Pete rolled his eyes at me. “You don’t have a damn clue what you’re doing, do you?”
“It’s not like I’ve ever done any detective work before,” I said defensively. “Are you sure you don’t have any friends with gambling problems?”
Pete thought about it. He snapped his fingers. “Got it. Cecilia’s friend Savannah has a husband who’s some kind of high roller. Carl’s a freaking genius, and I think he counts cards or something. Anyway, he’s always going on gambling trips.”
“That could work. Except for one little thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Like one of Cecilia’s friends would help me out.”
“Nah, Savannah’s not like that. She’s cool. They’re not super close or anything, but they run in the same circles and get together about once a week. I’ll give her a call.”
Carl and Savannah Worthington lived in a fancy neighborhood in Brentwood, a little south of us. It took us about fifteen minutes to get there, and Pete whined pretty much the whole time about being out past his bedtime. The Worthingtons’ house was massive. Pete had said that Carl was the head physician of some department at Vanderbilt hospital, which meant he had the disposable income to be a high stakes gambler.
We knocked on the door, and Savannah answered. She was the cutest woman I’d ever seen. The quintessential Southern belle, she was tiny and perky, with the biggest mane of blond hair this side of Texas. She drawled, “Good evenin’, Pete. And you must be Juliet, Pete’s bestie. We’ve heard all about you.”
“Nice things, I hope,” I replied.
Savannah wiggled her eyebrows. “Not from Cecilia, but that only means you and I are going to get along like peas and carrots. Come on in.”
Behind Savannah’s back, I mouthed to Pete, “I love her!”
He whispered back, “Told you so.”
She led us into her gorgeous great room, where Carl was sitting, watching what had to be a hundred-inch TV. He got up when we walked in and came over to shake Pete’s hand. Carl couldn’t have been more different from Savannah. He was round, boring, and bald. I didn’t get the attraction.
“You said you needed to find a bookie?” asked Carl, gesturing for us all to sit down.
“Yes.” Pete turned to me. “Can I tell them?”
“As long as they’re not cops, I’m okay with it.”
Pete launched into the short version of Dave’s murder, leaving out most of the interesting stuff, like his own date with Charlene. He finished with, “So we want to talk to Dave’s bookie, Ron Hatcher, and see if he knows anything about the murder.”
Her mouth having been pursed in a little O during Pete’s story, Savannah asked, “That sounds like something out of a crazy movie. Are you sure you two want to hunt down a possible murderer?”
I shrugged. “If it’s a choice between that and jail, I’ll take the possible murderer.”
Deep in thought, Carl said, “I may know a guy who could help you find your man. He runs a…discreet poker game downtown. I know he has ties to several bookies, but I don’t know if yours is one of them. Let me get you the address.” I was betting that “discreet” was another word for “illegal.”
After he left the room, Savannah looked apologetic. “Carl’s job is rather stressful, so he has to blow off steam somehow.”
I replied, “Hey, you heard my story. I’m in no place to judge.”
“You certainly lead an interesting life, girl,” she said, rather wistfully. I wasn’t sure that was a compliment, but she said it so kindly, it was hard to tell.
Carl returned, holding a business card. He handed it to Pete and advised, “They’re very exclusive. Find James Cabot and tell him that Carl sent you. Oh, and Pete, don’t even consider sitting down for a hand. Get your information and get out. Trust me.”
Pete’s eyes grew wide. “Why? Is it dangerous?”
The corner of Carl’s mouth turned up. “No. You’re just a lousy poker player.”
Carl, Savannah, and I laughed while Pete glared at us.
“We really appreciate your help, Carl,” I said as we were leaving. “Great to meet you, Savannah.”
Savannah replied, “The pleasure was all mine. We’ll have to go out together sometime, leaving Cecilia at home. No offense, Pete.”
Once we were back in my car, Pete took a look at the card Carl had given him. He sighed. “I don’t suppose you would consider continuing this tomorrow.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Downtown it is, then.”
