Killer gourmet, p.22
Killer Gourmet, page 22
She simply shook her head and gave him a sweet smile. “I’ve already had my daily half-cup. But thanks anyway.”
Waycross walked over to Savannah’s chair and placed the mug in her hands. Catching sight of her tear-swollen eyes, he said, “You all right, sis? You look like you’ve been crying.”
“Naw. It’s just my sinuses acting. You know, the Santa Ana winds and all that mess.”
“I didn’t know you have sinus problems,” he persisted.
“I do today. Okay?” she snapped back. “Now what were you all saying about looking for that rod and knife?”
Although she was trying to avoid Dirk’s eyes, she could feel him staring at her from the other side of the room. He had been watching her since he had walked in from the kitchen. But now that Waycross had brought attention to her red eyes, her detective husband was giving her the piercing, see-all-know-all Sergeant Coulter special.
For a moment, she knew what it felt like to be in the sweat box with Dirk doing the interrogating. He had that intimidating “I know all your secrets” look down pat. No wonder criminals folded like a poorly wrapped burrito when he questioned them.
“We looked everywhere,” John said. “We’re positively flummoxed. Haven’t a clue where the bloody things are.”
“The other night,” Savannah said, “when you had that meeting with the staff . . . did anybody go back in the kitchen or the bathroom?”
“Absolutely not,” John told her. “The crime scene tape is still across the doorway, and we told them in no uncertain terms not to set foot in there.”
Ryan added, “And they didn’t. We had our eyes on them the whole time. Nobody went in there. It’s been sealed since the crime occurred.”
Dirk walked over to Savannah, slid her footstool over beside her chair, and sat down on it. Placing his hand on her knee, he said softly, “How did your . . . um . . . errand go?”
Suddenly, she felt as though everyone in the room was staring at her, giving her the same old hawk-eyed look as Dirk.
She took a quick glance around the room and saw that she was right. They were all staring at her with big question mark eyes.
Why did her friends and family all have to be detectives? It made it nigh to impossible to get away with anything.
She turned back to Dirk and said calmly, “Thanks for asking, but lousy. By the time I got there, they were all sold out of my size. You know how those stupid clearance sales are.”
The room was silent.
If a cricket had been chirping five miles away, they could have all heard it and understood every word it was saying.
“How did your interview with Yale Ingram go?” she asked Dirk.
“Okay.” His expression was still guarded and hurt, and that went straight to her heart. “I asked him why he stopped by the restaurant the day of the testing. He said he wanted to see the new place, wanted to see what Norwood had thrown him over for.”
“Really straightforward stuff,” Savannah said.
“Yeah. He was pretty nice and polite about it all, until I suggested that maybe the reason he stopped by that day was to tell Norwood that he had dropped the lawsuit . . . so Norwood wouldn’t tell his wife about the orgy.”
“The what?” A wide-eyed Tammy whirled around in her seat, suddenly all ears.
“Come on now, girl,” Granny said. “I’m an old lady from the one-stoplight town of McGill, Georgia, and even I know what an orgy is. It’s when more than two people get together and commit a bunch of debauchery and wickedness and call it ‘fun.’ And I’ll have you know, it was your generation that thought up that hooey. Until y’all invented it, there weren’t such things in the world. My generation wouldn’t have dreamed of such a thing.”
For a moment, visions flashed through Savannah’s mind of the depravity of the Roman Emperors, the promiscuous ancient Greeks, and several rather lascivious accounts she had read in the Old Testament. But out of respect for her grandmother, she decided to let Granny think the flower children of the sixties had doomed mankind with their newly discovered sexual promiscuity.
“Anyway,” Dirk continued, “Yale told me at the time of the murder he was addressing a group of investors in the valley. Over a hundred of them, as a matter of fact.”
“And we’ve verified that here on the Internet,” Tammy proudly announced. “They even posted a video of his speech on Facebook.”
“Well, heck,” Savannah said, “if it’s on Facebook it has to be true.”
