Rosemary's Gravy

by Melissa F. Miller

  He set his mouth in a hard line. “You know what? To hell with this. There are plenty of girls who’d love to be with me. You really don’t know your place.” Then he turned on his heel and walked through the door, slamming it behind him like a petulant teenager.

  My place? My place? I wandered into the kitchen on autopilot, trembling with anger. I sent up a quick prayer of gratitude to the universe that I had insisted on all those proper dates before we got intimate. Bullet narrowly dodged there.

  I heard his car engine spring to life. He peeled out of the garage before I’d even powered on the iPad and found my file of recipes. My fingers were shaking as I opened up the staff browser and copied the file to Dropbox. I had copies of most of my recipes or had them memorized, but cooking for Amber had involved a lot of parties. The modifications I’d made to feed large crowds were work I’d otherwise have to recreate. So despite the bruising to my ego and the fact that I could already tell there would be a milkshake consumed through a stream of mortified tears in my future, I was glad I’d come. To my own amazement, I realized I was more excited about building my business than I was distraught about the fact that Felix had turned out to be a dick.

  All the same, I’d be glad to get out here as soon as possible. I tapped my foot against the tile and waited for the files to upload. Once I was sure I had them all safely floating in the Cloud or wherever they were, I was about to power down the device when I had a sudden thought. Alayna’s files contained a list of vendors that Amber had used for events—places where she rented extra glassware, linens, tents, outdoor heaters, whatever. I might as well save myself some time and use services that I knew had met with Amber’s approval. I opened Alayna’s folder to copy the spreadsheet, certain that she wouldn’t mind.

  As I scrolled through her files, an email notification from Amazon popped up in the corner of the screen. “Amber Patrick, how many stars would you give ‘Botulinum Toxin Applications in Medicine: Miracle Poison’? The subject line barely registered at first, but after a few seconds, my fingers stopped moving and my brain started working.

  When had I ever seen Amber reading a book? Answer: never. She could read, I knew, as she read scripts, reviews about her performances, and gossip columns. But a medical textbook? Not a chance. My finger moved to the email pop up and hovered over the screen for several, seemingly interminable seconds. I knew that I was about to snoop. And I felt moderately bad about it.

  But I couldn’t just ignore the warning signals my brain was sending. Botulinum toxin is serious stuff. Produced by the bacterium Clostridium botulinum, the toxin is highly poisonous and just happens to cause botulism, a type of food poisoning that resulted in vomiting, paralysis, and sometimes death.

  I made up my mind and clicked the email notification, holding my breath as I scanned it. Someone—not Amber, unless her Prime membership extended into the afterworld—had used Amber’s account to order the textbook just four days before my ill-fated romantic evening with Felix. The one that was interrupted by a bout of vomiting, paralysis, but, thankfully, not death.

  I stared at the email, heart thumping, and tried to process what I’d read. The only person who’d been living at the house when the book was delivered was Felix. But surely, he wouldn’t have poisoned himself with something so deadly in an effort to set me up. Nobody was that crazy.

  And, leaving aside the insanity of such a thing, how would he have gotten his hands on the toxin itself. I knew from my time working in university labs that highly poisonous substances are tightly controlled. Sure, you might be able to order them online with the click of a mouse, but they were only shipped to accredited research institutions with prior authorization to order them. No, there was no way Felix had poisoned himself.

  But the book …

  The garage door slammed. I jumped and then powered off the iPad and shoved it back into its holder. I was digging out my keys and slinking toward the front of the house to avoid another round with Felix when the garage door opened.

  I let out an enormous sigh of relief at the sight of Alayna, her arms laden with carefully packaged demo CDs sent by aspiring musicians. One night this week, Pat would get a good laugh out of mocking some kids’ dreams over a bottomless gin rickey. It seemed to be one his favorite pastimes.

  Alayna dumped the packages on the counter and narrowed her eyes as me. “I thought that was your car in the driveway.”

  “Hello to you, too,” I said. I was sort of put off by her prickliness but then it occurred to me that Pat had probably lied to her, too. “I didn’t quit, you know. Pat fired me.”

