Death of a Crabby Cook (7 page)

“Can I help you?” came a voice behind me.

Startled, I whirled around to see a thirtysomething woman wearing an apron over her sleeveless T-shirt and jeans, and a pair of rubber gloves on her hands. She sported chin-length brown hair, unstyled, no makeup, and about twenty extra pounds on her frame.

“Oh! Sorry!” I said, startled, my heart beating out of my chest. “I'm Darcy Burnett. I write for the
Chronicle
. I was wondering—”

“Get out of here!” the woman said fiercely. I noticed a spray bottle of cleaner in her hand and a long scrub
brush in the other. Both could be used as weapons, if necessary. I didn't plan to make it necessary.

“No, wait! You don't understand,” I said, holding up a notepad in self-defense. “I'm planning to write a commemorative obituary about Mr. Jameson. I just wanted to interview someone from the restaurant to make sure I got everything right. A lot of people will miss him and I thought a story about him and Bones 'n' Brew would be of interest to those who enjoyed his food.”

The woman frowned, then lowered the spray bottle. “You could have called,” she said. “It's awfully late.”

“I know, but I'm on deadline,” I lied.

“You want to write an obit about Ollie?”

“Yes,” I said, digging in my purse for my credentials. “Are you from the janitorial service?”

She smiled, relaxing the frown in her forehead, and sat down on a nearby stool. “No, actually, I'm a chef here. My name's Livvy, short for Olivia.” She set down her supplies, then removed her gloves and placed them on the counter.

Oliver and Olivia? No wonder she called herself Livvy. “Oh, great! Then you worked with Mr. Jameson. Could I ask you some questions about him? For my article?”

“You mean worked
for
him. Nobody works—worked—
with
Ollie. Not even his sister.”

“He had a sister?” This was a surprise to me. I hadn't seen a sister mentioned in any of the Internet articles, only his father.

“You're looking at her.”

Wow. I hadn't seen that one coming. The two were
physically similar—both around six feet tall and several pounds overweight—except Livvy wasn't bald.

“Oh. Uh, did the two of you own the restaurant together?”

“In theory.” She pursed her lips before continuing. “Our father turned the business over to Ollie. Gave him a fifty-one percent share because he was male, and me forty-nine because, well, I'm not.” She rolled her eyes. “Ollie's more the front man. He handled the business end. I oversee everything and do some of the cooking. But maybe you shouldn't put that in the obit.”

“Sure. Like I said, I'm here to do a commemorative story on him and the restaurant. Bones 'n' Brew is one of the great ones, and we've lost too many other iconic San Francisco restaurants—Caribbean Zone, Cadillac Bar, Ernie's, Yamato, Mildred Pierce, the Castle, Old Spaghetti Factory. I'm hoping my story will help keep the restaurant alive—if you plan to stay open.”

I could tell she believed me by the way she visibly relaxed. In fact, she looked downright tired, and I felt for her. Losing her brother must have been quite a shock and a big loss. And now the responsibility of cleaning up this mess and getting the business back on track—it was a lot to handle.

I reached over and placed my hand on hers. No wedding ring.

“Maybe this isn't a good time to talk,” I said gently. “I didn't realize Oliver Jameson was your brother. In all my research on the Internet, I never saw your name mentioned.”

“That's the way he preferred it,” she said. “He wanted me behind the scenes, which was fine with me. Ollie was
the one who liked the attention. Unfortunately, it was his dramatic personality that made the news more than the restaurant.”

I thought of all the comments he'd made about the food trucks on the Internet. “Any idea who might have killed him?” I asked softly. “Off the record, of course.”

“Too many to choose from,” she said, sighing. “He was always arguing with someone—the staff, the suppliers, the local government, the competition, even me.”

“The food truck owners too?” I added.

“Oh yes. Ollie thought the evil trucks were going to put us out of business. What he didn't realize was we were putting ourselves out of business by clinging to the old menu and the old ways. I kept trying to get him to update the recipes for today's customers. You know, less fat and salt, more herbs from my garden, stuff like that. I'm a student of the Magical Kitchen.”

