by Meera Lester
“Well, with the coroner’s go-ahead for the transport, shall we help Virgil get the body on the gurney?” Abby asked.
Kat nodded.
“We’ll do a three-man lift. I’ll take his feet,” Abby said, dropping to the floor, onto one knee. She slipped her hands around the chef’s ankles and tightened her grip. Kat and Otto positioned themselves on either side of the chef’s shoulders. Virgil secured the gurney.
“Ready?” Abby asked. “On the count of three. One, two, and three.”
As they shifted the body upward, onto the gurney, a ping sounded against the tile floor. Otto huffed to catch his breath, while Kat helped Virgil adjust the body on the transport bed. Kat then joined Abby, who’d already dropped back down on her hands and knees to examine the floor.
What had caused that sound? Where was it? Abby ran her gloved hand as far as she could under the stainless-steel island, feeling back and forth with her fingers as they advanced as far as they could under the structure, while Kat searched the other end with her flashlight. Finally, Abby felt something—a small object.
“Feels like maybe a screw,” she said to Kat. “Bring over your light.”
Kat grunted as she pinched the object between her latex thumb and first finger, and held on to it until she was again standing upright. Abby, Kat, and Otto stared at the object, an earring stud, its prongs securing a faceted clear stone.
The stud appeared similar to the pair of earrings Abby’s maternal grandmother, Rose, had given her on her eighteenth birthday. The delicate filigree setting reminded Abby of heirloom or vintage jewelry. “Old mine cut,” her grandmother had explained when Abby had asked her why, if the earrings her grandmother had given her were real diamonds, their shine seemed so lackluster. Grandma Rose had explained that at the turn of the century, diamonds used in jewelry were far rougher. Few jewelers could afford expensive faceting machines in those days, and many of the stones had large inclusions and so looked muddied.
Kat held the stud up toward the ceiling light. More fire than my earrings have, Abby thought. Might be a diamond. Could be glass. A jeweler would know.
Abby said, “You might want to check the body for piercings, see if this was maybe his.”
While Otto examined the chef’s rather petite ears, left and right, and his prominent nose, Abby and Kat studied the earring.
“Apparently, Chef Jean-Louis wasn’t into piercing,” Otto declared.
Abby peered at the stud. “It’s missing its backing. Let me have your flashlight, Otto.”
From his duty belt, Otto peeled off the small flashlight and handed it to Abby. “If you find it, don’t touch it. Custody of evidence and all that being sacrosanct.”
“Yeah, I know the drill.” Abby ran the light back and forth under the island. Finally, she rose, switched off the light, and handed it back to the big boy. “Nothing there but a lot of dust.”
Kat slipped the earring into a paper evidence bag and jotted the relevant identifying information on it. Her radio came on, and the dispatcher’s voice informed her that the police chief needed an update. “Again?” Kat rolled her eyes at Abby. She pushed her two-way.
Chief Bob Allen’s voice cut through. “What have you got, Petrovsky?”
“Well, the vic is definitely the pastry chef Jean-Louis Bonheur.”
“Keep talking,” said the chief.
“The scene’s contained. Otto’s here, and a new assistant to the coroner, her driver, and Mackenzie, who, as you know, found the body. Two possibilities at this point, Chief. Looks like he could have strung himself up or he could have been murdered. That homeless woman, Dora, has been by already, looking for free coffee. I want to talk with her because I’m thinking maybe she came by even earlier. If she cut him down, then I’d lean toward it being a possible suicide, but it’s early.”
“All right. Keep me posted,” the chief commanded. “I’m out for a meeting with the mayor, but I’ll want a full briefing when you’re finished there.”
“Right, Boss,” Kat said, sounding respectfully subordinate. With the call ended, she turned her attention back to the body, studying the dead man’s neck area.
“What material do you think made that mark?” Kat asked.
Otto and Abby jockeyed for a better position, both leaning in for a closer look.
“You mean the bruising around his neck?” Abby asked. “The twine on the doorknob looks like it might make that kind of narrow ligature.”
