Hot Stuff

by Don Bruns

  She laughed. “Lots and lots of butter, brown sugar, milk, and sugar, Mr. Moore. We are going to serve a lot of cupcakes tonight.”

  Handing me the recipe, she glanced around the small kitchen.

  “Skip,” she was almost whispering, “There is something I didn’t tell you when we talked.”

  “Yeah?” Now I glanced around. Still Marty, the green head-banded soup guy, James at the stove, and me and Kelly.

  “I heard this thirdhand, and I’m not sure even now I should mention it. It could just be like an urban legend. It has to do with the other sous chef.”

  “Vanderfield?”

  She looked me in the eyes. “Keep it down. I told you there was a love-hate relationship between the two of them.”

  She pounded dough with her fists on a long stainless table, her piercing eyes still focused on mine.

  “Please, understand, you can’t tell anyone this because it may not be true.”

  “I’ll keep it quiet.” I wouldn’t. Not if it meant solving the murder.

  “I’m certain that this meant nothing. I really believe that, if it did happen, it was a one time thing, but supposedly Marty caught the two of them taking a break together one evening.”

  “That was it? A break?”

  “Behind the Dumpster.”

  “And?”

  “The story that got back to me was that neither was wearing anything below the waist.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Halfway through the evening, James and I passed each other.

  “James, Kelly Fields says Amanda and Vanderfield were doing the nasty one night out by the Dumpster.”

  He paused, a pan in his hand with some sort of hot liquid still bubbling.

  “Could be.” He glanced over at Kelly, busily applying my frosting to her cupcakes. “Also, it could be that Mrs. Fields was interested in Joaquin’s actions and she was jealous of Amanda. Maybe we missed something on our list, Skip. Suppose Kelly Fields had it in for Amanda Wright?”

  “Why?”

  “Think outside the box, amigo. Why would someone feed us false information? Not that I’m saying it’s false. It’s just that, we need to be looking at every angle.”

  Short girl, accomplished cook, probably owned a knife, although what a pastry chef was doing with a Wüsthof I couldn’t imagine. Damn, instead of eliminating suspects, we just kept adding new ones.

  The evening was slow, good for me, bad for the business. I asked for a smoke break, and Chef Marty grunted. I took that as a yes and walked outside, immediately calling Em.

  “Hey, Skip. Any more news?”

  “Lots of news, Em. We need to meet.”

  “Ted wants to talk, too.”

  “About?”

  “What do you think?” She sounded peeved. “About the case. He wants to know what you’ve found, and he’s got some interesting information to share with you.”

  “When?”

  “Tonight. When you get off.”

  I heard a voice in the background.

  “Is that the TV?”

  She was quiet for a moment. “Can you and James come over here?”

  “Sure.”

  “Ted’s here right now,” she said.

  Taking a deep breath and closing my eyes, I said nothing.

  “He’s leaving at this moment and he’ll come back when you guys get here. Okay?”

  I couldn’t talk.

  “Skip, he stopped over to ask for the meeting. He’s not staying. The four of us will talk in a couple of hours.”

  She hung up the phone and I concluded my smoke break with an uneasy feeling.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  We met at Blue Moon, one of the restaurant-bar establishments in Em’s building. The food wasn’t that great, but it was a sports bar and grill, open until two a.m., so the timing was perfect.

  “I understand someone pushed you off a boat.”

  Conway started the conversation. At the four-top, he was to the right of Em, I was to the left and James was across the table. I wasn’t certain who Em was with, but the cop and I were both close enough to vie for her attention.

  “Yeah. I was pushed.”

  “And this Joaquin Vanderfield wasn’t on the yacht? He’s the guy you’ve been leaning toward implicating?” He sipped on his black coffee.

  James glowered. “And I’m the guy you’ve been implicating. Am I right?”

  Conway shot Em a quick look, surprised at the accusation.

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “You told me yourself, my alibi might not hold up. The fact that I claimed to be watching TV by myself. Since then, I’ve heard the same thing from others.” James glanced at Em. “And then,” he paused for dramatic effect, theatrics being a part of James Lessor’s persona, “and then you have a team come out and sweep my truck?” He was way up at the end of the sentence. “For fibers that had been found on the body.”

  Righteous indignation. James was at his finest.

  “Seriously? Sorry to bust your bubble, Lessor, but we’re not that interested in you. You’re way down on a long list. But, if it makes you feel any better, that list is narrowing.”

  “So why the truck sweep?” Which hadn’t actually been a sweep at all. More of a tape and forceps.

  “Settle down, guys. It’s simply an elimination process.”

  “The two officers who did it—”

  “Overzealous perhaps?” Conway smiled. “Don’t take it personally. It’s simply what we do.” He watched James for a moment. “And, the way that we do it.”

  I decided it was a lesson learned and good to know. As new private detectives we needed to learn a lot about police procedures.

  “So who else would push James?” I asked the question.

  “We’re working every possible angle.” He leaned in, running a hand through his salt-and-pepper gray hair. “Even if it was an accident, as you told the ship’s captain, we get involved, the Coast Guard gets involved. It gets complicated.”