“Magical Kitchen?” I repeated, frowning. I'd never heard of such a thing.

She nodded. “Cooking, to me and many others, is actually magic. It's alchemy. The stove is like a sacred altar, the equivalent of medieval hearth fires.” She glanced at a small figurine that hung from the ceiling and hovered over the sink. A witch on a broom, much like the one tattooed on her arm.

Sounds like a bunch of mumbo jumbo to me,
I thought as I smiled at the ugly crone who oversaw the kitchen. “Is that a lucky charm?”

“It's a kitchen witch. Ollie thought it was silly, of course, but it was supposed to bring us good luck. Chefs are full of superstitions, you know. Toss salt over your shoulder if you spill it. Tape a penny to a knife for good
luck. Although . . .” She drifted off, then said, “Apparently not even feng shui was enough to protect Ollie. Or my dad.”

I didn't know what to say. I knew their father had died, but had it been under unusual circumstances?

She caught my look and continued. “Dad died last year. Complications from Alzheimer's. He handed over the reins to Ollie a few years before that, when he started to forget things.”

“Sad,” I said.

She nodded, then stood up from her stool. “Well, I better get back to cleaning up this mess.”

Was I getting the brush-off? I couldn't let this opportunity slip by. “I only have a couple more questions. What was it like working for your brother?”

She laughed. “Pretty much impossible. I mostly ignored him and did my own thing. Kept asking for new recipes. Tried to change some of the decor. Everything I did seemed to irritate him though.”

“The police said he died from eating poisoned soup. Any idea how that could have happened?”

“Crab bisque, to be exact.” She closed her eyes for a moment, as if trying to escape the thought. “You know, the irony is that was one of the new recipes I wanted to add to the menu. I was hoping he'd try a sample. . . .”

She drifted off again, then suddenly jerked back to the present and looked at me, her eyes narrowed. “Listen, like I told the police, I have no idea how the bisque may have ended up with poison in it. I certainly didn't kill my brother. I loved him. He's the only family I have left. Was, that is. And what a horrible way to die.”

“Could someone have tampered with the soup?” I asked.

She grimaced as if she'd just tasted something bad. “Could have been anyone. He never kept his office locked.”

Nor the back door,
I thought.

I wondered if she might have had a reason to kill her brother. Sibling murders certainly weren't unknown. But before I could ask her another question, she said, “Look, I'd be happy to talk to you about Ollie's
legacy
, but this isn't a good time.” She larded the word “legacy.”

“How about tomorrow?” I asked.

Livvy shrugged. “Maybe . . . after I've had a chance to clean up the place.”

I noticed that areas of the kitchen had a powdery white residue. Had the cops dusted the kitchen and office for prints? “Did the police find anything?”

Livvy shrugged.

I wondered if the police had found evidence of Aunt Abby's snooping yet.

My phone suddenly played “It's a Small World,” Aunt Abby's ringtone. I said, “Excuse me,” to Livvy, then turned away and answered the call.

“Aunt Abby?”

“Darcy?” Her voice sounded tremulous.

I should have told her I was going out. She probably came over to the RV and found me gone. Now I'd upset her. “I'm fine, Aunt Abby. I just had a few errands—”

She cut me off. “Darce, the police jus' called. They wanna talk to me again. They have more questions.”

“Now?” I asked, noting the time on the kitchen clock.

“Yeah . . .”

Aunt Abby sounded strange. This couldn't be good.

Did the cops have something more on her that related to Oliver Jameson's death?

Oh God. It had to be her fingerprints.

“I'll be right there,” I said, trying to reassure her. “Where's Dillon?”

“I dunno,” Aunt Abby said, slurring her words. “I can't get a hold of 'im and he hasn't returned my calls. I'm worried about 'im. He's disappeared again.”

Again?
What was up with him?