“Well, I’m going to ask Dr. Figelson to speculate on the manner of death, but I’m not holding out any hope that she’ll tell me anything until after an autopsy,” said Kat. She made a sweeping motion with her arm to indicate to Virgil that he could proceed with covering the body.
“Ready, there, Virgil?” Otto looked at the wide-eyed young man, who stood a couple of feet away, with the drape for covering the corpse still pinched between his fingers. “Like some help there with that sheet?”
“Uh, yes, sir,” Virgil said. His dark eyes remained riveted on the body. He proffered the unopened plastic bag containing the drape.
Otto, grinning like a monkey, winked at Abby and asked Virgil, “You scared of something? A dead body can’t hurt you. It ain’t like he could whack you.”
“Uh-huh,” Virgil muttered. His large dark eyes were fixated on Jean-Louis’s lifeless face.
Abby shook her head in dismay at Otto’s remark. “You had to go there.”
Otto looked over at her. “Just saying.”
“Oh, give it to me,” Kat said impatiently. She grabbed the plastic bag, ripped it open, shook out the bright yellow drape, and covered the body with it. Abby, Kat, and Otto rolled the chef on his side to tuck the drape around and under him, then repeated this maneuver on the other side, effectively bundling him like a baby in a tightly wrapped blanket, before wrapping his hands. They then rolled the body onto one side and maneuvered it into the body bag. Virgil zipped it and, with help from Otto, maneuvered the gurney around the counter, over the wooden threshold, and out the back door to the van.
A small crowd of onlookers and local business employees was clustered around the yellow crime-scene tape, gawking and pointing at the black, zippered bag on the gurney. A young woman cried out. Appearing to be in her late teens or early twenties, she wore a dark, mid-calf peasant skirt, black leggings, and Doc Martens purple boots with miniature footprints patterned over the leather. She plucked up the crime-scene tape and darted under.
“What’s happened? Is it Chef Jean-Louis?” she asked.
Abby spotted peacock tattoos over each shoulder through the see-through, sleeveless blouse the young woman was wearing over a lacy black camisole. Her brown dreadlocks had been threaded with lavender beads and pulled into a huge ponytail at the back of her head, leaving a purple forelock to hang to her chin, where it partially covered one of her heavily made-up eyes. Strange attire and makeup for work in a pastry shop, Abby surmised, but then again, Jean-Louis had seemed to attract unusual characters.
Kat threw her hand up and ordered the woman to stop. “The tape says, ‘Do not cross.’ That means you need to stay back.”
“But I work here,” the young woman replied.
“I’ll come to you,” Kat said. “Your name?” she asked, approaching the woman.
“Tallulah Berry. The pastry shop cashier. Has something happened to my boss, Chef Jean-Louis?”
“Why do you think something’s happened to him?” Kat asked.
“He works the night shift. He sometimes forgets to lock the back door.”
“Anyone work with him on the night shift?” Kat softened her tone.
“No. He works alone. Can’t you tell me what’s going on?”
“I need to talk with you, Tallulah, so don’t go anywhere,” Kat said, ignoring the young woman’s question. Turning to Abby, Kat asked, “When Otto is finished helping Virgil, will you see to it that he asks Miss Berry for the names of anyone else who worked with her and the chef at the shop, along with their addresses and phone
numbers? I see the coroner’s assistant is getting into the van, and I need to go over a couple of things with her before she leaves.”
“Sure,” Abby replied.
Directing her questioning to Abby, the young woman said, “Please tell me that . . . that body bag wasn’t for Chef Jean-Louis.”
Abby said gently, “I’m sorry, but it is.”
“No! Can’t be!” Tallulah’s youthful expression glazed with despair. Her light gray eyes widened, and tears began to pool. Soon they spilled over, staining her pale cheeks with black mascara. “But how? Did he have heart attack or something?”
“We don’t know the details as yet.” Abby put a comforting hand around Tallulah’s elbow, then escorted the young woman a short distance away from the crowd. She gave Tallulah a minute to let the news sink in before asking, “Did he have a heart condition? Is that why you asked about his heart?”
“No. He was really healthy.”
“Was he depressed?”
“More stressed than depressed.”
“That so? Why was he stressed?”
