A dash of death, p.5
A Dash of Death, page 5
Turned out, I didn’t have to. Apparently, Ruiz had radioed Waters. He came out of the house. “Is that your mother-in-law on the phone?” he asked me.
I nodded.
“Tell her to get her little body back in that car and go home. I don’t have time for her crap today.”
I held the phone out, so Hettie could hear him. I wasn’t going to repeat what he’d said.
“Tell him I’ll talk to him later tonight. This isn’t over.” Hettie disconnected.
For just a second, I wondered just how well these two knew each other. But I let it pass. I couldn’t see Hettie with a man in uniform. And I couldn’t see anyone in authority in a relationship with Hettie. She was way too bossy.
My phone rang again. When I answered, Hettie said, “Don’t tell John that. Just don’t tell him anything. I’m leaving.”
John? She called him by his first name? A bit friendly, wasn’t it? My suspicion was right. Hettie and John? He had to be at least ten, no, fifteen years younger than her. Go Hettie. Poor John. I snickered. And it wasn’t that she used his first name. It was the inflection.
“Hettie said she’ll talk to you about this later tonight. She didn’t sound happy.” I told him anyway. I needed to see the look on his face.
He gave nothing away and pointed at my car. “Go home. We’re going to be here a while. I want to see you at the sheriff’s office in two hours. If it’s gonna be longer, I’ll call you.” He glared at Saylor. “You, too.”
“What? I wasn’t causing a scene. I didn’t even say anything,” Saylor protested.
“But you were here when I got here, so I’ll want to question you, too.” He pointed at the BMW, then at my car. “Go. Get out of my hair.”
“What hair?” I heard Saylor say under her breath.
I smiled and got in my car, glad to be leaving. I yelled to Saylor, “Meet at Savoie? Pierre is probably pacing the kitchen.”
“And Hettie will want to talk to you.” Saylor opened her car door. “I got your back, girlie.”
Chapter 6
Pierre hadn’t exaggerated the reservations. When Saylor and I walked in the front door, the hostess looked overwhelmed. A petite girl in her twenties and cute as a button, she kept running her fingers over the top of her slicked back blonde ponytail and biting her lip.
Savoie’s sleek interior with dark wood, polished concrete floors, and white tablecloths always got my heart rate up. So many years of working in the kitchen and hosting, I could probably do this job in my sleep, even after all these years.
“She’s a wreck. Is she new?” Saylor asked.
I shrugged. I had no idea, but I didn’t want my family’s restaurant to look incompetent. I stepped up to the hostess desk. “What’s your name?”
“Excuse me?” She looked like she wanted to hit me.
“I’m Marcy Savoie, as in Pierre and Hettie Savoie, the Savoie family. I did this job for years, and I know what you’re going through. Let me help.” I grabbed the pen from her hand.
She blew out an exasperated breath and stepped back half a step.
It shouldn’t have been difficult, since the guests with reservations got seated first. The others would be fit in when we had room. We, as if this was still my restaurant, too. In a way, I guess it was. I got my alimony from the profits.
I couldn’t seat the guests, since I looked like I should have been in the kitchen, and not as a cook, but as a dishwasher. I looked over the reservations and seating board.
“I’m Emily. I think someone gave me their name as a reservation, but they didn’t really have one. Now I’m all messed up, and I have four parties waiting for a table, when they should’ve been seated at least fifteen minutes ago.” Her little girl voice grated on my nerves, but I was here for Hettie and Pierre, not her. I’d grin and muddle through.
Looking up, I saw impatient eyes staring back at me. Before I could get another look at the reservations and the seating board, a guest came up.
Dressed in a white, starched, button down shirt and navy slacks, it looked like his collar was sharp enough to cut into his neck and he had it buttoned to the top. We were a tourist destination, so we couldn’t exactly ask for a jacket and tie, but it would have kept the riff raff out. He didn’t look like riff raff, but he looked like a jerk with his slicked back hair and expensive oversized watch.
