by Holly Plum
CHAPTER THREE
David and Alex finally showed up for work two hours later. Neither of them had a convincing explanation for where they had been. They were both surprised to learn that a murder had taken place at the restaurant in their absence.
“This is your fault,” José Ramirez shouted, as the two brothers stared at the bloody floor. “If you’d been here when you were supposed to be, no one would’ve died, and we wouldn’t be losing an entire day’s worth of business.”
“Sorry,” David answered. “Me and Alex were…”
Silence fell over the restaurant as everyone waited for David to conclude the sentence. After this had gone on for two or three minutes, Mr. Ramirez shoved his hands into his pockets. And with a disgruntled snort, he returned to his back office.
By now, news of the murder had spread throughout the small town. Steve Wilson had no family to speak of, and no friends. Yet, everyone in town had a story about the time they had run into him stocking the freezer section of the local grocery store or beaten him at poker, or found him ripping apart a whole loaf of bread to feed to the geese that ran through Birchwood Park. A spontaneous crowd had gathered in the street between Lito Bueno’s Mexican restaurant and the Lucky Noodle, singing songs and looking solemn. An old woman to whom Steve had been especially kind had arranged rose petals in the shape of a beef steak. Inside the petals the townsfolk placed candles and pennies, and anything else they thought might convey their respects. Steve Wilson had turned out to be more popular in death than he had ever been in life.
“I don’t get it,” David said, watching the scene through the window. “A man dies, and suddenly everyone pretends they were his best friend. I just don’t get it.”
“He was murdered,” Alex added. “No one likes to admit it, but everyone loves a good murder.”
“Is there such a thing?” David wrinkled his nose.
No one replied. Mari was getting restless having to wait here while the police conducted their investigation; she wanted to leave, but Detective Price had asked them to stay until they had finished their preliminary interviews. Her interview hadn’t gone well. From the moment she entered the back office, it was like she was in a tunnel, and all she could think about was murder and the possibility that one of them might be arrested. Mari knew that Detective Price was just doing his job, but she resented his intrusive questions about Steve’s private life, about their relationship with each other, about her father. Again and again, the conversation had returned to her father.
When she came out of the restroom shortly after the interview ended, Detective Price and his colleague Officer Penny were standing near the door still talking about him.
“It’s too soon to make an arrest,” said the detective. “But we may have a suspect. We can verify that José, his daughter, and Mateo the bus boy were all in the restaurant at the time of the murder. And while Marisol Ramirez and Mateo were apparently together, no one can verify the whereabouts of Mr. Ramirez.”
“You don’t think he was in his office?” Officer Penny asked.
“He may have been," Detective Price said quietly. "He says he was. They say he was, but we don’t know. It won’t be enough to convict him in court, but it is a lead. The only other possibility is that he was attacked by a fourth person that the three of them did not know was in the restaurant.”
Mari did not think her anger could burn any brighter, but then Officer Penny said, “I don’t think we should be so quick to rule out Mari and Mateo. We’ve seen this kind of murder before, where two people give each other an airtight alibi at the time of the crime, but it turns out that they were both guilty.”
“I thought of that,” Detective Price responded. “And I’m not trying to discount it, but it’s hard to look at those two and think they could be that clever.” He paused for a moment before adding, “Plus, while Mari was obviously not enamored of the victim, she doesn’t strike me as harboring any particular hostility toward him.”
“But we’ve seen that before, too,” Officer Penny replied, who Mari desperately wished would stop talking. “Maybe she doesn’t appear suspicious at the moment because she took all her anger out on Steve Wilson?”
***
Later that night in her apartment, Mari warmed up some shrimp tostadas and paced the kitchen trying to sort out what she knew.
Two things had struck her as suspicious. First, Mateo had shown up to work early. And second, Alex and David had shown up late. Mari didn’t for a moment think that her brothers had been involved in the murder—they hadn’t even been at the restaurant, as far as she knew—but she needed to know where they had been. The fact that Mari's brothers had been so evasive when she had asked them about their whereabouts only confirmed that they were up to something sketchy.
