Typically, Victor was doubled over with laughter, helpless, while the women wrestled the hose until, finally, its nozzle ended in the sink where it belonged and Victor started on the cleanup. The stragglers had all left, so no diners were on hand to enjoy the incident, and no employees were injured. And no thanks to me. It was over before I realized what was happening.
“It’s nice to hear you laugh,” Chris said as I did my best to describe the scene.
I felt it was my duty to assist with the cleanup. I hung up with Chris, after accepting his offer to drive me to Anchorage. It turned out that a small kitchen disaster was a nice stalling technique when you were otherwise ambivalent about life’s choices. And besides, it served him right for not telling me the particulars of Oliver’s service immediately.
No diner owner, let alone a restaurateur, wants to be caught mopping up the place where food is handled. The activity could be interpreted as a sloppy sanitary practice. So I was relieved when the tinkling of the bell over the door was from the entrance of two friendlies, as we faux cops liked to say.
I saw both a patrol car and a semitruck with a blue cab hauling a railroad container car parked close to the diner. Trooper Graham and trucker Manny walked in together. Both men looked somber, and both were huddled in their jackets. I hoped it didn’t mean that their vehicle heaters were out of order. The men waved to Victor and Nina and, by extension, to Rachel, and walked toward the booths.
“If you don’t mind,” Trooper said, indicating that he was going to take a booth at the back. “Charlie and I have some business to attend to.”
“No problem,” Manny said, giving Trooper a salute. He slid into a front booth and, unless I was mistaken, seemed glad to be alone. Of the three truckers—Manny, Moe, and Jack—Manny was the only one who lived close by, and it was never a surprise when he dropped in alone.
“Just coffee today, Vic,” he said. That was a surprise.
Manny pulled out a magazine that seemed to be about cars, then folded it up again and stuffed it in his jacket pocket. I decided to go up and talk to him once Trooper and I finished our business.
For now, I was feeling equal parts shame and relief that Trooper had stopped by.
“As to your original question,” he began, in typical waste-no-time fashion, “there wasn’t much for Doc Sherman to do. It was a very simple autopsy. There was no other family, and his sister, Kendra, wanted to take care of things as quickly possible.”
Trooper moved toward the edge of the seat, as if he’d come to say that and leave.
“I appreciate your stopping by,” I said. “I’m sorry I ragged on you. I feel like such a—”
“I’m sure you want to know where and when the service is?” He patted his pockets. “I wrote it down, but I can’t seem to find it.” How nice of him not to let me finish my self-recrimination. “I know it’s at the Chapel of Atonement, right outside of Petersville.”
Another petty thought crept into my mind: how appropriate for Kendra to choose a negative-leaning aspect of a religion, albeit a nondenominational one. Not a chapel for joy, or hope, or resurrection, or life. One might almost think she was atoning for something.
Trooper continued to pat himself down before finally giving up and easing his body closer to the aisle of the Bear Claw so it was half off the bench.
“Don’t worry about that,” I said. “I’m sure I can find out what time. I’ll see you there?”
“Sure enough.”
I walked with Trooper to the front of the diner, where Manny was still twisting his mug of coffee, staring into space. I’d noticed that now and then he’d looked toward the through window, either remembering Oliver or trying to decide which of the menu items looked good today. He himself did not look good, but I didn’t want to pry too much. The other guys, Moe and Jack, often teased him about his age and how it was about time he retired.
“Everything okay?” I asked him.
“I heard about Oliver and thought I’d stop by. The other guys were wondering if there was any kind of funeral. Me, too. We’d all like to go.”
I pointed to the seat opposite him. He nodded that it was okay for me to join him. “I was just talking about that with the trooper.”
And in the spirit of overlapping company, the over-the-door bell rang and Chris walked in.
I moved over to make room on my bench. “Sorry I was so—”
But Chris wouldn’t let me apologize any more than Trooper had.
“I don’t blame you, Charlie. She must know you were Oliver’s boss, that you made the trip all the way to Anchorage. You should have been on her list of invitees.”
“You talking about Kendra?” Manny asked. “She’s something else.”
I was startled. “You know Kendra?”
Manny looked like a guy who wished he could swallow his last remark. “Not really. I guess Oliver mentioned her.”
Oliver mentioned his sister to Manny but not to me?
What else did I not know about my murdered chef?
TEN
Chris had all the information we needed about Oliver’s service, which was at eleven the next morning. He’d made copies of the obituary as printed in the Bugle, along with directions to the chapel, and piled them at the register.
Manny took a couple of copies—“For the guys”—and left the diner.
“Curious,” Chris said, “that Manny knew more than you did about Oliver’s personal life.”
“No kidding.”
He handed me a copy of the Bugle announcement. I read out loud, summarizing parts of it.
Oliver Whitestone, 51, chef at the Bear Claw Diner in Elkview.
