Out of the Frying Pan

by Robin Allen

  “The sink,” he said. “We were thawin’ scallops in there.”

  “And then you discarded that contaminated food, right?”

  “That’s the first thing I said to Ursula. ‘This food is now contaminated, and we must discard it at once.’”

  He did no such thing.

  He plucked a cigarette from behind his ear and smiled. “She missed one. Got a light?”

  “You might find some matches in my backpack in my Jeep. Second row, all the way down on the left. Doors are off.” I lifted the hair off of my neck to let it cool. “What took y’all so long to get here?”

  “She wanted to stay and work on her salmon cake recipe for the cookbook.”

  “The one Markham’s serves?” I said. “Because that’s my recipe.”

  “Hey, I’m just the sous.”

  “Did Drew find our table?”

  “Yeah, and he’s sittin’ at it, poutin’.” He laughed. “Why did you invite both of your boyfriends to the same party?”

  “I didn’t. Where’s Jamie now?”

  “Talkin’ to some little guy in a blue hat. Ursula said his name, but I don’t recall it.”

  “No, where exactly in the Field?”

  “By the bandstand last time I saw.”

  In the rear-right corner. Our table was in the front-left corner, so Drew and Jamie were already as physically far apart as possible. “And Daisy?” I asked.

  “Who?”

  “My cousin.”

  “Ha! I thought she was you when I saw her at the bar. She almost slapped me when I came up behind her and asked if she heard the one about the blonde who tiptoed past the medicine cabinet because she didn’t want to wake the sleepin’ pills.”

  I laughed. “I guess Daisy’s not one for sneak attack dumb blond jokes, but that’s pretty good. Is she still at the bar?”

  “That was awhile ago,” Trevor said.

  “Thanks. I’ll leave you to your walk.”

  As I started for the archway, he called after me, “Tell Nina I like thirty-five-year-old redheads.”

  One redhead in particular, who had a place at our table next to her mother.

  I entered the Field, using my health inspector skill of looking for Jamie without appearing to look for him, so I didn’t see Candy Fitzhugh, a former waitress at Markham’s I’d had to fire a few years ago after she followed a customer to his car to return the five-cent tip he left her, until I almost crashed into her. After she asked about my father, she said, “A ginormous roach crawled across my table the other day at the All-Night Flashlight.”

  She’s lucky it was just one, and it was just a roach. First, that place has the worst food, service, and ambiance of any 24-hour restaurant in the city—nothing but greasy meals, greasy waiters, and greasy walls. How they stay in business could be explained only by a tarot card reader. Second, bugs in the dining room are a harbinger of unbelievably careless health practices. If a restaurant doesn’t keep their public dining room clean, it means they don’t keep their kitchen clean.

  This week, the Flashlight would get an extra surprise inspection by me. I know I’ll find a colonial empire’s worth of roaches in the kitchen and probably a significant population of mice or rats. But the owners (who have actually prompted me to ask my boss, Olive, for the authority to issue four-figure fines for poor personal hygiene) will clean up fast and reopen their doors with promises to do better. My colleague, Gavin Kawasaki, calls them the All-Night Frightblight.

  “Thanks, Candy,” I said. “I’ll look into it.”

  As she rejoined her friends, I approached our table and saw Nina pointing to a couple of nubile girls at the bar and Ursula shaking her auburn curls.

  Drew stood when he saw me, a dispirited smile on his face. He knew that Jamie’s early return was sure to upset the balance of our provisional relationship.

  I went to Drew’s side of the table, accepted a quick kiss on my neck—nowhere close to my mouth and the blisters—then we both sat down. I pointed to an empty wine glass in front of him. “Opus One?” I asked.

  “It was,” he said. “Is everything okay?”

  “Poppy,” Nina interrupted, “you have friends, don’t you?”

  I knew she meant friends she could set up with Trevor, but Nina is under the mistaken assumption that what she says is so important and compelling, everyone listens to her and follows her plot. “Not a single one,” I said.

