Читать книгу Why Is Murder On The Menu, Anyway? - Stevi Mittman - Страница 8

Design Tip of the Day

“Ambience is everything. Imagine eating foie gras at a luncheonette counter or a side of coleslaw at Le Cirque. It’s not a matter of food, but one of atmosphere. Remember that when planning your dining room design.”

—TipsFromTeddi.com

“Now, that’s the kind of man you should be looking for,” my mother, the self-appointed keeper of my shelf-life stamp, says. She points with her fork at a man in the corner of The Steak-Out Restaurant, a dive I’ve just been hired to redecorate. Making this restaurant look four-star will be hard, but not half as hard as getting through lunch without strangling the woman across the table from me. “He would make a good husband.”

“Oh, you can tell that from across the room?” I ask, wondering how it is she can forget that when we had trouble getting rid of my last husband, she shot him. “Besides being ten minutes away from death if he actually eats all that steak, he’s twenty years too old for me and—shallow woman that I am—twenty pounds too heavy. Besides, I am so not looking for another husband here. I’m looking to design a new image for this place, looking for some sense of ambience, some feeling, something I can build a proposal on for them.”

My mother studies the man in the corner, tilting her head, the better to gauge his age, I suppose. I think she’s grimacing, but with all the Botox and Restylane injected into that face, it’s hard to tell. She takes another bite of her steak salad, chewing slowly so that I don’t miss the fact that the steak is a poor cut and tougher than it should be. “You’re concentrating on the wrong kind of proposal,” she says finally. “Just look at this place, Teddi. It’s a dive. There are hardly any other diners. What does that tell you about the food?”

“That they cater to a dinner crowd and it’s lunchtime,” I tell her.

I don’t know what I was thinking bringing her here with me. I suppose I thought it would be better than eating alone. There really are days when my common sense goes on vacation. Clearly, this is one of them. I mean, really, did I not resolve just a few months ago that I would not let my mother get to me anymore?

What good are New Year’s resolutions, anyway?

Tony, the owner of The Steak-Out, approaches the man’s table and my mother studies him while they converse. Eventually he leaves the table in a huff, after which the diner glances up and meets my mother’s gaze. I think she’s smiling at him. That or she’s got indigestion. They size each other up.

I concentrate on making sketches in my notebook and try to ignore the fact that my mother is flirting. At nearly seventy, she’s developed an unhealthy interest in members of the opposite sex to whom she isn’t married.

According to my father, who has broken the TMI rule and given me way Too Much Information, she has no interest in sex with him. Better, I suppose, to be clued in on what they aren’t doing in the bedroom than have to hear what they might be.

“He’s not so old,” my mother says, noticing that I have barely touched the Chinese chicken salad she warned me not to get. “He’s got about as many years on you as you have on your little cop friend.”

She does this to make me crazy. I know it, but it works all the same. “Drew Scoones is not my little ‘friend.’ He’s a detective with whom I—”

“Screwed around,” my mother says. I must look shocked, because my mother laughs at me and asks if I think she doesn’t know the “lingo.”

What I thought she didn’t know was that Drew and I actually had tangled in the sheets. And, since it’s possible she’s just fishing, I sidestep the issue and tell her that Drew is just a couple of years younger than me and that I don’t need reminding.

I dig into my salad with renewed vigor, determined to show my mother that Chinese chicken salad in a steak place was not the stupid choice it’s proving to be.

After a few more minutes of my picking at the wilted leaves on my plate, the man my mother has me nearly engaged to pays his bill and heads past us toward the back of the restaurant. I watch my mother take in his shoes, his suit and the diamond pinky ring that seems to be cutting off the circulation in his little finger.

“Such nice hands,” she says after the man is out of sight. “Manicured.” She and I both stare at my hands. I have two popped acrylics that are being held on at weird angles by bandages. My cuticles are ragged and there’s blue permanent marker decorating my right hand from carelessly measuring when I did a drawing for a customer.

Twenty minutes later she’s disappointed that the man managed to leave the restaurant without our noticing. He will join the list of the ones I let get away. I will hear about him twenty years from now when—according to my mother—my children will be grown and I will still be single, living pathetically alone with several dogs and cats.

After my ex, that sounds good to me.

The waitress tells us that our meal has been taken care of by the management and, after thanking Tony, complimenting him on the wonderful meal and assuring him that once I have redecorated his place people will flock here in droves (I actually use those words and ignore my mother when she looks skyward and shakes her head), my mother and I head for the restroom.

My father—unfortunately not with us today—has the patience of a saint, hard-won from years of living with my mother. She, perhaps as a result, figures he has the patience for both of them and feels justified having none. For her, no rules apply, and a little thing like a picture of a man on the door to a public restroom is certainly no barrier to using the john. In all fairness, it does seem silly to stand and wait for the ladies’ room if no one is using the men’s.

