Out of the Frying Pan

by Robin Allen

  “I would love to, but this is my last chance to investigate tonight.”

  “With Sherwood?” he asked, sounding a little pouty.

  “Probably not. We’ll talk tomorrow, okay?”

  He sighed. “As you wish, Sugar Pop. Remember I’m working at Markham’s in the morning.”

  After we hung up, I saw headlights floating over from somewhere behind the Field. When they stopped by the archway, Ian hopped out of the four-wheeler, his face covered with sweat and irritation. Half the partiers were already atwitter—“I heard they had a meth lab in the barn.” “He grew some good stuff.” “Got a light?”—and the other half was either drunk or dancing, so Ian had to work to get their attention. Not mine, though. I couldn’t take my eyes away from him. His waist-length red dreadlocks had been chopped off and shaped into a buzz cut, long sideburns the only remains of his shaggy beard. I wouldn’t have recognized him if I didn’t know Brandon had gone to fetch him. Even his tie-dye T-shirts and jeans had been swapped for plaid and khakis. He looked a lot like his son, Kevin.

  Ian jumped onto the stage and pushed a surprised lead singer aside, then commandeered the microphone. It took a few moments for the rest of the band to catch up to this, so Ian’s first words were accompanied by guitars and drums. “Attention, people!” he said. “Give me your attention!”

  Only the dancers and immediate bystanders gave him what he asked for, so Ian wrested the microphone out of its stand and placed it against one of the speakers, creating a piercing screeching sound that shut everyone up and turned their faces to the stage.

  “Party’s over,” Ian said into the mic. “Time to leave.”

  Like me at first, most people probably didn’t recognize Ian, either, which meant they didn’t recognize his authority, so they resumed their drinking, talking, and dancing. In the Live Music Capital of the World, Austinites are possessed when it comes to music, and they don’t need much more than the tempo of their own heartbeats to keep a rhythm going.

  Ian jammed the microphone against the speaker again and let it squeal for what felt like a minute, then said into it, “Go home! The party is over. Now!”

  Ian vaulted off the stage, and he and Brandon began herding

  people toward the archway. Some moved out of their way rather than move to the exit, confusing the situation and buying me time for one last run at a suspect. I had maybe half an hour before Ian cleared the farm, so I had to work quickly.

  The bodies amassed into boisterous congregations, and I grew frustrated that I couldn’t zero in on someone to Spanish Inquisition. But then my eyes landed on the perfect solution to my problem.

  The former Cornhusker marching band staircase hovered near the chicken coop where it had been stationed earlier during Perry’s farm tour talk, which meant that a good view of most of the farm’s territory was as simple as climbing eight feet off the ground. Except I have a fear of heights. Or had one until a few months ago when I had been forced into a grudge match with it.

  I’m sure it’s no surprise that I don’t like to be deficient in word or action. A deficiency is a weakness and a weakness can be exploited. I almost lost my life due to that particular weakness, so I determined to overcome it. I also like to solve my own problems, so going to a professional who would call it by it’s official name, acrophobia, and then charge me enough money to pay for a run for Congress to help trace my anxiety to a childhood incident involving a kitten, a spatula, and a yellow balloon is not something I would ever do.

  So I read some books and learned “coping mechanisms.” My fear wasn’t completely cured, but now my entire being didn’t fast-forward into raw panic when I was higher off the ground than God intended humans to be. Well, I hadn’t panicked during my experiments in controlled environments. This would be my first road test in the wild.

  I scooted out of the archway and along the hedge, then backed up to the stairs, making sure I wasn’t followed or paid attention to. Ian looked my way, but the cloak of darkness was pretty dense where I stood so I doubted he could see me. I broke for the staircase, slipping in the mud, regretting my skirt again.

  I reached the stairs and ran up the first three steps, but the hard leather soles of my boots banged against the metal and made a racket that startled the chickens into squawking, so I tiptoed up the remaining ones.