The address on the card was not in the best neighborhood, and we unfortunately had to park and walk. Pete seemed apprehensive the whole way, his eyes darting around, undoubtedly being vigilant to ensure we weren’t jumped and mugged or something. We barely found the place, because the door was around a corner in the alley. If it hadn’t had the address painted in tiny numbers over the doorway, we would have missed it. Immediately inside, the only place to go was down a flight of narrow stairs. It was literally an underground poker game. Cool. When we got to the door at the bottom of the steps, an enormous man, undoubtedly the bouncer, stopped us.
“You two look like you’re in the wrong place,” he said, his voice low and menacing.
I could feel the tension radiating off Pete. I was going to have to run point on this one. Plucking the card out of Pete’s hand, I said, “No, we’re at the right place.” I handed the bouncer the card. “Carl Worthington sent us. We need to speak to James Cabot, please.”
He eyed us suspiciously. “You guys cops?”
“Do we look like cops?” I snapped. Pete and I were the last people anyone should assume were cops.
“That’s sounds like something a cop would say.”
Clearing his throat, Pete said commandingly, “Hey, man. We want to see James, and we want to see him now. Carl sent us here, and he said you guys would be cool. If I go back and tell him you gave us shit, you’re losing a big player. You get me?”
The bouncer nodded and disappeared through the door.
Giving Pete a punch in the shoulder, I squealed, “Pete! That was badass! I didn’t know you had it in you.”
He bent over, groaning. “I think I’m gonna puke.”
I hauled him up. “No! You did awesome. I totally take back calling you a Boy Scout earlier.”
He gave me a half smile.
The bouncer returned with another man. He was dressed like a stuffy businessman, but there was something in his eyes that made him seem dangerous. He nodded and said, “I’m James. What can I do for you?”
Damn. I thought we were going to be invited inside and get to see a real underground poker game. Pete seemed worn out from his five seconds of bullying, so I replied, “We need to get in touch with a bookie named Ron Hatcher. Carl said you might be able to help.”
“Ron Hatcher,” he mused. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”
There was an awkward silence. This guy didn’t seem to be much more willing than the bouncer to help us.
When I glanced over at Pete, I could tell by the look on his face that he was tired and cranky as hell. It was time to take him home. Before I could say anything, he snapped, “That’s it? Carl said you were the man to talk to. That if anyone could help us, it would be you.”
Frowning, the bouncer cracked his knuckles and made a move toward Pete, who took a step back. I hoped Pete wasn’t again close to puking.
James held a hand up to stop the bouncer, smirking at us. “Since Carl sent you all the way down here, I suppose I can give you the names of a couple of my associates. They might be able to point you in the right direction.” He took out a pen and scribbled on the back of the business card that Carl had given us.
“Thank you,” I said, but James had already slammed the door in our faces.
Pete turned to me. “Well, that was fun.”
“Hey, at least we have somewhere to start.”
“Now can we go home?”
“Yes, now we can go home.”
Pete drove
us back so I could call the two people James recommended. The first guy I talked to didn’t know Ron, but politely offered his services should I ever feel the need to play the ponies. How thoughtful. The second guy was a total turd, unable (or, more likely, unwilling) to give me any information about Ron Hatcher. Evidently I had interrupted a romantic interlude he was having with his lady.
I hung up and threw my phone at my purse. “That was a heinous waste of time. I didn’t think this sleuthing stuff would be so hard.”
Pete patted me on the knee. “Cheer up, Langley. We still have two other guys to harass. We’ll find something. And who knows? Maybe one of them will know where to find Ron Hatcher.”
Sighing, I said, “I hope so. If not, you might have to go on another date with Charlene.”
“Nope. Not doing that again. You’ll just have to go to jail.”
“Jerk.”
“I’ll come visit you.”
Chapter 8
Seth was right about one thing: The fact that Java Jive was the scene of a murder had a serious impact on business. We were slammed the next morning. In all the years I had worked there, I had never seen such a crowd. Customers were lined up out the door, the tables were all full, and people were impatiently waiting for a seat to open up. Rhonda was bitching and moaning about having to work so hard, but that was nothing new.
