Death on a Platter (5 page)

“Are you sure this neighborhood is safe?” Alyce eyed the abandoned buildings warily.

“Of course,” Josie said, with more confidence than she felt. She’d insisted on driving her beat-up car. She didn’t tell Alyce that her black Cadillac Escalade was an invitation to a carjacking.

Josie was relieved that her friend was dressed sensibly for an iffy neighborhood. Alyce wore a plain blue sweater and no jewelry except a gold wedding band.

Alyce kept her purse close to her when she climbed out of the car. “I wish it wasn’t so deserted,” she said.

Josie locked the doors and said, “That’s good. There are no street people or panhandlers around. And we’re not alone. It’s the lunch hour and Tillie’s is packed. Look at all the cars on this street.”

“Empty cars,” Alyce said. “Their drivers are in the restaurant.”

“We’re only two blocks away,” Josie said. “There are two of us.”

The women picked their way carefully across the broken sidewalk, then marched down the middle of the street, away from the shadowy doorways.

A thin wind rattled the rusty chain-link fences. Dead leaves drifted sadly into the trash-clogged gutters. Alyce’s baby-fine blond hair wafted on the wind. Josie’s stylish chin-length bob blew across her face. She pulled her sweater tighter. She could feel winter coming, despite the weak autumn sun.

They rounded the corner and Tillie’s Off the Hill burst into view. A giant red sign screamed GET TOASTED AT TILLIE’S! The fireplug in front of the building was painted red, white, and green, the colors of the Italian flag.

Inside, the restaurant felt cheerfully warm and welcoming. Alyce sniffed the air. “Tomato sauce and garlic,” she said. “This is more like it.”

Every table and booth was filled with customers. Lorena was carrying a steaming tray to a table of six. An older dark-skinned man was clearing a booth, loading dirty dishes and silverware into a gray plastic tub.

Tillie was pouring drinks behind the bar. She waved a strong, stubby arm at Josie and called, “We’ll have that booth for you in a few minutes, as soon as Mitchell sets it.”

Josie’s heart sank when she saw Clay at the bar. He was loud and drunk. “My wife says I should get off my ass and work,” he said, slurring his words.

“She doesn’t appreciate how hard it is to find a job, sweetie,” Gemma Lynn said in that annoying childish voice. Her impossibly black hair was in soft curls, but her dark eyes were hard as black marble.

“Tha’s what I said,” Clay told her. “It’s work finding work.”

Josie whispered to Alyce, “That’s Clay, the troublemaker I told you about. The brunette sitting next to him is Gemma Lynn, his girlfriend.”

“Sitting?” Alyce said. “She’s wrapped around him like a boa constrictor. How come he’s drunk? That looks like a club soda in front of him.”

“I’m guessing Gemma Lynn is helping—or enabling—him,” Josie said.

Gemma giggled at Clay and tucked a black curl behind her ear. When Tillie turned to get a bourbon bottle from the back bar, Clay gulped down Gemma’s beer. Gemma Lynn slurped his ear and Clay rubbed her bottom.

“Tillie, my beer’s gone,” Gemma Lynn said.

“Then quit giving it to Clay,” Tillie said. “He’s drunk.”

“He’s happy,” Gemma said, pouting.

“Happy, my aunt Fanny.” Tillie twisted the cap off a bottle of Busch and set it in front of the man next to Clay, along with a clean glass. “Clay won’t find a job on that bar stool. You two stop making out in my restaurant. Get a motel room. Or go to your antique shop, Gemma Lynn. You’ve got plenty of beds there.”

Clay’s handsome mouth was twisted into a surly smile. “You can’t make me leave. Don’ wanna scene in your precious restaurant.”

“Then I’m calling your wife.” Tillie twisted open four beers and put them on Lorena’s tray. “She’ll get you out of here.”

“Go ahead,” Clay taunted.

Alyce watched the trio like a live soap opera. “This conversation sounds like high school,” she whispered to Josie.

Tillie dialed the phone under the counter, talked briefly, then said, “Henrietta’s on her way here, Clay. She says she’s had it with you.”

Clay repeated Tillie’s words, mocking her.

“Shut up, Clay,” said the fat man in a white chef’s coat and pants on the next bar stool. “We’re sick of you and your bimbo.”

“Hey!” Gemma Lynn said. “That’s no way to speak about a lady, Jeff.”

“I wasn’t,” Jeff the chef said. “I was talking about you.”

“Well, you’re . . . you’re . . .” Gemma paused, searching for an insult. “You’re fat.”

“Won’t argue with you about that, sweet cheeks.” Jeff patted his doughy belly. “Never trust a thin chef.”

