Rosemary's Gravy

by Melissa F. Miller

  “Thanks.” I settled myself back into the soft leather seats while he slid behind the wheel and revved the engine as if daring the police to come out and give him a ticket for anticipated speeding. I just shook my head. Then I had a thought. “Are you sure you’re okay to drive?”

  He shot me a look. “I’m fine. Why?”

  “I thought I smelled booze on your breath.”

  “Oh. My dad and I were, uh, honoring Amber’s memory.”

  Uh-huh. More like celebrating the fact that the wicked witch was dead. But I just nodded. “Oh.”

  “I had one drink, hours ago. Honest.”

  As he peeled out and merged into the traffic flowing by, I said, “Thank you for coming to get me.”

  He slipped a pair of sunglasses out of the visor and onto his face. “No thanks needed, Rosemary. You never should have been dragged down there in the first place, I know you didn’t kill Amber.”

  I bit my lip, hesitating. Finally, I decided to go ahead and ask. “How can you be so sure? Do you know who did?”

  He glanced over at me but I couldn’t read his expression from behind his shades. The buttery leather suddenly felt hot and sticky against my back.

  After a moment, he answered in a flat, emotionless tone. “No, I don’t. But I’m sure it wasn’t you. I’ve seen Amber berate you plenty of times. You never get upset by it. You never get upset by anything, and I don’t think your equanimity is an act. I just think you’re not that kind of person.” He flashed a smile and returned his attention to the traffic ahead.

  It was true. I did maintain my cool when Amber was ripping into me, and, while I wouldn’t say it was an act, it certainly didn’t come easy. I just couldn’t afford to lose my job. As a result, I did more loving kindness meditation while working for a Hollywood actress than I’d ever done while living with my parents.

  That thought made me realize for the first time that I had almost certainly just lost my job. The woman who had hired me was lying in the morgue. And I somehow doubted Pat and Felix were going to keep me around for my gluten-free pad thai. My stomach lurched and I thought I was going to redecorate the interior of Felix’s sports car. I clamped my mouth shut and focused on my breathing until the moment passed.

  Oblivious to the how close he’d come to a vomit-covered vehicle, he kept talking. “Are you hungry? I’m starving.”

  Was I hungry? As unbelievable as it might sound, after spending the morning at the police station refusing to answer questions about whether I killed my boss, and now facing the looming prospect of joblessness, I was famished.

  “I guess I could eat a bite,” I said in a noncommittal way, hoping that he was asking if I wanted to grab a lunch and not suggesting that I go back to the mansion and cook him something. Although the latter would suggest job security.

  As it turned out, it was the former.

  “Good. There’s a fantastic taqueria right around the corner. You’re gonna love it.”

  He hit the gas and cut off an SUV to make a left turn onto a side street at a rate of speed that I was certain was neither safe nor legal, tires squealing. My not-quite-settled stomach protested. We crawled along for another block, stop and go, stop and go, then he took another left and pulled into an uninspired strip mall. The taco joint was sandwiched between a dry cleaner and a garage. He found a spot in front of the garage and parked. I eyed the restaurant in disbelief. I realize he’s a human being just like me, but it was impossible to picture Felix hunched over a melamine table eating a taco out of a plastic basket. I shouldn’t have worried; as it turned out, he had other plans.

  “This place is great,” he assured me as we walked through the door.

  At the jangle of bells announcing our arrival, the guy behind the counter raised his head and beamed. “Ah, Señor Patrick!”

  “Miguel, how you doing, my man?” Felix said, reaching out to shake the man’s hand.

  “Good, good. You want your usual?”

  “You know it.”

  “To go?”

  “Of course.”

  Miguel eyed me with open curiosity. Even on my best day, I knew I didn’t compare to the well-heeled Malibu Barbies Felix probably brought in here all the time. But on a day when I’d had almost no sleep and then been dragged out of bed at seven in the morning and hauled down to the police station? I have long, straight blonde hair, but that’s where the California girl comparison ended. For one thing, my hair was piled in a messy knot on the top of my head. For another, I wasn’t wearing any makeup to hide the dark smudges under my eyes. And to complete the picture, when Detective Drummond and his evil pal Detective Sullivan had told me to get dressed I’d grabbed the first clothes I’d found—a pair of slouchy gray sweatpants and a faded Duke tee shirt. In other words, I looked like fresh-buttered hell.

