Barbecue, Bourbon and Bullets Page 3

  Whoa. I hadn't been expecting that. I conspicuously cast an eye on the dark-haired woman pouting closer to the front of the room. Lowering my voice and watching out for Avery, I prodded in a whisper, “His wife. What's her name again?”

  “Alma.”

  “Did you see her do it?”

  Debbie turned bloodshot eyes on me in a way that was definitely not friendly. “What, are you going to tell your cop boyfriend whatever I say?”

  Why yes, Debbie, I am.

  Aloud, I said in a tone I hoped sounded innocent, “How long do you want to be trapped in the place with your dead boss in the next room? Someone in that kitchen did this—do you want the cops to think it was you?” I let the unspoken part linger, hoping she'd incorrectly assume that blabbing to the cop’s girlfriend could possibly save her neck. It wouldn’t, but I wasn’t going to be the one to correct her.

  She sniffled, glanced over her shoulder. Greg, the chef, sat with arms folded in the back of the room. His hands were balled into fists.

  I said, “I was getting a vibe on the tour earlier tonight. Is there bad blood between the owners?”

  Debbie scoffed so loud the balding guy and his wife turned to glare at us. The kitchen doors flapped open and out came the EMTs. They spoke to Avery in low tones. One guy, fortyish with salt-and-pepper hair, gave a quick shake of the head.

  Alma, who'd been watching, let loose a short keen before covering her mouth and turning away.

  The detective's eyes flicked in her direction, landed on me for a second, and then went to Debbie. Avery didn't falter in his conversation with the EMTs. He walked them to the front of the restaurant.

  Debbie sniffled. “Bad blood is putting it lightly.” She leaned closer, “Rick was this big, fancy day trader, you know, making lots of money on Wall Street but he went a little bonkers and quit. Then he went and spent the last of his savings on this place with Greg. Seems he didn't tell Alma about spending all their money and she never forgave him even when the customers started piling in. Then there were the rumors...” Her voice trailed off.

  “OK, I'll bite. What rumors?”

  She looked over her shoulder again. This time, Greg was staring straight at us. Movement caught my eye. It was the dishwasher, Connor, sitting by himself in the opposite corner. The man blended in so well I hadn’t seen him till now. He gnawed at one fingertip and then another like a pit bull worrying at marrow in a bone.

  I don't know what did it, but Debbie was emboldened. Her voice became stronger, more confident. “You see that movie with Leonardo DiCaprio, Wall Street Wolf or something?”

  I nodded.

  “Yeah, well, Rick had developed some of those appetites, if you know what I mean.” She flicked the tip of her nose. “And those appetites flared up again with all the stress of launching this place. How do you think he became an expert about bourbon? It wasn't from some book or a class. All hands-on experience, plus who knows what else. And little ol' Alma was done with it. She didn't like being nearly poor either.”

  I volunteered, “I saw them going at it earlier during the tour.”

  “That's every night around here. Alma does the paperwork downstairs, and that's where they duke it out. Greg over there,” she tipped her head in his direction, “does as much refereeing as he does cooking.”

  As if speaking his name conjured the man, Greg was no longer at the rear table. He was beside us. His lips were pinched at the corners. “Debbie, you aren't over here running your mouth, are you?”

  His tone made me flinch, but the waitress folded her arms, defiant. “And if I am, so what? I was just telling her how you needed to mind your business, and let a husband and wife take care of their problems.”

  “Deb-bra.” He dragged out the syllables as if to give warning.

  Avery snapped his fingers a few times. “Hey you, CWA. Now is not the time to have an attitude, back to where you were.”

  Greg took a step backward but not before laying a hand on Debbie's shoulder.

  She shrugged it off and said, “Go sit down, Greg. You had your chance.”

  I think if the chef could've physically removed Debbie, he would have. Instead, he plunked back down at the rear table.

  With another heated glance at the chef, Debbie said, “Alma did it. She was standing right next to him when it happened.”

  “Where were you?”

  Her eyes shifted the slightest bit, “At the walk-in fridge, I think. I was getting your dessert for Greg to prepare.”

