by Penny Pike
“Who?” she called out.
“Oliver Jameson!” Dillon and I said together.
“Oh no. He wasn’t around. At least, not at first. That’s why I went when I did. I saw him leave, so I sneaked in the back door, through the kitchen.”
Great. There would be witnesses in the kitchen who could confirm she’d been on the premises.
Aunt Abby appeared in the bathroom doorway, dressed, her hair fluffed, her lipstick fresh.
“Did you steal anything?” Dillon asked.
“No! Of course not!” She picked out a sweater from her closet.
“Did you touch anything?” I asked.
“I don’t think so. . . . Maybe . . .”
“Mom, think! Did you go anywhere else besides the kitchen?” Dillon demanded.
“Just his office . . .” Aunt Abby headed down the hall.
I rolled my eyes and pictured my aunt in an orange jumpsuit. No doubt it would clash with her red hair. I steadied my panicked voice. When we reached the foyer, I whispered, “What did you do in his office, Aunt Abby?” I didn’t want the cops on the other side of the door to hear.
She shrugged again. “I just looked through a few of his desk drawers and some of the papers on the desk, that sort of thing. I didn’t steal anything, honestly.”
Stealing something was the least of my worries. Her fresh fingerprints would be all over Oliver Jameson’s office.
“So did you find anything?” Dillon asked.
Aunt Abby grinned. The sparkle returned to her eyes. “Well, as a matter of fact, I found a folder hidden under his leather ink blotter, but I didn’t get a chance to look inside because I heard a commotion coming from the hallway, so I hightailed it outta there.”
“Did anyone see you?” Dillon asked.
“I went through the office window. It opens onto the back alley.”
I tried to shake away a vision of my aunt Abby crawling through a window like a common burglar.
“That’s it?” I asked.
“I think so,” she said.
“Mrs. Warner,” a megaphoned voice announced on the other side of the front door.
Aunt Abby unlocked the door and swung it open. She smiled sweetly at the two uniformed officers.
“Dillon and I will follow you to the station,” I said to her.
She turned to me and whispered, “You’ll take care of Basil if anything happens?”
“You’ll be fine,” I said, trying to reassure her. “You’ll be seeing Basil in just a little while.”
She blinked a couple of times, then headed out the door.
I eyed Dillon’s sleepwear and he got the message. He ran to his room to change.
I stood watching as the two officers escorted my aunt to their waiting car. At least they hadn’t handcuffed her. I thought about calling a lawyer, then told myself the police would quickly realize my aunt couldn’t have committed any real crime—like murder—and would let her get back to preparing for tomorrow’s Crab and Seafood Festival.
Now who was the naive one?
• • •
The San Francisco Police Department is located in one of the seamier parts of the city. Luckily the area is crawling with cops, so I didn’t feel particularly threatened by the alcoholic, homeless, and mentally deranged characters passing by. Since cutbacks had closed many of the rehabilitation centers, homeless shelters, and mental hospitals, the streets and parks seemed to be the only places left for those who weren’t in the mainstream. Once again I felt lucky to live in Aunt Abby’s RV, or I might have found myself in a similar situation.
Dillon and I pulled up behind the police car and waited for Aunt Abby to get out of the backseat. In her yellow outfit, right down to the matching Crocs, she stood out among the people who frequented the police station. With her eyebrows neatly redrawn, her eyelids coated with a shiny yellow shadow, and her lips painted bright red, she was more suited to a clown party than a police visit.
To my surprise, Dillon had managed to find a pair of semiclean jeans, ripped only at the knees, an old, once-white T-shirt that read “Occupy Wall Street,” and rubber flip-flops. It was actually an improvement on his usual fashion statements. His dark curly hair sprung out from his head and hung over his eyebrows, obscuring his dark green eyes.
As for me, I’d changed into something simple, subtle, and professionally casual—black jeans and a tan shirt. Someone had to look normal in this family.
We were escorted through the metal detector, which we passed with flying colors, after dropping off our cell phones, loose coins, and other metal accessories.
So far, so good.
