Out of the Frying Pan

by Robin Allen

  “How about breakfast?” he said. “I’m meeting Mindy at Taco Xpress at seven o’clock for our first shoot on location, then we’re going over to—”

  “Thanks, but I already ate,” I said. “Before you run off to that woman, Dana’s cooks said Mike Glass was supplying the linens last night and came into the kitchen a few times. Did Mike have a glitch with Dana?”

  “Leave it alone, Poppy.”

  “What ever do you mean, Jamie?”

  “The police are on it now.”

  “Yes, but they haven’t gotten past thinking it’s a suspicious death, and we know it was at least manslaughter. I’ve already narrowed down the suspects and know all of them personally. I’m not the police, and I’m not working a bunch of other cases, and I don’t have to follow protocol. And I have a good cover story for being out investigating.”

  As loud as his sigh was over the phone, he probably blew his Donald Westlake hardbacks off the shelves in his living room. “At least make sure you’re not alone with anyone.”

  “The killer poisons people, Jamie. Even if I was alone with him, I’d lose my job if I accepted any free food or drink from a customer. Then I’d have to go back to Markham’s, cooking under Ursula. I’d be exhausted and cranky all the time, and I wouldn’t have near enough time to solve all these crimes that pop up along my route.”

  “You wouldn’t have to work at Markham’s.”

  I laughed. “Mitch would disown me if I worked at another res-

  taurant.”

  “Come work for me,” he said.

  “Sitting in a plush chair in an air-conditioned office all day writing blog posts?” I said. “I wouldn’t have anything to complain about. And I’d lose my tan.”

  “I’m in the field a lot more than I’m in the office,” he said defensively. “And I need someone I can trust to keep the blog going while I’m on the road.”

  That casual statement stopped me for a moment. Jamie had just informed me about his future plans rather than consult me so we could discuss it and decide together how his travel affected our relationship. But now, with Jamie dashing off to breakfast with that poseur and me gearing up to catch a killer, was not the time to get into something heavy.

  “I don’t mean that’s all you do,” I said. “It’s just that I like seeing the look on a cook’s face when I make him eat the lettuce he chopped right after he scratched his sweaty armpit.”

  “Give it some more thought, okay? We make a great team.”

  “I like things the way they are.”

  “Just think about it,” he said. “I have to go. Mindy doesn’t like people to be late.”

  “Sure, but Mike and Dana?”

  Jamie hesitated, then said, “Dana quit using Waterloo at the same time she quit using Weird Austin Spirits.”

  “I bet Mike’s boss wasn’t very happy that Mike lost Vis-à-Vis and the White Wolff Inn.”

  “He still has hundreds of other accounts,” Jamie said. “That’s no reason for murder.”

  “Not for a sane person.”

  A distracted silence came across the line, then he said, “Call me if you learn anything about Dana, okay?”

  I didn’t know if reporter Jamie or boyfriend Jamie wanted to hear from me. “Sure thing, hoss,” I said.

  We hung up, and as I finished my breakfast, I used a pen and paper to get clear on possible suspects and motives. I had hoped to eliminate some of them, but by the time I scraped up the last bite of guacamole, I had enough names to initiate my own street gang.

  Randy Dove—because Dana hurt his business and “stole” the election. For whatever reason, being president of the Friends meant a lot to him, and Dana had taken it from him. So, she had damaged both his finances and his ego.

  Bjorn Fleming—because Dana refused to give him a job, and she embarrassed him in front of colleagues and friends. Ditto on the effects to both his finances and his ego.

  Colin Harris—because he used to work for Dana, and she had either made him mad enough to quit or he had done something so awful, she fired him. Or worse—he had been a model employee, and she fired him for some trumped-up reason. Yep, finances and ego.

  Mike Glass—because he was Randy’s ally, and Dana’s win affected him, too. So that would be finances and Randy’s ego.

  And Cory Vaughn—because of his strange involvement with Bjorn and the Friends vote. And because he’s an unpredictable dopehead.

  I also couldn’t rule out Dana’s cooks, the McDougals, and the rest of the Vaughns for reasons possibly to be uncovered.

  I called the furniture store to reschedule my couch delivery for another day, but they weren’t open yet. Then I called Daisy to cancel our yoga class and to find out where she and Erik disappeared to the previous night, but she didn’t answer her home phone. I tried their plant nursery and her cell phone, and got the same non-response. Strange. One of the Forrests usually answers somewhere. I left a message on her cell that I might not make yoga and would call her later.

  I opened my front door and heard a lawn mower rumbling next door. I automatically waved to my neighbor, John With, my nice neighbor, the one with all the cuteness, sweetness, style, height, and dark wavy hair. Except it wasn’t John With and he wasn’t mowing the grass next door.

  It was John With’s boyfriend, John Without, the one who thinks that bright yellow wrestler’s trunks are appropriate attire for lawn maintenance, who substitutes cattiness for charisma, who thinks being short and muscular makes him adorable, who has more hair sprouting from his back than from his scalp—the one without a single abidable quality. That one was pushing the lawn mower. And he was cutting my grass!

