by J. C. Eaton
Picking up my cell phone, I placed the call.
“Hey, Phee. Is everything all right?”
“We’re fine. Everything at the office is fine. I needed to—”
“Hold on a minute.”
I held still and waited.
“Sorry about that. Look, I’m at the Maricopa County Sheriff’s Office in Phoenix. Seems our Mr. Sizemore has a long history. Can I call you later? Maybe this evening, if you’re home.”
“Um, sure. If not, it can wait till tomorrow.”
“Thanks, kiddo, and tell Augusta I said hi!”
An hour or so later, I was out the door and on my way home. I swore I wouldn’t let two dead bodies and my aunt’s missing fiancé interfere with the meager time I set aside for swimming. That was before I remembered I wanted to speak with Sebastian at Saveur de Evangeline. I needed to find out if Louis Melinsky had contacted him and paid that catering bill in full like he did with the other two major expenses.
Drat! If I hurried, I could have a quick chat with Sebastian and be in the water before it got too late. My mind was a jumble of things I needed to do, things I wanted to do, and things I absolutely had to do. Sebastian being one of them. As I turned west on Bell Road toward Surprise, I glanced at my odometer. Too bad I didn’t have a new car and a Lexus dealership calling to remind me about my oil changes. Nope, I was still driving my old KIA Sportage I shipped out here from Minnesota. Too complicated to get a new car. Or loan, for that matter.
Images of new cars flashed through my mind as I got closer to Saveur de Evangeline. Expensive new cars. Like BMWs and Mercedes. Cars with classy designs and fancy grills . . . Suddenly I remembered what Nate had told me. Something about an angry grill on an expensive car. What was it? By now, I was pulling into the parking lot in front of the restaurant and trying to recall exactly what my boss had said. Lately it seemed as if I couldn’t hold on to a single thought because I was being bombarded with something else.
Rich aromas of garlic and mushroom greeted me well before the hostess did when I walked into the restaurant. It was the same girl, only this time she was wearing a short black cocktail dress reminiscent of the 1950s, with taffeta and lace in the skirting. I smiled as I approached her.
“Hi! I know Sebastian must be terribly busy with the evening patrons, but I really need to ask him an important question and I’m afraid it can’t wait.”
The girl eyed my attire as if I had just finished paving someone’s driveway.
Hey, it could be worse. I’ve got an old pair of ratty jeans in the backseat of my car.
“Miss Kimball, right? The Stangler-Melinsky wedding.”
I’ll give her credit for one thing. Her memory sure surpassed mine. Then again, I was a good twenty years older than she was and my brain neurons weren’t dancing around so quickly.
“Right. You remember me.”
She nodded and picked up the phone. “I’ll see if Sebastian can spare a few minutes.”
I didn’t want to appear as if I was listening to her every word, so I took a step back and pretended to be fascinated by the faux Toulouse-Lautrec murals on the wall.
Seconds later she pointed to a small side table with one chair. “Have a seat. He’ll be right out.”
This was going to be a real short conversation, given the fact that there was only one chair. Not like last time when it was seven in the morning and we had the whole place to ourselves. I stood up the second he came out of the kitchen. He was wearing one of those tall chef hats that would have concealed his baldness had he not adjusted it so many times as to reveal there was not a single blade of hair underneath it.
I reached out my hand. “Thanks so much for seeing me. I know you must be incredibly busy. I wouldn’t have barged in if it wasn’t important.”
I didn’t wait for a response. “Has the bill for the catering been paid?”
I don’t know what kind of question Sebastian might have been expecting, but he looked somewhat relieved. “Yes. Paid in full by Mr. Melinsky. With a reserve amount.”
“Reserve amount?”
“He provided additional funds should we run into any unexpected costs.”
“Is that the usual way you handle the catering?”
“It can vary. Usually the customer pays fifty percent upon signing the contract and has thirty days to pay the balance. Is there anything wrong? Anything we should know about?”
“No, no. Not at all. With so many wedding details, I wanted to be sure this was taken care of. My aunt and soon-to-be uncle have so much on their minds.”
