T. Lynn Ocean - Jersey Barnes 03 - Southern Peril

by T. Lynn Ocean

  “And now?”

  “My father recently passed away. In the will, he left Argo’s to Morgan. I thought Morgan would sell the business, but instead he moved here, to Wilmington, to run it.”

  I studied the judge. “The restaurant Argo’s?”

  She nodded.

  “The legendary Chef Garland was your father? If I had known that, I would have stopped by once in a while to say hello. And score a free appetizer or two.” Argo’s patron list is notorious. It’s where all the beautiful people go to mingle with visiting celebs and Wilmington’s elite. The last time Ox and I ate there was two years ago, to celebrate our lieutenant friend Dirk’s promotion with the Wilmington Police Department. I enjoy rubbing elbows with the town’s glitterati just as much as the next person, but a fifty-dollar plate of seafood and eight-dollar bottled beers make my wallet cringe, even if they are served on square china plates with red cloth napkins.

  “I thought it was common knowledge that Dad owned Argo’s. Of course, he had a head chef, so mostly he schmoozed the customers.” The judge ate another hush puppy. “Anyway, he and Morgan never did have a traditional father-son relationship. Dad always expected Morgan to do better, and Morgan thought he could never do anything right in Dad’s eyes. They used to fight all the time, and eventually they quit talking.”

  I never had a traditional relationship with my father, either. He walked out of my life when I was still wearing pigtails and didn’t reenter it until six years ago, when he appeared on my doorstep like a stray cat. Spud now occupies the efficiency apartment next to my place above the Block. Our kitchens are connected by French doors that always remain open. I think we put up with each other out of curiosity. Someday I might ask why he disappeared, way back then. For now, it’s not so important.

  “What did Morgan do in Dallas?”

  “Corporate accounting. Which is why it seems crazy to me that he’s going to keep the restaurant. He has zero food service experience Although it’s been two months since Dad died, and so far, Argo’s still has a wait list every night. I guess that’s something.”

  “The head chef stayed on?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s a good thing, then. Sounds like Morgan wanted a career change and maybe the opportunity to do right by your father, so to speak,” I reasoned. “What’s the problem?”

  She frowned. “I flew in a few days ago to surprise Morgan. He’s not himself. He’s lost weight and he’s constantly fidgeting, like he’s worried about something. You ride in a car with him and he keeps looking in the rearview, like he’s checking to see if he’s being followed. And somebody broke into his place last week.”

  “What was stolen?”

  “He said they took cash and a few things from the dresser. His town house was trashed. I saw it. Busted furniture, bathroom mirror shattered, TV screen smashed in.”

  “Sounds like somebody wanted to scare him. Or else they were searching for something. Maybe both.”

  “That’s what I said. But Morgan swears it was common burglars who got mad when they didn’t find valuables.”

  “Hmmmn.” Run-of-the-mill thieves looking to steal collectibles or jewelry or money wouldn’t risk the noise. They’d simply get out and move on to their next target. “Anything else unusual happen with your brother lately?”

  The judge frowned. “I’m not sure, Jersey. I just know that something bad is going on. Before Morgan moved to Wilmington, he was fine. He’s always been extremely shy. Introverted. But he’s never been like this. He won’t admit it, but he’s scared of something. Really scared. I’m wondering if it has something to do with Argo’s.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  She frowned. “He was fine in Texas. Calm, stable, his normal self. The problems started after he moved here. And Argo’s is his only tie to Wilmington.”

  I felt bad for the judge and her predicament but didn’t see where my happily retired self fit into the equation. “What is it you want me to do?”

  Her eyes locked on mine. “Fish around until you find out what’s going on.”

  I thought about telling her to hire a private investigator. I know a few good ones.

  Something powerful and discerning wrapped around me as the judge awaited the answer she wanted to hear. I’d hate to be the person on the other end of that same gaze in a courtroom.