  “Did you hear a gun go off?”

  “No, I didn't hear anything, but Connor had just started up the dishwasher. It gets loud in there.”

  I wasn't sure if a dishwasher, even a commercial one, would mask the sound of gun going off. Grover's kitchen wasn't that small, but it wasn't the size of a luxury hotel's either.

  The front door of the restaurant opened. A uniformed police officer rushed in. Despite the dark blue of his uniform, sweat stains darkened the front and arms of his shirt. He was young and might as well have had rookie inked across his forehead.

  Avery, who'd been shifting from foot to foot in increasing agitation, made a beeline for the cop. “Just you?”

  The officer took his cap off and wiped his brow. “For now, sir, yes. My captain told me to come down here ASAP and assist the detective on scene. At the precinct we're swamped. There weren’t any cars available either. I had to take the subway here.”

  They shook hands, and Avery pulled him aside where they could talk and monitor the room.

  After a bit, Avery broke away and headed for the kitchen. I turned back to Debbie and was surprised to see she'd moved her seat. Her head was down on the table again.

  OK. Guess that conversation was over.

  I glanced over my shoulder. Greg rolled his eyes at me and snorted with irritation.

  “Ali, could you come here, please?” Avery stood half-in, half-out of the kitchen doors.

  On the five second walk, I tried to gauge Avery’s mood by the expression on his face. I got nothing. It was like trying to read a rock. He must be a pro at poker.

  “What were you doing?” he asked the second I was close enough.

  I feigned confusion. “Sitting down?”

  “Don't play, Ali, you were talking to the waitress, and I can tell it wasn't idle chit-chat about barbecue sauce.”

  “I was just asking her about what happened.”

  “Do I need to explain why you should stay out of this?”

  I folded my arms. “What, I can't have a conversation?”

  Avery mimicked my pose. “I'm going to pretend you just said, yes, Detective Hamilton, I know this is a delicate, sensitive situation with a killer on the loose and I won't do anything to tamper with evidence or potential suspects.”

  “Oh, we’re not on a first name basis anymore, huh?”

  He shut his eyes, and I could tell he was mentally counting to ten in order to stay calm. Avery stood with his back against one door, propping it open. The kitchen was a goldmine of evidence and he was practically dangling it in front of me.

  “Ali, yes, we’re on a first name basis, but I need you—” he started but a sudden racket cut him off. We both turned to the depths of the kitchen. The noise was coming from the back somewhere. I conveniently took the opportunity to lean against the other door, pushing it open.

  Now I could see everything. Much better.

  “What's that coming from?” Avery crossed the threshold of the kitchen.

  I pointed to the obvious steel culprit hunching in the corner. “My guess is the dishwasher.”

  The detective hollered into the dining room. “Hey, which one of you can turn the dishwasher off?”

  Two of the Grover's staff answered the call.

  Connor got to us first, adjusting his apron. “I can get it, boss. A fork got loose again or something.”

  Greg put up a hand and eased past the junior staff member. “No, I got it. I'm tired of sitting around doing nothing.” He sidled past us and sa
id, “It probably is just a fork. It'll take a second.”

  “I'm coming with you. Watch your step and don’t touch anything you don’t have to.” Avery pointed back to the dining room. “You, back to your seat. Bossman doesn't need help with a fork. Thank you.”

  Connor paused, his eyes flicking from Greg's back to the dishwasher. “Ahh, OK. I guess you're right,” he said in a soft voice. He wavered there for a second more before back stepping into the dining room.

  Avery mouthed to me, “Stay right here,” before following Greg. Like the restaurant co-owner, he gingerly sidestepped the body. A white sheet, likely a gift from the EMTs, draped the still form.

  The clattering grew in intensity but stopped just as Greg's hand poised over the washer's controls. The cop and chef looked at each other. Greg shrugged and said, “Problem solved.”

  The sudden absence of sound made it glaringly obvious how loud the dishwasher had been. The hum had sort of been like white noise that’s easy to ignore until it was turned off. I still didn't think it had been noisy enough to cover a gun going off.