Especially since one of them has gone missing and the other one is hell-bent on impersonating a Dickens character.
Judging from Sebastian’s reaction, he had no idea Louis was missing. How could he? It wasn’t common knowledge. Unless . . .
“I see. Is that all you needed, Miss Kimball?”
I studied his face carefully, hopeful it would reveal something. But that only happened in movies. With good directing. And even better filming. Not here in Saveur de Evangeline. I was staring at a man in a dimly lit room. What did I expect? At least I felt fairly certain of one thing. The police hadn’t released the name of the person whose garage held the missing motorcycle.
“Um . . . by the way, I spoke with Feltons’ Pavilions, Tents, and Awnings, as well as La Petite Pâtisserie. Everything seems to be going as scheduled. I was kind of worried about the tent company since I heard there was trouble a while back but—”
“Trouble? It was a catastrophe. I can still remember that cursed weekend as if it happened yesterday, instead of years ago.”
“That bad?”
“I’m afraid so. I was a new chef at Saveur de Evangeline, having just completed my graduate degree at the Culinary Institute of America in Hyde Park when this wretched excuse for a chef came in to apply for a position. He was totally out of his league. An embarrassment. Not the pinnacle of excellence one would expect for someone who wished to work in this establishment. I’m afraid Mr. LeDoux made it quite clear to that gentleman. Imagine, offering up credentials like working in . . . what was it? Oh yes. Fred’s Burgers and Eggs.”
For the life of me, I couldn’t understand what was so horrific about having an unqualified person apply for a job. It probably happened every ten seconds.
“Um . . . was that all? I don’t understand.”
“The gentleman, and I use that term loosely, became quite irate and spouted off a litany of four-letter words that would have made the cream in our béchamel sauce curdle.”
“I see. And then . . .”
“Hmmph. Mr. LeDoux didn’t as much as bat an eyelash, but everyone in the vicinity knew he must have been fuming. He told that man that in order to work in our establishment, he would need a culinary degree.”
“That sounds reasonable.”
“The man offered up one final four-letter word before . . . before . . . oh dear, I cannot even bring myself to relive this.”
“What? Was it that awful? Did he punch your boss?”
“Worse. He stood up, walked over to our bouillabaisse, and spat in it! Spat in it! Mr. LeDoux insisted we throw everything out, including the rather expensive Le Creuset pot it was in.”
“Oh wow. That does sound pretty awful. But what does that have to do with Feltons’ Pavilions, Tents, and Awnings?”
“Nothing directly. The incident at our restaurant was the precursor to a horrible nightmare. A disastrous affair. In ancient times, when a comet appeared, the people believed it to be an omen, a foreshadowing of impending doom. The spittle in our bouillabaisse was our comet, if you will.”
“Yikes. What on earth happened?”
“What happened was a horror beyond mention that we still refer to as the ‘Felton Fiasco.’ It took place the next day. We were catering a wedding for a prominent banker. Like your aunt’s affair, it was to be held at the White Tank Mountains. And, needless to say, Feltons’ was in charge of the pavilion. Now, mind you, they deny this emphatically, but we are mos
t certain one of their workers deliberately sabotaged our food preparation truck and the meal was compromised. It was a calamity. To this day, I still have nightmares. Once in a while I catch a strong whiff of spoiled salmon. . . .”
“Ugh. That does sound horrible. But how can you be sure it was sabotage?”
“Because the line to the refrigerant had been cut.”
“Were the police notified?”
“No. Our lawyers were.”
I clenched my jaw and swallowed. “I don’t think my aunt could handle a wedding disaster.”
“I can assure you, there will be no trouble at our end. If those Neanderthals from Feltons’ keep their distance and Julien Rossier from La Petite Pâtisserie refrains from making accusations about our establishment, we should all be fine. It boils down to one thing and one thing only. They must respect our space.”
“Julien? Accusations?”
“Why the pastry birds, of course. He left Mr. LeDoux quite a nasty message when that article in the Phoenix Home and Garden appeared.”
