by Doug Lutz
I thought through the logistics of such a switch. Access would have been the first problem for an outsider. I pressed George for more information.
“Did he have a key? A pass code? Could Cosmo have come into the kitchen during the night with no one knowing?”
George laughed. “I suppose he could have, in theory, but I know he didn’t.”
“How do you know? Were you with him all night?”
“No, but I know who he was with. Everyone in town knows. I’m surprised you don’t. He spent the night at the rail yard. Just ask Bailey Babbitt.”
I wondered if I had the wrong set of criminals. Maybe it wasn’t George in cahoots with Cosmo. Perhaps he was just collateral damage. The killer might have been not one, but two people. And Cosmo and Bailey qualified as two people.
The youngest competitors could have been running a good chef/bad chef operation, trying to shake the contest favorite down until Pierre finally ended up with a fatal ventilation slit in his chef’s coat.
“Chef Windsor, were you okay with cooking without a dishwasher this morning? What about all the pots and pans? Seems like a ton of work for one guy.”
The chef looked at me, his smirk telling me that of all people, an employee in a food service establishment should know better.
“As you know, Miss Kepler, most chefs do not start with a staff of any kind unless they work in a hotel or large restaurant. The Seagull’s Nest is a tiny operation and for many years I worked alone. Food served in the dining room was mine, good or bad. And the same could be said of the disaster left in the kitchen. All mine.”
George wasn’t boasting as far as I could tell. His words were those of a professional; proud of his work from years of paying dues by the heat of the stove. He lectured me at that point.
“And you will soon find out in your own place; there is a fine art to cleaning as you work. Only a novice or an arrogant fool would do otherwise. Besides, the lad had a point. If my meal disappointed, Cosmo not being in the kitchen meant the responsibility and accountability would be placed on my shoulders and no one else’s.”
“Then how did the salt end up in the sugar containers? The only other people here were your two children. You don’t think one of them did it?”
George froze when I mentioned his kids. I told George how everyone heard him discussing the matter in the kitchen earlier with his two wait staff members.
“George, I believed them when they said they supported you. I think they are just as motivated for you to win as, well, you are. I mean, we can check the video feed since I assume Grimsby had his camerawoman follow you everywhere, but I don’t see it being your kids. Cosmo may be the only logical option left here.”
George nodded, acknowledging my conclusion. “They are good kids. They know we have been struggling for money and the ten–thousand–dollar prize money would go a long way towards the purchase of our own place.”
“You want out from the Seagull’s Nest?”
“Not necessarily. This place has been good to us. It’s given me a paycheck, health care and insurance, and the needed time to develop my skills and ideas as a chef. But I still can’t say it is my place. The owners plan the menu themes and I have to accommodate. I want a place where I can evolve my cooking and not just serve cheesy shrimp and grits with a side of chicken on waffles.”
“If you were to build your own restaurant, where would it be?”
“The original plan, if it had worked out, was for me to go into partnership with the Babbitt family. I’d be a one–third owner of their old restaurant, the operating partner in fact, while they retired to become the silent partners. But the economic downturn hit them hard and fast. So fast, in fact, that I couldn’t raise enough money to help. Before any of us knew it, Pete had bought their restaurant and turned it into a fine dining establishment. The town’s first.”
Now it made more sense. George Harrison Windsor, kids or not, had a pretty solid motive to kill Pierre.
“You know, George, that is a great story, but as you said earlier, it makes you look like a suspect in Pierre’s murder. You now have what the police would call motive and opportunity.”
George’s original story told at lunch had given me hope of his innocence. Now, with such a compelling motive, perhaps I had judged him in error?
“I know. But I didn’t do it. As much as I want to win, and as much as I disliked Pete for finishing first in culinary school, under such unusual circumstances, I want my cooking to stand on its own merit. That, and I have an ex–wife who has been waiting for me to slip up. It’s an alimony thing, if you must know.”
“George Harrison Windsor, I didn’t realize you were divorced. I guess I always assumed you were single. When did that happen? And do tell about your wife. I’m not trying to be the neighborhood gossip, but I think this could have a major bearing on the case.”
I fibbed. George having to pay alimony was nothing unusual. Most of his competitors had money problems. Why enter if you didn’t need the prize?
“Ex–wife, if you please.” He opened his wallet and pulled out an old family photo.
“During better times,” he said, his tone still harboring disappointment.
“I see where your daughter gets her looks. She is beautiful; gets her eyes from her mother and her smile from you, George. I’m sorry it didn’t work out for you. How’d you meet?”
“It’s a horrid story, but she came from a well–off family. Opposites attract, as they say. They were vacationing here at the beach and she went, in her own words, slumming. We got together and before we knew it, she was expecting a child. One quick trip to Las Vegas and we were married. Stayed together for about two years.”
The man opened his wallet again and pulled out another photograph, this one taken on their wedding day. I could see the pride in his eyes, and the regret in his new wife’s half–hearted smile. Unrequited love felled another good man.
“Local country boy marries rich city girl,” I proclaimed. “Sounds like a great movie. But the country boy, in this case, didn’t ride off into the sunset to live happily ever after, did he, George? Isn’t that how it’s supposed to go?”
