A Corpse in a Teacup (9 page)

Tuesday saw it as soon as she entered the Café
again later that morning. Or rather, she didn’t see it. The Mulberry Cat. The ugly glass sculpture that stood guard over the cash register. It was conspicuously missing. The cat was the work of a prominent, but to Tuesday’s taste, talentless glass blower in Venice Beach who also happened to be married to the Café’s owner. Thus the Café’s name. This was a disaster on a par with the murder of Ariel Cuthbert. If she didn’t find the cat, she could be occupying the coroner’s slab next to the deceased actress. With any luck, it had been sent out for cleaning, but Tuesday wasn’t feeling lucky today. Why should it be her responsibility to find it? Because she knew Natasha. She was a gold medalist in the blame game.

First, s
he flicked on the lights inside the dining area, then behind the counter that served as a wine bar with a few stools for dining, her eyes straining to catch a glimpse of the turquoise and orange monstrosity.

Where could it be?
Who could have moved it? More to the point, who would want it? Or had it been smashed in the earthquake (oh please, oh please, she prayed) and the remains swept up last night? These questions raced through her mind as she pulled chairs off tables and righted water glasses set in place by the night crew, upside down so they wouldn’t catch any dust. And where was the chef?

Marco
was usually setting up in the kitchen by now.

Tuesday was
fussing with the patio setup she heard the front door open.

“Marco!” she called out
over her shoulder. “You’re late. And holy feline, what happened to that ugly cat? Natasha’s going to blow a gasket when she see’s it missing. Did the earthquake eat it up I hope?”

With a big smile on her face, s
he turned to great the chef, but instead confronted the angry face of her ball and chain storming towards the patio. A seething, florid Natasha with Victor at her side. Natasha the owner and Victor the glassblowing husband.

Tuesday
did a mental gear change and tried to charm Natasha. “You thought I didn’t know you were there, didn’t you? But I was pulling your leg about the Cat. You know I love it. Don’t you?”

Natasha
turned and pointed to the cash register, training her brooding Russian eyes on the veritable altar she had created for the Mulberry Cat with flowers and a ceramic bowl for pennies, as if the sculpture were a wishing well. “Vere is she?”

This was what she was afraid of:
the earthquake was not responsible. The cat was missing. “She?” she whispered?

Oh yes,
Natasha believed the cat was female. “Natasha, I thought you knew where it was. When I came in this morning it was gone. I assumed Victor had taken it for cleaning or something. I don’t know what happened to it.”

“It was here last night
. Did you break it? You let your client come in here on some mornings. That silly actress. Did she steal it?”

Tuesday bristled at the insult directed at Holley. A few knives short of a set, maybe, but
Holley was as serious a human being as anyone else. As serious as Natasha, for instance. But this wasn’t the time to argue about Holley. When Natasha was angry anyone and anything could be a target, whether they deserved it or not.

If
Natasha didn’t know where the cat was, nobody did. Tuesday explained, “I tried to call you to get permission because it was an emergency reading, but you didn’t answer. But we didn’t touch the Cat. Honest Natasha. I know what that sculpture means to you.”

Victor broke in
. “And what it’s worth.” His voice was as small as his stature, with a skinny mustache, stringy beard and painfully small hands for a man. Tuesday wondered where he got the heft to haul his heavy glass sculptures around. When he stood next to his handsome but bulky wife, he could be mistaken for her son.

Tuesday was rattled, thinking on her feet.
“Yes, of course. It’s value. I’d have called the police if I had known it was AWOL.”

Actually, Tuesday couldn’t recall if the statue was there when she and Holley had come in earlier.
But it was the kind of mindless detail that absorbed Holley. She must call her. Holley might not know how to spell aliens, but she would have noticed whether the grotesque piece of glass was in place.

“Natasha, I’ll call my client. Perhaps she’ll remember if it was here earlier.”

Tuesday
pulled out her phone and dialed Holley’s number.

“Holley?
I’m at the Café.” She could hear Holley breathing, but she wasn’t saying anything. Was she into her Xanax? She was supposed to be shopping. “Babe, are you there?”

