by D. J. Lutz
Captain Larson scratched his head, trying to absorb all the information. “Winnie, there were five wine glasses, one for each competitor, including an underage cook.” He gave Bailey a stern look of disapproval.
“Like I said, I wouldn’t write out any tickets just yet, Captain,” I said. “True, there was one glass with Bailey’s lipstick on the rim, but had you run a breath test on everyone you would have found this lass innocent of imbibing. What she was guilty of, if you could call it a crime at all, was smooching with Cosmo behind the curtain leading to the break room. When I examined the security feed from the break room camera, I noticed about five minutes’ worth of nothing. The camera filmed an empty room.”
“But the cameras were motion sensitive,” Parker said.
“Yes they were, Parker. But what we don’t see because of the poor resolution, and the angle of the camera, is that the curtains are ruffling just enough to set off the motion sensor. If you zoom in, you can see four shoes at the bottom of the curtain. Judging by their alternating positions, it would appear that those two pairs of shoes were in very, ahem, very close to each other. Wouldn’t you say so, Cosmo?”
Before the red blush could fade from Cosmo’s cheeks, I continued.
“A few minutes later you see that Drake Grimsby brings in the lot, offering them a celebratory toast for surviving the first two rounds and making it to the finals. My grandmother, a teetotaler since the days of Prohibition, and Bailey were the only two who abstained from the alcoholic warm–up. As you would say, Captain, it’s on the tape.”
“But the lipstick?” Parker asked.
“Do I need to spell it out for you, Parker?” I asked. Poking the wooden spoon into his chest. “Maybe I’ll show you later, if you are lucky.” The crowd chuckled. Even J.B. gave his young officer an elbow in the ribs.
“The murder; you haven’t explained the murder,” everyone chanted.
“Okay, calm down, people,” I said. “Continuing on, the toast is now over and everyone is at their station cooking or baking or, well, whatever.” I gave Cosmo a wink. He smiled until Bailey popped him in the side, too, as if to tell him this was not the time.
“Pierre,” I said, “being the rude, crude, and socially unacceptable jerk he was, boasted. Am I right?”
Even the judges nodded in agreement.
I moved forward with my analysis of the timeline. “He has secured all the apples in a vain attempt to stop Velma. And to add salt to the wound—no pun intended—Pierre even had, if you look at the video long enough, a toy panel van painted red with the initials CF hand–stenciled on the side. Cosmo, I think that little inside joke was for your benefit, so to speak. He knew everyone had a button to push, and like a kid in an elevator, he had tried to push them all.”
Parker walked over to the playback monitor. His hand hovered over the play button, just like we planned. “Now, Winnie?”
“Yes, Parker. Now would be a good time.”
As the video started, I became the de facto narrator, giving a play–by–play of the actions of each of the players in the small–town drama.
“Notice,” I said, “that just before noon, the camera is sweeping back and forth, trying to get action shots of each chef. Very good camera work, ma’am.” I knew the woman had skills and wanted to give her props, especially since her boss never seemed to do so.
“Then, we see Drake, off in the upper corner of the frame. Do you see him there? He is taking a phone call. By the looks of how he slammed his phone down, it must not have been good news. What was the phone call about, Mr. Grimsby?”
“It was my contact at MegaFood. They were considering canceling their sponsorship if Pierre didn’t win. Worse, they disliked Pierre complaining online about the processed foods in the pantry. Mega directed Pierre to win and be nice about it. That was a tall order, considering the man’s ill temperament.”
I pressed pause on the video and walked over to the open–air wire shelves. Reading can label after can label, I said, “Pierre was all about using the best ingredients, right? Let’s see what was stocked in the pantry.” After a quick perusal of the ingredients in a can of peas, I confirmed my suspicions. “Not organic at all. I can’t even pronounce some of this stuff.”
Parker hoisted a can of green beans in the air for all to see. “This one has artificial ingredients and genetically modified substances.”