  “Hmph. Is that so?” she said, her tone softening slightly.

  “Yes.”

  “Then what are you doing here?” Her gaze shifted to the ceiling. “Are you waiting for Felix? His car’s not in the garage.”

  The mention of Felix made me tense all over again, just when I’d started to relax. Alayna and I have never openly discussed the fact that Felix and I had been dating. But it hadn’t taken a rocket scientist to pick up on the hormones that had been flying around the house. And Alayna was no dummy. She was the second ranked student in her night division program and had mentioned she was thinking about applying to medical school.

  Medical school. The textbook. I nearly slapped my forehead like a character on a sit-com, but I managed to restrain myself. “No, no. I just needed to get copies of my recipes off the iPad. Felix let me in, but had to go somewhere. I’m all done. So, I’ll just let myself out.” I smiled and booked out of there before she had a chance to stop me.

  I flat out ran to the Saab. I turned the key to start the ignition with shaky hands and sped down the canyon road as quickly as I dared. I wanted to be far away when Alayna realized I’d seen the email about the botulinum toxin book.

  18

  I drove straight to the police station and asked the desk sergeant to let Detective Drummond know I was in the lobby and urgently needed to talk to him.

  She shifted her gaze from the computer monitor and paused her fingers over the keyboard. She gave me an amused look and blew her short bangs off her forehead. “Honey, he ain’t up there.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Out protecting and serving, ma’am.”

  Oh. Right. Well, crap, now what? I considered my only other option, which was unpalatable to put it mildly.

  She watched me impassively for a few seconds while I debated myself silently before she got bored and turned back to her computer monitor.

  I sighed. “Is Detective Sullivan available?”

  That got her attention. She peered at me over the counter. “You’re asking to see her?” she asked as if she must have misheard me.

  “I guess so. Unless you can reach Detective Drummond somehow? It’s really important.”

  “I can give you his mobile number.”

  “I have it, but I need to speak to him in person.”

  She pursed her lips.

  “It’s about one of his cases,” I continued in an effort to convince her.

  Her right eyebrow shot up to her hairline. “I figured that much. I recognize you, you know. You’re the killer chef.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Oh, sorry. That’s what they’re calling you on the Morning Show with Mort and Moxie.”

  “They’re talking about me on the radio?”

  “They’re talking about you everywhere.”

  I blushed a deep red. I didn’t think I’d ever get used to being a quasi-public figure. Then I took a deep breath and decided there was no time like the present to practice my marketing skills. “They’ll really be talking once my catering business is up and running.”

  “No, you’re not!”

  “I am,” I assured her. “Rosemary’s Gravy, A Special Occasion Catering Service, will provide a mouth-watering, memorable meal for special events ranging from an intimate party to a gala affair.”

  She nodded like she was semi-impressed. “Not bad. That name’s a mouthful, though.”
r />   “You think?”

  “I’d keep it short and sweet. Just go with Rosemary’s Gravy.”

  “Hmm. Thanks.” I’d have to give that some thought. “So, Detective Drummond?”

  “Yeah, he’s not really out on patrol or anything.”

  “He’s not?” Now I was just confused.

  She scribbled an address onto a scrap of paper and handed it to me. “Don’t tell him who told you where to find him.”

  I shoved the paper into my purse and flashed her a smile. “My lips are sealed. Thanks.”

  “No problem. Hey, do you have a card?”

  Business cards. I made a mental note to add that to the list. “Um, they’re not back from the printer yet.” Which was totally true. I hadn’t sent them to the printer, so they clearly weren’t back yet.

  “Drop one off when you get them. My aunt and uncle are celebrating their fiftieth wedding anniversary next month. They’d get a kick out of having the killer chef cater it.”

  I floated out of the police station too excited to be offended. For about half a minute I almost forgot why I’d gone there. But it came rushing back fast enough.

