by Penny Pike
Or was it just a random intruder?
It couldn’t be random though. Not if Jameson was really poisoned. That took planning, not to mention opportunity.
My generic list was beginning to look endless. I had to go about this in a systematic way, much like I did when reporting a story for the newspaper. The “five Ws”—and “sometimes H”—almost guaranteed a complete news report. Maybe that would work for me now.
I made a list of questions based on the five Ws and filled in what I already knew:
Who is the story about? Chef Oliver Jameson
What happened? He died, poisoned from eating soup (accidental food poisoning or deliberate murder?)
When did the event take place? Yesterday, between lunch and dinner
Where did it take place? In his office at the Bones ’n’ Brew restaurant
Why did it happen? Good question . . .
I added an H.
How did it happen? Did an unknown subject enter the restaurant, poison the soup, and give it to Oliver Jameson? Or did the killer leave it there for Jameson to find . . . ?
Underneath the list, I jotted down the names of possible suspects that came to mind: Boris, Sierra, Vandy, and Willow. Reluctantly I included Aunt Abby’s name, but only because the police had her on their list, and I didn’t want to forget how serious things were.
Anyone else? Dillon crossed my mind.
Maybe he’d killed Oliver Jameson to protect his mother? He didn’t have anyone to verify his alibi for the time of the murder. Nah. Neither Dillon nor Aunt Abby had it in them to kill someone. If I was going to include him, I might as well add Dream Puff Guy as well. And that was just silly. Wasn’t it? To my knowledge, Jake Miller didn’t have any beef with the Bones ’n’ Brew chef. But at this point, I didn’t know that much about Jake, just like I didn’t know much about Willow, Boris, Sierra, and Vandy. Perhaps the more I dug into Oliver Jameson’s life, the longer my suspect list would grow.
So how was I supposed to find out more about Oliver Jameson?
A thought popped up like a piece of hot toast from the toaster. I could use my recipe research for my “Food Truck and Festival Cookbook” as a red herring, so to speak. Or was it a MacGuffin?
It didn’t matter. Under the guise of collecting recipes for the book, I could interview all the local food truck vendors and find out who else might have had a reason to kill the chef. As a bonus, I’d be gathering recipes for my book, killing two birds with one stone. A bad analogy, I realized, but apt.
Under normal circumstances, interviewing the food truckers would be easy, but with Jameson dead, they might not be cooperative. And how would I worm my way into the Bones ’n’ Brew restaurant to question Jameson’s employees? My cookbook was focused on food festivals and trucks, not competing restaurants.
So far, only a handful of people knew I’d been downsized at the newspaper. Maybe I could pose as a Chronicle reporter who was assigned to write a proper obituary for a “beloved” local chef. I still had my press pass, my credentials, business cards, trusty notebook, and fake Montblanc pen. I was sure whoever was in charge at the restaurant now would welcome a heartwarming story—and some good publicity. All I had to do was figure out how to spin murder in a positive way.
• • •
“So when’s quitting time, Auntie?” I said around seven, exhausted from the first day of my food service career. In the late afternoon, the Crab and Seafood Festival crowds had surged again relentlessly, and lines for all the vendors had snaked across one another in the congested courtyard. I was surprised that so many people attended, what with the hefty admission charge, parking problems, and crowds, but attendees seemed to really enjoy the food, beer, music, and crabby specialties.
Now that the fog had rolled in and the masses had ebbed, many of the trucks were beginning to close down. Some had even run out of food, unprepared for the sheer number of people. A few of the attendees turned, shall we say, crabby when they learned their favorite vendors were closing. The most vocal were those who’d had too much beer and not enough solid food.
But overall, the day had been a great success for Aunt Abby’s crab experiments—her Crabby Cheerleader Mac and Cheese, Crab Pops, and Crabtown Fry (bacon, eggs, and crab substituting for oysters, named after a dish famous during the California gold rush). She’d managed to keep her seemingly endless line of hungry folks sated. After all, she’d been a pro at feeding large groups during her high school cafeteria days, and she’d planned well. All we had left to do at the end of the day was clean up the mess and count the money. I’d never seen her cash register so full of dough.
