She narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms over her apron-covered chest. “You know, I get a lot of down-on their luck people coming through here.”
“I imagine so.”
“I don’t judge.”
“That’s probably good,” I told her, wondering where this was going.
“Everyone makes mistakes,” she said, staring hard at me.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake. Are you seriously asking me if I killed Amber?” I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
“What? No. Don’t be a flipping moron. I’m just wondering if it’s not possible that you did accidentally feed Felix bad fish? I mean, I understand your not wanting to admit it, being a chef and all. But if you just conceded that it could have happened, by mistake, you’ll probably get the cops off your back. Pride goeth before the fall and all that.” She gave me an encouraging little nod.
I rubbed my forehead and tried to come up with a polite way to tell her she was an idiot without sounding hubristic, if that’s even a word. I exhaled slowly. “See, here’s the thing, Deb. I know I didn’t give him food poisoning.”
“How can you know for sure? Accidents happen, Rosemary.”
I held up my fingers as I ticked off the reasons. “One, the scallops were fresh. I didn’t buy them myself, but Alayna used the fishmonger I go to. They looked white and clean, they smelled fresh, and the muscle wasn’t pulling away. Two, I prepared them properly. The acid from the limes would have denatured the scallops within fifteen minutes, max. They were safe to eat. Three, I ate them, too. I didn’t get sick.” Well, not from the food, at least.
Her expression grew thoughtful. After a moment she nodded. “Huh, that actually makes sense. And the police know all this?”
I started to say yes but stopped to really think about it. “Um, maybe? Er, no, probably not.”
She arched an eyebrow at me. “Maybe you better give tall, dark, and well-mannered a call.”
“Pardon?”
She reached into her apron pocket and plucked out a business card. “Detective David Drummond,” she read before slipping it back into its spot. “He’s stopped by at least three or four time since Amber Patrick died. Seems like he really cares about getting to the bottom of this—and it seems like he cares about you.”
* * *
Detective Drummond squinted at me across the picnic table. “You don’t like it,” he pronounced.
Actually, I like hot dogs more than any self-respecting holistic chef should admit. But the grilled foot-long was daunting. “No, really, I’m just full. I had a late lunch.”
He scrunched his face up skeptically and chewed his dog while he stared at me.
I stared back. “I had a bacon cheeseburger two hours ago, dude. Cut me some slack.”
He laughed so hard I thought he was going to choke. “Sorry,” he said, taking a swig of his craft beer.
“What’s so funny? That I ate a burger?” I could only imagine the false impression this guy had of me.
“Well, yeah, that’s funny, too. But I can’t believe you just called me ‘dude.’ I would have expected Detective Dude.”
I smiled despite myself. I guess we both had some false impressions to get past. “Fair enough.”
He swallowed and leaned forward, placing his elbows on the red-and-white plastic tablecloth. “So what did you want to talk about?”
“Sorry for dragging you out on your day off. It’s really not urgent.” I fake laughed, feeling self-conscious about bringing up my status as a suspect with a guy about to drip ketchup down the front of his Jimmy Buffett t-shirt.
“Don’t do that,” he said around a mouthful of bun. “You said you wanted to talk. Talk.”
I picked off a piece of the hot dog and nibbled on it. “Um, I was wondering where you guys stood on the investigation. Or, I guess, the investigations—into Amber’s death and Felix’s … illness.”
“Are you asking if you’re still a suspect?” He used his free hand to shield his eyes from the sun so he could get a good look at my face as he asked the question.
“Yes,” I answered simply.
“Well, yeah, you are.”
I wasn’t surprised so much as irritated. “This is so stupid. You know somebody was trying to frame me for Amber’s murder. I mean, you know that.”
He polished off his hot dog and raised both hands in a ‘don’t shoot the messenger’ gesture. “Listen, we have a problem. Sullivan still likes Roland Patrick for her murder, but his high-price attorney is making a lot of noise about the fact that you had access to Amber’s wine and just happened to prepare the meal that nearly killed Felix. He keeps yammering about Occam’s razor. Whoever the heck Occam is.”
