Death on a Platter (9 page)

“You’ll still do a better job than those so-called pros.”

“But, Mom—,” Josie said.

“Don’t ‘but, Mom’ me. The police aren’t going to help clear Tillie’s name. They think they’ve got their killer. It’s up to you to find the real murderer.”

“I—”

“You need a babysitter and a chauffeur to pick up your daughter. And you’ve got one. I’m on call twenty-four hours a day. I’m happy to help you, Josie. Now it’s your turn to help me. Are you going to save Tillie or not?”

Josie had called her mother for help that very afternoon. She needed Jane.

“Well?” Jane demanded. “What’s your answer?”

“I’ll do it, Mom. But it’s a high price to pay for a sitter.”

The crushed couch cushions and flattened pillows on Josie’s couch looked like accusations. Josie knew she’d been guilty of reckless behavior. She and Ted had gotten carried away last night. Josie blushed at the memory of their passionate scene.

Josie whacked a throw pillow as if punishing it, then tossed it on the couch. She sprayed lemon furniture polish on a cloth and dusted the end table and the coffee table. The harsh morning light revealed the wear on her garage sale finds. At least her old furniture was clean, she thought.

She had stepped back to admire her work when the phone rang.

“How are you this morning, Josie?” Ted’s voice was warm and sexy.

“Just fine,” she said. “Especially since you called.”

Josie wasn’t fine. She was worried—about her mother, about Tillie, about her and Ted.

“How’s your mom?” Ted asked. “Jane seemed pretty shaken up last night.”

“She’s better this morning,” Josie said. “She woke me up early taking the dog for a walk. I’m sure she’s still worried about her friend, but Mom is a survivor.”

“I’ve got some news that’s going to worry her more,” Ted said. “My ten o’clock brought in a bug for his shots.”

“You treat insects?” Josie asked.

Ted laughed. “No, a bug is Kate’s name for her type of dog. It’s a Boston terrier–pug mix. Cute little guy she calls a ‘bug.’ Kate is an ER nurse at Holy Redeemer. She was on duty when that guy from the restaurant was brought in.”

“Clay Oreck?” Josie asked.

“She didn’t tell me his name. Just said he’d eaten some toasted ravioli from Tillie’s. Everybody in the ER knows the restaurant. They were really surprised a customer would have food poisoning.”

“Food poisoning is good, isn’t it?” Josie asked. “I mean for Tillie. It beats being charged with reckless endangerment.”

“Sorry,” Ted said. “I should have said they thought Clay had food poisoning when he first showed up. It’s only natural when someone arrives by ambulance from a restaurant. What killed him may be worse. Kate thinks he ingested a toxic plant.”

“He what?” Josie asked. That didn’t sound good. She poured herself more coffee and plopped onto the sofa. This sounded like news she should take sitting down.

“Kate said the man was poisoned and it wasn’t pretty. The ER kept some of the—This is gross. Do you want to hear it?”

“I’m a mom,” Josie said. “I’ve changed diapers.” She took a sip of coffee and burned her tongue.

“Okay. The guy was throwing up and they saved some of it. The ER doc thought he recognized bits of castor beans in the vomit and sent it for testing.”

“Castor beans grow wild in the vacant lot next to Tillie’s restaurant,” Josie said. “If that’s what really made Clay sick.”

“The doctor was fairly sure,” Ted said. “The beans have a distinctive look—they’re dark brown with pretty patterns. He’d treated a castor bean poisoning in the ER in August. A toddler had chewed a bean. Fortunately, the mom caught her kid in the act and rushed him straight to the hospital. The boy survived. Clay wasn’t so lucky.”

“Why would a child survive, but not a grown man?” Josie asked.

“Who knows?” Ted said. “The boy only chewed on one bean and his mom made him spit it out. The doc found quite a few pieces coarsely chopped when Clay got sick. He estimates the man ate several beans, but he’s not sure how many. Plus Clay had liver damage.”

“He was drunk at the bar that afternoon,” Josie said. “He was turning into an alcoholic.”

“That could make the reaction worse,” Ted said. “Too bad there’s no antidote for castor bean poisoning. I thought you’d want to tell your mom that Clay was probably poisoned, so she can warn Tillie. Her lawyer will want to know.”

“Poor Tillie,” Josie said, then stopped. “If Kate is a nurse, why is she blabbing Clay’s medical history to you?”