“Let me do those pots,” I said to my aunt. “I’m sure you’ve got a million other things to do.”
“Are you sure?” she asked. “I don’t want you to burn out on your first day. You might not come back tomorrow.”
I assured her I would return, but secretly I worried that if I didn’t sell this cookbook, I might never get out of the bustaurant business. I took over the dishwashing, leaving my aunt to prepare for the next day’s menu.
I hadn’t realized how much went into running a mobile business—and in such tight quarters. I didn’t know how she did it, up nearly every day at the crack of dawn, ordering and collecting the food from the local bakery, deli, and farmers’ markets, before pulling up behind her bus and transferring everything to her tiny portable kitchen. Then, after turning on the generator and propane tanks, she went to work pounding prime meats, mixing fragrant sauces, slicing fresh bread, and generally whipping up her brand of comfort specialties to serve throughout the day—often two to three hundred orders or more in the space of four to six hours.
When it was time to close up shop, she spent the rest of the day cleaning utensils, pots, and surfaces, tossing out garbage, and saving leftovers for the homeless shelters, before heading home to experiment with new recipes. No wonder she had a line of faithful customers when she opened her service window around eleven every morning. She was devoted to serving good-quality food and she worked hard to provide it. Her energy seemed boundless.
Me? I was ready to collapse after only one day.
“So are you really coming back tomorrow?” Aunt Abby asked as I dropped my spattered apron into the soiled linen basket.
“Unless I die of exhaustion,” I said. “We could have used more help this afternoon. Where did Dillon disappear to? He was only here an hour or so.” Aunt Abby’s son had come in just in time to help with the lunch rush, then vanished for the rest of the event. What was up with him?
Aunt Abby shrugged. “He said he had something important to do and that you could handle his usual job. I think he might have been a little jealous.”
“Jealous?” I rolled my eyes. “I doubt that.” Most likely he’d returned to his bedroom, changed into his pajamas, and spent the rest of the day playing games on his computer.
I gave my aunt a hug and headed for my car, which was squeezed in behind the bus next to Aunt Abby’s Toyota. I couldn’t wait to get home to the RV and take a shower and a nap.
Two hours later, after I’d washed off the grease, fish smell, and sweat, put on the Minnie Mouse pajamas Aunt Abby had bought me, and had a nap, I made myself a cup of herbal tea and headed for my laptop to plan interview questions for my murder suspects. As soon as I opened my computer, I had a thought. Something had been nagging at the back of my mind throughout my shower—something I’d read in one of the Internet articles when I’d done a search for Oliver Jameson. I keyed in the words “Bones ’n’ Brew.”
There it was—a link to a story headed CANNIBALIZING FOOD TRUCKS. Essentially, the article had confirmed all the complaints among many brick-and-mortar restaurants regarding the increasing number of food trucks in the city. It was nothing new, I thought, but this time, instead of skimming the article, I read it carefully.
“We’ve had nothing but trouble since the f
ood trucks began occupying the Fort Mason area,” said Oliver Jameson, chef and owner of Bones ’n’ Brew, a city landmark for more than fifty years. “It seems like anyone who can boil macaroni, burn road kill, or blend a carrot can simply pull over and start serving food. It took my family years to build up this restaurant, and now all these squatters are trying to lure customers to their overpriced, subpar food. That’s why I’m working on a petition to have them all removed.”
I glanced at the date on the article—it had appeared less than a week ago. I guessed the examples he’d cited were references to Aunt Abby’s mac and cheese, Boris’s meats, and the vegetarians’ fare.
“He’s overreacting,” said Sierra Montoya, co-owner and chef at the Vegematic food truck. “Most of us offer foods you don’t normally find at the local restaurants. And since when has free enterprise been a problem in the United States? I say, if you can’t take the heat, get out of the kitchen business.”
Jameson says he plans to pursue a lawsuit against the food trucks and has repeatedly called the health department to look into these “roach coaches,” questioning their cleanliness and safety.