  I have a small crush on John With, and even though the Johns have lived together for fifteen years, John Without feels threatened by my harmless flirtations—which is the reason I do it. He would never in seventeen lifetimes do something for me out of the goodness of his heart, so he was either drunk and confused about the property line, or he didn’t want his house value to decline because of the jungle next door.

  Regardless of the reason, my grass was getting mowed, so I tossed my inspector’s backpack into the passenger seat, started the Jeep, and pulled out of the driveway. When I drove past my front yard, I glanced in my rearview mirror, then slammed on the brakes before I swerved into a neighborhood frat boy’s parked car. Maybe I was the one drunk and confused. My neighborhood arch-enemy was standing near the sidewalk, smiling and waving goodbye to me.

  Had he plotted to ruin my day off by messing with my mind? Because it would work. That grotesque image of him would sniper attack my thoughts all day, like a mental version of Chinese water torture. It would prevent me from solving Dana’s murder and eating solid food.

  I had to reset my world.

  I had to make him stop.

  Nineteen

  I shifted into Reverse and backed down the street and onto my lawn, missing my driveway on purpose. “You look like an organ grinder’s monkey in that getup,” I said as I got out of my car.

  He waved again, then shut off the mower. “What did you say?”

  “You better get inside before the frat boys capture you and take you back to the zoo.”

  He frowned and looked around as if I might be addressing someone else.

  The second half of my insult didn’t sound quite as insulting without the first half, but repeating it would dilute it. “What are you doing?” I asked. “No, wait. I can see what you’re doing. Why are you doing it?”

  “Just being neighborly,” he said.

  “You know I’m the neighbor, right?”

  “Obviously,” he said, a hint of harrumph in his tone. “I can’t bag the clippings until tomorrow, okay?”

  “No, it’s not okay.”

  He checked his watch. “I guess I could do the entire front today before the HOA meeting, then do the back yard tomor
row.”

  “Wait, is the homeowner’s meeting tonight?” I asked, distracted for a moment while I made plans to arrive home after 5:30 PM. Sometimes, if they see your car in the driveway, they knock on your door and guilt you into attending.

  John exhibited his teeth and extended a hand sheathed in a bright yellow gardening glove. “I hope I can count on your support for president.” His words sounded rehearsed and stilted.

  “You’re running for president of our homeowner’s association?”

  “I’m announcing it tonight,” he said. “I need your vote, and I may need your advice.”

  And all became transparent. I had been president of our Little Depth Creek HOA when the Johns moved into the house to my left a few years ago. They have since upgraded and sold that house and bought the house on my right, which they work on when they’re not at their downtown art gallery, Four Corners, which is why they have never attended an HOA meeting.

  John Without knew that I had served two terms as president, but he didn’t know that the job is nothing but listening to endless complaints about barking dogs and loud music, moderating, and sometimes refereeing, fervent discussions about community swimming pool hours and privileges, and issuing warnings for illegally parked boats and RVs, and unauthorized lawn art (e.g., flocks of plastic flamingos and motorcycle muffler sculptures). Sometimes a board member brings cookies to the meeting, but not always.

  Nobody actually wants the job. The only reason I had been elected to a first term was because I had mentioned to one person at a meeting months before that it might be fun to be in charge of something non-food related. They changed the time on the next election meeting without telling me and voted me in unanimously. I finally got rid of the job by forging a note from Olive saying that a Travis County health inspector could not hold an elected office.

  “Who are you running against?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Tonight will be my first meeting.”

  I surveyed my lawn. “You’re going to edge the sidewalks, right?” He nodded and I decided to press my advantage. “I’m having a couch delivered today. If I’m not here, can you let them in?”

  A scowl brewed on his forehead, but he fake-smiled it away and said, “No problem.”

  “It’s supposed to come between one and five,” I said, then took off again, wondering what made him want to be HOA president.

  As soon as my tires crunched onto the gravel parking lot of Good Earth Preserves a little after 8:00 AM, I hit my first wall—a big blue one. Several marked and unmarked police vehicles, along with a CSI van, were parked close to the buildings. For the second time in as many days, the cops had come between me and my investigation.

  Uniforms and guns wouldn’t deter me so easily, however, mostly because Prince William would be King of England before I had another entire day off, and thus the leisure to do whatever I wanted to do. I had to at least try to get onto the farm.

  I drove through the lot and parked next to one of the most iconic hippie vehicles in the northern hemisphere: a 1972 Volkswagen Microbus. The farm has two of them, both bright green with the farm’s name and blue and brown earth logo painted on the side. Due to Ian’s mechanical skills, they both still run.

  As I crossed the parking lot, I searched for a dark SUV like the one I saw leaving the barn at the tail end of the party, but the car was either off the farm or back in hiding. I also didn’t see Nina’s car, so Mitch must have driven her out this morning to pick it up. Strange that they would both be up and about so early.

  I made it as far as the sidewalk before a baby-faced police officer stepped out of the shade of the overhang. “Farm is closed today, ma’am.”

