Death of a Crabby Cook (3 page)

My aunt was rambling again. I had to stop her before she incriminated herself and was led off to jail in chains.

“Officer,” I said, interrupting her, “what my aunt wants to tell you is that a lot of the food truck owners have had encounters with this guy because he objected to them being so close to his restaurant. I understand he wasn't the most pleasant man to deal with. I have a feeling he'd made a number of enemies, no doubt some in his own kitchen. . . .”

Detective Shelton held up a hand to stop my own rambling. “Well, Ms. . . .”

“Darcy.”

“Well, Darcy, my job is to collect information. We don't operate on feelings here at SFPD. According to a number of witnesses, your aunt was seen having a heated argument with the victim shortly before he died, and”—he checked his notes—“wielding a knife—”

Aunt Abby leaned forward and slammed her hand on the detective's desk. “That jerk put a rat under my stove!”

The room was silent at my aunt's sudden outburst. Realizing she'd overreacted, she sat back and folded her hands in her lap as if she were in church.

Well, great,
I thought, cringing. She'd just given herself a motive for killing Oliver Jameson: revenge. And now it appeared she couldn't control her temper. All we needed was the weapon—the knife she'd been waving at him earlier—and she'd be wearing orange pajamas for the rest of her life.

“Ms. Warner . . .”

“Abby,” she said, her tone soft again, her sweet smile back on her face.

“Abby,”
the detective said, enunciating her name. “Where were you between the hours of one and four this afternoon?”

“Wait a minute!” Dillon said, finally coming to life. “I thought you just wanted to ask her some routine questions about this guy. You don't think she had anything to do with this, do you?”

“Oh, I couldn't kill anyone, Detective,” Aunt Abby added. “Not even someone I hated as much as Oliver Jameson. I mean, look at me. I couldn't hurt a fly. I don't even like killing rats.”

My petite aunt was hardly the physical type to commit murder. Then again, we still didn't know how Oliver Jameson had died.

“What was the cause of death?” I asked.

“That's privileged information,” he said to me, then returned his dark brown eyes to Aunt Abby. “So where were you this afternoon, Ms. Warner, if you don't mind my asking?”

Aunt Abby turned crimson. Her eyelashes fluttered
like trapped butterflies trying to escape, and she squirmed in her chair. Glancing at Dillon and then at me, she cleared her throat and faced her inquisitor.

“I . . . took a walk after the lunch rush. I had some errands to run.”

“Can you give me a list of those errands and where you went exactly?”

She shrugged. “Sure, but if you're looking for an alibi, I don't think anyone saw me.”

Detective Shelton frowned. “Did you happen to stop by Bones 'n' Brew during your errand run?”

Aunt Abby looked him right in the eyes, smiled confidently, and said, “Absolutely not!”

I shot a look at Aunt Abby. She'd just lied to the detective! When she didn't meet my eyes, I turned to the detective, the hairs on the back of my neck tingling. “Can you at least tell us where the body was found?”

He hesitated, then said, “In his office.”

Oh God.

I wondered how soon they'd find my aunt Abby's fingerprints all over the proverbial cookie jar.

Aunt Abby swooned in her chair. “Is it hot in here?” she asked, snatching one of the detective's papers from his desk and fanning herself with it. He shot her a disbelieving look about her previous statement, but she seemed oblivious to it.

“Are we done, Detective?” Dillon wrapped an arm around his rosy-cheeked mother. “She's had a long and tiring day and needs to rest. I'd like to get her home, if that's okay.”

I studied the detective, wondering if my aunt's sudden hot flash was a clear sign of guilt to the investigator. But instead of slapping handcuffs on her, he rose and said, “Of course. If we have more questions, we'll be in touch. Thanks for coming down.”

Like she had a choice,
I thought.

Dillon and I helped Aunt Abby up as if she'd suddenly become an invalid. She gave the detective a tremulous smile and returned the paper to the desk, then headed out, flanked by the two of us. Dillon held her arm, while I placed a comforting hand on her back.

What an act.

When we reached the door, the detective called out, Columbo-style, “Just one more thing . . .”

We froze, then turned around.

“You aren't planning to leave town, are you?”

Aunt Abby shook her head. “No, Detective.” Under her breath she mumbled, “Where would I go? Has he forgotten I've got the Crab and Seafood Festival tomorrow?”

“And if you remember anything else, give me a call,” he added.

After I helped Aunt Abby into the tiny backseat of my car, we drove home in silence, each of us lost in his or her own thoughts. I didn't know what she and Dillon were thinking, but my mind was spinning like a Cuisinart, dicing and chopping various murder scenarios. Who killed Oliver Jameson? A disgruntled diner? One of his kitchen staff? A random crazy person? Just about anyone could have done it. Even, I supposed, a food truck chef.

Like Aunt Abby?

No way! She wouldn't even drop a live lobster into a pot of boiling water, let alone kill a human being. That much I knew. But someone obviously had. And I had a feeling that if I didn't try to find out who it was, Aunt Abby could soon find herself in her own pot of hot water. Especially when the detective discovered my aunt's fingerprints at the restaurant and realized she'd been in the dead man's office and lied about it.

