I flew down Newbury Street into the heart of Boston, my heart racing with eagerness at the prospect of meeting my new housemate. I pulled into the alley behind Simmer and parked next to Josh’s car.
“Hi, babe.” He grinned sheepishly at me. “You’re the best.”
“No, you’re the best. I love that you saved her from a Sopranos-style death. Let me see her!” I demanded happily.
Josh reached into his car, lifted out a beige plastic cat carrier, and gently lowered it to the pavement. I bent down, peered through the little wire door of the carrier, and found myself looking into the round blue eyes of a small white cat with a darling little smooshed-in face. Eager to get a better look and also eager not to get scratched, I asked, “Do you know if she’s friendly?”
“Oh, yeah,” Josh said with a smile.
Careful to avoid giving the little cat the chance to escape, I eased open the wire door and tentatively reached in. After giving the cat a few seconds to adjust to the presence of my hand, I stroked her face. When I reached in and gently touched her back, my hand encountered a heartbreaking combination of thick mats and palpable bones. “Oh, Josh! The poor cat!” I said angrily as I removed my hand and closed the carrier door. “Look at her fur! She’s never been groomed. And she’s starving. What kind of monster would do this? That bastard!”
“I know. I know. That’s why I had to take her. But look at her gorgeous blue eyes! She’s so sweet, too, Chloe. I took her out and let her walk around in my car, and she let me hold her. She even started purring a little bit.” Josh’s eyes were glistening. “So, you’ll keep her?”
“Yes, I’m going to keep her! This poor thing has had a rotten life so far, and we’re not going to let anything else happen to her. Ever! I’ll take her to the vet and get her checked out and make sure she’s okay.”
“I’m really sorry, but I have to get back to work. Gavin is going to kill me as it is for taking such a long break. I’ll still see you tonight, though, right?” Josh handed me the cat carrier and kissed me, lingering just a bit. “Thanks, Chloe.” He turned and bounded up the back steps to the restaurant.
“Hey, Josh,” I called, “what’s her name?”
“The jerk didn’t say. But she told me her name was Inga.” He grinned and disappeared into the restaurant.
I lifted the carrier up to eye level and looked into those amazing blue eyes. “Inga, huh? It actually suits you. Come on, Miss Inga, let’s get you out of here.”
I called Gato’s vet as I maneuvered my way through the downtown traffic. Once I’d given the receptionist a capsule version of Inga’s story, she agreed to have the vet see the cat right away. As much as I wanted to take little Inga home immediately, I knew it would be unfair to Gato to expose him to whatever bizarre cat disease the neglected Inga might be carrying. And if she had fleas? Well, neither Gato nor I wanted them.
An hour later, Inga and I arrived at my Brighton condo. Aside from being severely underweight and in need of spaying, Inga seemed to be fine. When the vet had subjected her to shots and had taken a blood sample for tests, she’d peed all over the vet’s assistant and squirmed so much that she’d pulled out one of the needles and spattered herself with blood. The tests were still being run, but for the moment, she was given a clean bill of health, and I’d been told that it was safe to take her home.
When I arrived in my apartment, opened the carrier door, and released Inga, Gato acted downright furious. He took one look at Inga, put up his hackles, leapt to the top of the fridge, and positioned himself in his favorite pissed-off Halloween-black-cat stance. I sat the frightened Inga on a towel in my lap and tried to work on getting the knots out of her fur. After only a few minutes with a metal grooming comb, I gave up. Her body was covered in matted snarls that almost seemed to grow like tumors from her skin. I imagined that she must be terribly uncomfortable; I knew how I’d feel if some mean person were yanking my hair twenty-four hours a day. “You will have to go to a groomer tomorrow, my little friend.” Unready to get up and explore her new home, Inga remained motionless in my lap.
I ran my hand across the top of her head and scratched under her chin, the only places without tangled clumps. “I couldn’t help Francie, but I can help you.” The little cat rewarded me with a small purr. In spite of a disapproving glare from Gato, I offered Inga a small dish of his dry cat food. When she had eaten hungrily, I carried her to the living room, flicked on the television, and held her until it was time to get ready to go out for dinner.
