Death on a Platter (4 page)

Two more officers stayed behind to talk to Tillie. She served them toasted ravioli. One uniformed officer had a face like worn mahogany. He was about six-two with weary eyes. His dark hair was just starting to go gray. Josie suspected he’d been on the job a long time—maybe too long. His younger partner looked like he’d stepped off a recruiting poster: blond hair, blue eyes, square jaw. He was fresh-faced and unlined.

“Third time this month, Tillie,” the older cop said, as he ate a ravioli. “You’re going to have to eighty-six him.” His partner ate two.

“I did ban him, Officer Harris,” Tillie said, “but Clay keeps coming back. He won’t listen to me. He comes in here at the height of the lunch hour. I don’t want a scene when this place is packed with customers. That’s why I called you.”

Six more ravioli disappeared in quick succession while Harris listened. He looked down and saw all but two of the ravioli had disappeared.

“Are you going to leave me those last two ravioli, Zellman?”

“How about if we split them?” Zellman said.

“And speaking of serve, Tillie, if you’re worried about a scene and don’t want to call us,” Officer Harris said, “then don’t serve him more beer.” He ate the last ravioli.

“I didn’t. Gemma Lynn sneaked him a beer when my back was turned.”

“You need to get your old chef back,” Officer Harris said. “Jeff will scare him off good.”

“Can I speak to Mel?” The girl sounded young enough to be a friend of Amelia’s, but Josie didn’t recognize her voice.

“There’s no Mel here,” Josie said and hung up the kitchen phone.

She heard Amelia shriek, “Mom! What did you do?” Her daughter raced into the kitchen. Harry the cat slid on the tile floor, scrambling to keep up with her.

“It was a wrong number, Amelia. Some girl wanted to speak to Mel.”

“That’s me,” Amelia said.

“Since when?”

“Since I went to middle school. Amelia is a baby name. Mel is more sophisticated.”

Sophisticated? Her little girl? Amelia had just started wearing a bra.

“Do you know who it was?” Amelia said. “Did she say?”

“I know it wasn’t Emma,” Josie said.

“That’s a big help.” Sarcasm dripped off her words. Amelia flounced off to her room, Harry trotting behind her.

“Maybe Emma knows,” Josie called after her.

Amelia didn’t answer. Most of her friends texted one another. Calls to home phones were for major announcements, the way Josie’s mom saved her engraved stationery for special occasions.

“Hey, if you’re going to change your name, you could let your mother know,” Josie added.

No answer.

Josie scrubbed furiously at the kitchen countertop, as if she could wash away her feelings. She was hurt that her daughter had rejected the name Josie had given her. Amelia’s late father had been a dashing helicopter pilot. Josie was sure her daughter would only inherit his best qualities. She’d named her for Amelia Earhart, the woman explorer. Now her child didn’t like that name.

No point in brooding, Josie decided, rinsing out the dishcloth and hanging it up to dry. She had to write a mystery-shopping report. Tillie’s Off the Hill deserved a rave, even if her mother was friends with the owner.

Josie went to her office. That’s what she called the corner of her bedroom that had a computer and a fax machine. Josie gave the restaurant high marks for cleanliness, prompt service, and quality food. The sauce was tangy and the toasted ravioli freshly made.

Atmosphere? “Casually comfortable,” Josie wrote in the “remarks” section. These travelers wanted to see the real St. Louis. They might enjoy relaxing in a booth polished by generations of diners instead of sitting in a stiff restaurant with white tablecloths and six forks.

“Recommended for visitors who enjoy local color and the unexpected,” she added.

She hoped Tillie could keep the too-colorful Clay out of her restaurant. She wanted to alert the tour company to a possible problem. Josie took mystery-shopping seriously. She didn’t lie or exaggerate. Those tourists had a right to an enjoyable meal without listening to an angry drunk. On the other hand, Clay might stay away after he spent a little time in the local lockup.

Josie was finishing the report’s last section when her mother called. “Josie, did you give my friend’s restaurant a good rating?” It wasn’t a question. It was a demand.

“I gave the ravioli and the service the highest possible marks.” Josie didn’t mention her reservations about customers like Clay.

“Good,” Jane said. “Is anything wrong? You sound a little off.”

“Amelia wants me to call her Mel,” Josie said.

Jane snickered.

“What’s so funny?” Josie asked.

