Death on a Platter (2 page)

My husband, Don Crinklaw, is the definition of supportive. My agent, David Hendin, earns every nickel.

Thanks to my editor, Sandra Harding. Your critique made this a better novel. I appreciate the efforts of assistant Elizabeth Bistrow, hard-working publicist Kaitlyn Kennedy, and the Signet copy editor and production staff.

Many booksellers help keep this series alive. I wish I could thank them all.

Thank you to the librarians at the Broward County Library, the St. Louis Public Library, and St. Louis County Library. Librarians are the original search engines.

Amelia’s cat is based on my cat, Harry. Dina Willner has a cat named Kinsey who as a kitten morphed into a raging furball. Becky Hutchison has a chocoholic poodle named Mikey.

Stuart Little is a real shih tzu. His owner, Bill Litch-tenberger of Palm City, Florida, made a generous contribution to the Humane Society of the Treasure Coast auction to see Stuart’s name in my novels. Harry and Stuart’s photos are on my Web site,
www.elaineviets.com
.

“You want me to eat brains? Do I look like a zombie?” Josie Marcus asked.

“Not raw brains,” Harry the Horrible said. “Or people brains. These are cow brains. I want you to eat fried brain sandwiches. You’re supposed to mystery-shop restaurants for a food tour. Brains are real St. Louis food.”

“They’re disgusting,” Josie said.

So was Harry, Josie’s boss and the head of Suttin Services in St. Louis. Harry loved to give Josie awful mystery-shopping assignments. He had never forgiven her for reporting a rude saleswoman who turned out to be Harry’s niece.

Rudeness seemed to run in the family. Harry was barely visible over the mound of yellowing papers on his desk. More papers were piled on his guest chair. He didn’t move them.

Outside, it was a golden September day where autumn leaves danced in a playful breeze. Inside, Harry’s office was a frosty February where dust motes circled in the dead air. Harry kept his cave chilly.

“Brains are a delicacy.” Harry bared his teeth in a smile that made Josie want to back away. “You only have to go to one brain sandwich place. And look at all the other good food you get to eat—toasted ravioli, St. Louis pizza.”

“I’m still trying to wrap my mind around the brains,” Josie said. “Did you ever eat brain sandwiches?”

“Sure,” Harry said. “If you cover them with ketchup, they’re not half bad.”

That wasn’t reassuring. Harry would eat Alpo with ketchup. The wastebasket beside his desk looked like a culinary crime scene heaped with red-spattered takeout bags.

Harry looked like a case for the fashion police. Bunches of coarse brown hair sprouted from his fingers, ears, nostrils, and at the base of his dingy collar—everywhere but his scalp. Mother Nature had had a sense of humor when she’d made Harry. His mother had cooperated when she gave him a name that was both a description and a joke.

Harry switched gears from gloating to righteous. “Last time, you complained when I asked you to mystery-shop a salad restaurant. Now you’re upset because I want you to eat good old St. Louis grease. Choke down the brains and then enjoy the rest.”

Choke was right, Josie thought. “Why do I have to eat brains? St. Louis has so many good restaurants. We’re a city of foodies, a mini–San Francisco. St. Louisans love to go out to dinner. Our restaurants are known for their menus. They serve organic and locally grown food.”

“So what did you have for dinner last night, Miz Foodie?” Harry asked.

“Macaroni and cheese,” Josie said.

“Made from specially aged cheddar?” Harry asked. “And that macaroni? Did you whip it up in your kitchen from organic wheat?”

“Kraft makes a quality product,” Josie said.

“I thought so. Josie, this is a big deal for the city. This is a TAG Tour—that’s Travel America Guided Tours, the biggie out of New York City. TAG Tours are designed for sophisticated travelers who want to explore cities beyond the usual tourist sites. St. Louis has been selected as one of ten cities for a TAG Tour. Their New York scouts identified toasted ravioli, pizza, pig ear sandwiches, and brain sandwiches as the exotic local dishes.”

“Pig ears, too?” Josie’s stomach fell like an elevator with snapped cables.

“That’s a specialty in African-American neighborhoods,” Harry said. “When touring celebrities, including actors, rap singers, and big-league basketball players, come to St. Louis, they drive up in limos to eat pig ear sandwiches. White-bread America needs to discover them. TAG is asking you to eat at these restaurants. If you give the okay, you only have to visit one. If their first choice fails, you’ll have to eat at two places. Do you want the job or not?”

