Killer in the Kitchen (14 page)

M
arcie Fowler had gotten over her pique at my questioning of the previous night and phoned me the following morning to apologize.

“No apology needed,” I said. “I can only imagine the strain you've been under.”

“But that's no excuse for being rude to you. It was good of you to come to dinner.”

“Not another word about it, Marcie. Have you heard anything new about the investigation?”

“Only that Jake Trotter spent hours being questioned by the police.”

“Your former sous chef.”

“Yes, the one who quit on us to work for the enemy. He and Brad never got along. Brad confronted him about the missing items in the kitchen, and Jake denied it, but I still believe he took them. Jake is a very stubborn man. Leboeuf's opening night was the first night that Jake worked there. One of the kitchen help told the police that Jake got into a heated argument with a coworker. So Brad isn't the only one he irritated.”

A stubborn man like your husband,
I thought. “Is Jake still working there?” I asked.

“I don't know, Mrs. Fletcher, but have you heard about Wylie Leboeuf?”

Was she referring to his arrest for drug possession?
If so, I didn't want to indicate that I was already aware of it and have to identify my source.

“What about him?” I asked, hoping that she would elaborate.

“After the Leboeuf party left our restaurant on opening night, we heard that Wylie not only argued with his father, but he physically attacked him—punched him, is what I'm told.”

Another Cabot Cove rumor raising its ugly head
.

“I hadn't heard that,” I said, relieved that it didn't have to do with his drug arrest. “Who told you that?”

“A member of Leboeuf's staff told one of our kitchen workers, who told Brad. I just thought you might have heard it, too.”

“Afraid not, Marcie.”

“I won't keep you. I know you have a lot to do. I hope you'll come back soon for dinner.”

“You can count on it. Please give my best to your husband.”

After ending my call with Marcie, I gathered up some paid bills and other correspondence, one of which required overseas postage, and rode my bicycle over to the Cabot Cove Post Office. There was a line waiting to see Debbie, one of the two clerks who regularly staffed the desk there. I grabbed a copy of the
Gazette
from a pile left on the windowsill and took my place behind the last person.

I was perusing Evelyn's coverage of the Leboeuf case, even though I'd already read this issue at home, when someone whispered in my ear.

“Did you solve the crime yet?”

I turned to see the proprietor of Mara's Luncheonette. “Mara! What are you doing here?”

She held up a box. “I'm sending a birthday gift to my sister in Grand Lake Stream. Is that so shocking?”

“Not at all.” I laughed. “I guess I'm just accustomed to seeing you at the restaurant and don't expect to find you anywhere else.”

Mara rolled her eyes. “I know I work long hours, but believe it or not, I do have a life.”

“Of course you do. I didn't mean to offend you.”

“No offense taken.” She nodded at the newspaper I held. “I was kidding about solving the murder, of course.”

“Of course.” I smiled, refolded the paper, and put it back on the stack by the window.

“I know you may not believe this since I was so snippy about all the attention going to Brad Fowler and his new restaurant, but I was sorry to hear about the health inspection finding.”

“How did you learn about it?” I asked on a sigh.

“Are you kidding me? Kitchen workers are the worst gossips out there. And you'd better not tee them off. They have ways of getting even you wouldn't believe.”

“I think I'd rather not hear about those,” I said.

“Never in my kitchen,” she said. “I keep a sharp eye on my staff, and I'll tell you something else. I also keep a sharp eye on that health inspector. Harold Greene always has his hand out.”

“What do you mean? Does he ask you for bribes?”

“Not me. Never me. I wouldn't give him the time of day. But I've heard about others who paid their way out of a failing grade.”

“Oh, dear. That's not good news.”

“They're probably not the places you patronize anyway. But when that guy comes walking through the door, I follow him around like a bird dog. I don't let him do a thing unless I'm watching closely. He hasn't pulled any fast ones on me, but I'm not so sure Brad and Marcie were as careful around him as I am.”

