Killer Kitchens (Murders by Design)

by Jean Harrington

  AudreyAnn answered the buzzer in a drift of Tabu. She had on her favorite pink T-shirt, the one with carpe diem emblazoned on the chest in red letters. Above it, she also wore her usual sullen expression, though truth be told, most people’s eyes wouldn’t get high enough to notice.

  I cut to the chase. “How’s the patient?”

  “He’s asleep.”

  “With or without the oxygen tank?”

  AudreyAnn raised her chin, pointing it at me as if it were a cocked gun. “You a nurse or something?”

  “He’s my friend. I’m worried about him.”

  She folded her arms under her breasts. With a shelf to sit on, they ballooned out like flotation devices. “His doctor took him off oxygen this morning. He’s breathing a little raspy, but I’ll be next to him all night listening.”

  “That’s very reassuring, AudreyAnn, If you need me, give me a call.”

  “Will do.” She closed the door with a snap, and I knew I’d be making ice cubes in hell before I heard from her.

  Back in my place I finally poured that wine, wondering why AudreyAnn had come back. Love? Hmm. Money? Double hmm. With the restaurant in shambles, Chip had financial problems looming on his horizon.

  I glanced at the clock. After eight. Rossi must have dropped in at the hospital by now and would know Chip had left. But he hadn’t called to tell me so. A half hour later, I wouldn’t have heard the phone ring if he did call. I’d fallen asleep like the proverbial rock and stayed asleep until my morning alarm jangled me awake.

  The next morning, bright and rested, I drove to work on a day balmy enough to send the palm fronds into a lazy fan dance. On the edge of the highway, hibiscus shrubs sported pink blossoms the size of pecan pies. The show-offs. I loved watching Mother Nature strut her stuff in this gorgeous tropical place, and today the beauty everywhere made me feel fabulous.

  Deep inside my purse the cell phone chirped. I pulled over to the edge of Tamiami Trail, dumped the bag’s contents on the passenger seat, and grabbed the cell on the fourth chirp. Rossi. My heart pounding out a salsa beat, I hit Talk. I hoped he was calling to tell me Grandese was in the clear or...oh, I was just plain glad he was calling, no matter what he had to say.

  I went for the clever opening. “Good morning, Rossi.”

  He plunged right into his message with no verbal foreplay. Not a good sign. The news must be bad. “I have the results of that report you were wondering about.”

  The breath caught in my throat. “Please tell me it wasn’t arson.”

  “No, apparently not. The propane truck sprang a leak. One spark is all it took. We’re calling it an accident.”

  Though Rossi didn’t sound happy giving me the news, relief rolled over me like an ocean wave. “Thanks for letting me know, I’m so—”

  “There’s more.”

  Uh-oh. “Good or bad?”

  “I’m not sure. A Francesco Grandese is the owner of the building.”

  “My Francesco? What does that mean, exactly?”

  “I’m not sure.” A chill wind blew through the line. “Though there’s nothing sinister about buying a building.”

  “No, I suppose not.” But somehow the information didn’t make me happy.

  “Sorry to hang up on you, sweetheart, but I have to go. I’m meeting Chip at what’s left of the restaurant. He wants to see the damage.”

  “I’ll join you there,” I said, signing off before he could protest.

  The shop wouldn’t open at nine today, but this was more important. I’d been avoiding the La Cucina site since the explosion. Time I checked it out. If a new restaurant were possible, I’d be happy to work with Chip again.

  On Fifth Avenue, plywood panels covered the entire front of the building. I pulled around to the rear service entrance and saw much the same, plywood and a rickety padlocked door nailed onto what remained of the back wall.

  Chip had arrived first, with AudreyAnn in tow to my dismay, but at least she’d helped him by doing the driving. As Rossi drove up in his dusty Mustang, Chip slowly climbed out of the Taurus’s passenger seat. Pale and coughing, he stood leaning on the car until AudreyAnn came around to grip his arm. He was plainly determined to see the damage to the building no matter what it cost him physically.

  When I exited the Audi, they both looked surprised to see me. Rossi simply smiled a glad-to-see-you kind of smile. For a brief moment, it lifted the strain from his face. I was getting good at reading him, and my vibes told me had more on his mind than he’d revealed. Hmm.

