Turn Up the Heat

by Jessica Conant-Park

  I spent twenty minutes throwing cat treats across the room and watching Gato chase them. The activity left him purring, and, for once, he came over and snuggled with me. Small pleasures, I thought to myself. At ten thirty, after watching salesman Jim confess his love to secretary Pam, I dragged myself off the couch, to my bedroom, and into bed, where I evidently fell into a coma that lasted until the next morning. What roused me was the phone, which had slid so far under the bed that it took me a few moments of fumbling to find it.

  The caller was Josh, whose voice carried not a hint of the previous morning’s pan-hurling rage or the evening’s work stress. “Good morning, lovely! How’d you like to see your long-lost boyfriend again tonight?”

  “Really? How did you manage that?” I lay back down and shut my eyes.

  “Snacker asked Blythe to have dinner at our apartment, so obviously you and I need to be there to supervise and keep him in line. Stein is working late, so he won’t be there.”

  “Who’s going to be at Simmer? Is Gavin going to be mad?” I yawned.

  “Snacker has the day off, the bastard, but if I leave at six, Santos, Javier, and Isabelle can hold the fort down for the rest of the night. Sunday nights aren’t usually too busy anyhow. They’re going to have to handle it, because I don’t give a shit right now. Apparently, unless someone is murdered, I work all the time, so I’m going to take the night off. Gavin will have to deal. So how does tonight sound? Snacker is going to be making tamales all day today, so that’ll be dinner.”

  “Dinner sounds very good,” I murmured. “I can’t believe Snacker has the day off from cooking and is spending it making tamales. You chefs are crazy. I’ll see you tonight.” A Sunday tamale dinner sounded perfect! I was willing to brave any giant dust bunnies that were sure to roll across the apartment like tumbleweeds.

  The phone rang again the second after I hung up. Adrianna, who seemed to have pulled herself together yesterday, had fallen to pieces again. Not only did she feel even sicker than usual, but she was really upset about Owen. I could hear her voice breaking over the phone.

  “There is something going on with him, Chloe! He was questioned by the police again! They are calling him a ‘person of interest.’ He looks worried all the time, and he is weirdly quiet. Kind of withdrawn. He’s even wearing normal clothes in normal colors! When we went to dinner last night, I expected him to pick me up wearing one of his crazy neon suits or something, but he just had on plain pants and a plain shirt!”

  That was alarming. And a “person of interest” didn’t mean an interesting person. “Maybe Owen thought you’d like him to look more regular for once. After all, he was taking you out for a very nice meal at a place that presumably has some sort of dress code, right? How did he act during dinner?”

  “He just wasn’t himself. You know how chatty and fun Owen always is. Now he seems beaten down or depressed or something. I don’t know what it is. But he couldn’t possibly have murdered Leandra! You know he’s not that kind of a person. But the police don’t know that. What are we going to do? We can’t afford a lawyer!”

  I tucked the phone under my chin and rubbed more sleep out of my eyes. “Oh, my God! Do you think he needs one?” Worried though I’d been, I hadn’t realized that Owen’s situation was this serious.

  I heard Adrianna blow her nose. “I don’t know if he needs a lawyer. I don’t know anything about this kind of stuff. He’s just been trying to cooperate with them as best he can so that they’ll see he has nothing to hide. But he won’t tell me any details about what they’re badgering him about. Chloe, Owen hasn’t done anything wrong!”

  “I know he hasn’t. Just tell him to hold on, and everything will be okay.” My words sounded inadequate even to me.

  “Before I forget to tell you, I got an e-mail from the eBay seller. I won that stupid coat. You won it. We did. I did. But guess what? It’s Blythe. She signed the e-mail with her real name. She didn’t seem to be hiding anything about herself, so I guess she didn’t recognize my name. Maybe she’s just eager to pawn off everything she’s stolen.”