“We’ve been waiting almost half an hour,” the short gentleman growled. “How much longer?”
I reached out for his guest pager. He handed it to me. After checking the number, I wanted to call him a liar and tell him he’d just been given the block ten minutes ago. Jerk.
“Your name?” I asked with as much sap in my voice as I could muster. Goodness, I didn’t miss this job.
“Olivetti,” he snapped.
“Olivetti? I don’t see your name here,” I said as I covered his name with my thumb. “Did you give her a different name when you made your reservation?” I knew he didn’t have a reservation, because reservations were written in red, and walk-ins were in blue.
“I gave Olivetti,” the tension in his voice making it pitch an octave higher.
“Oh, oh, I see, you didn’t have a reservation.” I pointed to his name on the board. “If you did, your name would be in red. And as you can see, we don’t have a red pen here.” We did, but it was under the desk. He didn’t need to know that.
“Whatever. How much longer?”
“Tell you what, Mr. Olivetti. I’ll move you to the front of the list, in front of the people who called in advance and made reservations. Will that make you happy?” I fully expected him to say that would be just fine.
“No, that’s not right. I just wanted to know if it’ll be another half an hour or more.” Less tension in the little man’s voice now.
“Please, have a seat in the lounge, and we’ll make sure we get you seated as soon as possible. Emily, will you find Mr. Olivetti and his party a table in the bar? Three people?”
He nodded.
I whispered in Emily’s ear. “Tell the bartender that Marcy said to make his drink strong. That way he won’t realize he’s not getting seated.”
Emily grinned and escorted the Olivetti party into the lounge.
I checked the arrangement on the board and did a quick sweep of the entire dining room. By the time Emily got back, I explained what she had available, and who could take on more than four tables at a time. I knew I could count on some servers to handle more tables than just their four-table section and not get in the weeds, while others could only handle their four-table section. When the servers had to serve soup, salad (made at the table), the main course, and dessert, along with whatever drinks the table wanted, four tables could be overwhelming.
Within minutes, the hostess area was organized, and Emily had all the guests with reservations seated. At least I’d stopped thinking about Annabel’s murder for a few minutes. When I looked up, I saw Saylor standing in the corner of the lounge, sipping her signature lemon drop martini.
“You’re a pro,” she said as she came forward, handing me a martini glass she’d picked up from the table next to her.
I took a long sip. “I’ll have nightmares tonight.”
“About Annabel?”
“About being a hostess again.”
We both laughed.
“Let’s do this.” I grabbed her by the arm and dragged her toward the kitchen.
She pulled back. “I can’t go in there. I’m wearing sandals.”
“You’re not going into the kitchen. We’re going to the office. That’s where Hettie will be.” I pulled harder and Saylor relented.
“I don’t want to do this.” She drained the rest of her martini.
“Do I have to beg?” I didn’t want to face Hettie and Pierre alone.
“Tell you what, I’ll be in the bar, getting a second round of martinis. You can come with me, or you can go into the kitchen, which you know will be a hot mess. Look at this place. What do you think is happening in that kitchen right now?”
She was right. The stress levels would be off the meter, and the swearing would make a hooker blush. Why would I subject myself to that? I’d already subjected myself to helping the hostess. And we’d even gotten the Olivetti party seated in less than ten minutes, so the bartender only had to overpour one round of drinks.
“Martinis it is. But remember, we still have to go to the sheriff’s office in a few hours.” Ugh, I had to relive the murder scene all over again. I needed the martini I held in my hand and at least one more.
The lighting in the lounge was a bit higher than the lighting in the dining room, and I saw Hettie sitting in a booth on the other side of the bar. I could count on one hand the number of times I’d seen Hettie in the bar, much less with a drink.
I tapped Saylor on the shoulder. When she turned to look at me, I pointed.
She frowned. “Should we go sit with her?”
I led the way.
I scooted in next to Hettie on one side, while Saylor slid in on the other side.