  “Mother, please,” Ursula said, sounding bothered by Nina for the first time since ever. “Trevor can find his own girlfriend. Drink your wine and let’s enjoy the band.”

  I returned my attention to Drew. “I lost Daisy and Erik. Have you seen them?” I asked, hoping he would think I was looking around for them instead of Jamie.

  A woman dressed in black moved to the right when she hugged a friend and I glimpsed Jamie, still by the bandstand, still talking to Jerry Potter.

  “I didn’t know they were here,” Drew said. He pointed to his cell phone on the table. “You can call her.”

  “The only call Daisy will answer when she’s on a date with Erik is from her kids.”

  “Do you want me to look for them?”

  I almost said no because I didn’t want Drew roaming the Field, coming upon me talking to Jamie again, but if he stayed at the table, he would watch me walk across the Field to him, and while I had a good reason to do it and Drew was a big boy, I didn’t want him to see me leave our table specifically to talk to his rival. “Would you, please?” I said. “I have something I need to do.”

  Drew looked toward the bandstand. Of course he knew where Jamie was. And Jamie knew where Drew was. “Sure,” he said, giving me that sad smile again, now with a cherry of anger on top.

  Daisy was right. I couldn’t handle this.

  Ten

  I’ve never had two boyfriends at the same time in my life. I’ve never even casually dated more than one guy at a time. Growing up in a restaurant, the guys I met were either customers or employees, and I learned early on—and with some wise advice from my mother—that I could expect technical difficulties if I dated either. Plus, I didn’t have time to cuddle with my cat, never mind juggle multiple demands for affection. Yet there I was, in love with two good men, and having to make a choice under duress.

  Drew knew where I intended to go and would watch me anyway, but I didn’t want to rub it in, so instead of taking the straightest route through the Field, I circled to the right, saying hello to friends and Friends, keeping my eyes clamped on Jamie. Jerry Potter’s story must have been compelling, because instead of glancing up at every passerby, hoping to find a convenient excuse to break away, Jamie had given Jerry the gift of his full attention. He had that intense expression on his face, the one where he’s listening and composing his article at the same time. Jamie doesn’t get that look for just any story.

  The musicians, a four-boy hair band wearing over-dyed black clothing and metal spikes in their eyebrows, noses, and lips, approached the stage, so I went around the back of it and came up behind Jamie. Jerry clammed up when he saw me, and Jamie turned to see why. He took my hand and tugged me into their conversation. “Keep going,” Jamie said.

  Jerry removed his cap and scratched his sweating scalp. “That’s all I know about it,” he said. “You going to, you know … ”

  “I’ll get you the money this week,” Jamie said.

  Jerry nodded. “I’m gonna get me a beer.”

  When Jerry left, I said, “This story must be incredible if you’re paying a source.”

  “Just twenty bucks,” Jamie said. “He had some information about the farm.”

  Jamie looked everywhere but at me, and I knew there was more to the story, but I didn’t push. When Jamie knows a secret, he likes to keep it to himself for a while, form his own ideas and conclusions before they can be polluted by another person’s.


  Unlike me.

  “I need to tell you something,” I said. “New facts have come to light and I guarantee my headline is bigger than Jerry Potter’s head-

  line.”

  “Okay, wow me.”

  Wow me? Where did that come from?

  The band started their sound check, so I put my arms around his neck and brought his ear to my mouth. “Dana was murdered,” I said. He tensed and tried to pull away, but I held on. “Someone filled her cup with hydrogen peroxide.”

  I released him and we took a few steps away from the band.

  “Peroxide,” he said flatly.

  “Food grade,” I said, then put my finger on my upper lip. “That’s what burned me.”

  “How do you know this?”

  I have heard Jamie sound skeptical before, but that was the first time with me. He always questions my theories and postulations to help me solidify them, but I could tell he thought I was grasping, if not making it up entirely. I took him farther away from the crowd and the band, then detailed my investigation. “I tested the remains of her cup,” I concluded. “It can’t be anything else.”

