by Janet Dawson
I heard the thunk-thunk-thunk of the knife against the cutting board. Following the sound, I walked through the doorway, glancing to my left. One of the cooks was chopping vegetables, head down, eyes intent on the swiftly moving knife blade as it sliced through the deep purple skin of an eggplant. Bright orange carrots were piled to her left, and I saw a colander full of deep red onions in front of her. She glanced up, recognized me, and smiled, then returned to her task.
As I stood in the doorway I saw Julian enter the kitchen from the storage area at the back of the restaurant, dressed as I’d seen him before, in black jeans and a white T-shirt. He didn’t look happy to see me. My presence meant more questions. Julian didn’t like to answer questions.
“May I have a cup of coffee?” I asked him.
“There’s a pot in the bar,” he said, barely civil as he snapped off the words. “Help yourself.”
I nodded and went back the way I’d come, stepping into the bartender’s domain, where I poured a cup of black brew and looked at desserts the pastry chef had created for this evening’s menu. Then I walked back to Mother’s office, where she gave me the news about the cancellations.
“The employee files,” I told Mother. “I glanced through them on Friday, before talking to the staff about the earlier incidents. Now I want to take a closer look.”
“You still think it’s one of my people?”
“At this point I’m open to all possibilities.”
I’d done background investigations before. It’s not unusual for a person to inflate qualifications on a resume or smooth over the reasons for leaving a prior job. I suppose it’s normal to want to present yourself in the best light if you’re angling for a new position. And the reason for leaving a job may be interpreted differently by employer and employee.
But hiring the wrong person can cause a lot of problems for a company, as I’d discovered a couple of years ago when an Oakland firm asked me to find out who was embezzling funds. If they’d looked past the sterling qualities listed on the resume of one of their accountants, they’d have found what I ultimately did—a felony conviction for grand theft.
Checking references in an era when people like to hire lawyers to fight their battles means that former employers are wary of giving information beyond confirming the dates of employment. Getting at the truth sometimes requires much digging and persuasion, to find that someone who resigned on paper may have done so because he was about to be booted out the door.
Mother slipped on the white coat that had been hanging behind the door and headed for the kitchen. I opened the file drawer containing employee records and pulled out the first folder. My reading was interrupted only by occasional forays to the bar for more coffee.
When one checks references, the rule of thumb is to get up-to-date verifiable information back three years from the date of application. Most of Mother’s employees met that criterion. I saw notes here and there in her handwriting, indicating that she had called former employers. There was one busboy with a lot of gaps in his employment history and one of the servers, a young woman, hired last year, who seemed to have jumped from job to job.
But I kept coming back to Julian Surtees. He was the most recent hire, and as Mother’s assistant, he was her second in command, a person in a position of authority. He also had the worst attitude. His attitude was enough to make me want to scrutinize his references.
Mother hired him in mid-May, after two interviews. He’d attended a cooking school in New York and had also studied in France before working in both New York and Los Angeles. There were two letters of recommendation in his file and Mother had called his previous employers. There was also a three-month gap between the time he’d left his last job and his first day here at Café Marie. He could have taken some time off between jobs. But there could be another reason.
I reached for the phone at my right elbow and punched one of the extensions that wasn’t lit. Doing a background check on a Sunday might not be easy in a lot of businesses, but restaurants were usually open Sunday and closed on Monday, if they closed at all. I called the restaurant in Los Angeles where Surtees had worked for a year before he left last spring. Busy signal. I tried the place where he’d worked before that, and got a recording telling me the number was no longer in service.
I went to the bar for more coffee and found that some nice person had made a fresh pot. When I returned I tried the Los Angeles number again. This time someone answered the phone. When I asked for the manager he put me on hold. Finally someone picked up the line, a man who identified himself as Mr. Chase and sounded busy and harried. I explained my reason for calling.
“This is really a bad time,” Chase said “We do a Sunday brunch and we’re swamped.”
“I know, but this is important. Why did Julian Surtees leave your employment?”
He didn’t answer right away. I thought I was going to get the official line about how he couldn’t give out that information.
“We had a difference of opinion.”
“That’s a very elastic description, Mr. Chase. Just why did you differ?”
Again I got silence. Then Chase spoke up. “Oh, hell, Julian had a difference of opinion with everyone in the kitchen. You’ve met the man?”
When I assured Chase that I had, he continued. “He’s got the personality of a rattlesnake. Julian’s a monumental pain in the butt. He’s good, but not that good. He thinks he’s the only one who can cook and everyone else is an amateur. While he was here he antagonized everyone in the kitchen and rubbed the owner the wrong way. So I bounced Julian. You didn’t hear this from me, of course, but since then, I’ve heard on the grapevine that Julian’s left several jobs for the same reason. The man is just plain hard to get along with.”
That didn’t surprise me. “While Julian was working for you, did you ever have anything go wrong at the restaurant? A series of accidents, perhaps?”
Chase laughed. “Anything can go wrong at a restaurant. Yes, we had our share of disasters.”
