by Fran Rizer
“Callie?” Dean waved his hand in front of my face. “Are you okay? You blanked out on me for a minute.”
“I’m fine, and I’m happy to try the new restaurant, Detective Robinson.”
“Detective Robinson? I thought this was a date.”
I smiled. “I believe it is.”
“Then you should call me Dean so that I don’t have to start calling you Miss Parrish.”
He not only helped me on with my coat, he held the door open for me to get into his Ford Ranger. I believe in equal rights for women, including equal pay and the right to think for ourselves, but I like that old-fashioned Southern gentlemanly behavior as well. During the ride, we chatted about St. Mary. I told him about growing up here, then moving to Columbia where I attended the University of South Carolina, taught kindergarten, and married.
“But you’re divorced now?”
“Yes. After my divorce, I moved back to St. Mary and used my South Carolina cosmetology license to work at Middleton’s.”
“Then you’re not a licensed funeral director?” he asked.
“No, I don’t do any of the actual mortician’s work. I do hair, makeup, dressing, and some office chores. What about you? How’d you get into law enforcement?”
“All I ever wanted to do is be a cop, but my family’s full of lawyers and judges. I went to college, then law school, but that didn’t suit me at all. I worked in New York City for a few years and then moved to Florida. The city I was in was fine so far as the police work, but I didn’t like the fast pace of life in general there any better than I had in New York. I read Sheriff Harmon’s ad and since my background was exactly what he said he wanted, I applied. So far I like it, but I haven’t really been here long enough to know for sure.”
We rode in silence for a while. Finally, I said, “Tell me about the restaurant.”
“Have you ever been to a Brazilian steakhouse?”
“Nope, never even heard of it.”
“First off, it’s all you can eat, so I hope you’re hungry.”
“I am. Is it all you can eat steak?”
“Yes, as well as pork, lamb, chicken, and fish. Gauchos, which is just a fancy word for cowboys, go through the room offering diners some of everything. All the meats are grilled or cooked on a rotisserie over wood. They also have a tremendous salad bar and several hot side dishes like seasoned rice and potatoes.”
As soon as he finished with what sounded like a commercial to me, I said, “Sounds great to me.” I almost asked if he could afford this place, but that would be rude. Maybe he had a grand opening coupon or something. He knew enough about it that I assumed he knew the cost also.
The building was new and fancy, displaying lots of flashing neon including cowboys dressed in red and black who whirled lassos that appeared to move. I was glad I’d worn winter white pants instead of black or I’d have matched both the neon cowboys on the outside and the living ones we saw when we stepped inside. A hostess in a silky black dress greeted us and led us to our table. The salad bar ran through the entire center of the room, end to end. The live cowboys inside were young men in black pants and red shirts moving around the room carrying carving knives and huge skewers of meat over trays.
The hostess took our drink order and waved toward the center of the room. “Help yourself to the salad bar and hot side dishes.” She placed a red coaster beside each of us. She lifted mine and held it up so that we could see that the back was green. “This is your signal to the gauchos whether or not you wish to be served meats. We have fifteen cuts of beef, lamb, pork, and chicken as well as fish.
“While you’re having your salad or when you’re busy with a previous entrée, place the card beside your plate with the red side up. That shows the gaucho that you don’t want to be interrupted or served more at that time. If you turn your card green side up, the gaucho will offer you what he is serving. You may accept or decline, but don’t worry that you’ll miss anything because it’s a continuous rotation.”
Dean and I went to the bar, which featured, among other things, smoked salmon, extra large shrimp, fresh mozzarella cheese, chilled asparagus, and one of my favorites—hearts of palm. I noticed that Dean dipped more pre-made items like pasta salad, potato salad, and tabouli. I put a nest of fresh spinach leaves on my plate and then piled lots of good stuff on top, including a generous amount of cold cuts and cheeses.
