Out of the Frying Pan by Robin Allen

Author:Robin Allen [Allen, Robin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, murder, mystery, murder mystery, cuisine, restauranteur, soft-boiled, amateur sleuth novel, restaurant, amateur sleuth, culinary, mystery novels, restaurateur, fine-diving, Austin
Publisher: Midnight Ink is an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.
Published: 2013-05-09T05:00:00+00:00

Eighteen

I flinched and turned to meet the angry visage of Ian McDougal. Telling him the real reason I had climbed the stairs would put a crimp in things, so I deflected him with a woman’s most effective weapon. I put my face in my hands and pretended to cry.

“What’s the matter?” Ian asked.

“Jamie” I said. “With another woman. I watched them … I … I ... ”

I peeked through my fingers and saw Ian grimace, then he said, “They left.”

“Together?” I wailed, actually quite annoyed that Jamie didn’t say goodbye.

“I don’t know,” Ian said, already desperate. “Everyone left. The party’s over.”

I sniffled extravagantly. “Why?”

“Family emergency,” he said. “Can you get to your car by yourself?”

I sniffled again. “I think I can manage.”

Ian stayed five paces behind me, which forced me to keep up my charade until we reached the parking lot. Once I climbed into my Jeep, I slumped against the seat and reviewed my situation: most of my suspects had left, both of my deputies had gone off-duty, the evidence was probably halfway to Mexico by now, and I was hungrier than a member of the Donner party.

Before I turned the key in the ignition, I heard voices and saw Tarzan and the other male cook in the parking lot. Each of them carried a large plastic tub professionally printed with “Hungry Like the White Wolff.” They were headed for a paneled white catering truck that advertised the same words.

I hadn’t thought to check the dishes they had been washing earlier, so they may have washed Dana’s cup and packed it in one of the containers.

I swung out of my Jeep and ran after them yelling, “Stop!”

They did.

“I’d like to see inside those containers,” I said when I reached them.

“What for?” Tarzan asked.

I displayed my badge. “Just open them, please.”

“Fine,” Tarzan said, “but don’t mess anything up.”

They placed them on the gravel and peeled back the lids. I knelt on one knee, changing to a squat when the rocks bit into my peroxide welts, and inventoried the contents. Small clear containers, ladles and spatulas, metal tins.

“Is this going to take long?” the other cook asked.

I stood and took a step closer to him, then stared at him for a couple of seconds before I said, “What’s your name?”

“Paul.”

“Why are you in such a hurry, Paul?” Because you offed your boss and need to get rid of the evidence?

My intimidation tactic worked a little too well, and instead of confessing, Paul said, “My girlfriend’s waiting for me.”

“Oh, well, let me hurry, then.” I squatted again, which isn’t easy to do and stay modest in a short skirt and boots, and ran my eyes over the second plastic tub. Knives, graters, basters, more metal tins.

“Are you looking for something special?” Tarzan asked.

I stood and looked at them because I wanted to see their reaction when I said, “I need to see the measuring cup Dana was drinking from tonight.”

They didn’t jujitsu me and sprint off into the night, but Paul asked, “Why?”

I addressed Tarzan.

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