Dearly Depotted (17 page)

“Not a soul. But as I told the police officer, I did see someone sneaking around the back corner of the building.”

“You were able to see someone all the way back there?” I asked in disbelief. “At night?”

“There’s a light up on the roof that shines down on those stinky garbage bins in the back. Thank goodness we were upwind or the ceremony would have been completely ruined.”

“Can you give me a description of the person you saw?”

“No. All I could make out was a white jacket.”

“Did the jacket have tails, like a waiter’s uniform?”

“It was white; that’s all I could tell. Now, I have an idea! Why don’t you two sit right there and I’ll go get you some butterscotch cookies!”

“Let’s leave now,” Karl whispered, but I was busy thinking about the white jacket. Who else besides the waiters had worn one? I searched my memory but could recall only one person—Richard Davis. I hoped to heaven there were more. It was something I’d have to discuss with Marco when I talked to him that evening.

We stayed long enough to down a cookie apiece, convince Grandma to take her heart medicine, and get her to promise to call me if she remembered anything else.

 

At five o’clock, Lottie, Grace, and I closed up shop and headed to Café Solé, a cozy Italian eatery on the other side of the square. Lottie and I stuffed ourselves with crusty Italian bread, pasta, red wine, espressos, and tiramisu, but Grace only picked at her garden salad and fish dinner. She tried to keep up a cheerful front, but I could tell her heart wasn’t in it. I hated seeing her unhappy. I had to get to the bottom of that murder.

That was what Lottie and I discussed afterward, as we headed for the Garden of Eden to pick up our floral paraphernalia. So after we’d carted everything from the storage room to Lottie’s station wagon, parked at the back entrance, we went back inside to see what we could learn from the staff. We stopped at the ballroom first, but the waiters were serving salads to somber-faced men and women seated at long tables, listening to a speaker at a podium. We tried the kitchen next, where we saw a flurry of mincing, mashing, pounding, and sautéing.

“I don’t think we should bother them,” Lottie whispered. “They look stressed-out.”

“They always look like that. Wait. I see someone I know.” I held up a hand and caught Sheila’s eye. She signaled back, wiped her hands on a towel, said something to her boss, and came toward us.

“Hey there, Abby. Did you come for your vases?”

“Vases, risers, kitchen gossip . . . Do you have a few minutes to talk?”

“I’m not due for a break for ten minutes, but, what the heck, the desserts are finished and that meeting in the ballroom is supposed to go on for a while. Let me grab a soda and I’ll meet you out back.”

Moments later Sheila came strolling out the back exit, popping the tab on her soft drink and tilting her head back for a long, lusty drink. Her brown hair was tied at the nape of her neck in a low ponytail and her kitchen coat was gone, revealing black jeans and a gray T-shirt emblazoned with the words DON’T ASK ME! I ONLY WORK HERE.

I introduced Lottie, then explained that I was looking for any bits of information she might have heard about what had happened last night. “I’m sure there’s been some talk about it in the kitchen,” I said.

She finished a swallow of soda. “Are you kidding me? That’s all we’re talking about. I mean, shoot, a horrible thing happened, practically under our noses. Now everyone’s real jumpy, wondering if one of us is gonna be next.”

“Did you know that the victim, Jack Snyder, was wearing a waiter’s outfit?” I asked.

“We figured that from the questions the cops were asking. That’s why you asked me about those uniforms last night, isn’t it? Well, guess what? Anthony found one of them missing when he took inventory for the cops this morning.” She took another swig from the can. “The waiters have all accounted for theirs, so it must have been stolen yesterday.”

“How difficult would it be to take one?” Lottie asked.

“Hell, it’d be a snap,” Sheila said, tucking a stray lock of hair into her ponytail holder. “They’re hanging in a big supply closet off the main hallway. All you’d have to do is open the door, slip one inside a sack, and walk away like you belonged there.”

“Has anyone in the kitchen mentioned seeing an unfamiliar waiter last night?” I asked.

“Not that I know about.”