  * * *

  I was about eight miles away from the address the desk sergeant had given me when I decided either my phone was hopelessly confused or the woman had pranked me for her own amusement. The congestion of the city had given way to a desolate, rural landscape. Parched brown grass, chain link fences, and abandoned lots lined the highway. I passed a closed gas station and the burned out shell of a strip club. I told myself that if the scenery didn’t improve and fast, I’d pull over and call Detective Drummond’s cell phone, which I should have just done in the first place.

  After another stretch of emptiness, a crematorium appeared on the horizon as I crested a hill.

  “That’s it,” I said aloud.

  I turned off the highway and parked in the entrance of the trailer park to fumble through my purse for Detective Drummond’s card, wishing I’d put his number in my contacts file the first time I’d had to call him. But, at the time, it had seemed weird to have a police detective in my contacts. You know what they say about hindsight.

  I found the card and was keying in the numbers when a sharp rap on my driver’s window made me jump. I looked up to see a wizened man with leathery skin sitting erect in a golf cart, his bald head glistening in the mid-day heat, peering in at me.

  I pressed the button to lower the window, hoping I wasn’t about to be mugged by a senior citizen. “Uh, hi. I’m sorry, am I blocking the exit? I’ll be out of here in a second.” I held up the phone as if to show him I just had to make a call.

  “Nah, I’m not going anywhere. This thing’s not street legal. Though she should be—I can get ‘er up to forty-five miles an hour.” He patted the front of the cart in a proud, satisfied gesture.

  “Really? I had no idea a golf cart could go that fast.”

  He nodded wisely. “Made some modifications. Anyhow, I figure you’re lost. Wanted to see if you need directions.”

  “Oh. Um, actually, I am and I do.”

  “Thought as much. We don’t get many visitors out here. And I know most everybody’s families and whatnot. Didn’t recognize your car. Now most folks who come up this way and get turned around are headed to Blush. Is that where you’re going?”

  I looked at him blankly. “I don’t know. Let me check the address.”

  As I reached for it, he added, “It’s a nudist colony, Blush.” He winked.

  A nudist colony? My face flushed. I dearly hoped that my destination wasn’t Blush. I rattled off the address the desk sergeant had given me and held my breath.

  He shook his head, a little sadly, I thought. “No, that’s not Blush. The Blush people bought the land back behind the crematorium but it’s hard to see the entrance. You’ve already passed it. You’re in good shape. Go up the road a piece, and in about three minutes you’ll see a parking lot on the left side of the road. Turn in there.” He turned the key in his ignition and started to swing his cart back around toward the interior of the trailer park without waiting for a thank you.

  I leaned my head out the window and called after him, “Sir, wait! The address—if it’s not Blush, what is it?”

  He raised a hand and waved goodbye but either didn’t hear my question or didn’t care to drive back to answer it. Well, as long as everyone there would be fully dressed, I supposed it didn’t much matter what it was. I backed the car out of the trailer park and merged into the light traffic flowing toward north.

  * * *

  It definitely wasn’t a nudist colony. It was an animal shelter. I could hear the cacophony of barking dogs before I even pulled into the lot. The noise and the sign—Rescue Haven—relieved my concerns about what I might be walking into. I parked in a hurry, maybe a little crooked but didn’t bother to straighten it out. I hopped out of the car and jogged up to the front doors of the building. A group of dogs playing in the fenced-in area behind the structure raced over to the fence to bark and jump at me in greeting.

  I pushed the door open and headed for the reception area. A fat, striped tomcat sunning himself in the exact middle of the counter opened one eye to appraise me. Apparently unimpressed, he closed it again. A wiry guy with olive skin and spiky hair smiled at me. “Hi, there. Don’t mind Bongo. He thinks he’s in charge around here.”

  “I see that,” I answered returning his smile.

  “Can I help you?”

  “I hope so. I’m looking for Detect … Dave Drummond.”

  He nodded. “You’re in the right place. He’s back there in the kennel.” He jerked a thumb toward the hallway to his right. “Can you find it? I’m the only one in the front today, and, despite my best efforts, I haven’t been able to convince Bongo to answer the phones.”

