Out of the Frying Pan

by Robin Allen

“Did you find out anything about Dana?” Jamie asked.

  I turned back to him. “As a matter of fact, two things, and one of them is huge.”

  “Rolling!” Dana yelled from somewhere behind me.

  “How huge?” Jamie asked.

  “Scoop-of-the-month huge.”

  “Oh, yeah? Wow me.”

  I rolled my eyes at him repeating Mindy’s refrain. “Dana made a deal with Perry and them to open an organic restaurant at the farm.”

  “Herbivore,” Jamie said.

  “You knew?” I shouted.

  “Cut!” Mindy yelled. She marched up to our table and said, “Quiet discussions.” Then returned to her spot and clapped her hands. “Rolling!”

  Jamie put his forearms on the table and leaned into me. “That’s what I wanted to tell you last night before the police arrested Cory Vaughn.”

  “You should have called me, Jamie, or told me this morning. That’s a major motive to kill Dana.”

  “Not really,” he said.

  “Yes, really.” I crossed my arms and leaned back in my chair. “But since you’re surrounded by bright lights and beautiful women, I’m sure you’re not interested in why.”

  “Come on, now. Of course I’m interested.”

  “Cut!” Mindy yelled. She walked up to our table again, then uncrossed my arms and put them in my lap. “This is a fun lunch for two.” Hand clap, then, “Rolling!”

  Jamie laughed, having fun like he was supposed to.

  “Colin said Good Earth voted on bringing Dana and Herbivore to the farm,” I said. “A vote means it wasn’t unanimous.”

  I knew I had Jamie’s attention when he abandoned the fluid flirty voice he had been using and said in his reporter’s voice, “Which means someone didn’t want her there.”

  “And that brings us to the second thing I found out.” I relayed what Mitch told me about Dana being a founding member of the farm. “Don’t tell me you knew that, too.”

  “No, but it will add some interesting flavor to my upcoming feature on the farm restaurant that never was.”

  I lifted my glass to eye level and swished the wine around like Jamie had taught me to do. The legs were thick and slow, like a dessert wine. I said, “All those conversations I heard—”

  A cameraman moved in close to us, and Jamie picked up his glass of wine and held it up as if to toast. I clinked mine against his, then we both sipped.

  Then I spit my mouthful onto the table.

  Twenty-Five

  “Cut!” Mindy yelled. The cameraman stepped sideways to make room for his bossy boss. “First you interrupt filming,” she said, “then you shout like a carnival barker, pout like a teenager, and now you’re spitting up like a newborn!”

  I didn’t respond because (a) she had made several inaccurate statements, not asked any relevant questions, and (b) I was disgusted by the residue of oil in my mouth. Not even good oil, like coconut or olive. It felt and tasted cheap.

  I wiped my tongue with my napkin, then asked Jamie, “Why is canola oil in this wine glass?”

  “It’s a prop,” Mindy answered. “You’re not supposed to drink it.” She looked at her watch. “Especially not in the middle of the day.”

  My nostrils have not been known to flare in anger, but that time they did. Mindy Cottonmouth! Hissing at me like that in my family’s restaurant! This fake drink belongs in her fake face!

  Jamie stealthily moved my glass out of reach. “It’s my fault, Mindy,” he said. “I forgot to tell her.”

  Mindy flapped her mascara-caked eyelashes at her handsome apologist and patted his shoulder. “Oh, Jamie, that’s fine. Rolling!”

  “Do we have any real wine in the house?” I said when she clopped off. “Or is it all grape jelly and digitalis now?”

  “Digitalis isn’t purple,” Jamie said. “You just have to get used to things on a film set.”

  “This is a restaurant dining room,” I said. “And I don’t want to get used to a debutante whose vocabulary is limited to ‘take five, people,’ ‘rolling,’ and ‘cut.’ At this rate, she’ll be filming until those jeans of hers get worn in.”

