Getting Rich (A Chef Landry Mystery)

by Domovitch, Monique

  “Oh, er, I saw that on a TV show.” She looked down at her purse. “You’re telling me I can’t tell by the smell whether it was recently fired or not?”

  I shook my head. “Only in the movies, sweetheart.”

  She looked worried for a second, and then brightened up. “It couldn’t have been my gun because all the bullets are still inside, unless you’re suggesting that someone reloaded it, which would mean they just happened to be carrying the right caliber bullets for my gun.”

  “You’re right. That’s not likely.” I puzzled over it for a moment. “I have a feeling we might be looking at this the wrong way.”

  “I can’t argue that. At this point we’re not sure of anything.” She stirred her coffee reflectively. “What’s on your mind?”

  “There is one possibility we didn’t consider. What if Jennifer was the intended victim all along?”

  This took her by surprise. “Why would anybody want Jennifer dead?” And then she answered her own question. “It’s true that we hardly know anything about her. She could be a drug dealer. She could be a...a...” She groped for other possibilities.

  “We know she was Charles’s girlfriend and that they lived together. I think that if Charles was in love with her, she must have been nice. Also, she’s been working with us now for nearly two weeks, and she was absolutely lovely.” My throat tightened. “Such a tragedy.”

  She nodded. “You’re right. But, much as I hate to remind you, she was a lovely married person. And, I’ve been thinking about Charles, too.”

  “What about Charles?”

  She looked down into her nearly empty cup, reached for the pot and refilled it, adding a generous splash of whisky. She leaned back. “Don’t you think he’s living in an awfully expensive house for someone earning barely more than minimum wage?”

  I knew exactly where she was going with this, and I didn’t like it. “What do you mean?” I asked, pretending confusion.

  She rolled her eyes. “Sometimes, I swear, you’re more of a blonde than a redhead. Don’t you want to know who that house belongs to? Is it Charles’s or Jennifer’s? Don’t forget, they had an argument the night Jennifer was killed. I wonder how solid their relationship was. For all we know they could have been on the verge of breaking up. Maybe she wanted to go back to her husband.”

  I almost gasped. “You’re implying that Charles might have killed Jennifer...out of jealousy...or for the house? That’s ridiculous.”

  “No more ridiculous than somebody wanting to kill me for my money. Think about it. Everybody seems to think that somebody tried to kill me for my estate, but, hey, I’m not the one who died. Jennifer did.”

  “Not Charles. I refuse to believe that.”

  She sighed. “Okay, so maybe it wasn’t Charles, but if that house belonged to Jennifer, it would suggest the woman had money—maybe a lot of money. I can’t help but wonder who inherits her estate.”

  I preferred her theory that Jennifer had been the intended victim. I felt an immediate stab of guilt. Poor Jennifer. She didn’t deserve what happened, so unfair. It was just too scary to think somebody was after Toni—or me—or both. What bothered me was her suggestion that Charles might have been involved.

  I shook my head again. “There are too many things wrong with that idea. First of all, Jennifer was killed in our restaurant. That is one coincidence too many. I’m not buying it.”

  She leaned forward, speaking excitedly. “What I’m saying is, if Jennifer was the intended victim, what better cover than making it look as if her death was a case of mistaken identity?”

  I turned this over in my mind. Somebody could make an argument for that.

  She continued. “And who knows, maybe the threats and the hit-and-run were all part of the same plot. They might have wanted to turn the attention off the real motive by staging that crazy-lady confrontation and the hit-and-run. Don’t forget, it was Charles who suggested I hire Jennifer to help in the kitchen.”

  I stared her in the eyes. “You’re talking about Charles, Toni. Our Charles. Do you really think he’s capable of murder?”

  She lost her earnestness and became serious. “One thing I’ve learned is that no matter how much we think we know another person, we only ever see what they allow us to see. The truth is we have no idea what really goes on in other people’s minds. How often have you heard people say, even after years of marriage, that their spouses turned out to be complete strangers?” She was talking about herself and Steven again.