Hettie’s eye makeup looked smudged, and her lipstick had been rubbed off completely.
I leaned in close. “I’m so sorry, Hettie.”
Hettie took a sip of her drink. “I can’t believe this is happening.”
Hettie had never looked old to me before, but she looked old now. Even when she was dripping sweat from a long summer run, she still looked put together. And there I was, watching her fall apart.
“It’s so close to harvest. Who’s going to make sure the harvest goes smoothly?”
I leaned in close. “She has a foreman. He’s been doing this for decades. And her vineyard manager is one of the best in the business. Her vineyard and winery will be fine.”
Hettie looked up at me with just her bloodshot eyes. “I’m talking about the harvest in general. We always helped each other through it. Annabel, Ruthie, and me.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, so I didn’t say anything.
“What are you drinking, Hettie?” Saylor asked.
Hettie moved her pilsner glass around on the table, moving the water ring around in a hapless design. “I don’t know, some microbrew. I couldn’t bring myself to drink wine tonight.” She said it so quietly I could barely hear her.
“Let me get you a real drink.” Saylor waved down a cocktail waitress. “Mrs. Savoie would like a lemon drop martini, ASAP.”
It should have sounded snippy and rude, but somehow, with her huge smile and twinkling brown eyes, Saylor made it sound sweet. The cocktail waitress smiled back at her and rushed to the bar. Maybe it was the mention of Hettie’s name and not Saylor’s demeanor.
I mouthed to Saylor, “Beer then liquor, you’ll be sicker.”
Saylor shrugged.
Hettie leaned over and whispered in my ear. “What happened to my dear Annabel?”
Hettie and Annabel had forever been best friends. I felt bad for her and her loss.
I whispered in her ear. “I don’t know for sure, but I think she’d been hit over the head. I went to meet with her for the benefit, and when she didn’t answer the door, I realized it was opened. I walked in, calling her name, then I saw a broken crystal pitcher on the floor, and what looked like iced tea everywhere. Then I looked into the dining room and saw Annabel on the floor. I’m so sorry, Hettie.”
Hettie said, “Annabel didn’t drink iced tea. It was probably coke.”
Not drinking sweet tea was a sin in the south. The fact Annabel drank coke instead of tea could have gotten her killed.
“Okay, I’ll tell the police.” Not that it mattered one bit, other than the sweet tea sin.
Hettie sat up straight, as if she’d had a revelation. “Hit over the head? Are you sure? She wasn’t poisoned? I’d heard she was poisoned.”
What? Had word gotten around town already? “Where did you hear that?”
“Pierre’s sous chef told me. Pierre’s been too busy to talk to me.” She reached out and grabbed the martini off the waitress’s tray, and nearly overturned the entire tray of drinks.
I watched in what seemed like slow motion as the experienced server rebalanced the tray, only spilling a few drops from a couple of glasses. I quietly applauded her. Then I silently chastised Hettie, who knew better than to grab a drink off a server’s tray. All the credit to the cocktail server for continuing to smile. I reached in my pocket and grabbed a twenty-dollar bill and placed it on the tray without upsetting the balance.
She said, “There’s a running tab.”
I looked at Hettie, then to the girl and pointed at the martini. “This is a tip for that drink.”
The girl’s brows raised, and she walked away quickly, just in case I might change my mind.
“I was there, I saw her, and I can tell you, Pierre’s sous chef has no idea what he’s talking about. I’m pretty sure I didn’t even tell Pierre how she died.” I wracked my brain to remember my conversation with him. I didn’t recall telling him what had happened to Annabel. I wasn’t even sure what happened until Saylor said something about her head.
“Mmmmm, this is delicious.” It was the first time I heard the slurring in her words. “I’ll need another one.”
Hettie never got drunk. First, she ran every morning, and no way could she run with a hangover. Second, she’d never let loose enough to lose control. Getting drunk meant giving up a bit of self-control.