  He steered me away from that with, “You were going to tell me about conversations you heard?”

  “The ones I heard last night between farm people about votes had to be about the restaurant, not the Friends election.”

  “Maybe the vote was partisan along family lines. The McDougals wanted her, but the Vaughns didn’t because of what happened between her and Perry.”

  “Except Vaughns outnumber McDougals four to three, so if that were the case, Dana wouldn’t have gotten in.”

  “Maybe someone broke ranks,” Jamie said.

  “Or multiple someones. From what I heard between Cory and Bjorn, Cory voted against her. I also heard a man and a woman arguing in the office last night, but I never found out who it was. He was saying he couldn’t believe she voted for Dana.”

  “Perry and Megan?” Jamie suggested.

  “If Perry didn’t want her there, I can’t see Megan siding against her husband.”

  “Maybe what you heard really was about the Friends vote, so it could be anybody.” Jamie slid my prop glass of oil back to me. “What else you got?” he asked.

  “Bjorn. He lives in one of the little cabins out there. If Dana set up shop, he’d probably lose his job and his house. That’s motive. He also had opportunity, seeing as he has the run of the place and it being his kitchen Dana was cooking in. I’m making a trip to the farm tomorrow.”

  I heard chairs scuffling and everyone started to stand and talk above a murmur. “Looks like we’re taking five,” Jamie said, no longer interested in me or my theories. He stood, then looked down at me. “Let—”

  “The police handle it. I know.”

  “I was going to say, let me know if you find out who won the recipe contest.”

  “And when I find out who killed Dana, shall I tell you first or the police?”

  He hesitated, as I knew he would, then responded as I knew he had to. “The police.”

  “Sure thing, hoss,” I said.

  I stayed in my chair and contemplated my approach at Good Earth for the next day. Finding out who voted to bring in Herbivore—or rather, who voted against it—would help sort the sheep from the wolves. But what if the vote didn’t split neatly by last name? That added another layer to this cake of intrigue. With seven votes, at least four family members voted yes and won, which meant that, at most, three family members might have a reason to ixnay Dana. For sure Cory voted no because—oh!—Bjorn made him!

  “There’s that smile I love,” Drew said into my ear. He kissed my cheek then sat in Jamie’s chair. “What’s the reason?”

  I smiled. “I have the rest of the day off.”

  “Does that mean our plans for today are on?”

  “Yes, if you still want to.”

  “I didn’t read the dictionary for nothing,” Drew said. “Let me tell Mitch we’re leaving.”

  “You don’t have to stay for filming?”

  “I think we’re done with the crowd shots. I heard Mindy say they’re going to shoot the front, then do more filming in the kitchen. Besides, I’d rather be with you.” He stood and came around the table to pull out my chair. “My truck’s blocked in, so we’ll have to go in your car.”

  By the time Drew pulled my Jeep into my driveway at 3:04 PM, I had told him my suspicions about the farmers and the votes, except I didn’t mention they were the product of my forced lunch date with Jamie.

  “Everything points to Good Earth,” Drew said as he unlocked my front door and let us into the empty living room.

  During the remodeling, I’d had the house finished out with warm wood panel walls and floors so it looked like a ski lodge, but I didn’t want to choose any living room furnishings until I bought a co
uch to establish the style and color scheme, and that had taken months due to twelve-hour work days and my lack of interest in color schemes. I finally agreed to let Nina help me, not because she didn’t have a place to sit when she visits, which is never, but because she works as an interior decorator when she’s between husbands and actually has skills in that area.

  Drew crossed into the kitchen to open the bottle of Gundlach Bundschu Merlot I insisted he take from Markham’s as payment for me being a foodie extra under duress. I knew he would deduct it from his own wages later.

  “I agree,” I said, sitting on a fold-out chair at the card table topped by a Scrabble board. “All those farmers go way back with Dana, and any one of them could have a grudge against her.”