  My terror glad-handed my intestines as I neared the top, and I grappled with the techniques I had researched, which mostly consisted of controlling the physical symptoms of queasiness, sweatiness, dizziness, and the mighty desire to evaporate like steam. One technique is to remind yourself that your fears are irrational, but when does telling yourself that you’re crazy ever help make a situation better? Another technique is to avoid the predicament altogether, which is how I had coped all these years, but as I already stood closer to heaven than to the earth, it was what you would call too late. Plus, I needed to do this for Dana. So I did what usually works when I want to ignore myself, which is take slow, deep, calming yoga breaths, inhaling as I placed my foot on a step, exhaling as I placed the other foot up next to it.

  At the top, I dropped to my knees on the small rubber-lined platform, then crawled toward the edge, unreasonably proud that I hadn’t fainted from fright. I could see well enough from where I crouched, so standing wasn’t necessary. Besides, somebody might notice my blond hair reflecting the moonlight.

  In the Field, Randy wheeled his cooler behind him, followed by Mike carrying a cardboard box of bottled wine. They waited a few feet from the archway while the clot in the exiting artery thinned out. I watched Randy open the cooler and drop something into it. Dana’s measuring cup? The AA medallion? One for the road?

  Dang it! From now on I’m bringing my inspector’s backpack with me everywhere I go. I could have used the small monocular I keep in it. It comes in handy for stakeouts, festivals, and really big commercial kitchens.

  I shifted my attention to the buildings and saw Ursula yelling at Trevor as they walked the plank path. Bjorn stood outside the washing shed, speaking with someone who was in shadow. And farther down, in front of the office, Perry pow-wowed with Kevin, probably issuing some last-minute instructions before he left to meet Cory at the jail.

  I more carefully scanned the couples and clusters for Jamie and Mindy Cottonweed, but they were either buried in the sea of bodies or had broken camp earlier.

  Randy was still my prime perp, so I decided to zero in on him. I would tell him I knew the money came from someone at the farm and confront him about his conflicting story about how Colin came to be a reduction of one from Dana’s employ.

  I faced the stairs, reminding myself that yoga had made me strong and flexible, and if I fell, it would be nothing more than a series of asanas on the way down. But before I took that first step, I saw light and movement near the barn. It was too dark and I was too far away to make out whether it was a man or a woman, but they were holding a flashlight and moving confidently from the direction of the public buildings. Metal squeaked as one of the barn doors rolled open.

  Was this the killer? Was that the hiding place? And me a world away on the staircase!

  The beam of light wiggled around the barn, disappearing once in awhile as the lurker moved behind equipment or to the other side of the space. Nothing happened for a few moments, then I heard the faint sounds of a bell dinging, a door closing, and an engine coming to life. Four wheelers don’t have doors, so it had to be a car.

  I gripped the handrail as I watched a dark, late-model SUV drive out of the barn without its headlights on. I didn’t think they were valet parking cars in the barn, so this mystery individual was no doubt a resident of the farm. They jerked to a stop, then opened their door. I strained to get a glimpse of their face when the interior light came on, but the car remained dark inside. They closed the barn door, then got in the car and cruised slowly toward the parking lot.

  If that was the killer, I fig
ured they were either hiding their instruments of death or they had hidden them earlier and I had witnessed a rescue operation. I bet the thought of the police searching the grounds spooked them, so I went with the latter. With any luck, they were spooked enough to leave something behind.

  I began to back down the stairs and became aware of the sound of … nothing. No laughter, no complaints, no one shouting, “Keep moving, people!” I looked at the Field, which was empty except for the band breaking down their equipment and Brandon stacking folded chairs on a rolling cart near the archway.

  Good. No one would notice me.

  When my foot touched the ground, my back touched the front of someone who said, “What are you doing?”

  Eighteen

  I flinched and turned to meet the angry visage of Ian McDougal. Telling him the real reason I had climbed the stairs would put a crimp in things, so I deflected him with a woman’s most effective weapon. I put my face in my hands and pretended to cry.

  “What’s the matter?” Ian asked.

  “Jamie” I said. “With another woman. I watched them … I … I ... ”

  I peeked through my fingers and saw Ian grimace, then he said, “They left.”

