by Leslie Karst
Stretching out once more on the couch, I listened as the two lovers sowed the seeds of their tragic demise and thought about what Vargas had told me. Could it have been Jackie’s cocaine? If so, that would likely mean she’d been using it before that night as well. She had, after all, been under extreme stress in the weeks leading up to her death, according to Evelyn. And she surely could have gotten the drug if she’d wanted, working in the restaurant business where it was such a common menace.
But I’d known a couple of cokeheads in my day, and it was hard for me to believe her daughter wouldn’t have noticed if Jackie had been one. In my limited experience, they tended to experience wide swings of emotion, all lovey-dovey when high, then depressed and snarky-mean after the come-down. And the one I’d known who’d used the stuff in large quantities had ended up a complete jerk—selfish and manipulative, able to turn on the charm in a flash if he thought he could get something out of you.
The results of Jackie’s toxicology report wouldn’t be available for weeks or even months to come, but I knew in my heart that she hadn’t used cocaine the night she died—at least not willingly.
And then it hit me—who it was that oozed a combination of charm and smarm. Max, who’d laid on that have-I-got-something-for-you familiarity the night Eric and I had been at Tamarind, just like a druggie. He’d been smarmy, all right—unctuous and eager to please, even though he barely knew me. And although some of it could be chalked up to his being maître d’ of the restaurant, he hadn’t even been working that night.
Visions of Max flashed through my mind: wiping his nose at the memorial service, scratching and pinching it that night he’d talked to us. By itself, this behavior would likely mean nothing. But one of the most common tics of drug users is to fuss with their nose, as if worried that telltale signs of the powder are still there.
I sat up, startling the two dogs asleep at the foot of the sofa. And the other thing I knew about cocaine was that it could be a very expensive habit. Which would explain why someone like Max, even though he had a well-paying job, could succumb to the temptation to steal from his place of employment.
Buster jumped onto the couch next to me, and as I stroked his rough, brown coat, I considered what this could all mean. If Max was indeed a drug addict, that would be something else he’d want to keep from his boss—and yet another reason to want to shut Jackie up if she’d threatened to tell.
I got up and started pacing across the living room, my brain churning. This was the first time all the pieces of the puzzle had seemed to come together in a way that made sense. Max must have gone upstairs to the bathroom, where he’d discovered the Ambien and Percocet in the medicine cabinet. And then he’d gotten an idea of how to be rid of Jackie forever. But he’d needed some extra courage to do the deed, so while crushing the drugs to slip into Jackie’s drink, he’d ingested some of his own.
But did the other pieces fit? Jazz lover? Check. Fan of cranberry juice? Who knew. But Max did likely drink, given his hanging out at the Tamarind bar that night Eric and I had been there. And besides, whoever had slipped the crushed Ambien and Percocet into Jackie’s drink would have wanted a cocktail that hid the taste of the drugs, so maybe it was Jackie who’d had the drink with cranberry juice, not the killer.
And finally, the scent of curry spice on the person. Max wasn’t a cook at Tamarind, but I knew from my experience running the front of the house at Solari’s that he’d be in and out of the kitchen all evening for various reasons. So he could certainly carry the aroma with him.
I ceased my pacing and strode back to the kitchen to check the time on my phone: a quarter to seven. And it was Monday, the same night Max had been hanging out at the Tamarind bar last week on his day off.
Would he be there again tonight? Maybe not, depending on what had happened between him and Al last night. But I also knew that Monday was Al’s night off. So it was worth a shot.
Forgetting my plans to spend the evening with a linguica pizza and Netflix, I headed upstairs to change clothes. Yes, Detective Vargas had made me promise not to go to Max’s house, but he hadn’t said a thing about going to Tamarind.
Chapter 26
I parked the T-Bird on a side street around the corner from Tamarind and hurried to the entrance through the steady rain. The steam blanketing the inside of the windows made it difficult to see inside the restaurant, but I could tell the place was once again popping.