“I love it when chickens come home to roost,” Jane said. “You’ve forgotten how many times you changed your name when you were her age. Remember when you wanted to be called Josephine?”

“I did?” Josie asked.

“And you were quite the little empress. I even made you an empire-waist gown for Halloween.”

Josie had a vague memory of a long high-waisted yellow dress with puffed sleeves and a crown with plastic jewels.

“Your Highness left the throne when you couldn’t learn French.”

“I never was good at languages,” Josie said.

The yellow empire dress was the good part of that memory. She hoped her mother wouldn’t recall Josie draping herself languidly on the living room couch like the real Josephine. She’d asked her mother to serve her dinner. Jane had had a few choice words about that stunt.

“After Josephine, you tried on Jo for size,” her mother said. “That was your
Little Women
phase.”

“I liked Louisa May Alcott,” Josie said. “Jo was the smart sister. Amy was pretty, but a simp.”

Jane continued relentlessly. “That phase lasted a couple of months. Next you were Joey.”

“I wanted to be called Joey?”

“You said Josie was too girly.” Jane was enjoying this way too much.

Josie thought she heard a chicken clucking. Yep, the bird was definitely roosting in her home. She felt embarrassed for her eleven-year-old self.

“Then it was Jay-Jay.” Jane was really piling on the guilt.

Josie remembered practicing two versions of that name on a lined tablet. She’d written Jay-Jay and J.J. with blimplike
J
s that she’d thought looked elegant.

“You told me that Josie was old and boring,” Jane said. “Like those were the two worst things anyone could be.”

Please stop, Josie begged mentally. “What made me go back to Josie?”

“You read a history of the Wild West that said Josie Marcus was the woman Wyatt Earp loved,” Jane said. “There was some doubt that Josie Marcus had even married the lawman. That’s when you decided your name was romantic, even dangerous.”

Josie felt a hot blush burn her cheeks. Josie hadn’t married Amelia’s father. She’d planned to tell him she was pregnant and get married, but he’d been arrested on drug charges.

Trust me to pick a woman with an uncertain reputation, she thought.

“Amelia is acting like a normal girl her age, Josie.” Jane’s voice was crisp. “She’s trying on identities the way we try on clothes. When she finds a name that fits her, she’ll keep it, just like you did.”

“Thanks, Mom. That’s smart advice.”

“I get smarter as
you
get older,” Jane said.

Ouch, Josie thought. It was true. Once she’d become a mother, she’d had more appreciation for Jane’s parenting skills. Her father had abandoned them when Josie was nine and moved to Chicago to start another family. Jane, who’d expected to be a well-off full-time mother and club woman, had had to take a dreary job in a bank.

“Looks like I got my wish,” Jane said cheerfully. “I wanted you to have a daughter exactly like yourself. I’m taking Stuart Little for a walk. Bye.”

Jane hung up before Josie could answer. She heard her mother’s footsteps on the back stairs, the clink of the shih tzu’s collar tags and the patter of his paws.

Josie faxed her report to Suttin Services. “Mom, I’m hungry.” Amelia stood in the doorway to Josie’s room, her cat balanced on her shoulder. “What’s for supper?”

“Want to help me eat a St. Louis pizza for my mystery-shopping report?” Josie asked. “It’s Imo’s. Big Dave can deliver it.” Like most frugal St. Louisans, she used coupons. Imo’s had a dozen or so specials going at any one time. She also had the Imo’s number on speed dial.

“I want a double cheese,” Amelia said.

Josie started to order a pepperoni and mushroom, then remembered Amelia’s anti-pork campaign. “Cheese and mushroom for me.”

She ordered two twelve-inch pizzas. “This is no ordinary pizza. We’re testing for the whole world.”

“Awesome,” Amelia said.

“I wonder what outsiders will make of St. Louis pizza,” Josie said.

“George Clooney ate pizza from Pi when he filmed
Up in the Air
here,” Amelia said. “President Obama liked Pi pizza, too. He had it when he campaigned in St. Louis. He even invited the restaurant owners to come to Washington to make pizza. It was in the news.”

“Pi’s pizza is good,” Josie said. “It has the St. Louis thin crust. But does it count as real St. Louis pizza? It doesn’t have Provel cheese.”

“What’s Provel?” Amelia said. “I thought all pizzas had the same cheese.”

