Stick a Fork In It

by Robin Allen

  The former president, my foot. More like Jamie wanted to satisfy his curiosity about his predecessor. He wanted to see Drew in person, size up the competition.

  Better it happen while I was present to do damage control. “Giddyup,” I said.

  twenty-one

  At 9:00 pm, glittery couples and groups of friends still jammed Markham’s foyer and bar area, waiting to be seated for dinner. Food servers whizzed through the dining room with venison stew and stuffed quail, homemade sourdough bread and bottles of wine, Black Forest cake and double espressos.

  It didn’t take long to find who I had been scanning for. I saw Drew walking out of the kitchen and toward the far corner table, where he set down a plate for…oh goodness, George and Laura! Dining with Mitch and Nina.

  I wondered if Ursula knew who she was cooking for, but how could she not? The advance contingent of Secret Service agents would have put her on notice, then Mitch and Nina would have both gone into the kitchen to tell her—Mitch to give her a pep talk, Nina to crow.

  I recalled what I had told Daisy earlier about running the restaurant with Drew. If things had played out differently, I would be cooking for them. Or would they be here at all? If Mitch had handed over the reins to us sooner, he wouldn’t have been at the hostess stand the morning Nina traipsed into the restaurant to ask directions to the new spa down the street. If there were no Nina, there would be no Ursula, and Markham’s would have stayed a humble café with waiters in T-shirts serving the Surf ‘n’ Turf instead of catering to people who would rather pay extra to order the Mixed Grille from a waiter wearing a tie.

  But if things had gone differently, Jamie Sherwood wouldn’t be waiting for me at the bar. Cool, gorgeous, sweet Jamie, who never gave up on us and who always surprises me with his intelligence and patience.

  Drew lingered at the VIP’s table for a moment, then walked through the restaurant greeting customers, refilling tea glasses, and bussing tables.

  Women love to see a man in action, regardless of what the action is. A man is so much more authentic, so much more attractive, when he is completely focused on a task or commanding a situation instead of making a fool of himself trying to impress a woman. This is why waitresses fall for cooks, why secretaries develop crushes on their toady bosses, why women love men in uniform, and why Shannon Tweed married Gene Simmons.

  A flash of white by the kitchen caught my eye. In fact, it caught everyone’s eye, except of the person she wanted. Ursula stood at the mouth of the wait station waving like a rodeo clown, trying to draw Drew’s attention away from the people who keep us in business. It’s common for the chef and the GM to confer throughout the night, more so with political royalty on the premises, but I had never known Ursula to leave the kitchen after the first order came in. If she needed something, she sent a cook or a waiter after it.

  I suspected that this odd behavior had nothing to do with her new desire to buy the world a Coke and everything to do with her desire for Drew. Rather than back off after I told her about my history with him, she appeared to be mounting an assault and had abandoned her kitchen in the middle of the dinner rush to flirt with him. And on a night like this!

  Didn’t she care about the restaurant? Markham’s success depended on Drew’s commitment to the front of the house and on Ursula’s commitment to the back. If they started to commit to each other, all kinds of things would start skidding sideways. I couldn’t let that happen. I hurtled myself around tables and landed in front of her.

  “Poppy!” Ursula said. “Hi!”

  “What are you doing out here?” I asked. “You didn’t stab one of your cooks, did you?”

  She looked momentarily confused, then laughed. “Not tonight. I need to tell Drew to eighty-six the pâté de foie gras.”

  “I’ll tell him,” I said. “You scoot on back to the kitchen. Y’all must be in the weeds.”

  “Not at all.” She took a step to the left so she could see past me into the dining room. “Trevor’s handling things.”

  “Ursula, it’s too busy for you to be out here gawking.”

  “I’m not gawking,” she said. “I just want to see him.”

  “You see Drew every ten minutes.”

  “Tch. Not Drew, George.”

  Oh. “Why don’t you go up to their table and say hello?”