I stacked more canned staples on a table. “So do this one, and this one. How about this one? Yes, it does, too. In fact, Mr. Grimsby, all of these cans have GMOs, don’t they?”
The MegaFood representative, prize money in hand, stepped forward. “Now just a minute here. Yes, Miss Kepler, they do. But that’s not a crime. The labels are on the cans. Anyone who can read could see it. What does this have to do with anything?”
Grimsby rushed to stand by his benefactor. “Let’s not get out of control here. We all know MegaFood is a respected company, one that supplies food to almost every major restaurant in America. And we are glad they did not pull their sponsorship, instead opting to be here in person today, putting little Seaview on the map.”
“Oh, let’s calm down again,” I said. “Taking it from the top, we know Pierre died in the break room, but no one was there with him when it happened. The video shows everyone on stage at the presumed time of death. Everyone except Cosmo and Bailey. Look at the video, right about here.”
A quick flick of my eyes toward the camera operator signaled her to stop the playback a few minutes before the demise of Pierre St. Pierre. The two lovebirds could be seen leaving the stage, walking back to the break room.
“The camera work is rock–steady on this. We can see the entire stage from the wings; everyone is accounted for except those two.” I gave a thumbs–up to the smiling technician. She knew her job well.
Captain Larson looked at me. “I suppose I shouldn’t get my handcuffs out yet, should I, Miss Kepler?”
“Not yet, Captain.” I went on with my explanation. “We can see Cosmo and Bailey walking back to the break room; in fact, it looks like they are walking apart to not arouse any suspicion of their intent. Now let’s stop the main video and switch to the security feed in the break room; Parker, forward it to the same time.”
Parker, with the help of the camerawoman, worked on the playback machine controls, synchronizing the two tape feeds. Being closer to the television monitor than the rest of us, he spotted what I had hoped to see.
“Hey, Winnie. We see these two leaving the stage, but they never made it into the break room. The monitor shows nothing!”
“Exactly,” I said, flipping my spoon and holding it like a pointer. “But look down at the curtain. There is something, isn’t there? It seems there are two pairs of shoes again. The motion of the curtains activated the camera, just like it did before the opening toast. Now, five minutes later, we should see Pierre come in for his last, and final, break. But first things first. Parker, when do we see Cosmo and Bailey return to the stage?”
Parker starts both feeds going again, now synced up in real time. “I see them coming back . . . now.” He pointed to the couple walking back on stage and returning to their respective work stations.
“And Pierre?” I asked.
“Here. You can see Pierre walking into the break room. And that means Cosmo and Bailey were already back on stage, so it couldn’t have been them. They’re innocent.”
“Thank you, Parker. My thoughts, exactly,” I said. “So if Velma didn’t have a motive, and George had too much to lose, and Cosmo and Bailey were more interested in lip–locking than pig–sticking, how did Pierre St. Pierre get a mortal knife wound in his back? Could it have been the now–proven–unethical show producer, Mr. Drake Grimsby?”
You could hear the judges gasp, many of them saying they never trusted the man from the start. The Captain gave me another look. This time, however, he did not even bother to touch his handcuffs.
It was time for me to make Grimsby squirm. I had decided on the spot that this was
a necessary and fun part of concluding my investigation. He saw my stare and knew something bad was coming his way. Bad for him, hilarious for the rest of us.
“You know, Mr. Grimsby, I’ve said this before, but sir, your camerawoman is awesome. You should have treated her better. Maybe you were trying to overcompensate for your lack of skill and talent? Hard to say, since I haven’t seen you do anything worthy of being called talent.”
I paused for a moment, realizing I now had my proof. “And pictures never lie. They will make great pieces of evidence in court.”
I motioned toward the video, proving my point. “Here, for instance, we get a clear shot of the entire stage; all the competitors can be seen, and the camera never moves. This view shows everything we need to see, except one thing.”
I pivoted toward the woman standing next to the camera tripod and finished my sentence. “Except one thing. One thing is missing, isn’t that right, ma’am?”