“When you cook for large numbers of people,” Jameson said, “you have to make sure everything is sanitary or you’re apt to poison your customers. I’ve seen rats the size of cats running around those trucks at night. The owners don’t seem to understand the need for pest control. I suspect one of the truck owners—I won’t name names—catches those rodents and cooks them up in his ‘gourmet’ kitchen, then calls them ‘exotic’ meat. Disgusting!”
Rats the size of cats? My stomach lurched at the thought of Chef Boris grilling up freshly caught rodent meat. Surely he didn’t! Aunt Abby claimed Oliver Jameson had planted rats in her kitchen to get her in trouble with the health department. I’d seen one with my own eyes, trapped under her stove. Had Jameson put it there? If so, how had he gotten inside?
I smelled a rat. A two-legged rat.
I returned to the article.
Chef Boris Obregar from the Road Grill truck argued that the rats were already in the area because of the restaurants. “We’re all careful about having a clean kitchen and a healthy environment for our customers,” he said. “Keeping vermin away is everyone’s responsibility, including Oliver Jameson’s.”
My head was spinning like a rat on a hamster wheel. Both sides were accusing each other of causing the infestation problem. But that didn’t seem to be a strong enough reason to murder Oliver Jameson. I read the last line of the article:
“Everyone just needs to calm down,” said Jake Miller, owner of the popular Dream Puffs truck. “Eat a cream puff.”
I smiled at the words, which reminded me of my own mantra: “Stay calm, and eat a cream puff.” If more people did that, we’d probably have a lot fewer murders. But it didn’t change the fact that Oliver Jameson was dead. Poisoned like a rat. As unpleasant as he was, he didn’t deserve to die so horribly.
I had an idea and checked the Cheshire Cat clock on the RV wall: nine thirty p.m. Maybe it wasn’t too late. I hastily changed out of my pj’s and into my khaki pants, a long-sleeved black sweater, and my ballet flats. Grabbing my red leather purse and black leather jacket, I got in my car and drove over to the Bones ’n’ Brew restaurant to see if I could get a little taste of Oliver Jameson’s world.
• • •
The crime scene tape had been removed from the front entrance of the brick Bones ’n’ Brew building, but a sign on the door read CLOSED. I wasn’t surprised. Not only was it late at night, but I figured most of Oliver Jameson’s staff were either mourning his death—or celebrating the time off. I wondered when—and if—the restaurant would reopen for business. Nevertheless, I hoped I’d find someone inside, dealing with the daily demands of managing a large restaurant, even one that was temporarily closed.
The front door was locked, so I walked around to the back staff entrance, knocked on the door, then tried the knob. It opened. I let myself in thinking anyone could walk in here—even a murderer.
The kitchen was empty—and a complete mess. Dishes, pots, pans, and utensils appeared to have been left wherever they’d been when news of Jameson’s death was announced. Half-cooked food was dumped in the large sinks or garbage pails, remnants clung to the pans and bowls, and sauces had puddled and gelatinized on the counters. The stench was overwhelming, and I was tempted to plug my nose at the cooking carnage.
“Can I help you?” came a voice behind me.
Startled, I whirled around to see a thirtysomething woman wearing an apron over her sleeveless T-shirt and jeans, and a pair of rubber gloves on her hands. She sported chin-length brown hair, unstyled, no makeup, and about twenty extra pounds on her frame.
“Oh! Sorry!” I said, startled, my heart beating out of my chest. “I’m Darcy Burnett. I write for the Chronicle. I was wondering—”
“Get out of here!” the woman said fiercely. I noticed a spray bottle of cleaner in her hand and a long scrub brush in the other. Both could be used as weapons, if necessary. I didn’t plan to make it necessary.
“No, wait! You don’t understand,” I said, holding up a notepad in self-defense. “I’m planning to write a commemorative obituary about Mr. Jameson. I just wanted to interview someone from the restaurant to make sure I got everything right. A lot of people will miss him and I thought a story about him and Bones ’n’ Brew would be of interest to those who enjoyed his food.”
The woman frowned, then lowered the spray bottle. “You could have called,” she said. “It’s awfully late.”