  Yes! In spite of the bad news about Owen, I was elated. I could hardly wait for tonight’s dinner, when I’d have the chance to look for signs that Blythe had had something to do with Leandra’s murder. Blythe didn’t strike me as a killer, but how many times had I heard news reports in which monstrous criminals were described as “wonderful neighbors” and “model citizens”? Maybe tonight I could get a better feel for Blythe. I’d have to be careful, of course, to avoid mentioning Adrianna’s name. I must do nothing to suggest any knowledge of Blythe’s eBay activities. I’d have to be on guard and exceptionally observant. At the same time, of course, I’d have to act normal. This dinner could be more than a little awkward. As a budding social worker, I should be good at playing amateur sleuth while also interacting with my peers in my usual role of being Josh’s girlfriend. But then again, I wasn’t enrolled at the Nancy Drew School of Social Work. More’s the pity.

  THIRTEEN

  I knocked loudly on Josh and Snacker’s door and eventually heard Snacker yell, “Come in!”

  Experience had taught me to enter cautiously. Stepping into the living room, I expected to find the usual dirt piles. The apartment was, however, cleaner than I’d ever seen it before. The unprecedented state of tidiness could have only one explanation: Snacker had gone on a cleaning spree to impress Blythe. Josh had had no time and no motivation to spruce the place up—I already knew how he lived and loved him anyway—and the third chef roommate, Stein, was at work. Sharing the three-bedroom apartment was advantageous to all three chefs. Each paid less rent than he’d have done alone, even for a little studio or a cramped one-bedroom unit, and everyone gained square footage. The living room was spacious, especially with the clutter now put away, or at least hidden, and each roommate had his own decent-sized bedroom.

  “Hi, babe.” Josh greeted me with two Coronas held in one hand. “Beer?” he asked as he leaned in for a good, long kiss.

  “Mmm, you bet.” I handed him a large wooden salad bowl I’d brought that contained red leaf lettuce and a jar of spicy garlic and lemon vinaigrette. I was hoping some serious garlic breath might keep Snacker and Blythe apart. I took a beer and followed him through the living room to the kitchen.

  “Blythe is already here, and we’re just about to start assembling the tamales. Snacker has enough food to feed an army.”

  Blythe was seated at the square kitchen table. Snacker stood behind her chair with his arms wrapped around her as he demonstrated the proper way to roll a tamale. “Okay, now you’ve got your filling in here, and we’ve left enough room around the sides to fold the banana leaf over when we’re ready to roll it. Add some chicken, red pepper strips, a green olive, and a few capers. Then we’ll top it with the sauce…Now start rolling! Don’t let that sauce spill out!” Snacker put his hands over Blythe’s.

  I looked at Josh as if to ask, Is he serious? Josh rolled his eyes in agreement.

  “Oh, hi, Chloe.” Blythe looked up from her tamale lesson and smiled warmly. “I’m so glad we’re all getting together tonight. Miracle everyone is free, huh?” Blythe looked irritatingly perfect. Her loose-fitting sleeveless peach shirt showed off her beautiful skin tone. As usual, her maroon nail polish was almost totally chipped off, and as usual, she somehow managed to pull off the bizarre fashion faux pas without looking ragged.

  “I know,” I said. “I’m psyched to learn how to make tamales. What a cool idea!”

  “Yeah, I thought it would be fun,” Snacker said happily. “I got the recipe from this guy I used to work with a few years ago. Once in a while I make a huge batch like this and stick them in the freezer or give them out to friends. I’ve got enough here to make at least a hundred of them.”

  “Yeah, I can see that.” On the counter was a massive metal bowl overflowing with chicken thighs. A large pot of red sauce sat on the stove. I peered at the ingredients on the table. “What are you wrapping them in? I thought tamale
s were rolled in corn husks.”

  “A lot are, but these are Guatemalan tamales, so they’re wrapped in banana leaves. You can buy frozen banana leaves at some supermarkets, but I got these from this awesome Spanish store around here. Also, this recipe calls for chicken thighs on the bone. Lots of tamales are made with boneless chicken or pork, but the bone gives them much better flavor. My friend got this recipe from his mother, and the original calls for a whole bunch of lard. Who cooks with lard anymore? So my friend changed the lard to olive oil and added the onions and garlic to the sauce. Want to roll one?”

