Out of the Frying Pan

by Robin Allen

  “Relationship asylum,” I said.

  He handed Liza to me who licked a smile onto my face. “Did Drew finally beat you at Scrabble?”

  “Hey,” John Without said as he entered the kitchen from the dining room, “that crazy girl has both of her boyfriends—” He stopped when he saw me. “Do you know Jamie Sherwood is at your house?”

  John With looked at me. “Oh, I see,” he said. “Well, no I don’t. What exactly is going on with you three?”

  John Without dropped a one-pound bag of sugar on the countertop, then began to put away the other groceries he bought, which were mostly protein bars, black canisters of protein drink powders with “Monster,” “Mega,” and “Power” in the name, and a bottle of grenadine. John With used scissors to cut open the sugar, poured some into a measuring cup, then began to sprinkle the tops of the cookies.

  I sat at the table, settled Liza onto my lap, and briefly described the situation with Jamie being unfaithful to me, which they already knew about, and me seeing Drew while Jamie was away, which they also knew about, and how Jamie returned six weeks early, which was a new development. “And now I have to decide between them,” I said.

  John Without ghrfed. “It’s not exactly Sophie’s choice.”

  “No, but it’s not an easy one,” John With said. He handed me a small blue plate with two oven-warm cookies. “Without butter,” he said, then sprinkled more sugar onto more cookies. “If you had to choose right now, who would it be?” he asked.

  “If I knew that, I wouldn’t be sitting here,” I said.

  “If only,” John Without said as he began packing the sweet bribes into a round, red tin lined with foil.

  John With said, “Which one do you love?”

  “Both.”

  “Which one makes you happy?”

  “Both.”

  “Okay, let’s review the issues that broke you up.”

  “Yes!” I said, glad to have a map to push pins into.

  John Without mewled his disapproval, then snatched up the packed tin and his car keys and walked into the living room. His actions were on the short side of rude, but only because he thought my help would make him King of the HOA. A non-campaigning John would have queued up the latest Longhorn’s game he Tivoed and blasted me back to my house with inane football babble.

  John With sat down across from me. “Jamie got drunk one night and cheated on you,” he said.

  “Right,” I said. “Just the one time, but I’m still having a hard time trusting him.”

  “And Drew had a serious health situation in Colorado and didn’t call you for three years.”

  I bit into a cookie. “Yeah. He lost his leg from the knee down and said he didn’t call because he was depressed for a long time. He went through tons of rehab and counseling, but I feel like he abandoned me, so it’s hard to trust him, too.”

  “Your new couch is here,” John Without announced louder than he needed to.

  “The guys can handle it,” I said, then to John With, “Both of them were crummy to do what they did.”

  “Not necessarily,” John With said.

  “Oh, right. Should I date the one who cheated on me or the one who left me hanging for years?”

  “The question is why did they do what they did? Why did Jamie cheat? Why did Drew leave you hanging?”

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake!” John Without called from the living room. “Choose the one who gives you peace!” He flew into the kitchen. “We have to go, John. Now.”

  John With apologized with his endearing crooked smile, then leaned over and gave me a hug and Liza a kiss. “Stay as long as you like, Poppy Markham.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Good luck tonight.”

  After they left, I peeked out the front window. Jamie and the delivery van were gone, thank goodness, so I washed the cookie sheet, spatula, and blue plate, then collected Liza and walked back to my house.

  I came through the back door into the kitchen, but Drew wasn’t at the table. I stupidly wondered if Jamie had given him a ride to his car. Then I heard, “Hey, man, I’m not trying to scam anybody here.”

  In the living room, Drew was reclined on my new sage green couch, the DVD remote in his hand. Liza squirmed and yipped when she saw him.

  “Do you want me to back up to the beginning?” Drew asked.

  “I’ve seen this movie a hundred and thirty-eight times. The big Lebowski just asked the Dude if he’s expected to pay for every rug that gets micturated upon in their fair city.” I sat next to him. “Sorry about earlier.”

  He nodded, then smiled when Liza jumped onto his lap and deluged him with kisses. “Sherwood didn’t believe me that you took off, but after he poked his nose into all the rooms and closets, he finally left.”

  “I went to the Johns.”

  “I figured.”

  “I’m really sorry I left you to deal with that. Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, you?”

  “For now.”

  Drew was quiet during the movie and on the drive to Markham’s to pick up his truck. He drove my Jeep around to the back, then cut the ignition and stared out the windshield. The cars from earlier were gone, which left only Drew and me, sitting in a car together behind a closed restaurant, like so many other times in our lives.

  “You know I love you,” he said finally.

  “Drew—”

  “This isn’t what you think,” he said. “Please, let me finish.”

  I nodded.

  “Things were going great for us, for you … until Sherwood showed up last night.”

  So far, it was what I thought: an indictment of my relationship with Jamie.

  “It hurts me to see you hurting,” he said. “So … I’m taking myself out of it.”

  What! “What?”

  “You don’t have to choose between us.”

  “Just like that? Did something happen between you and Jamie earlier that you’re not telling me?”

  “Besides him acting like he owns you? No.”