Newbury Street, where Simmer was located, isn’t just any old ordinary Boston street. Especially around Simmer, near the Boston Public Garden—home of the Swan Boats and the setting of Make Way for Ducklings—it’s lined with art galleries, high-end clothing stores, fancy cafés, and trendy restaurants. On my graduate-student budget, I couldn’t afford the outfits that would’ve let me be mistaken for one of the beautiful people who spent money on Newbury Street, but I did change into something more worthy of Simmer’s fancy location than the hanging-around-and-grooming-a-cat clothes that I had on. In other words, I wore black. Because I was hesitant to leave Inga alone with my cranky Gato, I’d put her in my bedroom with food, water, and a litter box, and shut the door. I wouldn’t be gone all that long, and I hoped that she’d eat and take a good nap while adjusting to her new, safe home.
Then I drove downtown and scanned the street for a space. Parking in this congested area of Boston was always a challenge, but it was a bit easier on a Tuesday night than it would’ve been on a Saturday night. It had been a while since I’d eaten at Simmer, but with Josh’s work schedule what it was, visiting him at the restaurant was sometimes the only way to catch a glimpse of my overworked chef. I had Inga to thank for the rare chance to see him twice in one day. Since the parking garages and lots in the area were breathtakingly expensive, I’d gotten good at spotting legal spaces on the street, at finding spots on side streets, and at squeezing my car into miniature spaces. Tonight I snagged a place around the corner from the restaurant. I had to pin myself between two BMWs, but getting an actual metered space at all was a good sign.
The patio outside Simmer was packed, but inside there were only a handful of customers. Although Josh said Mondays and Tuesdays were typically slow nights at most eateries, I found it disheartening to see the large room so empty. The tiled floors and the warm colors of the walls softened the angularity of the modern light fixtures, the square tables, and the high-backed chairs. The room’s earth colors were welcoming, and I was pleased to see candles lit on each table and in sconces on the walls. Keeping candles in stock and replacing the ones that burned down was a challenge. Simmer used dozens every day, and no one who worked there wanted to add candle duties to the already long list of tasks to be done daily.
I waved to the hostess and helped myself to a seat at the bar. I wished that Ade had come with me. Eating out alone was lonely, but if I’d stayed home, I’d have moped in front of the television by myself watching Bret Michaels in reruns of Rock of Love.
The general manager, Wade, strolled behind the bar and checked for empty bottles. Because Wade was salaried, he often ended up working the bar so that the owner, Gavin, didn’t have to pay another employee. “Hey, Chloe. I haven’t seen you here in a while. You here for dinner?”
I nodded. “You know I can’t resist Josh’s cooking.” I smiled, partly at the thought of Josh’s feeding me and partly at the sight of the elaborate gel work formed by Wade’s dark hair. Wade’s hair was always a sight to gawk at, if not to admire. Today, he must have taken extra time to sculpt the poofy clumps that sat high off his scalp. Still, since Wade spent as much time working out at the gym as he did styling his hair, I couldn’t complain about how he looked in the fitted black T-shirt that was standard for Simmer employees.
Wade handed me a menu, and I scanned the familiar items. At one time or another, I must have tried everything on the menu, but I never tired of the food. Besides, in addition to the standard dishes, there were specials that J
osh ran a few times a week. They were always wonderful, but tonight I was hungry for two of my favorites from the regular menu, the crab and corn fritters that came with a lemon-cilantro aioli, and a Caesar salad with homemade dressing. Josh’s Caesar dressing was based on egg yolk and anchovies. I could practically drink it by the bucket. He also offered a less fishy—and very popular—version for those who didn’t like the strong anchovy taste, but I preferred the powerful version.
Wade took my order, brought me a lemonade, and told me that Josh would be out in a few minutes. As I watched Wade shine glasses with a towel, I started wondering what Josh had told his coworkers about the filming yesterday, but my thoughts were interrupted by Gavin Seymour’s unhappy voice.
Simmer’s owner was glaring angrily at a server. Gavin was in his late thirties, quite handsome, and dressed exclusively in clothing purchased from the high-end shops on this street. His usually toned physique looked neglected, though, and even his overpriced outfit couldn’t hide that. “Now what is it?” Gavin demanded of a quivering young male server. “Can’t we ever get anything done around here without a problem?” Gavin stormed away from the server and beckoned to Wade.