  I smiled at him in the hopes that friendliness would make up for my appearance.

  “And what will la señorita bonita have?” Miguel asked, returning my smile.

  The pretty woman? Either this guy had extraordinary low standards or Felix was an outstanding tipper. I chuckled and scanned the menu board behind his head. “What’s good?” I asked.

  “Everything,” he and Felix answered in unison.

  “In that case, surprise me,” I said, suddenly overwhelmed by the mere thought of choosing a meal. To my dismay, all the shock and stress of the day poured over me at once. I was a woman teetering on the verge of breaking down. You just need something to eat, I told myself. Blood sugar’s probably low.

  Miguel nodded as if accepting my challenge. “Good, good,” he said as he bustled away.

  Felix grinned down at me. I suddenly felt awkward being out for lunch with my dead boss’ stepson. I searched my mind for a topic of conversation but came up empty. I was too drained to devise appropriate small talk, so I pretended to study the menu so as to avoid having to talk to Felix.

  After a moment, the whirring of a commercial juicer saved me from having to even pretend to talk. It sounded like a jet taking off. After several loud minutes, the noise cut out. A moment later Miguel returned, bearing two large glasses. One was a bright orange color and the other was the lightest pink.

  Only in Los Angeles, I thought, would a taco stand double as a juice bar. Everywhere else in America, you get your tacos with a frosty Corona.

  “Here. Something to drink while you’re waiting.” Miguel handed the glasses over the counter. He thrust the orange one into my hands and handed the pink one to Felix.

  I sniffed the vibrant liquid. “Carrots?” I guessed.

  Miguel nodded. “With some lime juice, cilantro, and fresh ginger. It should pep you up. Late night, eh?” He flashed a knowing smile and glanced toward Felix.

  I flushed. Not only was my exhaustion showing, but Miguel was making wild assumptions about its cause.

  “What’s his?” I said nodding my head toward Felix’s juice.

  “Oh, it’s my usual,” Felix answered quickly. “Apple pineapple.”

  “And a little chamomile and valerian,” Miguel added.

  I cocked my head. “If ginger and cilantro are for a pick-me-up, what’re the chamomile and valerian for? Are you trying to calm him down?”

  Miguel laughed, but Felix nodded. “Yeah, it helps me stay calm. I … well … I can have a bit of a quick temper at times,” he said with a sheepish grin.

  Tell me about it, I thought, recalling his little outburst in the kitchen yesterday morning, but I said nothing. Instead, I took a cautious sip of the carrot juice, not expecting much from a taqueria slash juice bar. It was surprisingly good.

  “Mmm,” I said, “Nice balance.”

  “Thanks,” Miguel answered.

  Felix chimed in. “You may not know what high praise that is. Rosemary is my family’s private chef—a holistic chef.” He drained his juice with one long, noisy swallow and slammed the glass on the counter as if he were at a bar throwing back shots.

  I shook my head.

  The phrase ‘holistic chef’ spa
rked Miguel’s interest. “Oh yeah? Bet that’s a nice gig. Did you go to culinary school?”

  “Not exactly,” I answered. I didn’t know how much of my background Amber shared with Felix, but I really didn’t feel like discussing my fall from the chemistry lab to his family’s magazine-perfect kitchen. His stepmother had known from my résumé that I’d been a research scientist, but she hadn’t been sufficiently interested to ask why I’d trade my career for a job waiting on her.

  A timer sounded somewhere in the back. Miguel excused himself to go check on our food.

  I turned to Felix and appraised him over my juice glass. “You said I am your family’s private chef. Don’t you mean I was?”

  He furrowed his brow at me. “What do you mean by that?”

  I didn’t know if he was playing dumb or if the situation really hadn’t occurred to him. I sipped my carrot juice and decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. “Well, Amber hired me. I didn’t get the sense that you or your dad approved of most of her choices. I assume with Amber gone, so is my job.”