  “What about what I want?”

  He shrugged, then heaved himself out of the Jeep, and I saw his sad smile in the greenish glow of the street light. “That’s what you need to figure you, Sugar Pop,” he said before getting into his truck.

  I was too stunned to feel either relief or aggravation that Drew had broken up with me. Sure, a decision was going to have to be made between him and Jamie, but it was my decision to make. Or so I had thought. I should have talked to Daisy earlier. She would have reminded me not to be so selfish, that there were two other people besides me with feelings and desires.

  And now I had an unfettered shot to Jamie. I wasn’t sure how to feel about that, either, but I knew I needed to sleep on it. Then do the smart thing and talk this over with Daisy.

  I had left Liza in her condo at the Johns’ house while Drew and I went to Markham’s because I didn’t trust her not to tinkle or teethe on my new couch. The Johns were back by the time I returned, so I washed mine and Drew’s wine glasses and popcorn bowls, then went to bed.

  As usual, I woke up at 5:00 the next morning. For all of the strife in my life at that moment, I felt strangely peaceful. Someone not living my life would probably attribute it to my relaxing day off, but I just knew that today I would see Dana’s murderer in handcuffs.

  The farmers were already up, of course, but the harvest would keep them busy for most of the morning, and their attention would be scattered if I tried to talk to them. Better to wait until later for maximum return on investment.

  I dressed in my black uniform, put on a red lightweight jacket against an October chill that had reluctantly shown its face, dropped my cell phone and a couple of Red Delicious apples into my backpack, and drove north to surprise a few sleepy breakfast cooks.

  At my first restaurant, a diner famous for its black
olive and artichoke heart quiche, I observed several flats of eggs stacked on a prep table. According to my infrared thermometer, the temperature of the ambient air surrounding the egg was 55 degrees, which is ten degrees higher than the proper storage temperature of 45 degrees for eggs, which meant that either their cooler wasn’t working properly, or more likely the cooks had ignored the health code and removed more flats from the cooler than they could work with in fifteen minutes or less.

  I also witnessed them open cans of black olives, artichoke hearts, jalapeños, and peaches without washing the tops to prevent contamination from the dirty lid dropping into the can and into the food. A visual examination of the lid won’t reveal the sweat from the guy who made the delivery or the urine and feces of the rodents that used the can as a latrine at the storage warehouse.

  If the food had been spoiled due to a vendor’s or manufacturer’s error, I would have put a detained sticker on the items to keep them out of service until the manager could return them and get a refund. However, it was their own fault that the ingredients were unsafe, so I asked the manager to throw the eggs and can contents into the trash. Then I poured bleach over everything in case they had ideas about salvaging those ingredients. Oh, yes, it happens. All the time.

  And that was only one breakfast shift at one diner. Imagine the thousands of cooks doing similar mindless things during hundreds of shifts in hundreds of food establishments all over the city.

  I got in two more inspections before the smell of burnt bacon made me queasy, and I knocked off at 9:30 AM.

  A little after 10:00 AM, I swung my Jeep into the gravel parking lot of Good Earth Preserves. So intent was I on resuming my investigation, I was momentarily confused by all the BMWs, Lexuses (or is it Lexi?), FJ Cruisers, and Outbacks that belonged to the farm’s subscribers. They had driven out, I realized, to pick up their CSA boxes.

  I gathered my backpack and crocheted hemp bags into which I would transfer my box contents, then approached the buildings. Megan and Tanya stood by the washing shed, chatting with subscribers as they transferred generous bunches of leafy chard, onions, and broccoli into their own reusable canvas bags, placing items they didn’t want in the community box for other subscribers to take and taking extra of ones they did.

  Subscribers know what to do, so it seemed odd that the women were socializing after all that had happened in the past thirty-six hours. But like Perry says, a farmer’s work is never done. Both of them looked tense and tired with overwrought smiles that couldn’t distract from their red eyes and noses.

  I wanted to ask Megan what she remembered about Dana during the party, so after greeting them and expressing my condolences at all the recent unpleasantness, I asked Megan to check the expiration date of my CSA subscription.

  “I’m glad to see Tanya feeling better,” I said as I followed Megan from the washing shed to the office.

  “Our little T-bag is such a help on pick-up days,” she said unkindly.

  I stood in the doorway while she sat at the desk and paged through a drawer of manila folders until she came to the M’s. “Markham comma Mitch, Markham comma Nina,” Megan said. “And, here, Markham comma Poppy.”

  Yet another place Nina came between me and my father.

  Megan wagged her head. “Kevin put all of this information into the computer, but it beeps at me whenever I try to find something.”

  As she shuffled through the paperwork, I said, “How is Cory?”

  “Perry got him freed on bail early this morning. They’re both still sleeping.”

  “You heard about Dana, I assume?”

  Megan squeezed her eyes shut and nodded. “The police arrived yesterday before the roosters woke up to start confiscating Cory’s plants, then detectives came out after lunch and asked us questions about Dana.”

  Her eyes moistened with emotion, and since I’m as good at comfort and tenderness as I am at maintaining my lawn, I said, “What did the police want to know?” Their specific queries would let me know if they suspected something sinister.