Still, it’s the idea that rules don’t apply to her, signs don’t apply to her, conventions don’t apply to her. She knocks on the door to the men’s room. When no one answers, she gestures to me to go in ahead. I tell her that I can certainly wait for the ladies’ room to be free and she shrugs and goes in herself.

Not a minute later there is a bloodcurdling scream from behind the men’s room door.

“Mom!” I yell. “Are you all right?”

Tony comes running over, the waitress on his heels. Two customers head our way while my mother continues to scream.

I try the door, but it is locked. I yell for her to open it and she fumbles with the knob. When she finally manages to unlock it, she is white behind her two streaks of blush, but she is on her feet and appears shaken but not stirred.

“What happened?” I ask her. So do Tony and the waitress and the few customers who have migrated to the back of the place.

She points toward the bathroom and I go in, thinking it serves her right for using the men’s room. But I see nothing amiss.

She gestures toward the stall, and, like any self-respecting and suspicious woman, I poke the door open with one finger, expecting the worst.

What I find is worse than the worst.

The husband my mother picked out for me is sitting on the toilet. His pants are puddled down around his ankles, his hands are hanging at his sides. Pinned to his chest is some sort of Health Department certificate.

Oh, and there is a large, round, bloodless bullet hole between his eyes.

Four Nassau County police officers are securing the area, waiting for the detectives and crime scene personnel to show up. I was hoping one of them would turn out to be Diane, my best friend, Bobbie’s, sister, who knows how to handle my mother better than probably anyone except my dad. Anyway, she’s not here and the cops are trying, though not very hard, to comfort my mother, who in another era would be considered to be suffering from the vapors. In the twenty-first century, I’d just say she was losing it. That is, if I didn’t know her better, know she was milking it for everything it was worth.

My mother loves attention. As it begins to flag, she swoons and claims to feel faint. Despite four No Smoking signs, she insists it’s all right for her to light up because, after all, she’s in shock. Not to mention that signs, as we know, don’t apply to her.

When asked not to smoke, she collapses mournfully in a chair and lets her head loll to the side, all without mussing her hair.

Eventually, the detectives show up to find the four patrolmen all circled around her, debating whether to administer CPR or smelling salts or simply to call the paramedics. I, however, know just what will snap her to attention.

“Detective Scoones,” I say loudly. My mother parts the sea of cops.

“We have to stop meeting like this,” he says lightly to me, but I can feel him checking me over with his eyes, making sure I’m all right while pretending not to care.

“What have you got in those pants?” my mother asks him, coming to her feet and staring at his crotch accusingly. “Bay-dar? Everywhere we Bayers are, you turn up. You don’t expect me to buy that this is a coincidence, I hope.”

Drew tells my mother that it’s nice to see her, too, and asks if it’s his fault that her daughter seems to attract disasters.

Charming to be made to feel like the bearer of a plague.

He asks how I’ve been.

“Just peachy,” I tell him. “I seem to be making a habit of finding dead bodies, my mother is driving me crazy and the catering hall I booked two freakin’ years ago for Dana’s bat mitzvah has just been shut down by the Board of Health!”

“Glad to see your luck’s finally changing,” he says, and he stares at me a minute longer than I sense he wants to before turning his attention to the patrolmen, asking what they’ve got, whether they’ve taken any statements, moved anything, all the sort of stuff you see on TV, without any of the drama. That is, if you don’t count my mother’s threats to faint every few minutes when she senses no one’s paying attention to her.

Tony tells his waitstaff to bring everyone espresso, which I decline because I’m wired enough. Drew pulls him aside and a minute later I’m handed a cup of coffee that smells divinely of Kahlúa.

The man knows me well. Too well.

His partner, Harold Nelson, whom I’ve met once or twice, says he’ll interview the kitchen staff and goes off toward the back of the restaurant with a nod of recognition toward me. Hal and I are not the best of friends.

Drew asks Tony if he minds if he takes statements from the patrons first and gets to him and the waitstaff afterward.

“No, no,” Tony tells him. “Do the patrons first.” Drew glances at me like he wants to know if I’ve got the double entendre. I try to look bored.

“What it is with you and murder victims?” he asks me when we sit down at a table in the corner.

I search them out so that I can see you again, I almost say, but I’m afraid it will sound desperate instead of sarcastic.

My mother, lighting up and daring him with a look to tell her not to, reminds him that she was the one to find the body.

Drew asks what happened this time. My mother tells him how the man in the john was “taken” with me, couldn’t take his eyes off me and blatantly flirted with both of us. To his credit, Drew doesn’t laugh, but his smirk is undeniable to the trained eye. And I’ve had my eye trained on him for nearly a year now.

“While he was noticing you,” he asks me, “did you notice anything about him? Was he waiting for anyone? Watching for anything?”