Granny tapped her finger on Savannah’s suspect board. “No matter how you slice this cake, you just keep coming back to the same thing. It must’ve been this Francia girl. And she must’ve stashed that rod and that knife someplace. Y’all just haven’t found it yet. And I know why.”
Everyone turned to Granny, eager to hear her words of wisdom.
“And why is that, Mrs. Reid?” John wanted to know. “Please, do tell.”
“Because so far the only ones who’ve been looking for those things were Savannah—and she’s been pretty muddleheaded lately—and menfolk. And everybody knows that when a man’s looking for something and it doesn’t up and fall right into his outstretched hand, he ain’t got a clue.”
She stood and began to collect the empty coffee mugs from around the room. “There’s only one thing left to do. We all hightail it outta here, get our backsides over to that new restaurant of yours . . . which I’ve been dyin’ to see anyway. I’ll betcha with some women along—gals who ain’t been discombobulated, that is—we’re gonna find us some murder weapons.”
“Okay, you boys were right. There ain’t no weapons here,” Granny said as she collapsed onto one of the restaurant’s dining room chairs and propped her elbows on the table. “Leastways, not those particular weapons . . . the ones that did the deed.”
As Dirk, Waycross, and Tammy followed her lead, taking seats at the large, round table, Savannah sat next to Granny and draped her arm across her grandmother’s shoulders.
“I agree with you, Gran,” she said. “Of all the zillions of knives in this joint, there’s not one that matches that description, with the partially serrated blade. And when Dirk and I were scrounging around for that rod the other day, it was measly pickings.”
Ryan walked over to their table, carrying a tray of glasses filled with ice. John followed with a large, frosty pitcher of water. They set it in the middle of the table and took seats.
Savannah reached for the pitcher and began filling the glasses for the overheated and overworked group of searchers.
“I’ve gotta tell you, this case is making me crazy,” Dirk said, rubbing his eyes. “We’ve got all of these suspects, all these motives. And every one of them has an alibi.”
“Except for Francia,” Ryan replied.
“Francia Fortun, as in, our new replacement chef,” John said, shaking his head. “I must confess, comrades, I’m sinking deeper and deeper into the well of depression by the moment.”
Dirk gave a dry chuckle. “And you know what they say about those wells being colder than a—”
“Watch it, young man,” Granny snapped. “I know that quaint little phrase, and a whole lot more to boot. But I don’t go using them in mixed company.”
Dirk blushed and ducked his head. “Sorry, Granny.”
Tammy giggled. “Colder than a flat frog on a Philadelphia freeway in February?”
Dirk perked up. “Yeah, right. That’s what I meant to say.”
Savannah slid a glass of water across the table to John. “Try not to worry, sugar. This is all going to work out in the end. You just wait and see.”
“That’s for sure,” Waycross agreed. “You’re gonna have this fine establishment up and running like a top in no time.”
Granny nodded. “These trials and tribulations will soon be a thing of the past.”
“Just as soon as we nail the killer,” Savannah said.
She pressed her fingertips to her aching temples, intending to give them a brief massage. But she glanced around the table and saw that Granny, Dirk, and Waycross were all watching her intently, worried looks on their faces. So she thought better of it and folded her hands on the table in front of her.
“It has to be Francia Fortun.” Tammy gave Ryan and John a sympathetic look. “I’m sorry, guys. I know that would leave you in a really bad place chef-wise. But she’s the only suspect without an alibi.”
“That’s true,” Ryan agreed reluctantly. “She’s the only one who had opportunity.”
Dirk sniffed and leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head. “Yeah? Well, there’s no way I could sell that to the prosecutor: ‘She’s the only one who could have done it, so she did it.’ That ain’t gonna fly.”
Everyone at the table sat still and quiet for a long time. Savannah could tell by the depressed looks on their faces that they were as pessimistic about this case as she was.
For the first time in years, she was beginning to think that a homicide she was working on might go unsolved. Possibly forever. And while, sooner or later, that was a sad reality in every investigator’s career, she had no intention of surrendering the battle just yet.