“Clay is dead, and a reporter was at the hospital,” Ted said. “Kate expects the story will be on television as soon as the tests confirm it’s castor beans. Tillie should brace herself for some bad publicity.”

Josie groaned. “And maybe a murder charge. I listened to the TV news this morning while I was getting dressed and didn’t see anything about the story. I thought Tillie was safe.”

“I think it’s going to hit like a tornado,” Ted said. “You’ve got everything for a perfect media storm: a beloved St. Louis restaurant, the city’s favorite food, a high-profile lawyer, and his cute old lady client.”

“Better call her an old
er
woman if you value your life,” Josie said. “Tillie is Mom’s age and neither sees herself as an old lady.”

“You’re right,” Ted said. “Your mom didn’t like it when I said that last night. I have more bad news. Kate said the dead guy’s wife was at the ER.”

“Henrietta?” Josie said.

“Sounds right, but I’m not sure. When Clay died, Nurse Kate said she didn’t act like a grieving widow. There were no tears, no shocked silence, no request to be alone with her husband. Henrietta started screaming that she was going to sue Tillie. She called a lawyer before they wheeled her husband’s body out of the ER. The lawyer ran straight to the hospital.”

“Talk about an ambulance chaser,” Josie said.

“It was pretty shameless, according to Kate,” Ted said. “The lawyer was wandering around the emergency room, trying to get information, taking the names of potential witnesses and interfering with the staff. Security had to throw him out. Now everyone is waiting to find out what killed Clay. Kate swears it’s going to be castor bean poisoning.”

“This just gets worse, Ted. I’d better hang up so I can call Mom.”

“I’m worried about you, Josie. Do you still have more TAG Tour assignments?” Ted asked.

“Several,” Josie said. “Why?”

“I don’t like you going on these mystery-shopping assignments alone, eating at strange restaurants.”

Josie felt uneasy. She didn’t like anyone questioning her independence, no matter how well-meant. “Ted, you don’t have to worry. I wasn’t alone. I’m supposed to take someone with me to each place. This is a dream job. I’m getting paid to eat at restaurants.”

“Where a man was poisoned,” Ted said.

“An obnoxious man,” Josie said. “Clay’s death was different. He was as welcome as a roach at Tillie’s. None of the places on my list know who I am or what I’m doing. That’s the good part about being a mystery shopper—I’m a nobody, representing other nobodies.”

“You’re not a nobody,” Ted said.

“Okay, an ordinary person who makes sure other ordinary customers get extraordinary service.”

“That’s better, but I’m still worried about you,” Ted said.

“Then come with me,” Josie said. “I’d really like company today. I’m mystery-shopping pig ear and snoot sandwiches at the C & K Barbecue. I don’t want to eat exotic pig parts.” Josie shuddered at the thought of biting into a pig’s nose.

Ted laughed. “You don’t know what you’re missing. I love snoots and ears.”

“You do? I thought they were African-American food.”

“They are,” he said. “But high-powered foodies have discovered barbecue. Some big-time barbecue chef in Manhattan is from St. Louis. You’ll never guess where I read that.”

“
Bon Appétit?”

“The
Economist
,” Ted said. “And how did you know the name of a gourmet cooking magazine?”

“My friend Alyce gets it. When did you start getting the
Economist
?”

“A client complained my office magazines were older than his dog and brought over his magazines,” he said. “I read some before I put them in the waiting room. Thanks to that article, I am a fount of barbecue information. Plus I’ve had years of hands-on research. That makes me a qualified expert.”

Josie laughed. “Are you free for a lunch?”

“I’m free the rest of the day,” Ted said. “I see my last patient at eleven thirty. How about if I pick you up at twelve thirty? And where do you want to eat your barbecue? C & K is carryout only.”

“We could come back here,” Josie said.

“Might not make it all the way to your house,” Ted said. “That barbecue is incredible. Besides, it’s too messy to eat in your kitchen. This is a ten-napkin sandwich. We’re talking crunchy ears on pillowy white bread piled with mayonnaise potato salad and slathered with sweet red barbecue sauce. It’s a perfect fall day. How about a picnic? I was thinking Deer Creek Park.”

Josie could name nearly a dozen nearby parks, but not that one. “Where’s Deer Creek?”

“Not too far from your house,” Ted said, “on Laclede Station Road near I-44. By Cousin Hugo’s bar.”