  “Together?” I wailed, actually quite annoyed that Jamie didn’t say goodbye.

  “I don’t know,” Ian said, already desperate. “Everyone left. The party’s over.”

  I sniffled extravagantly. “Why?”

  “Family emergency,” he said. “Can you get to your car by yourself?”

  I sniffled again. “I think I can manage.”

  Ian stayed five paces behind me, which forced me to keep up my charade until we reached the parking lot. Once I climbed into my Jeep, I slumped against the seat and reviewed my situation: most of my suspects had left, both of my deputies had gone off-duty, the evidence was probably halfway to Mexico by now, and I was hungrier than a member of the Donner party.

  Before I turned the key in the ignition, I heard voices and saw Tarzan and the other male cook in the parking lot. Each of them carried a large plastic tub professionally printed with “Hungry Like the White Wolff.” They were headed for a paneled white catering truck that advertised the same words.

  I hadn’t thought to check the dishes they had been washing earlier, so they may have washed Dana’s cup and packed it in one of the containers.

  I swung out of my Jeep and ran after them yelling, “Stop!”

  They did.

  “I’d like to see inside those containers,” I said when I reached them.

  “What for?” Tarzan asked.

  I displayed my badge. “Just open them, please.”

  “Fine,” Tarzan said, “but don’t mess anything up.”

  They placed them on the gravel and peeled back the lids. I knelt on one knee, changing to a squat when the rocks bit into my peroxide welts, and inventoried the contents. Small clear containers, ladles and spatulas, metal tins.

  “Is this going to take long?” the other cook asked.

  I stood and took a step closer to him, then stared at him for a couple of seconds before I said, “What’s your name?”

  “Paul.”

  “Why are you in such a hurry, Paul?” Because you offed your boss and need to get rid of the evidence?

  My intimidation tactic worked a little too well, and instead of confessing, Paul said, “My girlfriend’s waiting for me.”

  “Oh, well, let me hurry, then.” I squatted again, which isn’t easy to do and stay modest in a short skirt and boots, and ran my eyes over the second plastic tub. Knives, graters, basters, more metal tins.

  “Are you looking for something special?” Tarzan asked.

  I stood and looked at them because I wanted to see their reaction when I said, “I need to see the measuring cup Dana was drinking from tonight.”

  They didn’t jujitsu me and sprint off into the night, but Paul asked, “Why?”

  I addressed Tarzan. “Is Paul always this curious?” I wanted to make a point, not get an answer, so I continued, “Something she drank tonight may have made her sick.”

  Paul huffily dropped to his knees and removed the lid from one of the smaller plastic containers. Inside were linen napkins embroidered with WWI, long metal spoons, and a measuring cup! Paul stood and handed it to me, but I didn’t take it because, “That’s not the one she was drinking from.” Dana’s had red lettering on it, and this one had blue.

  “That’s the only one we have,” Tarzan said.

  “If it’s all the same to you, I’ll check for myself.”

  I went through the contents of both tubs, but Tarzan was right. No other measuring cups. And no peroxide or OxyGrowth.

  “Do you want it or not?” Paul asked, dangling the cup from his index finger.

  “Not,” I said. If I couldn’t get evidence from them, I could at least get information. “Do y’all know who Mike Glass is? Vice president of the Friends.”

  Tarzan nodded. “He used to be our Waterloo rep.” He looked at Paul. “I got this. Go ahead and load up the truck.” Paul began repacking the items I had disturbed.

  “Did he go into the kitchen tonight?” I asked.

  “A few times, yeah.”

  “Oh?”

  “He supplied all the linens for the party.”

  Oh. “And Randy Dove? Did he go in there?”

  “I didn’t see him during service,” Tarzan said, “but I was back and forth to the dinner a lot. He was for sure in there awhile ago with Mike.”

  “What did they want?”

  “Randy said he wanted to make sure Chef got the champagne he sent.” He dropped his eyes and said quietly, “We told him about her passing out.”

  “And Mike?”