There had to be a way. There was always a way.
To Savannah’s way of thinking, the cause of justice was a sacred endeavor. And she liked to think that she and her loved ones, who were seated around the table, fought on the side of the angels.
More than once she believed they had received a bit of celestial assistance when working a case that appeared to be stuck at a dead end. She couldn’t help thinking that now would be a good time for a bit of divine guidance.
Glancing to her left, she saw that Granny was chewing her bottom lip, her forehead wrinkled in a deep scowl, her eyes narrowed.
Savannah knew the look.
When she had been a kid and saw “The Look,” she knew that either she or one of her siblings was about to “Get It.” That expression on Granny’s face indicated that she had just figured something out. Like: Marietta hadn’t spent the night at her girlfriend’s house after all but had lied so she could sneak out with that worthless Randall Cooter kid again. Or: Macon’s new bicycle that he said he found in a ditch somewhere bore an unsettling resemblance to the one reported stolen at a carnival over in Ringgold the week before.
“What is it, Granny?” she asked. “Have you got something?”
“I do believe I might.”
Dirk perked up. “Then let’s have it.”
“Now ain’t the time to be shy,” Waycross added.
Granny drummed her fingertips on the table. “I don’t want to get everybody’s hopes up. It might be nothin’.”
“Don’t worry about that, love,” John said. “ ‘Nothing’ is all we have at the moment anyway. That’s the only good thing about floundering down here in the Well of Despair. There’s nowhere to go but up.”
“Okay, then. Here goes.” Granny drew a deep breath. “Who says this Francia Fortun was the only person in the kitchen area when the chef was murdered?”
“Are you suggesting someone else was in there, too?” Savannah asked.
Granny shook her head. “No. I’m literally asking you—who said that she was the only person in there? Who told you that?”
“An eyewitness,” Dirk said.
“Eyewitnesses can be wrong,” Granny argued.
“Yes,” Savannah said. “But this particular witness seems reliable, and he’s unbiased. He has no reason to lie.”
“Unless he’s your killer.”
Granny’s simple statement hung in the air, like smoke after a fireworks explosion.
“Think about it,” she continued. “We’ve pretty much proven that what he said happened couldn’t have happened. It’s not possible.”
“What do you mean?” Savannah asked.
“He told you that Francia went inside to go to the bathroom. The chef got killed, according to Dr. Liu, with a rod, knife, and meat cleaver. And nobody but y’all who were officially working the case have gone in and out of that room since then. Except for those three kitchen workers, Francia, Manuel, and Carlos. And none of them carried the weapons out. Right?”
“Right,” Savannah said. “We checked them. Nobody was carrying anything on their person.”
“Now, see there?” Granny smiled. “According to your feller, nobody left with the weapons, and yet the weapons ain’t there. That just makes no sense. And I learned a long time ago, when somethin’ don’t make sense, most times it’s ’cause it ain’t true.”
Savannah began to chew on her bottom lip, just as Granny had done, as the pieces of the puzzle rearranged themselves in her head. “We based all of our assumptions on what Otis Emmett told us,” she said.
“Sure we did,” Dirk replied. “He was the one in the back alley with a front-row seat to everything that was going on. He was the one keeping an eye on the back door when it all went down.”
“So he says,” Granny answered. “But who was keeping an eye on him?”
“He’s a vet,” Dirk said softly.
Savannah reached over and touched his hand. “I know, darlin’. But even veterans are human beings. Precious as they are, some of them lie from time to time.”
Tammy had her tablet out and was vigorously working the screen. The light of discovery glowed in her eyes. “He’s more than a vet,” she said. “He got a medal for taking out a bunch of enemy snipers single-handedly and saving a dozen of his fellow soldiers.”
“Great,” Dirk said, sinking even lower in his chair. “You’re suggesting that our killer could be a decorated war hero.”
