Spoiled Rotten (4 page)

“Chapin doesn't work here anymore.” Seeing my surprise, he added, “He quit, I guess.” Having exhausted his quota of chit-chat for the moment, or perhaps the decade, the guard spun his massive bulk around as daintily as a ballerina and swiftly retreated into the nether regions from which he appeared.

My stomach rumbled and I realized with all the driving around searching for Daniel, I had missed lunch. I was hungry and longing for a glass of our newly listed Zinfandel wine. Imagining the velvety rope of ruby-red liquid wrapping sumptuously round my tongue, I smacked my lips and thought about heading back to Walker's for lunch. I've been eating in my own restaurant for over a decade and can't say I'm bored with the concept yet. I can order anything I want from the menu and if I don't see anything I like, I ask the chef to make me something special. Then I remembered Rick was cooking today and decided a glass of wine and a salad from the cold kitchen would suffice.

I got lost down another corridor and was about to retrace my steps when I heard a phone ringing. Another door swung open and I heard talking.

“I am not going to be held responsible. This was your grand scheme and I will not be part of it.”

The voice was hoarse, strained, and loud. It sounded like Daniel, but I couldn't be sure.

I raced toward the voice. Suddenly, the hallway was filled with light from three overhead spots, and, not wanting to be caught snooping, I bent over a water fountain attached to the wall, pretending to get a drink. Like a fawn, I innocently sipped at the bubbling water until a blow of searing pain shot straight through the back of my head and raced to my knees. For one brief second I watched a candy cane of blood swirl around the white enamel basin and down the drain until my hand slipped off the handle.

When I woke up, I was sitting in a dentist chair with the grim Winn at my side. My head felt heavy and my mouth was all twisted. I tried speaking, but a nurse stuck a suction tube on my tongue to collect a bucket of drool. Winn saw my eyes open and came to my side. The doctor removed the bib and helped me sit up.

“Well, Mrs. Walker, the light sedation I gave you while I examined your wound is wearing off. You're at St. Michael's Hospital. Do you know where that is?”

I nodded my head — big mistake.

“The X-rays show no skull fractures, just bruising in this area here.”

He went to touch it and I cringed in my chair. Detective Winn rolled his eyes.

“I can't do much about the chip in your front tooth right now,” the doctor said. “The force of the hit to the back of your head jammed your mouth into the faucet. It's badly swollen, but that will go down in a few days. You can take a couple of 222s when you need to ease the pain. Come back in two days to have that head wound redressed. And if you have any symptoms of a concussion you need to contact your own doctor right away.”

I held out my hand to catch the pills and then he pivoted around on his paper slippers and flew out of the emergency room, lab coat literally flapping in the wind. I guessed I didn't help make his day any easier.

“Here,” said Winn and he handed me a plastic baggie filled with cotton-batten rolls. I touched my head and whimpered.

“If you expect me to feel sorry for you, I don't. You're lucky someone called the police.”

“Who called?” is what I said, but it came out sounding more like “Ru walled.”

Winn interpreted my slurred question accurately. His job would require him to listen to a lot of punched-up drunks.

“I don't know, Ms. Walker, but I have a feeling you do.” Suddenly I was so tired I wanted to lie down on one of the gurneys parked against the wall. I felt as if I could sleep for a week.

Winn ordered a policewoman waiting outside the room to drive me home and see that I got tucked in safely, but not before telling me he would arrange a time for another interview when I felt better.

My son, Jon, over six feet tall and built like a rugby player, came to the door the minute the blue and white pulled up to the curb. The police must have called him at school. His number is in my wallet in case of emergency. My mother's number is, too, but heaven forbid she find out any unfortunate information that I haven't already screened. She'd just stare at me and shake her head until I wanted to strangle her.

Jon was in his fourth year at a local college, studying environmental science. His young face was lined with concern. Together the rookie and my boy helped me through the front door and upstairs to bed.