Next we were shown into a waiting room, while the uniformed officer who had driven Abby asked the desk sergeant to call someone named Detective Wellesley Shelton.
“Know any good lawyers?” Dillon whispered to me. Without his cell phone to hold, he kneaded his fingers and fidgeted nervously. I rarely saw him without some kind of electronic gizmo, even when he was eating.
I glanced at Aunt Abby. Dillon’s question was valid. Aunt Abby was about to be questioned in a murder investigation, and as far as I knew, she didn’t have an alibi or an attorney.
The only lawyer I knew was an old guy who had handled my parents’ divorce. Before I could come up with other possibilities, a tall, stocky man in a dark suit opened the door. He was African American, around fifty or sixty, I guessed, judging by his curly salt-and-pepper hair and graying mustache. He wore glasses, an SFPD lapel pin, and several gold rings on his fingers, except on the ring finger of his left hand. For some reason, I just notice these things.
“Ms. Warner?” he said in a smooth, low voice.
We all stood up from the bench where we’d been asked to wait. The detective looked at my aunt, flanked by her makeshift bodyguards.
I reached out a hand and took the lead. “I’m Darcy, Abby’s niece. This is Dillon, her son. We’re here for support.”
He hesitated, looked us up and down, then shook my hand and said, “Fine by me. Ms. Warner?” He reached over for her hand; she smiled at the imposing detective and daintily shook his hand. “I’m Detective Shelton. Will you follow me, please?”
The detective held open a door to let us pass, then led the way to an office at the end of the hall. Three desks filled the small room, all empty. I noted the time on the wall clock—it was after five p.m. No doubt the other officers were done for the day. It looked like lucky Detective Shelton was in for some overtime.
“Have a seat.” He gestured for my aunt to sit in the sturdy wooden chair opposite his desk. Dillon and I scavenged a couple of folding chairs that leaned against a wall.
“Thanks for coming, Ms. Warner,” he continued. “As the officers told you, the owner of a restaurant across the street from the food trucks at Fort Mason was murdered this afternoon. A witness mentioned you had an encounter with the deceased chef earlier today, and I wondered if you might have seen or heard something that would help us. If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
From his soothing tone, I felt like we were meeting with a family counselor rather than a police officer. His Barry White voice was gentle and relaxed, and it was obvious he was trying to put my aunt at ease. My first thought was that it was some kind of police trick. Where were the tough interrogators I’d seen on Criminal Minds and NCIS, or even that chick on The Mentalist?
“So, Ms. Warner—”
“Please, call me Abby,” my aunt said sweetly, batting her heavily mascaraed eyelashes. “Everybody does. Being called Ms. Warner reminds me of my high school cafeteria days, and believe me, I’d like to forget about those years.” She flashed him a toothy, candy apple red smile. The woman couldn’t help herself!
“All right, then. Abby.” He flipped open a notebook and held a pen at the ready. “How well did you know Oliver Jameson, the owner of B
ones ’n’ Brew?”
“Not that well,” Abby said, sounding sincere as she shook her headful of curls. “I mean, we were both in the food service business, but he owned that aging dive across the street and I operate a nice clean food truck, a school bus, actually. Converted. I call it the Big Yellow School Bus—a kind of play on words. The name Bones ’n’ Brew is just crass, don’t you think?”
My aunt was rambling again. I had to stop her before she incriminated herself and was led off to jail in chains.
“Officer,” I said, interrupting her, “what my aunt wants to tell you is that a lot of the food truck owners have had encounters with this guy because he objected to them being so close to his restaurant. I understand he wasn’t the most pleasant man to deal with. I have a feeling he’d made a number of enemies, no doubt some in his own kitchen. . . .”
Detective Shelton held up a hand to stop my own rambling. “Well, Ms. . . .”
“Darcy.”
“Well, Darcy, my job is to collect information. We don’t operate on feelings here at SFPD. According to a number of witnesses, your aunt was seen having a heated argument with the victim shortly before he died, and”—he checked his notes—“wielding a knife—”
Aunt Abby leaned forward and slammed her hand on the detective’s desk. “That jerk put a rat under my stove!”