  I put up my hand. “Stop it. You were there when Charles got the news. The man was devastated. Do you really believe his grief was all an act?”

  Her certainty of a moment ago wavered, leaving her looking frightened and confused. She crossed her arms sullenly. “I just want the case to be solved. I want the whole thing to go away. I don’t want to walk around wondering who wants me dead.”

  I gave her my best reassuring look. “Don’t worry. We’ll figure it out. But coming up with absurd theories is not going to help.”

  She jutted out her chin. “It is not an absurd theory.” I waited. At last she scowled, sighing. “Okay, I admit, I don’t want to believe that somebody is trying to kill me. If that were true, it would mean it’s somebody I know and love.” She counted on her fingers. “That leaves only three people, you, Steven and Judy—unless you suspect my five-year-old niece.” When she put it that way, it did sound ridiculous. It sure as hell wasn’t me. And I would be shocked if it turned out to be Steven or Judy.

  She looked at me pleadingly. “Can’t we talk about something else for a while?”

  I’d had all I could take of the subject myself. There were a few other things I wanted to discuss, starting with how we’d go about resuscitating our business.

  No matter what she’d said earlier, I refused to believe she’d willingly walk away from Skinny’s. But getting her to agree wholeheartedly with a plan to rebuild would demand some finesse. I made a quick list of possible arguments in favor of starting over.

  We had so many exciting things to look forward to—the newspaper column for one. What I should not mention was that we didn’t have insurance and that all costs would have to come out of her pocket—not that I planned to keep that from her. But choosing just the right moment to drop that bomb would be crucial.

  When it came to money, Toni had her own unique way of deciding what made an investment worthwhile. Once, during those early months when the business kept getting deeper in the red, I had asked if she would mind lending the company a bit more money. She had bluntly refused, giving me a good lesson in the way the rich handled money.

  “I didn’t mind contributing the start-up money,” she’d said. “I calculated just how much I was willing to gamble, hoping it would pay off. But the business isn’t taking off the way we’d hoped. And one thing I never, ever do is throw good money after bad.”

  I’d been shocked. The amount was small—not to me, but it was less than what she spent monthly on her wardrobe, as I’d pointed out. But she just shook her head, saying that spending on her wardrobe was a good investment, one that brought very nice dividends. The dividends to which she was referring was the plethora of men she was dating at the time.

  “Toni,” I said now, deciding the direct approach was best. “We have to come up with a plan to start over again.”

  Toni snorted. “And why exactly would we want to do that?” From her tone, I knew this discussion had a very real danger of turning into an argument.

  I pulled myself off the sofa and hobbled over to the kitchen. “If I remember correctly, just a few days ago, you were talking about opening a second location. And just around that same time, you were giving me a speech about opportunity coming in different disguises.” I expected a sharp retort but to my surprise, Toni was silent. Was she considering it? I dared hope.

  I’d been in the kitchen about ten minutes and during all that time I hadn’t heard a peep out of my friend—stewing, no doubt. While I busied myself, I debated how
hard I should push. Toni was notoriously obstinate. She was more likely to turn down a suggestion than to accept it—unless she believed the idea was hers.

  When at last Toni appeared in the doorway, I had butter sizzling in the pan and my ingredients measured and lined up on the counter.

  She held a cup of coffee in each hand. “You left it in the living room.” She stepped closer. “What’s with all the racket?”

  I had been opening and closing cupboard doors and drawers, gathering my cooking utensils and ingredients, and I was already beginning to feel calmer. Whenever I felt most stressed, cooking was my cure of choice. Toni used to joke that she always knew when I was most upset by the amount of baking I did.

  “I’m making us something to eat.” I cracked another egg into the bowl and whipped them with milk and a tiny amount of walnut oil. “I liked your Skinny French toast and I’m trying my hand at Skinny pancakes. I don’t know about you but my mind is sharper when my stomach is full.”