As I eased the covers up to my swollen chin, sinking into the feathery pillows, I could hear them talking downstairs in the hall. She was probably close to the same age as Jon, around early twenties. Halfway to dreamland I heard the pretty rookie giggle.

I
went back to work Monday morning after taking two days off to recuperate. My head ached and the room tilted sideways if I stood up fast. The chip in my tooth was barely noticeable, but my jaw was still visibly swollen. The painkillers the doctor gave me made me sleep through the nights without waking once. Something I didn't mind at all. Detective Winn called several times only to have my son answer and tell him I was sleeping. Jon kept a tight vigil and although I felt fine, he would shake his head and mouth “NO” whenever the phone rang.

I'd have to postpone any rigorous exercise for a few more days and my regularly planned visit to the gym this afternoon would have to wait. Because I do my own shopping for the restaurant, which includes lifting heavy cases of beer, wine, and liquor in and out of my car's trunk and because my office is up forty steep steps to the second floor, I'm in better shape than if I used a StairMaster.

Unfortunately, my routine of pounding the track at the gym would be missed. With state-of-the-art headphones and a player full of hardcore rhythm and blues, I get so high on endorphins that I should be issued a safety rope. My present condition, incapable of bending over without feeling dizzy, was hardly a recommendation for doing laps around my living room, let alone a mile-long relay.

Most wannabe restaurateurs think you have to work every weekend and evenings in order to run a tight ship. Not really. The restaurant is more likely to fall into trouble on a Monday or Tuesday when the only staff scheduled are fledgling waiters and second-string kitchen help (If for some bizarre reason, like the bus stops here and the place fills up, then heaven help.) The most experienced floor staff and kitchen people work Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, traditionally the busiest shifts, so I leave it up to them to run the show. Invariably, when I do try to help, I somehow manage to get underfoot and shooed out of the way.

The name Walker's Way Bistro was etched with white paint onto a wide expanse of plate-glass window that ran across the front of the building. Other than a band poster stuck to the front door, there was no recent evidence of foul play. The plate glass has had to be replaced so many times in the past that it eventually caused the insurance underwriters to levy an enormous deductible. This was to discourage me from filing any more claims and it worked. One more thing I expected to pay out of pocket. Crazies, bums, and dope fiends sadly have nothing better to do than smash my windows in the wee hours of the night. And in case you're wondering, I am not an egomaniac. I named the place Walker's Way because my last name is Walker and I hate making up names; hence the name Kitty, for the cat.

I unlocked the front door of the restaurant, tilting my head to avoid the drooping steel chain that was attached to the top of it. Using ready-made cement, Rick had secured the other end of the safety cable into the brick surrounding the door. When he first showed me the chain, I asked him what he did with the ocean liner that it belonged to. It was a heavy son of a gun. He explained the chain was guaranteed not to snap (duh, no kidding).

Two years ago, in the height of a nasty storm, the front door flew off its hinges and flipped end over end down the street, narrowly missing a station wagon with Oregon licence plates. I remember Rick running down the street after it and the looks on the occupants' faces that silently screamed, “Toto, we're not in Kansas anymore.”

Breakfast was not served Monday through Wednesday for fear of staff mutiny. It was a couple of hours before the front servers would be arriving and the dining room was empty. The kitchen staff was prepping in the back, but they may as well have been on the moon. They came in the back door, left by the back door, and unless they were dying of thirst and couldn't terrorize one of the servers into bringing them beverages, they never ventured out front.

Personally, I would have preferred leaving the front door open, but Rick convinced me locking it was better. Anyone could walk in and steal a tablecloth or even a table, for that matter, but as I tried to tell him, it was highly unlikely that would happen again.

Ultimately, the real reason we locked the front door was because we got tired of finding people sitting at the tables. Heaven only knows how long people have sat there waiting for a menu. Granted, some of our waiters are slow, but if the there's a mop with a bucket of dirty water in the middle of the floor, then — trust me when I say this people — you're not getting one anytime soon.

