Let Them Eat Stake: A Vampire Chef Novel (12 page)

O’Grady considered the vintage Guinness poster hanging on the wall. It showed a toucan looking unnaturally cheerful about having a glass of black beer balanced on its beak.

“How’d you say you knew Oscar Simmons, Chef Caine?”

I sighed. I should have known better that to expect an actual answer. “Oscar hired me, once upon a time. I had been working at a place called the Loft, and things were going badly.” Linus waited for me to go on, but there was no way I was telling him the full story of that kitchen run by a bunch of would-be rock ‘n’ roll rebels who had interesting ideas about what petty cash should actually be used for. “Oscar heard I was looking to make a change, and he offered me a job as saucier at L’Aquitaine.” In fact, he’d offered me the job in the middle of Charlie’s Blue Plate, over a pile of deviled kidneys.

“Was that a good move for you?”

“It seemed like it at the time. L’Aquitaine had just gotten three stars from the
Times
. Oscar was hot stuff, and he was starting to develop what would become haute noir cuisine. I thought I’d be learning from the best in the business.”

“But it didn’t work out that way?”

It took me a surprisingly long time to form the next set
of words. How could this matter? I hadn’t cared who heard this story when Oscar was alive, so why should I care now? But the whole incident suddenly seemed not just stupid but shabby and more than a little sad. “It didn’t take long to figure out that the sous-chefs actually ran the kitchen at L’Aquitaine. Oscar would breeze through on his way to the front of the house to shake hands with the celebrity clients. He’d make some noise in the kitchen, then breeze out again. Probably to do an interview or sign a new endorsement deal. Well, no big deal, I thought. I was working; I was learning. I’d been yelled at by bigger…”

“Windbags?” suggested O’Grady.

That would do as well as any other word. “The problem with Oscar was that when he didn’t feel he was getting enough PR, he’d stage a scene. He’d throw a tantrum in the kitchen and storm through the dining room, or maybe he’d order a customer out of the restaurant for asking to have the sauce on the side or something. It got old fast. The best people in the kitchen stayed around only long enough to get L’Aquitaine on their résumé and then took off.

“Then, the milkshake tasting I’d come up with for the haute noir menu started doing too well. Some of the food blogs had put my name on it instead of Oscar’s. He dealt with it by blowing up in my face.” It was a memorable moment. It was also the first time I’d ever seen somebody genuinely turn purple. “He stormed out into the dining room. The sous told me to go after him, and apologize. That was the script. I wouldn’t even have to say anything. All I had to do was stand there for a while and take whatever variety of BS Oscar decided to dish out.”

“You refused, didn’t you?”

“How’d you guess?”

“Trained detective. What happened?”

“I led a coup.”

That actually got O’Grady to blink. “You got people to walk out?”

“No.
I got them to stay at their stations and keep right on working. The orders came in and the food went out, without missing a beat. Oscar Simmons had stormed out of his own kitchen, and it didn’t make a damned bit of difference.”

“So, you got him fired?”

Detective O’Grady had reached a perfectly logical conclusion there. He had also identified himself as someone who’d never worked in the restaurant business. “Are you kidding? He was the name. The owners wanted profits, not first-rate food. Oscar’s floor show brought in the tourist trade. He had me kicked out in front of the entire staff as some kind of object lesson.” I remembered my fellow cooks watching me, stony-eyed, as Oscar smirked and railed and informed me I was nothing, and, for good measure, that I’d never work in this town again. I remembered the glorious freedom of walking right up into his space, snapping my fingers under his snub nose, and stalking out without looking back. The applause that broke out was so worth it. Even better was the way Suchai had been waiting up front, holding both our coats so we could link arms as we marched onto the sunny street.

“The next night, Chet and I pooled our money, made an appointment to talk to the bank, and started scouting locations for Nightlife.”

O’Grady leaned back and regarded me with something very close to respect. “So, when you heard Simmons stormed out on the Alden wedding, you figured it was just another performance?”