Everyone turned to look at the camera operator, wondering what I had meant by my cryptic statement. I continued, “When I first arrived, I remember seeing the remote control units for the video equipment. There is a second set of buttons on the controller, down at the bottom. They’re used to control the camera, aren’t they?”
The woman had a quizzical look. She answered, saying yes, the controller had the ability to work the camera. I think she felt uneasy with the attention focused on her. She went into a defensive stance, positioning herself halfway behind the camera’s tripod, and then finally spoke up in her own defense.
“Miss Kepler, I don’t know where you are going with the innuendo, but this controller is essential. It allows one operator to control several cameras simultaneously. It’s a must–have piece of gear when you are dealing with a cheapskate like Drake Grimsby.”
“And why do you think he couldn’t afford more people on the crew?”
“He told me he barely had the money to pay me, let alone enough to hire another operator. In fact, this jerk still owes me. He’s lucky I’m still here with the right stuff. And forget about post–production work, Grimsby. You can find another company for that. After we’re done shooting here, you’ll need to pay up to get the hard drive; then I’m out of here.” Grimsby simmered, climbing to a boil. “I should never have come here or taken this job in the first place.”
I raised my free hand, palm down to calm the situation.
“Oh, I imagine you would have been here one way or another,” I said. “You needed to convince your ex–husband to lower the amount of alimony, isn’t that right—Mrs. Windsor?”
I slapped the wooden spoon down on the desk, cracking a sharp sound that caused most everyone to jump. “That’s right. I noticed your green eyes were a dead–on match to the family photo George carries in his wallet. And there’s no denying you are his daughter’s mother.”
George stepped up to get a better look at the disguised woman. I stopped him from getting too close, saying, “George, what do you think? Am I right?”
He looked the woman straight in the eye. “It is you. What are you doing here? Why didn’t you tell me?”
The woman remained silent, although the stern look of silent contempt told everyone in the room that my guess was spot–on.
I put my arm around George like a big sister. “Oh, George. This is where it gets interesting. But it may not be too much fun for you to hear.”
I faced the woman again. “Care to explain, Mrs. Windsor? You are clearly not here just to shoot video footage. That was a ploy to get close to your victim. Tell us why you killed Pierre St. Pierre.”
People milled about, checking with each other to ensure they had heard me correctly. The woman, now stepping away from the camera tripod, walked up to George. Though facing him, she addressed me.
“It’s not Mrs. Windsor anymore, you idiot. I’m now Mrs. H.G. Warren. My husband Harding and I live in Richmond.” Her Southern accent was now more pronounced and manufactured.
“Where he works for MegaFood, I imagine?” I asked.
Before the woman could answer my somewhat rhetorical question, Grimsby flipped through the vast number of pages attached to his clipboard. He tapped his finger on one of the last pages. “Warren? Hey, that’s the name of the guy I’ve been talking to. I thought it was his first name, not his last. Are you sure you have this straight, Winnie?”
“Dead sure. My guess is that it all came down to alimony, isn’t that right, Mrs. Warren?”
I gave Captain Larson the high sign he had been waiting for. Unfortunately, after so many false starts, the law man did not believe me and stood motionless.
Mrs. Warren confessed. “Yeah, I killed Pierre. Had to. He didn’t follow the plan to beat old George here and take the prize money. I knew George was trying to buy the bird’s nest or whatever it’s called, and needed the extra money. Without the prize money, I could have negotiated a better long–term alimony deal in trade for short–term investment money. But no, once the contest started, Pierre didn’t want to play the game by our rules.”
“So Pierre, he wanted more money?” I asked.
“No. In fact, after the contest started he told me he wanted none of the money. The pompous, high–and–mighty culinary genius had a change of heart about our line of food products. Genetically modified food, the same stuff he had been serving in his restaurant, successfully I might add, was no longer welcome in his kitchen. I almost killed him on the spot when he yelled about the pantry items.”
“So it was more than just alimony. You couldn’t let a celebrity chef like Pierre St. Pierre badmouth your husband’s company. You had become accustomed to spending your husband’s generous paycheck, and poor publicity might affect his future with MegaFood. Isn’t that right?”