  “It will require a background check on your brother,” I told her. “A magnified look into his personal life, hobbies, finances, relationships. If he’s involved with something illegal, I’ll find out about it.” Which would present a dilemma. The judge had taken an oath to uphold the law, and her family members weren’t exempt.

  “Morgan is a good person.”

  “Good people often make bad choices.”

  She gave my hand an impromptu squeeze, and again, I felt the commanding energy that radiated from her. “You find out what’s going on. I’ll figure out a way to play the hand that’s dealt, regardless of the cards you turn up.”

  I hoped, for the judge’s sake, that there would be a simple explanation for Morgan’s odd behavior, even though logic told me otherwise. The judge is a very intuitive woman.

  TWO

  Morgan had the unique skin color that results from a bi-racial union, and he reminded me of a male version of Halle Berry. His eyes were the same brownish black as his sister’s and, coupled with an angular face, gave him an alluring look. Were it not for the underlying distress and the too-thin build, he’d have been a real stunner. Definitely somebody I’d sneak a second look at, were I not completely enamored of Ox. We’d finally slept together, and it was hands-on, mind-blowing sex with the added benefit of friendship. But lovemaking with my best friend had altered the status quo. A few magical hours in bed had changed everything, and the jury was still out on whether or not it would be for the better. I mentally reprimanded myself for daydreaming. But then, getting Ox out of my head would be impossible. Not to mention that we co-owned the Block. And that I’ve always relied on his help with assignments.

  The skin between Morgan’s eyebrows folded into three vertical rows. “So you’re friends with my sister. I get that. But what do you want from me?”

  “The judge is worried about you, Morgan. She senses you’re having a problem with something and thought that I might be able to help.”

  “Help how?”

  I drank some iced tea and looked around Argo’s. The tea was freshly brewed and perfectly sweetened. The restaurant was closed and quiet. I imagined that it filled up very quickly each evening, as soon as the doors opened at five. The building overlooked Bradley Creek on Wilmington’s north side and had a spectacular view through a wall of ten-foot-tall windows. To those who aren’t familiar, the word creek might be misleading. Large vessels can navigate Bradley Creek. Just beyond the restaurant, a marina docked rows of private yachts, some in the neighborhood of seventy feet long.

  Morgan’s eyes darted to a corner table that was surrounded by glass on two sides. Sitting up two steps higher than the rest of the restaurant, it had its own level. A solid wall on the third side held a display of framed artwork and created a private sort of alcove for the occupants. “Well, anyway, I don’t have a problem. I’m sure my sister intends well, but she’s being paranoid. Even growing up, she was overly protective.” He smiled for my benefit and forced out a laugh. “Typical big sister.”

  “No problems with the takeover of the restaurant, then?”

  His eyes went back to the elevated corner table, and he seemed to be staring at the bright day outside. “As I said, no.”

  I pointed to the corner. “I’ll bet that’s the most popular table in the place.”

  His head jerked my way. “What about the table?”

  I drank more tea, imagining that it would go well with the cashew-ginger fresh greens salad and a loaf of hot bread. And the broiled wild-caught Alaskan salmon served on a bed of dill mashed potatoes, garnished with white truffle slices. I’d seen both on the evening specials board when I�
��d first walked into the restaurant. Taste buds watering, I pointed to the far corner. “That table over there. I imagine that everybody wants that table when they make reservations. It has the best view and its own little room, sort of.”

  He forced another chuckle. “You’re right. We call that the Green Table. Jonathan Green was a friend of my father’s and his all-time favorite artist. Those two paintings you see are original oils. Worth a chunk of change, I’m told. The other three in the matching frames are signed lithographs.”

  “Bold and colorful.” An art critic I’m not, but the portraits of women in big hats and children dancing emanated a delightful, genuine feel. Something a person could gaze at, on and off, for hours.

  “Green is known for creating cross-cultural fine art.” Morgan smiled and for an instant looked like an ordinary business owner with no worries. “Between the ornate kidney-shaped table, the artwork, and the view of the boats, it does make for a unique dining experience. Everybody asks for the Green Table, but we keep it on reserve for our more well-known patrons.”