“I know, but I’m on deadline,” I lied.
“You want to write an obit about Ollie?”
“Yes,” I said, digging in my purse for my credentials. “Are you from the janitorial service?”
She smiled, relaxing the frown in her forehead, and sat down on a nearby stool. “No, actually, I’m a chef here. My name’s Livvy, short for Olivia.” She set down her supplies, then removed her gloves and placed them on the counter.
Oliver and Olivia? No wonder she called herself Livvy. “Oh, great! Then you worked with Mr. Jameson. Could I ask you some questions about him? For my article?”
“You mean worked for him. Nobody works—worked—with Ollie. Not even his sister.”
“He had a sister?” This was a surprise to me. I hadn’t seen a sister mentioned in any of the Internet articles, only his father.
“You’re looking at her.”
Wow. I hadn’t seen that one coming. The two were physically similar—both around six feet tall and several pounds overweight—except Livvy wasn’t bald.
“Oh. Uh, did the two of you own the restaurant together?”
“In theory.” She pursed her lips before continuing. “Our father turned the business over to Ollie. Gave him a fifty-one percent share because he was male, and me forty-nine because, well, I’m not.” She rolled her eyes. “Ollie’s more the front man. He handled the business end. I oversee everything and do some of the cooking. But maybe you shouldn’t put that in the obit.”
“Sure. Like I said, I’m here to do a commemorative story on him and the restaurant. Bones ’n’ Brew is one of the great ones, and we’ve lost too many other iconic San Francisco restaurants—Caribbean Zone, Cadillac Bar, Ernie’s, Yamato, Mildred Pierce, the Castle, Old Spaghetti Factory. I’m hoping my story will help keep the restaurant alive—if you plan to stay open.”
I could tell she believed me by the way she visibly relaxed. In fact, she looked downright tired, and I felt for her. Losing her brother must have been quite a shock and a big loss. And now the responsibility of cleaning up this mess and getting the business back on track—it was a lot to handle.
I reached over and placed my hand on hers. No wedding ring.
“Maybe this isn’t a good time to talk,” I said gently. “I didn’t realize Oliver Jameson was your brother. In all my research on the Internet,
I never saw your name mentioned.”
“That’s the way he preferred it,” she said. “He wanted me behind the scenes, which was fine with me. Ollie was the one who liked the attention. Unfortunately, it was his dramatic personality that made the news more than the restaurant.”
I thought of all the comments he’d made about the food trucks on the Internet. “Any idea who might have killed him?” I asked softly. “Off the record, of course.”
“Too many to choose from,” she said, sighing. “He was always arguing with someone—the staff, the suppliers, the local government, the competition, even me.”
“The food truck owners too?” I added.
“Oh yes. Ollie thought the evil trucks were going to put us out of business. What he didn’t realize was we were putting ourselves out of business by clinging to the old menu and the old ways. I kept trying to get him to update the recipes for today’s customers. You know, less fat and salt, more herbs from my garden, stuff like that. I’m a student of the Magical Kitchen.”
“Magical Kitchen?” I repeated, frowning. I’d never heard of such a thing.
She nodded. “Cooking, to me and many others, is actually magic. It’s alchemy. The stove is like a sacred altar, the equivalent of medieval hearth fires.” She glanced at a small figurine that hung from the ceiling and hovered over the sink. A witch on a broom, much like the one tattooed on her arm.
Sounds like a bunch of mumbo jumbo to me, I thought as I smiled at the ugly crone who oversaw the kitchen. “Is that a lucky charm?”
“It’s a kitchen witch. Ollie thought it was silly, of course, but it was supposed to bring us good luck. Chefs are full of superstitions, you know. Toss salt over your shoulder if you spill it. Tape a penny to a knife for good luck. Although . . .” She drifted off, then said, “Apparently not even feng shui was enough to protect Ollie. Or my dad.”
I didn’t know what to say. I knew their father had died, but had it been under unusual circumstances?
She caught my look and continued. “Dad died last year. Complications from Alzheimer’s. He handed over the reins to Ollie a few years before that, when he started to forget things.”