“Money. He’d gotten loans to keep the business going, and the money was due. Chef Jean-Louis told me once to never do business with guys who would break your legs for late payment. I guess he was in pretty deep.”
“Who were the guys? Do you recall their names?”
“I never heard their names, just that they are private investors. They give loans to people who can’t get the funds any other way.”
“Do you think those people would have exacted revenge on Chef Jean-Louis for not paying back the loans on time?” Abby asked.
Tallulah used her fingers to wipe away her tears. She sniffed. “I don’t know. Sometimes they came around, had coffee and pastries, more like cousins than investors. But Chef Jean-Louis gets worked up when he can’t pay the bills. He yells a lot, but it doesn’t mean anything. He just vents. But the loans stressed him, and so did the problems he was having with the landlord.”
“Whose name is . . . ?” Abby’s brow shot up. She leaned slightly toward the young woman and waited for the answer.
“Willie Dobbs. He did not want to renew the pastry shop lease. He said he needed to refurbish the building. But Chef Jean-Louis told me Dobbs just wanted the pastry shop gone so he could get someone else in here and jack up the rent.” Tallulah choked back sniffles.
Abby pulled a tissue from her jeans pocket and handed it to the young woman.
After wiping the tissue beneath each eye, Tallulah used it to blow her nose. “You know, he’s nothing but a redneck bully, that Dobbs guy. I . . . I heard him and the chef arguing.”
“When was that?” Abby asked.
Tallulah bit her lip and frowned in concentration. “I’m not sure. Oh, my God! I can’t believe he’s dead.” Her face took on a stricken expression.
Abby sighed. “Sure. I understand. Take a moment to catch your breath. I wouldn’t ask you if I didn’t think it was important.”
Tallulah’s eyes welled again with tears. She wiped her nose. “Last week, I guess . . . maybe Saturday. Yeah, I think it was Saturday. I wanted to see that arty film being shown next door. The theater’s last showing on Saturday was at eight p.m. We usually close the shop at six. The last customer had left. Just me and the chef . . . He’d come in early to work a split shift, instead of his usual midnight schedule. I was closing the shop.”
“Go on,” Abby urged.
“Well, that’s when I heard voices in the kitchen. Mr. Dobbs had come around back to talk with my boss. Chef Jean-Louis had just turned off his CD player, so I could hear them really clearly.” She wiped her nose again. “You know, the chef, he loves opera.”
Abby smiled. “Yes, I know.... Can you remember what they said?”
Tallulah bit her lip. “Um, let me think. I had just finished wiping down the counters and was refilling the napkin holders. Mr. Dobbs sounded really mad. The two of them were shouting, talking over each other. Chef didn’t back down, even after Dobbs made threats.”
“Threats? Like what?” Abby knew Otto should be and would be asking these questions, but she couldn’t just turn off her instinct to probe—she had cared about the chef, too.
“He told Chef that their lease deal was not valid. He sent Jean-Louis to hell and said that the renovation was going to happen whether Chef Jean-Louis liked it or not. But Mr. Dobbs was pushing out only the pastry shop.”
“And you know this because. . . .”
“Chef Jean-Louis spoke with the proprietors of the theater and the biker bar. Mr. Dobbs hadn’t asked either of those tenants to vacate.”
“So what else did Dobbs say?”
“He told Chef Jean-Louis that the pastry shop’s lease would be broken, even if he—that is, Mr. Dobbs—had to ice him.”
“Ice? He really used that word? Goodness, sounds like Mr. Dobbs has been watching too many mafia shows,” said Abby.
“I avoid people like him.” Tallulah shifted from foot to foot, swayed from side to side, as if the rhythmic movement could somehow help her cope. “That horrible man is nothing but a selfish bully with a giant ego, a hothead with a big mouth.” Tallulah pushed the purple forelock from her eye. “I’m a pacifist, like Gandhi and Reverend King. I hate arguments. But that night I had to get my purse from the kitchen, where they were going at it. The tension in there was terrible. Shaking off that kind of negative energy, it’s hard for people like me.”
“What do you mean by ‘like me’?”
“Empathic.”
Abby shot her a quizzical look.