“Not in this flick,” George said. “After a while, she had her fill of living in a small town. I guess it’s understandable when your town has limited nightlife. No social scene, no Junior League, no debutante balls—nothing but a pancake supper at the firehouse every third Wednesday and an oyster roast once a month at the Lodge. And she wanted nothing to do with the Lodge. Why wouldn’t the big city with their dance clubs, all–night coffee shops, and nail salons on every corner draw you back?”
“And back she went,” I concluded.
“Like a rat to cheese,” he said. “She wanted me to go to the big South Beach Food and Wine Festival in Miami. I didn’t want to go, but she insisted. Our wholesaler even came by one day to talk up the event. His company had a gigantic display at the festival and they sponsored several parties with at least one celebrity chef attending each get–together.”
“So you went? What about the babies? Judging by their age, they must have been toddlers at best.”
“Yeah, my biggest mistake. Not the kids. My parents watched them so we could go to the event. I thought I might pick up some new ideas on how to present the classic Southern food we specialize in here at the Seagull’s Nest. And it would give my wife a few days of happiness in the sunshine. She could get a tan on the beach during the day, and soak in the neon lights at night. I thought we could go dancing at a different place every night. Boy, was I wrong.”
“Too modern for you, I suppose?” I was listening to the man ramble on about the food and wine festival, but was thinking more about the contest at hand and how George could have killed his school rival, Pierre St. Pierre. My attention snapped back when he mentioned his wife’s behavior at the festival.
“Did you say mermaid tattoo?” I asked.
“Yes. While I was attending the cooking demonstrations, she was off with the wholesaler
having her own little festival. A day later, she showed back up at our hotel room, sporting a massive hangover and a tattoo just below her waist.” George pulled up his shirt to show me the exact location of his ex–wife’s ink.
“No need for any more details, George. I assume the divorce came soon afterward?”
“After we separated for the state–mandated six months. I didn’t hear from her at all until a lawyer showed up one day with the divorce papers. They wanted me to sign on the spot, saying no trial would be necessary since it would be a non–contested divorce. The lawyer even tried to convince me it would be better for me to stay in town and work.”
“Did you?”
“I had to. He was right. A long, drawn–out court session would have caused me to lose what little income I had. The carrot on the dinner plate was my wife having to pay me alimony, kind of like hush money, instead of the other way around.”
“What about the kids? You still have them so it must have worked out?”
“Yes, I ended up with full custody, but it took a while. I did not sign right away. I told the man my attorney and I would discuss our position on the matter.”
George was talking crazy talk. “There aren’t that many attorneys in Seaview. And you mentioned money was tight. With a limited budget, who’d you see?”
The answer took me by surprise.
“Your grandmother. Velma has always been the most intelligent voice of reason in Seaview. I knew she could take a look at the paperwork and spot the traps if there were any.”
“And were there any?”
“Do cats hate dogs? There was one. But it was a big one. My wife’s lawyer had hidden a clause right in the middle of a standard paragraph. I think they were hoping I would just skim the document and assume the wording was generic.”
“So, I imagine the sentence had something to do with custody of the kids, yes?”
George’s ex–wife may not have wanted a life with him, but a mom leaving her kids would be a different story. I had no children, but if I did, I would not want to lose them for any reason.
“She only wanted them at full custody because she needed the tax write–off. This wasn’t spelled out verbatim in the document, but Velma still figured out their little plan. She even let it slip out that if the judge wasn’t too much of an idiot, I would be ordered to pay for the upkeep of, as she said, those stupid kids. That’s when the judge awarded me full custody.”
“Now, George. That may overstate the intent just a little. A mother’s love is hard to understand unless you’ve been one.”
“Says the girl without children.”
“Touché, sir, but you understand what I mean. I bet she loves her kids as much as you do. She, however, showed it in a very different way. And, at least she pays you alimony. Financial support with no marital stress. You ended up on the better end of this deal.”
I had to reinforce the positive with George before he ordered another waffle sandwich for mental relief. No Nero Wolfe was I, but I knew what an extra thousand calories could do to a person. Pfui.
“The alimony she pays might be better called her penance.” He laughed. “Just when I thought my life couldn’t get any stranger, I found out she and her new meal ticket got married a full week before our divorce was final.”
“But isn’t that illegal?”
George nodded. “Exactly. To keep me quiet, and to keep themselves from being charged with polygamy, she agreed to pay me the monthly alimony. I think she must have paid off the clerk to backdate the divorce since our case flew through the court system. I thought it was awesome at that point, since she absolutely hated it, but it was her own doing. Still hates it, I suppose. And that means I love it.”
“So you have the kids and a little income coming in aside from the paycheck from the Seagull’s Nest. But it’s still not enough to help buy your own spot?”
“No,” George said. “I didn’t have enough cash to buy the Babbitts’ restaurant, so I lost that chance. Now, there is a rumor the Seagull’s Nest may be up for sale soon.”
“So winning the prize money would be very nice, wouldn’t it?”
