The Case of the Jaded Jack Russell

by B R Snow

  “Yes, it is,” I said. “It’s everywhere. But not that pattern. There’s only one other place on the main floor where I’ve seen the same pattern.” I stared off into the distance again and asked myself a question. “Can it be that simple?”

  “Do you have any idea what she’s talking about?” Bill said to Shirley.

  “Not a clue,” she said, shrugging.

  “We need to head over to the Chateau Lavalier,” I said, closing the file and reaching for my plate.

  “Now?” Bill said, preparing to stand up.

  “No, after we finish eating,” I said, digging back into my ziti. “Relax, there’s no hurry.”

  Bill stared at me, baffled. He looked at Shirley.

  “You know who she reminds me of?”

  “I was just sitting here thinking the same thing,” Shirley said. “Officer Fredericks, right?”

  “Exactly,” Bill said.

  “Who’s Officer Fredericks?” I said.

  “She used to be our office visionary,” Shirley said. “She was always getting what she called vibrations from case files.”

  “Sounds like an interesting woman,” I said, reaching for another piece of bread. “Is she still around?”

  “No, she went away a few years ago,” Bill said.

  “Transferred?”

  “No, institutionalized,” he said, giving me a small smile. “Apparently, she’s okay most days as long as she gets her meds.”

  “And is handcuffed to the bed,” Shirley said.

  “One too many vibrations?” I said, dredging the bread in olive oil.

  “She got the idea in her head that our police chief was a serial killer,” Shirley said. “It didn’t end well for her.”

  “Well, don’t worry about me,” I said, spearing a piece of sausage. “I won’t be making any false accusations. I know exactly who killed Middleton.”

  “Do you plan on letting us in on your little secret?” Shirley said, laughing.

  “Of course, right after lunch,” I said, then caught a glimpse of the cart our waitress was pushing toward our table. “Okay, who’s up for dessert?”

  Chapter 21

  I followed them to the Chateau Lavalier in my car and was greeted by the same young man who’d been working the day Josie and I arrived for the conference. He opened the door, flinched at my outfit, then recovered and was about to welcome me to the hotel when he recognized me. He beamed at me and extended a hand to help me out of the car.

  “Welcome back,” he said. “Is there a costume party going on here tonight I don’t know about?”

  “You really need to consider a career in stand-up,” I said, making a face at him.

  “Actually, that’s what I do,” he said, shrugging. “And as soon as I start making more than twenty bucks a night doing it, I’m so out of here.” He smiled at me as he gave my outfit another look. “Tragic,” he said, shaking his head.

  “Please leave it out front,” I snapped, stepping away from the car. “I’m just here for a…meeting.”

  “Will do,” he said, hopping in behind the wheel. “Simply tragic.”

  I heard him laughing as he drove off and I joined Bill and Shirley then followed them into the hotel. They headed straight for the manager’s office, an old friend by now I assumed, and he listened to them explain why we were there. He checked his computer screen then confirmed that the ballroom was empty. The head of hotel security arrived, and he escorted us down the hallway and into the massive room where a handful of staff were setting up for a function. The security head excused himself, and we walked across the ballroom until we reached the storage room where Middleton had died.

  We stepped inside and closed the door behind us. Bill set the case file on a stack of boxes and opened it to the page that contained the photo. He removed it from its plastic holder and held it out in front of him. I leaned over his shoulder and pointed at the markings that had caught my attention in the restaurant. We glanced up and identified the section that appeared slightly different from the rest of the stamped tin ceiling.

  “Yeah, I get it,” he said, frowning. “But I’m still not sure what it means.”

  “Look at the discoloration,” I said, pointing up. “It’s a square.”

  “You think it drops down?” Shirley said.

  “I think it might,” I said. “Did you guys ever check it out?”

  Bill and Shirley shook their heads at each other.

  “No, to be honest,” he said. “I’m pretty sure I looked up and just took it for what it is. An antique stamped tin ceiling.”

  “Me too. This place has to be over a hundred years old. Things like that ceiling are bound to age differently in some places, right?” Shirley said, glancing at Bill for confirmation.