  I nodded and took a seat next to Blythe. As I filled and wrapped, I peeked at her out of the corner of my eye in search of any sign that she was guilty of murder. I found none. What was I hoping for? That in between wrapping tamales, she’d suddenly confess to a grisly crime she’d happened to commit earlier in the week? That she’d rise from her seat and try to strangle one of us with a banana leaf?

  Snacker, Blythe, and I continued wrapping tamales. Meanwhile, Josh took our finished ones and began to set them in a large Dutch oven on top of the stove that was lined with yet more banana leaves. The chefs were, of course, used to industrial kitchen equipment. Here at home, they were stuck with a decrepit electric stove with coils that unexpectedly popped out. It seemed to me that cooking here must drive them crazy!

  “How do you cook these exactly?” I looked into the pot. “Do you steam them?”

  “Basically,” Snacker said. “We pack the tamales on top of the banana leaves, fill the pot about a quarter full of water, cover it, and then boil it for a couple of hours. That’s why we wrap them all really tightly in the leaves and then again in foil, so we have perfectly sealed packets. We don’t want any water getting into the ones on the bottom.”

  When the pot was tightly packed, Snacker placed another heavy pot on the stove for another batch of tamales. “We have to cook all of them tonight,” he explained. “Then we’ll just stick what we don’t eat into the freezer, and they’ll taste perfectly fresh when we reheat them. I’ve already got a bunch done, and we should be able to finish making the rest pretty fast.”

  When I grabbed another Corona from the fridge, I saw that it held enough beer for tonight, plus fresh meat and enough produce to last for the next few weeks. Because Josh usually stayed with me, I hadn’t been here in a while, but it seemed to me that they were better stocked than on my last visit. I shut the fridge and looked around the kitchen. Open shelves were filled with bottles, storage containers, oversized plastic spice jars, and bags of flour and rice. I took a second look at the bottles, many of which were bigger than the standard-size ones I bought for myself at the supermarket.

  “Did you guys get these at one of those wholesale stores or something? This is the biggest bottle of sesame oil I’ve ever seen.” There were also many expensive olive oils and vinegars that I strongly suspected were too pricey for Snacker, Stein, and Josh’s budget. “Wait a minute! This is the same oil you have at Simmer.” I held up a very tall, slender bottle of Spanish olive oil. Its label had elaborate script and was covered with distinctive pictures of stone statues.

  Silence fell. Then Blythe giggled.

  The truth hit me. “Did you guys steal this stuff from Simmer?”

  “I don’t really think of it as stealing,” Snacker answered unabashedly. “It’s more of a way to collect what we deserve. Bonuses, I guess. Where do you think I got all this chicken we’re using?”

  I stared at Josh, who, I assumed, would be horrified to learn what Snacker had been doing. Josh, however, looked not at all surprised. “You, too, Josh?” I felt like Julius Caesar: Et tu, Brute?

  Josh just shrugged and kept wrapping foil around a tamale. “Snack’s right. Once in a while we have to take a little something.”

  “Doesn’t this kill your food cost and everything? I thought you were worried about that all the time! And you’re stealing all this stuff? Oh, you guys took that beer in the fridge, too!” I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I could understand why overworked and underpaid chefs might feel entitled to everything they could get their hands on. But the social worker in me was alarmed at the blatant thievery. And, of course, I was worried about Josh’s job. What if he got caught?

  Josh stood up and poured water into the pots of tamales that were ready for cooking. He covered them, turned up the heat, and grabbed Coronas for himself and Snacker. “Yeah, it can take a toll on the food cost, so you have to be careful about it. But, look, Chloe. Everyone steals from restaurants. Just the nature of the beast, I guess. But not everything in this kitchen is stolen. Gavin lets us buy a lot of stuff from the purveyors for our own use, so we get it cheap. When it comes to stealing at a restaurant, you don’t always see it, but you know it happens.”