“He's not in his room playing computer games?” I asked. One day he was going to vanish into virtual space.

“No, I checked.”

“All right. Sit tight. I'll be right home.”

“Acshully, I'm not at home. I'm still at the School Busch.”

Did she just say “School Busch”?
I checked my watch. “You're still there? I thought you were pretty much done when I left.”

Silence.

Something was wrong.

“Aunt Abby? Are you all right?”

More silence, then, “Sorry, Darshy. I thought I heard something outside.”

Aunt Abby sounded really weird. “Is there someone there?”

No response. “Aunt Abby! Are you alone? Are any of the other food truck people there?”

A long moment passed, then: “The other trucks look dark.”

“Listen to me, Aunt Abby. I'm right across the street at Bones 'n' Brew. I want you to lock the door and don't open it or leave the bus until I get there, you hear?”

Nothing.

“Aunt Abby!?”

“Hurry, Darshy. . . .”

I hung up, alarmed at the way my aunt had sounded. The fact that she was alone, in her bus, with no one around, added speed to my step.

I was about to dash for the back door when I realized I'd almost forgotten about Livvy. She must have seen the look on my face and heard the urgency in my voice. “Is anything wrong?”

“Uh, no. But I have to run. I'll come by tomorrow, okay?”

She waved her hand around at the messy kitchen. “I'll be here, cleaning up all this crap.”

I picked up my purse and ran across the semidark street to Aunt Abby's Big Yellow School Bus. The food truck area was completely dark, except for a glow from the School Bus windows. What had caused her to sound so odd? Had she seen a prowler?

A prowler who could also be a killer?

I approached the bus, glancing around for any sign of danger, then knocked on the door and called her name loudly. “Aunt Abby, it's me, Darcy!”

Seconds later the accordion doors opened. Aunt Abby stood at the top of the steps, her usually perfect hair disheveled, her eyes unfocused.

I started to enter the bus when I heard footsteps
behind me. Without checking to see where they came from, I bounded inside and shoved the doors closed and locked them, my heart in my throat.

“Darcy?” a muffled voice outside called my name.

I peered out of a glass pane and saw a shadowy figure heading toward the bus.

A man in a black leather jacket stepped out from the shadows. He was carrying something long and thin and heavy looking in his right hand, but I couldn't quite make it out in the darkness. Then I saw the man's face.

“Jake!” I said breathlessly. I unlocked the doors and pulled the handle to open them.

“Sorry if I startled you. What are you two doing here so late?” he asked.

“Thank God!” I said, ignoring his question. “Come in! I think Aunt Abby needs help.”

Jake stepped up into the bus, still holding what looked like some kind of heavy stick. He set the object on the stainless steel counter, pulled a paper towel from the holder, and wiped his hands.

“Gearshift broke,” he said offhandedly, tossing the paper towel away. “So what's wrong with your aunt?”

I glanced over at her. She sat on a stool, looking dazed and mumbling under her breath. I lowered my voice, hoping she didn't hear me. “I'm not sure,” I whispered to him. “She called me a few minutes ago and said she thought she heard a noise outside, but she sounded really strange. I thought maybe someone had been prowling around.”

“I haven't seen anyone,” Jake said.

“That's not all,” I added. “The police called her. They want to see her again.”

Aunt Abby picked up a coffee mug sitting nearby and took a long sip, then licked her lips.

“Let me have a look at her,” Jake said. He approached her slowly. “Abby? Are you all right?” He spoke to her as if she were a child.

She nodded, sending her messy curls dancing. “I'm . . . fine.”

Jake reached over and gently took the mug from my aunt's manicured hand. The words “The Coffee Witch” were printed on the side of the cup. Apparently Aunt Abby had stolen one of Willow's personalized ceramic mugs. Great. Now the SFPD could add “thief” to her rapidly expanding rap sheet.

Jake sniffed the contents of the mug, then set it down and eyed her, crossing his arms and causing his biceps to double in size. Apparently when he wasn't baking cream puffs, the guy worked out.