  Felix shook his head. “Nah, I don’t think so, Rosemary. It’s true that Amber wasn’t exactly known for her great decision-making skills, but I think everyone in the house would agree that hiring you was one of the smartest things she ever did.” He pierced me with a long, appreciative look, and my cheeks grew warm yet again.

  “Oh,” I stammered, “thank you.”

  He went on. “It’s not like my dad and I are going to start cooking for ourselves now, and there’s no way Alayna’s going to agree to do it. So I’m sure my dad would say the job is yours as long as you still want it.”

  “I still want it,” I said. Immediately a huge wave of relief crashed over me.

  “Good,” he said. A slow smile spread across his lips.

  I turned my attention back to the juice and took another big drink. “This really is very good.”

  “Wait until you taste his cooking.”

  As if he’d been summoned by the mention of his food, Miguel returned carrying a large brown bag. The fragrant scent of fresh, hot Mexican food wafted toward me as he passed it to Felix. “You’re all set. Utensils, plates, the works.”

  Felix pulled out his wallet and peeled off some twenties. “Thanks, Miguel.”

  “Thank you,” I echoed, finishing my juice. I placed the empty glass next to Felix’s.

  “De nada,” Miguel answered. He nodded toward me and added, “Rosemary, you come back and let me know what you think of my cooking, chef to chef.” He put his head down and went back to chopping tomatoes and dicing jalapeños.

  I trailed Felix out into the parking lot. The midday sun was bright overhead, and the heat undulated up from the pavement in waves. I blinked and lowered my gaze to the ground.

  “No sunglasses? What kind of Angeleno are you?” he teased.

  “I left my place at seven in the morning. I didn’t think to grab a pair. I didn’t even take my phone. I’m not used to getting a wake up call from the cops.”

  He nodded. “I bet that was really disorienting. And scary.” His voice was soft. He sounded genuinely sympathetic, and, for some reason, the hint of tenderness almost made me cry.

  We reached his car but he kept walking.

  “What are you doing?” I asked, standing beside the Boxster.

  “You’ll see; it’s a surprise. Come on. It’s not far,” he gestured with his arm to wave me forward.

  I hesitated, chewing on my lower lip. I was in no mood for any more surprises. But I was about to faint from hunger. I started walking toward him, grumbling under my breath. He just laughed and, when I caught up with him, draped his arm around my shoulder casually. My bare arm tingled at the contact, so I grumbled a little louder to cover up my reaction.

  5

  Despite my wheedling, Felix steadfastly refused to give me any hints during our short walk. His surprise turned out to be an amazing apartment just a few blocks away from the taco stand. He stopped in front of an ornate, wrought-iron gate and juggled the bag while he fished out a key from his pants pocket. He unlocked the gate and led me into a lush, flowering garden. I followed him, my jaw hanging open at the sight of the hundreds, maybe thousands, of blooming plants. I wandered off the stepping stone path to trail a finger along bougainvillea, tall lavender, enormous hydrangea, and fragrant roses. I spotted a patch of sage blossoming near purple sweet pea flowers. The path circled past a stone fountain, water tinkling gently, and a butterfly garden then poured us out onto a patio where a small table and two chairs sat, shaded from the blazing sun by a khaki canvas umbrella.

  Felix anticipated my question and answered it before I could ask it. “Our recording studio keeps this apartment for vocalists and musicians who travel in from out of town.”

  I nodded, unable to find words to do justice to the stunning garden. “Wow,” I finally managed.

  He laughed and deposited our lunch on the table. Then he frowned as he noticed the place settings and crystal pitcher of ice water, lemon slices floating on the surface.

  “Did you plan this?” I asked, even though I suspected, based on his bewildered expression, that he hadn’t.

  “No,” he answered slowly, wrinkling his brow. “We have a service that takes care of our visitors; they must’ve gotten confused. No one’s staying here now.” After a moment, he shrugged and started dishing out the food. He piled fresh guacamole, housemade salsa, and tender carne asada on our plates and set the little covered dish of tortillas in the center of the table.

