’t believe he thought that was an option at this time.
“My staff out there, the right mix of people, it works. Like a well-oiled machine. Like a magician and his apprentices.” The short man reached into a cardboard box on his desk and pulled out a jar. The label featured his photo and name. Bouvier’s Essence. “This rub, these spices that are in here, people think they’re magic. The mix works.”
Setting the jar on the desk, almost as a barrier between us, he tapped his fingers on the metal desktop. “Nutmeg, rosemary, some garlic, sea salt, basil, and black pepper.” He stared at the jar. “I’m good at mixes. Don’t ever forget that. I brought you in as part of the mix and I believe you will be successful.”
I shook my head. “I still think you’ve put James in jeopardy.”
We heard footsteps down the hall and as the door opened, Sophia Bouvier stuck her shaggy head into the room.
“Jean, we have things to do. Come along.” Her words were slightly slurred.
He stared after her as she retreated back to the kitchen.
“She drinks a little,” he murmured. “But, she has reasons.”
Pausing for a moment, he closed his eyes.
“She cries a lot too—we lost a child. You never get over losing a child.”
Looking up, he raised his voice.
“You are private investigators, gentlemen. It’s what you do. You put yourself in jeopardy by the nature of your work. I’m simply moving the process along.”
“Still,” I said.
James took a step back, surveying the small office. “What’s with the red tool chest?” he asked.
Never the one to be confrontational, I knew he was thinking of the ramifications. The entire kitchen staff now thought he was the heir apparent, but James was deflecting the situation. Bringing up the toolbox. And of course, it was the first time either of us had been in the office of an important chef.
“Knives.” The chef stood up, coming around the desk.
Five drawers of knives.
“Any other questions?”
We were silent.
“Knives?” James had touched on something the celebrity chef was proud of.
“Some I won in competition, some were gifts from other chefs, some I have used in past restaurants. There are thirty-seven knives in those drawers. Thirty-seven pieces. They are important to me. Those steel blades are the tools of my trade, of any chef’s trade.”
I held up my hand. “Chef,” I was almost comfortable with the title, “I’m on record as saying you’ve really compromised James and his position. We may have some second thoughts about our position here
.”
“Second thoughts?” He chuckled. “You’re being compensated, Eugene. Quite well, I believe, considering I have no proof you will turn up anything beneficial. And I’ve explained to you we need believability in your friend’s position. I thought this was a professional relationship. But it can be negated. Think about this. Talk it over. If you want to quit, let me know by the end of the shift.”
Bouvier walked to the door. Turning to us he said, “Be safe, gentlemen. It’s a tough world out there.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“I didn’t tell him about the setup guy.”
James and I were walking back to the kitchen, Bouvier having exited the building. A little pep talk, a casual threat, and he was gone.
“What about the setup guy?”
“Oh, he’s the guy who puts the salt and pepper on the table, flowers, tablecloths, and—”
“I know what a setup guy does, Skip.” James frowned and looked down his nose at me. “Mikey somebody.”
I was impressed. James was actually paying attention to the staff.
“Well, I’m talking to him this afternoon, Mikey Pollerno, and he says something about Amanda having a boyfriend.”
“Yeah? A boyfriend? I believe she needed a mate. Felt incomplete without one. My opinion.”
“I understand. But the way Pollerno said it, it was like having a boyfriend was a possible link to the murder. And then he shut down. He was finished talking. So I kept prodding him, trying to get more information.”
“Mmmm.”
“And he insinuated that she was an overachiever.”
“What does that mean?”
“He suggested he thought you might be taking over, and if that was the case, he wondered if you were a self-promoter. He wanted to know if you promised more than you could deliver. I didn’t give you away. Although sometimes maybe you do promise more than—”
“And?” James said it sternly. “What’s your point?”
“Come on, roomy, he was telling me that this girl you used to date was a prima donna. She was positioning herself where she didn’t belong. That’s what he said. He wanted to know if that’s the way you were going to be.”
“Really? What does that have to do with me? All I remember is she was cloying. She was all over me.”
“You are all about girls being over you.”
He nodded. “Yeah, yeah. You think you know me so well. But clingy girls don’t do it for me, Skip. I don’t want to even say this because I know you’ll get pissed off, but here’s a shocker. Something you probably won’t believe. Em, your girlfriend, is the type of girl I’d like to meet.”
“What?”
“Someone with a little backbone. Amanda was needy. She wanted me to give her affirmation. And until I know something about a girl, I’m not about to do that. But I never had the impression she was pushy or trying to be something she wasn’t. I just didn’t find her personality that attractive.”
It was a shock to me. I’d always viewed James as an opportunist. A one-night-stand kind of guy. And here he was admitting to me that deep down inside he wanted to date—Em?
“Well, at least we know the staff has been put on alert that you are gunning for the South Beach job.”
James rubbed his hands absentmindedly on his apron. “Joaquin will be happy to hear that he’s been passed over once again.”
“If he ever shows up again.”
James was quiet, as if thinking about the jeopardy he was in.
Finally, he stopped and looked at me. “Who do you think did it, Skip? If you just had to guess?”
“We’ve got little to go on, James. Gut reaction?”
“That seems to work for Bouvier.”
“The sous chef. Vanderfield. He’s got the most to gain.”
“We don’t know all there is to gain yet, do we?”
“We’d better get busy,” I said. “A lot of ground to cover.”
“And we’d better be safe.”