“Abby,” he said.

“What?” Aunt Abby said, not meeting his eyes.

I glanced at the mug, sniffed it, then leaned in and took a good whiff of my aunt.

Her eyes met mine. “What? Why're you both starin' at me?” She reached for the mug and took another hit before Jake could stop her. After swallowing the mouthful, she blinked several times as if to clear her vision.

Her eyes were red spiderwebs, and her breath reeked! That wasn't coffee.

My aunt Abby was drunk.

My mouth dropped open as I turned to Jake.

“She's been drinking!” I whispered to him, not wanting Aunt Abby to overhear me, but she seemed too out of it to notice or care.

Jake grabbed a paper cup from the counter and filled it with water from the sink.

“Hey, Abby!” he said loudly, as if she were hard of hearing. He handed her the cup. “How about some water? You look a little tired. This should help.”

“How is she going to face the cops like this?” I whispered. “She needs coffee!” I peered out the window but knew before I checked that the Coffee Witch was closed for the night.

“No worries,” Jake said. “She's probably dehydrated. Water flushes out the alcohol and should sober her up pretty fast. Does she have any energy drinks? They usually have double the amount of caffeine as coffee. That might help her concentrate until her system is clear.”

I thought about her upcoming interrogation with the police. Were they already on their way? “How long will that take?”

“Depending on how much she's had, probably an hour or so. But we don't know how long she's been drinking. Meanwhile we can keep her alert with the energy drink. Give her some crackers or a piece of bread.”

“To absorb the alcohol?”

“No, that's an old wives' tale, but it'll slow the absorption process while the alcohol metabolizes. Hopefully it'll keep her from appearing intoxicated.”

“How do you know all this?” I asked, surprised at his knowledge of alcohol effects.

“I handled a couple of DUI cases for my dad when I was an attorney. He was an alcoholic,” he said matter-of-factly.

I could relate. I wanted to add that my dad was a pothead, but that wasn't something I shared easily like Jake
had just done. I hoped addicted fathers weren't the only things we had in common.

“Yuck!” Aunt Abby said, pulling the proffered cup of water from her lips as if it were poison. “Tastes awful! Where's my coffee mug?”

“I don't know,” I said, pretending to glance around. But I did know. The moment Jake brought her water, I had dumped out the remaining contents and placed the mug in the sink.

I pulled out an energy drink from the fridge. “Drink this, Aunt Abby. You can't let the police see you like . . . this.”

“Like what? I'm perf'ly fine,” she said, rising from her stool. After a brief sway, she sat down again.

“Aunt Abby,” I said, trying to sound stern like my mother used to. “It's an energy drink. You need it.”

She accepted the can reluctantly and took a swallow, then made a face. “Now I'm gonna hafta pee every half hour instead'a every hour like normal. Thanks a lot.”

I turned to Jake. “Any chance you could stay here until the cops come? We could use a good lawyer.”

Jake glanced away. “Uh . . .”

“Please? I have a feeling she's going to need more help than I can give her.”

Jake ran his fingers through his sun-bleached hair. “First of all, I don't practice law anymore, remember? And secondly, I don't know what I can do to help.”

I grasped his arm. “I'm sure you know a lot more about her rights than I do. I'm not asking you to represent her or anything, just help me protect her while they question her.” I could hear the pleading in my voice and didn't like it.

Jake pursed his lips and nodded. “Okay, just give me a minute to lock up my truck and I'll be right back. But like I said, I don't know how much help I'll be.”

I released his arm. “Thank you! I owe you one.”

“I plan to collect.” He smiled before leaving.

My imagination ran wild and I blushed. What exactly did he have in mind? Unfortunately, I didn't have time to fantasize at the moment.

“We'd better get goin',” Aunt Abby said. She stood up.

“Where?” I asked. “I thought the cops were coming here.”

“No, I said I'd meet 'em at my housh.”

“Oh, well, you're in no condition to drive, so I'll take you home. Get your stuff and we'll go when Jake comes back.”