  I tried to read the thoughts behind his near black irises. “Well, you certainly sound like a seasoned restaurateur, even though your past career was corporate accounting.”

  “Luckily, all the staff stayed on after Garland passed away. Even the servers. And I’m a quick learner. Basically, I keep the books and pay the invoices, which is accounting. And of course, I get out and greet arriving customers. Like Garland and Mom used to do. Piece of cake.”

  While the judge referred to their father as “Dad,” Morgan preferred to use the elder man’s first name, Garland, as though the two were acquaintances instead of family. Interesting. Although the judge had said that father and son were estranged before Garland died.

  Somebody in the kitchen had begun prep work, and the smell of onion and spices made my stomach growl. “Do you get along well with your sister?”

  “Of course. Always have.”

  “Why do you think she’s worried about you?”

  He shrugged. “Probably because I look worn out, I guess. I’ve been working long hours to learn the business. And of course moving and getting settled into a new place has been a chore.”

  “What about the break-in at your apartment?”

  “What about it?”

  “Do you know who did it?”

  He gave me an are-you-stupid-or-what look. “If I knew who did it, don’t you think I would have reported it to the police?”

  “You didn’t file a report?”

  “Nothing was taken. And I hadn’t yet bought renter’s insurance, so replacing what they broke is out of my pocket anyway. Why bother with the police?”

  Morgan politely answered my questions until I ran out of things to ask. I learned that he’d worked long enough at his prior job to accrue a nice chunk of change in a 401(k) plan and that he was vested in a pension plan. He’d never been married and didn’t have kids. He did have a girlfriend, who had moved to Wilmington with him. He’d purchased a ring and was planning a marriage proposal when she’d suddenly broken it off, claiming the relationship had become stagnant. That was just after they’d moved, and she hadn’t bothered to unpack her boxes of clothes. She’d simply showed up with a local moving truck and two men, who carried her stuff out of their rental. Morgan professed to be over the breakup. He had met plenty of new friends, he said. It was a declaration he couldn’t quite pull off.

  Overall, I didn’t learn much, except that the judge was right. Her brother was soft-spoken and introverted to the point of being shy. And he was hiding something.

  I went to the restroom before leaving and, on the way, took a bound journal from the host stand. The women’s bathroom was elegant and clean and fresh-smelling. On the way out, I returned the journal, minus the past two weeks’ worth of reservations and patron phone numbers. I had no idea how I’d use the information, but maybe a name on the list would connect with something else. Then I’d have an actual clue.

  THREE

  Smelling savory cinnamon rolls, I awakened from a dream that I was standing in line at a bakery. I sniffed the air to make sure it wasn’t a lingering olfactory trick and surmised that my father’s girlfriend had delivered breakfast. Either that, or Fran had spent the night and was now baking cinnamon rolls. Even though our kitchens are connected and Spud usually comes and goes through my place, his apartment has its own stairwell entrance that leads directly to the Barter’s Block parking area. The building used to be a trading post in the early 1800s and at one point in history after the Civil War had served as a brothel. I imagined Fran sneaking in through Spud’s private stairwell, much the way satisfied men used to exit by the same wooden stairs.

  I pulled a cushy chenille robe over a La Perla chemise and followed my nose. Spud sat in my kitchen, reading the newspaper and slurping a chocolate Yoo-hoo. He’d never bothered to put a table in his own kitchen, and we’d settled into a routine of sharing our mornings on my side of the French doors. He sported a brand-new mustache that looked like it had ambitions of growing handlebars someday. Undoubtedly one of Fran’s suggestions, it grew out solid white. Surprisingly thick. And currently covered with a thin layer of chocolate drink. Imagine Wolfgang Puck, shrink him down, age him twenty years, throw on the mustache, and you’ve got a pretty good mental image of Spud.

  “Morning, sweetie!” Fran said to me, fluffing short, curly hair that was currently tinted orange. “You want some coffee?”

  “Caffeine would be great, thanks.”