The room was silent at my aunt’s sudden outburst. Realizing she’d overreacted, she sat back and folded her hands in her lap as if she were in church.
Well, great, I thought, cringing. She’d just given herself a motive for killing Oliver Jameson: revenge. And now it appeared she couldn’t control her temper. All we needed was the weapon—the knife she’d been waving at him earlier—and she’d be wearing orange pajamas for the rest of her life.
“Ms. Warner . . .”
“Abby,” she said, her tone soft again, her sweet smile back on her face.
“Abby,” the detective said, enunciating her name. “Where were you between the hours of one and four this afternoon?”
“Wait a minute!” Dillon said, finally coming to life. “I thought you just wanted to ask her some routine questions about this guy. You don’t think she had anything to do with this, do you?”
“Oh, I couldn’t kill anyone, Detective,” Aunt Abby added. “Not even someone I hated as much as Oliver Jameson. I mean, look at me. I couldn’t hurt a fly. I don’t even like killing rats.”
My petite aunt was hardly the physical type to commit murder. Then again, we still didn’t know how Oliver Jameson had died.
“What was the cause of death?” I asked.
“That’s privileged information,” he said to me, then returned his dark brown eyes to Aunt Abby. “So where were you this afternoon, Ms. Warner, if you don’t mind my asking?”
Aunt Abby turned crimson. Her eyelashes fluttered like trapped butterflies trying to escape, and she squirmed in her chair. Glancing at Dillon and then at me, she cleared her throat and faced her inquisitor.
“I . . . took a walk after the lunch rush. I had some errands to run.”
“Can you give me a list of those errands and where you went exactly?”
She shrugged. “Sure, but if you’re looking for an alibi, I don’t think anyone saw me.”
Detective Shelton frowned. “Did you happen to stop by Bones ’n’ Brew during your errand run?”
Aunt Abby looked him right in the eyes, smiled confidently, and said, “Absolutely not!”
I shot a look at Aunt Abby. She’d just lied to the detective! When she didn’t meet my eyes, I turned to the detective, the hairs on the back of my neck tingling. “Can you at least tell us where the body was found?”
He hesitated, then said, “In his office.”
Oh God.
I wondered how soon they’d find my aunt Abby’s fingerprints all over the proverbial cookie jar.
Chapter 3
Aunt Abby swooned in her chair. “Is it hot in here?” she asked, snatching one of the detective’s papers from his desk and fanning herself with it. He shot her a disbelieving look about her previous statement, but she seemed oblivious to it.
“Are we done, Detective?” Dillon wrapped an arm around his rosy-cheeked mother. “She’s had a long and tiring day and needs to rest. I’d like to get her home, if that’s okay.”
I studied the detective, wondering if my aunt’s sudden hot flash was a clear sign of guilt to the investigator. But instead of slapping handcuffs on her, he rose and said, “Of course. If we have more questions, we’ll be in touch. Thanks for coming down.”
Like she had a choice, I thought.
Dillon and I helped Aunt Abby up as if she’d suddenly become an invalid. She gave the detective a tremulous smile and returned the paper to the desk, then headed out, flanked by the two of us. Dillon held her arm, while I placed a comforting hand on her back.
What an act.
When we reached the door, the detective called out, Columbo-style, “Just one more thing . . .”
We froze, then turned around.
“You aren’t planning to leave town, are you?”
Aunt Abby shook her head. “No, Detective.” Under her breath she mumbled, “Where would I go? Has he forgotten I’ve got the Crab and Seafood Festival tomorrow?”
“And if you remember anything else, give me a call,” he added.
After I helped Aunt Abby into the tiny backseat of my car, we drove home in silence, each of us lost in his or her own thoughts. I didn’t know what she and Dillon were thinking, but my mind was spinning like a Cuisinart, dicing and chopping various murder scenarios. Who killed Oliver Jameson? A disgruntled diner? One of his kitchen staff? A random crazy person? Just about anyone could have done it. Even, I supposed, a food truck chef.