“Disasters tend to be random. I’m wondering about things that seemed to have a pattern, as though they were engineered rather than accidental.”
“Well...” Chase drew out the word. “A couple of things last fall, that happened in the space of six or eight weeks. Salt in the sugar dispensers, stuff like that. Then a lid on an oil container was left loose, and someone dropped it. Made a horrendous mess. And some detergent that wound up in a pot of soup. Those could have been accidents but maybe not, since they happened so close together.”
I thanked Chase and hung up the phone. At least two such accidents had happened at Café Marie. First the salt in the sugar dispensers, then the oil container.
I stood, stretched, and went looking for Julian Surtees. He was in the kitchen, where three cooks were lined up in front of the stove, readying the line for the evening’s cooking. He was barking orders at them, now wearing his chef’s coat over his T-shirt.
“I need to talk with you,” I said.
“Can’t this wait? I have work to do.”
“No, it can’t. Let’s talk in the office.” I gazed into his dark eyes, trying to read him.
He narrowed those eyes and left the line with an exasperated sigh, pushing past me out of the kitchen. He didn’t say anything until we were in the cramped confines of Mother’s office. I shut the door and leaned against the desk.
“I don’t know anything about how the fucking mouse got onto the damn plate,” he snarled. “We run a clean kitchen. Marie insists on it, and so do I.”
I recalled Julian’s reaction last night when I showed him the mouse on the plate. His outrage had seemed genuine. Unless he was a very good actor.
“Why did you leave your last job?”
“Is that any of your business?’ He radiated edgy energy as he stood with his hands on his hips, his mouth curled into the sneer that seemed to be his usual expression.
I leaned toward him and sharpened my words. “It is if you’re trying to shut down my m
other’s restaurant.”
“Why the hell would I do that? I’d be out of a job.”
“I don’t know, Julian. You tell me. The manager of the restaurant where you used to work says you couldn’t get along with your coworkers.”
“You called Chase,” he said. His jaw tightened. “If you already know the answers why do you bother asking the questions?”
“I don’t know all the answers, Julian. That’s why I’m asking you.”
His lips thinned as he gave what passed for a smile. “Maybe Chase is exaggerating.”
“I doubt it. You piss off everyone you meet, Julian. You’re so damned disagreeable it shouldn’t surprise you that no one has anything good to say about you.”
“There are two sides to every story.” Julian put his hands on his hips and glared at me, eye to eye. “Maybe my coworkers couldn’t get along with me.” I had to admit he was right about that. It was easy enough for two people to tell a different story and each be telling their own version of the truth. “I’m a good chef. That’s all that matters. That’s why Marie hired me.”
I stared him down and shifted gears. “Chase told me there had been some incidents last fall at the restaurant in L.A. Salt in the sugar dispensers, the oil can with the loose lid, detergent in the soup. Sound familiar?”
Julian frowned. “Last fall? Listen, accidents happen all the time in this business. I don’t know anything about the salt or the oil can thing. I remember the detergent in the soup. One of the waitresses saw a busboy fooling with a ladle. The chef figured it was him and fired him on the spot. We tossed the soup. Nobody got served any of it.”
“What about here, at Café Marie? Two out of three, Julian. The salt in the sugar dispensers and the oil can with the loose lid. Then Karl Beckman got sick while eating dinner here. You don’t see a pattern?”
“No, I don’t.” Julian tilted his head to one side and smoothed his black hair. “If you think I had anything to do with this, you’re wrong.”
“Did you tell anyone about what happened at the other restaurant?”
“Maybe.” He shrugged. “Things like that happen everywhere. Putting salt in the sugar dispenser is the oldest trick in the damn book.”
“But the oil can takes a little more finesse. So does adulterating the food.” He didn’t respond. Instead he glared at me. “How long have you known Lacy Beckman?”
Now Julian leaned forward again, his black eyes narrowed into two slits. “My personal life is none of your damn business,” he hissed, hauling open the office door. “If you’re finished with the interrogation, I’ve got things to do.”
Sixteen
I WENT LOOKING FOR MOTHER AND FOUND HER seated at a table between the bar and the railing separating the upper and lower dining rooms of Café Marie. She wasn’t alone. Karl Beckman was seated across from her, his broad shoulders filling his blue work shirt. They leaned toward one another, holding hands, arms resting on the white linen tablecloth. I couldn’t see Karl’s face, but two expressions warred in my mother’s countenance. Worry about this latest incident at the restaurant etched a frown, deepening the lines around her mouth and eyes. But the eyes themselves reflected the fact that she was very glad to see this man. I saw there the intimacy and ease that happens between good friends—and lovers.
As I walked toward them I felt my mouth tense and I told myself that it wasn’t logical or rational for me to respond this way. My parents were divorced. They had marked out separate paths for themselves during the years before the official legal sundering ended their marriage. It was obvious Mother had strong feelings for Karl Beckman, and that he felt the same way. If my mother wanted to have a romance with this man, that was her business. Maybe all my warning bells were going off because I was too close to the situation.
So Karl Beckman was ten years younger than Mother. So what? Did that really matter? But there was something about the man that bothered me. I couldn’t quite put my finger on the reason why.