Before responding to Gavin’s summons, Wade rolled his eyes and imitated Gavin. “Now what is it?” he echoed with an exaggerated whine.
Although Gavin caught my eye, he otherwise ignored me and, after speaking briefly to Wade, he disappeared into the kitchen.
I turned away and glanced uncomfortably at Wade, who was again polishing glasses.
“Don’t worry about Gavin. He’s all worked up tonight. Everyone is trying to stay out of his way today because he’s in such a salty mood. I guess some guy from the Department of Public Health came in to talk to Josh.” Wade shrugged.
If DPH was wandering around Simmer, the staff must know something about the disastrous Chefly Yours episode. “What did he want with Josh?” I asked.
“I guess to find out more about the food he’d made for the show. I was sorry to hear about that, by the way. Really sucks. Anyhow, Josh told Gavin that the issue had nothing to do with Simmer, but Gavin has been insisting all day that if it has to do with Josh, then it has to do with Simmer. ‘I’m not interested in excuses, Josh,’ is what Gavin must have hollered twenty times.” Wade again mimicked Gavin and waved his hands around in no-no gestures. “Whatever. Gavin will get over it. Everyone is just trying to steer clear of him today.”
Josh appeared with a plate of the deep-fried corn and crab treats. “Hi, babe,” he said, kissing me on the cheek. Josh looked more worn-out than usual but, as always, he was putting on a happy front for my benefit. Flipping a dish towel over his shoulder, he covered half of a huge food stain on his once-white chef’s coat. “How is Inga?”
I briefed Josh on the vet visit and explained that Inga would need some serious time with a cat groomer, who, I hoped, would get out the mats in Inga’s coat without shaving her entire body. “She’s had enough humiliation for one lifetime. I couldn’t bear to see her with no fur.”
“I’m just glad she’s alive and not at the bottom of the Charles,” Josh said. “Oh, guess who called me today?”
“Who?” I asked through a mouthful of fritter. I loved the fritters, with the crispy batter fried to perfection on the outside and the gooey, creamy crab mixture on the inside. Heaven on a plate.
“Two calls, actually. Robin and then Leo.”
I nearly choked. “What did they say?”
“Well,” he began, perching himself on the stool next to me, “Robin is insisting that the series won’t be affected by what happened. She says we’ll just tape another episode.” He raised his eyebrows in doubt. “I don’t know how she thinks this isn’t going to be a problem. I mean, word is going to get out about Francie, the show, and me. No one is going to want me to go to their house after hearing that I’m the one who killed Francie—”
“Josh! Don’t say that. You know that’s not how it was.” I put my hand on his and gave a good squeeze.
“I know, I know. Obviously I didn’t kill her, but I’m going to be associated with her death, and that’s less than appetizing, so to speak. So it’s not going to be smooth sailing.” He paused. “Maybe if the television station makes a public statement? If we can really clear up what happened, then things might blow over for the show. I don’t know.” Josh exhaled deeply. “Oh, and then Leo called the restaurant an hour ago to get your phone number.”
I wrinkled my brow. “He wants to talk to me?”
Josh nodded. “He said he wants to talk to you about Francie. I hope it’s okay, but I gave him your number.”
Ugh. If Leo wanted to hear about Francie’s last moments, what could I possibly tell him? “Yeah, that’s fine.”
“There’s more. He told me that it turns out that Francie had definitely been poisoned and that the police are involved. So it wasn’t food poisoning. It wasn’t something I did or bought. I knew that, but it’s a relief to have it confirmed.”
“So she was poisoned! What was it?” I nearly shouted. “This means Francie was murdered for sure. Who did it? Have the police talked to you?”
“Leo didn’t say what the poison was. He said that the police are investigating who could have done it. A detective called me earlier, and I’m going to talk to him tomorrow morning, but I’m pretty much in the clear since practically every second of that day is on film. And I don’t have any motive. So I’m not worried.”
Josh might not be worried, but I was—and would be until Francie’s murderer was locked up in a cell. Why would someone murder Francie? And during Josh’s cooking episode?