When I wrote a review for the
Chronicle
, I always interviewed the primary source—the owner—and worked my way from there—to the chef, the waitstaff, and the customers. I planned to tackle Aunt Abby's problem in a similar manner. While the main source, at this point, was deceased, I could at least try to find out more about him
from the people who knew him. Then maybe I'd have a list of possible suspects to check out.

Hopefully Detective Shelton would be doing the same thing.

Unfortunately, it appeared he'd already put my aunt on his suspect list.

We arrived at Aunt Abby's home a little after seven. My aunt said she had stuffed bell peppers in the freezer she'd microwave for dinner and set about busying herself with preparing the meal. Dillon went off to his bedroom, no doubt to answer e-mails, update his Facebook page, tweet his latest thoughts, and do a bunch of other Internet-related stuff. Maybe I could ask him to check Craigslist and find me another reporting job—once this murder business was resolved.

I headed for the RV to change into my comfy jeans and a “Bay to Breakers” T-shirt I'd stolen from my ex-boyfriend. After pouring myself a glass of cheap wine, I sat down at my laptop at the tiny kitchen table and Googled “Oliver Jameson Bones 'n' Brew.”

Yelp popped up first. I opened the page and began reading the comments by amateur critics.

“. . . lousy food, poor service . . .”

“. . . This used to be such a great place, but it's really gone downhill. . . .”

“. . . Save your money and spend it at one of the yummy food trucks across the street. . . .”

Ouch.

The reviews continued much in this vein, including the one I'd written about the restaurant's decline. Only rarely did I see anything complimentary. I wondered
how the restaurant had managed to stay in business all these years with so many negative comments.

Next, I checked for a Facebook or Twitter link to either Oliver or the restaurant, but I found no social media contacts. Maybe the place was too old-school for that kind of networking. Or maybe Jameson didn't feel he needed to get the word out anymore, since the restaurant had been around for so long.

Finally I found a piece another reporter at the
Chron
had done on Bones 'n' Brew a number of years ago. It mentioned that Oliver Jameson had taken over the restaurant from his father, Nigel Jameson, after the older man passed away from a heart attack. A photo of the two men proved the “like father, like son” theory, at least in physical characteristics. Both had male pattern baldness—one advanced, one with trim still around the edges. Both were stocky, as if they'd enjoyed their own cooking a little too much. And both were about the same height. They even wore nearly identical chef's whites with their names embroidered in black. But while Jameson Senior sported a smile, revealing a row of crooked teeth, Junior looked as if he'd just bitten into a lemon.

After a little more research, I found a solid lead, thanks to
Gastronome
, an online magazine that featured stories on various chefs from around the world. According to a recent article, Oliver Jameson's place once had a prestigious reputation, earning two Michelin stars. Since then, the rating had plummeted. The critic, a woman named Paula Bouchard, called him a “second-rate chef” and a “third-rate human being.” Jameson shot back at her in a letter to the editor, calling her “Palate-less Paula” and “Big Mac Bouchard.”

Harsh. I wondered if there was something else besides food that had caused such venom.

The article noted that Jameson had also had numerous confrontations with his kitchen staff and was known to have fired some of the best sous chefs in the business. At one point, he'd threatened his former pastry chef with a meat skewer and had to be bailed out of jail by his father. Jameson had also been accused of lying to a group of vegetarians for not disclosing that he used chicken stock in his soup, of buying out-of-date ingredients from questionable suppliers, and of using illegal poisons to handle his vermin problem. Within the last seven years, most of his staff had either quit or been fired and had sued him.

Hmm. Not a terribly nice or reputable guy. He apparently had anger-management problems, in addition to being a bully, a liar, a slob, and an arrogant SOB.

That certainly increased the list of possible suspects.

Well, at least Aunt Abby wasn't the only one who'd had run-ins with Oliver Jameson. But how would I narrow the list down? That was the question.

Before I shut off the computer, one more link regarding tomorrow's Crab and Seafood Festival caught my eye. Oliver Jameson's name reared its ugly head once again, this time protesting the event.

“Enough with these pseudo food festivals that are attracting the wrong kind of people to our neighborhoods,”
Jameson was quoted as saying.
“These greasy-spooners calling themselves chefs could be selling all kinds of crap. Those questionable food trucks are littering our beautiful city. Send them to the zoo to feed the animals and leave this area to those of us who run reputable establishments, like Bones 'n' Brew.”

Again, wow. If Aunt Abby really had put that knife in Oliver Jameson's back, I probably wouldn't have blamed her, nor would a lot of other people.

My cell phone chirped. I checked the text message. Aunt Abby had typed,
Dinner ready
.

OMW
, I texted back, letting her know I was on my way. Before I turned off my laptop, I did a quick search for food trucks at Fort Mason. Yelp listed a dozen of the ones that claimed semipermanent spaces, like Aunt Abby's Big Yellow School Bus. I recognized all of them and in fact had sampled from most. I did a quick scan of the various reviews.