I could hear the kitchen staff busy preparing for a new week. Most of the desserts, salad dressings, and stocks would have been consumed over the busy weekend and needed replenishing. Without a head chef, there would be a lot more prep than usual.

Before heading up to the office, I took a peek in the kitchen. Rick was talking to a bald man with the beginning of a pot belly who looked to be around forty years of age. He had a firm grip on a black leather briefcase and a cook's knife pouch tucked under his arm, very professional-looking.
Well done
, I thought, wondering where Rick found a replacement chef so quickly. It didn't matter, Rick has his own resources and as long as he was happy, so was I. I wanted to ask what restaurants the man hailed from, but decided not to interrupt while I still had a slightly swollen jaw and a gauze bandage on the top of my head. Wouldn't want to give the new help the wrong impression.

The office answering machine light was blinking. I recognized the caller's name and reached out to play the message back when someone knocked at the door. Detective Winn walked in, took two steps forward, and stopped cold. Surprise, or perhaps it was disgust, crept across his face as he took in the surroundings. I was the first to admit the office was messy and yet somehow I never felt like cleaning it up. Stacks of file folders and paper receipts covered the desk. Tools of every sort, more plumbing parts, plastic totes full of electrical doodads, and a roll of pink insulation dominated one end of the floor. It was a necessary environment of flux and flow that I found comforting.

Instead of artwork, I have ten years of past menus nailed to the walls, a few in frames, and the others laminated. The only similarity between them over the last ten years was the hamburger. Even the Dijon mustard, the only condiment served along with it, was the same. Never fear, ketchup was just a simple request away, with our waiters always happy to oblige. Well not always. I'm told they sometimes lie and say we're all out, but not when I'm around.

Before I finally relented and purchased a deep fryer, the burger was served with potato salad. The salad was good, but not nearly as good as the shoestring fries we serve now. Kudos to the inventors of deep fryers, without which my weekly craving of deep fried calamari would go unfulfilled. One thing the restaurant lacks is a microwave and unless someone buys me out or kills me, it shall remain forever so.

Detective Winn caught me staring at him and he blushed. I thought that that was adorable for a big guy like him and smiled.

He snorted. “Ms. Walker. That jaw looks sore. Maybe you should have stayed off your feet for a few more days.”

“I can't rest. Too hyper. I'm lucky to get a good night's sleep when life is normal. With all this excitement, I just hover above the bed. Might as well be at work. Want a coffee? It will just take me a minute.” Jeepers, I was chipper.

A small Gaggia espresso machine that was about a hundred years old was kept in the office. It used to be housed in the restaurant, but it'd had its guts repaired so many times that I couldn't afford to repair it anymore. Besides, the original parts, which the importer brought over from Italy fifty years ago, were all used up. I baby it now.

“That would be great, thanks,” he replied. “While we're waiting, I wanted to ask you some questions about the business.”

I swung a chair around for him, brushing off a few crumbs that were stuck to the seat. “Why, you thinking of getting into it?” I asked. “I think you make a better-looking cop than a maitre'd.”

“I'm not sure if that's a compliment or an insult.” He blushed again and sat down.

“Neither am I. Sometimes I have no idea what I mean.” I cleared my throat, wondering why I was picking on the guy and asked him, “If you're so surprised to see me, then why exactly are you here?”

“I understand Richard Best is the executive manager for the restaurant. I was hoping he could give me some information about Daniel. A resumé could be useful if you still have one around.”

I rummaged around in a desk drawer and pulled out a file marked “Chefs.” Someone's resumé with the name of Philip Sutherland was on top. Presumably it belonged to the new guy Rick was showing around downstairs. Daniel's was next. I stuck Daniel's resumé in the scanner, made a copy, and handed him the original.

Winn slipped it into his briefcase and looked at me, waiting for goodness knows what. I began wondering if he was single when he finally broke the spell.

“How well did you know Mr. Vieira, the deceased, Ms. Walker?”

“I didn't know him. I saw him sometimes when I was shopping in his store, but never socially.”