Pete had to go back to his real job, so we didn’t have his extra help, either. I helped the baristas with the morning coffee crowd, feeling bad that I only had time to wave at Gertie from across the room. Pete had talked to her yesterday, and she was worried about our safety because of the murder. He tried to set her mind at ease, but I thought she looked a little stressed this morning.
Camille came to me, visibly upset. “Juliet, there’s a reporter at the cash register, and he’s asking all kinds of questions about Dave. I don’t know what to do.”
I put my hand on her arm. “Let me handle it.”
Camille smiled, relieved.
Taking a deep breath, I went to the cash register and recognized that nasty reporter, Don Wolfe, from last night. “What do you want?”
“I didn’t get a straight answer from you yesterday, so I thought I’d come and talk to your staff instead.” He leered at Camille, who quickly grabbed a coffeepot and went to refill drinks at the counter, as far away from him as possible. “I was hoping that sweet little jittery thing could help me out, but a cat’s got her tongue. Maybe I’ll try Big Bertha over there next.” He jerked his chin toward Rhonda.
Bad move. Sure, Rhonda was a bit of an Amazon, but I wasn’t about to let anyone walk in here and disrespect my staff. Didn’t he realize that being a jackass would get him nowhere with me? “Don’t insult my staff. If you’re not here for coffee, then get out. You’re holding up the line.”
I got several murmurs of agreement from the people standing behind him.
He tried to puff out his chest, but failed miserably. “Bitch. I’ll get my story one way or another.”
Out of nowhere, Seth appeared behind the reporter and barked, “Excuse me, what did you just call her?”
Wolfe sneered and turned around, only to run into Seth’s shoulder. His eyes bulged, and he sputtered, “Nothing…nothing.”
Seth smiled. “That’s what I thought.” Seth grabbed Wolfe by the collar and dragged him out the door.
Wow. Extra points for Seth for defending my honor. But wait, I couldn’t get too blinded by the machismo, because last night after cyberstalking him, something had started to bother me. I couldn’t put my finger on it. One thing that struck me as odd, though, was that, as a rule, professors and film buffs weren’t known for being particularly brawny or manly, and Seth was one big hunk of solid muscle. He looked like he had thrown guys out of places before. I knew I shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, but still. And he had asked question after question, all about Java Jive and the staff. Maybe it was nothing, but I needed to find out more about Seth before I decided whether or not to get too involved with him.
Seth swaggered back in, and I went to thank him. “I really appreciate that. He’s the guy who harassed me in the ladies’ room last night.”
He grinned. “It was my pleasure. That scrawny little twerp had it coming.” Looking around, he observed, “It’s busy. Think you can get away to have lunch with me today?”
“I don’t know, Seth,” I said apologetically. “If I can, it will have to be really late.”
“Fine with me. I’m giving a lecture this morning, but I’m free all afternoon. Give me a call when you’re ready.”
“No promises.”
“I don’t mind waiting for what I want.” He winked at me and disappeared out the door. Odd feeling or not, I found myself looking forward to lunchtime.
We were, obviously, down a cook, so after the reporter debacle, I headed to the kitchen to prepare for the lunch rush. Brandon and I were constantly running, trying to get all of the lunch orders filled and out to the horde of hungry customers. As soon as I got a break, I would put a HELP WANTED sign in the window and a job posting in every publication and website I could find. I also needed to find time to visit Dave’s sister and to go to The Dirty Duck to talk to someone about the guy Dave fought with last weekend. Based on the crush of customers we’d had so far, and the fact that I wanted to use some of my free time for a lunch date, my sleuthing would probably have to wait until after we closed tonight.
“Juliet?” asked Brandon.
“Yeah?” I said, not taking my eyes off the grilled chicken that I was dangerously close to overcooking. I hadn’t quite gotten back into the swing of professional cooking just yet.
He looked a little embarrassed. “Do you know how to make a crab cake po’boy? Dave always made those because they’re kind of complicated.”