“That’s an understatement. A chef in my position would do anything to get that kind of payoff.”
“Anything? Even murder, Mr. Windsor?”
He hesitated. “I didn’t kill that arrogant man. All I want to do is win the contest. There are others with far better motives to kill.”
I checked my watch. It was almost dusk, and in a few minutes it would be time for Cosmo Finnegan to serve his contest food to the judges. I had only a block and a half to walk, but I didn’t want to delay any further.
“I am sure you are right, George. And hopefully I will have time to speak with all of them. But listen, I’d love to stay and talk more about your ex–wife, but Cosmo is already cooking and I need to keep my eye on him since, well, he’s a suspect, too, you know.”
“He’s a good kid, Winnie. I don’t think he had anything to do with the mix–up with the salt. I still say Grimsby is behind everything. Maybe even the murder. The man’s an open book—a checkbook, that is. He puts his allegiance anywhere he can make a buck.”
As I walked out, I turned around and asked, “George, you explained the alimony and the quick divorce, but you never told me why you two didn’t share custody of the kids. More blackmail, thanks to the polygamy?”
The man put down his ice cream. “I’m surprised your grandmother hasn’t told you the story. She read the paperwork and saw how much a sham it was. One call to her son—your father—and a week later we had enough evidence to show the judge that my wife was planning on having a nanny raise the kids on her family’s estate.”
“Growing up with privilege is hardly grounds to grant the other party full custody, George.”
“It is when the nanny is an undocumented worker being held like a slave. Velma asked your father to investigate and we could not believe what he and your mother found out. Your parents gathered enough evidence to swing the judge’s opinion in my favor. He awarded me full custody of the kids and then set his sights on prosecuting the family.”
George had just shared the longest short version of a story I had ever heard. I shifted my feet, edging more and more toward the ice cream store’s front door while he continued the tale. George came right out and asked the Commonwealth’s Attorney to prove that his ex–wife’s family was involved with human trafficking. The media, scenting a sensational story, published the accusation and eventual results from the investigation. The family suffered financially, but thanks to political connections somewhere, no one ended up in jail.
I flashed a smile and a wave as I left. I had no more spare time. I had to step up my pace if I wanted to get to Cosmo’s dinner service.
13
Three judges were sitting inside the parlor of the Seagull’s Nest. Grimsby was arguing with the camera operator, who reminded him she was a woman and to not address her as a guy. Judging from their scowls, I could see the two had been at it for a while. Grimsby was sunburn–red with rage; the woman’s dark green eyes were intense, sending emerald beams of scorn through the thick skull of her producer. It took more than a few intentional coughs from the judges to let them both know it was time to end the drama. Dinner was about to be served, and the church ladies were hungry.
The crowd settled down, and I noticed that not a sound emanated from the kitchen. It wasn’t like the old wood frame house had soundproof walls, or extra–thick insulation. You couldn’t drop a spoon in the kitchen without at least a few people taking notice. Either dinner was arriving by a pizza delivery person, or the kitchen staff had gone mute. I decided this aural omission needed investigation.
A slight push on the kitchen door allowed me to take a peek. Now, I admit I had prejudged Cosmo. At the fairgrounds, he dressed like all the other chefs; here on his own turf, I half–expected to see a young Bohemian man—one still sporting a short goatee, but now wearing cargo pants turned into a pair of shorts via a pair of sc
issors. In my mind’s eye, he would be a risk–taker in both fashion and food. Peering in, this was not the case. At all.
The kitchen was empty. However, through the kitchen’s back window, I could see a man working. He was in front of what appeared to be an outdoor oven, the soft red glow lighting only the crags and wisps of his facial features. At least I thought it was an oven. And I was sure it was a man. I opened the window pane a few inches, just enough for the breeze to blow little crooked fingers of smoke inside the kitchen. The dark figure stopped and turned, having heard the squeaks from the opened window. Our eyes met.
“Cosmo? Are you the same Cosmo Finnegan from the exposition hall?”
The man nodded, then went back to adjusting dials on another piece of equipment, a strange bit of machinery sitting off to the side of the oven. So this is the real Cosmo Finnegan. He wore full–length black trousers, not cut–off shorts, and military–style black boots and a black chef’s coat. No black beret, but the man’s hair was long, dark, and wavy. He was so retro, black was the new black.
His coat looked as different as his work environment, its left shoulder epaulet adorned with a red fourragere tipped with a shiny brass nib. His left breast pocket featured a rack of miniature military–style medals. I suppose Cosmo could have been a veteran, but his current look did not pay homage to someone once with a buzz cut.
The left sleeve caught my attention. Cosmo was wearing a leather gauntlet, a glove reaching halfway up his forearm. The accoutrement gleamed thanks to a bank of miniature lights, knobs, and switches. His look screamed “video game controller gone awry.”
“Yes, ma’am. I figured since I wasn’t on display like one of Grimsby’s puppets at the fairgrounds, I could revert to my standard wardrobe. Not to worry, though, the food will be the same. Better, in fact, since I get to use my equipment. That crap supplied by MegaFood was—well, it was crap. No easy way to say it, but that’s the truth.”