Holley immediately started crying
. “Miss Tuesday, they want me to come down to the station later. I have to make a statement. They think I killed Ariel.”

Could this day get any worse
? “Don’t worry, Holley. I’m sure they don’t think that. What time do you have to be there? I’ll go with you. Okay?”

That seemed to calm Holley down. “But I have to ask you something very important. You know the glass cat that
Natasha always keeps by the cash register? Well, did you see it this morning? Are you sure? Oh, you do? So it looks like it disappeared after we left. Okay, just rest. What time do you have to show up? Yes, I know where it is. Okay hon. Take care.” Then she whispered so Natasha wouldn’t hear. “And stay away from your medication until after you talk to the police.”

Tuesday turned to
Natasha. “Holley says it was here earlier.”

Victor asked, “How can she be so sure?”

Tuesday said, “She said she loves that cat.”

Victor beamed. He leaned over to speak into
Natasha’s ear. “See? You’re not the only one who has fans.”

Tuesday continued. “
She strokes it for good luck every time she comes in. I didn’t know that. But that’s how she knows it was here at eight-fifteen. She really needed some super good luck today, so she gave the cat an extra cuddle.”

Natasha
pulled out a chair from the table in front of the cash register and said, “Sit!”

Tuesday
did as she was told. Victor stood behind Natasha like an armed guard. Natasha’s spikey home-dyed maroon hair mirrored her personality this morning, prickly and challenging.

“So. Tuesday.” She pronounced it Tee-ewsday. “Vat did you do with my cat?”

“Natasha, why do you think I stole it? You know that turquoise and orange aren’t even my colors.”

She looked down at her
black and white wide striped jumpsuit with the polka dot top to be sure she wasn’t wearing her turquoise, orange and purple second-hand Pucci dress. Stripes were all the rage and she rocked them, even if she did say so herself. Natasha wasn’t drooling over them, though. She had fire in her eyes. That cat was like a flesh and blood child to her. Everyone knew that. Tuesday didn’t think Natasha was buying her story, but she plowed on.

“
And frankly, you caught me just now. The problem I have with the cat is not that I don’t love it, I do. It’s just that I’m super allergic to cats and I have a stress reaction whenever I see one. Even a glass one. You know those cat videos that are all over YouTube? I can’t watch them or I have to call my doctor and get a shot. So it wasn’t me.”

She uncrossed her fingers when
Natasha looked up at Victor and said, “Okay, then. Call the police. They’ll find who stole it. And when they do,” she cast a threatening look at Tuesday, “they vill have to deal with me.”

Tuesday knew
Natasha to be a tough negotiator when it came to their fee arrangement for tea leaf readings. In addition to giving a hefty cut of her proceeds to Natasha, she had to help with the set up before the Café opened without pay. As a result, Tuesday long ago decided that Natasha didn’t need to know about all of the large tips some of her customers left. On a good day her take home could triple because The Mulberry Cat was currently
the
place. It drew celebrities and movie nobs. The so-called Mulberry Mafia. Word of mouth allowed her to build up a private practice.

Yet,
while Tuesday had to tread carefully when it came to money, she never suspected Natasha of strong-arm tactics. The threat surprised her. But then, remembering Holley’s phone calls, maybe threats were the new black. To underscore the point, Natasha stood up and glared at Tuesday. “Don’t forget. I have friends.” She put an ominous trill on the friends.

Tuesday
tried a peacekeeping tactic. “Natasha, let’s make some tea and I’ll read the leaves for you. See if there is any useful information about the cat.”

“Bah
. I don’t believe in that nonsense. It’s good for business. That’s the only reason I let you work here. But to me it’s just superstition.”

She gave a sign to Victor and he pulled out his phone and
handed it to his wife. She looked at Tuesday. Natasha was one of those people who could damn and criticize without uttering a word. Her slitted eyes, curled mouth, narrowed eyebrows and relentless stare all spoke volumes. Right now she was throwing the whole encyclopedia at Tuesday.

“How to call the police?” she demanded.

“Dial 911,” Tuesday said, knowing full well Natasha knew how to contact anyone of importance in this town. Then she got up and finished setting up the tables to get away from her. Natasha finished her call and hung up. “Where’s Marco?”