“I don’t like it any more than you do, Dirk,” Ryan said. “But Granny’s right. It doesn’t make sense that—”
Tammy gasped, and everyone at the table turned to stare at her, watching as the blood drained from her face.
“Oh no,” she said. “You’re not going to believe this.”
Waycross laid his hand on her shoulder. “What is it, sweetie?”
“It’s how he killed those enemy soldiers. They were hiding individually in various places along the top of a ridge. He had to sneak up on them and take them out quietly, one by one.”
Time seemed to slow for Savannah, as it did at moments like this . . . important moments, when a case turned 180 degrees.
She knew what Tammy was going to say even before she spoke the words: “He used an ASP baton and a Ka-Bar—”
“—U.S. Marine Corps fighting knife.” Dirk shook his head, looking heartsick. “I used one myself. It’s exactly the right length and has a combo blade, partially serrated. Why the hell didn’t I think of that before?”
“Because you couldn’t bear to, sugar,” Granny told him sweetly. “You soldiers never stop being soldiers, ever. And you’re all brothers. How could you stand to think a brother could do such a thing?”
Dirk rose from the table, ran his fingers through his hair, adjusted his jeans, and checked the Smith & Wesson in his shoulder holster. He turned to Ryan and John. “He’s probably still out back in the alley. Do you two wanna come along when I talk to him?”
“The guy who closed down our restaurant?” Ryan asked.
“The bloody maggot who murdered our chef in our own kitchen?” John added. “Let me at him.”
As the three men started for the door, Granny said, “Those fellas take their restaurant business mighty serious.”
“You have no idea.” Savannah jumped to her feet. “Let’s go, too. With any luck, they’ll need some assistance.”
Chapter 20
Otis Emmett wasn’t in the alley.
But fortunately, the Moonlight Magnolia gang found a young lady loitering in the vicinity who was a good friend of his, and she was all too eager to talk.
Wearing nothing but a low-cut tie-dyed tee-shirt and crocheted shorts that left little to the imagination, the woman introduced herself to the group as “Chicago.”
At first, Savannah thought it was a ridiculous name. But on second thought, she decided she was in no position to judge, considering her own name and those of her eight siblings, also named after cities in Georgia.
The crocheted shorts, though . . . she had no problem condemning those. She could see all the way to Kalamazoo, and if Chicago moved just wrong, she was afraid she might see Kalamazoo, too.
However, Chicago was friendly enough and helpful as she rattled on about how handsome, smart, brave, and strong Otis Emmett was.
Apparently, true love could blossom in alleys as abundantly as anywhere else.
After listening to the woman prattle on about her beloved for several minutes, Dirk asked the million-dollar question. “So, tell me, Chicago . . . do you happen to know where your boyfriend is right now?”
She blushed and giggled, more like a maiden in an all-girl parochial school than a gal who was making a public spectacle of herself. “Aw-w-w. Get out. Otis isn’t my boyfriend. I wish he was, but he’s just not that interested. I think the war did something to him. He’s a really sweet guy, but he just doesn’t seem to—”
“Chicago!” Savannah’s last nerve snapped. She could almost hear it twang. It had been a long day and it was only midafternoon. “Girl! Listen up. Where . . . is . . . Otis?”
“Oh, he’s at his mom’s.”
“His mom’s?” Dirk asked.
“Yeah. She comes and picks him up here in the alley every Saturday morning and takes him home with her. She fixes him his favorite meal and lets him shower and stuff. She’s always offering to wash his clothes, too, but he doesn’t want to put her out too much. She’s old, see, and it’s hard on her just to drive here and get him. Last week she had a wreck and totaled that junky old car of hers. Otis was so upset when he heard. She really needed that car, and she couldn’t afford another one.”
“Why doesn’t Otis live with his mom?” Ryan asked.
“He just has too many problems to live with anybody, even his own mom. I asked him one time if he’d like to move in with me somewhere, if we could get the money together to rent a room or something, and he told me that he’s too messed up to be with anybody. Even his own family. It’s a shame, too, because Otis has so much to offer. He’s just the most—”