“What are you saying, Mara?”

“Just that you can't always believe the health inspector's report. They might not have had any mice at all. He could have been testing them. And when they didn't offer him any shut-up money, he made them regret it.”

“That's awful! Have you ever reported this inspector to the proper authorities?”

“No.” She laughed. “First of all, I'm no whistle-blower. I don't want to rock the boat. You don't know how high up the corruption goes. Second, I'm not Jessica Fletcher. I may suspect this guy is a crook, but I can't prove it, and I don't have the time to try.”

“Next!” Debbie called out, and I realized it was my turn at the counter.

“Nice to see you, Mara.”

“You, too, Jessica.” She lowered her voice. “Tell Brad and Marcie I said to keep their heads up. It'll blow over.”

“I'll do that,” I said, but I wasn't certain if Mara was talking about the health inspection or the rumors about who committed the murder.

When I got home, I called Seth Hazlitt.

“Caught me on the way out,” he said. “I've got a couple of patients in the hospital I need to check on, including that fellow
who was attacked. He doesn't have a local doctor. The hospital wants me to take on his case.”

“Mind if I tag along?”

“No, but why?”

“I'd like to see how he is.”

“You can always call the nurses' station.”

“I'd like to see him for myself. Of course, if you'd rather I didn't—”

“I don't mind taking you, Jessica, but I can't guarantee you'll be able to see him.”

“I'll take my chances.”

“Okay. I'll swing by and pick you up in ten minutes.”

Seth reminded me during the short drive to the hospital that the man who'd been beaten, Warren Shulte, had been placed in a private room, with an order that no one aside from medical personnel or law enforcement were to be granted access to him.

“Why do you think that is?” I asked.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” he said as he turned into a parking lot reserved for hospital staff. “You were there when the agent from the FBI arrived. What did he say—something like ‘he'll take over?'”

“Or words to that effect. Who is this Mr. Shulte who demands such secrecy and protection?”

Seth pulled into a space reserved for physicians and shut off the ignition. He turned to me and said, “You didn't want to come here today to see how this Shulte character is doing medically. You wanted to come with me because you're determined to get an answer to your questions about him and why he's being given special treatment. Am I right?”

I held up my right hand. “Guilty as charged,” I said.

“And,” he said, “to continue my hypothesis, you thought that you could use my credentials at the hospital to wheedle some information out of somebody, maybe even Mr. Shulte himself.”

“You know me too well, Doctor.”

“Considering how difficult it is to know the
real
Jessica Fletcher, I take that as a supreme compliment.”

Seth asked me to wait in the lobby while he went to the physicians' locker room and slipped a white coat over his shirt and tie. When he returned he said, “You go get yourself a cup of tea at the canteen while I check in on my patients. I'll collect you there and we'll go up to see how Mr. Shulte is doing. If they let you in, fine. But you can't pretend to be my nurse.”

“Would I do that?”

Seth raised one eyebrow at me. “Wouldn't put it past you.”

I had just sipped my last drop of tea when he returned and joined me at the small table. “I spoke with Dr. Keane, who examined Shulte in the ER. He says aside from two cracked ribs and a broken nose, he'll live.”

“That's good to hear. Did Dr. Keane say anything else about him?”

“Only that there's a deputy from the sheriff's department sitting outside the room to keep people away.”

“With the exception of medical personnel,” I offered.

Seth narrowed his eyes as he looked at me. “I can see where this is going,” he said. “I already told you no medical disguises. I'm not about to jeopardize my standing in this hospital to help you satisfy your insatiable curiosity.”

“You have such a warped view of me,” I said.

Seth coughed and grumbled, “I hope I won't regret this. Well,
come on. Let's see if Mort's deputy can be manipulated. But if he balks, you leave. Right?”

“Right you are, sir.”

Seth repeated his instruction on our way to the elevator, “If Mort's deputy gives you a hard time about accompanying me into the patient's room, you'll have to accept that. I don't want to cause a scene.”