  Complicated seemed to be an understatement. My best friend almost lost his life, and this cop didn’t seem to understand the gravity of that situation.

  “This Chef Marty. I understand you’ve had a conversation with the pastry chef about him? What’s her name? Kelly Fields?”

  I nodded. “Nothing serious. She thinks Amanda could have—” I’d pledged to give every question from this point forword an honest answer, despite how it might affect my girlfriend. If she was still my girlfriend. If she would be my girlfriend from this point on.

  “Let me lay it all out on the table. Kelly Fields thinks Amanda Wright could have slept with everyone in the kitchen.”

  There was total silence at the table. I could hear Dick Vitale in the background, his annoying voice announcing an Ohio State–Purdue basketball game. The big-screen TVs at every angle showing the fast-paced game.

  “Except,” I added, “for the dishwasher. Kelly feels that would have been beneath Amanda.”

  “So, according to one of the staff, there may have been sexual tension with the kitchen help?”

  Em was looking at me, her eyes wide open in surprise.

  “You didn’t share that with me.”

  “From now on,” I said, “I’m sharing. Em, it’s what one person said. I’m not sure she knew what she was talking about, so I was sort of filtering what I thought was important, and—”

  “No more filtering. Okay?” Em was as firm as I’d ever known her to be. She was obviously upset about my disclosure.

  “No more.”

  Conway was busy taking notes. James, Em, and I had no paper or pens. No iPads or laptops. We’d have to rely on memory. Another thing to remember: always carry something to jot down notes.

  “Kelly Fields thinks that, despite being a friend and a confidant,” I glanced at Em, knowing she would understand, “Kelly felt that Amanda would sleep with anyone who could help her get ahead. Sorry, Em. It’s what she said.”

  Again, there was no conversation.
No comment. Finally, Em pushed her chair back and announced, “I’m going to the restroom. Normally at a table of friends I’d ask if anyone wanted to join me. In this case,” she glanced around the table at Conway, James, and me, “I think I will refrain.”

  “She doesn’t seem to be comfortable with the conversation.” Conway watched her as she walked away in her tight jeans.

  “I think it’s three guys talking about her girlfriend’s sex life that is a little uncomfortable.”

  “You want to make it more uncomfortable?” James asked.

  “What?”

  “When she comes back, tell her about your trip to Sam and Dave.”

  “Oh, shit.”

  “Honesty, pardner.”

  Ted Conway looked back and forth at James and me.

  “Anything I should know?”

  I shook my head. “Nothing to do with the case.” And to be totally honest, I’m not sure it did. Maybe I could keep some things to myself. Total honesty was already becoming a problem.

  “The idea that it happened in a close proximity to the restaurant, the fact that a kitchen knife was used, I think we’ve narrowed our search down to people in the restaurant that evening. Customers and staff.” Conway’s eyes swept the large room, focusing on windows that looked out at the bay.

  We’d pretty much come to that same conclusion, but from there the narrowing got a lot harder.

  “So now, we start looking at everyone who was in the place, and that’s why what you boys see and hear is critical.”

  Em walked back, pulled out a chair, and sat down quietly. I really hated to bring up my next discovery.

  “No more filtering.” I looked directly at her.

  “Go ahead. How much more can there be?”

  I looked at James, Conway, then back to Em. “The runner, Carlos, told me Amanda admitted to the dishwasher she was seeing someone in the restaurant. He admitted that Juan Castro thought it was just a way to get rid of him. To stop him from being encouraged to ask her out.”

  “And,” James said, “Chef Jean made it clear to Skip that there was a rule about no dating staff.”

  “Like those rules ever work.” James chuckled. I assumed he was thinking about his romantic liaison with his boss at Cap’n Crab.

  “So Kelly, the pastry lady, had one more story about Amanda and her possible sexual hookups with the staff at L’Elfe.”

  Em let out a big sigh. “Go ahead, Skip. Let us have it.”

  “She admits it’s a rumor. Understand, she said it was third-hand information.”

  “Get it over with, already. God, you drag these things out.”

  “The rumor is that Chef Marty caught Amanda and Joaquin Vanderfield going at it out by the Dumpster one night.”

  “This is the guy who threatened the life of a sous chef in Sarasota? Held a knife to his throat because he criticized Vanderfield’s cooking?” Em shook her head, her blonde hair flying. “Oh, my, God. Tell me you’re done with these stories. Please tell me.”

  I wasn’t done, not yet, but I certainly wasn’t going to mention the Sam and Dave story right now. I’d already killed any buzz this party had.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  We set up a second meeting with Cheryl Deitering, hoping to find out more about the knife wounds. Driving to Doral, I asked James about Marty. He was definitely a player in our investigation.

  “Chef Marty started out as a butcher. A guy who killed livestock for a living. He really knew how to use a knife. Does that have any bearing on the case?” It was a new wrinkle.

  “I keep wondering about him. If he was having a fling with Amanda, and he really did catch Vanderfield and her screwing by the Dumpster, maybe he went nuts and decided that if he couldn’t have her, nobody could.”