As soon as I opened the door, I was hit by a rush of warm air and the seductive smell of sesame oil and garlic. Raised voices echoed off the black-and-white tile floor, and the same host who’d been on duty last Monday had to call out over the din to inquire whether I wanted a table.
Shaking my head no, I paused a moment, peering over at the bar area. About a dozen people were there, most standing around waiting for tables, but a few seated with their backs to me. I quickly spotted Max. He was near the end of the bar, chatting with the bartender as she placed dirty glasses in the washer rack. Laughing at something she’d just said, Max took a sip from what looked like a Martini.
Okay, now or never. I made my way to the bar and took an empty stool three down from his. The bartender shoved the now-full rack into the under-counter washer, closed the door, and switched it on. Glancing up, she caught my eye and came over to where I sat. “Evening. What can I get for you?”
“A Martini up would be great. You have any of that local gin?”
“The Venus?” She turned to examine the bottles behind the bar. “Yeah, looks like we’ve got their oh-one.”
“Perfect. And go easy on the vermouth.”
While she shook my cocktail in a stainless-steel shaker and strained it into a chilled, olive-garnished glass, I pretended not to notice Max, who I could see from the corner of my eye had noticed me. I’d opted for a Martini, rather than my usual bourbon-rocks, with the idea that he’d be pleased to see me ordering “his” drink, making it more likely he’d come chat me up.
My ploy worked. As soon as the bartender had served me my iced delight, there came a voice from behind. “Nice choice of cocktail.”
I swiveled around on my stool. “Oh, hi,” I said with a smile. “It’s … wait, I’ll remember …”
“Max,” he supplied. “Do you mind?” He indicated the stool next to mine.
“Be my guest.”
“What brings you back to our lovely restaurant so soon?”
I sipped my Martini. My, that gin was delicious. In addition to the customary juniper, I got hints of lemon and ginger as well. “Two things,” I said, setting down the stemmed glass. “One, I enjoyed those spring rolls with peanut sauce so much last week that I couldn’t resist coming back for more.”
“And the second?”
I swiveled back around and put on a glum face, staring at the shelves of liquor, made double by the massive mirror behind them. “The guy I asked out tonight turned me down for another woman, so I decided to drown my sorrows with a Martini.”
I’d made a snap decision to act the jilted lover, figuring Max wouldn’t be able to resist turning on the charm in response. And maybe if I was lucky, he’d drop his guard and simultaneously drop some revealing information.
But it wasn’t going to take much acting to put on a persuasive show, since I was in fact feeling pretty darn glum right about now.
“That guy who was here with you last week?” The flicker of Max’s eyes told me his interest had jumped up a notch. “Well, his loss.”
“Uh, thanks.”
I flagged down the bartender, hoping to order some food. I’d started to feel the effects of that bourbon I’d had at home and, with a fresh cocktail before me, thought it best to take in some sustenance. But it also seemed wise not to give Max the impression I’d come there that night in the hopes of seeing him. Hard-to-get seemed the better tactic.
The gal behind the bar poured a pair of frothy yellow drinks into glasses, set them on a cocktail tray at the server station, then came back over to where I was sitting.
“Could I get an order of spring rolls with peanut sauce?”
“Sure thing.” She entered the order into the POS system and returned with a glass of water and a set of flatware wrapped in a green cloth napkin.
“Thanks.” I sipped from the water, staring at the computer screen behind the bar—very likely the terminal from which Max had been voiding all those tickets. But how on earth was I going to get him to show his hand and give me something to prove his connection to Jackie’s death?
I swiveled back around on my stool and flashed what I hoped came across as an encouraging smile. If I played too hard to get, I might lose my fish entirely. “You’re still doing a booming business here, I see.”
“Yep. Kind of exhausting, but it’s better than the alternative.”
“I hear ya.” I tipped my glass to him, then took another taste of my aromatic gin.
Max grinned, revealing the crooked teeth in his lower jaw. “So what do you do when you’re not running a restaurant?” he asked.
“Oh, I keep pretty busy,” I said. “It’s not like I have a whole lot of free time, but when I do, I ride my bike, walk my dog, hang out with friends, listen to music.”