Mari gave Tabasco the remains of her meal and sank into the couch. A colorful blanket decorated with red, blue, and green patterns lay draped over it. Mari pulled the colorful blanket over her tired body. Now that the passions of the moment had subsided, she could admit to herself that she didn’t know where her dad had been at the time of the murder. It was an unpleasant fact of the case that Mari didn’t want to think about, but she had to.
She had to clear her family's name.
José Ramirez was an unlikely suspect. The only person he really hated was Mr. Chun across the street. If Mari's father were going to murder anyone, it would have been him. The whole town knew that. Honestly, there weren’t any likely suspects. Nobody hated Steve Wilson enough to want him dead. No one particularly thought about Steve at all. He was just there, like the elms in Birchwood Park. Steve had been a fixture in the community for as long as anyone could remember, pleasantly smiling and bland, not especially threatening or intelligent. Just there.
Steve had no family in town, but he must have had family somewhere. Mari would start there. She would find out where his parents lived if they were still living and contact them. Mari would talk to Steve's siblings if he had any. Maybe finding out his family history would illuminate his unfortunate end.
And, just because it was bothering her so much, Mari would talk to her brothers. She picked up her cell phone to call them when the phone began ringing. It was Mari's father.
“Hola, dad,” said Mari answered.
“I know you don’t have plans tonight, so don’t say you do,” Mr. Ramirez responded. “I need you to get back here.”
“Back to the restaurant?”
“We’re opening for dinner," he clarified. "Be here in fifteen minutes.”
“Dad, are you even allowed to be opening?" Mari questioned. "Did the police say you could do this?”
There was no answer because José Ramirez had already hung up.
CHAPTER FOUR
Mari’s prediction from that morning had proven correct. Lito Bueno’s Mexican Restaurant was seeing its best business in years. When she pulled up to the restaurant ten minutes after getting off of the phone with her dad, a group of teenagers was playing hacky sack in the last open parking space. Mari yelled at them to move, even threatening to run over them, but they remained fixed.
Not wanting to cause a scene, Mari drove across the street to the Lucky Noodle, whose parking lot was also beginning to fill up. The restaurant itself, however, was virtually empty. Whole families were abandoning their cars and dashing back across the street to Lito Bueno’s Mexican Restaurant. Mr. Chun stared enviously through the slatted blinds of his Chinese restaurant at the long line that snaked its way out of the dark lobby and halfway around the building.
Ignoring the flashes of the photographers and the shouts of customers who thought she was cutting in line, Mari cut her way through the crowd, past the foyer, and into the kitchen. There she found Alex and David washing pans. Her brothers had been given the least glamorous of jobs and would be working late to make up for the hours they had missed that morning. Chrissy Davenport, the sprightly young waitress, blonde and bubbly, was just beginning her shift. She hadn’t known about the murder until Mr. Ram
irez had called her into his office. Chrissy hadn’t had a chance to talk about it with anyone else, and so spent several minutes questioning Mari about the discovery of the body and her subsequent interrogation.
“Like, what did they ask you?” Chrissy said, who seemed to find the whole thing wonderfully thrilling. “Did it feel like you were being treated as a suspect?”
“They wanted to know where I was and who I was with when it happened, really basic stuff,” Mari replied. “I didn’t have much to say. I just explained to them that I had been hanging out back with Mateo until Tabasco started barking, and would not stop. I came out here to get him, and you know the rest.” Mari found she didn’t want to dwell on the unsavory details that would undoubtedly be endlessly repeated in the newspapers and local gossip.
“You brave soul, you must have been so scared, finding the body like that,” Chrissy commented. “I can’t believe…” She glanced around to make sure no one could hear her, and then leaned forward and whispered, “I can’t believe you’re working tonight after what you went through today.”
