Stick a Fork In It

by Robin Allen

  “Why was he playing around with a noose?” he asked.

  “Apparently Troy liked practical jokes.”

  “And he was playing one on himself?”

  “Troy was the loudest and the least stable of all of them. And he drank. He was probably goofing around.”

  “Did you tell that to the police?”

  “I figured I’d let someone who knew him better tell them. But what does it matter? Accident or suicide, he’s still dead.”

  “It matters to the beneficiary of his life insurance policy. They usually don’t pay off for suicide.”

  I reached for the bottle of juice, but Jamie got to it first and refilled my glass. It felt good to be taken care of, and I smiled my thanks.

  “So there’s a catwalk, huh?” he said, quite happy to have another ration of black market information. “Are they doing burlesque?”

  “Please don’t post about the catwalk!” I said. “You’re going to get me into a heap of trouble if that comes out.”

  “How would anyone know it was you who told me? Did they make the EMTs and police officers sign nondisclosures before they entered the building?”

  “You’re not dating those city officials.”

  “I’m not dating you, either.”

  “Jamie.”

  “Okay, I won’t use it. But give me another hint.”

  “Can we please confine ourselves to Troy’s early release from this world?”

  “Troy. The guy who built a catwalk in his restaurant and is not doing burlesque. Would you tell me if it were burlesque?”

  “Jamie!”

  “Okay, okay. Was he the kind of guy who would take his own life?”

  “From what I saw, no. But it takes a long time to understand the nuances of someone’s behavior. When Jeffrey Dahmer bragged on the playground ‘I eat little boys like you for breakfast,’ who thought he meant it literally?”

  “Penelope Jane!”

  It’s not easy to shock Jamie, and I was so pleased to hear him call me by the fake full name my father made up to admonish me, I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. He smelled good. “Gallows humor,” I said. “Is he on death row?”

  “Dahmer? He got something like a thousand years. But he’s dead already. Another prisoner beat him with a broom handle.”

  “What do you think was his last meal?”

  “Manwiches. You hungry?”

  “Not anymore,” I said. “Really, though, I can’t see Troy killing himself after all the time and money he put into the restaurant.”

  “You’re ruling it an accident?”

  “That doesn’t seem right either, but I can’t say why.”

  “That leaves homicide.”

  “Or Dick Powell and Claire Trevor,” I said. We play a trivia game where one of us names two actors and the other has to come up with the movie they starred in together.

  Jamie smiled when he finally figured it out. “Murder, My Sweet.” Then his soft copper-brown eyes hardened, and his beautiful face went from triumph to concern. “Poppy.”

  “I wonder if this is related to the power being out.”

  “It was one thing to help your stepsister, but you don’t even know this guy.”

  “You’re right.”

  “But you’re going to look into it anyway, aren’t you?”

  “You know I don’t like uncrossed Ts,” I said. “I’ll make a few discreet inquiries. All of my suspects are tied to the restaurant.”

  “You already have suspects?”

  “Three or four. What I don’t have is a motive. I might need your help, okay?”

  Jamie shook his head, which could have been his answer but was more likely his opinion about my desire to involve myself in something that was none of my business.

  He had brought The Green Mile, and we both moved closer to the center cushion to watch it. The Johns came home during the ending credits, John With apologizing for interrupting us, John Without banging things around in the kitchen to disturb us further.

  I walked Jamie out to his car, then went to bed, but I had a hard time falling asleep. Thinking about Troy’s death contributed to my insomnia, but I also heard a faint whining sound that could have been either John Without talking about his favorite topic—himself—or another puppy the frat boys down the street had adopted.

  I also realized that I was falling in love with Jamie. Again.

  nine

  The next morning, the Johns left early for their art gallery, as they had done every morning since I moved into their guest bedroom. I’ve lived next door to them for almost three years, but if you asked me if that was their normal routine, I couldn’t tell you.

  I have two relationships with the sunrise. I’m either starting my day before it happens or I’m sleeping through it after working into the early morning on a “sneak and snare” project—my name for the kind of project that snares restaurant employees doing sneaky things, like throwing dead rats into the dumpster when they think that all of the county health inspectors are snug in their beds. But ever since Olive put me on light duty, I had been keeping banker’s hours. I didn’t like it.

  After the first few days of living with the Johns, they had finally stopped treating me like a houseguest, but every morning before they left, they placed a coffee cup, a spoon, and a bottle of maple syrup on the counter, and prepared the coffee maker to brew two cups. All I had to do was press a button. I say “they,” but I know it was John With—the tall one with dark, wavy hair and a crooked smile—the nice one. The one I have a harmless crush on, which is why his boyfriend doesn’t like me.

  Olive had called twice while I was in the shower, and she called again as soon as I started peeling a banana. I don’t like speaking to my boss on the phone. She usually gets right to the point, which I appreciate, except she rarely has a point to make. She says stuff like, “He called about your report and wants to know what you mean about the ice scoop. Fix it, Markham.” Then she hangs up before I can remind her that a lot of my reports mention an ice scoop and does she want me to fix the report or fix the ice scoop situation at the restaurant or fix things with “him.” She never answers when I call back, so I do what I think is right, which usually prompts another call from her, and we start all over. This is one of the reasons she thinks she has to micromanage me.