  Ignoring AudreyAnn’s “What are you doing here?” I hurried over to give Chip a kiss and a hug. Then squaring my shoulders, I strode to where Rossi waited for us by the padlocked door. I wasn’t some tourist trying to satisfy idle curiosity. The explosion had tossed me around like a beanbag. I’d earned the right to be here.

  Rossi reached into his pocket and withdrew a key with a cardboard ID tag dangling from it. “Be careful,” he said, opening the squeaky door and leading us into a scene out of Armageddon.

  Chapter Eight

  The blackened kitchen looked as if a giant had reached down in a fit of rage and flung its contents about the room. Tables, stools, pots, pans, dishes, chairs were smashed and scattered willy-nilly. Even the outsized stove had been shoved to one side, the oven doors hanging open, unrecognizable remnants of food still visible on its surface. Ripped from the piping, the utility sink lay smashed on the floor. Next to it sat a dented can. The label read Contadina Tomato Paste.

  For Mama Luigi’s Sunday Lasagna.

  Over all, the odor of charred wood clogged the air like a barbeque gone terribly wrong. Chip’s glance collided with mine before we both looked away. “I can’t salvage a thing from here. Except maybe the food locker.”

  The stainless steel walk-in refrigerator appeared intact. Trying not to breathe deeply of the acrid air, I peered inside. It was empty. Someone had disposed of whatever food it once held.

  “The kitchen got hit the hardest. You can thank that refrigerator for saving your life,” Rossi said, obviously trying to strike a positive note. “And it sheltered the dining room from the worst of the damage.”

  He walked through an opening that once held swinging doors separating the work space from the public areas. “Be careful,” he warned again as we trailed after him. “There’s glass everywhere.”

  At least, with chunks of the roof blown away, we could see where we were stepping. And like nearly all buildings in Florida, this one had no basement for us to fall into.

  Moving gingerly, we followed Rossi into the restaurant dining room. The lovely appetite-enhancing colors were filthy, replaced with soot, stains and gouges. Two steps in, I trod on a photograph of Venice—St. Mark’s Square at twilight—and wanted to weep. Chip and I had selected the photographs with such care. Except for one or two torn from their frames, I didn’t see any of the others. This time, I didn’t dare look Chip’s way.

  “Hello, hello! Anybody home?”

  At the sudden loud voice, we all stiffened and turned toward the kitchen. Francesco and Donny strode in, their shoes crunching on the fallen glass.

  “Remember us?” Francesco said, his booming voice echoing off the walls. Donny as usual was silent. A smart maneuver for a major player in this disaster.

  “How did you know we were here?” Chip asked.

  “I called the house earlier looking for you,” Francesco said. “Ms. Baranski here told me you were coming over. I’ve been waiting to assess the situation, so I owe you one, Ms. Baranski.”

  “AudreyAnn, please,” she said, sending a darting glance Donny’s way.

  Francesco nodded, his eyes focused on her chest. With a visible effort, he tore his glance away and turned to Rossi. “Now that arson’s out of the picture, how about a key to that sorry excuse for a backdoor?”

  “Of course. There’s one at the station with your name on it. As for arson, it can’t be proven one way or the other. That doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”

 
“What’s that mean?”

  “It means what I said it means.” Rossi’s jaw clenched.

  Francesco grunted and looked around at the gutted room. “Hellava mess in here.” He pointed a finger at Chip. “We got some deciding to do.”

  Chip coughed and shook his head. “My deciding’s done.” Clinging to AudreyAnn with one hand, he waved the other around the room. “My insurance won’t cover this. I’m wiped out.”

  I sneaked a peek at Donny. If he suffered from remorse, he concealed the fact well. As rigid as a cigar store Indian, he didn’t twitch a muscle.

  Still holding tight to AudreyAnn, Chip eased over to the bar. “Even the liquor stock’s gone. And I bought the best. What a waste.”

  “Not entirely. Look at this!” On a shelf behind the bar near where the cash register once stood, I spied an intact bottle of Dom Perignon. “It’s an omen. For toasting your new restaurant.”