  “Good idea.” She opened the cupboard and took out two plates. “Come to think of it, I am a bit hungry.”

  Funny, I didn’t have to think to know I was hungry. As long as I was breathing, I could eat.

  coming after us with a vengeance

  Toni set the table. “So, getting back to the restaurant, how, exactly, do you propose we start over again? Are you talking about waiting for our building to be repaired and setting up in the same location, or finding an entirely new place?”

  “Waiting for the building to be fixed could take months. I suggest we find a new location.” This was met with a long silence. I finished mixing and measured quarter cups of batter onto the hot griddle, making half a dozen perfect silver-dollar-size pancakes.

  At last she said, “So much work. I don’t know if I have the energy.”

  “That’s normal. I wouldn’t expect you to feel any other way after all that’s happened. But a few days from now you’ll be seeing things differently.”

  “Hey, that’s my speech.”

  I flipped over the pancakes. “For one thing, this time around we can do it faster and cheaper. We learned a lot getting ready for our Queen location. Also we’d cover the overhead in no time. We already have an established reputation and clients who will follow us.”

  She waved away my arguments. “Speaking of customers, did you call back that lady?”

  I picked up the spatula and scooped up the pancakes. “Damn. I completely forgot about her. What’s her name again?”

  “Edna Jamieson.”

  I put down my spatula. “I still don’t understand why she wants to speak to me. Might as well get it over with. What did I do with her number?”

  “Tell me where it is. I’ll get it for you.” She jumped up and disappeared up the stairs, returning a moment later with the piece of paper in hand.

  I wiped my hands on a dish towel, and grabbed my home phone from its cradle. I punched in the woman’s number, waited three rings and got a voice message.

  “Leave your name and number, and the reason for your call. Thank you.”

  I left a brief message and hung up. “At least she’ll know I tried.” I hurried back to the stove and flipped over the second batch of pancakes. “Getting back to business, the first thing we should do is find a new location. Unless you think we should wait and reopen in the same place? The problem with that is that it will take months. All the goodwill we’ve earned will be gone by then.”

  “We don’t even know that the owner will want to rebuild—at least not the same commercial-type building. Remember? When we signed the lease he was talking about how he didn’t want to give us a long lease because he was considering tearing it down and putting up condos?”

  I did remember vaguely. “All the more reason to start looking. Once we have a place we like, we can send out flyers announcing our new restaurant and the date of our reopening. Then we work like mad to get everything ready on time.”

  She smiled at me the way I might at a four-year-old talking about wanting to become an astronaut. “You’re making it sound as if all we have to do is show up for work as usual, the only difference being the location.”

  I turned off the burner and wiped my pan clean. “I’m not saying it will be easy, but it wouldn’t be nearly as difficult as it was when we prepared for Skinny’s opening.”

  “For your information, finding a new location is the least of our problems. Once we found it, we’d have to fix it up.” Toni carried the food to the table.

  We sat down to eat, and I continued my argument. “Don’t forget we have a staff with nothing but time on their hands at the moment.”

  Toni dropped a dollop of vanilla yogurt on her pancakes and covered it with blueberries.

  “We can keep the guys on payroll and split up the work,” I said. “Give everyone a list of chores to accomplish. With five of us working, we can probably get everything done in a month or so.” I paused. “Make that four of us. I doubt Charles will be up to working for a while.”

  Toni took a bite of the pancakes.

  “What do you say?” I asked.

  “They’re delicious.”

  “I was talking about my idea.”

  “Oh—good idea,” she said, sounding more bored than interested. “You’re probably right about Charles not being ready to get back to work. Aren’t you afraid to reopen? What if Jennifer’s death really does have to do with the restaurant? We just might make that lunatic even crazier.”