“The Love Potion Number 9 from the Coffee Witch is incredible!!!”
wrote Ann P. from the Mission.

“Loved the Sushi/Salsa Wraps at Kung Fu Tacos! I'll be back!”
wrote Janet F. from Pacific Heights.

“Try the Red Velvet Dream Puffs from the Dream Puff truck—they're to die for!!”
wrote Colleen C. from Noe Valley.

“I'm totally addicted to the Principal's Potpies at the Big Yellow School Bus!”
This one was signed Dillon W. from the Marina.

Dillon W.? Hmm.

The glowing reviews continued until I found myself nearly drooling on my laptop. But it was the last one at the bottom that really caught my attention.

“I was checking out the food truck scene at Fort Mason the other day and overheard some guy complaining there were too many trucks invading the city. Turned out he was the owner of a restaurant across the street. I guess he doesn't appreciate the competition. Doubt his place will
last long with awesome food trucks like this.”
Signed, Food Truck Fan.

I had a feeling Fan was talking about Oliver Jameson.

•   •   •

I awoke at six thirty the next morning, temporarily forgetting I didn't have a regular job anymore. I made myself a breakfast of yogurt, strawberries, toast, and one of those flavored, one-cup coffees, which would keep me going until I could get to the Coffee Witch. After I showered, I dressed in my uniform—khaki pants and a plain red top. I slipped on my red laceless Converse All Stars, said good-bye to the Disney gang, and headed over to Aunt Abby's to help her prepare for today's Crab and Seafood Festival.

While I'd never worked at a food festival before, I'd certainly gone to many of them in my capacity as a food critic. It was one of the better perks of the job. I loved the Gilroy Garlic Festival and the Ghirardelli Chocolate Festival, but the Crab and Seafood Festival was one of the best, in spite of my distaste for mollusks. The event was held at various spots along the marina, including Fort Mason, with views of the Golden Gate Bridge, the boats at the yacht club, and the expansive, grassy lawns. Various musicians played throughout the day, everything from indie pop to alt-rock, from blues to zydeco, adding to the celebratory atmosphere. You couldn't help but hoist a few Guinness stouts to wash down all the fish fare. One of my favorite events was the Shuck-and-Suck Competition, where oyster lovers raced to see how many of those slimy things they could eat in a timed period. And although the festival wasn't cheap, the proceeds
benefited the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society, so it was all for a good cause. Of course, being press, I always got in free.

I checked the time on my cell phone. Aunt Abby said we had to be at the School Bus by nine to prepare. The gates opened at eleven. This year the event was expected to draw more than a hundred thousand people. I couldn't imagine serving such a crowd!

“Aunt Abby?” I called out after letting myself in the open back door.

“She's not here!” Dillon yelled from the recesses of the house.

Surprised he was up so early, I followed his voice to his room, hoping he was decent. I peered in from the doorway. His bedroom was essentially unchanged since high school. The ragged Harry Potter comforter lay in a crumpled heap at the foot of the unmade bed. Clothes were strewn about the room as if the place had been burglarized. Piles of comic books, graphic novels, and computer magazines towered in uneven piles on every flat surface. A souped-up PC that Dillon had assembled from custom components sat on a desk, his gateway to the virtual gaming world. He also had one other desktop computer, three monitors, a laptop, two printers, and a couple of tablets. The only noise in the room came from the cooling fans that kept the big computers from overheating.

But it was his pet white rat, Ratty, that kept me from actually entering his room. It didn't matter that the creepy thing was in a cage.

Dillon lay in his bed working on his laptop. A coffee cup that read “I Escaped from Alcatraz” sat overturned
on the small table beside him, empty and dried up. He still wore his SpongeBob Squarepants pajama bottoms and a stretched-out Angry Birds T-shirt. His feet were bare and his toenails needed clipping. The room smelled of old food mixed with dirty socks and a hint of pot.

“Where is she?” I asked from the doorway. If the rat didn't get me, I had a feeling hantavirus or some other hazmat disease would.

“Said she was going to work,” he said without looking up.

I checked the time on my cell phone: seven. “Already?”

He gave a one-shoulder shrug.

Huh. Apparently she'd left early for her “busterant,” as she liked to call it, no doubt anxious to get ready for the onslaught of festival customers. Odd that she hadn't called or texted to hustle me along. I started to leave, sensing I'd better get over there quickly to help out, then had a thought. Maybe Dillon could do some online investigating to help take the heat off his mother.

“Dillon, I did some research on Oliver Jameson last night and turned up some interesting stuff. I thought maybe you could find out more about him.”

“Done that,” he said, continuing his typing.

“Really?” I blinked, surprised at his sudden display of initiative. “What did you find out?”

Still typing on his laptop, Dillon recited much of the same information I'd located on the Internet the previous night.

“Yeah, I saw all that. Anything else?”

He pulled his fingers from the laptop and met my eyes. “Did you know that Bones 'n' Brew was in Chapter 11?”

“No kidding? How did you find that out?”

“Public record,” he said.

“Was the place about to close?”

Dillon shrugged again. “Chapter 11 usually means reorganizing in order to stay afloat. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn't.”