“What kind of music do you like?”
“Lots of kinds. Rock, new wave, opera …”
He wrinkled his nose at the mention of this last category. “I dunno, I could never get into that opera stuff. All those screeching women and people jabbering in German and Italian.”
I’ve heard this reaction enough times by now that it no longer raises my hackles to the extent it used to. But I still have to fight back the urge to respond with a lecture on the aesthetics of grand opera.
“Yeah,” I said instead with a shrug, “it’s not for everybody. Oh, and I like jazz, too.”
Max perked up at this, as I’d hoped he would. “Jazz, now that’s my thing.” He nodded his head enthusiastically, then drained the rest of his Martini. “What sort do you listen to?”
“Well, I like whatever’s on right now.” I knew damn well that what was playing over the bar speakers was what’s known as “cool jazz,” a style marked by its more subdued playing and relaxed tempos as compared to the often-frenetic improv employed in bebop. But I wanted to give Max the chance to show off and try to impress me, an invitation he eagerly accepted.
“That’s Chet Baker,” he said. “He’s pretty unusual, in that he was both a singer and a horn player. An amazing dude.”
We listened to the whisper-voiced singer, who, after coming to the end of the chorus of “My Funny Valentine,” launched into a pensive trumpet solo. Cranked up as the music was in order to be heard over the chatter of the restaurant patrons, Baker’s playing still came across as intimate and vulnerable.
“This style is sometimes called West Coast jazz,” Max said in a lecturing voice when the song had come to an end. “Because so many of the guys who played it back in the fifties lived in LA and San Francisco.” A more up-tempo tune had followed the Chet Baker song, and Max was bobbing his head and drumming his fingers on the bar in time to the syncopated beat. “If you like this kind of jazz,” he said, reaching up to scratch his nose, “you should really check out guys like Miles Davis and Paul Desmond and Stan Getz.”
“Thanks, I will.” I had several CDs by those well-known artists at home, but wasn’t going to tell him that. “But I’m actually more into jazz vocals,” I said. “So who’s your favorite jazz singer, if you had to pick only one?”
“Oh man, that’s hard. There are so many.” Max put his elbows on the bar top and frowned. Tapping a finger against his front tooth, he considered my question. “I’m tempted to say Ella Fitzgerald, but I think if I could only pick one, I’d have to go with Sarah Vaughan. She was more free, more uninhibited, I guess.”
“Sounds kind of like what my mom always said about Frank Sinatra and Mel Tormé. That Sinatra was more suave and controlled with his phrasing, but that Tormé could sing circles around Frank, especially when he was young. What do you think?”
I’d been watching Max closely as I brought up the subject of Mel Tormé, whose record we’d found misplaced in Jackie’s house. I was hoping to catch him flinch or suck in his breath, but all he did was chew his lip and stare at the Kingfisher beer poster behind the bar.
“I’d have to go for Frank,” he said after a bit.
So maybe it hadn’t been Max who’d played that album that night. But I wasn’t ready to give up yet. “But you must like Mel, too. Talk about a smooth voice. I mean c’mon, who doesn’t like ‘The Velvet Fog’?”
He turned to face me, his eyes searching mine. Then, with a quick shake of the head, he said, “No, not really. I’m more of a bebop kind of guy. You know, Charlie Parker, Dizzy Gillespie, Coltrane.”
Climbing off his barstool, he smoothed out the front of his gray silk shirt. Oh, no. I’ve blown it and scared him off.
But I was wrong. “Just gotta hit the men’s room,” he said, pointing a thumb toward the back of the restaurant. “Be right back.”
“Oh, okay. I’ll be here.”
A waiter appeared with my spring rolls. Good. I was famished. I picked one up but immediately dropped it again. Way too hot. Making do with dipping my fork into the ramekin of peanut sauce, I waited for the rolls to cool.
Max plopped back down onto his stool and wiped his nose once again. I couldn’t be sure, but I thought I detected a tiny streak of white on its aquiline tip. Had he gone to the restroom to snort a few lines of coke? Or was my imagination simply concocting evidence to support my suspicions regarding the guy?