Gemma turned away from him and cuddled with Clay.

“Tillie, can I talk to you?” Jeff asked.

Tillie was pouring red wine into a glass. “I’m busy,” she said. “In case you hadn’t noticed.”

“That’s why you need me,” Jeff said. “I want my old job back.”

“Why, Jeff? So you can rob me blind again?” Tillie set the wineglass down so hard the contents slopped over the side. “Whenever you worked this bar, the take was always short twenty or thirty dollars. After you quit here to start your own restaurant, I didn’t have any more shortages.”

“You wouldn’t give me a raise,” Jeff said, not denying her accusation. “I only wanted twenty-five cents an hour more.”

“I didn’t give me a raise, either,” Tillie said. “Or my daughter, Lorena. Every year, we take home a little less. I didn’t cut any staff. I kept your job and that’s how you repaid me. Then you up and quit and started your own restaurant three blocks away. Now, when it’s not working out, you come crawling back.”

“I’ll be honest with you,” Jeff said.

“That’s a first,” Tillie snapped.

“My place is in trouble.” Jeff took a drink of beer. “I can keep Chef Jeff’s open for dinner if I have a job at lunch. If you take me back, I could save my restaurant. I’m asking you for a favor.”

“You already used up your favor,” Tillie said. “Two favors. I didn’t call the police when I knew you were stealing from me. I can’t afford to have you around, Jeff. I hired another cook. Nancy’s good and she’s honest. I’m not letting her go because you want your job back. If you need money, sell your property to Desmond. That’s him taking up space at the four-top in the corner.”

Josie looked in the bar mirror. Desmond’s gray suit blended with the shadows in the dark corner. His diamond pinkie ring glittered.

“Can’t,” Jeff said. “My place is outside the magic circle. I’m stuck.”

“Shoulda thought of that before you put your sticky fingers in my cash register.” Tillie slammed an open beer in front of a customer three stools down. Foam oozed out of the top.

Jeff the chef turned sullen. He poured his beer into the glass and gave it to Clay. The drunk gulped it down.

“Tillie,” Clay shouted. “Another beer.”

“I’m not serving you or anyone near you,” Tillie said. “You’re drunk.”

“You need some food, buddy,” Jeff said, his voice soft and sly.

“Right. Get me some food.” Clay’s voice was nearly a shout. “Toasted ravioli. I’m already toasted at Tillie’s, so I’ll be double toasted.”

He laughed loudly. Only Gemma laughed with him. Tillie ignored the man, rinsing glasses in the bar sink with expert movements.

“What about your lady, Clay?” Jeff asked. “She hungry?”

“Nothing for me,” Gemma Lynn said coyly. “I’m watching my figure.”

“So am I, baby.” Clay leered at her.

“Tillie, give me some ravioli and I’ll give you your heart’s desire: I’ll leave. That’s what you want, isn’t it? For me to go away?”

“Yes,” Tillie said.

“Make that new chef put some spice in the sauce,” Clay said. “She makes it too mild.”

“I’ll personally spice it up, if you promise to eat and get out.” Tillie pushed open the swinging kitchen doors and called, “Nancy, will you watch the bar for me a minute?”

The new chef was thin and gray as an old dishrag. Josie saw Nancy strip off her hairnet, wipe her hands, tie on a fresh apron, and slip behind the bar.

“Club soda only for Clay,” Tillie told her. “I’m making him a quick order of toasted ravioli and then he’s leaving.

“Josie, your booth is ready, honey.” Tillie seated Josie and Alyce in the freshly cleared booth, then powered through the swinging kitchen doors like a little tank.

Jeff waved at someone on the restaurant side and left his bar stool. A brunette in a navy business suit and dark pumps burst through the door. She spotted Clay with Gemma Lynn and shrieked, “I’m working all day while you’re chasing this slut?”

“How dare you!” Gemma Lynn cried. “He’s going to marry me.”

“Good,” Henrietta said. “You can have him. I’m sick of supporting that lazy no-good.”

The restaurant had gone so quiet it might have been under a spell. Food-loaded forks stopped in midair. Conversations died. Drinks were left untouched.

Lorena rushed over and put her arm around Henrietta. “Don’t get upset, honey. He’s not worth it.” Clay’s wife was wide-hipped and bosomy. Her face was round and pretty, with pale skin and fine features. Lorena steered Henrietta to a quiet table in the far corner. “Mom’s fixing him toasted ravioli and then he’ll leave with you. Can I get you something?”

“No.” Henrietta’s eyes bored into her husband’s back.