  Drew placed a glass filled with dark crimson liquid in my hand, then sat next to me. “That was, what, thirty years ago?”

  I sniffed the bouquet. “Thereabout.”

  “Long time to carry a grudge.”

  “Time doesn’t always heal a wound,” I said. “Sometimes it makes it fester.”

  “And sometimes it makes the heart grow fonder.”

  “Is that in reference to the murder or to us?”

  He smiled and handed me the bag of Scrabble tiles.

  I pulled out the letter C and Drew came out with the letter M. We tossed our go-first tiles into the bag, then I chose seven new ones and handed the bag to him.

  “What were you and Sherwood talking about?” Drew asked as he reviewed his letters.

  “The case,” I said, then kicked off the game with STORM.

  “So you weren’t giving him the heave-ho?”

  I answered with an unhappy tilt of my head.

  “You know I love you, Sugar Pop.”

  I nodded. If I knew anything, it was that.

  “And you love me.”

  “I’ve never said that.”

  “You don’t have to,” he said, rearranging his tiles.

  “Dana’s husband may have done it,” I said, wanting to put off that discussion. “For insurance money.”

  “Poppy,” Drew said heavily. He put his hand on mine and held my eyes with his. “You have to decide. Me or Sherwood.”

  “Are you giving me a deadline?”

  “You can’t keep stringing us both along.”

  “That’s not what I’m doing,” I said. “Not intentionally.”

  “That’s what it feels like.”

  “I have a lot of feelings to work through, and you know I’m not good with that.”

  Drew used a blank tile and played the word MINE.

  We spent the next hour sipping wine, playing Scrabble, and discussing Markham’s employees and customers. He didn’t push me again on my decision, but he was right. It wasn’t fair to anyone, including me, to keep both of them on the hook. I had kind of hoped one of them would take himself out of the running and make my decision a slam dunk.

  At 4:00 PM, I received a phone call from the furniture store that my couch would be delivered within the hour, so when I heard the doorbell ring a few minutes later, I totaled my triple word score for AMITY, gave Drew a victory kiss, then opened the front door.

  Not only were there not two brawny delivery giants standing on the porch, but the garden gnome that is John Without wanted one of the most cliché neighborhood favors ever. “Can I borrow a cup of sugar?” he asked.

  “White or brown?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “White, I think.”

  “Granulated or powdered?”

  “I don’t … ”

  “What’s it for?” I asked.

  “John’s making cookies for the HOA meeting tonight.”

  “Then why isn’t he over here asking me?”

  “Like I said, he’s making cookies.”

  “Without sugar?”

  John let out a hard exhale. “Do you have any or not?”

  “Hang on,” I said. I left the front door open while I went to the kitchen, then returned with three bottles, one each of agave nectar, maple syrup, and honey. “I don’t have any sugar, but you can usually substitute one of these depending on the recipe.”

  John Without stepped off the porch and turned toward his house.

  “Uh, John, aren’t you forgetting something?” I said.

  He looked down at the bottles cradled in his arms. “I don’t think so.”

  “Thank you?”

  “For what?”

  I shut the door on my neighborhood nemesis, only to receive a phone call from my work nemesis. “Bovina!” I said. “How udderly wonderful to hear from moo.”

  Drew snorted wine out of his nose and jumped up to get a paper towel.

  “I’m done with that one,” she said. “Sounds like something the CDC issued a bulletin for last week. Causes facial tics.”

  I thought that sounded like Olive herself, but said, “How can I help you on my day off?”

  “Where are we on Colonel Chow’s?”

  “I left you a message.”

  “You left a message for someone named Viv, so I deleted it.”

  I repeated the message I had left and told her I would return to General Chow’s later. If she assumed that I meant today, that would be her mistake. “What should I call you when I report in?” I asked.

  “Amber.”

  “You know that’s a color, right?”

  “Wrong, Markham. It’s Russian jewelry.”

  “That flies get trapped in.”