Back at our table, Dean seemed to enjoy everything. I’d made a rather substantial salad, but the sight of those good-looking men in their red shirts going from table to table carving what smelled and looked like juicy, succulent meats made me hungry for more than salad. I flipped my red card over so that the green side was upright and set my salad plate to the side.
“Ma’am, would you care for garlic steak?” the first gaucho to our table asked. He looked Hispanic, but his accent was pure Low Country, South Carolina.
“Yes, thank you.”
I noticed then that Dean and I each had a stack of small plates by our drinks. The man placed one in front of me and carved several slices of steak on it. I tasted it. Wow!
“Is it good?” Dean asked.
“Delicious. How did you know about this place?”
“I’ve been to Brazilian steakhouses in Florida. This is a different franchise, but the concept is the same.”
Beef tenderloin; filet mignon, both plain and wrapped in bacon; beef ribs; picanha, their house special Brazilian steak; linuica, a Brazilian sausage; pork loin; lamb chops; leg of lamb—I tried everything but the chicken. I can eat chicken any time. All meat servings were sample-sized, but more than a bite or two. My favorites were the filet mignon in bacon and pork tenderloin crusted in parmesan cheese, and I had several servings of each of those.
I loved that restaurant! The only problem was that so long as the card was green side up, there was a man offering something every few minutes. That constant flow of service didn’t contribute to soft get-to-know-each-other conversation. Dean flipped his card to red before I did, and he ordered coffee. He’d had several cups by the time I finally turned my card to red.
“Would you like dessert?” he asked.
“No, thank you.” I didn’t say it, but all I wanted at that moment was to be home in bed. I’d had a full day from its beginning when I played in the snow through working Jeff Morgan’s funeral. Now my stomach was completely full, almost too full, and sleep would be welcome.
Dean deftly paid the bill without my seeing what the cost had been, helped me into my coat, and left me sitting in the entry area while he brought the car to the door. I tried to make polite conversation on the way back to St. Mary, but suddenly I realized that Dean was saying, “We’re at your place, Callie.”
I’d been asleep!
“Good grief, I am so sorry. I was so tired and the food was so good. I can’t believe I took a nap on the way back.”
He laughed, but it was a sweet laugh. “Just wait until your friend and my boss, Sheriff Harmon, finds out that you ended our first date snoring.”
“I don’t snore,” I protested, then added, “do I?”
“No, you did make a little sound, but we won’t call it snoring. Let’s just say you ‘purr’ in your sleep. I won’t tell the sheriff anyway. He’d get the wrong idea.”
At my back door, I wasn’t sure what to do if he wanted to come in. I was so embarrassed about going to sleep in the car that I felt I should be polite and offer him a cup of coffee, but there really was no room in my stomach for even a breath mint, certainly not anything else, and besides, he’d already had plenty of coffee.
Dean stood patiently while I unlocked the door and then reached for me. I’d decided there would be no harm in a simple goodnight kiss, but instead he gave me a gentle hug and said, “Thank you for an enjoyable evening. I’ll call you and we’ll do it again.” He waited while I stepped in and locked the door. I listened to the sound of his footsteps off the back porch and his car leaving my yard.
Now, I was tired, I was full, an
d I was sleepy, so tell me why I was a little disappointed and puzzled that he hadn’t wanted to stay and talk or at least kiss me. I’d eaten a whole lot of garlic steak. Could that be why?
I went to Big Boy first thing. He was asleep again, but he looked comfortable and he wasn’t moaning or grimacing. I pulled my sweater over my head and dropped it on the couch, thought about it, and took it into the bedroom where I folded it and my slacks and put them on a chair. The inflatable bra and fanny panties came off, and I pulled on my comfort gown. It’s old and warm and used to be fuzzy. Now it’s just soft and cozy.
My telephone rang as I got in bed and pulled the covers up to my chin. My heartbeat jumped to a more rapid speed, and I grabbed the receiver.
“Hello.”
“Dang it, Callie, what are you doing? You sound like Roxanne.” Jane didn’t give me a chance to answer. “You must have thought I was going to be Mr. Patel.”
