Death Over Easy

by Tawdra Kandle

  “It can be healing. Cooking together.” I dumped the last bit of diced peppers into my bowl and reached for a bag of potatoes to begin peeling before I grated them. “After my nana died, my friend Al—he owned this diner, and he was my dear friend. I still miss him. One of the ways he got me out of the house and helped me begin to move on was by asking me to cook with him, right here in this kitchen.”

  “Yeah, exactly.” Charlie passed me the large grater without me even asking for it. “By the time I was in my senior year of high school, I’d taken over making most of our meals. Reg cooked in the bar, but I handled all the food upstairs. One night, I was telling him about this guidance counselor at school who was trying to get me to decide what I was going to do after graduation. I had decent grades, and I worked hard, but I knew the money wasn’t there for college. So we had this cooking show on TV—it was an old Julia Child, actually—and Reg poked me in the arm and said, ‘That’s what you should do. Go to school for cooking.’”

  “That was the first time you’d considered it?”

  She shrugged. “I guess. Cooking was fun, you know? It wasn’t anything I thought I could make into a career. But when Reg said that, I started looking into what was around, and it turned out one of the most highly-rated culinary schools is connected with our community college system. I qualified for a full-ride, and so . . .” She tossed me a half-smile over her shoulder. “I got to go to college and to culinary school.”

  “What did you plan to do after graduation? You said you’d just finished a little while before Reg . . . passed.”

  “I was going to keep helping him at the bar. I’d had some vague ideas about maybe adding a restaurant there, but I wasn’t sure about that, and neither was he. At school, they put the fear of God into us about how cutthroat this business can be. A bunch of people who graduated with me went down and got jobs at the resorts, and they all work pretty much non-stop.” She finished her last potato and reached for some onions. “I don’t mind working hard, but I don’t want to be used, and I like having control over my hours. I don’t want to be screamed at, either. Not when I know I’m doing my best.”

  “Hmmm.” I thought of my father’s restaurant up in New York. My dad had often taken on new culinary school graduates as interns, letting them train under him. I realized how lucky those baby chefs had been; that kitchen was always a nurturing environment, as my father had the biggest, softest heart around. Charlie would have loved working with him.

  The ringing of a bell over the door interrupted my thoughts. I must’ve forgotten to lock it; if it were Lucas coming in now, I was about to face a scolding. He was on top of all of us to be more aware and more careful in the wake of the local murders.

  But it wasn’t his face that peered through the swinging kitchen door. Instead, Nichelle grinned at me.

  “Hey, ladies. I stopped by your place with a delivery, and Lucas told me where you were. Need a hand?” Nichelle was a passionate amateur chef; it had been her appreciation for my work as a food columnist that had cemented our friendship initially.

  I glanced at Charlie, but she only shook her head. “Once you finished grating those, most of the scut work is done. I’ll start frying up the potatoes. Other than mixing up the hash browns, we’re done here tonight, if you want to take a break.”

  Nichelle raised one eyebrow at me. “I seem to recall that we left a bottle of red wine here the last time I came by. Think it’s still hidden in the pantry?”

  Laughing, I rinsed off my hands and dried them on a towel. “Probably. We hid it pretty well. Go on out and find us a table, and I’ll bring out the bottle and some glasses.”

  After the door had swished closed again, I turned to Charlie. “Are you sure about this? I don’t want to dump all the work on you.”

  “Yeah, it’s good. If you don’t mind handling the hash browns . . .” She frowned, her eyebrows knitting together, and then her eyes lit up. “I just had an idea. I read about it somewhere a few weeks back—we don’t have to deep fry the hash browns. We can use a waffle iron.”

  I cocked my head. “A waffle iron? That’s—” I thought about it for a moment. “That’s brilliant. We have a Belgian waffle iron here. Using that would let us essentially make four hash browns at a time. And those we could do ahead of time, too.”

  “A lot less mess than using the deep fryer, too.” Charlie gave one brief, decisive nod. “I’ll start pouring those while I do the home fries on the stove top. Go ahead out with Nichelle. I’ve got this.”