  The scent of flowers in bloom permeated the walled garden. Unseen birds sang in the lemon and avocado trees that lined the path. Between the food and the setting, it was as close to paradise as a girl could get within the city limits. The grim holding room in the police station seemed like it was in another country, not around the corner.

  “This place is amazing,” I said as I tucked my napkin into my lap. It truly was—in some ways, it reminded me of my parents’ resort.

  Felix nodded around a mouthful of shredded pork. “I always thought of this as my own little oasis. I like to come here sometimes just to get away from Amber and my dad. I used to, I mean,” he added.

  At the mention of his dead stepmother, reality came rushing back, undoing all of the tranquility provided by the surroundings. “I can’t believe she’s dead,” I said lamely.

  He watched me scoop some guacamole onto the chip. Then he swallowed and said, “Yeah. Obviously, she wasn’t my favorite person. But I can’t believe someone actually killed her. You know?”

  “Not just killed her. Somebody killed her and framed me.” Saying the words aloud destroyed my appetite and I rested my fork against the side of my plate.

  Felix’s eyes were full of concern. He stared hard at me across the table. “Listen, Rosemary, I promise we’ll figure this out. I don’t want you to stress about this. Okay?”

  I wanted to believe him, so I nodded and pushed down the panic that was bubbling up in my chest. “How’s your dad taking it?” I asked mainly to distract myself, not out of any great concern about Pat’s mental state.

  He shrugged. “Okay, I suppose. I’m not sure why he married her in the first place to be honest. They sure as hell were never in love.” He returned his attention to his taco.

  “Maybe he married her to give you a stepmother?” I asked delicately. I didn’t know much about Amber and Pat’s relationship, but I could see a father wanting his son to have a maternal presence in his life.

  “I hope not.” He laughed bitterly and explained, “I was almost twenty when he married her, so that ship had pretty well sailed. Plus, don’t forget, she was only three years older than me. She wasn’t some kind of substitute mom. My dad raised me on his own. I never even knew my actual mom. She split when I was a newborn. So, it was always just ‘the Patrick guys.’” He stabbed at a stray hunk of meat, spearing it with his fork. “Then all of a sudden, Amber shows up. I come home from college one weekend and there she is, prancing around the kitchen like sh
e’s in the Victoria’s Secret fashion show.”

  “I’m sorry.” I didn’t know what else to say.

  “Don’t be. I figured my dad was looking for a good time, and, you know, he’s entitled to it. He always told me not to count on inheriting his fortune. I figured he planned to blow it on Amber, which was fine with me—until I got to know her.”

  I reached for my glass and took a long drink to avoid having to respond substantively to that.

  He rolled along, undaunted by my silence. “Amber was cheating on my dad.”

  My eyebrows crawled up my forehead, and, before I could stop myself, I asked, “How do you know?”

  “I overheard her taunting him. He was on his way to the gym to work out and she said something along the lines of ‘keep trying; maybe if you work at it long enough you can look half as good as my lover.’”

  Not to speak ill of the newly dead, but that was just the sort of cutting, caustic remark that Amber was famous for. Well, actually, Amber was famous for her all-American charm and brilliant smile. But those of us whose exposure went beyond her peppy interviews on “Entertainment Tonight” knew that her nasty wit was her predominant characteristic.

  “I’m sorry,” I mumbled. I desperately wanted to ask who she’d been sleeping with, but that was too far across the line, so I bit down on my lip and told myself to be polite.

  He seemed to guess what I was thinking. “I don’t know who she was talking about—I don’t even know if she limited herself to just one. But don’t be sorry, it’s just the way she was. My dad had to know what he was getting into when he asked that witch to marry him.” His tone was bitter.

  My eyes widened and it occurred to me that if he kept making comments along those lines it would put neither him nor his dad in the best light with the police. I considered pointing that out, but then it also dawned on me that, as the current primary suspect, it wouldn’t hurt me if the police decided to look a little closer at the Patrick family. A small twinge of guilt plucked at me, but self-preservation won out, and I kept my mouth clamped firmly shut.