I groaned. I hated making George’s nasty crab cake po’boy sandwich recipe. The other dishes that he had come up with were fantastic, but this was the one thing on the menu that was horrible, and everyone knew it. Everyone, I supposed, except the unwitting customer who had just ordered it.
“Yes, I know how. I’ll do it.” I’d be damned if I used George’s recipe, though.
I went into the walk-in freezer to find the crabmeat and spied a bag of it on the top shelf just out of my reach. Grabbing a step stool, I took the bag off the shelf and noticed a tub of cornstarch sitting behind it.
Grumbling, I snagged the tub as well. Every cook should know that you can’t keep cornstarch in the freezer. “Brandon,” I called as I exited the freezer. “Since when do we keep the cornstarch in the freezer?”
Brandon shrugged.
“From now on, it needs to be kept at room temperature. In the freezer, ice crystals form inside the container, and when you take the tub out to use it, the ice melts and makes the cornstarch wet, clumpy, and unusable,” I explained.
“Okay,” was his less-than-interested response, and he went back to work without another word. Brandon was no conversationalist.
I went to the prep table to work on making the crab cakes, and after several minutes I had the sandwich ready. My crab cakes turned out way better than George’s, so I made sure to write down my recipe for the kitchen workers to use instead. After I placed the po’boy platter in the pass-through window for Rhonda, I turned my attention to the container of cornstarch, hoping it hadn’t formed one giant lump that would have to be thrown away.
When I opened the lid, I was surprised to find not cornstarch, but several items that most certainly didn’t belong in a freezer. Inside the tub, there was a small jewelry box, a few envelopes, and a crumpled-up piece of paper. That was odd. Why would anyone stash a few random items in an empty container in our freezer of all places? And who did this stuff belong to? I opened my mouth to ask Brandon, but before I could say anything, I got a weird feeling in my gut that I couldn’t explain. I closed the lid and set the tub aside.
While I continued making sandwich after sandwich as orders kept pouring in, I couldn’t help but think about the st
ash I had found in the freezer. Maybe I was being overly paranoid about everything because of Dave’s murder, but for some reason I felt the overwhelming need to snoop through its contents. Or maybe it was just because I was nosy. The lunch rush was beginning to wind down, so I said to Brandon, “I’m going to make a phone call. Will you be okay by yourself for a few minutes?”
Brandon shrugged. “I guess.”
Good enough for me. Once he turned back around to the grill, I grabbed the tub and hurried into the office. I opened the tub again and took out the jewelry box, the envelopes, and the piece of paper and laid them on the desk. Picking up the jewelry box first, I was surprised to find a beautiful pendant inside. It was a small, greenish gemstone surrounded by delicate silver filigree work. It was lovely. The pendant looked rather old, but in a good, vintage kind of way, like it had belonged to someone’s grandmother.
I set it aside and smoothed out the wadded-up piece of paper. The note read, Franklin Motel, Room 8, Johnny. Why did the Franklin Motel sound familiar to me? I sat down in the chair and opened up an Internet browser on the computer. I Googled “Franklin Motel Nashville” and pulled up their website. When I looked at the picture on the home page, I instantly realized why I knew the name and chuckled to myself. My slutty roommate from my freshman year of college used to stay there with her boyfriend when he came to town for a booty call. It was the cheapest motel on this side of town, and for good reason. The place was nasty and in a bad neighborhood, and it made my apartment building look like the Ritz. I didn’t know who “Johnny” from the note was, but if he was staying at the Franklin Motel, he didn’t have very high standards.
Finally, I reached for the envelopes. There were three of them—all random pieces of mail, two junk and one bill. They all had the same address on Vanderbilt Place, but each had a different mailbox number and a different name: Whitney Birch, Jared Drummond, and Aaron Saltzman. These names weren’t familiar to me, but that wasn’t surprising. I went back to the computer and Googled the Vanderbilt Place address. It was for the mailroom where all of the Vanderbilt students’ mailboxes were housed, so that made these the addressees of three Vandy students. I sighed as I studied the items on the desk. If there was a meaningful connection between a pendant, a crappy motel, and students’ mail, I didn’t know what it was.
Death Before Decaf Page 8