  He shook his head. “No way, Deva, but at least this looks okay.” He ran his hands lovingly over the stainless steel surface of the espresso machine. “Should be, it’s a DeLonghi Gran from Italy. Built like a tank. I paid over three grand for it.”

  “The water line’s severed, but otherwise it looks undamaged,” Rossi said. “The food locker’s on the other side of this wall. That must have protected it from the worst of the blast.”

  Glumly, Chip nodded.

  “You want me to carry it out to the car?” Rossi asked.

  “Why? For a souvenir?” A touch of bitterness crept into Chip’s tone. Who could blame him? So far, he’d shown remarkable control, not even sending so much as a dirty look in Donny’s direction. How like the big guy to figure an accident’s an accident. No one to blame but fate. Caught in the same situation, I’m not sure I would be so objective. So sweet.

  Finally, his hands still caressing the DeLonghi, Chip said, “I might as well take it. AudreyAnn likes lattes. Right, honey?”

  She gave him a shrug, and with that to go on, Chip pulled the machine’s plug out of the paneling in back of the bar.

  As he yanked on the connection, wood rubbed against wood, giving off an eerie creak, then with the plug still attached, a piece of the wall paneling fell away and clattered to the floor. The espresso maker nearly went with it, but I leaped forward, steadying it in the nick of time.

  Peering over Chip’s shoulder, I stared into the opening he’d just created. Light pouring down from overhead shone on the cinder blocks of the inner wall and on something else. Something that gleamed dully.

  “Hey, what’s this?” he asked, spotting the same gleam. He thrust a hand into the narrow cavity and lifted out a small steel box. A padlock hung from a flange on one side.

  I didn’t know what the box contained, but my pulse revved up nonetheless. Clearly, someone had hidden it in that wall cavity with care. And people don’t usually hide useless trash in their walls.

  Chip must have had the same thought. “We need a hammer,” he said, wheezing badly.

  “No such luck,” Rossi said. “But there must be something around here we can use. Ah.” He stooped and picked up a piece of twisted metal. Pointing his chin at the padlock, he said, “You want that off?”

  Struggling for breath, Chip just nodded. Rossi hit the flange a few times, pounding until the padlock fell away. He stepped aside, and Chip raised the lid on the box. No one said a word as he lifted out an inner steel container and placed it on the shelf next to the espresso maker. This one wasn’t locked, and slowly, as if afraid of what he might find, he opened the lid. We crowded in around him and, when that lid came off, the breath rushed out of us all in a collective aaaaah.

  I thought Chip would faint. AudreyAnn held onto him on one side and Rossi moved in to take his other arm. “You need to sit down?”

  “No, I’m all right.” Coughing, wheezing, his hand shaking, Chip reached into the inner liner, removed a yellowed oilskin packet and laid it on the shelf. The image of President Grover Cleveland showed through the oilskin in that unmistakable, instantly recognizable shade of green. The one shade of green everybody loves.

  No one said a word. There for a while, I don’t think we were even inhaling, although we must have been. Donny’s hot breath fluttered on the back of my neck. Chip loosened the packet and removed a fistful of money. He flipped through the bills. Every one featured an etching of President Cleveland. Every single one was a thousand-dollar bill.

  Chip went weak in the knees, but AudreyAnn grabbed him before he could slide to the floor. He rallied, stood erect and reached into the packet again. He withdrew another handful of bills.

  “Every one’s a thousand,” he whispered.

  “Count ’em. Count ’em all,” Francesco ordered.

  Chip did, with amazing efficiency, stacking the bills on the rickety shelf in five neat piles. “Five hundred bills,” he intoned at last. “That’s five hundred thousand in cash. Half a million dollars.”

  This time AudreyAnn missed the catch. Chip passed out and slid to the floor.

  Francesco stepped over him and shouldered his way to the money. “I own the building. That makes everything in it mine. I claim the cash.”

  AudreyAnn got down on her knees and massaged Chip’s hands. “Come on, honey, wake up. Come on, honey.”

  Honey? He wouldn’t know who she was talking to. I sniffed. Then my glance fell on one of the bills, and I inhaled a deep breath of the musty air. As every designer knows, the devil’s in the details. And what a detail I’d just spotted!

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a thousand-dollar bill before. May I hold one?” I asked Rossi.