  Leaving the kitchen in the middle of a job gave me a strange feeling, but I hadn’t had a real visit with Nichelle in a while. So I found our bottle of wine, snagged two goblets from the case of glassware and went to join my friend.

  She was ensconced in a booth, scrolling through her phone. “Bring that right over here, girlfriend. I’ve had a long day, and I earned this break.”

  Chuckling, I poured each of us a glass and sat down across from her. “Slainte mhaith.” Out of habit, I used the Irish toast my grandmother had favored before I touched my goblet to Nichelle’s.

  “Yeah, cheers.” Nichelle gave me a crooked grin and took a sip. “So how’s it going in there with girl wonder?”

  “Actually, if you’d gotten here about thirty minutes earlier, you’d have thought I was going to wring her neck. She was criticizing my potato chopping technique.”

  Nichelle’s eyes went wide as she clapped a hand to her heart. “The nerve! And yet she still breathes?”

  “Yeah. Charlie doesn’t pull any punches, and tact isn’t quite her thing, but she’s a damn good chef. I’m lucky to have her working with me.” I realized it was true even as I said it.

  “Is this going to be a permanent thing, then?” Nichelle quirked one eyebrow my way.

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe.” I traced one finger in a circle around the base of my wine glass. “Lucas thinks it would be a good idea for me to have someone who could cover for me, in case we have to be . . . out of the loop for a while.”

  “Ah.” She was silent for a few minutes. “You okay, Jackie? Anything you need to tell me?”

  I drew in a deep breath. “I really can’t. Not yet.” Maybe not ever. Trying to explain to my friend why I would be leaving town wasn’t going to be easy.

  “Are you sick? Or are you pregnant?” She leaned forward, her face intense.

  “What?” I frowned. “No. Neither. What would make you think that?”

  She tilted her head. “Oh, I don’t know. You’ve been acting a little weird lately, like there’s something you want to tell me but can’t. And then Charlie appears and moves in with you, and suddenly you’re talking about being out of the loop. In my experience, that means you’re either thinking about treatments or maternity leave.”

  “I guess I can see that. But no, I’m neither knocked up nor sick. Thank God.” Out of instinct and habit, I crossed myself, and Nichelle did the same.

  “Then where do you think you’re going? Why would you be unavailable and need someone like Charlie?”

  The answers I had weren’t going to make any sense to Nichelle, but I also knew I couldn’t placate her with non-information. We’d never lied to each other before, even if I hadn’t always been forthcoming who and what Lucas was. That topic was an area where by mutual, tacit agreement, we both avoided saying or asking anything that might force me into having to lie.

  I stalled a little, topping off our wine. “Nichelle . . . if something were to happen, do you have a safe place to go? You and George and the kids?”

  She sat back, studying me. “Define safe. Are we talking, like, weather? A tornado shelter? Or terrorism? Level with me, Jackie. What are you and Lucas involved in?”

  “I wish I could tell you everything, but it would put you in danger. More danger. Even if I did tell you, you wouldn’t believe me.”

  “Try me.” She folded her arms over her chest, leaning them on the table.

  “God, Nichelle. Please. Just trust me on this one, you
don’t want to know.”

  “Jackie, I deliver bags of blood to your boyfriend every three days. He’s not a medical professional, and as far as I can see, he’s not sick. It’s not my job to ask what he does with that blood, but I have thoughts. Hunches. In my line of work, I deal with a lot of weird-ass shit, and I try not to think about it. I’d never ask you to betray a confidence, but right now, you’re bringing me something. And you’re saying things that make me think you’re trying to warn me. I need more. I need to know what I might be dealing with.”

  I nodded. “Okay. That’s fair.” I wracked my brain, trying to think of the best way to frame a serious warning without making Nichelle feel like she had to report me to the authorities as a mental case. “There’s the potential of something serious going down in the near future. It won’t be like anything you’ve ever experienced, although at first, I guess you might think it’s nothing more than another terrorist attack or political unrest. Honestly, I’m not really sure what might happen in the beginning. But if things go south, you need to have a plan. That’s what I want you to understand.”

