Whit said, “Good morning, Hubert.”
My head swung left and right as I kept looking at them in turn thinking one of them would turn out to be an apparition.
“Be better if you invited us in,” said Whit. “You wouldn’t want that dame two doors down eavesdropping on our conversation.”
“Miss Gladys is too much a lady to eavesdrop,” I said as I stepped out of the door and allowed them to enter.
“You got any coffee?” Whit asked.
I shook my head.
“Seeing as how you’re not fully awake, why don’t I get us some?”
I thought that was a good idea. Maybe I could get my brain in gear while he was going for the coffee. But he walked back to the kitchen and hit the brew button on my coffeemaker.
Whit plopped down in my papasan chair, and I took one of the harder kitchen ones. Duran remained standing.
“Detective Duran called me to say he was thinking about hauling you in for more questioning. The coroner suspects Barry Stiles didn’t die of natural causes. We had a long talk, and I convinced Danny to come down on a day off and let the three of us see if we can’t handle this thing sort of unofficial for now.”
Duran took out his notebook. He unwrapped a piece of gum and stuck it in his mouth. “I want a rundown of your whereabouts on Sunday night and Monday of last week, starting with when you woke up and ending with when you went to sleep.”
Ah. So Susannah was right when she said I’d be a suspect in the murder of Barry Stiles, although I thought I remembered her reasoning was all based on Bernie Rhodenbarr. Maybe Duran read those books, too.
After taking a few seconds to organize my thoughts, I said, “I spent Sunday night here.”
“Can anyone verify that?”
“Yes. I had a guest that evening.”
“Would that be your Mexican girlfriend with the big hooters?” asked Whit.
I ignored him. Duran shook his head slightly.
“And the next morning?” Duran prodded.
“I left shortly after ten and drove to Schnitzel. I got there about eleven thirty. They called everyone to lunch around noon. I went to the dining area and learned the lunch was Schokogugelhupf, so I didn’t stay.”
“Where did you go?”
“Wait a minute,” said Whit. “What was lunch?”
“Schokogugelhupf.”
“That’s what I thought you said. What the hell is showgogugelhump?”
“Some kind of cake.”
“Why don’t they just say so?”
I shrugged.
Duran repeated his question. “Where did you go?”
“I went back to my work area. They were letting me do my work in the private dining room.”
“You didn’t leave the building?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“After lunch, Alain Billot came to talk to me. Then I went to dinner. It was fried carp, so I skipped that, too.”
Fletcher said, “Ain’t healthy skipping meals, Hubert.”
“Oh, I forgot. Billot brought me a croque monsieur.”
“Is that French for a dead guy?” asked Whit.
“A croque monsieur is a sandwich.”
“Then why don’t they just call it that?”
Duran looked impatient. “What happened after that?”
“I drove to the hotel with Jürgen Dorfmeister, and we spent the rest of the evening in the bar downstairs.”
“When was the last time you saw Barry Stiles?”
“I can’t say for sure. He was at the restaurant on Monday. I saw everybody at some point. They move around a lot.”
“Can the others verify that you never left the restaurant from the time you arrived until you left with Dorfmeister?”
“I think so.”
“You think so?”
“I didn’t have a constant escort. But the door to my area is open and people are walking by all the time. It’s unlikely I could leave the building without being seen.”
The coffee was ready. I let Whit pour it because I was shaking too much to try it. I sat on my hands so it wouldn’t show.
“When did Dorfmeister leave?”
“Around midnight.”
“Where did he go?”
I knew he would get to this part, so I had tried to think in advance what I would say. “I don’t know. He asked for the keys to my Bronco. I told him he was too drunk to drive, but he said he was going to sleep in it.”
“Did he?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t go down to see.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this on Tuesday?”
“You didn’t ask.”
Duran worked the gum. Chomp. Chomp.
“Besides,” I added, ”I didn’t think it was relevant.”
“I’ll be the judge of that. What happened next?”
“I told you. I went to the parking garage the next morning and found Barry Stiles dead in the back of my truck.”
“Oh, come on, Detective,” said Whit, “Tell him what you told me. Hubert here will play straight with you. I can vouch for that.”
Duran rolled his eyes ever so slightly. “I think the reason you didn’t tell me is—”
At this point I was sure the next words out of his mouth would be, “because you killed Barry Stiles.”
But they were, “because you were trying to protect Jürgen Dorfmeister.”
“No,” I said. “That never even occurred to me.”
“Come on Schuze. If you’re really going to play it straight with me like Detective Fletcher says, tell me what the first thought was that crossed your mind when you saw that body in your truck.”
“I thought Jürgen had lost eighty pounds.”
“What!” Duran looked at Fletcher. “This is the guy you say will play it straight with me?”
“I was groggy,” I pleaded. “You wanted my first thought. That was it. I realized in just a couple of seconds that it was ridiculous, but that was my first thought.”
Fletcher started laughing. “You don’t think he would make that up, do you?”
“Nobody thinks like that,” said Duran.
“Nobody normal. But Hubert here don’t think like you and me. He once told me he could prove he hadn’t been at a murder site because he was somewhere else alone.”