“I understand the late Mr. LeDoux and Julien Rossier were . . . um . . . rivals of the worst sort. Am I right?”
“I would have to say—”
Just then the hostess approached and touched Sebastian’s arm. “So sorry, but you’re needed in the kitchen. Now.”
Sebastian was about to finish his sentence but shrugged and headed to the kitchen. He called out “Bonsoir” just as the door closed behind him.
Two thoughts immediately popped into my head. It would be a long time before I ever ordered bouillabaisse, and what possible motive, other than being jerks, could Feltons’ have had for sabotaging Saveur de Evangeline?
I caught a final whiff of garlic as I left the restaurant and walked back to my car. Garlic that was probably infused in a butter sauce with white wine. My stomach began to grumble the minute I got back on the road. Too bad I had to settle for a turkey and bacon at Subway before getting that long-awaited swim.
Chapter 18
There were only a handful of people at the community pool by the time I got in, and most of them were getting ready to leave. I hadn’t really had the opportunity to make many acquaintances out here, especially with work and all. It began to feel as if the only people I socialized with were the ones in my mother’s age bracket. Poolside here in Vistancia offered a younger crowd. I struck up a conversation with a woman about my age. She was from another part of Arizona but had relocated here when her husband passed away a few years ago.
“Yeah,” she said as we leaned against the side of the pool, “I moved here to be closer to my cousins. That was before I learned they were all nuts. Really. Certifiable. My cousin Rodney hasn’t emerged from his parents’ basement since the first George Bush was in office. At least the real scary relatives, the ones who stockpile guns in case of a revolution, are in Queen Creek, and that’s miles from here. However, I’ve got an aunt in Sun City West who actually goes out for walks with a pencil and pad in order to write down violations and turn them in to the management. Loony, huh?”
Not compared to my family. “I think I may have you beat.” I splashed some water on my face. “My mother, who also happens to live in Sun City West, belongs to this murder mystery book club called Booked 4 Murder. Last year the ladies in the club believed the book they were reading was cursed and my mother wouldn’t give me a moment’s peace till I flew out here from Minnesota to look into it.”
“Are you some sort of detective?”
“Hardly. I’m a bookkeeper, but I work for a private investigator, Nate Williams. I used to handle the accounts for the Mankato Police Department and, to make a long story short, I recently moved here when my boss retired from the police force and started his own firm here.”
“It must be pretty exciting. Well, maybe not the bookkeeping, but all the other stuff.”
“Exasperating is probably a better word. As if it wasn’t enough dealing with my mother’s book club ladies, I got coerced into helping my aunt Ina with her wedding plans. That’s my mother’s sister. Anyway, of all things to happen, the master chef she hired was found dead in a ditch at the White Tank Mountains. Strong possibility of foul play.”
“Oh, I think I remember hearing about that. Somehow I thought it was a snakebite.”
“The bite, yes. But how and why did he wind up in that ditch?”
The woman shrugged and made a funny grimace. “My job is dull in comparison. I work for a medical insurance company in Peoria. So, is your boss involved in that investigation?”
“Uh-huh. He consults with the sheriff’s office and does quite a bit of legwork for them, too. And my aunt’s chef isn’t the only case he’s working on. There’s another suspicious death. A man was found face down on the golf course near where my mother lives. And get this—the only possible witness is a lady from her book club. A lady who insists she saw a car with an angry grill drive by her house around the time that man could have been killed.”
“What’s an angry grill?”
“You know how car grills sometimes look like faces? This one apparently looked like a snarling face. At least according to my mother’s friend.”
“Not much of a clue, huh?”
I shook my head. “You know what the worst thing is? Now my mother is convinced there’s a lunatic killer stalking the golf course near her home. She calls me night and day to rant about that. Meanwhile my aunt Ina seems to have one wedding disaster after another. It’s a nightmare.”
“Handling medical insurance claims is sounding better and better.”
“Oh, and there’s one more thing—Streetman.”
“Streetman? Is that a homeless person?”