Like Aunt Abby?
No way! She wouldn’t even drop a live lobster into a pot of boiling water, let alone kill a human being. That much I knew. But someone obviously had. And I had a feeling that if I didn’t try to find out who it was, Aunt Abby could soon find herself in her own pot of hot water. Especially when the detective discovered my aunt’s fingerprints at the restaurant and realized she’d been in the dead man’s office and lied about it.
When I wrote a review for the Chronicle, I always interviewed the primary source—the owner—and worked my way from there—to the chef, the waitstaff, and the customers. I planned to tackle Aunt Abby’s problem in a similar manner. While the main source, at this point, was deceased, I could at least try to find out more about him from the people who knew him. Then maybe I’d have a list of possible suspects to check out.
Hopefully Detective Shelton would be doing the same thing.
Unfortunately, it appeared he’d already put my aunt on his suspect list.
We arrived at Aunt Abby’s home a little after seven. My aunt said she had stuffed bell peppers in the freezer she’d microwave for dinner and set about busying herself with preparing the meal. Dillon went off to his bedroom, no doubt to answer e-mails, update his Facebook page, tweet his latest thoughts, and do a bunch of other Internet-related stuff. Maybe I could ask him to check Craigslist and find me another reporting job—once this murder business was resolved.
I headed for the RV to change into my comfy jeans and a “Bay to Breakers” T-shirt I’d stolen from my ex-boyfriend. After pouring myself a glass of cheap wine, I sat down at my laptop at the tiny kitchen table and Googled “Oliver Jameson Bones ’n’ Brew.”
Yelp popped up first. I opened the page and began reading the comments by amateur critics.
“. . . lousy food, poor service . . .”
“. . . This used to be such a great place, but it’s really gone downhill. . . .”
“. . . Save your money and spend it at one of the yummy food trucks across the street. . . .”
Ouch.
The reviews continued much in this vein, inclu
ding the one I’d written about the restaurant’s decline. Only rarely did I see anything complimentary. I wondered how the restaurant had managed to stay in business all these years with so many negative comments.
Next, I checked for a Facebook or Twitter link to either Oliver or the restaurant, but I found no social media contacts. Maybe the place was too old-school for that kind of networking. Or maybe Jameson didn’t feel he needed to get the word out anymore, since the restaurant had been around for so long.
Finally I found a piece another reporter at the Chron had done on Bones ’n’ Brew a number of years ago. It mentioned that Oliver Jameson had taken over the restaurant from his father, Nigel Jameson, after the older man passed away from a heart attack. A photo of the two men proved the “like father, like son” theory, at least in physical characteristics. Both had male pattern baldness—one advanced, one with trim still around the edges. Both were stocky, as if they’d enjoyed their own cooking a little too much. And both were about the same height. They even wore nearly identical chef’s whites with their names embroidered in black. But while Jameson Senior sported a smile, revealing a row of crooked teeth, Junior looked as if he’d just bitten into a lemon.
After a little more research, I found a solid lead, thanks to Gastronome, an online magazine that featured stories on various chefs from around the world. According to a recent article, Oliver Jameson’s place once had a prestigious reputation, earning two Michelin stars. Since then, the rating had plummeted. The critic, a woman named Paula Bouchard, called him a “second-rate chef” and a “third-rate human being.” Jameson shot back at her in a letter to the editor, calling her “Palate-less Paula” and “Big Mac Bouchard.”
Harsh. I wondered if there was something else besides food that had caused such venom.
The article noted that Jameson had also had numerous confrontations with his kitchen staff and was known to have fired some of the best sous chefs in the business. At one point, he’d threatened his former pastry chef with a meat skewer and had to be bailed out of jail by his father. Jameson had also been accused of lying to a group of vegetarians for not disclosing that he used chicken stock in his soup, of buying out-of-date ingredients from questionable suppliers, and of using illegal poisons to handle his vermin problem. Within the last seven years, most of his staff had either quit or been fired and had sued him.