He held up his empty glass to the bartender, then glanced over at me. “Can I buy you another?”
I drained my Martini and smiled. “Sure, that would be great.”
While Max ordered, I took a tentative bite of my spring rolls. Max was eyeing the plate, so I shoved it his way. “Help yourself, if you’d like.”
“Okay. Thanks.” He picked one up, dunked it into the peanut sauce, and ate half the crispy roll in one bite.
The bartender set down our Martinis, and Max and I clinked glasses. He finished off his spring roll as I nibbled mine. It was still pretty hot, and I was impressed he could take such big bites without burning his mouth. But then again, he was chasing them with gulps of icy gin.
Dipping the unchewed end of my roll into the peanut sauce (since we were sharing, I thought it rude to double dip), I raised it to my mouth, only to have a dribble of sauce fall onto the front of my yellow blouse.
“Dagnabbit,” I said, staring at the oily brown splatter. It had managed to fall onto not only my shirt but also my green tweed blazer. “I better wash this off right away so it doesn’t stain.”
I set the roll back on the plate, slid off my stool, and headed for the restroom. But as I reached the far end of the room, something made me turn back. A niggling at the back of my brain—something I’d read about never leaving a drink unattended at the bar, which seemed especially apt if you were with a guy you suspected might be a murderer.
Peeking out from behind a large potted palm like someone out of an old Marx Brothers movie, I stared at Max. He was fishing for something in the pocket of his pressed blue jeans, then glanced quickly to either side.
No way. Could I be right?
Waiting till the bartender was occupied with ringing up a sale on the POS screen, he pulled my drink toward him. My glass—as well as Max’s hands—were now blocked from view by his body, but a few seconds later he shoved the Martini back to its place in front of my barstool, then picked up his own drink and took a sip.
No one appeared to have noticed his actions, but then again, the only one who likely could have was the bartender, and she had her back to Max. Whoa. This was unreal.
In a bit of a daze, I pushed open the door to the women’s room and set about rinsing the peanut sauce off my blouse. I must have gone too far, after all, with my questions about Mel Tormé. Which meant Max was the one who’d been at Jackie’s house that night playing Evel
yn’s jazz records. And now, fearing I was on to him, he was trying to drug me—just as he’d done to Jackie.
Thank goodness I’d seen what he’d done. But now I had to figure out how to play this. If I confronted him about dosing my drink, I’d simply end up making a scene, and any chance of getting information out of him would be forever lost. So how best to act, to make him think I suspected nothing?
I crossed back to the bar and bought a little time by eating more of my spring roll and washing it down with a drink of water. And then it hit me: if I could replace the gin in my glass with water without his seeing, he’d be none the wiser that I was on to his despicable plan.
But the “without his seeing” part would be difficult, given how closely he was monitoring my every move. Go on, drink your Martini, I could tell he was thinking. I had to distract him, somehow. Did I have anything on me I could use? I reached into my blazer pocket and felt a handkerchief and several loose coins. Aha.
Feigning a sneeze, I pulled out the hankie, making sure I had the coins in my hand as well. As I opened up the cloth to use it to wipe my nose, I let the money fall to the floor. It got the desired reaction. Max immediately jumped off his stool and crouched down to collect the jingling coins from the tile floor.
“Oh, thanks,” I said as I dipped the hankie into my drink, then dumped the contents of the stemmed glass into the drip tray along the bar top and quickly refilled it with water from my tumbler. I’d just retrieved the olive and dropped it back into my glass when Max stood up and handed me my quarters.
Accepting them with a broad smile, I took a long drink from my faux Martini, which prompted an equally broad smile from Max. I shoved the coins and the handkerchief—which now contained evidence of the adulterated drink, or so I hoped—into my jacket pocket.
And along with them, I pocketed my fork. Just in case.
Now all I had to do was play-act that the drug was working. How long would it be before whatever he put in my drink would take effect? Best to finish the drink quickly, not only to hasten whatever time frame that would be, but also so he didn’t look too closely and notice that it was water in my glass rather than gin.