  I flashed my badge. “Health department,” I said, matching his official tone. “Routine inspection.”

  He nodded and I thought I had him, but then he said, “You’ll have to come back tomorrow.”

  I became aware of activity farther down the sidewalk past the policeman, and saw Perry speaking with another man. I figured him to be a detective until I registered his jeans and plaid shirt. Ian. It would take longer than one evening to get used to his new yuppie ex-

  pression.

  “Ma’am?” the cop said, stepping closer to me. “Tomorrow?”

  “Are y’all here for Cory Vaughn or Dana White?” I asked.

  He shook his head, not because he didn’t have the answer but because he wasn’t going to tell me.

  “I have some information about Dana White,” I said, assuming that those magic words would get me through.

  “Give me your card and we’ll call you if we require your assistance.”

  I did as he asked, then said, “I need to use the ladies’ room.”

  He pointed toward the parking lot’s exit. “You’ll pass several gas stations on your way back to Austin, ma’am.”

  I returned to my car, planning to wait for the cop to take a break, but he had nothing else to do except stare me off the farm. I started the engine and approached the exit, then braked to a stop when my cell phone rang. My boss, Olive. Ugh.

  I had every right not to answer, because as I said, it was my day off. One that I had scheduled several months ago and reminded Olive thrice a week in the month leading up to the day off, and then twice a day the week before the day off.

  But if I didn’t answer, she would keep calling and assaulting me with voicemail messages, and then I would have to deal with an interrogation the next day about why I avoided her calls, and possibly accusations of testing her patience, which would lead to threats of assigning me to permit inspections. So I answered.

  “It’s my day off,” I said.

  “I got a hot one for you, Markham,” Olive said.

  “It’s my day off.”

  “We got a tip about Colonel Chow’s.”

  “It’s General Chow’s, and it’s my day off.”

  “They’re making sundried chicken in the Dumpster.”

  “That doesn’t even make sense, and it’s my day off.”

  “I want you out there,” she said. “Today.”

  Good Earth had the highest number of suspects, but I had other people to talk to, including Jerry Potter who lived behind General Chow’s. I could score points with Olive and use this as a bargaining chip with her some time in the future. “It’s my day off,” I said, trying to sound put upon, “but okay.”

  Olive usually says something snarky before she hangs up, and sometimes I don’t even get that, but she broke protocol when she said, “Good.” And she still didn’t hang up.

  Maybe she was experiencing an attack of some kind. I listened for gurgling or whimpering, then said, “Do you have something else for me, Olive?”

  “You’re a girl, Markham.” Her voice sounded different, less bulldog and a little hesitant.

  “I’m a grown woman with her share of other people’s problems.”

  “So you know about … things.”

  “Some things,” I said. I didn’t want to brag in case I needed to get away from wherever this was going. I thought that would make her hang up, but she didn’t. “Olive?”

  “I’m thinking of changing my name,” she said.

  “Did you get married?”

  “Not my last name, Markham. My first.”

  She wanted to girl chat? With me? No. “You know it’s my day off, right?”

  “How do you see me?” she asked. “Name-wise.”

  Olive has brown hair she keeps short and moussed, flabby, pale skin she sometimes tries to dress up with a spray-on tan, and a torso that begins with shoulders like a defensive lineman, widens at the middle, then tapers into spindly legs that resemble little plastic swords. “I think Olive suits you,” I said.

  “Do you know what it’s like to go your whole life named after a color, Markham?”

  “Actually, I do.”

 
“Or a snack?”

  “Well, in my case, a flower.”

  “You always get something colored olive for your birthday and Christmas.”

  “Red and black for me.”

  “I hate that color green. And I hate olives. I have a hundred jars of olives in my garage right now.”

  “Give them to a food pantry,” I suggested. “Or regift them to other friends. You have other friends, right? Friends who could help you work through this major life decision.”

  As usual, she didn’t listen to me. “I just want to get away from the whole olive thing.”

  “So do I,” I said.

  “So you’ll help me?”

  “With what?”

  “Think of a new name,” she said. “I want something that reflects my personality, something fun and exotic.”

  “I’m already having to work on my day off,” I said.

  “What do you think about Genevieve or Vivian?”

  “Well, they’re not drab colors or briny snack foods.”

  “I want to wear a name for a day or two before I decide,” she said. “We’ll try Genevieve first, so call me that every time you report in today.”

  “You mean the one time I report in after inspecting General Chow’s on my day off?”

  “Sounds good,” she said, then hung up.

  General Chow’s is your typical budget Chinese food restaurant near the University of Texas main campus in south central Austin. They do a lot of lunchtime and takeout business, and most of their customers come from a few-block radius. The area is a mix of current UT students, former UT students, and miscellaneous other people who don’t have a lot of money to spend on rent. It’s not seedy, but it’s not an area you want to put down roots in.

  A few months ago, the owners of General Chow’s had erected a ten-foot-tall wooden fence around the entire rear area—to keep vagrants out of the Dumpsters, they claimed. Now I knew that they wanted to keep their customers ignorant about how their food was prepared, and Zeus knows what else they were doing.