  “What about you and Lucas? Where will you be?”

  I forced a smile. “I’m not sure, but it won’t be around here. We’re going to do everything in our power to make sure things don’t get to the point where you’d be in danger. We want to stop the danger before it reaches the rest of the world. But in order to do that, we’re going to have to go away for a little while, I think. Unless something changes dramatically in the next month or so, Lucas and I have to leave. With any luck, we’ll be back and you won’t even understand what really happened. I can’t leave town, though, without knowing you all are as prepared as you can be.”

  She stared at me for several minutes. “Okay. Tell me what we need to do.”

  I hadn’t gotten very far along the way in this process. “When—if—the world starts to spin out of control, you’re going to need more than shelter and physical safety. You’re going to need to be protected from evil.” I hesitated. “The church. In an emergency, could you go to a church?”

  “Sure. We could go to St. Crispin’s.” Her face darkened. “So that’s what we’re talking about, huh? Spiritual warfare kind of stuff?”

  I reached across the table to lay a hand on her arm. “There’s evil in the world, Nichelle, and it has the potential to be serious. Like . . . world-ending serious. If I’m not around to help, I need to know you’re going to be okay. Or at least that you’ll have a plan.” I worried my lip between my teeth. “And I also want to ask you for a favor. I won’t be here to keep my eye on Mrs. Mac. If things get dicey, would you watch out for her?”

  “You know I will.” She nodded. “What about Charlie?”

  “Yeah, that was going to be my next question. Lucas and I are hoping she’ll stick around to oversee the diner and our houses while we’re away, and so she’ll be there for Mrs. Mac on a daily basis and to take care of Makani. It’s only in case of an emergency that I’d need you to jump in as backup.”

  “Of course. I love Mrs. Mac and Makani, and Charlie . . . well, we’ll rub along. Don’t worry about us. I’ll cover you here.”

  “Thanks, Nichelle. I appreciate that. I don’t know what’s going to happen, but I feel better with you in charge around here. I’m hoping that I still have a life to come back to afterward.”

  “Are you sure there isn’t anything else I can do?” Nichelle smirked. “I’m not a bad chick to have on your side in a fight. Just saying.”

  “Hey, if you didn’t have little kids, I’d be recruiting you. I have no doubts of your mad skills. But George and the children need you. So it’s better that you keep the home front safe for now.” I paused. “Hey, Nichelle. As long as we’re asking and answering questions, how did you get involved in this business? I mean, I get the feeling there’s a story there.”

  She smiled at me, her eyes glittering. “Oh, there is. But it’s not one for tonight. Tell you what—when all of this is over, you and I will sit down with a bottle of scotch and we’ll tell all our stories. You can spill the truth on Lucas, and I’ll come clean on my career.”

  “It’s a date.” I raised my wine glass and tapped it against Nichelle’s again. “Save the world, drink some scotch.”

  “If that’s not an incentive for getting the job done, I don’t know what is.” Nichelle slid out of the booth and stood up, stretching. “Now let’s go invade Charlie’s kitchen and make her have a glass of wine, too. I’m bound and determined to see that girl unwind a little before the world goes up in a ball of flames.”

  “JACKIE, CAN YOU bring out another tray of home fries?” Charlie poked her head into the kitchen of the Golden Rays Community Center. “They’re going fast. I hope we made enough.”

  “It’ll be fine.” I bent over the oven and lifted out the aluminum pan. “If we run short, we’ll just push the hash browns.”

  “True.” She was flushed, and with her short hair tucked behind her ears, she looked about fourteen years old. “They all seem to like the food, though.”

  “Of course they do. We made an incredible brunch. Here’re the home fries. Now, do you need me to take over the omelet station for a little while?”

  “No, I’m good.” She took the pan from me and back through the door. “I’ll let you know if we need anything else.”

  I spent some time chopping a few more omelet ingredients to send out to Charlie, just in case, checked on the rest of food and put on a new pot of coffee. The noise level in the dining room swelled, and I peeked out the door to see what was going on.