  The detective gestured. “Open it up.”

  The dishwasher was one made for a professional kitchen. It resembled a large silver box sitting in the middle of a conveyor belt. Push trays of dirty dishes in on one side, pull out cleaned items on the other. Greg lifted a silver door panel and hauled out a large green tray loaded with plates.

  Greg clicked his teeth. “Yeah, see here? The kid just threw the silverware on the flat part of the tray. He should've loaded them into one of the cup holders meant for the flatware.”

  Oooh, I couldn’t see anything by these stupid doors. Even standing on tippy-toes didn’t give me a better vantage point.

  “Thank you, you can head on back to your seat now.”

  The chef left without saying anything more. Avery followed him out and went over to the uniformed cop who'd taken up a position near the front. On request the cop handed over his flashlight.

  I watched as Avery backtracked his way to the dishwasher and peered inside using the flashlight. After a minute he said, “Ali, I want you to come in here. Don't touch anything. Avoid the body.”

  Yippee! I was barely able to contain my excitement. Though walking by the body was a little disconcerting. Over at the dishwasher, Avery stood with the flashlight at his side.

  I said, “So, figure out what was making the noise?”

  He nodded, “Yeah, a fork like they said. It’s on the bottom inside the unit, there, you see it? But that's not why I called you over here. I called you over to tell me what that is.” He pointed into the rack of dishes.

  Immediately my senses went on orange alert. A clue, he must've found a clue. But as I looked down, all I saw were white, ceramic dishes in a wire rack that was poised within the larger tray. Behind the dishes, there was an open area. In that space was a scattered assortment of loose utensils, tongs, and spatulas. Yeah, Connor had been lazy loading these up.

  It took my eye a minute to focus on what was out of place. Something silver, but a darker shade than the other utensils, rested in the tray. The thing looked like it was made from burnished steel. It was small, seven inches in length, cone-shaped with a thick base and narrowed opening.

  Avery asked, “Is that something that should be in a professional kitchen?”

  My fingers were itching to pick the thing up. I peered at the object and then around at the kitchen trying to match it up with something. At the front of the dishwasher, two circular hoses hung from the top of the unit. One was green, the other silver. The green one had a bronze nozzle with a hand lever attached. It was dripping water. “I can't say for sure. This place is kinda unique because they use air to power their appliances. But it looks like a nozzle; maybe it goes to one of the hoses on the wall? It's possible they could run them through the washer if it got dirty somehow.” Even as I was saying it, my theory felt…off somehow. Close but no cigar.

  Avery didn't look convinced. But maybe that was just his stern cop face. “OK, thanks. Go back in the other room, please. Hopefully it won't be too much longer.”

  By the sound of his voice, even he didn't believe that.

  Back in the dining room, almost everyone who could was looking at their phones. Even the rookie cop. I think cell phones are dumbing down society in more ways than one. But I went to my seat, found my purse and pulled out my own. I wanted to check on how the demonstrations were going. If folks were getting unruly, then that meant the police would be busy and we’d be on lock-down all night.

  The live website feed on NY1, the local news station, showed the demonstrators were behaving but had also come out in unexpected numbers. No violence was good, but yup, we were going to be here a while.

  Avery came out of the kitchen. He looked at his watch and shook his head. The cop in the front held up his hands as if to say, “Hey, don't blame me.”

  Instead of going back to the kitchen, the detective went over to the rear tables where Greg was sulking. He sat down but not before asking both Connor and Debbie to move closer to the front of the restaurant.

  Connor moved without complaint, but Debbie shuffled along slowly as if the last thing she wanted to do was to miss the upcoming chat. She and I had that in common.

  My detective friend thankfully let me stay where I was, though I pretended to be absorbed in my phone.

  “Tell me what happened in there,” Avery said from a chair directly in front of the chef.

  “I told you in the kitchen when you asked the first time.”

  “Tell me again.”