  She served a plate of hot cinnamon rolls. Steam rose from their gooey icing tops. Since she wore a robe, too, I guessed that she’d spent the night and arisen early to fix breakfast. Fran is approaching eighty, and Spud recently surpassed the milestone. Ox thinks they make a cute couple. All I know is that Fran makes incredible pies. By the smell of things, her cinnamon rolls would be just as good.

  Spud peeped over the top of the sports section. “Today’s paper is nugatory, for crying out loud.”

  “Nuga-what?”

  He eyed me above his reading glasses. “Nugatory. It means worthless or of no value.”

  “Oh.” I wondered when my father had begun exploring the English language. He’s a retired cop, and his vocabulary is usually more direct and to the point. “Then why didn’t you just say ‘worthless’?”

  Fran put a mug of coffee in my waiting hands. “I gave him a Word-A-Day calendar,” she said. “You know, the little square kind, where you rip off each day? It’s actually three new words a day.”

  “Yeah,” Spud grunted. “I’ve got to keep my mind cuspidated.”

  “Huh?”

  “It means sharp, for crying out loud. Like a razor’s edge.”

  I bit into a cinnamon roll, and the dough melted in my mouth. Maybe having Fran around wouldn’t be such a bad thing after all. She could park her shoes under Spud’s bed every night for all I cared, as long as she kept fixing breakfast in the mornings. “I don’t think that word applies to your cerebrum,” I said.

  “My what?”

  “Your brain,” Fran told him. “Everybody knows that word.”

  “Whatever. Learning new words is like exercise for your head. Use it or lose it, as Frannie says. And I’ve got to keep my head in shape.”

  “Both of them,” Fran said matter-of-factly.

  “Thanks for the visual.” I might have done a gross-out shiver.

  We heard somebody jogging up the stairs from the Block, and Trish beeped her way into the kitchen after knocking once. “Hello? … Jersey, you here?” Trish is a local private investigator.

  “Does everybody know my security code?” I asked.

  “Probably doesn’t help that somebody wrote it on the wood handrail,” she said.

  I shot a look at my father. The scolding kind.

  “Wanted to make sure I didn’t get locked out after you changed it last time, for crying out loud. Besides, it’s in pencil. I can erase it once I memorize it.”

  “What is that heavenly smell?”
Trish asked before I could scold Spud. “I’m about to start drooling.”

  Fran brought her a plate and Trish devoured a cinnamon roll standing up. She sat down for the second one. “Fran, you could open a shop and sell these things,” she said, and went for a third.

  When she quit eating, I asked Trish to do a detailed background check on Morgan and tail him for a few days.

  Spud pulled off his readers and squinted at me. “Who’s Morgan?”

  “You want Trish to follow somebody around all day, sneakylike?” Fran asked.

  “And why do you want to know this Morgan person’s business?” Spud’s mustache moved from side to side. “I thought you’re done with the dangerous work stuff.”

  “Does this Morgan fellow know that you’re going to tail him?” Fran wanted to know.

  I held up a hand to stop further ping-ponging. “It’s a favor for my judge friend, Spud. And you know I don’t discuss work details at home.” Meaning not in front of Fran. My father nosed into my business all the time, but I barely knew her.

  He caught my drift. “I tell Frannie everything anyways, for crying out loud.”

  “Yeah.” Her head bobbed. “Ever since he almost killed me, we’ve been tight.”

  Spud and his poker buddies had been hauling a bunch of thrift store purchases down the road when a life-size anatomically correct mannequin flew off the roof of Bobby’s van. Fran ran it over and damaged her scooter, at which point Spud asked her out on a date. He figured a dinner tab would be cheaper than the repair bill.

  I updated the bumbling lovebirds on the judge, her brother, and Argo’s.

  “Huh,” Fran said. “I wouldn’t mind going to Argo’s sometime.”

  “Those fancy eatin’ houses cost too much,” Spud said. “They’re real proud of their food.”

  Fran fluffed her hair. “We can go, my treat.”