“Huh, don’t I wish. No, it’s my mother’s compulsive, anxiety-ridden dog. A Chiweenie. Cross between a Chihuahua and a Dachshund. Small thing but demanding. And she dotes on him like you wouldn’t believe. I went over to her house the other day and she was frying some steak. I thought maybe we were going to have a nice lunch, but no. It was for Streetman. She offered me a can of salmon instead.”
The woman started laughing. “I feel as if I know your family already. By the way, I’m Lyndy Ellsworth.”
“Nice meeting you. I’m Sophie Kimball, but everyone calls me Phee.”
“Listen, I know this is last minute, but why don’t we go out for a cup of coffee after the swim? There’s a new coffee shop that opened not too far from here. The Java Joint.”
“Sounds great to me.”
Lyndy and I were in and out of the locker room in no time and took her car to the coffee shop. It felt wonderful having a conversation with someone my own age. And a conversation that didn’t include topics such as: questionable moles on one’s skin, stomach ulcers, coupon clipping, or funeral plans.
We did, however, commiserate about relatives and our practically nonexistent social lives. It was such a fun evening that we made arrangements to get together for lunch or dinner in the next week or so.
It was past nine by the time I got home and hung my bathing suit up to dry. Slipping into a lightweight T-shirt, I made myself comfortable and turned on the evening news before venturing over to the answering machine to see if I’d missed any calls. Most of my friends and family leave messages on my home phone because they know I would notice the flashing red light indicating a message. My cell phone, on the other hand, is usually in the bottom of my bag, out of sight and on mute. I pushed the caller ID button. Sure enough, an all-too-familiar number cropped up—my mother’s.
“Phee! Call me when you get in. It’s after nine. I’ll be up until eleven. Are you on a date? Your aunt called. She’s been trying to reach you. What’s going on?”
Oh my God. I should have called Aunt Ina about those IOUs. I also wanted to let her know Louis paid for everything in full. Maybe that would get her mind off being jilted. I suppose, in the realm of things, jilted was a heck of a lot better than the other scenarios involving her fiancé. Like Louis being kidnapped or lying on a pile of rocks in a state of
rigor mortis. I couldn’t decide whom to call first, my mother or my aunt. It made no difference. Either way my ears would be numb by the time the calls were over. It was literally a coin toss with my aunt winning.
“Aunt Ina! I have good news!”
“Your boss found Louis! Where? Is Louis all right? Why didn’t he call me?”
“I’m sorry. No one’s found Louis, but I did find out he paid for everything in full at Saveur de Evangeline and at Feltons’. He wouldn’t do that if he didn’t intend to be at the wedding.”
“He’s running for his life, Phee. That has to be it. Or he’s hiding out. I read that message. He can identify Roland LeDoux’s killer. Or maybe the other killer. From the golf course. I’m not sure. How can I be sure? I lost that message. Damnable cell phone. What’s wrong with those people at Apple? Anyway, my poor Louis knows something and now he’s in danger. What were you able to find out from those IOUs?”
“The same witness signed all the notes except one. And if I’m reading it right, it says . . . Oh hell, someone’s cutting into this call. Do you hear that beep?”
“What? Your phone’s beeping. I can’t hear you.”
“I’ll call back, Aunt Ina. I’ve got to take this other call.”
“Hello?”
“When did you intend to call me, Phee? At midnight? I got tired of waiting so I called you and what did I get? A miserable, annoying beep.”
“I was on the phone with Aunt Ina, Mom. She’s still pretty shaken up.”
“I know. Who do you think had to listen to her all afternoon? So, have you found out anything yet?”
“Nate’s working on it. And I’m—”
“Never mind. Apparently my sister is going forward with this wedding, whether there’s a groom or not. Did you want to meet with Lucinda and me to finalize the bouquet?”
Sure. I have nothing better to do than finalize the wedding bouquet. “Mom, I’m too tied up. Pick something that goes with white and be done with it. When Aunt Ina sees Louis Melinsky waiting under the canopy, she won’t be thinking about her wedding bouquet.”