  Greg sighed, sounding annoyed. “Rick and I were starting to clean up for the night. Alma called us over to talk about some orders. All of sudden, Rick bent over like he'd been hit. There was blood on his hand. Then he fell over. You came in a little while after that.”

  “Was that back door opened or closed?”

  “Closed.”

  Avery shifted in his chair. “Who was in the kitchen at the time, what were they doing?”

  “Ah, I let the other cooks, Gill and Todd, go home. They wanted to catch some band that's playing. So it was me, Rick, Alma. Connor had just bussed some tables and was loading up the washer. Debbie was by the walk-in fridge; I'd asked her to get something.”

  “Rick was shot. So who had the gun?”

  Greg started as if he was going to bolt. He met the detective's eye and settled down. “There was no gun. Couldn't have been. I was standing right next to him, I would know if he was shot!”

  Avery said, “I've been a cop for fifteen years. I know what a bullet wound looks like.”

  “I don't know what to tell you, then. It couldn't have been a gun because I would've heard it,” he held out his arms, “the entire restaurant would've heard it.”

  The detective held his tongue. When he didn't say anything, Greg wilted. “Are you questioning me, should I get a lawyer?”

  “No, I'm just getting your statement so when the investigating detectives are assigned, I can pass it on. Just trying to speed up the process.”

  “Are you supposed to be doing that? Speeding up the process?” Greg shot back, already recovering his verve.

  But Avery was nonchalant. “We'll find out, won't we? Go ask Alma to come back here so I can take her statement. Please.”

  Despite his attitude, Greg didn’t hesitate to get out of the line of fire. He took two steps past the detective and then backtracked. “Listen, go easy on Alma, she’s had it rough even before today.”

  I thought Avery was going to balk at the directive but he softened instead. “She’s had it rough in what way?”

  The chef’s eyes widened, possibly realizing he’d opened a can of worms. “Um, I only meant that she and Rick were going through some things, you know? Typical marriage stuff but they were toughing it out. She’s been overworked because of the restaurant’s success too.” He paused, as if contemplating what to say next. “Alma’s a good girl, wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

  Avery gave the chef a once-ov
er. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  That didn’t seem to be reassuring for Greg. When he walked by me his lips were pinched at the corners again. The words exchanged between him and Alma were much more than a request to go to the back. The chef was taller than the woman by a foot. He held her elbow and leaned close enough to kiss her. The pose looked comfortable and familiar. Really familiar, like how lovers would converse with one another.

  I wasn’t the only person watching them. Debbie eyed the couple like a bird of prey. Her face went still and so hard her cheekbones looked chiseled. When Alma broke away, Debbie's eyes followed her with such intensity, I was surprised the other woman didn’t turn to putty in her stilettos.

  When Alma passed me, Debbie caught me watching her. She quit with the evil eye, folded her arms and pouted. A few minutes later however, I caught her boring holes into the back of Greg’s head.

  Interesting. Could there have been some type of love triangle going on at Grover’s? Greg had seemed really possessive over the waitress earlier, downright bossy. Was that because something was going on between the two? Or was something going on between the chef and his partner’s wife? Or both?

  If so, Greg would’ve had motive to get Rick out of the way. He could have his woman and a successful business. But then what if a jilted woman wanted to hurt the man who was toying with her feelings? Framing Greg would be a good way to do it. That scenario put both Debbie and Alma on the suspect list.

  I tapped a little beat out on the table with a fingernail. The story was beginning to fill in, but there were still too many gaps. What I needed was a fly on the wall.

  My parents had been part of a new age movement and I’d grown up on a commune. Sometimes the adults would have community meetings. No kids allowed. But that didn’t stop me. I would hunker down in a little out-of-the-way spot, and hear everything the grownups were talking about until my little ears burned. Most of the time I didn’t get busted. I didn’t understand everything, I was only six, but that didn’t stop me from charging kids a nickel if they wanted to hear adult gossip.

  For some reason back then, I was easy to be overlooked. I’m sure that figures into some of my current-day neurosis. But back then, I could be invisible like a fly on the wall. And that’s what I needed now, someone who blended in and was often privy to private conversations.