“Neither can I,” Mari said with a shrug. “But that’s life. The world doesn’t stop just because someone dies, you know?”
“You’re so brave,” Chrissy said again, shaking her head in wonder. “Your true love was killed, practically in front of you.”
“We weren’t lovers." Mari rolled her eyes. “And I didn't see anything. You're being a bit dramatic.”
“He was smitten with you,” Chrissy went on, seeming not to hear her. “It’s going to be strange not seeing his meat truck driving through town every day.”
Mari was relieved when the doors to the restaurant opened and Chrissy no longer had the time speculate about Mari's love life. The table where Steve had been sitting that morning had been roped off, and a sign placed near it asking customers not to go near it. So, of course, children and even a few adults had tiptoed over the rope and had touched the once blood-stained chair as though it was a holy relic. Mari felt it would have made more sense to hide the chair and then rope off a completely different table, pretending it was the scene of the crime. Customers would have the grim pleasure of thinking they were sitting at the victim’s table, and her dad wouldn’t have to come out every few minutes and shoo them away, looking more and more grumpy each time.
About a hundred people were seated in the dining room at one time, while another hundred waited in the lobby or stood in line outside. For a while, Chrissy busily sat people on the long Spanish-style benches by the front doors as they waited for the line to move forward. Eventually, Chrissy ran out of spaces and instead began urging the crowd, in the loudest and sternest voice she could muster, to leave the seats available for the pregnant and elderly.
Of course, there was one man who couldn’t be bothered to stand in line. Mr. Chun from the Lucky Noodle strode in from across the street and, ignoring the cries and protests of waiting customers, planted himself at the front of the line and demanded a seat.
“I’m very sorry,” Chrissy patiently said, who was so taken aback by this presumptuous gesture that she didn’t know how to respond. “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait in line like everyone else.”
“This is ridiculous,” Mr. Chun replied, a single vein in the middle of his forehead throbbing dangerously. “If I wait, it will take at least an hour to be seated.”
“Two hours,” said Chrissy.
“I want a table and I want it now.”
Chrissy assured Mr. Chun that she would see what she could do. A few minutes later, she returned wearing a sober expression, her lips pursed into a frown.
“I’ve spoken to the manager,” Chrissy said. “I’m afraid we won’t be able to seat you at all tonight.”
“This is ridiculous," Mr. Chun shouted, slamming his fist down hard on the wooden podium. Chrissy and several customers jumped. “This is an outrage!”
“I’m sorry, those are my orders,” said Chrissy. Then, addressing the crowd, she said in a loud voice, “I’ve been asked to let you know that only those who are currently inside the building will be seated tonight. The rest of you will have to return tomorrow.” Turning back to Mr. Chun, she said in a faint voice, “That includes you, Sir.”
“But I am inside the building!" Mr. Chun yelled, nearly exploding with rage. “What kind of madness is this?”
“You weren’t in line,” Chrissy reminded him, her voice becoming so quiet with each new outburst that by now it was scarcely audible. Taking a deep breath, she said, “Only those who were inside the building, and in line, will be seated. We apologize for the inconvenience, but there just isn't enough room.”
“Let me talk to your manager,” Mr. Chun demanded, and pushed past Chrissy before she could stop him. But at that moment José Ramirez came striding out of his office, his sleeves rolled up as though he was getting ready for a fight.
“I demand an apology for my mistreatment,” Mr. Chun said to Mr. Ramirez. Families at all tables turned to look at the two headstrong men. “I demand an apology and your famous churro deluxe platter.”
“You’ll never get it,” José snidely answered. “You’d love that recipe, wouldn’t you? You've spent spies into my restaurant one too many times to steal my recipes. How dare you come in here and demand a seat at one of my tables. Don't you have any of your own customers to feed?”
"You apologize now, or I'll tell all of these nice people about the time you had mice in your kitchen," Mr. Chun threatened.
"You were the one who put them there!" José shouted in response, his cheeks turning bright red.
