Hot Stuff (6 page)

“Chef Marty,” James touched a white coat on the sleeve, “this is Skip. He'll fill in for the next few nights.”

The man studied me for a moment. His irritation was obvious.

I turned and frowned at James. The next few nights? Nothing had been said about the next few nights.

The thin man nodded, his brief gaze ending when another burst of flames flared from a broiler. Wiping his brow on his jacket sleeve he walked over, picked up a pair of tongs, and turned a steak, checking its char with a seasoned look. He moved down the line, watching over the shoulders of several cooks as they stirred their pots. As busy as everything appeared, it seemed everyone was calm.

“Chef's name is Marty,” James said. “I've read about the guy. He's been with Bouvier since the beginning.”

“Good. You've already started sizing up the suspects.” I realized I sounded a bit sarcastic, but I was genuinely pleased that James had already made some inroads on the staff.

“One other thing that would help here, Skip. If I'd only thought to take Spanish lessons. I'm missing about fifty percent of what's being said.”

I eyed a tray of dishes and started scraping the scraps of what was an hour ago a delicious presentation on someone's table.

“Spanish, huh?”

“They go a mile a minute.”

“A French American restaurant, where you have to know Spanish to survive? It doesn't seem right, does it?”

“I'll get by, pard. I will survive.”

“You always do. Getting back to who knows what.”

“Yeah?”

“Does this Chef Marty know?”

“What? Does he know Spanish? Or does he know who we are? No. He has no idea. At least Bouvier said he didn't.” Speaking in a hushed tone, James said, “Chef Jean told the staff that he feels I have the talent to be a good chef, and he's taking me under his wing.”

I'd always been a fan of James's cooking. I thought he had talent, but then almost anything beat Taco Bell or Macs, and that was about what we could normally afford. That and a cheap pizza and beer.

“Does anyone know who we are?”

He shook his head. “There's been no sign that this crew has a clue. I've got the college background, a culinary arts degree, and I would be surprised if more than one or two of these misfits even knows how to do a Google search. It wouldn't matter if they did. I've got creds, Skip, I've got creds.”

He did. Even if he couldn't speak Spanish. And, if someone did research, if they conducted a background search, James came from working in a restaurant. A real restaurant. Not anything high-end, but his job had been in the Cap'n Crab kitchen. So if Bouvier pretended to have seen some talent, some potential in James, it was possible he found it at the fast-food restaurant. He could convince his staff that he'd found James at Cap'n Crab, and he'd felt that the culinary graduate had potential. I realized the idea was improbable, but possible.

“If they find out, James, we could be in a lot of trouble.”

“Bouvier swore that he was keeping this a secret, okay?”

“Trust no one.”

“Easy quote, Skip.
Doctor Strangelove
.”

“No. I wasn't doing a movie quote. I'm simply saying—”

“I'm going to the line. Help where I can, talk to whoever I can. It's the only way we're going to get information.”

“James,” this was not the place to discuss our ulterior motives, but with the noise level at its peak, I figured no one would hear us, “when I called Em, the first thing she said was ‘why didn't the dishwasher show up?' “

“Good question. Night after the murder.”

“I think it needs an answer.”

“You're right, we should look into it. But remember, man, these guys are gypsies. I mean they change jobs at the drop of a hat. Guy could have a drug habit, be running from the law, or trying to avoid an alimony payment.”

“It's a place to start.”

Over James's shoulder, Marty was motioning with his index finger. He wasn't trying to get my attention.

“James,” I pointed toward the cooking line. “Marty, excuse me, C
hef
Marty wants you.”

James looked at Marty and nodded. Turning back to me he frowned. “I'll get information on the dishwasher. Cell phone it to Em on my next cigarette break.”

“Uh, James, do I get a break?”

“You smoke?”

I stared daggers at him as a runner brought another tray piled high.

“Better get scraping, pardner.”

Half an hour turned into an hour, and I almost scalded myself with the one-hundred-eighty-degree water from the evil stainless machine. One of the runners in a white jacket and black headband stopped for a moment. As I grabbed his tray, he asked, “Where's Juan tonight?”

“Juan?”

“Juan, man. The dishwasher?”

“Didn't show up. You a friend of his?”

The swarthy runner glanced back at the cook staff, busily working at their stations. Roasting, broiling, boiling, baking, whatever it was that they did.

“Ain't nobody friends with nobody.” He spoke softly as if this was a big secret. “
Yo conozco a ese hombre
. I know the man. You know? We used to go out for a drink after this place close down. Just wondered if something happened, man.”

“If I see him, I'll tell him you asked about him. What's your name?”

He hesitated.

“Just asking, man.”

“Carlos.”

“Skip. Skip Moore.” I reached out with a gloved hand but he kept his hands close to his sides.

“Don't have to mention this.
Yo no sé nada
.” He glanced again at the cook group, where James was slicing something with his prized knife. I hoped it wasn't his hand.

“Was Juan close to the girl who was killed?”

Carlos took a step back, a puzzled look on his face. “Why you ask something like that?”

“I just thought,” I was winging it, “maybe he was upset about the murder and needed a day off to grieve.”

“Maybe. He find her attractive. I don't think it went any further than that. Grieve? I don't know. Don't say nothing to him, okay? I never ask.”

With that, Carlos spun around and headed back to the dining room. I saw him numerous times the rest of the night, bringing trays of dishes, but he never spoke to me again.

Halfway through the evening, I saw the baker, squeezing red icing from a tube onto a velvet cake, her long brown hair hanging to her shoulders. She had an amusing smile on her face, and I immediately thought of Em. You could almost put up with a kitchen environment when this lovely lady was in the room.