The doorbell rang. Josie peeked through the miniblind slats and saw Big Dave on the front porch with the telltale flat boxes.

“We’ll continue this conversation over our pizza,” Josie said.

She handed Big Dave her Imo’s coupon, the pizza money, and a generous tip. Meanwhile, Amelia cleared the kitchen table, poured their drinks, and put out a pile of paper napkins.

Josie opened the flat boxes and they inhaled the smell of sweet, spicy tomato sauce. Both pizzas were crispy-brown at the edges, pooled with melted orange cheese and cut into squares about the size of Post-it notes.

“Back to our pizza cheese lesson,” Josie said. “Most pizzas are made with mozzarella, a gooey white cheese that stretches into long bubble-gum strings when you bite into it.”

Josie helped herself to a slice of her orange pizza. “This is Provel cheese, a mix of provolone, Swiss, and white cheddar. It’s sort of Italian Velveeta. Technically, Provel is ‘cheese food.’ Most people outside of St. Louis have never heard of Provel. Looks like TAG Tours is going for old-school St. Louis pizza.”

“I’ve never eaten pizza in another city,” Amelia said.

“I have,” Josie said. “Your daddy liked to go flying on the spur of the moment. On our first date, we flew along the Mississippi River in the moonlight. The Arch shone like pure silver.”

Josie still remembered the wild early days of her romance with Nate, before things went wrong. She’d dumped her safe, serious fiancé. She was not going to have a drab life like her mother. Josie Marcus would know passion. She would see the world.

“Another time we dashed down to the Cayman Islands to scuba dive. Once, he flew me to Manhattan and we had dinner at the Four Seasons. Your daddy was very romantic.”

Josie tried not to think about the sad drunk that Nate became. Or that she couldn’t marry Nate when she discovered he was dealing drugs. Now she was sitting in a suburban kitchen with an eleven-year-old daughter. Josie couldn’t imagine—or want—a life without Amelia.

“You were telling me about pizza,” Amelia prompted.

“Sometimes we’d get pizza instead of an expensive dinner,” Josie said. “Your daddy liked Chicago-style, but I thought the thick crust was too bready. New York pizza has a thin crust, but they use yeast. St. Louis crust is more like a cracker.”

“That’s what Rachel said,” Amelia said. “She’s the new girl at school from New York. She doesn’t like St. Louis pizza. Rachel called it orange matzo and said square pizza was stupid. I said our pizza was round.”

“It is round,” Josie said. “But we cut it into squares. In other cities, most places cut pizza into wedges. St. Louis pizzas are piled with gravity-defying amounts of toppings. A deluxe pizza here may have sausage, mushroom, green pepper, onion, bacon, and more. The St. Louis thin crust can’t support a big wedge with so many ingredients. That’s why we cut our pizzas into smaller squares.”

“I think our pizza is the best,” Amelia said.

“So do I,” Josie said. “But we’ll try those other cities’ pizzas someday. Let’s rate this one for TAG.”

“That’s easy,” Amelia said. “It should get an A.”

“You’re prejudiced,” Josie said.

“Will the tour people have Imo’s delivered to their hotel rooms?” Amelia asked.

“They could,” Josie said. “But they could also go to Imo’s restaurants. They’re not fancy, but the tourists could sit down and eat.”

“I like this job,” Amelia said. “You get paid to eat pizza.”

“I also get paid to walk miles in the malls,” Josie said. “It’s not the best way to make a living.”

“Then why do it?” Amelia asked.

“Because the hours are flexible and I get to be with you. That’s important to me.” She kissed her daughter. Mel or Amelia, she loved her. “Now, do the dishes, please.”

Amelia threw away the pizza boxes and napkins and put their drink glasses in the dishwasher. Josie signed the report and faxed it to Suttin Services.

She’d barely finished when her boss called. “TAG liked your toasted ravioli report,” Harry said. “They want you to go back to see if the restaurant is people-friendly.”

“What’s that mean?” Josie asked.

“You’re supposed to see if the owner will give you a tour, ask how she makes the food, and describe the customers. TAG wants you to take someone else and they want it tomorrow.”

“I could ask my friend Alyce,” Josie said.

“Just do it quick,” he said.

Josie felt worried and excited. If all went well, Tillie’s lifetime of hard work would pay off. Or it could be ruined by one loud drunk.