“He’s late
,” Tuesday said with her back to Natasha. “Probably taping his segment on Today in LA.”

When
Tuesday finished up, there was nothing left for her to do but sit at her table in the corner by the patio door and wait for a customer. Her first regular wasn’t due until two p.m., but she did a thriving business in drop-ins. She decided to make a cup of tea for herself and see if she could find some direction in her own leaves.

She
went behind the bar where the tea was kept and chose one of the Café’s special blends, Irish Rose, made with rose hips from the Marco’s heirloom bushes in the patio garden. While it steeped, she checked her phone. She had a lone message, a voicemail from Olivia. She had seen the earthquake on the news.
You okay babe? Call me. Love you.

She’d
have to try her friend later. There wasn’t enough privacy to go over all that had happened since she’d left the Darling Valley house. It seemed like an eternity since she had buckled up her seatbelt and watched the attendant bore the passengers back to sleep with the safety instructions as they took off from safe and sane Oakland.

She finished her tea and pulled her silk scarf out of her purse to begin her ritual
. When the leaves had settled she examined the cup. She almost spilled it into her lap. There they were again. A distinctive M and a body above it. Shocked, she looked into the distance towards the front door. In walked Beyoncé with a Badge. Behind her, Sidney Greenstreet saw Tuesday and waved.

“Holy homicide,” she whispered to the sugar bowl.

As soon as the detectives flashed their badges, Natasha
began gesturing and shouting. Detective Jameson entered the complaint into her iPad. Butel removed his Panama hat and twirled it between his fingers as he walked around the restaurant, cooley searching for contraband the moment Natasha described the missing object. His mouth twitched at the corners as though he did not take this alleged theft very seriously. Tuesday tried to make herself small, but Natasha pointed her out, and the two women marched towards her.

Jameson
barked over her shoulder, “Just go about your business, ma’am. I’ll handle the tea leaf reader.”

Jameson approached
Tuesday’s table. “Miss Tuesday,” she said without warmth. “What a surprise.”

Tuesday greeted Jameson.
“Well, I can say the same thing, officer.”

“It’s detective
, Miss Tuesday.”

Tuesday shrugged. “It’s just Tuesday, detective.”

Jameson consulted her iPad. “Oh, yes. You work here. You’re the manager, right?”

Natasha
had ignored the detective’s instructions and followed behind her. “Manager? Is that what she told you? She can’t manage her hair. She does mumbo jumbo for the customers. They like that nonsense.”

Jameson turned to
Natasha. “Seriously, ma’am. I’d like to conduct this interview in private.”

“Private shmivate.
” Natasha folded her arms across her chest. “This is my property. I vill stand wherever I want.”

Jameson rolled her eyes
and spoke into the ROVER on her shoulder. “Code 6-Adam,” she whispered loudly, meaning she had arrived on the scene, but may need backup. Then she hiked up the paraphernalia hooked around her waist, the gun and holster, and handcuffs. She asked Tuesday to recount her movements that morning and what she knew about the cat.

“I woke up
early. A client called me about seven-forty-five. We met here at about eight or eight-fifteen. We did a reading. There was an big aftershock from the earthquake, and I closed up and left for an appointment.” She was uncomfortable naming the client.

Tuesday admired
Jameson’s skill at getting it all down. Tuesday ended up with mostly gibberish when she tried to use a small keyboard.

“Who
was your appointment with?”

Tuesday couldn’t see the relevance
, but answered anyway. “Doctor Darla.”

“And she is?”

Tuesday explained Doctor Darla and her therapy practice.

Jameson squinted at her. “You mean you were playing in the sand?”

“Well, I would have if it weren’t for the earthquake. And it’s play therapy, not just playing.”

“Like with a pail and shovel? And that
’s therapy? You pay for that?”

Tuesday realized she had massacred her description of Doctor Darla’
s work and changed tactics, going directly to the matter at hand. “I don’t know what happened to the cat. Holley said it was here this morning.”

Jameson did a double take. “Miss Wood was here, too? At the scene of another crime?”

Snap. That’s why she didn’t want to identify her client as Holley. It could heap more suspicion on her. “You have Holley at the scene of Ariel’s murder? When did that happen?”