  “And he’d killed before.” Cows, pigs, I could eat the meat, but I didn’t like to think about them being butchered.

  “Not a human being, Skip. And not with a knife like that. The guys who gut the cows and pigs, they use a small, four- or five-inch knife. It’s kind of like an extension of their hand. They’re doing a lot of close-up work.”

  “You learned this in school?”

  “I did.”

  “I thought all you ever did in school was hang out with me, drink beer, and pick up girls.”

  “There was a degree of formal education as well. I guess you never got the hang of that.” James playing the grown-up for a change.

  “Marty or Vanderfield.”

  “If we had to narrow it down, it would be between those two. But I can’t figure out which one.”

  James pulled into the parking lot and we got out, the doors practically squeak free. WD-40 actually did the job.

  Cheryl was waiting for us in her office.

  “Guys.” She nodded.

  “You said we’d been cleared to get information.”

  She gave me a gentle smile. “Actually, you’ve been given clearance to ask me any questions.”

  “And the difference is—” James trailed off.

  “I don’t have to give you the answer.”

  We both nodded.

  “First of all, we heard that someone has been calling and asking for the autopsy report on Amanda Wright.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Is that unusual?”

  “Not necessarily.” She sat behind her desk, dressed in her white smock with her hands neatly folded in front of her.

  “So who calls?”

  “The detectives who need immediate information. The press. My God, they call ten times a day. Sometimes the relatives call.”

  “And in this case?”

  “The detectives, the press—ten times a day.”

  “And relatives?”

  “No.”

  She was giving us short answers. No lengthy explanation like the last time, but Conway wasn’t present, and I had the impression she was guarded.

  “You haven’t released the autopsy report yet?”

  She shook her head.

  “Is there a reason? A surprise? Maybe she didn’t die from the stab wounds?” James was pressing.

  “The reason is that Detective Conway has asked me not to release the results, except to him.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because we’ve been getting anonymous calls two or three times a day, asking when we’re going to release the report.”

  “I don’t follow,” I said.

  “Mr. Moore, I’m not sure I do either. I guess I’m not giving anything away to say that the detective feels it’s highly unusual that a stranger is calling with such frequency. He feels that it may be the killer, and he’s not going to release any information until he tries to source the call.”

  “Male or female?”

  She smiled again. “Yes.”

  James looked at me. I looked at James.

  “You’re right on both counts. Sometimes it’s a male, sometimes a female. They refuse to identify themselves.”

  “I thought you guys could trace any calls,” James said.

  “You probably watch too much television,” she responded. “There are still such things as pay phones, disposable cell phones, and blocked numbers. We’re not nearly as successful as you would think.”

  I thought for a moment, trying to figure out who would be calling. Amanda was dead. How she died was pretty much, pardon the pun, cut and dried.

  “What are your thoughts?” James was asking for her opinion.

  “Mr. Lessor, I deal with cold, hard facts. My job here is to lay out the details and let someone else put the puzzle pieces together. The simpler I make it, the easier it is for the puzzle solvers to do their job.”

  “The pieces of the puzzle are?”

  “Elementary, Mr. Lessor. Depth of the cuts, damage to various organs, establish if there were multiple weapons used, determine, if possible, which incision was responsible for her death.”

  “How deep were the cuts?”

  “We’re not sure. There was compression of the organ
s.”

  “Nine inches?” A Wüsthof nine-inch knife had been involved.

  “At least.”

  “Were there multiple weapons?”

  “No.”

  “So there was only one attacker.”

  “All indications are that this was the work of one person.”

  I realized this was getting us nowhere, but I had one more question for her.

  “You don’t make guesses, obviously, because your job is to just keep things simple, like you said.”

  Coldly, matter-of-factly, she said, “I have three dogs at home, Mr. Moore. A golden retriever, a fox terrier, and a miniature Pomeranian.”

  “And?”

  “I go home after work, they’re all waiting at the door for me. They want to be petted, walked, and fed. I like it like that. No major complications. No guesswork. There’s an order to things. That’s the same reason I like my job.”

  “But if you had to make a guess as to the sex of the killer, if you had to make that call based on your knowledge of knives and wounds, what would you guess?” I felt certain she wasn’t going to answer me, but she surprised me with her response.

  “A female may have killed Amanda Wright. Because the wounds were made low. In the stomach and the abdomen.”

  James had been right. He was grinning, nodding his head up and down.

  “Or a male. A male could easily have killed her, hiding the knife down by his side, walking right up to the victim and shoving the blade into her.” Cheryl looked at me, then glanced at James.

  “Good luck, boys. Don’t hesitate to call. But, I’ve made my point. Don’t expect magic. You get what’s there. No spin, no guesses. It is what it is.”

  Again, James had been right. And we were walking out with not a whole lot more than we’d walked in with.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  “The funeral is supposed to be on Saturday. But they can’t have it until they release the body, and since they haven’t—” I could hear Em choke up on the phone. She paused, her voice cracking, “They won’t release her because Ted doesn’t want the autopsy report out. So now they may have to postpone the—”