Murder With A Chaser (Microbrewery Mysteries Book 2) (4 page)

              I picked up the phone and paged Manuel Evans on the overhead. Manuel was a kid I hired a couple of weeks before. He was basically a part-time office assistant/secretary for me. He ran errands, took in and sorted the mail and scheduled appointments. He was the only one who handled incoming and outgoing correspondence.

              He came into my office, all five feet and seven inches of him, neatly attired in shirt and tie and polished shoes.

              "Yes, ma'am?"

              He had that annoying habit of calling me ma'am, so that I felt like I was thirty years older than I was.

              "It's Madison, Manuel. Not ma'am, not boss, not Ms. Darby. Madison. Can you remember that?"

              "Yes. I apologize."

              "Did you bring an envelope up here, Manuel?"

              "Yes, ma'am. A little while ago."

              "Where did it come from?"

              "A gentleman stopped in and gave it to me for you."

              "What gentleman?"

              "He didn’t tell me his name. I asked him, 'Who shall I say is calling?' and he answered, 'Don’t worry about that. Just give her this.' And so I didn’t worry about it. He was nice."

              "What did he look like?"

              "He was tall. Then again, I'm relatively short, so everyone looks tall to me. He had blond hair that was cut very short, like a buzz cut. You know, like a Marine almost. And he looked German."

              "German."

              "Yeah, like some kind of very serious German scientist or something. Dark, squinty eyes. Square jaw. He stood very straight. That's what made him look like a Marine."

              "You're incredibly observant, Manuel, you know that? Are you a writer, by any chance?"

              "No, ma'am."

              "Madison."

              "Yes, I apologize."

              "With that eye, you could be."

              He stood there, staring at me for a half a second too long. "Ma'am, my parents wanted me to go to school to become a pharmacist. Nothing personal."

              "Yeah, whatever, Manuel. Just do me a favor and get people's names from now on, ok?"

              "Yes, ma'am."

              "Madison."

              "Yes, I apologize."

              "You can’t remember anything else about this guy?"

              "No, ma—, no, I'm sorry."

              "Ok, thank you."

              "Will that be all?"

              "That'll be all, thank you."

              He left my office and shut the door carefully behind him. A moment later there was a knock. Manuel poked his head in again.

              "Ma'am, I forgot to tell you, the guy had a scar on his right leg. Five inches long, running up the calf."

              "What were you doing looking at his leg—? Never mind; I don’t want to know. But that helps. Thank you, Manuel."

              "You're quite welcome."

              So I sat there, looking at this little torn swatch of fabric with the deceased's name on it. And suddenly I thought of the scene in
The Godfather
when the family receives a package containing Luca Brasi's vest and a fish. "Luca Brasi sleeps with the fishes."

              I went to the door of my office, locked it, and then sat down at my desk in a frightened daze.

              I resisted the urge to call my friend Detective Moore. Why? Because I'm an idiot, that's why.

              Because my father raised a girl who is too strong-willed for her own good. It was only a few minutes before the fear brought on by this mysterious and threatening message quickly gave way to anger and determination. No one threatens Madison Darby.

              The police had talked to my fellow judges and contestants. But I hadn't. So I had to start with the one who possibly knew more than I did: Pamela Tweed, journalist and gossip columnist for the
Hamptons Heart
, a newspaper disguised as a who's who and what's what for the Hamptons elite, really just a dirt-dishing rag for your run-of-the-mill grocery store checkout line audience.

              I tracked down Pamela Tweed at the
Hamptons Heart
main office on Churchill Avenue just off Main Street. She looked younger than I remembered her, more like mid-twenties than mid-thirties when I saw her last. She wore a hunter green business suit and had her blond hair down and flowing around her shoulders. She stood out like a flower among the weeds of the office – mostly pasty men of varying ages in rolled-up shirtsleeves and sporting dour expressions on their faces. She led me to her cubicle, the walls of which were studded with pictures of the same Border collie in a variety of poses and situations, and a few of Ms. Tweed herself posing with various celebrities.

              "Grab that chair over there and have a seat." She pointed to the wall of photos. "That's Gypsy, by the way, the love of my life. She came to me as a pup three years ago when her previous owner took ill."

              "Dog lover, then?" I asked.

              "Not really. Actually, I'm not a pet person at all. Except when it comes to Gypsy."

              I nodded. "And I recognize some of these people here. Although in actuality, I'm not really a celebrity person."