I wanted to take the drink away from her, because I’d have to deal with her in the morning. Or not. Pierre would be handling her. She was his mother, after all. I was locking myself in my studio and never coming out. At least not until they found Annabel’s killer.
I wished I’d thought of going through the house before calling the police. But then again, what if the killer had still been in the house? I might have been the next victim. Had she been robbed? Had Bobby Joe killed her, then left town for an alibi? Had Bobby Joe really left town the previous day? Maybe he killed Annabel and skipped town. I wondered if his personal time had been planned for a while, or if it was last minute. But with the floor still wet, the murder had to have happened earlier in the day. The police could ping Bobby Joe’s cell phone to see if he was out of town.
“Hettie, was everything okay with Annabel and Bobby Joe?” I hadn’t thought it out before I asked.
“They were married; of course things weren’t okay. Being married was a problem in itself.” Hettie drank half of her martini in a long sip. “My Annabel is gone.” I swear I saw a tear run down her cheek right before she dropped her head and slammed her forehead onto the table.
Ouch. Crap. That was going to leave a bruise.
“Hettie, are you okay?” Saylor asked.
She lifted her head as if nothing happened. No more tears, just swollen eyes. “I’m not okay. My best friend died today. And the worst part is that we had a huge fight this morning. We had some nasty words for each other, and now I can’t say I’m sorry.”
Saylor looked at me. I shook my head. I knew my mother-in-law had a temper, and she was strong as an ox for a woman in her seventies. I knew I’d lose if we arm wrestled. Could she have lost it, and hit Annabel over the head in a fit of rage? I didn’t want to think about it.
“What did you fight about?” Saylor asked.
Hettie shook her head. “It was nothing. The fight was so stupid.”
“But Hettie, she’s dead now. If you had a fight, was it a big enough fight for you to lose your temper?” I knew she wasn’t going to answer Saylor, but I hoped she’d answer me.
Hettie twirled the martini glass on the table. “I don’t have a temper. Annabel has the temper. She was the one who lost it on me, and I ended up leaving.” Then she looked up at me, glaring. “How dare you insinuate that I might have murdered my best friend.”
If Hettie didn’t have a temper, I’m not sure what you’d call what Annabel had. Hettie’s temper had subsided over the years that I’d known her, but it wasn’t gone completely. And she held a grudge like no other. If she was mad at me, she’d bring up something I said or did before Pierre and I were even married. And she had the memory of an elephant, or selective memory when it suited her.
I touched Hettie on the arm. “I’m not insinuating anything. But you have to be honest with the police and tell them that you and Annabel got in a fight. If you don’t want to share the details with me, that’s fine, but be prepared to share it in minute detail with the cops. And you’d better hope that the timeline doesn’t fit with when you were at the house.”
Hettie shrugged. “They can just look at the security tapes to see what time I was there. And they’ll hear Annabel slamming the door behind me.”
That was it. Someone with money and possessions like the Savoies and the Ryders usually had security cameras. I wondered if Sheriff Waters or the deputy had noticed the cameras, and what they might have found on the video.
Not one to let something go, Saylor asked, “So what did you fight about?”
Before Hettie could answer, Pierre rushed toward the table.
“Are you okay?” he asked me.
“I’m fine, I guess. We were just having a drink before we head over to the sheriff’s office for questioning.”
Pierre put his hands on the table, leaning in toward me. “Questioning? What would they be questioning you about?”
“They were securing the area, and doing the crime scene investigation when I was there, so Sheriff Waters asked if I could meet him at the sheriff’s office, so they can question me further after they are finished at the crime scene.”
Pierre looked at Saylor. “What are you doing here?”
“Nice to see you too, Pierre.” Saylor put on an innocent grin.
“That doesn’t answer my question. Why are you here?” Pierre didn’t let up. This was his mood at the end of a harried evening from working in the kitchen. This was the Pierre I had put up with for nearly twenty years. It had been worse when we worked together too.
I looked at my watch. It wasn’t even close to the end of the evening. His poor kitchen staff.