That wasn’t exactly right, but it was close, and I didn’t want to argue because Whit was trying to help even though he was making me out to be an idiot in the process.
Evidently, Duran wasn’t buying my story. “I questioned everyone at the restaurant. Seems they don’t get along too well. Dorfmeister is one of two people we know had access to where the body was found. The other one is you. You’re not part of the restaurant crowd, and so far everyone backs up your story that you and Stiles barely knew each other. So Dorfmeister is our best bet. You two spent a night together at the bar. Two guys at a bar for hours drinking, they tell each other things. He told you something, maybe that he and Stiles had a run-in. When Stiles showed up dead, you were afraid Dorfmeister did it, and that’s why you didn’t mention him when I first questioned you.”
“No. I didn’t suspect Jürgen or anyone else because there was nothing to suspect anyone of. I didn’t even know Barry had been murdered until you mentioned it this morning,” I said, looking at Whit. “And on top of that,” I added, “Jürgen never mentioned Barry that night.”
Duran jumped on that. “When did he mention him?”
“Tuesday night. We were at the bar again and he proposed a toast – ‘To the memory of Mr. Barry Stiles, garde manger extraordinaire’.”
“What the hell does ‘guard man-jay extraordinary’ mean?” asked Whit.
“Think about it, Schuze,” said Duran. “Try to remember something else Dorfmeister may have said about Stiles. You and I will be talking again.”
Chomp.
31
I took Geronimo for a long walk after Fletcher and Duran left. He seemed to sense I was worried because instead of sn
iffing everything along the way, he kept looking back at me as if checking on my mood.
I couldn’t shake the feeling that Duran had threatened me. If I didn’t come up with something to implicate Jürgen, Danny boy was going to elevate me to chief suspect. It crossed my mind that he wanted me to fabricate something if nothing was there. I put that thought aside.
I called Susannah because I needed to talk to someone. When she heard the subject, she said it was too important to deal with over the phone.
Dos Hermanas was closed, so we agreed she would come to my place. I made the simple version of guacamole – smash the avocados with a fork and add salsa. I put two beer glasses in the freezer because it was too early for margaritas.
When she arrived, I told her about my conversation with Fletcher and Duran.
Just as I finished, Martin showed up. I had only two glasses in the freezer, but that didn’t matter. He likes his Tecate straight from the can.
We sat at my kitchen table, warmed by the strong New Mexico sun that had the room around eighty even though it was in the forties outside.
Susannah brought Martin up to date. She grabbed a large chip and used it like a professor might use an eraser, jabbing it in my direction to make a point. “Here’s how I think it went down. Dorfmeister and Stiles were lovers. When Jürgen found himself alone in the Bronco, he called Stiles. They had a lover’s quarrel, and Jürgen killed him.”
“That’s ridiculous. Jürgen isn’t gay.”
“You didn’t think Chris was gay either until he kissed you.”
Martin started laughing. “I miss something?”
“Susannah asked me to help a former boyfriend with his English, and during one of the lessons, he kissed me.”
“On the mouth?”
“Can we get back to Dorfmeister, please?”
“O.K.,” she said. “He went out of his way to make your acquaintance and invited himself to your bar twice.”
“I’ll concede he might be gay, although I still doubt it. But how did he kill Stiles? There was no blood.”
“He choked him to death.”
“I saw his neck. There were no bruises.”
“He smothered him.”
I shook my head. “Jürgen is an out of shape guy in his fifties. Barry was a lean fit guy about your age. There is no way that could happen.”
“He injected him with poison.”
“Right. He found himself in the back of my Bronco and arranged an impromptu tryst in a parking garage when the temperature was below freezing. Then when he and Barry had a lover’s spat, Jürgen just happened to have a hypodermic needle and some poison.”
“It may sound ridiculous, Hubert, but you already said Duran believes Dorfmeister did it. And it’s a lot more likely than your theory that the murderer just happened to throw his victim in your truck because the window was down.”
“Hearing about restaurants and parking garages makes me appreciate the reservation,” said Martin. He opened the door and let Geronimo in. Susannah rubbed him behind the ears. Geronimo, that is.
I said, “Raoul Deschutes thinks Kuchen may have killed Barry.”
She finally stuck the pointer chip in the dip and ate it. “Why?”
“He didn’t say, but it makes more sense than anything the two of us have come up with. Barry told me he was going to get revenge on Kuchen by getting him fired. Maybe Kuchen knew that and decided to kill Barry before it happened.”
“How could Barry get Kuchen fired?”
“I have no idea. All I know is he said to me, ‘I know something no one else here knows’.”
Susannah was now fully immersed in her Girl Detective mode. She’s told me many times how much she enjoyed reading the Nancy Drew books when she was of that age. I’ve also read that Sonia Sotomayor, Hillary Clinton, and Laura Bush cited them as formative influences. If there’s a common denominator among those four women, I can’t find it.
“Since Schnitzel is so new,” she said, “it must be something about Kuchen’s past. Barry and he must have crossed paths at a previous restaurant. Maybe Café Alsace?”
“No, Kuchen wasn’t at Alsace because when I introduced Rafael to him, it was clear they had never met.”