“He’d like that,” I told Chris. “He coveted the title ‘Chef’ as opposed to ‘Cook.’ He thought his Parisian credential earned him that, and my mom agreed. She always called him ‘Chef.’” I ran my finger down the page. “And that’s about all that’s here as far as educational or other background information.”
“Kendra must have written it, and in a hurry, too.”
Whitestone leaves behind his sister, Kendra Burke, of Anchorage.
“Interesting mishmash. She calls him her brother, but doesn’t use the name he had in her household, Quinlan.”
Few details were included about Oliver’s career path between Paris and Elkview. However, a photo of Oliver’s class at culinary school was attached. Three long rows of newly minted chefs, about fifty graduates in all, roughly equal numbers of men and women. They were dressed uniformly in dark pants, white jackets, and the tall white cylindrical hats they’d never wear again.
“Long caption,” I said. “No names of the students, just kind of an ad for the school.”
The largest network of culinary schools in the world, in twenty countries with tens of thousands of students.
“And on and on, and then the photo credit.”
Photo courtesy of Kendra Burke.
“Funny that she would choose a class picture. But I guess it fits with Oliver’s pride in his alma mater,” Chris said.
“Oliver never liked having his picture taken.”
“Who does?” Chris said, running his hand over his shaved head.
I set the sheet on the table next to the staples of Oliver’s trade. Some of them, Oliver shunned: the ketchup and mustard containers (good for nothing); the salt and pepper shakers (food on his platters was already perfectly salted and peppered). One item in particular that he did like: the menu he had designed, with his name at the bottom. OLIVER WHITESTONE, CHEF.
Oh, no. His name at the bottom.
I slid out of the booth. “Victor!”
“What’s up, boss?”
I held up a copy of the old menu and pointed to Oliver’s name. “The new menu. Has it already gone to the printer?”
“I took his name off,” Victor said. “I figured, leave that space empty for
now.”
I relaxed my shoulders and took a breath, thanked Victor for his alertness, and returned to the booth.
“Close call,” Chris said.
“I’m sure there’ll be many more.”
“I know you’re busy, but we do have a few more connections to track down. Lana, for one. Oliver’s ex. Did your mom have anything to offer on her? Last name?”
“Are you looking for Lana Bickford?” A voice from the kitchen. Nina. “I couldn’t help overhearing you.”
“Yes, we thought she might like to come to the service tomorrow,” said quick-thinking Chris, thus preserving the secrecy of our investigative work, such as it was.
“Was Oliver still in touch with her?” I asked, there no longer being any reason to pretend that I, Oliver’s boss, knew squat about his personal life. Maybe if I spent more time in the kitchen? Did Victor and Nina have significant others? Most likely, although they did both seem to be available to work anytime I needed them. What was Nina studying? I knew vaguely that she majored in business, but what in particular? Did she have any math courses? What were her favorite classes? What kind of music did she or Victor like?
I was giving myself a headache. I’d have to deal with this later.
“Well there was a thing a couple of months ago,” Nina said, when I’d almost forgotten my question. “Because Gert found out that Oliver sent Lana a birthday card. I think Lana left a thank-you message on his machine and Gert heard it.”
“Gert got it all wrong,” Victor said. “That’s all it was. Just a card. Gert made a big deal out of nothing.” He slammed a cleaver into sausage links in a way that said he might be having similar problems himself.
Who knew what went on in the kitchen? Not me. I was just the boss.
* * *
* * *
Lunch hour was pleasantly busy. Some diners had taken the obituary notices from the register counter as they came in and expressed condolences to whoever was serving them. Nina had also hung her sign on the front door so regulars would have warning about the erratic hours. She’d also posted a notice that the Bear Claw would be closed all day tomorrow and that everyone was welcome to join us at the Chapel of Atonement.
A climbing group whose plans had been thwarted due to weather conditions was engaged in trying to make other arrangements. Though most climbers used Talkeetna as a jumping-off point (so to speak), Elkview got its share of teams coming from or going to Denali or the iconic Moose’s Tooth formation, a nearly mile-long, low-angle, east-to-west summit ridge resembling that part of a moose’s anatomy.
I remembered as a kid studying the large photo of the range that my dad had hung behind the cash register. I would try to compare the photo of Moose’s Tooth with ones I found in a book, of a real moose’s tooth. I’d pester my dad with questions about how they were alike, or not, every week or so, with a different argument.
Those sessions came back to me.
“Why isn’t the mountain range called Moose’s Teeth?”
“I don’t know, honey.”
I’d shove a book under his nose. “See, there are lots of peaks, just like there are lots of teeth in the moose’s jaw.”
“I see what you mean, honey.” He’d then point out the main tooth.
“Still, maybe it should be called Moose’s Jaw.”
“Maybe so, honey.”
“Why couldn’t it be Elk’s Tooth? That sticks up, too.”
“I guess it could be, honey.”
“Who named it, anyway?”
Then would follow the history of the name from Mount Hubbard to Moose’s Tooth, which was the translation of the indigenous Athabaskan name for “peak.”