  Her eyes grew as wide as Vinnie Barbarino’s bell-bottoms. “No, I couldn’t do that.”

  “Come on.” I took her hand. “Let them give their compliments to the chef.”

  “No!” She wrenched her arm up and back with such force that she backhanded a waiter who couldn’t hold onto his loaded tray. Six heavily sauced entrées toppled to the floor. Everyone in the kitchen and a few customers started clapping.

  Ursula glowered at me. “Now we’re in the weeds.”

  They weren’t in the weeds yet, but recooking six entrées at the last minute would surely put them there. I should have been concerned about the effect this would have on Ursula’s crew, but those thoughts couldn’t push through my disappointment that Ursula lost it earlier than June 7, which meant that I lost the Diva Pot.

  Within seconds of the crash, Drew coasted into the wait station to see the end of the show, but he missed Ursula’s closing remarks.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “A little accident,” I said. “Everything is back to normal.”

  “Did I see Chef out here?”

  He called her Chef? He never called me Chef. “They’re eighty-six on the pâté.”

  “I’ll let the wait staff know,” he said. “Nina wants her daughter, the food genius, to come say hello to their guests.”

  “Good luck with that,” I said, patting him on the chest. “I’ll be at the bar.”

  “Are you waiting for a table?” Drew asked.

  “We had dinner at Daisy’s and stopped in for a drink.”

  “We?”

  “Jamie’s with me.”

  “Good,” he said, then turned toward the kitchen. I thought I saw him put his hand over his heart and cross his first two fingers, something he used to do on busy nights to tell me he loved me. Was that for Ursula? Already?

  I went to the bar, intent on asking Jamie to take us somewhere else. He had gotten what he wanted. He had laid his eyes on Drew and done whatever it is current boyfriends do when they see former boyfriends. He also saw George and Laura and verified the reliability of his source. We could have a nightcap at any bar in Austin. We didn’t need to stay.

  But I had to play it cool or Jamie would see my discomfort and do the exact opposite of what I wanted just to watch me squirm. He had a seat at the bar and had been watching my exchange with Drew. He stood up when I approached.

  I put my arm around him and kissed him on the cheek. “How about we go to the Ginger Man?” I said.

  “Why?”

  “It’s crowded and noisy and hot in here.”

  “The Ginger Man will be the same.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And we’re already here.” He patted the bar stool.

  “True, but—”

  “And I ordered drinks.”

  “We can cancel them.”

  He looked at me, amusement in his dark eyes. He knew the real reason I wanted to leave. “And I want to talk to Drew Cooper,” he said.

  “What? Why?”

  The bartender, Andy, delivered two Irish coffees. Jamie thanked him, then handed the one without whipped cream to me. “I want to interview him.”

  I dropped the hand that had reached for the cup and crossed my arms.

  He laughed and placed my drink on the bar. “Not tonight. I’m working on a piece about what a restaurant has to go through when a former president of the United States decides to dine there.”

  “Since when?�
�

  He brought his drink to his lips with one hand and patted the stool again with the other. “Since I found out George and Laura were going to be here tonight.”

  I saw Drew coming toward the bar and regretted my attraction to interesting, unpredictable men. Drew and Jamie could become instant best friends as easily as get into a shouting match. I sat down, hoping that their professionalism, the busyness of the restaurant, and the presence of several Secret Service agents would help keep their meeting headline-free.

  “Drew Cooper,” Jamie said, extending his hand. “We meet at last.”

  “Jamie Sherwood,” Drew said, shaking Jamie’s hand. “Glad you could make it.”

  This was too weird. I turned my back to them and watched this tennis match in the mirror.

  “Thanks for the tip on George and Laura,” Jamie said.

  Drew was his source? I sat up straighter, and Jamie smiled at my reaction. He was enjoying this.

  “Markham’s can use some good press,” Drew said.

  “They’ll get it from me,” Jamie said. “How do you like the new place?”