“Look, Kepler. I don’t know what type of idealistic world you live in, but for the rest of us, everything works in dollars and cents. I’ve married a rich man who I intend to keep that way. No corpulent fry cook was going to ruin my meal ticket.”
“So you had to come up with Plan B, isn’t that right?”
“I had to come up with a Plan B. That’s when I made the decision to kill him and blame George.”
I nodded. “Why reduce the alimony, when you can eliminate it when George goes to prison. My, what an ingenious plan. But I suppose it is ingenious only if you don’t get caught.”
“That would have been the desired outcome, yes. But I hadn’t planned on a private detective’s daughter getting involved. When I heard that Velma was your grandmother, I then knew who your parents were. And it would have been my luck that they taught you a few tricks of the trade. I had to leverage your time and effort away from George. I had an associate in Richmond find some of your friends and force them to jump into your life at full speed, dangling an irresistible carrot in front of you. At least we got our money back on that waste of time.”
“I figured as much. Too many coincidences. So when you found out that my ex–roommate, Francine, was in a relationship—a serious relationship—with her boss, Tricia, you knew you had something to work with. It was so simple. Use the threat of exposure to force the girls to drive to Seaview and organize a job fair at the Cat and Fiddle. You knew I would want to help them and my grandmother.”
Needing to defend herself, Tricia said, “Hey, I’m sorry for my part in all of this, but I want you to know your grandmother being a suspect was not my doing.”
“Apology accepted, and no, it wasn’t,” I said. “We can thank my grandfather for that one.”
Grandma’s complexion turned pink from embarrassment. “Winnie, what does he have to do with this case? He passed away over ten years ago.”
“Oh, Grandma, I think you know. But it’s not what everyone else is thinking, to be sure.”
Turning to the others, I continued my explanation. “The reason Velma was the focus of Captain Larson’s investigation was that he wanted no one else to look into her, and eventually his, private life. He knew if the VCID, for example, had done a complete investigati
on, they would have uncovered the relationship between my grandmother, her husband—meaning my grandfather—and the good Captain here. And what a sordid tale it would be.”
“But I never had a relationship with J.B. He’s an okay guy,” Grandma said, looking at the police chief. “We never even went out. In fact, he never asked me.”
“No, I suppose not,” I said. “But once, a long time ago, he told someone he wanted to ask. When Grandpa was working up the courage to ask the prettiest girl in school to the senior prom, old J.B. here almost to beat him to the punch.”
“That’s ridiculous, Winnie. Where did you hear a tale like that?” Captain Larson said.
I ignored the question. “And judging by the large biceps you have, Captain, muscles gained through years of working out at the gym, you two young lads settled the argument by using one of the oldest tests of machismo there is—the arm wrestling contest. Winner got to ask Velma to the dance.”
I looked for any sign of agreement from the Captain. “How am I doing, so far?”
“He was a field hand,” Larson admitted. “I worked in town at the newspaper, setting up the tiny lead slugs for the next day’s edition. Your grandfather, however, worked on the farm, lifting bales of hay and straw, shoveling slop for the pigs every day. He had no problem beating me. You’re right, Winnie. Because of that one match, I lost the chance to date the first love of my life. I vowed never to let a lack of physical strength get the best of me again.”
J.B. Larson took a deep breath, trying to calm down. In a softer, and slower voice, he said, “Velma, I didn’t want to hurt you in all of this, but I couldn’t let my secret out of the bag. My career would have been over. No one would want a weak police officer on the beat. And as a police captain? No way.”
Grandma blushed. “Doc Jones was right. He stopped by yesterday and on the spur of the moment mentioned the arm wrestling contest. He took me so much by surprise, I almost passed out choking on my tea. When I came to, I was already in the ambulance, looking at my granddaughter.”
The more–than–embarrassed police captain responded to all the suppositions being bantered about. “Well, I wanted to ask. I should have just asked.”