Gemma Lynn shifted in her seat and pulled away from Clay as if she felt his wife’s angry glare. She sat primly upright.

Desmond watched the scene, eyes sparkling like his diamond. Lorena stopped for a moment to flirt with the developer’s spy, then sashayed into the kitchen, a little extra swing in her hips.

“How can Clay like Gemma Lynn?” Alyce asked. “She seems so coarse compared to his wife.”

“Maybe that’s her attraction,” Josie said.

“This is an exciting lunch,” Alyce said.

“Too exciting,” Josie said. “I can’t recommend Tillie’s to TAG Tours after that scene.”

“Maybe the tourists will enjoy the show,” Alyce said.

“They’re supposed to enjoy the food,” Josie said. “Domestic dramas are dangerous. Ask any cop. Clay attracts too many angry people. This restaurant is a recipe for trouble.”

“They’re not here now,” Alyce said. “It’s just Gemma Lynn and Clay, and they’re both behaving.”

She was right. Desmond and Henrietta had disappeared. Josie saw no sign of Jeff. Clay was quiet. Gemma Lynn sedately sipped her club soda. The normal restaurant sounds had resumed: the clank of plates, the clink of cutlery, and the quiet hum of conversation.

Lorena appeared at Josie and Alyce’s booth. “What can I get you, ladies?”

“I want to try your famous toasted ravioli,” Alyce said.

“Me, too,” Josie said. It was probably the last time she would ever eat at Tillie’s. She dreaded telling Jane about today.

Tillie barged through the kitchen door and set a platter in front of Clay. “I made this specially for you.”

Clay dredged a ravioli through the sauce and swallowed it in two bites. Then he ate a second. The third was so loaded with sauce, he could hardly get it in his mouth. Josie thought he looked like a snake swallowing its meal whole. When Clay finished the seventh ravioli he said, “Sauce is still too bland.”

“You sure as heck ate those ravioli fast enough,” Tillie said.

“I’ve got almost a dozen and a half to go. I’m outta sauce. Put some kick in that dipping sauce so I can eat and leave. I like spice, Tillie.” He squeezed Gemma Lynn and she giggled again.

Josie looked around and was relieved to see Clay’s angry wife had deserted her corner table.

“You want kick, you’ll get kick,” Tillie said. “I’ll give you so much kick it will knock you flat.” She passed Josie’s table on the way back to the kitchen and said, “Watch this. I’m going to get rid of Clay once and for all.”

“I don’t like this,” Alyce said.

Five minutes later, Tillie pushed through the swinging doors carrying a soup bowl brimming with red sauce. She set it on the bar next to Clay. “If this isn’t hot enough, then you’ve got a mouth lined with asbestos. Eat and leave.” Gemma Lynn was crunching the ice in her glass.

Clay dragged the ravioli through the sauce until it looked like a bloody lump. He took a big bite, chewed, then screamed, “I’m burning, I’m burning! My mouth is burning. Oh my God.”

Clay grabbed his club soda and gulped it. “It hurts! It hurts! I can’t breathe!”

“Here, have my ice,” Gemma said.

Clay brushed her hand away. Desmond, Henrietta, and Tillie came running from the back.

Josie heard cries of “Try milk!” “Make him chew bread!” “Give him air!” “Get a doctor!”

“She killed me.” Clay’s voice was a wheeze. His face was flushed red. “She—”

Clay tried to say something, but he could make only strangled noises. He slid from the bar stool and collapsed on the floor.

Gemma Lynn screamed.

“You killed my husband!” Henrietta howled as sirens shrieked toward the restaurant. “You killed the only man I ever loved.”

Josie could not tear her eyes away from Clay’s wife. Fury was etched in her face. A blue vein throbbed under the pale skin on Henrietta’s high forehead and the tendons in her neck stood out like architectural supports.

“You didn’t love him. I did!” Gemma Lynn shouted. She was louder than Henrietta, as if shouting was proof of her devotion. She did look distraught, Josie decided. Black mascara streaks smeared her cheeks. Her girlish curls stuck out at insane angles. She wondered if Gemma Lynn was sincerely worried or enjoying the drama.

“You had no right to him,” Henrietta cried.

“You didn’t want him,” Gemma Lynn said. “I did.”

The two women argued over Clay while he lay on the floor. Tillie pushed the warring women aside and kneeled next to him. She cradled his head on her lap, pushed his brown hair off his sweating forehead, and gently slapped his face, trying to bring him back. “Clay,” she said. “Clay, please wake up. I didn’t mean it.” Her voice shook as she pleaded with the unconscious Clay.