I nodded. “Until I heard he’d given the money back.” I stopped, and waited, just as a sort of trial. I didn’t expect to really get anything, and I didn’t. O’Grady was all done looking at me. He had his notebook out again, flipping patiently through the pages and reading his tiny, crowded handwriting. He was looking more tired by the heartbeat.

“Oscar was a T-typ,” I said. “Why’s the head of the Paranormal Squadron asking questions about him?” Linus
cocked his head toward me but said nothing. “Is this something to do with the Maddoxes?” Lloyd Maddox had connections to the kind of people able to call up mayors and police commissioners for favors. It would sure explain why Linus looked so deflated.

O’Grady closed his notebook. “Actually, if he knew about this, Lloyd Maddox would be trying to get me kicked off the squad.”

Now it was my turn to blink, and swear. “Why would Lloyd Maddox care about Oscar?”

“He doesn’t.” Linus rubbed his eyes, read the Guinness sign, put away his notebook, and took it out again. I waited, but that was less because I was feeling patient than because I was flabbergasted by the sight of Little Linus fidgeting.

“This was murder, wasn’t it? Somebody killed Oscar Simmons.” I knew it. I’d been afraid of this since Brendan asked that first question.

O’Grady lifted his spaniel eyes to mine and said nothing at all. We didn’t like each other, but Linus O’Grady was a fair man. He took his job to serve and protect seriously. He might not give me answers when I wanted them, but I could trust him.

“Something happened last night you should maybe know about,” I said. O’Grady cocked his head. I told him about the wedding party showing up at Nightlife, followed by the nightblood Jacques, with his warning, showing up at the back door.

Linus raised an eyebrow. “And Anatole Sevarin just happened by when you needed rescuing?”

“I never needed rescuing, and he walks me to the subway some nights.” Anatole did not get on with O’Grady. Actually, there were very few people of authority in the city Anatole did get on with.

“A chef and a critic?” O’Grady flipped his notebook open again. “Isn’t that a conflict of interest?”

“Which is why he’s just walking me to the subway some nights.”

“And is none of my business at all.” O’Grady was diligently not smiling as he made a few more notes in his book. “All right. So why was the prodigal Jacques Renault warning you off the wedding of the decade?”

“Somehow he never got around to that part,” I said blandly. “What are you going to do?”

“Unfortunately, since he didn’t make an actual threat, there’s not a lot I can do.” Linus did not sound happy about that. I could definitely relate. “So, I’m going to wait for the toxicology and toxithautomy report on Oscar Simmons.” Toxithautomy was one of those words we hadn’t needed before the Equal Humanity Acts. It turned out that curses and other bad magics could leave traces in and around the human body. Thus was a new branch of forensic medicine born. “Unfortunately, that’s all going to take a few days.” O’Grady tucked his notebook into his jacket pocket again. “Budget cuts,” he added. “What are you going to do?” It took me a second to realize this last was an actual question, not an eye-rolling observation.

“I’m going to Brooklyn Heights and earn the biggest fee I’ve ever seen in my life,” I said.

Linus met my gaze and held it. He was looking for something, and I let him look. I’m a lousy liar, but I’m very good at waiting. He wanted to know if I was going to start poking into this thing he was not yet calling Oscar’s murder. He wanted to know if I was out of my mind. I had no intention of answering either question.

Finally, O’Grady sighed and pulled out a battered leather case. He slid a card across to me. “This number gets to me direct, at any time. Use it if you need to.”

“Thanks.” I took the card and slipped it into my purse. Then we said good-bye, and I walked out onto the street.

Maybe it wasn’t official, maybe Linus wouldn’t say anything until he had those reports, but I had already pitched
my wishful thinking into the Dumpster. Oscar wasn’t just dead; Oscar had been murdered, and it had probably been done by something or someone related to the Alden-Renault wedding. Now, here I was standing on the curb with my hand up, trying to hail a cab to take me right smack dab into the middle of the circumstances that had gotten him killed.