  I hadn’t meant to question their abilities, but they both seemed mildly annoyed with me. Then I caught the looks they were giving each other and realized they were more likely mad at themselves for having missed it the first time around. Shirley grabbed a step ladder that was leaning against a wall. She carried it across the room and set it up directly underneath the discolored section.

  “It’s such a minor difference, who would have even thought to give it a second look?” Bill said, staring up.

  “Not me,” I said, stepping back to give him room to climb the ladder.

  He reached the ceiling and examined the patterned tin closely.

  “I can see what looks like a faint outline of a square that’s been cut into the ceiling, but it fits together like a glove. And there’s no handle or anything else you could use to lower it.” He began fiddling with one of the raised sections of the patterned tin.

  “Well, how about that.”

  He glanced down at us, then refocused on the ceiling and slid one of the raised pieces to one side to reveal a small latch. He pulled the latch, and a four-foot square of the ceiling opened at a forty-five-degree angle. A folding ladder emerged. Shirley reached up and pulled it down until the steps touched the floor. Bill climbed down the ladder, then headed up the other. Halfway up he paused to remove a large flashlight that was clipped to his belt then continued his climb. He reached the top of the ladder, stepped through the opening, and briefly disappeared from view. For a few seconds the only thing we could see was the beam of the flashlight, then the overhead space was flooded with light.

  “It’s another storage space,” he called down. “C’mon up.”

  Shirley and I climbed the ladder and stepped into a big space we could easily stand up in. It contained stacks of boxes filled with a wide variety of cleaning and food-related supplies.

  “Okay, I get it,” Bill said, putting his hands on his hips as he looked around. “The murderer was hiding up here, climbed down to take Middleton out, then came back up here and closed the ladder behind him. And after everybody, including us, cleared out later that night, he just climbed down and walked out. It’s perfect.”

  “I think he definitely came down through this opening to kill him,” I said. “But he didn’t hang around after he did it. He left straight away.”

  “No, I don’t think so,” Shirley said. “That would have been too risky. There were several hundred people within fifty feet of here.”

  “I agree,” Bill said. “Much too risky. It would have been much safer just to sit up here and wait it out.”

  “No,” I said, shaking my head. “He couldn’t do that. His absence would have been noticed.”

  Bill sat down on a short stack of boxes and folded his arms across his chest.

  “Talk to me, Suzy,” he said softly.

  “It would have been noticed because he was working that night,” I said. “And he didn’t leave through that opening. He used a different one.”

  Bill and Shirley glanced around the storage space then back at me, waiting for clarification.

  “C’mon,” I said. “Follow me. I think I’ve got this figured out.”

  I veered right and began to wind my way through the stacks. The path was narrow bu
t well-defined. After we’d gone about thirty feet, I stopped when I noticed a piece of elaborate grillwork along the far wall that sat behind some ventilation ducts. I held my finger to my lips to request silence then knelt down and peered through the opening that looked down into the kitchen. Bill and Shirley knelt beside me, and we stared down at the flurry of noisy activities taking place about fifteen feet below.

  “Your theory is that one of the kitchen staff killed Middleton?” Shirley whispered.

  “Yeah,” I said, focusing on Charlie who was working his hands through a big bowl filled with a wet sticky substance. Then I pointed. “Him.”

  “The guy in the chef’s hat?” Bill whispered.

  “Yeah,” I said, dealing with a mixture of sadness and elation. “That’s him. Chef Charlie.”

  “And he’s wearing rubber gloves,” Shirley said.

  “He’s mixing his secret sauce that goes in the corn fritter batter. The chili he uses is so hot, it can burn your skin,” I whispered.

  “And people still eat these things?” Shirley said. “I love spicy food, but that sounds a bit over the top.”

  “They’re delicious,” I said. “They definitely get your attention, but it’s a flavorful heat. I think he cuts the intensity of the chili with mint and yogurt.”

  “Interesting.”

  Bill gently cleared his throat to get our attention.