The we thing didn’t make sense. I didn’t want to tell him that bumping off a dishwasher didn’t get anyone anything. It was the head chef in training that was standing in the way.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
We got slammed by a party of twelve right off the bat and it seemed that every one of the diners ordered something different. I guess this must be a problem, because there was a lot of swearing and banging around as cooks had to double up on preparation.
“Lessor, Gonzales, get over here and chop. Spring vegetables, onions—” More bandages. “I need this bowl filled. Then get on the onion soup. Slice two reds, two sweet—” he motioned to two large pots, steaming on the gas stove top.
I’d emptied the dishwasher and was waiting for the first round of salad and appetizer plates to come back. I lived to scrape and wash.
As orders flooded the computer screen, Marty pulled meat from the refrigerated drawers and threw steaks and four chicken breasts on the grill, orange flames leaping from the grate. He sprayed something on them with a squeeze bottle, then dipped a white fish in egg batter and dropped it into a deep fryer. With the casualness of a seasoned veteran, he picked up a large spice shaker and sprinkled something on the chicken.
Two of the other cooks were pan cooking something in a wine sauce, throwing it up in the air like I’d seen James do with omelets and catching it on the flip. An industrial-sized bottle of white wine rested on the stainless counter next to the steam table.
Steam and smoke were caught in a spiral, sucked up by the large stainless steel hood exhaust system. Grease spattered, meat sizzled, and one of the line cooks expertly wrapped bacon around scallops, tossing them in a skillet with olive oil and what appeared to be minced garlic. The aroma was, for a moment, overwhelming.
Spanish words I did not understand were hurled at blinding speed, and it all seemed like organized chaos, but the food hit the plates, the lady making salads was creating visual masterpieces of red, green, yellow, and orange peppers along with tomatoes, and the waiters were picking up their meals in an orderly fashion. Kelly Fields was putting finishing touches on her baked goods.
“Still waiting for the tuna at three.” A waiter shouted out. I was wrong. There were some complications.
“I had to catch it first.” A Puerto Rican cook with a thick accent and a black bandana around his head slammed a china plate down on the shiny stainless prep table, tossing seared ahi tuna from a pan. “El ojete.”
I was pretty sure the term translated to asshole.
The waiter grabbed it and pushed his way through swinging doors, eager to get the delicacy to his table.
I caught the figure from the corner of my eye, just as a runner sat my first tray of dishes on the stainless counter.
“Vanderfield, I hope you’ve got one hell of an excuse.” Chef did not seem pleased.
“Yeah. Later, okay. Don’t give me any shit right now. Things look a little busy.” He ignored the chef to his face, then flashed him a middle finger behind his back and walked to his station.
Joaquin Vanderfield wore his white jacket, a black sash around his waist and a holstered knife on his right side. A six-foot pirate with a two-day growth on his face and his weapon of choice strapped to his body, he immediately walked up to the video screen, studied it, spun around in his station, and grabbed two pans. The hotshot with the questionable reputation of having banged Amanda Wright, the bloodied victim.
Chef Marty frowned, grumbled under his breath, and went back to his grill, tossing three more steaks on the hot metal. I saw him glance at Vanderfield with a cold, hard stare. Another suspect in the murder. Joaquin Vanderfield, spooning a large gob of butter and grabbing a spray bottle, set the cast-iron skillets on the searing hot metal.
“Dude.”
I spun to my left. James stood there, a Wüsthof knife in hand, a Miami Heat cap hiding his thick head of hair.
“A little crazy, huh?” I figured he’d noticed.
“First sitting, man. After that, we settle in. Every night is show
time. It just takes a little while to get rid of the butterflies.”
He was really getting into the act.
“But get this, amigo. Marty comes up to me earlier and says, ‘Chef Jean said to give you this knife.’ What’s that all about?”
“Cool. James, Jean Bouvier has five drawers of knives. It’s not like he’s using them.” It made sense to me. “So Em didn’t have to bring a knife back?”
“No. And I called her and alerted her to the situation.”
“You’ve got a knife, James. That’s a good thing.”
“Skip, I had my own knife. Someone put another knife in my locker. Same identical knife. Then I find a knife in the Dumpster. Wüsthof. And, finally, the chef gives me a knife, again identical to my original knife. I find this a little strange. I think somebody is messing with me.”
He was right. “Bouvier said he’s put the word out on you. I understand his reasoning, but, my friend, you are now a target. Before, you were just a chef in training. I don’t know where we go from here, but I suggest we keep on trucking and talk to as many people as we can.”
He nodded. “One more thing, amigo.” He pointed toward the door that led to the dining room. “Bouvier’s wife walked back in about ten minutes ago.”
I hadn’t noticed.
“She seems to be here a lot. Anyway, this stocky, short businesswoman, she pulls me aside, grabs my arm with a death grip, and reeking of alcohol tells me that she wants this killer caught. At any cost.”
“I had the impression she wasn’t happy that you were the one hired to go undercover in her kitchen. Even though you’ve got credentials. Even though you have kitchen experience.”
“I had the same impression. But I happen to be the guy, so apparently she felt the need to put a little pressure on the situation. And she was a little drunk. Just saying—”
I nodded. I knew nothing about her.
“Anyway,” James said, “she tells me she has a lot riding on the outcome of this murder investigation. The reputation of the company, the product line, and restaurants. And all the time she’s got this vicelike hold on my bicep.”