“I understand perfectly, Seth. I'll be the model of discretion.”

I couldn't read his expression, whether he believed me or found my assurance amusing. But he didn't say anything as the elevator doors opened and we walked down a quiet hallway in a secluded wing of the hospital. At the end sat Mort's uniformed deputy, Chip, a familiar face around town, who was engrossed in his cell phone. He looked up as we approached, stood, and said, “Good morning, Dr. Hazlitt.”

“Good morning.”

“And to you, too, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“It's a lovely morning,” I said, and waited for Seth to make the next move.

Seth headed for the door to Shulte's room. “I'm going in to see my patient.”

I followed, but the deputy stopped me with, “Ah, Mrs. Fletcher, I'm not sure you're supposed to go in there.”

“It's all right,” I said. “I'm going on rounds with Dr. Hazlitt this morning. Isn't that right, Seth?”

Seth mumbled something and pushed open the door.

A puzzled expression crossed Chip's face. I smiled broadly at him and said, “Only be a few minutes.”

The deputy watched us enter without saying anything else.

The room was cool and serene. Sunlight filtered through a
partially open blind. A nurse, who had just finished taking the patient's blood pressure and temperature, greeted us as she noted the results on the chart and then left.

“Good morning, sir,” Seth said.

Shulte was propped up in bed on pillows. His face was gray, his eyes sunken. Stubble on his cheeks and chin added to his pale look. Bruises testified to the thrashing he'd endured.

“I'm Dr. Hazlitt. I've been assigned to care for you as your physician. Feel free to ask any questions.”

Shulte shifted in bed, which caused him pain. He moaned.

“You just relax,” Seth said as he checked what was written on the chart. “Those broken ribs are bound to cause you a lot of discomfort. Expect it'll take several weeks before the pain is gone completely.”

Shulte looked at me.

“I'm Jessica Fletcher,” I said. “I was the one who found you and called nine-one-one.”

“Thank you,” he said softly, as though it hurt to speak.

“I'm glad I was there at the time,” I said. I glanced at Seth before saying, “I also saw the two men who I believe attacked you.”

His eyes widened and he licked his lips. “Punks!” he said in a stronger voice.

“They were dragging you from the back of the restaurant owned by Gerard Leboeuf,” I said.

“Punks!” he repeated. “Mobsters.” His face twisted into a snarl. “Leboeuf! He's another one. I'm glad he got his.”

The vehemence in his tone struck me as though it were physical.

I checked Seth for a reaction to see whether he disapproved
of my continuing to question Shulte, but he had his head buried in the chart, which said all I needed to know.

“Mr. Shulte,” I said. “Mr. Shulte?”

The patient's eyes were fixed on a scene only he could see.

“Mr. Shulte?”

“Huh?”

“That's not your name, is it?” I asked.

“What's not my name?”

“Your name isn't Shulte, is it?”

“Who told you?”

“You didn't seem to recognize it when I called it.”

Shulte or whoever he was sighed. “I knew I'd never remember that name. Never been good with names.”

“Why would you need another name?”

The patient waved his hand in disgust.

Seth's eyes moved up from the chart and he speared whoever-he-was with a look.

“That's just the name I used when I got out of New York.” The weakness he'd displayed when we'd first arrived was now replaced with resolve. He struggled to straighten up despite the pain and pointed a finger at me as though to make sure that I was listening closely. “I had to leave New York to save my life, you understand.”

“For heaven's sake, why?”

“The wiseguys who bankrolled Leboeuf, that's why. I knew everything. I was the great man's accountant for years, since he opened his first restaurant—with money from ‘investors,' he called them.”

“Then you're aware of the rumors about Mr. Leboeuf's using his restaurants to launder illegal money.”

“Of course I know about it, but I'll deny it if I have to testify.”

“Hate to interrupt,” Seth said, “but if your name isn't Shulte, what would you like me to call you?”

“Name's Compton, Charles Compton, CPA.”