“William of Occam. He was a Franciscan monk who lived in the Middle Ages.”
“What’s his razor have to do with anything?”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “Is this dumb cop schtick a put on?”
He laughed. “You should say what you’re thinking, Rosemary. Don’t mince words.”
I pursed my lips and waited for him to answer my question.
“Fine,” he said finally. “Guilty as charged. Yes, I know what Occam’s razor means. And if you do, too, then you know it means things don’t look good for you. The simplest explanation is usually the right one.”
“What I know is that Pat’s lawyer’s talking out of his butt, and that’s an oversimplification. Occam’s razor isn’t meant to be used to solve crimes for crying out loud. It’s a scientific principle that holds that when there are competing hypotheses of equal predictive ability, you should choose the one that makes the fewest assumptions,” I said in a voice I used to reserve for lecturing undermotivated undergraduates when I was a teaching assistant.
He appraised me for a moment. “Oh, that’s right. I forgot about your background in chemistry.”
The way he said it made a chill run down my spine. I’d assumed the police had looked into my past, but knowing that they’d done it, and knowing that he had to know all the ugly details about my parent’s financial shenanigans struck me. I felt invaded. And humiliated.
I pushed past my shame and said, “Okay. That’s another thing. Given my knowledge of chemistry, I could have easily poisoned both Amber and Felix without leaving a trace.”
“Don’t repeat that.” He leaned forward, all tense and serious. “Do you understand me? You might think that the logic of a statement like that will convince people of your innocence, but it will have the exact opposite effect.”
It occurred to me that he probably really shouldn’t be coaching me this way; but I was glad he was doing it. “Okay. Got it. I’m just —” I blew my bangs out of my eyes while I tried to put a name to my feeling. “I’m frustrated. I didn’t kill Amber. I didn’t poison Felix. I can tell you, in as much detail as you need, that those scallops were fresh and properly prepared. Another thing—I ate them, too. I didn’t end up in the hospital. The simplest explanation here doesn’t involve me at all. But you guys won’t listen, and the cloud over my name is ruining my life.” It sounded melodramatic, even to me, but it was how I felt.
“Ruining your life,” he repeated, leaning back and crossing his arms over his chest. “You mean your love life?”
“Well, yes, as a matter of fact. Felix won’t talk to me. So he obviously believes whatever lies you and his dad’s lawyers are spinning about me.”
“Now hang on. Don’t go blaming your romantic troubles on the LAPD. Lover Boy isn’t talking to us, either.”
“He’s not?”
“No. He won’t cooperate with our investigation. And from what I hear, he won’t meet with his father’s legal team, either. So, he’s not saying anything to help you, but he also isn’t saying anything to hurt you—at this point.”
This was interesting news, which merited further consideration later. “Okay, well, your stupid investigation is also affecting my career. As in, I’m unemployed and unemployable.”
He belly laughed like that was the funniest thing h
e’d heard all day. Then he wiped actual tears—tears of laughter—from his eyes and caught his breath, “Sorry. That’s cute. This is Hollywood, Rosemary. It’s not like the rest of the world. Your notoriety makes you a hot commodity. Do you mean to tell me your voicemail isn’t full of people wanting to interview you, turn your life into a movie of the week, and have you wear their latest fashion design?”
“I haven’t listened to my messages, to tell you the truth. I’ve been too busy.” Yes, very busy hiding in my apartment drowning my sorrows in dark chocolate.
“Well, let me give you a piece of free advice: you need to strike while the iron’s hot. Capitalize on your fame, or infamy, now. Because your fifteen minutes are probably almost up.” He crumpled his wrapper into a ball and lobbed it into the nearby trashcan then stood and wiped the crumbs off his pants. It was almost exactly the same advice Deb had given me.
“But if I draw attention to myself like that won’t I just piss off Detective Sullivan?”