“Maybe ‘hoped’ is a better word than ‘thought.’ He still hasn’t called.”
“So tell me about your date with the cop.”
“He’s not a ‘cop.’ He’s a homicide detective.”
“I don’t see a thing wrong with the word ‘cop.’ What they don’t want you to call them is that old expression, ‘pig,’ but I personally like pigs. I like them when they’re little and cuddly, and I like them when they’re all grown up and turn into bacon and ham.”
“Why aren’t you working?”
“I am. I just decided to take a break when I heard your date bring you home. He didn’t stay long.”
“No, I was wondering what to do if he wanted to stay, but he didn’t ask.”
“You should have known he wasn’t planning to come in.”
“Why?”
“He left his car engine running when he walked you to your door.”
“I didn’t notice that.”
“You need to be more aware of your surroundings, and speaking of surroundings, is there any snow left?”
“Maybe in the woods, but the streets have been clear all day and by late afternoon, it began to melt in the yards.”
“That was fun this morning.”
“I thought so, too.”
“Tell me about your date. Where’d you go?”
I described the entire evening—how Dean looked and acted, all about the restaurant, and the food and how it had been served.
As I talked about food, a low growl rumbled through my abdomen. In a few minutes, a sharp pain joined the sound.
“Gotta go, Jane. I think I’m going to throw up.”
“You only do that when you’re scared or overeat. Did you make a pig of yourself on your very first date with the cop?”
I didn’t answer, dropped the phone, dashed to the bathroom, and felt mighty glad that Dean hadn’t wanted to come inside.
I believe in the Bible, and I was brought up attending Sunday School and church every weekend. I don’t believe I could do my job at Middleton’s and be around so many people who’ve passed away if I didn’t believe in an afterlife and that the people I cosmetize are just shells that I work on to present good memories to their loved ones until they see them again. That said, I confess that I don’t go to church as often as I should. Daddy scolds me about that, but I just can’t get back in the habit. He also thinks I should be teaching Sunday School, but I was tired of teaching before I changed occupations from kindergarten teacher to mortuary cosmetician.
Big Boy had eaten better that morning. I’m aware I’m not supposed to feed him people food, and most times I don’t except for his banana MoonPies, but I’d cooked grits and scrambled eggs right after I got out of bed. On the farm, Daddy never let us feed the animals eggs because he claimed a dog that ate eggs would get into the chicken coop. Personally, I don’t think my dog is smart enough to make the connection between scrambled eggs with cheese grits and a raw egg in the hen house. He’d eaten better, but now he lay on his rug like he was exhausted.
After the television channel discontinued Six Feet Under, I bought every season on DVDs from the Target store. I figured Jane had been Roxanne all night and would sleep late, so I snuggled up in a blanket on the couch and started watching my favorite episode. I’ve seen those shows so many times that I know every spoken word, but a knock on my back door irritated me. I looked down at my old flannel nightgown and called through the door, “Who is it?”
“Wayne Harmon.”
“Hold on. I’m not dressed yet. Let me get a robe.”
I was back in just a few minutes and opened the door.
“Don’t you ever tell a man at your door that you’re not clothed,” he scolded.
“But the door was locked, and it was you,” I argued.
“Doesn’t matter if the door’s closed. Some men would knock your door down to get to a nude woman.”
“I wasn’t naked. I had on my gown, just not a robe. Besides, it was you!”
“And I would never hurt you, but it’s not a good idea to say that even to men you know.” He looked down at Big Boy. “What’s wrong with your dog?”
“He doesn’t feel good. He goes back to the vet Tuesday, but I’m going to call her. I was drinking a Diet Coke. Want me to make a pot of coffee?”
“No, I’ve had plenty of caffeine already this morning. How was your date?”
“He’s nice, and no, I didn’t even kiss him goodnight.” I didn’t bother to tell him I’d been tempted, but Dean Robinson hadn’t even tried for first base.