“Where’s the apostrophe?” I asked, once I looked it up in the encyclopedia and saw the official name from the United States Geological Survey. No apostrophe. “Mrs. Milbury says there should always be an apostrophe if it belongs to someone or something.”
My dad was a very patient man, but now and then he’d threaten to remove the photo if I didn’t stop asking questions.
Today, I learned the special reason that we were entertaining a group of three climbers—it seems they were only half of a six-person team. This half was no longer on speaking terms with the other half. I’d seen it before. People got stressed and touchy or even nasty, with fatigue, horrible weather, changes in elevation, being confined to a tent, and the uncertainties of success in reaching the summit, or in getting down from it.
As I served them, I heard this group congratulating itself on getting a flight out of the base camp during a short window of decent flying weather. The weather soon went lousy, to quote one of the diners, most likely stranding the other three in the base camp for a week or so.
Back in the kitchen, decidedly determined non-climbers Victor, Nina, and Rachel were whispering about how they wouldn’t in a million years head up a mountain in any weather, and in this case, they really didn’t know which half of the team to root for.
I snuck in a recommendation to the three diners for Annie’s inn, but they snickered and assured me that their SUVs were perfectly comfortable. And much warmer than a tent on the side of an icy mountain, I guessed.
A few stragglers I recognized from Beth’s tour group came in, still complaining about being stuck in Elkview when they should have been arriving at the arctic circle by now. I tried not to take offense.
I took a turn at working the counter, typically filled by singles who ended up talking to each other across three or four stools. Sometimes they were already friends or neighbors who happened to wander in at the same hour; other times strangers who struck up a conversation about a sporting event or when spring might finally arrive. Still others engaged me by sharing the reason they had ended up in an Elkview diner or where they were headed next.
I got all the advantages of human interaction from behind a counter without the worry that one of them might end the day with a DUI.
Chris had hung around, working on his laptop, nibbling at his BLT, which Nina knew exactly how to construct: with more B than L or T. He called me over at one point and turned his screen toward me.
“Lana Bickford has a blog,” he said.
I checked out the full website where Lana sold her hand-knit goods. Photos of custom-knitted socks, scarves, hats, and gloves with and without fingertips filled the pages. Another section was dedicated to her blog, with patterns, supplies, and instructions, plus the usual blogger’s take on life, doled out in weekly morsels. Apparently she was good at it: she’d won a blue ribbon at the state fair two years in a row, once for a reversible bargello jacket in blue tones, and again for a silvery beaded shawl with stitches so fine I’d have thought it was tatted lace.
There was no physical address, of course, but there was an email address. Chris and I composed an email giving her the details of Oliver’s service, “in case you haven’t seen the notice.” We went back and forth about whether to tell her we’d like to talk to her, and decided against it. If she showed up, we could approach her then; if not, we’d look further into getting an address.
The rush was over, and Chris and I packed up to go our separate ways. Except that Chris announced his nonnegotiable plan to pick me up at my house at six thirty this evening for the trip to the airport in Anchorage. Mom’s flight was due at nine fifty. Roads to the south were clear and we’d have plenty of time to get there and possibly pick up a bouquet of flowers, which were in short supply in town, but would most likely be available at the airport. I didn’t argue.
We’d make a good climbing team, I thought, but kept it to myself.
* * *
* * *
Benny was waiting at the door when I arrived home around three o’clock. I picked him up as soon as my hands were free and pressed him to my shoulder. I hated to tell him that I’d be leaving again in a few hours, but the good news was that I’d be bringing Mom back.
I kept myself engaged, preparing a cheese omelet for Benny—was he the only cat in the world who loved brunch? I chalked it up to the fact that he was very familiar with the diner menu. I made a batch of Mom’s new favorite cookie, salted caramel squares with chocolate chips. I straightened up the guest room, arranged a few magazines on the bedside table, and fluffed the pillows three times. Once Benny had eaten and groomed himself, he joined me in testing the mattress and walking over the magazines, making his favorite crinkling sound. Benny’s tail stood straight up, the end twitching. It was as though he knew his true love would be sleeping here soon.
It seemed forever since I’d seen my mom, though it was only a little more than two weeks. But so much had happened. Well, maybe only one thing had happened, but it was a huge thing. A violent thing that had shaken me.
The obituary in the Bugle brought many thoughts of Oliver. Good things that I hoped would eventually overshadow the petty disagreements we’d had recently. I was inspired by the pride he took in his work—I’d seen him dump an entire platter of food because of a pinch too much salt. I was impressed by the generosity he showed whenever I needed an errand run or an extra hour from him. And when Victor broke his ankle skiing, it was Oliver who set up a schedule of volunteers to get him to and from work, signing himself up for a large share of the rides.
Was anyone ever happy with how she’d treated someone who died suddenly? I wasn’t, and it was not Oliver’s fault.
Mousse and Murder Page 10