  Jamie searched my eyes, wanting to buy this admittedly far-fetched story, but not quite coming up with the cash.

  “You don’t have to believe me right now,” I said, “but accept the premise and help me discover who did it.” I pointed to the center of the Field but kept my eyes locked with Jamie’s. “Everyone knows about Dana’s heart condition, and someone here filled her cup with peroxide. By the time the police investigate, the evidence will be gone.”

  “Maybe it got in there accidentally,” Jamie said.

  “How do you accidentally pour food-grade hydrogen peroxide into someone’s glass? Or your own glass? Besides it was a measuring cup. She had it when Perry announced her as president. Everyone saw her drink from it.”

  He put his hands on top of his head and blew air from his lower lip, a physical expression of his mental frustration. “Are you sure enough to take this to the police?”

  “Yes.”

  He pulled out his cell phone. “Then we’re going to.”

  I waited while he left a message for one of his detective friends. “Why not nine one one?” I asked. “I said I’m sure.”

  “I want to run it by Baxter and let him decide what to do.” Which meant he still didn’t believe me and didn’t want to look foolish in case I was wrong.

  “Fine, but in the meantime, we’re on the scene. Nobody knows Dana is dead, not even the killer, so we can look for evidence and interview perps. Plus, all these people have been drinking for a couple of hours and will have loose lips. In vino veritas and all that.”

  “Perps?” he asked, finally smiling. When Jamie gets focused, he can get broody as a hen.

  “I have a few in mind,” I said. “Randy Dove being numero uno. He lost the Friends election to Dana, and they had words over him hiring Colin Harris.”

  “As a motive, that’s kind of thin.”

  “Really? You wrote a four-article series on that filthy campaign. After Randy hired those high school kids to let loose a couple of ferrets in the Wolff’s dining room, you think he’d have a problem putting peroxide in her cup? He also accused Dana of trying to kill him when he choked during dinner. Maybe he didn’t intend to kill her. Maybe he wanted to get even.”

  “Maybe. Who else?”

  “Bjorn Fleming. When I asked him about approaching Dana for a job, he called her Hitler and said he’d never work for her.”

  “Maybe he didn’t ask her for a job,” Jamie said. “Maybe it was for something else.”

  “Dana’s cooks said it was about a job. They also said Dana called Colin Harris a traitor when he delivered the champagne from Randy. And we still don’t know whether Colin jumped or was pushed.”

  “How come Dana’s cooks are spilling all this info to you?”

  I showed him my badge, which made him frown and smile at the same time. “I wanted to rule out food poisoning,” I said.

  “That’s two perps. Didn’t you tell me one of Perry’s sons didn’t want her to be Friends president?”

  I thought that was pretty thin, but kept it to myself. I couldn’t chase after that many people alone and needed whatever help Jamie would give me. “I overheard the conversation, but listen to this—I asked them if they argued with their dad and they both said it wasn’t them.”

  “Then maybe it wasn’t.”

  “Perry called him son, so one of them is lying.”

  “Why?”

  “Exactly.”

  “I don’t see how any of this leads to suspecting them of murder,” he said.

  “It’s a place to start. We can ask questions and follow where it goes.”

  Jamie rubbed his jaw and squinted at me.

  “What?” I said, getting a little annoyed with all the unromantic attention my mouth was receiving. “You know what it is now. It’s not contagious.”

  “No,” he said. “I’d feel better if we waited to hear from Baxter.”

  I sighed and rolled my eyes inside. Outside, I said, “You know that meantime I mentioned earlier? We’re in it. You’re not the only reporter here with contacts. One of them is going to find out Dana is dead, and once that happens, a judicial gag order won’t stop it from spreading. We have an advantage right now. Let’s make the most of it.”

  Jamie rubbed his jaw again, then said, “As soon as Baxter calls, we let the police take charge and we’re done.” He looked at me meaningfully. “Done, done.”

  “Done,” I agreed. “How do you want to work this?”

  “Like you said, start talking to people, asking questions about Dana, and see what comes up.”