“I feel other people’s energy. The chef and Dobbs . . . their energies were intense. I mean, off the charts. We’re talking major testosterone. Chef had gotten right into Dobbs’s face. I could feel electricity streaming out of his head. We empaths feel emotional energy more than other people. My intuition is as finely tuned as a crystal, receiving and magnifying energy, positive and negative.”
“And so you went to the pastry shop kitchen to get your purse?” Abby asked, sidestepping what she considered the bogus hocus-pocus.
Tallulah pressed fingers against the corners of her eyes, where new tears were forming. “He just can’t be dead,” she said. “This doesn’t happen in real life . . . does it?”
Abby sighed. “Unfortunately, it does.” She waited a beat. “And so you went to get your purse, and then what?”
“It was hanging on the coat rack. I snagged it and beat the heck outta there. I don’t think either of them even noticed me.”
“So you didn’t hear anything else? Did Dobbs or Jean-Louis say anything as you were leaving?”
“Nope. They were just evil eyeing each other, kind of like fighting dogs panting before the next onslaught, if you know what I mean.”
Abby noticed the small studs in Tallulah’s earlobes, along with a ring of tiny hoops going up her left ear. “You’ve got pierced ears. Lost an earring lately?”
“No, I rarely lose my earrings. I use the screw-on safety backs. Only thing is, you have to tighten them on all the way. Oh, occasionally one will pop off.”
Abby nodded. “The police will want your statement, Tallulah. Just tell them everything you can recall, okay? That way we can figure out what happened to our chef.”
Tallulah put three fingers against her lips, as if doing so would hold back the sob building inside.
Abby stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Tallulah’s bony shoulders. “I’m sorry, sweetie. It’s quite a shock, I know.” She pointed toward Otto, who had lifted the Dumpster lid and was peering in at the contents. “Come on. I’ll introduce you to one of the officers who’ll want to talk with you.”
Abby led Tallulah over to the blue Dumpster and waited until Otto had lowered the lid.
“Sergeant Otto Nowicki, meet Tallulah Berry. She worked for the chef in the pastry shop. Says the chef had a visitor on Saturday and they argued.”
Otto sized up Tallulah. “Are you willing to come down to the station and give us a statement?”
“If you think it would help, sure. But it won’t take long, will it? I want to light a candle for the chef and see if I can tune in to his spirit . . . help with the crossing over, if you know what I mean.”
Abby smiled at Otto, curious as to how he would respond.
“It won’t take long at all, Miss Berry,” Otto said after a beat, taking Tallulah by the arm. “Not long at all.” He led her in the direction of his police car.
Abby glanced over at the van, where Dr. Figelson had taken her seat and Virgil was turning on the ignition. Kat was giving directions to Virgil.
“Head that way,” she said, pointing left. “Lemon Lane goes all the way down and exits out onto Chestnut. Chestnut connects to Main Street.”
Virgil slowly backed up the van and then inched it down the alleyway. After turning the corner, the van disappeared from sight.
Abby watched in silence and said a mental good-bye to Chef Jean-Louis Bonheur. Their colorful, madcap, illustrious chef was gone. He had blessed Las Flores with his savory tarts, sugar-dusted oreillettes, and delectable honey-almond madeleines. She smiled, recalling how she had wheedled the madeleine recipe out of him, but she knew deep down hers would never taste like his. He had had the gift.
Whoever had taken Jean-Louis’s life had robbed Las Flores of its culinary genius. For a split second, Abby found herself wishing she were back on the force, one of the team members who would get to the bottom of his mysterious death. But when she heard Kat’s radio go off and Chief Bob Allen’s clipped voice demanding yet another update, she just as quickly surrendered the wish.
Walking toward her Jeep, Abby called out to Kat and Otto, “Catch you all later. I don’t want to be late for my meeting with the district attorney. I’ve got reports to turn in and a check to collect.”
“When can I get a look at those photos?” Kat called back, walking toward Abby.
“Soon. Let me off-load them onto a thumb drive. Question. What’s the coroner’s estimated time of death?”
“Based on body temp, she’s giving it a window. Between three and five this morning.”