  I hadn’t written any reports in the past few days, so I let my phone ring while I paged through the reasons she could possibly be calling. Just to say hi was out of the question, as was checking on me to see how my hand was healing. She could want me to fill in for an inspector on vacation, but that would require full duty. Full duty! I couldn’t answer the phone fast enough. “Purgatory Pool Hall. You whack ’em, we rack ’em.” I keep hoping that one day she’ll play along.

  She didn’t play along, and she didn’t want to put me back on full duty. She wanted a report on my permit inspection of the Sharpe place. “In person, Markham.”

  “My hand hurts when I drive,” I said.

  “Fast-track me, then.”

  “I think what you mean is ‘bottom-line me.’” I explained to her about the sinks and the water.

  “They just called and want to know where you are.”

  “Isn’t it a crime scene?”

  “Police cleared it an hour ago. I told them I’d personally make sure you showed up.” And then, to my horror, “Come pick me up.”

  As I silently denounced having my baffling boss on a ride-along, the sunny side of this fried situation found me: Olive would now see that I knew my stuff and appreciate that I handled myself as a professional. Troy wouldn’t be there to bribe me or challenge me to a gurney race, but Todd might argue with me about the sinks or a blade saw might fall from the catwalk and slice off my ear. Once I healed and returned to work, Olive would start
to trust me, and I wouldn’t have to account for every hour of every day. Maybe she would take my side once in a while against those crybaby cooks who think it’s okay to keep a Mason jar full of gasoline in the reach-in because gasoline, they assure me, loses its combustible properties in cold temperatures.

  x x x

  The sound of the highway roaring through the Jeep’s missing doors made conversation impossible, but Olive appeared to be content with her large bag of crispy orange doodle things, and I was content to marvel at the eating machine that is her mouth. It occurred to me that this meal of empty carbohydrates and artificial everything might be her breakfast.

  As we sat at the light at I-35 and Slaughter, I asked, “Is that what you’d eat for your last meal?”

  She adjusted the air-conditioning vent toward her face. “What do you mean, last meal?”

  “The AC doesn’t work,” I said, which should have been obvious. “If you were going to die, what would you have as your last meal? Anything you want.”

  “Right now, I’d kill for a Popsicle,” she said, fanning her face. “Then lamb chops with mint jelly and a champagne cocktail.” So she wasn’t a complete food ignoramus. “And a whole mess of tater tots.”

  The light turned green, and I made a left onto Slaughter. Rice, beans, and tater tots sounded good.

  Around 9:00 am I pulled up to the front of the restaurant as Olive leaned her head back and emptied the bag’s crumbs into her mouth. Most of it landed on her Hanging Tree Golf Club shirt, and she brushed the orange confetti onto the floor of my Jeep. She always wears golf shirts, and everyone in the office calls her Golferina behind her back, even though the only club we’ve ever seen her hold is a sandwich.

  “That…the…restaurant?” she asked between licks of her fingers.

  “Yes ma’am.”

  The front parking lot was empty of cars and people, but I could see activity behind the back fence. I caught glimpses of white and silver, which could only be a mobile snack truck that had set up behind the restaurant to sell breakfast to the workers. I wondered if they had seen what happened to Troy back there the day before. It would really help my investigation to know if he had passed out or if someone had knocked him out, as he claimed.

  Olive balled up her empty bag and dropped it among the crumbs, then hopped out of the passenger seat and hitched up her black polyester pants. I noticed an Ace bandage around her left ankle, but she didn’t favor either leg as she marched up to the gate, put her hands around her mouth, and yelled, “Yoo-hoo! Health department.”

  Olive turned back to me and called, “Shake a shank, Markham.” But I stayed right where I was, safe from the werewolf bounding toward the front gate. A German shepherd up close, homing in on Olive as if she owed him money.

  “Holy doglegs!” Olive cried as she sprinted back to the Jeep and heaved herself into the seat. I had never seen her move with such enthusiasm.

  “What’s so funny, Markham?”

  “He’s behind a fence.”

  “I see that now.”

  “Not on a long chain or roaming free around the property like some restaurants I’ve been to.” And where had he been the day before? He would have deterred the protesters.

  “What’s your point?”

  “He can’t get to you.”

  “Don’t know why you’re busting a gut over it.” She picked up the snack bag from the floor, uncrumpled it, and mined the bottom for crumbs with her finger. “I’ll wait here.” She struck gold and stuck her finger in her mouth.

  I was sure that Olive thought that waiting for me in my Jeep would be an incentive for me to get in and get out, but it had the opposite effect. I wanted to take my time and keep her braising in the hot sun so she would think twice about wanting to come with me on another inspection. I unzipped my backpack and took out my badge.

  “What’s the restaurant like?” she asked.

  I tried to put her off by pretending she had asked about Markham’s recent upgrade from a humble Bar & Grill to a fancy Cocktails & Grille. “Nina did a nice job redecorating, actually. White tablecloths and candles, leather chairs. I don’t think we need the extra ‘e’ after Grille, but she didn’t ask me.”