He shook his head at me like I was a child. “A girl’s gotta eat. Sullivan probably thinks it’s suspicious that you aren’t out there giving interviews and hawking your gravy at Whole Foods.”
17
“You mean, like, people will hire you to cater their events because of the adrenaline rush they’ll get from wondering if your cooking will kill them?” Thyme asked.
I could hear Sage breathing heavily and unevenly in a pathetic attempt to hold back her laughter on her end.
“Just go ahead and laugh, Sage. You sound like a pervert,” I told her before addressing Thyme’s question. “Yeah, it’ll be like those people who eat blowfish in Japan.”
“Jeez, Rosie, you don’t have to be so cranky,” Thyme shot back.
“Sorry. But I need to do something to earn some money. And everyone is telling me I should take advantage of my unwanted celebrity.” Everyone being one police detective and the woman who runs the kitchen at a homeless shelter, but my sisters didn’t need to know the details.
Sage hemmed then said, “Here’s the thing. Do you want to open a catering business? Because Thyme and I were talking. Despite old Doug the accountant’s persistent doom and gloom scenarios, we’re making a lot of progress toward cleaning up Mom and Dad’s debt. We’re in pretty good shape. Good enough shape that we could probably talk to the creditors and get a short extension—maybe an additional twelve months—to pay everything off. So if you wanted to come back here and get back into the lab, well, we’d support that. I mean, if you tell Dave you’re moving back home, I’m sure the cops will understand. As long as they can find you, they shouldn’t care.”
I was too surprised to speak at first. Then I shook my head as if they could see me. “No. Absolutely not. We’re getting that monkey off our backs by April, not a moment later. I mean, I appreciate the offer, I really do, but no. We’re sticking to the plan.” I felt my chin jut forward in an expression our father used to call ‘Rosemary’s obstinate face.’
“You know, you don’t have to be a martyr,” Sage said.
“I’m not,” I insisted.
“We miss you, Rosie,” Thyme broke in, speaking in a voice so soft I could barely hear her. “You’re so far away out there. And … all alone.”
Tears pricked at my eyes. “I miss you, too. But I’m okay. Honest.”
“As okay as someone who’s under suspicion for murder and attempted murder can be, you mean?” Sage asked.
“Right.” I giggled at the absurdity.
“And Felix just broke up with you,” Thyme said, as if I needed to be reminded.
“So?”
“So? So it’s our job as your sisters to take you out dancing and shopping and stuff to take your mind off it,” Thyme told me.
“Oh, please. We only dated for, what, a month? And we never even … you know. I don’t need to get over Felix. I’m already over him,” I lied as convincingly as I could.
“Right, of course you are. There’s nothing remotely traumatic about being barfed on and then dumped,” Sage deadpanned.
“Almost barfed on,” I corrected her, setting off a fresh round of laughter.
Between howls of laughter, Thyme observed, “You forgot arrested and fired.”
After we could all breathe again, we said our goodbyes. I hated to cut short a call with my sisters, but I had a to-do list as long as my arm if I was going to get Rosemary’s Gravy, A Special Occasion Catering Service, up and running. I may have been lying about being okay with what happened with Felix, but I wasn’t lying at all when I said I wasn’t being a martyr. Somehow, cooking for other people had become something I enjoyed, not something I had to do out of financial necessity. It had happened without my even noticing it. I was looking forward to starting a catering business, even if it did involve a ton of work—starting with about a million preliminary tasks.
And, unfortunately, one of the first tasks on the list was to make an unannounced appearance at the Patrick residence.
* * *
I stood for a long time on the lawn in front of the Patricks’ mansion before I forced myself to ascend the wide staircase and pass under the shadow of the utterly unnecessary and sort of pretentious columns flanking the door. I smoothed my hair and skirt and took a deep breath and exhaled. Then I jabbed the doorbell and listened to my heart knock around in my chest while I pretended to hope that Alayna answered the door even though I happened to know that she usually ran to the post office on Tuesday afternoons to check Pat’s P.O. Box.