“I have to get back to the kitchen. Gavin made me send home all the hourly employees, so I’m alone except for Santos tonight. I’ll go make your salad and get that out to you in a few minutes. Love you.” Josh kissed me again.
“I love you, too.”
I took a big drink of my lemonade and tried to process what I had just learned: Francie had been poisoned. Someone had intentionally killed that poor woman and let her die a painful, grotesque death. I shivered. Lost in thought, I jumped at the sound of a dish breaking behind me.
“Your job isn’t that hard. It’s quite simple, really.” Gavin’s voice echoed throughout the restaurant as he marched across the floor. “Pick up dishes. Take them to the kitchen. Seriously, it’s not tough. Break another dish, and I’ll take it out of your check.”
I spun around on my stool. Standing before Gavin was a young Brazilian busboy who held a plastic tub filled with dirty dishes. The busboy hung his head while Gavin continued his tirade.
“Do you know how much those dishes cost? Do you? Clean up this mess and get out of my sight.”
Aha! I finally got it. To my surprise, I realized that Gavin was drunk. I could hear it in his voice. Josh’s boss wasn’t normally my favorite person, but he and I had no problems with each other, and he had always been pleasant to me. According to Josh, Gavin could be tough to work for, but Josh had never mentioned anything like what I was seeing and hearing now. Yelling at a busboy? Creating a drunken scene that was bound to drive customers away? Never. Or never before.
“Like I was saying,” Wade said as he refilled my lemonade, “best to stay out of Gavin’s way today.”
After what I’d just witnessed, I was hardly going to get in Gavin’s way. Avoiding him was evidently going to be easy, since he was continuing to ignore my existence. When he appeared a few seats down from me at the bar and leaned over the counter to grab some lime slices for his drink, he barely looked my way before dropping lime into his cocktail and again disappearing.
“What’s going on with him?” I asked Wade.
“Oh, you know, typical owner bullshit.” He spoke while he adjusted his gelled hair in the mirror that walled the back of the bar. “Josh must have told you some of it, though, right? Gavin has been hanging out here after hours with customers, drinking free from the bar, going home with college girls, snorting a little here and there. He’s become a pain in the
ass.”
What? I’d heard none of this from Josh. And using cocaine? Stupid, stupid. “No wonder he’s so moody, then, huh?”
Wade leaned against the bar. “No kidding. We can always tell when Gavin’s been here late at night, because we open the restaurant to find dirty glasses, spilled drinks, half-finished beers. Then we have to clean the place again after the night crew already did it. It’s disgusting. Plus, Gavin is losing money on all that alcohol he’s drinking, and then he complains about having to reorder more liquor. I just ignore him.”
A waitress brought out my Caesar salad, but it was hard to enjoy it as much as I usually did. In fact, it occurred to me that most of what I was being served tonight was one piece of bad news after another. What happened next confirmed that impression: Gavin popped out of the kitchen, again summoned Wade with a gesture, spoke to him for a few seconds, and then slumped down at the end of the bar and pulled out his cell phone. Wade returned to me with an apologetic look on his face. “I’m sorry, Chloe, but Gavin is making me give you a bill for your dinner. He says he’s tired of his staff bleeding him dry.”
I’d never before paid for dinner at Simmer. Gavin had never expected me to pay. And it wasn’t as though I were in here every day ordering lobster and foie gras. All along, from the time Simmer had first opened, I’d assumed that Gavin knew how hard Josh was working to make Simmer a success and that Gavin saw my occasional meals as a small symbol of thanks. Hah! Apparently not.
I finished my salad, thundered off the stool, slammed my purse on the counter, and pulled out some cash. Gavin showed zero reaction, but Wade absolutely refused the tip I tried to give him.
“I always tip, even when the food is free,” I protested. “Wade, please!”
Although Gavin was still at the far end of the bar, Wade spoke softly. “Not tonight. Consider it my apology for Gavin’s behavior.”
“If Gavin continues acting like this in front of customers, pretty soon he’s not going to have any.” I thanked Wade again, grabbed my purse, and rushed out of Simmer.
Fed Up Page 8
