Chesapeake Crimes: This Job Is Murder!. Donna Andrews

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СКАЧАТЬ the phrase “mince the squirrel meat,” I closed my eyes and let the held-breath out slowly. Eventually, the universe stabilized enough for me to continue reading the distasteful document, even though I skimmed it like gravy.

      At “scald, dress, and pick the hair off the ’possum,” however, I headed to the bathroom, hanging my head over the toilet bowl until the wave of nausea passed. The office toilet—which the public used. Where does one go to recover from that?

      Gumshoes grumbling their way across television and movie screens suddenly made sense. The monosyllabic responses of down-and-out private eyes, the drinking, the bitterness. Call me a house dick, I’d be surly too. Knock me in the head with a gun butt, and I’d be cranky. Already, getting people to tell me things they never meant to tell anyone, snooping into matters that weren’t any of my business, and pretending to be someone I’m not had frayed my last nerve.

      * * * *

      I’d never been on this side of town, with its boxy little houses, all the same, all in a row, and it took getting lost twice to find the address. The driveway ended in a ratty hedge instead of a garage. Behind the glass of the front door, a dark-haired woman nearly filled the frame, and didn’t speak until I was on the porch right in front of her.

      “You must be Ms. Pennington from the Turnbow Agency.” She moved aside and opened the door to let me in. “I’m Denise Quay.” We sat down on a settee in the foyer.

      “You called our agency to voice a concern about—”

      “The disappearance of Pilar Heinz. My friend did not just wander off, no matter what the police say.” She sounded angry instead of concerned.

      “You mentioned to Ms. Turnbow that a Gastronomic Gambles chef might be involved.”

      “Clyde Shelbee. He’s gotten away with so many things in the past, why not murder this time?” The woman was wringing her hands as if a neck was between them.

      “Murder is a very serious accusation,” I said as softly as I could so I didn’t rile her any further.

      “If you’d had dealings with the famous Chef Clyde in the past… Pilar finally saw him for the jealous and petty little man he is. She wanted something in writing this time guaranteeing she’d get credit for her contributions.”

      “If he refused, maybe Pilar finally said enough is enough and took off.”

      “No. Pilar might quit, but not until after the competition. She believed if she could get Shelbee to acknowledge that the recipes were hers, it would launch her career.”

      “It’s my understanding that Chef Clyde is going ahead with using Pilar’s dishes in the competition.”

      “What? And the network is going to let that bastard get away with it?”

      “With what? If you have evidence that a crime has been committed, you need to go to the police.”

      She stood abruptly and marched to the door. “You have more than enough evidence already to get the police to swear out a warrant on Shelbee. Instead, you’re going to allow a killer to cover his tracks.” She shoved the door open with her foot. I guessed our chat was at an end. Seemed my detecting skills were shaping up nicely.

      * * * *

      I called my aunt’s cell to report what little I’d learned.

      “Where are you right now, Auntie?”

      “Angelina hired us to tail Brad,” she replied. “I’m at the Four Seasons having a mojito, waiting for him to come out of the bathroom with the barmaid.”

      “Ha ha. Do you want to hear what I learned from Pilar’s friend?”

      She sighed. “Not now. I’m still dealing with the case your cousin screwed up. The client wants that boy’s head on a plate.”

      “I thought it was just a misunderstanding.”

      “My son’s description of the problem as a misunderstanding was a bit of an understatement. I’d give you other choice words, but not over the phone. At any rate, you’ll have to keep handling the Heinz case.”

      “Handling? As in making decisions?”

      “Don’t panic.”

      “Don’t panic? It’s a little too late for that!”

      “Listen, I love you and want to be supportive. I just can’t deal with your drama right now. Come back to the office and type up your report.”

      “I was going back to your house to soak my feet. They’re killing me.”

      “Well, maybe tomorrow you’ll wear sensible shoes.”

      * * * *

      When I returned to the office, I found a woman with ash blond hair, clad in a tan running outfit sitting alone at my desk. She clutched a huge khaki purse.

      I asked the beige lady, “Does Ms. Turnbow know you’re here?” My aunt didn’t want me to call her aunt in front of clients. Said it wasn’t professional.

      “Are you Nonni?”

      “Yes. Do I know you?” I sat on the edge of my desk and looked down at her.

      “No, but you’ve met my father. Emmett.”

      “And?”

      “He and I haven’t seen eye to eye these last few years. Not since he decided to keep working for that tiny tyrant, Chef Clyde. But he’s still my father. If something has happened to Pilar, my father might be in danger, too.”

      “Are you suggesting that Pilar’s been hurt, or worse? And your dad might be next?”

      “It’s common knowledge that Clyde sabotaged competitors in the past in order to win cooking competitions. Who’s to say he didn’t take his shady behavior to the next level?”

      Emmett’s daughter was looking down at her cradled purse. When she raised her eyes to meet mine, they were glossy with tears. “Pilar would not leave before showcasing her family recipes on national TV. It doesn’t make sense. Why not wait until after the Gastro Gambles to leave?”

      She smothered her face in a wad of tissue and came up blowing her nose, then disappeared into my aunt’s office.

      This P.I. stuff sure involved a lot of emotional roller coasting. Thank goodness Emmett’s daughter had brought her own tissue because I wasn’t equipped to offer my shoulder to every weepy person I encountered. Wasn’t too many weeks ago I was on my own amusement park ride to hell.

      * * * *

      The Gamble’s studio was in a section of mid-town Atlanta lousy with warehouses and wholesale storefronts. At the end of a string of concrete-block clones, it stood out as the only two-story structure in the queue.

      The lobby’s appointments were spare and its glass abundant. The security officer looked like security officers everywhere. I had to sign in and show ID, then I was instructed to wait. After a few minutes, a girl in her late teens СКАЧАТЬ