When Jake returned from his truck, we helped Aunt Abby off the bus, locked it up, and headed for my car, parked across the street in the Bones 'n' Brew parking lot.

“What's your car doing here?” Jake asked.

“Uh, I stopped by the restaurant to see if anyone knew anything about Oliver Jameson's death.”

“Find out anything?' Jake asked.

I shook my head. I didn't plan to share my discoveries with anyone. At least, not yet.

I unlocked my car.

“Whoa,” Jake said, looking over my tiny Bug. “I'm not sure I'll fit.” He opened the door and held the seat forward for Aunt Abby to climb in back. At over six feet, Jake couldn't possibly fit in that small space, and even the front was a bit of a squeeze.

I pushed the ignition button, flipped on the blinker, then pulled into traffic.

“Don't drive so fast!” Aunt Abby called from the back. “You're making me carsick!”

Great. That's all I needed. Trying to push the vision of a vomiting aunt out of my mind, I turned to Jake. “Any idea what the police want with her this time? Could they arrest her?”

“No idea,” Jake said, “but I doubt it. These days the police are really cautious about arresting someone unless they have enough solid evidence for the district attorney to pursue the case. They may read her her rights, but she won't have to answer any questions if she doesn't want to.”

“Won't that make her look guilty?”

“It's her right—and the cops expect it. She can stop whenever she wants, but overall it's in her best interest to tell them what she knows and to be honest.”

I glanced at my aunt in the rearview mirror, hoping it wasn't too late for honesty. After all, she'd lied about being in the restaurant yesterday afternoon—around the time that Jameson was killed. “Drink your Red Bull, Aunt Abby,” I directed her. I watched her grimace as she reluctantly took another sip.

“If I drink any more, I'm gonna pee my pants,” she snapped. At least she wasn't slurring her words so much anymore. Or threatening to throw up.

“Darcy,” Jake said quietly. “Do you know if the police have something specific on your aunt?”

“Uh . . . no,” I said as I turned onto Aunt Abby's street. Best not to tell him about her fingerprints unless I had to.

“Are you sure? Maybe they know something more about that fight she had with him before he died?” he asked.

“It wasn't a fight!” Aunt Abby interjected from the backseat before I could answer. Apparently she could hear us fine in spite of our whispering. “That rat threatened me! I was just defending myself!”

“Calm down, Aunt Abby.” I glanced at her in the mirror. “Drink your Red Bull.”

No one spoke as I pulled into Aunt Abby's driveway. I punched the ignition key, killing the engine.

Jake turned to me. “Unless they found some hard evidence that puts her at the scene or a witness, they really don't have a case. She might have had a motive, but it sounds like several other people did too.”

Fingerprints? “Oh boy,” I mumbled.

“What?” Jake asked.

It was time to confess. “Okay, well . . . there might have been fingerprints. . . .”

“What?” Jake said.

“I only touched a few things,” Aunt Abby called from the back.

Jake turned around and frowned at her. “Like what?”

I saw my aunt shrug in the mirror. “Like I told Darcy, just some stuff on his desk when I went looking for something I could use against him to get him to shut up.”

“In the legal profession, that would be called blackmail,” Jake said somberly. “Did you touch anything else besides the stuff on his desk?”

“I don't know. His chair, maybe. I don't remember.”

“Did you go anywhere else in the restaurant, touch anything else?” Jake asked.

Aunt Abby said nothing.

“Think, Abby,” Jake insisted. No longer in his Dream Puff Guy persona, he now sounded like a real attorney.

Aunt Abby remained silent.

“Abby?” Jake prompted her.

“I guess I might have rearranged some things in the kitchen. Like his
mise en place
.”

Jake looked at me for a translation.

“His prep stuff for cooking,” I said. Then I remembered something Oliver's sister Livvy had said. She'd mentioned that she was the one who oversaw things and did some of the cooking. Was it her stuff that Aunt Abby had fooled with? And did that matter?