“Maria D'Agnole was an employee of his. Did you know her?”

“We were acquainted. Is that important?”

“I'm trying to get a background. She was the one who found the packages along with, ah, the other things.”

“What other things?”

“Can't give out details as yet. Some things only the killer and the police know.”

“How's she doing?”

“Some initial shock was to be suspected. She's recovering at home. I thought you might shed some light on her personality, and while you're at it,” he said, leaning toward me in his chair, “I was hoping you might tell me where your chef is.”

“I don't know where he is. No one has seen him.” It was my turn to lean forward. I leaned forward to meet his gaze, two could play his game. “Why are you asking me about Maria? Do you think she killed him?”

“We're conducting a thorough investigation and your co-operation would be appreciated. If you don't mind …” He pulled out a notebook and read flatly, “Ms. D'Agnole was asked by her boss to open the store that morning as he had a personal matter to see to. A cabbie dropped her off at the rear entrance in the lane behind the store. It was very early, still dark out, and nothing else open in the lane except for the bakery. The driver remembers, ‘The smell of fresh bread seeping into the car.' He was worried about her since she was alone and watched her until she was safely inside.

“A homeless man, who bedded down in the store's doorway, heard a scream, and when he looked in the window, saw her lying on the floor inside. Ms. D'Agnole hit her head on the glass display unit when she fainted.” He closed his notebook and under his breath I heard him mutter, “I think I would've, too.”

The detective looked up and waited for me to speak.

I had nothing. “So?” I said.

“Is it possible your chef was having an affair with Maria?”

“How on earth did you jump to that conclusion?”

“The initials W.W. were written in the victim's own blood. I believe someone was trying to — as they say in the movies — point us in a direction. We are trying to establish a motive for the murder, maybe jealousy.”

“I don't think he knew Maria or anyone else from Superior Meats. Daniel left the orders on their answering machine and they were delivered the next day. Since there was a minimum amount required for delivery, I sometimes went in to pick up the odd item. To my knowledge he never did.”

“When we questioned the store's staff about your chef, they said they knew you from shopping in there, but didn't recall your chef's name. Yet when we showed them his driver's licence photo, they immediately recognized him. Recently, on separate occasions, he had been seen talking to Mr. Tony in his back office. None of them overheard their conversations or knew what it was concerning. What do you think of that?”

“I have no idea what he was doing.”

“One of the staff there mentioned you were on friendly terms with Maria D'Agnole.”

“I'm a friendly person. There's a coffee shop next door to Superior Meats where the staff take their breaks. I often grabbed a muffin in there and chatted with the girls. Maria was a little distant with the others, but she was always nice to me. She often sat by herself and I'd join her. We talked a few times over coffee and occasionally in the store when she wasn't being shadowed by her boss.”

“Shadowed?”

“Yes, Mr. Tony, as the girls liked to call him, had a thing for her. He was always whispering in her ear. One day I watched him trail his fingers along her spine. The other sales girls saw it, too. It gave me a chill. I've been shopping in there for over ten years and from what I've seen, I think he had a thing for a couple of them. The women are different ages, but Maria was a very young girl when she started at the store, maybe eighteen or nineteen years old.”

My thoughts drifted back and I started to remember what Maria had told me about growing up in Canada.

After Maria's mother became sick and died of breast cancer, her father, Roberto, moved his family from Portugal to Canada in search of a new life. Maria was a sad little eight-year-old who spoke no English. Two older sisters battled their way through the Ontario educational system, dropped out as soon as legally possible, and moved away even sooner. Left all alone in a house that their father paid for by working ten-hour shifts, six days a week, Maria was looked after by a young widowed Portuguese girl who eventually became Mr. D'Agnole's second wife.

Loneliness translated itself into sullenness, making Maria appear aloof to others her own age. She had no friends or family and her stepmother, whom she never got on with and who preferred the smaller but airier kitchen on the first floor, left her alone to study in the basement's grotto-styled kitchen undisturbed for hours.