  “To tell you the truth,” Drew said, “I prefer things the way they used to be.”

  “Do you?” Jamie dropped a land baron hand on my shoulder but kept his eyes on Drew. “I thought it was time for a change.”

  “Just because something is different, Sherwood, doesn’t mean it’s better.”

  Uh-oh. Last names.

  “From where I stand, Cooper, everyone really likes the upgrade.”

  “Not everyone,” Drew said. “Some people think we made a mistake.”

  “Then you’d be wise to keep an eye on them,” Jamie said. “People who are dissatisfied have a tendency to walk the check.”

  “Sometimes it’s not intentional,” Drew said. “Sometimes they come back to square things up.” They both looked at the back of my head, then Drew said, “Let me know if you need anything.”

  Jamie hadn’t taken his hand off my shoulder. “Thank you, but I have everything I need right here.”

  I felt flattered to have these two guys verbally jousting over me, but I also knew it could turn tedious, which would mean a lot more work for me. I should have reassured Jamie that he had nothing to worry about, but that wouldn’t be entirely honest. Knowing that I was wrong about the particulars of why Drew had left had made me start to wonder if maybe Daisy was right that I needed to give more thought to all of this. But that was for another time.

  When Drew was out of earshot, I said, “This is the first time I’ve known you to fence your property.”

  “This is the first time it’s been trespassed.”

  twenty-two

  The next morning, Olive called as I walked out the Johns’s front door for another trip to Capital Punishment. “Oscar’s Optometry,” I answered, “where we see you right away.”

  “Kowsaki ate some bad sushi, so you’re covering for him.”

  “What is it?” I asked, alarmed.

  “Don’t know yet. Could be Vibrio or Scombroid.”

  The first one, Vibrio parahaemolyticus, is caused by bacterium that takes up residence in raw or undercooked fish, and the second, Scombroid ichthyotoxicosis, is caused by a histamine toxin that develops in improperly stored or processed fish, so Gavin had eaten sashimi, not sushi. Both toxins cause nausea, vomiting, and some of the worst gastrointestinal pain I wouldn’t even wish on John Without, resulting in a person’s most miserable twenty-four to seventy-two hours on earth.

  “Full duty?” I asked, trying to sound put upon. Olive might say she was pulling my leg if I let on how excited I was. I wasn’t excited that my colleague had food poisoning, but a cowgirl needs to ride often to keep the saddle sores away.

  “A day or two,” she said.

  “Is Gavin okay?”

  “No, Markham,” she said as if speaking to a simpleton. “That’s why you’re taking over his district.”

  “I mean…” My phone beeped with an incoming call from Jamie. “Never mind.”

  “Good. Get over to the scene of the crime. He had tuna at the Emperor’s New Rolls.”

  “Yes ma’am!” I said, betraying my glee. A full recovery might keep Gavin out for three or four days.

  I switched over to Jamie. “Hey.”

  “Can you come to my office?” he asked.

  “I can’t right now. Olive has me filling in for Gavin.”

  “Bad tuna at the Emperor is what I hear.”

  “That was fast.”

  “I take care of my sources and they take care of me.”

  “What do you hear about that new place on Slaughter?”

  “Nothing,” he said. “My unnamed county official is a Girl Scout.”

  “After she rats them out and gets her Snitch badge, she can earn her Shiv-in-the-Ribs badge.”

  “Two badges from one project isn’t a bad day’s work.”

  “What’s at your office?” I asked.

  “How much do you love me?”

  “I plead the fifth on that, but I could be compelled to testify for the right reasons.”

  “I’m looking at a computer file named APD hyphen Sharpe hyphen Confidential.”

  “That’s a very right reason. See anything interesting?”

  “Not really,” he said. “A wallet, some keys, a couple of empty beer bottles. Maybe you’ll see something I don’t.”