“Want to ride back over to Amber Buchanan’s house with me?”
“Why?”
“I’ve got a warrant now for a thorough search, and I thought you might take a look around with me—see if you spot anything unusual from your feminine point of view.”
I laughed. “I didn’t see anything unusual before except that she’s a danged sight better housekeeper than I am and she must have more Christmas decorations than Wally’s World.”
“Need to talk to you about something else, too. I’ll tell you about it on the way. I’ve got Jane’s cookie tin in my car. I’ll run it over there while you get dressed.”
“Just leave it here. She worked late last night and is probably still asleep.”
• • •
“You’re going to deputize me?” I couldn’t have been more shocked.
“I want you to go inside with me on this warrant, and to keep it legal, you need to be deputized. I don’t do this every day, but I’ve done it before for special services for the department. I’ll do it when we get to Amber Buchanan’s apartment.
Being deputized was an exciting idea, but it really didn’t amount to much. It’s not like I’d have a uniform or anything. We stood on Amber’s porch. Wayne asked me a few questions, and then told me I was now a temporary deputy with the Jade County Sheriff’s Department.
“Do I get a badge?” I asked.
“I assumed you’d want one, but you have to give it back when you’re no longer a legal deputy.” He handed me a shiny Jade County badge. I pushed my jacket aside and pinned it to my shirt.
I grinned. “I just wanted to have one, even if it’s only for a day. Will you take my picture with my cell phone?”
“Give me your telephone.”
I took it out of my bra and handed it to him. Wayne rubbed the phone and smiled. “It’s very warm.”
I ignored him, held my jacket aside, and smiled for my picture wearing a badge. He handed back the phone and I checked the photo. I liked it. Might even use it on next year’s Christmas card. This year’s card was of Big Boy standing with me, front paws on my shoulders.
“If you agree, you’ll be a deputy for more than just one day.” Wayne unlocked the door and held it open for me.
“What do you want me to do?”
He handed me a pair of latex gloves from his pocket. “We’re looking for anything that seems odd because something unusual in here could be associated with her homicide. You’re a fine amateur sleuth, and I want a female vision on this.”
We began in the bedroom, and I felt guilty looking through Amber Buchanan’s personal belongings. One thing for sure—she didn’t shop at Victoria’s Secret. Her undergarments were what I’d expect to find in an old lady’s drawers. I don’t mean drawers like underpants. I’m talking about the storage areas of her dresser. No bikinis or thongs, and even the word “panties” was too feminine and racy for her belongings.
I was carefully refolding clothing as I put it back, but Wayne said, “You don’t have to do that. People expect things to get messed up when their places are searched.”
“It seems disrespectful, especially with her being dead.”
“I’ll finish in here. You begin the kitchen.”
Amber Buchanan’s kitchen was decorated for Christmas with garlands suspended from the ceiling and several live poinsettias on countertops. Tiny wreaths on each cabinet door. A bouquet of mistletoe and ribbons hung from the overhead light fixture. Figurines of a kissing Mr. and Mrs. Santa Claus and a holly-shaped spoon rest on the stove top. A miniature Christmas tree centered the table. Not a ceramic one like Jane’s, Amber’s was made of artificial greenery and decorated with miniature red bows. At some time, Amber or someone close to her must have been into ceramics though because little ceramic Christmas doo-dads were everywhere.
Opening the cabinets, I found that her cooking utensils were as orderly as the rest of her home. Every knife, fork, and spoon was in the correct compartment of her flatware drawer. I gave up on that at my place long ago and threw my divided holder away. I just dump everything into the drawer and pick through them when I want something.
I didn’t see anything unusual among the tidy stacks of dishes or pots either. Wayne came in and watched me peeking in the cabinets and refrigerator.
“Nothing here,” I told him as I opened more cabinet doors with boxes lined up neatly. Some had been opened, but the tops were sealed back with masking tape.
“You won’t know that until you sift through whatever’s in those boxes. Does she have ice trays in the freezer?”