A minute or so passed, and I was just about to ring the bell again, when the door opened and I came face to face with Felix for the first time since the night I’d held his hand in the back of an ambulance.
He took a half step backward, almost as if he actually believed I had poisoned him and had shown up to finish the job. My hammering heart skipped a beat.
“Um, hi,” I managed.
He nodded but continued to eyeball me warily.
When he didn’t say anything, I pressed on. “I’m sorry to bother you but I need to get my recipes off the kitchen iPad. I need them for my new job.” I smiled impersonally.
“Oh. Really? My dad didn’t mention anyone calling to check your references,” he said in a stiff, weird-sounding voice.
Spoken like a true trust fund kid—as if I would ask Roland Patrick for a reference. I couldn’t begin to imagine what he’d say about me. Even though Felix hadn’t invited me in, he also hadn’t slammed the door in my face, so I took three quick steps and propelled myself into the entry foyer before he could shut me out. Then I said, “I’m starting my own company, but I really need those recipes.”
“Oh, right. Sure.” He just stood there, staring at me.
An involuntary image of his hands roaming over my body while his lips pressed hungrily on my neck flashed through my mind and I felt my legs start to tremble. I leaned against the wall in a faux casual pose and said, “So what you said before—that Pat didn’t mention me—does that mean you and your dad are on speaking terms?”
He wet his lips, and I got the feeling he had a similar image running through his head. “Yeah, we are. He’s still staying at Antonio’s. We’re working things out, though. In our own way.”
“That’s great,” I said with a sincerity I truly felt.
“Yeah.” He swallowed hard. “I guess that was one good thing about your quitting; it got us talking again.”
“My … quitting?” I blinked at him and tilted my head, sure I’d misheard him.
He blinked back at me. “Right.”
I let my breath out in a long whoosh. “Wow. Okay, I didn’t quit. Your dad fired me.”
“He fired you?”
“Yeah. His lawyer sent me a letter.” Leave it to Pat to spin it like I quit. I narrowed my eyes, “Wait. Did you leave instructions at the hospital that you didn’t want to speak to me?” I asked. If the answer was ‘yes,’ it was going to sting, but knowing that Pat had lied about firing me, I had to wonder if he’d also been behind the brick wall th
at had sprung up between me and Felix.
His face turned white then red then finally purple with rage. “What? That’s … I never freaking said that. My dad told me you left town. I figured you moved back East without even saying goodbye.”
My head was swimming. All this time, I’d been thinking he’d shut me out, and he’d been sitting here believing I’d abandoned him?
I shook my head. “No,” I said in a soft voice, “I’ve been worried about you.”
His eyes darkened with a desire I recognized and he drew closer to me. “I’ve missed you,” he said. His mouth was so close to mine that our breath mingled when he spoke.
I could feel myself getting ready to melt into a puddle of sexual tension but some part of my brain was screaming at me to keep my wits about me. That still-functioning gray matter reminded me that nothing had stopped him from driving by my apartment or picking up the phone to confirm what Pat had said. I just needed to get copies of my recipes and get out of there.
It took all of my resolve, but I squared my shoulders and coughed. “The recipes?”
His eyes registered hurt and his face took on a closed expression as he stepped away from me. “Oh, right. Sure. You know where the iPad is. Take what you need. I was just heading to the studio. Just … let yourself out and set the alarm when you’re done, okay?” His voice was cool.
“Okay, thanks,” I mumbled. I stared down at my sandals for a moment and noted that my toenail polish was chipping. I raised my head and said to his departing back. “Wait.”
He turned and gave me an expectant smile. “Yeah?”
“I want to make sure you know this: you didn’t get food poisoning from my ceviche.”
His smile faded. “I don’t care, either way, Rosemary. Accidents happen. I just thought we had something real. Guess I was wrong.”
“So did I,” I answered in an even voice. “But you sure didn’t make any effort to get ahold of me when you got out of the hospital. I at least tried to reach you.”
Rosemary's Gravy Page 12