  Two minutes ago I was like the cast of Friends with nothing to do. Now I had to choose between two things. I needed to return to Capital Punishment, but they probably weren’t waiting on me, so I could be later than the 8:00 am I had indicated in my note. Besides, the way things had been going there, Miles probably stained the ceiling instead of the floors and forgot all about the hot water. I wanted to review the photos before I inspected them again. If I didn’t see anything amiss and, by some miracle, they passed the inspection, I could close the file on that one. And now that I had Gavin’s district, I had plenty of things to occupy my days.

  “Are you at your office this early?” I asked.

  “Catching worms,” he said. “Coffee will be ready.”

  x x x

  “You were right,” I said to Jamie as I clicked through the photos on his computer a second time. “Nothing stands out.” The police contact who had sent the photos to Jamie had blacked out Troy’s face, thank goodness.

  “Sorry,” Jamie said. “I was kind of hoping you would find something.”

  “Really?”

  “I don’t know any of these people, but I trust your instincts. I don’t always like them, but I trust them.”

  “I wish it would have been worth your while to call in all those favors.”

  “It was,” he said. “It brought you here this morning.”

  “Did you figure out what the restaurant is?”

  The crime scene photos had shown small bits of the restaurant—part of the metal staircase leading up to the catwalk, the railing surrounding it, and a few metal bars that could be anything if you didn’t know they belonged to a cell—but any details were photographed up close or with a blurry background. Still, Jamie has a good imagination and could piece it together if he tried.

  “Besides a place where someone hangs by the neck until dead? No.”

  He may have phrased it that way to let me know he figured it out, but supposing he knew that the building had been fashioned after a prison, he wouldn’t be able to guess the menu. “Keep thinking,” I said.

  My happiness at being back on full duty so delighted me, I wasn’t too disappointed that the crime scene photos had been a bust. They were a long shot, anyway. If the police didn’t already suspect murder, then the killer hadn’t left any obvious clues.

  I thanked Jamie for his help, then drove across town
in pursuit of rotten fish. I decided to put the idea of murder out of my head. All evidence pointed to Troy Sharpe being responsible for his own death. Whether accident or suicide, the police would have to call it. From what I had determined, they had a fifty-fifty chance of being right, so they may as well flip a coin.

  x x x

  The Palatine is a monstrous shopping complex on the southwest side that uses words like luxury, impeccable, and urban lifestyle in its ads, which translate to “overpriced,” “snobby,” and “lifestyle I don’t have the right clothes for.”

  The sushi place had managed the double offense of two high-dollar references in their name with Emperor and Rolls, as in Royce. I couldn’t wait to bust them.

  The Palatine has several phases, some of which are still under construction, which makes it all that much more exciting to maneuver. After locating and parking in the garage for Phase III, I wound my way through a labyrinth of restaurants, shops, salons, and spas so complex it would make the Minotaur stop and ask for directions.

  I came upon the restaurant’s awning printed with their logo—predictably, a man togaed up like Caesar sitting in a Rolls Royce and using chopsticks to hold a fat sushi roll in front of his open mouth. I went around the building, walked down the alley, and knocked on a beige metal door.

  Olive didn’t say when Gavin had eaten the bad tuna, but it would have been the day before, either lunchtime or early afternoon. Seeing what a health inspector sees all day every day has turned a lot of us into home cooks. We all have our weaknesses, though, and sashimi is Gavin’s. Or it was. He was probably already planning to make that at home, assuming his intestines wouldn’t seize up at the sight of raw fish.

  A banged-up mobile food truck started down the alley on its way to the job site at the far end. I raised my hand to wave it down to find out if it was Pizza Pig, but just then a towheaded kid answered my knock, holding out a $20 bill. The truck rumbled past, and the kid whipped his hand back as soon as he saw I wasn’t who he assumed I would be. The dishwasher from the looks of him, wet from chest to knees, conducting a transaction at the back door for what? Azaleas for his girlfriend? Barbeque ribs? Calculus homework answers? Let’s pencil-in answer D: drugs.