“You can't prove that!” Mr. Chun placed his hands on his hips.
"But I sure as habanero can kick you out of my restaurant!" José attempted to yell his response even louder.
By now silence had fallen over the whole room, unbroken even by the sounds of cutlery hitting plates. Turning to face the diners, Mr. Chun pointed one menacing finger into the air and said, “I’m amazed at all of you, eating so cheerfully when a murder was committed in this very room not twelve hours ago. Someone answer me this question: why were the police parked outside all morning? Is it because they suspect that someone who works at this rest—”
But Mr. Chun never finished the question. A quick blow to the face sent him spiraling to the floor. Alarmed, Mari and Mateo ran Mr. Ramirez, grabbing his arms as he lunged forward.
“Dad, it’s not worth it,” Mari said. “You really will go to jail.”
“I don’t care,” her dad snarled. “I’ve been putting up with this for too many years.”
Paula Ramirez, Mari's mother, came running to the front of the restaurant. It was the first time Mari had seen her since Steve’s murder. Giving her husband a scolding look, she glared at the two men.
“Let me deal with this, Mari,” Paula muttered. She turned to Mr. Chun. “Get out of here before I call the police.”
"That's right," Mr. Ramirez added, "and—"
"Not so fast, José," Paula cut in. "You should be ashamed of yourself punching people in the middle of our restaurant. Both of you quit acting like children." Paula nodded, matter-of-factly.
If anyone had reason to call the police, Mari reflected, it was Mr. Chun. But he was too busy rubbing his jaw and making sure all his teeth were still in place to bother with legalities. Mari’s mom was the one person he had never been able to argue with. Mari had often wondered if he secretly had a thing for her.
“Leave before this escalates any further,” Paula said again.
With slumped shoulders, Mr. Ramirez turned and walked back to his office. Mr. Chun folded his arms as he watched his opponent leave in surrender.
"This isn't over, José," Mr. Chun mumbled angrily.
"Ay dios mio, Mr. Chun," Paula responded, shooing him away. "Don't be such a Peking Duck."
CHAPTER FIVE
By the next morning, Lito Bueno’s Mexican Restaurant had gone somewhat back to normal. The police had shown up shortly after Mr. Chun had walked out of the restaurant th
e night before, and had spent another hour interviewing him and Mr. Ramirez separately. Mari heard from Chrissy, who had heard it from her roommate who had briefly dated Mr. Chun’s daughter the year before, that Mr. Chun had declined to press charges.
Mari spent the morning dealing with the continued fallout from Steve Wilson’s death. The fact that the only meat-deliverer in town had been killed meant that there was no longer anyone in town to order meat from. The three people Mari had called from neighboring towns had seemed interested in expanding their businesses until they learned that the previous man who had held the job title had been murdered. After that, most of Mari's prospects had regretfully said that they were already over-booked, that gasoline prices were too high, etc., etc.
Mari had some time to figure out a solution. There was enough meat in the freezer to last them a couple of days. But soon they would have to find another means of delivery. The whole town would, or they’d be serving nothing but salads from dawn to dusk. And if there was one thing Mari’s dad was adamant about, it was that Lito Bueno’s Mexican Restaurant never had and never would serve salad. He had called that dish chicken feed for as long as Mari could remember. And Mr. Ramirez had insisted that his restaurant didn't serve chicken feed.
When Mateo came in at noon, looking as groggy as ever, Mari placed him on the phone looking for a new meat supplier and turned her attention to questioning her brothers.
“We’ve been down this road before,” Mari said. “I’m not giving up until I get a straight answer out of you. I just want to know what you two were doing yesterday during the two hours you weren’t here. Come on, take this seriously. A man is dead.”
“We were studying for our calculus final,” David answered, while Alex gave an entirely different answer.
When Mari continued to glare at them, Alex said that they had gone to a movie while David had insisted, at the same time, that the two of them were volunteering at the hospital.