“You got a pad and pencil?” asked Martin. “I think I need a score card to keep up with this.”
Susannah asked, “You know where Kuchen’s last job was?”
“I got the impression he came straight from Europe. Maybe he worked at Le Petit Moulin Rouge.” The name of the place had stuck in my mind.
She gave me a strange look. “The place where Toulouse-Lautrec hung out?”
“I don’t know. Evidently, it’s a famous restaurant in Paris. Or used to be. Escoffier worked there.”
“When did Escoffier live?”
“1846 to 1935.”
“Toulouse-Lautrec was commissioned to do posters for Moulin Rouge in 1889, so they might have overlapped.” When she’s not waiting tables at La Placita, Susannah studies art history as a part-time night student at the University of New Mexico.
“Did you ever see the movie Moulin Rouge?” I asked her.
“Sure. And I watched it again when I took up art history. They didn’t have computer animation back then so they had to use clever staging and camera angles to make José Ferrer look like he was four foot six.”
“I remember Zsa Zsa Gabor played the model.”
“She was actually a dancer at Moulin Rouge,” said Susannah.
“I know she’s real old,” I said, “but I don’t think Zsa Zsa Gabor was alive in 1889.”
“Of course not. The dancer was named Jane Avril. When they hired Lautrec to make posters for the business, he selected Avril as his model. Why are we talking about this?”
“Because you asked me where Kuchen last worked, and I said maybe at Le Petit Moulin Rouge.”
“Oh, right. I don’t think they’re the same place. You said Le Petit Moulin Rouge was a famous restaurant. Moulin Rouge was mainly a bar and dance hall. From what you’ve told me about Escoffier, I don’t think he would have worked there.”
“I’m glad we got that cleared up,” quipped Martin. “You got any more beer?”
We were all ready for a second one, so I pulled three from the fridge.
“The guacamole is all gone,” observed Martin.
“We still have chips.”
“You want us to eat plain chips?” asked Susannah.
“Why is it I have to provide the food every time we get together?”
Susannah said, “I could provide some pintxos next time.”
“Which are?”
“Bar food. One of my favorites is txipirones.”
“How do you spell that,” I said because I knew she wanted me to.
She smiled. “Just like it sounds.”
“And what is it?” asked Martin
“Squid cooked in its own ink.”
Martin looked at me. “You try it first, paleface.”
“What will you bring?” I asked him.
“Pih-n,” he said.
“Which is?”
“Gopher.”
“I’ll make some salsa,” I said.
32
I spent five hours making mole after Susannah and Martin left.
Despite the spelling, it is unrelated to the gopher.
I placed the gigantic pot from Schnitzel on my stove where it covered both burners. I began filling it with ingredients. Most of them had to be processed in some way before being tossed into the mix, which accounts for the five hours.
The sesame seeds, dried ancho chiles, almonds, anise seeds, cominos, and pepitas had to be dry-roasted in a frying pan in separate batches, shaking the pan constantly as if making popcorn. The tomatillos and garlic had to be chopped. The Mexican canela, black pepper and fresh cloves had to be ground. The Mexican chocolate needed to be roughly chopped.
A few pieces of the chocolate didn’t make it into the pot.
The bread had to be toasted. The chicken broth
had to be made from scratch. Only the corn oil and my secret substitute ingredient – black cherries instead of raisins – went into the pot without being processed.
After the brew was simmering, I popped the cork on a bottle of Gruet which I told myself I had earned by hard labor. Ella Fitzgerald was singing Baby It’s Cold Outside, and the scent from the mole had my taste buds doing a slow rumba. Only my iron will and the cold Gruet kept me from eating some of the mole before it was completely done. About halfway to that point, I dropped in five dozen chicken legs.
I never cook in large batches, so I had no idea how long it would take. I fished out one of the legs after a while, put it on my cutting board and pressed it. From the way it sprung back, I thought it might be done. I cut into it. It was.
I didn’t want to put it back in the pot after handling it and cutting into it. That was the excuse I gave myself for eating it. Then I had to test several more.
The ones I didn’t eat went onto the cookie sheets. I covered them with foil and slid them into the fridge.
As an experiment, I mixed Geronimo’s dry dog food with some mole. He liked it.
33
Molinero had generously allowed me to keep my room at La Fonda until the plates were finished. I thought the least I could do was be there to help with the Grand Opening.
They pressed me into service as a garçon de cuisine.
Also known as a kitchen boy.
I didn’t mind; they needed the help.
I showed up at ten thinking I was absurdly early only to find the kitchen in tumult. Masoot was baking bread, Scruggs’ assistants were hauling pots and pans to the scullery the moment they were emptied, Mansfield was filling various plastic containers on a shelf over his station, Mure was frenching racks of lamb, Salazar had various sauces in process, and Billot was trussing up some chickens.
“Regarde,” he said when he saw me watching, “They are all tied up with a knot.”
I smiled. “The expression is ‘tied up with a bow’.”
“Ah. Well, I have used the knot.”
Luckily for the chickens, they were dead – being tied in that position looked very uncomfortable.
The Pot Thief Who Studied Escoffier Page 10