  Here it was again, her greatest objection. “Just a minute ago you were saying you thought the whole thing about us stealing the restaurant was just a diversion.” I put on a mocking tone. “We’re too small. We’re too unimportant, except for you of course.”

  She rolled her eyes and went right on eating.

  I waited a beat and then said, “Right now we don’t know if anybody is after us or not. So, what are we supposed to do? Sit on our asses and wait? Or just give up?” I forked another few pancakes onto my plate and ate in silence for a few minutes. At last I said, “Maybe you’re right. It’s not as if our restaurant was worth very much. All we really had was some old secondhand furniture and a bunch of recipes.”

  Surprise registered in her eyes. “You agree with me?”

  “Maybe we should just walk away. Saving our business would mean a lot of work—much easier to do nothing. For all we know that crazy woman wasn’t faking and really is behind the whole thing. And if we reopen she might come after us with a vengeance. To hell with Skinny’s on Queen.” I paused for a moment, and then added, “I think I’ll go into catering.” I wondered if I had overdone it.

  Her eyes widened. “Catering! Are you crazy?” She hesitated. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to look for a location...just in case. I mean, there’s no point in deciding one way or another until we at least know what’s going on.”

  “If that’s what you want to do,” I said unenthusiastically. I grabbed my crutches and left the table to hide my smile.

  a whole other perspective on it

  Toni cleaned the table and took the dogs for a short walk, while I used the opportunity to call Jake.

  He answered on the second ring.

  “Are you still at Charles’s?” I asked.

  “That’s right,” he said, in a tone that told me Charles was within hearing distance.

  “What about Jennifer’s brother and husband? Are they still there?”

  “They’re gone.” He sounded relieved.

  “By any chance, did Charles happen to mention at what time Jennifer left the house last night?”

  “No, why?”

  “It’s just something I need to check. Would you mind asking him? It’s important,” I added when he hesitated.

  He covered the mouthpiece for a moment and I heard some muffled conversation. “He said it was around twelve.”

  “Thank you, Jake. Tell Charles I’m sorry I had to ask.”

  I hung up, and still having a few minutes before Toni returned, I considered calling Mitchell
. He had asked that I get back to him as soon as I could, but after waiting so long for a call from him, I was reluctant to give in so easily. For a while I’d wondered if Mitchell had completely forgotten about me. Absence was supposed to let the heart grow fonder but for all I knew, he and Bunny were getting along like a house on fire—no pun intended. An image of him kissing a gorgeous blonde popped into my mind again, making me slightly nauseated. I picked up the phone, still hesitating.

  The front door opened and closed, killing any hopes of a private conversation. I put the receiver down.

  Toni walked in, followed by the pitter-patter of tiny paws. “I am so in love with that little Trouble,” she said, picking him up and planting a kiss on top of his head.

  Trouble did not seem to return the sentiment. He struggled to get out of her grasp. At last she returned him to his pen, along with Sugar. She gave them all liver treats and returned to the kitchen.

  “By the way, I forgot to mention that Judy heard about the fire on the news. She was so worried, I told her to come over.” She glanced at her watch, “I thought she’d be here by now.”

  “No problem,” I said, and told her about my call to Jake. “If you had any more doubt about it, this proves it. Your gun was not the murder weapon. You had already picked it up before Jennifer had even left the house.”

  Even though we’d already concluded that it was highly unlikely that her gun had killed Jennifer, she looked as if a load had just been lifted from her shoulders.

  We washed the dishes and cleaned the kitchen and, just as we finished, the doorbell rang. “That must be her.” Toni hurried to answer and reappeared a moment later, followed by Judy.

  “I am so sorry about the restaurant,” Judy said, looking heartbroken. “The news report said someone was killed in the fire, but I didn’t catch the name. I can’t tell you how scared I was it might be one of you. Thank goodness—” And then, looking mortified, she added, “It’s still tragic of course.”

  “It is,” Toni agreed. She poured Judy a cup of coffee and we all settled in the living room.