  “I don’t care about your daddy’s restaurant, Markham. This place.”

  “Oh. It’s a big gray square with lots of shiny new equipment in the kitchen.”

  “What kind of food? Uhtalian, French, fusion, what?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  Out of crumbs and patience, she jolted to life and turned toward me. “What are you trying to pull, Markham? You trying to make a fool of me? Think ’cause I’m not out in the field all the time I won’t understand what you’re saying? I’ve eaten in plenty of restaurants.”

  “It’s not that, Olive. They made me sign a confidentiality agreement. I can’t talk about the restaurant. You don’t need to know anything except what I reported about the sinks and the water.” Right away I realized I shouldn’t have started that sentence the way I did.

  “Don’t need to know!” she yowled. “I need to know everything.”

  “Sorry, but I have to honor my word. There’s really nothing to tell. The dining room wasn’t finished, and I—”

  “I’m your boss.”

  “I’m sure if you signed your own agreement, they’d let you look around.”

  “Don’t think I won’t.” She swung her legs to the right and hopped out of the Jeep, then immediately hopped back in when the dog growled at her. “Take me back to the office, Markham.”

  “I thought they were in a hurry for their permit.”

  “They can wait.”

  I did not argue with her, and I did not sigh as I pulled away from the gate.

  By the time I dropped her off, it was noon, which meant that traffic would be slower than beach erosion from Airport to Oltorf. Since this permit inspection was the only thing I had on my schedule, I decided to kill some time at Markham’s, work on Trevor’s drink, check out the new general manager, then head back to the house of horrors in the afternoon. If Todd or Danny called looking for me again, Olive could explain why I hadn’t shown up.

  x x x

  My phone rang with a call from Mitch as I pulled into the front parking lot of Markham’s, but I didn’t answer because I would see him in thirty seconds. Nothing was so imperative that it couldn’t wait that long. I unlocked the front door of the restaurant, then stepped into the cool, dim dining room, despising Évariste Bontecou’s killer for robbing me of the peace I felt when I walked into the place I love.

  Ever since I left Markham’s to become a health inspector, I’ve stayed out of the restaurant’s business, but if I had a single reservation about the new GM—even if I didn’t like his name—my father would hear about it.

  Mitch walked out of the office and saw me across the dining room. “Hi, hon!” he called. “Come say hello to Coop.”

  I hoped I hadn’t heard him right. Maybe he said boop or poop or goop. But I knew he hadn’t. The only reason Mitch wouldn’t tell me who he had been talking to on the phone the day before was because the new general manager of my family’s restaurant was Drew Cooper.

  My legs wanted to run for the front door, but that was impossible because they could no longer support my weight. I felt a change in cabin pressure, but no oxygen masks dropped from the ceiling. I grabbed for the seatback in front of me.

  Mayday!

  ten

  If I bolted, I could take some time to get my mind around this, but it would look like I still cared, which I did not. If I stayed, I would have to do something I had given up on ever being a possibility: talk to the brute.

  “Poppy honey?” Mitch called.

  I couldn’t decide what to do. “Momentito,” I said. “Going to the ladies’.”

  Indecision made
my legs work, and they carried me to the bathroom. I started breathing again, then checked myself in the mirror. I looked, well, comfortable. When did that happen? Not just my clothes, but me. I hadn’t colored my hair in a few weeks, and dark blond roots mixed with gray framed my face. And even though I felt furious, it showed up as pain in my green eyes.

  Why did he have to come back now? Why come back at all? And how could Mitch even consider letting him through the door? I had racked up three years’ worth of reservations about Drew Cooper, and my father was going to listen to every single one of them.

  I was calculating my chances of making it to the bar unnoticed for a quick jigger of calm when the door opened and Ursula squealed, “Poppy!” She rushed toward me with her arms out, all crinkly eyes and exposed teeth. “Oh, Poppy!” she said, wrapping her arms around me.

  When my father started spending time with Nina and I heard Ursula’s name for the first time, I pictured Ursula Andress, the Bond girl actress. Except for the hair and skin tone, I wasn’t far off. Ursula York is tall and elegant, with long, red curly hair framing a pale face, and fierce blue eyes that don’t usually glitter.

  She is also the product of a privileged childhood and prodigious talent in the kitchen, which makes her the very definition of a prima donna chef. She does not squeal. She does not smile. She does not embrace anything—critiques of her food, menu ideas, new employees, friends. Yet there I was, being rocked side to side in an Alpha Delta Pi sorority hug. The residents of Pearl Harbor could not have been more surprised than I was at that moment.

  Perhaps it was National Practical Joke Week and she was playing one on me. Or my father was, and he had sent Ursula into the bathroom to tell me that Drew wasn’t really waiting outside. I relaxed, but only a little. The memory of Troy’s delight at my spirited reaction to his rope trick made me stand still and do nothing lest I make a fool of myself again.

  Ursula pulled back but held onto my shoulders, her blue eyes searching mine. “How are you?”

  She sounded sincere. Maybe she wanted me to do her a favor. Although if we were tallying who owed who what, my side would be lifted high with favors done and Ursula’s dragging the ground with favors owed.