  “It’s not just these criminal chefs,” Blythe said lightly, teasing Josh and Snacker. Yeah, I thought, tell me something I didn’t know. She stood up and went to the sink to wash her hands. “The bartenders always have their own cups behind the bar, drinking the restaurant’s liquor. And the waitstaff will take stuff like silverware and napkins.” The pot calling the kettle black! A restaurant cliché if there ever was one! When Belita had said that Kevin was taking bottles, she really had meant that he was stealing—just like everyone else at Simmer. And Blythe? Was she one more ordinary restaurant thief? Or something worse?

  “It happens at every restaurant,” Snacker agreed. “But it’s the customers who are the worst. Christ, they’ll take the salt and pepper shakers right off the table, steal their napkins, candleholders, small vases, all that kind of stuff. Women just drop stuff into their purses.”

  “Nobody really gets caught,” Josh said. “It’s just part of restaurant life. The only time it pisses me off is if someone steals a whole eighty-dollar tenderloin that I could’ve sold for three hundred and fifty dollars in plated dishes, and it blows my food cost to hell. Or when someone does something really stupid, like steal obvious appliances. That’s just dumb. But the worst is when someone takes something from my toolbox. Like my knives. That’s my money they’re taking, and I’m sick of having to lock up and bolt down everything I own in my kitchen.” Josh practically shuddered. “Don’t even get me started on what’s been taken from me.”

  Blythe didn’t flinch. Maybe she was a great actress. Maybe she truly believed that she’d had the right to steal from Josh’s kitchen and that her pilfering would have no impact on my underpaid chef. “There are two things that always hold true in this business,” she said. “Everyone steals, and everyone sleeps with each other.”

  Snacker sat up straight at that statement.

  “Oh, speaking of which,” she continued, “I found out that one of my friends from law school, Katie, slept with our Kevin. She picked him up at a bar!”

  “Well, hey! All right, Kevin!” Snacker clapped his hands together. “Come on, guys. Let’s go sit in the living room while the tamales cook. Should be about another hour and a half.”

  I downed my Corona and took another from the fridge of stolen food. I stared at the assortment of vegetables and meats resting comfortably in Josh and Snacker’s kitchen and shook my head. Then I shut the refrigerator door and headed for the living room.

  Snacker cranked up some Black Crowes and held Blythe closely while he spun her around the room and belted out a raspy “No Speak No Slave.” Blythe laughed and kept her arms wrapped around his neck. She did seem to like Snacker, but I wasn’t entirely thrilled with the prospect of the two of them as a couple. In fact, I wouldn’t know what to think of Blythe or how to feel about her until I’d sorted out her role in stealing from Simmer. Or, of course, in murdering Leandra.

  Josh was on the couch looking at me. God, I just loved him. No amount of fatigue could wipe away how gorgeous he was in my eyes. I sidestepped the dancing pair and sat on Josh’s lap. I ran my hands through his dirty-blond hair and kissed him softly on the lips. “I love you,” I whispered in his ear.

  “I love you, too, babe. I’m glad you’
re here,” he whispered back.

  By the time the tamales were finally done, the four of us had gone through a good portion of the pilfered beer. The apartment lacked a dining room, so we sat at the kitchen table.

  “Who’s hungry?” Snacker asked loudly as he placed a platter of steaming tamales in the center of the table.

  I reached behind me and lifted my garlicky salad bowl up and onto the table. I nudged it toward Blythe.

  “Here’s to Simmer!” Josh toasted, raising his bottle high in the air. Blythe, Snacker, and I all clumsily clinked our bottles against his.

  “Okay, now open them neatly!” Snacker demanded as we reached for delicious-smelling bundles. “We have to show a little respect for the tamale! Fold your foil back and tuck it under the packet, and then gently peel back the banana leaves to reveal the contents! And don’t go dumping it out in a big mess, either!” Snacker was shouting excitedly. “Oh, yeah! Look at that baby!” Steam was rising up from his plate.

  Fact: to a person in a beer-induced haze, there is no better food in the world than fresh, hot tamales. “Good God, these are perfect,” I said with a groan.