  “Sorry,” I said, embarrassed.

  We watched for a few moments then got to our feet and took a few steps back from the opening.

  “The chef killed Middleton?” Shirley said, frowning.

  “Yeah,” I said softly. “I’m afraid so.”

  “That’s almost as bad as saying the butler did it,” Bill said, giving me a scowl. “If he was working that night, how the heck did he manage to pull off that miracle?”

  “Follow me,” I said, continuing down the narrow pathway.

  After we slowly inched our way forward about another fifty feet, I came to a stop and pointed at an opening that was identical to the one above the storage room. Light streamed up from the floor below, and we caught a glimpse of the ladder that extended down to the break room. We heard a thump and hung back in the shadows. The thump was followed by the sound of a man whistling and humming a melody I didn’t recognize.

  “Hey, I know that tune,” Shirley said. “It’s a Russian folk song my mother used to sing to me.”

  “You’re Russian?” I said, surprised.

  “First generation,” she said, beaming with pride.

  We slowly made our way out of the shadows and the man, holding an industrial-sized can of tomato sauce under each arm, stopped humming when he saw us. Apparently, two uniformed cops and a woman who was dressed like one of his Russian peasant aunts was the last thing he expected to see while restocking. He dropped both cans of sauce and gave us an open-mouthed, wide-eyed stare that would have made Marty Feldman proud. Then he wheeled around and made a dash for the ladder screaming at the top of his lungs.

  “Immigratsiya! Bezhat’ za kholmami!”

  “What did he say?” I said, frowning.

  “Immigration,” Shirley said. “Run for the hills.”

  “Rasslab'tes'. My ne immigratsiya,” Shirley called after the man who had reached the top step.

  I’m pretty sure Shirley had told the man we weren’t from immigration, but either he didn’t hear it or simply chose not to believe her. He glanced back over his shoulder at us as he started his descent down the ladder, missed a step, then bounced and tumbled until he landed face-first on the floor. We raced to the opening and stared down at the semi-conscious kitchen worker. He shook the fall off, glanced back up at us, then climbed to his feet and scrambled out of the break room. I had to admire the guy’s toughness: That fall would have put me out of commission for at least a week.

  “Immigratsiya! Bezhat’ za kholmami! Bezhat’ za kholmami! Yebat' menya.”

  “He added something at the end,” I said, glancing at Shirley. “What did he say?”

  “I’m not comfortable using that kind of language,” she said, shaking her head.

  We made our way down the ladder and stood in the doorway of the break room looking on. Several staff members were hurriedly collecting their things and heading out the back door. Chef Charlie, holding a very large kitchen knife, was walking toward us, thoroughly confused by the commotion.

  “Where the heck are you guys going?” he said to no one in particular.

  “Immigratsiya,” one of the workers blurted as she ran past him out the door.

  “Immigration?” Charlie said, frowning. Then he saw us standing in the doorway. “Suzy? What on earth are you doing here?”

  “Oh, we just thought we’d pop in,” I said casually as I glanced around at the rapidly emptying kitchen. “Got a sec?”

  Charlie continued to stare at me then he tossed the knife he was holding onto a nearby butcher block and shrugged. “Sure,” he said. “It’s not like I’m going to be getting a lot of orders out for a while.” He gestured at the break room and headed in and took a seat.

  We sat down at the table next to him. Bill took the seat closest to the door, a move on his part I’m sure was strategic.

  “Oh, how rude of me,” I said. “This is Shirley. And that’s Bill.”

  “I remember them,” Charlie said, nodding at them. “Officers.”

  “Of course, you’ve already met,” I said. “Duh.”

  “Well, I know you’re not moonlighting for Canadian Immigration,” Charlie said, drumming the table with his fingers. “Why are you here?”

  I noticed several fresh bandages on his fingers and hands. Even though he definitely seemed to be a klutz with a knife, I was glad he’d left behind the big one he’d been holding in the kitchen. I glanced back and forth at Bill and Shirley. Eventually, she gave me a small nod to proceed.