“Not at the scene, but she’s definitely a person of interest.
And no one has declared it murder. Let’s not start rumors. Now tell me what you know about the missing cat.”

Tuesday didn’t have to wonder why a homicide detective was investigating the theft of a second rate piece of sculpture
. The Mulberry Cat Café was so high profile that Tuesday had no trouble imagining Natasha’s political clout. She could easily convince the PD to send a top-notch team. She told Jameson what she knew about the cat, which was not much. While she was talking, a call came in for the detective. She walked away to a quiet corner. Both Natasha and Tuesday saw the look of surprise on her face. She hurriedly finished her call and whispered in Butel’s ear.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to interrupt this investigation.
I’ll get back to you.”

Natasha
went running out into the street after the detective. “What about my cat? And where’s Marco? Doesn’t he know he vill have customers to feed in half an hour?”

Tuesday knew the detectives had no interest in Natasha’s cat. She was close enough to Jameson to overhear the hurried information she passed on to her partner.
They’d been summoned to something more important than a missing piece of badly blown glass. Ariel Cuthbert’s autopsy.

Tuesday ducked, narrowly avoiding Marco’s fillet knife sailing towards her head.

“Natasha,” she yelled, sidestepping the knife as it ricocheted off the refrigerator and clattered to the floor at her feet. “Killing me isn’t going to make Marco appear!”

Natasha paused her knife throwing act to let loose with a string of Russian that Tuesday assumed was the equivalent of English four letter words, all aimed at Marco’s manhood and what she’d like to do it.

“Where is he?” she shouted, stabbing a pricy Ambrosia melon with a ten-inch chef’s knife and then carelessly throwing it in the sink.

Rowena had arrived. She stood behind
her boss cringing at the desecration of Marco’s expensive, cherished and now ruined tools of his trade. It was Rowena’s job to keep the stainless steel sharpened to surgical precision and make sure each knife was housed in its protective sleeve when not in use. She snatched the butcher knife and cleaver and hid them behind her back before Natasha could do more damage.

Tuesday sympathized with Natasha’s hysterics
. Not about the glass cat, but it was time to open the doors and the upper case Cat had no chef. She also wondered why she was caught in the middle of the Cat’s problems. She wasn’t even a full-time employee.

Rowena blurted out, “Maybe he’s having his car fixed. He told me the brakes were bad.” She looked uneasy as though speaking to the Café’s owner was a supreme risk.

Tuesday tried to reason with Natasha. “Have you called Marco at home? Maybe he’s working in his garden gathering produce for the restaurant and can’t hear the phone? Have you called the TV studio where he does his cooking show?”

Natasha’s fury had cooled to a hard anger audible in her voice. “I’ve called everybody. Do you know the phone number for his woman?”

Tuesday shrugged. “I didn’t know he had a woman, in fact I don’t know Marco well at all.”

Tuesday didn’t interact with the customers about the wine list or menu items, so she was never invited to the daily staff meetings with the chef and sommelier where employees were kept up to date on new dishes and labels. She did make a point of chatting up the servers whenever possible, because they could stick her business card in with the bill and talk up her readings to customers. She didn’t know the kitchen staff at all, except to wave to them if she happened to be at the counter and someone came out to replenish glassware or bring out an order for counter service. She knew Marco and Rowena, the sous chef, by name but few others. The Café was a busy place, people worked hard to keep up the standards and garner big tips. If they had staff parties after work, she was never around at closing time to get invited out for a nightcap with the gang. She was not a good person to quiz on anybody’s whereabouts.

Natasha noticed the rest of the staff staring at the spectacle in the kitchen. She barked, “Get back to work!”

Rowena busied herself washing delicate lettuce leaves and peeling vegetables while four servers consulted the menu by the counter. The sommelier began lining up ice buckets and fiddling with wine glasses. Two servers had yet to arrive. When the dishwasher showed up, Natasha threw an apron at him.

He was putting on his hair net and barked back, “There aren’t any dirty dishes yet.”

Natasha spluttered, “So? Don’t just stand there, find something to do.”