  “I’m sure I can manage.”

  He nodded his thanks. Bongo snored blissfully.

  I pushed through the swinging door and walked along a short corridor that opened into a large, square room with block walls, a cement floor, and approximately seven million dogs if the noise level was a guide. Just like their outdoor brethren had, as soon as they saw me, the canines rushed to the front of their kennels to greet me with varying degrees of enthusiasm, ferocity, and curiosity, tails wagging and noses wriggling. I spotted Detective Drummond near the back of the room.

  My heart melted. He was crouched down, his hand outstretched, trying to coax a shivering mutt from the far corner of a cage. Then, he turned to see what the ruckus was about and met my eyes. His look of concern reminded me why I’d trekked out there, and my gooey emotion was replaced by a new dose of anxiety. He was about to stand up when the pup behind him nudged its nose forward and into his hand.

  “Don’t move,” I called. I walked toward him slowly, hoping I wouldn’t spook the poor animal.

  He nodded and returned his attention to the dog. By the time I reached them, he had a hand around the creature’s middle and was scratching its torn ear.

  “I’m assuming Sergeant Bentley told you where to find me,” he said by way of greeting, keeping his voice low and gentle.

  “She did.” I bent and offered the back of my palm to the dog.

  As it sniffed my hand, Detective Drummond continued, “And I’m assuming you’re not here because you want to adopt a pet.”

  “Right. Well, I’d love to get a cat, actually, but my lease says no pets.”

  “Mine, too. And the hours I work aren’t really conducive to pet ownership. So I come out here once a week and walk the dogs, help out with the food.” The dog rolled over to show her belly—it was a she, and it looked as though she’d been nursing pups until quite recently. He scratched her belly. “Good girl, Mona Lisa.”

  “What’s her story?”

  “Someone was using her to breed hunting dogs. The creep abandoned her when she outlived her useful purpose, I guess. We named her Mona Lisa because sometimes she looks like she’s smiling, but there’s something forlorn about her smile. Yo
u didn’t answer my question, Rosemary.” He stood up and grabbed a harness and leash hanging from a peg on the wall and looped it around the dog.

  I was so caught up in Mona Lisa’s sad history that I almost forgot why I was there. I blurted, “I know who killed Amber!”

  His expression was entirely unreadable. He was silent for a moment then said, “Let’s walk. It’s noisy in here, and Mona Lisa loves to be outside.”

  I followed him through a metal door that led out to the fenced-in yard. Mona Lisa shied away from the other dogs in the pen, and Detective Drummond hustled her through the chaos and out a gate set in the chain link fence. We followed a gravel path through some scraggly trees and into an overgrown lot. Neither of us spoke until the shelter was out of sight. Then he said, “Spill it.”

  I looked down at Mona Lisa, who was now prancing around on the end of the leash, sniffing every blade of grass and patch of weeds like the world’s happiest dog. I inhaled, filling my abdomen and lungs with air the way Thyme was always nagging me to breathe, and then exhaled slowly while I gathered my thoughts. “It was Alayna,” I began.

  He spoke before I could go on. “Ramirez? The housekeeper?”

  “Right.”

  “How sure are you?”

  I was about to insist I was positive, when I stopped to think. “Well, I’m assuming she did it.”

  “You’re assuming she killed Amber Patrick? You came all the way out here to waste my time with your assumptions?” He shot me a disgusted look and shook his head. “Come on, Mona Lisa,” he said, tugging on her leash and turning to leave.

  “Wait.” I put my hand on his bare forearm to stop him. He stared at my hand but made no effort to shake it off, so I kept talking. “I assume she killed Amber because I know she poisoned Felix. I had to go to the house today to get some of my things.” I hesitated at the memory of my run-in with Felix.

  “I bet that was awkward. Was lover boy there?”

  I removed my hand from his warm skin and narrowed my eyes, unsure of whether he was mocking me or genuinely being sympathetic in a stoic guy sort of way. He looked back at me impassively, so I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. “He was there, but he left and told me to let myself out when I was done.”