  “This isn’t going to be pleasant, Charlie,” I said, starting slowly. “For any of us. But what the heck, huh, we might as well just go ahead and put it on the table.”

  “I’m right in the middle of the dinner hour, Suzy,” Charlie snapped. “And thanks to you guys, I’m down about ten workers at the moment. So, unless you’d like to grab an apron and wash some dishes, how about you stop wasting my time?”

  “I just said I was going to put it on the table,” I snapped. “Geez.”

  Charlie gestured for me to get on with it. I took a deep breath, exhaled loudly, and leaned forward.

  “We know you killed Joshua Middleton,” I said firmly.

  Bill cleared his throat and gave me a small shake of his head.

  “Sure, sure,” I said, nodding at him. “Let me rephrase that. I know you killed him. Bill and Shirley apparently aren’t quite convinced yet.”

  Charlie looked off into the distance with a blank expression then grinned at me.

  “You think I killed Middleton?” he said, managing a chuckle. “That’s rich.”

  “Yeah, at first, I didn’t believe it either,” I said. “Then when I saw you in action at our place the night you dropped by unannounced, the possibility started to work its way into my head. And once it’s in there, who knows where it’s going to go, right?”

  “Fascinating theory, Suzy,” Charlie said. “But if you remember, I was working that night.”

  “Yeah, you were,” I said. “And I’m sure that’s why you never even made the list of possible suspects. I’m also pretty sure that Bill and Shirley never even considered the possibility you might have done it. A busy restaurant kitchen, dozens of people racing around trying to keep up with all those orders. Who would even think the head chef had the time to do it? Not to mention the problem of killing him without being seen. And then getting back to work without being missed.”

  “Yes, all excellent points,” Charlie said, smiling at me. “How indeed could I have pulled something like that off?”

  “I thought you were trying to convince us,” Bill said, frowning.

  “Oh, he did it,” I said. �
�The timeframe was tight, but it was definitely doable.”

  “I can’t wait to hear this,” Charlie said.

  “Me too,” Bill said, sitting back in his chair. “And I need to warn you, Suzy. This hotel is a national landmark and has some serious juice with a lot of politicians and other heavy hitters. Shirley and I don’t need any more blowback on this case.”

  “Thank you, Officer,” Charlie said, beaming at Bill. “You see, Suzy, even they don’t believe you.”

  “Here’s how I think it went down,” I said, ignoring the naysayers. “You came in the break room, pulled that ladder down and climbed up into the storage space. If anybody had asked you why you were up there, which I’m almost positive they didn’t, all you had to say was that you were getting something you needed for a recipe. And once you were up there, you made your way down the path to the other end of the storage space. Then all you needed to do was lower the ladder on that side, somehow manage to sneak up on Middleton, who was already pretty dazed and confused because he’d been punched in the face a couple of times, grab him from behind and pour the drain cleaner down his throat, then head back up the ladder. After you closed the opening in the ceiling, you made your way back down to this side, probably grabbed a can of something on the way to cover your tracks, then climbed down and closed the ladder. Someone who was familiar with the layout up there could have done the whole thing in a couple of minutes at the most.”

  I paused and looked around the table. Shirley sat quietly, but Bill caught my eye and gave me a quick conspiratorially wink. I knew he’d come around. Charlie sat quietly with a smirk on his face.

  “Wow,” Charlie said eventually. “And they call me nuts.”

  “The fact that you were wearing gloves eliminated the possibility of you leaving any prints at the scene,” I said.

  “How on earth could you possibly know I was wearing gloves that night?” Charlie said, shaking his head.

  “For the same reason we saw you wearing them just a few minutes ago,” I said casually.

  “What?”

  “We were watching you from behind the grillwork,” I said. “You were making the sauce you use in your corn fritters. It’s something I picked up watching Chef Claire at work. She doesn’t wear gloves that often, but when she’s working with fresh chilis, she always has them on to protect her hands. And I imagine that, given the way you’re always cutting yourself, hot chilis on fresh cuts must be unbearably painful.”