  His hand on his cell phone, ready to call 911, he frowned. But I picked up the top bill anyway, and with my thumbnail on the issue date, held it up in front of Rossi. His eyes flared wide.

  Before he could dial 911, Chip stirred. All those honeys must have reached him after all. With AudreyAnn’s help, he sat up, a big grin on his face. “I’m fine now,” he said. Obviously, he hadn’t heard Francesco’s pronouncement.

  Rossi pocketed his cell and flipped through the bills before turning around to Francesco. “When did you buy this building?”

  “Last year, why?”

  “It looks like all these bills were issued in nineteen thirty-four. They may have been hidden here for decades.”

  “So?” Francesco challenged.

  “So they could belong to a previous owner. The police have to be told and the money impounded until a legal owner is determined. If no one can prove a claim, the money will revert to the finder. In my opinion that’s Mr. Salvatore here.”

  “Now wait a minute,” Francesco began.

  “Yeah,” Donny interjected.

  “No, you will wait, Mr. Grandese, for the law to decide. Now I intend to escort Mr. Salvatore to a bank. I’ll ask that each of these bills be copied for police records, and I’ll sign a witness statement testifying to the amount. After that, the money will be held in a safety deposit box until legal ownership is established. In the meantime both of you gentlemen may want to contact your lawyers.”

  Rossi stuffed the bills back in the oilskin packet and handed it to me.

  “Is that wise?” Francesco asked, nodding at the oilskin.

  “Yeah.” Donny again.

  “Yes,” Rossi said, “it is.” With AudreyAnn’s help, he lifted Chip off the floor and walked him out to the car. The espresso machine went next, and then the bottle of Dom Perignon.

  AudreyAnn and Chip squeezed into Rossi’s cramped back seat and I rode shotgun, the oilskin packet clutched in my lap.

  I knew that bottle of Dom Perignon was a good omen.

  Chapter Nine

  On our way to the nearest bank, a SunTrust branch on Tamiami Trail, I peered through the rearview mirror, fully expecting to see Francesco and Donny in hot pursuit. Nada. I relaxed against the cushions as best I could. Francesco was probably making a beeline for his lawyer’s office.

  I snuck a peek at Rossi’s craggy profile. He didn’t look worried, and i
n the back seat Chip and AudreyAnn were holding hands like teenagers in love. Chip wasn’t even wheezing.

  When we reached the bank, Rossi turned around to them. “Let me get Deva inside with the money, then I’ll come back and help you both in.”

  AudreyAnn didn’t look happy with that plan, but Chip’s fast “Okay” settled it.

  One hand on my elbow, Rossi escorted me into the bank, strode over to a customer service rep and showed her his badge. “We need a conference room. Please ask the bank manager to join us.”

  She dropped her pen on the desk and leaped up. “Right this way, Officer.”

  Rossi gave me a wink, and we followed the girl into a small windowless room with a conference table and several chairs. She snapped on the overheads.

  “I’ll be right back,” Rossi said as he left to get AudreyAnn and Chip.

  Gripping the oilskin packet, I sat down and looked around. There wasn’t much to see. A pelican print and beige walls was about all. The beige was that boring shade that passes for corporate solidity. Why people equated dull interiors with fiscal wisdom I didn’t understand. Never did. The room cried for something sunny and tropical—papaya, say, or tangerine. SunTrust Bank, right? Wouldn’t an orangey shade work great as a subliminal logo? Or...

  “Good morning. I’m Loren Miller, the branch manager. How may I help you?”

  Tall, thin and balding, Mr. Miller was one of the few men in southwest Florida unlucky enough to have to wear a suit, shirt and tie to work. My fingers cramping around the oilskin, I upped my chin at the door. “The gentleman who needs your help is coming in now.”

  Rossi closed the conference room door behind AudreyAnn and Chip and took care of the introductions before saying, “Deva, show Mr. Miller the packet.”

  I lifted the bag off my lap and dumped the contents onto the conference table.

  For a man used to handling money for a living, Mr. Miller jumped back as if I’d unloaded a live cobra. Initial shock over, he took a step forward and stretched out a hand. “May I?”

  Rossi nodded. “I wish you would. And can you authenticate these bills? At least one to start with?”