Josie had to worry about her own weekly food tour at the supermarket. She had to support Amelia, her eleven-year-old daughter. This was supposed to be a cold winter. Josie had barely been able to pay her air-conditioning bill during the record-breaking summer heat. The heating bills would devour the last scraps of her bank account.

Josie had no rich relatives or wealthy husband to rescue her. She was a single mom and barely made a living as a mystery shopper. She could afford housing in a good neighborhood, thanks to her mother. Jane rented Josie and Amelia the first floor of her two-family flat and never raised the rent. But Josie’s mom wasn’t rich, either. Jane made do with a small bank pension and Social Security.

Mystery-shopping jobs were growing scarcer as businesses died in the ailing economy. Josie couldn’t afford the luxury of refusing any job, no matter how distasteful. She’d close her eyes, pour ketchup on the brain sandwich, and eat her way to the good stuff. Josie thought toasted ravioli was worth a special trip to St. Louis and the city’s pizza was like no other in the country.

“I’ll do it,” Josie said. She wondered if her daughter would appreciate this sacrifice on her behalf.

“Good girl.” Harry bared his teeth again. He pulled a paper out of the printer near his desk and said, “Here’s the list. Make one visit at the specified time, either for lunch or dinner. The restaurants that make the cut will be on the tour. That guarantees them anywhere from fifty to two hundred prepaid meals once a week. Twice a week during the peak tour season.”

Josie felt a surge of pride—and power. Thanks to her, visitors from around the world would be dining in selected local restaurants. She thought St. Louis was an underrated city and wanted to show it off to strangers. As a mystery shopper, she could dole out fat rewards to the restaurants who met TAG’s standards.

She studied the list and recognized most of the names as small, family-owned businesses. A guaranteed clientele would be a big perk for them. They could use the cash infusion and notoriety from a TAG Tour.

“You can bring one other person,” Harry said.

“Can I take my friend Alyce?” Josie asked.

“No age or gender restrictions,” Harry said. “You can take a friend—or an enemy, for all I care.”

Josie figured Alyce would enjoy the toasted ravioli and pizza. Her generous proportions reflected her personality. Josie’s blond friend was addicted to cooking, so Alyce would give Josie accurate details about ingredients and preparation.

Their friendship was unusual. Alyce was a stay-at-home mom married to a lawyer. Her suburban mansion looked perfect, but Josie always felt at home there. Alyce planned the dinner parties that advanced Jake’s career and belonged to the committees that helped him. She didn’t need a job outside the home, but mystery-shopping with Josie gave Alyce the feeling she was walking on the wild side.

Some of the places on Josie’s list might be a little too wild. She couldn’t see Alyce in a city bar or a café in a marginal neighborhood. Ted Scottsmeyer, Josie’s veterinarian boyfriend, would enjoy those assignments. He’d definitely like the brain sandwiches and probably the pig ears. The last four names on the TAG list looked out of place. “Why is a bakery here?” Josie asked. “And a chocolate maker?”

“Didn’t I tell you?” Harry said. “You have to eat our chocolate. And gooey butter cake, too. It’s another St. Louis specialty.”

“Sweet,” Josie said, then realized she sounded like her daughter.

“This frittata is scrumptious,” Josie said. “Amelia, you’ve aced another cooking lesson.”

“Hey, no biggie,” her daughter said. “A frittata is like flat scrambled eggs. I just added potatoes and cheese.”

“I can’t make anything like this,” Josie said. “Once I get past basic scrambling, my eggs taste like rubber.”

Jane, Josie’s mom, put down her fork to add a dollop of advice. “You turn up the heat too high,” she said.

“I’m thirty-one, Mom,” Josie said. “You keep trying to turn me into a domestic diva. The cooking gene skipped me, but my daughter has it in spades.”

“The talent is there, Josie,” her mother said. “You never use it. But I never give up hope. I prayed for years that you would meet a fine young man, and my prayers were answered.”

“I’m not sure Ted is the answer to
my
prayers, Mom,” Josie said.

“I like him,” Amelia said.

“My love life is not up for discussion,” Josie said. “Understood?”