  Megan sat back in the chair and wiped her eyes. “They said it was routine. They wanted to know if we noticed Dana acting strangely before she passed out or if she seemed ill.”

  “Did she?”

  Megan flipped her braid over her shoulder. “We all said she was fine as far as we could tell. Busy, excited about her Friends win, worried that she didn’t bring enough meat for the skewers.”

  “I suppose she was also excited to open Herbivore out here.”

  “She was thrilled!” Megan said. If she thought it strange that I knew about the restaurant, she didn’t let on.

  “Was everyone else thrilled?”

  “Yes, of course. We’ve discussed opening a restaurant for a number months.”

  “But I understand you took a family vote.”

  “We do that for all major decisions,” she said. “That way, we can express our dissent without rocking the boat.”

  I would believe John Without had a sensitive emotional core before I believed that. The thing that would qualify something as a major decision would be an issue that divided the farmers in the first place. “Did you vote for her?” I asked.

  “We keep them confidential,” she said, then held my eyes and nodded.

  “I guess all had been forgiven.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Mitch told me that Dana and Perry started the farm with Ian and Tanya. I thought Dana might still have had some sort of resentment that she’d been kicked off the farm.”

  Megan laughed. “She left on her own, and that is seriously ancient history. Dana and Herb have been good customers for years.”

  “What happens to the restaurant now? Are you still going to open?” She gave me a strange look and I realized that I no longer sounded merely curious. “Does it say when my subscription expires?” I asked.

  “You’re good until March of next year,” she said, confirming what I already knew.

  I looked around the office at the old photographs of the farmers with sun-smooched skin and long hair, years away from being diluted with gray. They were all in the frames—Tanya and Megan holding baby boys, Perry and Ian holding heads of cabbage. Young, idealistic back-to-the-landers.

  “I can’t believe Ian cut his hair,” I said.

  “Ian’s doing a lot of things that are hard to believe.” She put the manila folders into the file drawer. “You like radishes? We’ve got bunches of them.”

  “I’d love extra,” I said. “And if you don’t mind, I’d like to go into the kitchen and eliminate the possibility that Dana died from food poisoning.”

  She swung wide brown eyes up to me. “Food poisoning? Are we in danger?”

  “Whatever it is has a short incubation period, so if you didn’t get sick during the party, you’re safe. I think it’s an isolated incident.” Of murder.

  “Bjorn’s still cleaning up from this morning.”

  “I won’t get in his way.”

  Twenty-Seven

  Before I rode shank’s mare into Bjorn’s lair, I stopped outside the office and took in the serenity of the farm. It looked much like it had the last time I had seen it two days before. The roosters and chickens pecked and scratched at the ground, and the Cornhusker’s staircase stood in the same place close to the barn. Even the subscribers talking and laughing gave off the essence of a festal atmosphere. Everything appeared to be the same, but nothing was the same.

  Brandon drove up to the washing shed on a shiny green four-wheeler loaded with radishes. The farm begins to harvest produce at first light, but a couple of years ago, they were short-handed, which delayed the morning harvest. They hauled in the produce and made up boxes with help from subscribers. It created such a positive buzz about “fresh from the fields” that Perry and Ian decided to do it on purpose every once in a while on pick-up days. On request, they’ll also ta
ke subscribers into the fields to harvest their own produce.

  Brandon stepped out of the vehicle and hugged me. “Thanks for everything the other night, Pop,” he said.

  “How is everyone? How’s Core?”

  “Haven’t talked to him,” he said. “Been a one-man show all mor-

  ning.”

  “Isn’t Kevi helping?”

  He snorted. “Around here, MBA stands for Moist Brow Aversion.”

  “He’s always been more of an idea man,” I said. “He told me at the party that he had a lot of plans for this place.”

  “Most of them unworkable.”

  “Was Herbivore one of his ideas?” I asked. To Brandon’s obvious surprise, I said, “Your mom told me about the vote. Did you want Dana’s restaurant?”

  “Did you hear?” he said. “Dana didn’t make it.”

  “That’s why I’m here. It might be an isolated case of food poisoning. You were in and out of the kitchen serving food. Did you notice her acting strangely?”

  “I couldn’t really say,” he said. “She’d come out to the farm a bunch lately to talk about the restaurant, but she mostly met with Dad and Uncle Ian, so I don’t know how she usually was.” He motioned to one of the interns to unload the radishes. “I told the police she was sweating and drinking a lot of water, but that’s normal, I guess. It was like a furnace in there.”

  “Did you see anyone in the kitchen who didn’t belong?”

  “I don’t know what you mean by not belonging. We own the place, and all of us went in there at some point. Me, Core, and Kevi serving food, but also Mom and Dad, and Aunt Tanya. And Bjorn, of course.”

  “Tanya? I thought she had a headache.”

  “She came down to get some aspirin from the first-aid kit.” The intern called for him. “Gotta get,” he said.

  I started up the walkway, realizing that Brandon hadn’t told me whether he voted for Dana, so I still didn’t know whether families or individuals had squared off over Herbivore.