I tell him that he didn’t appear to be waiting or watching. That he made no phone calls, was fairly intent on eating and apparently flirted with my mother. This last bit Drew takes with a grain of salt, which was the way it was intended.

“And he had a short conversation with Tony,” I tell him. “I think he might have been unhappy with the food, though he didn’t send it back.”

Drew asks what makes me think he was dissatisfied, and I tell him that the discussion seemed acrimonious and that Tony appeared distressed. Drew makes a note and says he’ll look into it and asks about anyone else in the restaurant. Did I see anyone who didn’t seem to belong, anyone who was watching the victim, anyone looking suspicious?

“Besides my mother?” I ask him, and Mom huffs and blows her cigarette smoke in my direction.

I tell him that there were several deliveries, the kitchen staff going in and out the back door to grab a smoke, that sort of thing. He stops me and asks what I was doing checking out the back door of the restaurant.

Proudly—because while he was off forgetting me, dropping in every once in a while to say hi to my son, Jesse, or leave something for one of my daughters, I was getting on with my life—I tell him that I’m decorating the place.

He looks genuinely impressed. “Commercial customers? That’s great,” he says. Okay, that’s what he ought to say. What he actually says is “Whatever pays the bills.”

“Howard Rosen, the famous restaurant critic, got her the job,” my mother says. “You met him—the good-looking, distinguished gentleman with the real job, something to be proud of. I guess you’ve never read his reviews in Newsday.”

Drew, without missing a beat, tells her that Howard’s reviews are on the top of his list, as soon as he learns how to read.

“I only meant—” my mother starts, but both of us assure her that we know just what she meant.

“So,” Drew says. “Deliveries?”

I tell him that Tony would know better than I, but that I saw some come in. Fish. Maybe linens. “And there was produce, I guess,” I say, recalling seeing a delivery man leave wearing the usual white jacket, this one with a picture of a truck covered with vegetables and fruits all over its side.

“This is the second restaurant job Howard’s got her,” my mother tells Drew.

“At least she’s getting something out of the relationship,” he says.

“If he were here,” my mother says, ignoring the insinuation, “he’d be comforting her instead of interrogating her. He’d be making sure we’re both all right after such an ordeal.”

“I’m sure he would,” Drew agrees, then studies me as if he’s measuring my tolerance for shock. Quietly he adds, “But then maybe he doesn’t know just what strong stuff your daughter’s made of.”

It’s the closest thing to a tender moment I can expect from Drew Scoones. My mother breaks the spell. “She gets that from me,” she says.

Both Drew and I take a minute, probably to pray that’s all I inherited from her.

“I’m just trying to save you some time and effort,” my mother tells him. “My money’s on Howard.”

Drew withers her with a look and mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “fool’s gold.” Then he excuses himself to go back to work.

I catch his sleeve and ask if it’s all right for us to leave. He says sure, he knows where we live. I say goodbye to Tony. I assure him that I will have some sketches for him in a few days, all the while hoping that this murder doesn’t cancel his redecorating plans. I need the money desperately, the alternative being borrowing from my parents and being strangled by the strings.

My mother is strangely quiet all the way to her house. She doesn’t tell me what a loser Drew Scoones is—despite his good looks—and how I was obviously drooling over him. She doesn’t ask me where Howard is taking me tonight or warn me not to tell my father about what happened because he will worry about us both and no doubt insist we see our respective psychiatrists.

She fidgets nervously, opening and closing her purse over and over again.

“You okay?” I ask her. After all, she’s just found a dead man on the toilet, and tough as she is, that’s got to be upsetting.

When she doesn’t answer me I pull over to the side of the road.

“Mom?” She refuses to look at me. “You want me to take you to see Dr. Cohen?”

She looks out the window, elegant as ever in yet another ecru knit outfit, hair perfectly coiffed and spritzed within one spray of permanently laquered, and appears confused. It’s as if she’s just realized we’re on Broadway in Woodmere. “Aren’t we near Marvin’s Jewelers?” she asks, pulling something out of her purse.

“What have you got, Mother?” I ask, prying open her fingers to find the murdered man’s pinky ring.

“It was on the sink,” she says in answer to my dropped jaw. “I was going to get his name and address and have you return it to him so that he could ask you out. I thought it was a sign that the two of you were meant to be together.”

“He’s dead, Mom. You understand that, right?” I ask.

“Well, I didn’t know that,” she shouts at me. “Not at the time.”

I ask why she didn’t give it to Drew, realize that she wouldn’t give Drew the time in a clock shop and add, “…or to one of the other policemen.”

“For heaven’s sake,” she tells me. “The man is dead, Teddi, and I took his ring. How would that look?”

Before I can tell her it would look just the way it is, she pulls out a cigarette and threatens to light it.

“I mean, really,” she says, shaking her head like it’s my brains that are loose. “What does he need it for now?”