              I've noticed that if you can get someone to laugh, even just a little, you're home free.

              That wasn't the case here.

              "Well, I love celebrity culture," she said, drawing out the word 'love'.

              "I guess you wouldn’t have a job if it wasn't for celebrities."

              "Not true," she said with a touch of indignation, "I can do a lot of things. I love doing this work, being in the thick of the entertainment world."

              "Ok then," I said, more than a little bit uncomfortable. "Can we talk about Eli Campbell?"

              Her face changed. Maybe it was the insult the man bestowed on her that day, or maybe she finally realized she was talking to the person that complimented her after the insult. Whatever it was, Pamela Tweed looked like she was revisiting some secret hurt.

              "He deserved whatever it was he got. Murder they said. Fine with me."

              "You hated him? Why?"

              "Anyone who knew Eli Campbell wouldn’t have to ask that question."

              "I'm sorry," I said. I tried to sound sincere.

              Her face changed again. "No, I'm sorry. You can see this touched a nerve. And listen, as a gossip columnist myself, I rarely find myself on the other end of the questioning process."

              So she was guarded. That much was certain.

              There are certain folks who hate admitting that their college studies did them any good. And I’m one of them. I couldn’t wait to get out of school and start living in the real world. Anyway, there comes a moment when a person like me finds herself actually applying some of the lessons she learned during those dreaded years. And so it was that I remembered some of the things I learned in my psychology electives. Like, for instance, that sometimes it was best to change the subject entirely.

              "So," I said, brightening my voice, "if you're not an animal lover, what was it that attracted you to gypsy in the first place?"

              "I just found her adorable, that's all."

              "Well, she is adorable."

              Pamela Tweed smiled and pointed at one of the pictures of Gypsy frolicking in a kiddie pool. "Look at that snout. And the pure joy in those eyes. How can you not fall in love?"

              "It's true. Dogs tend to have a soft side to them that is all contained in the eyes."

              "I agree," she said, staring. "And they need someone to come and take away the hurt."

              "That's where you came in, I guess."

              She nodded. "Mm hm. I'd do anything for her. She saved my life. Coming to me just when I needed her. She was a hurt little thing, so sad, ready to—"

              She snapped out of it.

              "She's a great dog," said Pamela Tweed, brushing off her blazer, "but she covers me in hair. Terrible."

              "So Eli Campbell was a monster, eh?"

              "Eli Campbell is gone and we never have to worry about his awful behavior again. Period. Case closed."

              "Thank you, Ms. Tweed," I said, rising.

              "Pamela."

              "I still love your shoes, by the way."

              She looked up at me, unsmiling. "Thank you," she said weakly.

#

              I took a seat across from Frankie Meatballs himself. It was a Friday, usually a relatively slow day for business, even during peak season, as those who are spending the weekend in the Hamptons are usually still
en route
.

              He'd been hanging around in town for a week or two. I was able to get to him in the sneakiest of ways.

              I happen to know the manager of the Dock Street Theater. That is, I know what he likes: Darby's Maple Porter. So I sent a six-pack over to him and told him to keep his eyes open for Frankie Meatballs. You see, rumor had it that the Dock Street Theater was presenting A Streetcar Named Desire starring Tish McGovern as Blanche Dubois. Tish was one of the hottest stars on reality TV and was making her stage debut. Thanks to Pamela Tweed's gossip column, I learned that Frankie Meatballs had, on more than one occasion, expressed his undying love for Ms. McGovern. Ok, so I look at the supermarket tabloids too – after all, I'm only human.

              I figured Frankie Meatballs would definitely see his way to hit the theater at some point, if he hadn’t already. It was a crapshoot. And guess what? I hit a seven on the first throw.

              Turns out, Frankie Meatballs likes a good beer as much as he likes blonde wannabe starlets appearing in flimsy stock productions of classic plays. My guy at the Dock Theater shared a bottle with him and told him where to go to get more. Frankie stopped in at my place, I gave him one on the house, and he invited me to his restaurant in the city, transportation expenses paid.

              In the words of Chaucer: Boo-ya!

              Frankie's Italian Classic Restaurant was a cross between a club and a gaming arcade – that just happened to have the smell of garlic wafting through it. If I didn’t know any better, I'd swear there was a guy with a plate of the stuff crouched down by the air vents fanning it in. Classic rock music blasted all around, and the place was decked in flames and skulls and daggers everywhere. Even the light fixtures were skulls with the lightbulbs made to look like flames shooting out of the eye sockets.