  Twenty minutes later, the doorbell rang. To my ten-point word score, I added my fifty-point bonus for using all my letters, gave Drew another victory kiss, then opened the front door.

  Again, no delivery giants, but I welcomed this John on my doorstep. John With wore long brown shorts, a pale pink shirt that set off his dark curls and skin, and a vintage red apron with a black silhouette of W.C. Fields and the words “Who put pineapple juice in my pineapple juice?” He held the bottles I had given to John Without.

  I stepped aside to let him in, then reached up and thumbed a smear of flour from his chin. “Those won’t work?” I asked.

  “I’m making sugar cookies and need a little more to sprinkle on top. John went to the store.”

  John With followed me into the kitchen and placed the bottles on the counter. He shook hands with Drew, then tapped the score sheet. “When are you going to learn, my friend?”

  “I like a challenge,” Drew said.

  “You would have to,” John said, then to me, “Are you coming to the meeting tonight?”

  “Drew and I have plans to sit on my new couch and watch The Big Lebowski,” I said.

  “You’ll miss my cookies,” John said.

  “I’ll also miss a bunch of petty complaints about unscooped dog poop and neighbors taking their recycling to the curb a day early.”

  “It can’t be that bad,” John said.

  “You’ll see,” I said. “Why does John want to be president, anyway?”

  “He wants parking passes for the neighborhood.”

  In the past decade, Austin’s population has grown much faster than its infrastructure, which is a problem in neighborhoods like ours that were built in the forties and fifties to support bread-­winning dads who kissed their wife and kids goodbye before driving the family car to work. Most houses have a single-car carport and a short driveway that will accommodate one other car, which means that visitors usually park on the street.

  It works for most people, but when you have a tribe of frat boys down the street that throws weekend parties for friends who think the term “carpool” means filling up an old Karmann Ghia with water, the street clogs up fast. This is a problem for people like the Johns who like to throw their own parties for friends who think the term “carpool” means pooling their cars at a central location. So the city came up with a voluntary
program for neighborhoods that can require non-residents to dangle a temporary parking permit from their rearview mirror when they park on the street. Violators are to be hanged from the playground swings or something.

  “We have that in my neighborhood,” Drew said. “He has to get a majority of signatures from homeowners, then get permission from the city.”

  John nodded. “That’s the platform he’s running on.”

  A nicer person would have told John With that they could skip the cookie bribe, that his boyfriend could campaign on a platform of free air and sunshine for all residents and he would win the election. But John With likes to bake cookies, and I thought that John Without would make a superb parking Nazi. “I wish him luck,” I said.

  “Can Liza stay with you while we’re at the meeting?” John asked.

  Liza is a Maltese puppy John Without gave to John With a few months ago. She was part anniversary present and part replacement for their first Maltese, Judy, who had been squashed in their driveway a couple of years ago by the moving company they hired to move them from one side of me to the other. When they’re gone, they

  usually leave her in a small cage in the guest bedroom—a well-

  appointed canine condo with a pink-and-white monogrammed bed, squeaky toys, and a radio—but they prefer she has company.

  I looked at Drew, who said, “Sure.”

  I walked John to the door. “Don’t bring her over until the delivery guys leave, okay?”

  Thirty minutes later, the shadow of five o’clock had started to sprout when the doorbell rang again. Drew was already standing to pour more wine into our glasses and said, “I’ll get it.”

  He opened the door not to giants or Johns, but to Jamie.

  Twenty-Six

  I heard, “What are you doing here?” and “What are you doing here?” and knew I didn’t want to be there, so I took the highest road available in that situation—I escaped out the kitchen door and ran to the Johns’ house.

  It was one thing to be forced into a decision early, but if they expected me to decide between them in front of them, and without a couch to lay on afterward, they were wrong.

  “Hi, Poppy Markham,” John With said when I entered through the back door without knocking. “Did you come for Liza?” He held her in one hand and a full cookie sheet in the other.