Two line cooks stared wordlessly at Rowena and she nodded, acknowledging that kitchen pyrotechnics and dealing with temperamental employers were part of the job. They pulled out pans to roast soup bones for stock and welcomed the arrival of the fledgling cook who interned for free just to learn from Marco. Despite all this busyness, the kitchen was still short one pair of hands. Natasha turned her attention back to Tuesday.

“You have to work in the kitchen. Our first reservation will arrive in fifteen minutes.” She checked her reflection in the chrome paper towel dispenser and primped her hair and adjusted her necklace. She always dressed up for customers and readied herself for the first onslaught.

Tuesday pleaded, “But I’m not a cook. I don’t make dinner, I make reservations. And what about my clients
? I need to do the readings. That is my livelihood.”

Natasha rubbed her teeth with her finger to remove any trace of lipstick, then shook that finger at Tuesday.

“Your livelihood is keeping this restaurant open. If I have to tell my customers the chef didn’t show up for work, they will go across the street to Angel’s Café and that will be the end of my business. And your tea leaf scam. You cook and I’ll do the readings. I’ll make something up. They’ll believe anything if they think it is going to bring them good luck.”

Tuesday waved her hand. “No, no, no. I don’t make things up
. I’ll help Rowena until Marco gets here. But you can’t read tea leaves. You don’t know the first thing about it. You’ll turn away my clients. I have built trust with them. I can’t have you interfering with that.”

Natasha scoffed, “Tea leaves
. Bah. This is my restaurant and I’ll run it the way I want.”

She clapped her hands. The staff stopped what they were doing and snapped to attention like a military platoon
.

“On your toes everyone.” One of the dishwashers who was easily intimidated actually rose on tiptoe.

“I have an announcement to make. We have to make some changes today. Marco is not here yet. Tuesday is going to help Rowena. She knows Marco’s recipes. We’ll use a menu from last week and hope nobody notices. I’ll print a new batch off the computer. Just hope there are no food critics coming in today. It’s your job to do=o anything you can do to help the kitchen go smoothly. And if anyone sees Marco tell him I’m going to kill him with my bare hands. As soon as he finishes his shift.”

The sommelier sniggered to a server next to him
. Natasha snapped her fingers. “What are you laughing about?”

“Marco’s new girlfriend is probably killing him right now
. In bed.” The other servers laughed.

“He has a new girlfriend
? Who is she? Call her.”

The sommelier, Peter, continued. “Oh, you know how he is
. He doesn’t tell anyone about his business. Good luck finding out her name. But whoever she is, she has him around her little finger. I invited him to go to a few clubs after work last night and he said he was busy. That’s not the Marco we know and love, is it?”

Two male servers made an indecent sexual gesture and laughed.

Natasha clapped her hands again. “Never mind then. I’ll deal with Marco when he gets here. Are we ready?”

In the kitchen Tuesday was tying on an apron and swearing under her breath
. The space was so small that her bulky jumpsuit was catching on the handles of the oven and low cupboards.

Rowena looked as though she might cry as she stared at the computer. “Last week’s menu had Marco’s special baby onion soup
. We don’t have any baby onions today. What will we do if someone asks for it. We were supposed to make minted pea soup today.”

For a sous chef, Rowena didn’t seem to have much backbone. She’d never make executive chef if she couldn’t step up to the plate without weeping. Tuesday made an executive decision
.

“The people who come in here are more interested in schmoozing and being seen than eating
. Give them pea soup. They’ll never know the difference.”

“Oh no,” Rowena said, stuffing her mousy brown hair under a chef’s toque. “Marco will be furious. He planned the menu last night. You don’t know how he is.”

Clearly, Marco led by terrorizing his employees. And he had the perfect assistant, someone who wouldn’t challenge his authority.

“Well if Marco cares about his kitchen so much,” Tuesday said, pointing to the soup recipe on the screen and giving Rowena the
keep it moving
signal, “he should show up for work on time. It’s pea soup or nothing today.”

Rowena gave a reluctant nod of agreement. “But Marco is not going to be happy when he gets here.”

“I think Marco is going to have enough on his hands dealing with Natasha when he arrives. She will be all over him for being late. So let’s get to work.”