Something of my internal dialogue must have shown on my face as I approached the table. Mother looked up and a curtain whisked across her face, rearranging its lines. She released Karl’s hand.
“Hi, Jeri.” Karl greeted me with a smile, shifting in his chair. He was casually dressed in the blue shirt, blue jeans, and deck shoes. “Marie tells me you’ve been questioning the staff about this accident last night. I’m sure that’s all it was, just an accident. Lacy and I tried to get the Gradys calmed down some, but Mrs. G was really in a state.”
“Can’t say I blame her,” I said. A movement caught my eye and I turned to see Lori, the other bartender, arrive for her shift. She nodded in our direction and flipped on the radio set on the counter between the bar and the kitchen, keeping the music low as she tuned in a station. I heard Ella Fitzgerald singing “This Can’t Be Love” over the clatter of metal in the kitchen as utensils came into contact with pans. The pungent odor of garlic and onions wafted into the dining room, a promise of food being prepared.
“You upset Julian,” Mother said. The surly chef’s exit from the office must have been quite visible.
“I’m sure he’ll get over it.” I took a seat on a bar stool and Lori left off readying the bar to ask if I wanted anything to drink. “Sure. An Anchor Steam. Don’t bother with a glass.” When she’d brought the beer, I took a swallow and looked down at Karl Beckman. “I met Lacy yesterday at the boatyard.”
I saw that look again, the one that had passed over his face on Friday at Ravella’s. Shutters closed in his hazel eyes. It made me very curious.
“Really? She didn’t mention that you’d dropped by. Why were you at the yard?”
I decided not to tell him right away. On the radio behind us Mel Torme took over from Ella, accompanied by a counterpoint of conversation from the kitchen staff and the sizzle of meat in a saute pan.
I turned to Mother. “How closely did you check Julian Surtees’s references when you hired him? Why did he come to apply for this job, out of Los Angeles and into the sticks of Monterey?”
“Surely you don’t think Julian had anything to do with it,” Karl said. “He seems like a straight arrow to me.”
I ignored Karl’s remarks and waited for Mother to respond. She frowned.
“Julian was recommended by someone I know down in Los Angeles. Creative, innovative, that’s what I was looking for. And this friend knew that Julian was looking for a change of scene. I called three restaurants where he’d worked. One had closed, but the other two gave him excellent recommendations.”
I took another sip of my beer. “The manager at the last place told me he bounced Julian because Julian couldn’t get along with any of the other employees. Maybe those people who gave excellent recommendations were trying to get rid of him. He’s not the most personable individual I’ve ever encountered.”
“I suppose you could say he lacks some people skills,” Mother began.
“Lacks? He doesn’t have any.”
“He’s good in the kitchen.” Mother’s words were sharp. “That’s what I wanted. I get along with him just fine.”
“The manager of the last restaurant told me something else.” I repeated what Chase had said about the incidents last fall that bore a resemblance to what had happened this summer at Café Marie.
“It must be a coincidence,” Mother said stubbornly, but she didn’t look wholly convinced. “Things can happen in the kitchen of any restaurant.”
“But it’s different when it’s your own restaurant,” I told her. “I think I need to dig a little deeper into Julian’s past. He certainly has both the skill and the opportunity.” Mother looked appalled at the prospect that Julian topped my suspect list. The possibility of being betrayed by someone you trust is always disturbing. “Look, do you want to find out who’s doing this or not?”
“Of course I want to find out,” she said slowly. “But if it is Julian, why would he do such a thing?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he’s got his own agenda. One that makes sen
se only to him.” Now I turned to Karl Beckman, looking straight into his hazel eyes. “I understand Julian has been dating your sister-in-law. What do you know about their relationship?”
The boatyard owner looked momentarily taken aback at my directness. “I don’t know anything about it, just that they’ve gone out a few times. Hard enough to do, with Julian’s schedule. I know that, from trying to find time to spend with Marie.” He gave my mother a sidelong glance. “Lacy’s personal life is her own. You’ll have to talk with her.”
“I will.” I pushed back the stool and stood. “There is something else, Mr. Beckman. I’ve learned that after my cousin Bobby left Ariel Logan that Friday afternoon before she was killed, he told someone that he needed to find you. That he had something he wanted to discuss with you. Did he find you?”
Karl Beckman looked as though this information was a complete surprise. “Why, no. I didn’t see Bobby until the following week, when Ariel was reported missing. If he came by the boatyard, surely he would have talked with Lacy, and she didn’t mention it.”
“I gather what he wanted to talk about was urgent. Any idea what that might be?” The big blond man shook his head slowly as I fired another question at him. “Where were you that weekend, Mr. Beckman?”
By now it had occurred to Karl Beckman that he was being grilled. He didn’t like it. Neither did Mother. I saw a frown gathering strength in her knotted eyebrows.
“I was out of town,” he said finally. “On business.” Before I could ask any more questions he raised a big hand as though to forestall me. “And as to what, I don’t think that’s any of your business.”