“Interesting crew, eh?” James appeared out of nowhere.

“Who is she?”

“Mrs. Fields.”

“Not the cookie lady? Debbi Fields?”

“No.” James rolled his eyes. “Kelly Fields. Pastry chef. She brightens up the place, doesn't she?”

“You know much about her?” I was intrigued.

“Apparently, she was one of the few people who really liked Amanda Wright.” He gazed at the baker. “Somehow we've got to talk to her.”

“Maybe Em can get involved. We could find a way for the two of them—”

“Maybe. But it wouldn't hurt for me to talk to her, you know, just tell her I'd heard that she and Amanda were friends and I was sorry for the loss.”

“Maybe,” I said.

Eleven at night and I was whipped.

Chef Jean had actually made an appearance in the kitchen with his equally short, stocky wife, Sophia. He'd shouted out a greeting to a couple of cooks, pulled Chef Marty aside, and had a serious talk with him. Then he came back to my station, saw the mess I was creating and he frowned. The little man walked away never to be seen again. The missus followed, with a sneer and huff. So much for his calming influence. So much for his wife's demure. She stuck her head in a couple more times during the evening, always with a drink in her hand. Like a little ghost. I'd look up and there she was, watching me. I never saw approval in her expression.

Bitterness rears its ugly head when things don't go your way. I'd been bitter once or twice in my short life, and I was certain the reason was largely because things hadn't gone according to my plan. My plan. But these plans were usually short-term goals. In the case of Sophia Bouvier, her future, the plans for Jean-Luc, her son, had not gone her way. Or his. And now someone had brutally murdered their candidate for head chef at their new South Beach bistro. I think she had a strong case for bitterness.

“Amigo,” James walked up to me as I put the last tray into the washer. I turned and immediately saw his hands. They were adorned with three bandages, and he held them up as badges of courage.

“What the hell did you do?”

“I forgot. A chef and his knife become intimate, Skip.
Damn, that thing is sharp. And as far as my cutting skills go, I'm a little rusty.”

“Thank goodness the knife isn't. We'd have to get you a tetanus shot.”

“Skip, Bouvier was here tonight.”

“For a minute.”

“I noticed. But Sophia was here for several minutes. Did you get a look?”

“What a team.”

“This is the future of American cooking, my friend.”

James pointed his bandaged thumb in the direction that the couple had exited the restaurant. “Those two are the cream of the crop.” He paused, then said, “The cooks fixed a little dinner for the staff. You get anything?”

“It's been a little busy back here, James. In case you haven't noticed.”

Sheepishly, he smiled.

“You did get a late start, pard. Let's go back to the locker room.”

So the cooks got a locker. The cooks had a dinner for the staff. The dishwasher guy got squat. It was no wonder that Juan had split and not returned.

As we walked, he untied his apron, tossing it into a laundry bag in the corner. I followed suit.

“You get a chance to talk to anyone?”

“I talked to one guy. Runner named Carlos. Aren't they usually called busboys?”

“At L'Elfe, busboy is one step up from the runner. He takes the plates from the table, politely asks the customer if everything is to their liking. He replaces a dropped fork, a spoon, and keeps an eye on the table, kind of troubleshooting. The runner, he just picks up the tub and brings it to you. That's pretty much his
whole job. We've got levels of servers here, Skip. This isn't Cap'n Crab.”

I was learning much more about the restaurant business than I wanted to.

“Anyway, this guy, Carlos, he's sort of friends with Juan Castro, the dishwasher. Says that Juan found Amanda attractive, but he didn't think it went any further than that. Sounded to me like a one-sided romance.”

James nodded, brushing his hair back from his face as we walked into the locker room. “I never got information sent to Em, but I've got another name. The staff thinks they've got this murder figured out.”

“Yeah?”

“Two of the cooks were talking when I got here. These two started it. Then it was like a fire, man. Seemed to catch on everywhere. Sous chef named Joaquin Vanderfield was ready to quit a couple of days ago when he found out Amanda was given the head chef job in South Beach. Guy was really pissed off.”

“Guy was jealous? Pissed off? James, that's a breakthrough.” The first real reason someone would consider killing Amanda.

“And it was the first real information that was offered.”

Joaquin Vanderfield?

“Joaquin? That's his name? Really?” Who names their kid Joaquin? I immediately realized there had been an actor named Joaquin. He'd played Johnny Cash in a biopic.

“He probably would find the name Eugene a little strange too,” James said.

I found Eugene strange. That's why I preferred Skip.

“You met this guy? Joaquin Vanderfield?”

“No. He called in sick tonight. But apparently he's a hothead. Blows up when things don't go his way. The staff thinks he may be the culprit.”

We now had a dishwasher and a sous chef who conveniently were not at work. It could mean something; it might mean nothing.

Walking into the employees' area, I saw a row of old battered metal lockers lining the wall. Half of them had locks hanging from their doors. Restrooms were at the end of the room. Two cooks were already leaving, dressed in street clothes. They nodded at James and me as they headed back down the hall. The rest of the staff who used the area must have gone or were still in the kitchen and dining room cleaning up.

“I've got number twenty.” He pointed toward the gunmetal gray door. “I just put my personal stuff, credit cards, and cash in there.”

James spun the dial on the padlock and opened the locker.

“What?” He shouted it out, stepping back and almost knocking me down.

“What?” I asked.

James moved aside, giving me a perfect view into the locker. An apparently blood-stained apron hung from a hook, a kitchen knife pierced through the fabric, the red liquid still wet on the white cloth.