“As you wish,” Jane said. Those three words were tinged with frost. She gave her daughter a regal nod. Jane wasn’t wearing a gold crown, but a silver helmet. Today was her weekly visit to the beauty parlor. Jane had a small bald spot and her stylist hid it with careful combing, then sprayed the hair to withstand gale-force winds.

Josie was touched that her mother had put on lipstick, her good pink pantsuit, and earrings for dinner with her and Amelia.

“We can discuss cooking if you’d like,” Jane said.

Anything, Josie thought.

“Eggs have to be cooked slowly or they get tough,” her mother continued. “Scrambled eggs should be done on medium heat. They take thirty minutes or more.”

“I don’t have that much time,” Josie said. “Don’t they have tenderizer for tough eggs?”

“You make everything into a joke, Josie.” Jane’s carefully powdered forehead was creased with a frown. She seemed to regret her sharp words and switched to a neutral subject spiced with a smile. “Did you get a new mystery-shopping assignment today?”

“A good one,” Josie said. “Well, mostly good. TAG is doing a St. Louis food tour. I’m getting paid to eat pizza, toasted ravioli, gooey butter cake, and chocolate.”

“Cool! I’ll help you eat the pizza,” Amelia said through a mouthful of frittata.

“Wait till you hear the other choices,” Josie said. “I also have to eat brain sandwiches and pig ear sandwiches.”

“Gross,” Amelia said. “Who eats those?”

“Pig ears are popular in older African-American neighborhoods,” Josie said.

“That’s not food,” Amelia said. “That’s garbage.”

“Wrong,” Josie said. “Singapore chefs, who are some of the finest cooks in the world, consider pig ears a delicacy.”

“It’s wrong to eat pigs,” Amelia said. “That’s why I didn’t put ham in the frittata.” She slipped a cheesy morsel of frittata to her striped cat. Harry was rubbing his forehead against her leg.

“Don’t feed Harry people food,” Josie said.

“But, Mom, he loves it,” Amelia said. Harry licked his chops with a bright pink tongue.

Josie used her ultimate weapon. “Ted says cats should eat cat food and he’s a vet. He knows what’s best for Harry.”

“Sorry, Harry,” Amelia said. “Mom says you can’t have any more.”

The brown tabby stared at Josie with green eyes.

“Look how sad he is, Mom. See. He’s smart enough to know what we’re saying. Animals are smarter than we think,” Amelia said. “We learned about pigs being smart in science class. Pigs are so smart they can use computers.”

So could Harry the Horrible, Josie thought, then stopped herself before she set off verbal land mines about eating her boss.

“But you eat hamburgers,” Josie said. “Are cows stupid enough to eat? Do you only believe in intelligent animals’ rights?”

“Mom!” Amelia said. “You know what I mean. I was trying to explain why I won’t eat pigs.”

Josie grinned. Amelia did not. She stuck out her lower lip in a childish pout. Josie noticed her daughter no longer had a little girl’s face. The childlike roundness was giving way to the planes and angles of young womanhood. Amelia had let her dark brown hair grow to her shoulders. She pulled it back with a green headband. Josie liked her daughter’s elegant nose. Amelia insisted it was “too big” and longed for a trite little button.

“I’ll eat pizza with you, if it doesn’t have ham or bacon,” Amelia said, as if granting Josie a favor.

Josie could see Amelia was sticking to the no-pork platform. How long before my daughter is embarrassed to be seen with me? she wondered.

“Then pizza it is,” Josie said. “No ham or bacon.”

“I’d like to go with you for toasted ravioli,” Jane said. “Which restaurants are you testing for the tours?”

Josie showed Jane the list.

“Tillie’s Off the Hill is on here,” Jane said. “Did you know I went to grade school with the owner, Tillie Minnelli?”

“She sure must have loved Mr. Minnelli to take his name,” Josie said.

“She did,” Jane said. “Tillie was one of the first girls in my group to marry. It was a June wedding, right after high school graduation. Girls did that more when I was young. Tillie was madly in love with Zack. Such a beautiful wedding.” Jane gave a little sigh.

“Zack had worked as a waiter and a busboy and he knew the restaurant business. He got a loan from his parents and opened the restaurant in 1954, the year after they married. Zack called it Tillie’s Off the Hill in honor of his bride.”

“Off what hill?” Amelia asked.

“That’s what we used to call St. Louis’s Italian section,” Jane said. “Actually, that was only half the real name. People said words then that we’d never use. They called the Italian section Dago Hill.”