  “Who first? Randy or Bjorn?” I asked.

  “We can cover more ground if we split up,” he said. “Which one do you want?”

  “I have more pull with Bjorn, so you take Randy.”

  Jamie nodded and went to the bar while I stood on tiptoe, scanning the drunk, sweaty, noisy throng for Bjorn’s ghostly figure. The band was a couple of songs into their first set, and several couples bounced around on the unfinished plywood dance floor.

  “Poppy,” a female voice said.

  Gah! I had been so intent on trapping Bjorn, I had forgotten I was another hunter’s quarry. “Ursula,” I said. “Can’t talk now.”

  “Okay.”

  The simple fact that she let me go so easily made me ask, “What’s wrong?”

  Ursula narrowed her eyes and I knew that whatever her grievance, she had already laid the blame elsewhere. It would turn out to be trivial, like when her cooks petitioned for time-and-a-half for helping her test cookbook recipes on their day off, or a guest sent back their gazpacho soup at brunch complaining that it was cold. She took a breath, preparing for a torrent.

  I held up my hand. “The short version, please.”

  “Mom is trying to find a girlfriend for Trevor.”

  Oh, that. Trivial compared to a criminal maniac on the loose. And how could she expect me to care one whit after she drove out with Trevor on his motorcycle just so she wouldn’t have to take Nina home? “Tell her he likes redheads,” I said.

  “Funny.”

  “Then tell her y’all are dating already.”

  “Are you crazy!” she said, as if I had proposed that she convert to a raw vegan diet.

  “I don’t understand why you’re trying to keep your relationship a secret. Even Mitch knows.”

  “She’ll start planning our wedding.”

  I waited to see a playful smirk on her face, but she looked as earnest as an executioner. “You two aren’t that serious,” I said.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Ursula said, sounding uncharacteristically desperate and whiny. “She does it with everyone I date. She wants grandbabies.”

  Nina? Gran
dkids? Un-people brimming with unfriendly bacteria, emptying snotty nostrils onto her designer blouses, wiping jam-sticky fingers on her Queen Anne chesterfield, bawling over the milk they spilled on her Italian marble countertops, grabbing fistfuls of fur from Dolce and Gabbana—well, not fur, because they’re Chinese Hairless Cresteds, so grabbing snouts or ears or tails—spilling drinks full of red dye number 789 in her pearl white Lincoln Towncar, wailing when their demands are not met? Those things?

  No, Nina’s desire for grandbabies did not well up from any grandmaternal feelings, because way down deep inside of her are thorns and crickets. More likely she felt left out of the brag-a-thons among her country club cronies who had grandkids and were always going on about how smart and funny and special they are.

  Nina probably saw her potential new title spelled, capitalized, and inflected as “Grand Mother.”

  And that would make Mitch a grandfather. Stepgrandfather. And me a stepaunt. Babysitting, diapers, bottles. And oh, no! Ursula would go on maternity leave, and who would have to run Markham’s kitchen until she came back? Ursula and Trevor both gone on maternity leave.

  “Poppy?”

  “Not me, that’s who,” I said. “Just indulge Nina in her matchmaking game, and tell Trevor to veto anyone she picks.”

  “I already tried that. Trevor’s going along with it because he wants to ingratiate himself with Mom because he wants her to like him because he wants me to tell her about us, too.” She glared at Trevor and Candy on the dance floor. “He thinks the whole thing is funny.”

  “Tell him the truth, then.”

  “He’d think that was even funnier and act worse.”

  I had thought to suggest that she flirt with Jamie to get even with Trevor, but then remembered that we weren’t in ninth grade. I also finally saw Bjorn, sitting alone at a table in the center of the Field, so I was done wasting time with Ursula.

  “It’ll all work out,” I said.

  I headed for Bjorn, who stood suddenly when I approached his table, upending the can of soda in front of him. I almost gave him credit for being a gentleman until I saw Cory Vaughn passing by on the other side, hugging an armload of used tablecloths to his chest.