Surely, the day could not get any better than this.

“Hey, Chef.” Reese held open the side door between the sunken side porch and the Maddox kitchen. The aroma of onions and meaty stock rolled out in a warm cloud as I wrestled my hand trolley, suitcase, and tote bags inside. Behind me, the last rays of sunlight were vanishing behind the rooftops. “Whatcha got for me?”

After my meeting with O’Grady, I’d desperately needed time to calm down and get my head back into chef space. Fortunately, I’d also needed to stop off at the Terminal Market.

There are plenty of reasons for anybody who loves good food to come to Brooklyn. About fifty of them fall under the heading of the Terminal Market. Just off East Eighty-sixth, it’s filled with the best the city’s food purveyors have to offer. I jostled women from Ivory Coast, Senegal, and Haiti with their bright batiks, head scarves, and discerning eyes. Hassidic women in dark wigs and modest skirts who grew up being towed down these streets now towed their own daughters along behind them. Grizzled men in stained white coats hefted crates onto their shoulders like it was no big thing and shouldered their way through the rest of the boisterous, cantankerous, crowd. The air filled with the
scents of fresh greens and hot chilies, and the rumble of more dialects than I could track. Even in the middle of all my anger and doubts, the market’s bustle sank into my skin, soothing and straightening my crumpled-up thoughts.

Of course, I could have placed a whole set of orders over the phone, but that takes all the fun out of it. Not to mention the fact that if you want to be absolutely sure you’re getting the best product, you have to
be
there. You have to heft the fruit to see if it’s heavy (a sign of juiciness), and pick through the vegetables, looking for soft spots or signs of impending wilt. You need to turn the meat over to check the marbling and look the fish in the eye. You also have to be able to look your vendor in the eye in that ancient stare down between merchant and customer, and show no fear. It didn’t matter that for once in my life I had a huge budget. If I acted like a pushover now, I’d never get a decent bargain in this town again.

I parked my suitcase under the Aldens’ kitchen coat rack, unearthed a package from my trolley, and handed it over to my waiting sous-chef. Reese snipped the string and folded back the brown butcher paper. Reverently, he lifted out the two-inch-thick rib eyes. Delight spread over his face, the kind most people get only when looking at their true love.

“Oh yeah,” he breathed. “I can work with these.”

“Did you finish the list?”

“Yes, Chef,” Reese answered, but he wasn’t really paying attention. He laid the steaks out side by side, turning each one over carefully and scrutinizing the marbling.

“And the housekeeper?”

“Ms. Lyons. We’re ready for her.”

“Terrific.” I tied my red bandanna over my hair. “Show me what you’ve got.”

Since this was a party, there had to be hors d’oeuvres. We were doing shooters of beef-broth gelée, layered with sour cream and topped with minced chive. I checked
Reese’s work for seasoning and added a little orange zest to the cream, just to brighten things up. For the daybloods, we would also be serving crostini with olive tapenade or spicy hummus. For the nightbloods, I’d carted in some of Nightlife’s house special sangria. Our bartender, Abe, had been tinkering with the recipe, and tonight was a chance to test out his new blend.

While we tasted, prodded, discussed and adjusted, the hands on the clock above the sink touched five past eight. The world turned a little farther, and the sun slid below the horizon. Overhead, and on the other side of the swinging door, we heard footsteps and voices. The Alden household was waking up for the night.

I was just wiping down the serving trays so we could lay out the hors d’oeuvres when Ms. Lyons swept in through the door from the back stairs. Judging by the pucker around her mouth, my abrupt departure the other day hadn’t improved her opinion of me. That was bad, because this woman had the power to make our lives extremely difficult if she chose. That she was also the best possible source of information about the Aldens and their in-laws only made the decision to become her new BFF easier.

Fortunately, chefs have an unfair advantage when it comes to launching a charm offensive.