              So there I sat, across from the man himself. Frankie Meatballs looked like a cross between a rock star and a tattoo artist with a little bit of that-guy-you-always-see-outside-of-a-7-11-reading-the-newspaper-on-top-of-the-garbage-pail thrown in there for good measure. His nails were perfectly manicured, rings on every finger, half of which were adorned with silver skulls with diamonds for eyes. He wore a black button-down shirt with flaming skulls on it over ripped jeans and black biker boots with chains on them. On top, he was completely bald with a tattoo of a dagger on the back of his head. His face bore a permanent five o'clock shadow, neatly sculpted via razor into a pattern of sharp angles.

              Frankie Meatballs had no choice but to be all about appearances; his food was terrible.

              I munched on a small plate of meatball appetizers as we chatted. The things tasted like sawdust. The liquid they were smothered in was a puddle of canned tomato sauce with a ton of salt and a little battery acid sprinkled in there. I was appalled. I couldn’t believe people came here in droves like they did. Frankie seemed to drink it all in like wine. He sat, rocking back on his chair, his hands behind his head, basking in his wealth and superstardom like some blinged-out Roman emperor.

              "So," he said, "a female brewer. Cool."

              I wasn't sure how much of this I'd be able to take, so I decided to cut to the chase.

              "So if you don’t mind, Mr. Fortino—"

              "Everyone calls me Frankie."

              I forced a smile. "Frankie, I’d like to talk about Eli Campbell."

              What was it about that name that made smiles disappear?

              "What do you wanna know?" he said, returning his chair to an upright position and putting both arms on the table.

              "Well, for starters, I know you had some interaction with him in the past, and I—"

              "Where'd you here that?"

              "You only need to Google your names."

              "You been Googling my name?"

              "Frankie, relax. I'm just saying—"

              "Listen," he said, jabbing a heavily metallic pointer finger at me, "I fought my way to the top every step of the way. I didn't come this far to get some two bit cook from the land of tea and crumpets to trash me every chance he could."

              "Then let's talk about that. He publically challenged you once, didn’t he?"

              Frankie Meatballs looked off to the side. "Yeah."

              "What happened there?"

              "You Googled it. You tell me."

              "From what I gather, the two of you agreed to meet somewhere and have a cook-off. Surprise ingredients, one hour to cook, the whole nine."

              He kept looking away, and began moving his bottom lip like he had something stuck on the inside of it. "Mm hm."

              "And..." I leaned forward. "Frankie, how do I put this delicately?"

              He looked me straight in the eye. "I choked hard."

              "It certainly seemed like it."

              "Not my fault."

              "I didn’t say it was."

              "That little weasel stacked the audience with his fans. And he had somebody tip him off to what the secret ingredient would be."

              "What was it again?"

              He looked off to the side again, breathed heavily through his nose, and then said quietly, "An etrog."

              "What was it?"

              He blinked slowly, looked at me, and said, "An etrog."

              I had to laugh. He didn’t seem amused. "What the hell?"

              "It's an Israeli fruit, kinda like a lemon. I had no idea what to do with it. I tried using it as a pizza topping. I think that may have been my downfall."

              "I'm sorry."

              "It wouldn’t have been so bad if Campbell wasn't such a sore winner. The challenge started because he insulted me over Twitter. Called me a fake chef. I had to rise to the challenge. But then after the cook-off, he took to Twitter and said I proved him right. He mocked my dishes, my meatballs, and my restaurants. Called my restaurants an Italian hillbilly playground, now what the hell is that supposed to mean, anyway?"

              I stifled a giggle. "I don’t know."

              "Well, I don’t have to worry about him, no more, I guess." His face then changed, as if he'd said too much. "Uh, listen, not that I'm glad he died, or how he died, you know, I'm just... hey, how do ya like those meatballs, huh? They’re my specialty. Frankie Meatballs, that's what they call me!"

              I choked down another bite of congealed pork fat and sawdust. "Scrumptious," I said with no saliva left.

              He rocked back on his chair, put his hands behind his head, and smiled.

#

              I returned to my office and a stack of paperwork like the Freedom Tower sitting on my desk. You'd be surprised how much of running a brewery is wrapped up in paper like this.

              I got a call from the front that there was a man there to see me.

              "Oh, hey, listen, does he look like Chris Evans?"

              "Excuse me?" said my girl.

              "You know, is he cute? Kinda rugged? Flawless face? Nice abs."