  “He wiped mud off his shoes with some dirty napkins.”

  “What time was this?”

  Tarzan hugged himself to stretch his shoulders. “I don’t even know what time it is now. Maybe an hour ago, maybe three.”

  “Did either of them open the deep freezer?”

  “Why would they?”

  “Why does anyone do anything?” I said. “Did they?”

  “Not that I saw.”

  “Okay, thanks,” I said. “Have a safe trip back.”

  I surveyed the parking lot for more of my suspects, but saw nothing except bright headlights and red brake lights. The evening that had started with the promise of dining, drinks, and Drew had ended in death, dismay, and disappointment. And hunger.

  I couldn’t do anything else at the farm, so I drove to my house using back streets to avoid the traffic from Cats and Bats. All the cat fanciers should have arrived home by then, but I heard breaking news on KUT that the Animal Liberation Front had shown up to emancipate the animals. Anyone with catnip or a love trap was asked to bring it to the auditorium.

  In my kitchen, I went straight to my refrigerator, inhaled the last batch of rice and beans I had made earlier in the week, then rinsed off in the shower and dissolved into bed.

  The sip of wine I had consumed at the party wouldn’t have made a marmot need to sleep in, so I awoke the next morning as usual at 5:00 AM. I stayed in bed, waiting for all the thoughts kicking up dust in my head to settle into something cohesive so I would know where to consolidate my efforts on this rare day off.

  My original plan was to take a long walk around Town Lake, something I never get to do, then meet Daisy at Namaste Y’all for a yoga class at 11:00 AM, also something I never get to do, then spend the afternoon at my house with Drew, playing Scrabble and waiting for the furniture store to deliver my new couch. After a killer attempted to incinerate me in my house a few months ago, I’d had it rebuilt and remodeled, and had recently begun to refurnish it.

  But how could I sleep, sweat, or snuggle when Dana’s killer was free to do the same?

  I needed to begin where things
had ended: Good Earth Preserves. I knew I could gain access to the kitchen with my excuse of investigating food poisoning and manhandle the linens if they were still there, see if Mike Glass stuffed anything but muddy napkins into the bag. Getting into the barn was another matter I would have to finesse once I got onsite.

  I took a proper shower, dressed in my personal inspection uniform of black T-shirt and black pants, then browsed the Internet for developing local stories on Dana’s death or Cory’s arrest. I saw almost nothing but. Most of Dana’s headlines were subdued: “Dana White Dead” and “Award-Winning Chef Cooks No More.” The media had more fun with Cory’s: “Yes, But Is It Organic?” and “Good Earth Ganja.” Also, volunteers for the new Found Feline Hotline were standing by to help reunite cats with their owners.

  I had just sat down to a breakfast of guacamole and coffee, which was all I had in the house, when my phone rang. Other than telemarketers, my boss, Olive, is the only person who calls my landline. And since telemarketers are prohibited by law from making cold calls before 8:00 AM, and there was, as yet, no law forbidding bosses from disrespecting their employees via the phone lines, I figured Olive forgot that I had taken the day off.

  Yes, I had a backlog of restaurants to re-inspect, but it wouldn’t hurt them to wait another day. Half of them weren’t open on Mondays, anyway.

  It was Jamie. “I took a chance you’d be up this early,” he said. “How’s your face?”

  “Welt-free,” I said. “You didn’t say goodbye last night.”

  “Yeah, sorry. I looked for you when Ian told everyone to leave, but couldn’t find you.”

  I didn’t ask why he hadn’t called me because I didn’t want to hear Mindy’s name that early in the morning. “Why are you calling my home number?”

  “You didn’t answer your cell.” He sounded put out, which didn’t compute until he said, “Is Cooper there?”

  Ah, a simple case of jealousy. “No, I was in the shower,” I said. “I’m getting ready to take off and do some inspections.” I didn’t say what I intended to inspect. No way would I tell Jamie my plans. He would caution me to let the police handle it, and then remind me that curiosity killed the cat, but he would make it more clever, like inquisitiveness incinerated the inspector.