“Oh, you mean Rocket Ship Park! Every kid in Maplewood knows it. Amelia loved the old rocket ship slide when she was little.”

“We dog owners know it as Disc Dog Park. The St. Louis Disc Dog Club has practice there most Saturdays. I take my Lab for Frisbee practice. The park has picnic tables.”

“I’ll bring the napkins, paper towels, and wipes,” Josie said.

“I’ll bring the beer,” Ted said.

“How about Festus? Can he go with us?” Josie asked.

“He’s on a diet,” Ted said. “I have to practice what I preach about fat animals. It would be cruel to eat barbecue in front of him. I’ll pick you up. Don’t wear anything you don’t want to see covered in barbecue sauce. And prepare to meet a St. Louis institution.”

Josie hoped this meeting would be less deadly than the last.

What can I wear that would look cute covered in barbecue sauce? Josie wondered.

She settled on a tomato-colored shirt that brought out the natural reddish highlights in her brown hair. Any dripped sauce would match the shirt. The day was warm enough for her strappy red sandals.

She combed her hair, put on makeup, and looked in the mirror. She felt ready to tackle any pig part. Josie had barely finished dressing for her date when her phone rang.

“Josie!” Jane’s frantic cry shattered Josie’s calm.

“Mom, what happened?”

“It’s Tillie. She’s been arrested for murder. It’s going to be on television after the commercial.” Jane’s voice changed from slashing anxiety to an old woman’s quaver. “What is she going to do?”

“I’ll be right up.”

Josie skimmed upstairs to her mother’s kitchen. She was greeted at the back door by a joyously playful Stuart Little. She scratched the shih tzu’s ears while he pranced and wagged his tail.

Jane didn’t greet her. She was glued to the small television on the counter, staring at a used car commercial. Josie thought Jane must have been in the midst of making an omelet. She saw two eggs and a bag of shredded American cheese on the counter. On the stove, chopped green pepper and onions were starting to smoke in a skillet. Josie grabbed the skillet and put it on a cool burner.

The normally kitchen-careful Jane didn’t see that, either. She watched the car dealer’s “unbelievable deals” as if they were promises of salvation.

“Mom?” Josie said.

“Sh!”
Jane said. “They’re back.”

The blond anchorwoman and her dark-haired cohost had the plastic perfection of a couple on a wedding cake. The blonde put on her serious face and read the news story on the teleprompter: “Tillie Minnelli, owner of the landmark Italian restaurant, Tillie’s Off the Hill, was charged with first-degree murder today in the death of Clay Oreck.”

A shot of Tillie’s restaurant flashed on the screen, followed by a photograph of Clay, brown-haired and lean. It must have been taken long before the alcohol left him bloated and broken-veined. The photograph was blurry, as if foretelling Clay’s future as a drunk.

“Mr. Oreck, a thirty-two-year-old unemployed roofer, died after eating toasted ravioli at the restaurant,” the anchorwoman said. “Police say the ravioli and the sauce were laced with lethal castor beans, a poisonous plant that grows wild in Missouri.

“Police say Mr. Oreck had an altercation with the restaurant owner and Mrs. Minnelli said she wanted rid of the victim permanently. The day before, she had brandished a weapon and threatened him.”

“Threatened him!” Jane shouted at the television. “He was drunk! She brought out a lead pipe from under the cash register and he took it away from her. Some threat!”

The anchorwoman continued her relentless reading. “Mr. Oreck collapsed while eating ravioli personally prepared by Mrs. Minnelli. He was taken to Holy Redeemer Hospital. Efforts to revive him failed and he was pronounced dead later that evening.

“Mrs. Minnelli was originally charged with reckless endangerment and released on bail, but after a massive dose of chopped castor beans was found in the victim’s vomit”—the anchorwoman paused slightly but continued—“the charges were changed to first-degree murder. If Mrs. Minnelli is convicted, she faces the death penalty.”

“That’s not what happened,” Jane told the television screen. “You forgot the dipping sauce. Tillie wanted Clay to leave and he wouldn’t. That’s why she made the sauce hotter.” Jane waved the knife she’d been using to chop onions at the oblivious anchor.

Josie gently pried the knife out of her mother’s hand. “It’s okay, Mom. That’s why Tillie has a lawyer. Renzo will tell the whole story to the jury.”

The anchor said, “River Bluff police arrested Mrs. Minnelli this morning.”