  The line for food was still moving, but across the room, I saw a line of women sashaying through the door. A splattering of applause spread over the crowd, and someone called out, “Welcome to our Ms. Florida Senior Living Pageant contestants!”

  Mrs. Mac brought up the rear. She walked with a deliberate grace, glancing left and right, putting into practice the royal wave she’d been rehearsing for the last week. Her gray hair was piled high on her head, and she wore a long dress of glittering silver that seemed particularly incongruous with the morning light shining in through the windows. Nichelle had helped with her makeup, and from this distance, I had to admit that she looked at least five years younger.

  The contestants made their way to the reserved table at the front of the room. A couple of the organizers and other volunteers approached the buffet line and began filling plates so that the ladies didn’t have to move from their seats to enjoy the food. I grinned, shaking my head.

  “Well, we got them here, all safe and accounted for.” Behind me, Lucas slid an arm around my waist and looked over my shoulder, following my gaze. “No murders in a week.”

  “I don’t know how much we had to do with it,” I said wryly. “We kept our eye on Mrs. Mac, but that didn’t do anything for the remaining eleven ladies. I think it was just luck . . . or else the other murders were coincidence.”

  “What about Mrs. Mac’s phone calls?” He arched a brow at me.

  “Who knows? Maybe it was just circumstantial. At any rate, the whole thing seems to be over now. The only worry we have is what to do when Mrs. Mac doesn’t win the crown. We’re going to have to be there to make her feel better. Help her drown her sorrows.”

  “What makes you think she won’t win?” Lucas’s lips tipped up into a half-smile. “She’s got as much chance as the others, right?”

  “In theory, yes. But you haven’t heard her sing. And once the judges do, I’m afraid it’s going to mean the end of her pageant dreams, once and for all.”

  “Okay. I see what you mean.”

  Next to me, Lucas slumped down in his folding chair, his face a study in pain. “I didn’t think . . . was that the love song from South Pacific or the mating call of a wildebeest? Good God.”

  On my other side, Nichelle sighed. “On the plus side, she looked damned gorgeous while she was, uh, warbling.”

  “That’s true.” I leaned over to see Charlie. “How did she seem when you le
ft her right before she went on stage? You were the last one to see her.”

  “She was typical Mrs. Mac. You know, confident and positive she’s going to win. She was only worried that the women who haven’t performed their talent yet were going to be so disheartened that they wouldn’t go on.”

  I glanced up at the stage, where a rather large lady was preparing to play the harp. “That doesn’t seem to be an issue.”

  “She’s going to lose, isn’t she?” Lucas sighed. “You were right. We better stock up on cheap wine and chocolate.”

  “I think I’ll sneak backstage and check on her.” I stood up and hunched over so as not to block the view of those sitting behind us. “She really did have her heart set on winning this. I want to make sure she’s able to lose gracefully and not stage a coup.”

  Lucas grimaced. “Good luck with that.”

  I groped my way through the darkened rows of chairs that made up the make-shift theater in the community center’s all-purpose room. In spite of Mrs. Mac’s claims otherwise, this pageant was run on a shoestring budget. The brunch had been cleared away, tables folded and chairs reconfigured before the curtain went up on the small stage at the far end of the room. The pageant officials had even sweet-talked me into agreeing to cater the brunch at cost. I hadn’t been happy about it, but out of respect for Mrs. Mac and Charlie, I’d said yes.

  The backstage area was actually a glorified hallway. Most of the contestants were seated in the front row of the audience to support their fellow performers, but I hadn’t seen Mrs. Mac emerge to take her own seat there. I was afraid that she was sulking back here, too mortified to show her face after the debacle of her song.

  There weren’t any windows in that hall, and the light was very dim. I slipped in through the door, scanning the narrow room to find my friend. A rolling closet along the wall was stuffed with dresses, and the rest of the floor was littered with boxes and various props. I spotted the guitar that one would-be queen had played before Mrs. Mac’s turn next to a music stand with papers scattered on it.