I couldn’t think of anything else to ask, so I thanked Sheila for her time and gave her my business card. “If you hear anything else, would you let me know?”

“Sure, hon,” she said, tucking it into her cleavage. “So, why the interest?”

“We’re helping a friend get some information,” I said.

Lottie put her hand to the side of her mouth and said in a confidential whisper, “Abby’s a private-investigator-in-training.” She patted my back, beaming like a proud mother.

“Well, good for you. Everyone could use friends like that. So do you get to work with the police?” Sheila asked, as if it were a big deal.

“Not so much
with
them,” I said, “as behind their backs.”

“I get it,” she said with a broad wink. “In other words, this conversation never happened. So, as long as we’re keeping things quiet, let me ask you something.” Sheila folded her arms and leaned a hip against Lottie’s car. “I got my eye on that big handsome cop that was here Monday night, the one acting like he was in charge. You don’t have a thing for him, do you?”

“Reilly?” I made a scoffing sound. “I’ve worked with him a few times, but that’s as far as it goes.” Then I couldn’t resist asking, “What makes you think I have a thing for him?”

“I saw you and him with your heads together, so I figured I should ask. I don’t like to muscle in on someone else’s meat, if you catch my drift.”

Lottie was practically vibrating with suppressed laughter.

“I’d tell you to go for it, Sheila,” I said, “but Reilly might be married.”

She let out a bark of laughter. “Hon, that’s never stopped me before.”

I didn’t know what to say to that.

Sheila finished off the last of her soda and crushed the can. “I’d better get back to work before Anthony starts bellowing. Why don’t I send out one of the waiters for you to talk to? He might be able to give you some answers. And if you think of it, find out what hair color Reilly is partial to in his women.” She tugged on her ponytail. “I could always use a change.”

 

The waiter Sheila sent out was Kevin Jarrett. He had a medium build and a pleasant face and looked to be about thirty-five years old. He’d worked at the banquet center since it had opened a year ago and had been a waiter for ten years before that. He reported that Jack Snyder had never been an employee there, and he was certain that the uniform had been taken from the closet after the wedding ceremony, not before, when the waitstaff would have gotten dressed.

“How many extra uniforms are there?” Lottie asked.

“Three each of the jackets and vests, and there’s always a box of new berets. We keep them on hand just in case someone has a tray dumped on them or a beret falls in the food.”

There was an appetizing thought. “Did you notice any new faces among waiters on the night of the murder?”

“You’ve never worked a banquet, have you?” he asked dryly. “Try to imagine two hundred half-crocked people demanding second helpings of food, refills of wine, and
you-call-this-coffee-hot
? Trust me, an elephant could lumber through the room and we wouldn’t notice.”

One more mouth-watering image to erase from my mind. “Okay, Kevin, can you think of anything even slightly out of the ordinary that happened yesterday?”

He rubbed his chin. “No. Nothing leaps to mind . . . except maybe Gunther taking off early. That was unusual. He’s always here. I mean, the guy hangs out here on his day off, like he doesn’t have anything better to do.”

“Gunther is the dishwasher, right?” I asked.

“Yeah, dishwasher, kitchen helper, gopher . . .” Kevin shrugged.

I said to Lottie, “He’s the guy who almost knocked you over when he ran out of the kitchen to take a phone call.”

“I remember him,” Lottie said.

“Is Gunther here now?” I asked Kevin.

“I haven’t seen him today. It could be his day off, but even so, like I said before, he’s usually here.”

There could be any number of legitimate reasons for Gunther leaving work early and not showing up the next day, but for some reason my inner alarm was buzzing. “Have the police interviewed all the employees, Kevin?”

“Oh, yeah. All morning.”

“Were they told about Gunther taking off early?”

He shrugged. “I guess so.”

“What time did Gunther leave?”

“I couldn’t tell you. He was here during the wedding because I saw him watching the ceremony. I don’t remember seeing him after that, but that’s when things got really hectic, and when that happens—”

“Right. The elephant thing. Do you know anything about Gunther?”

“Not much. The guy keeps to himself. We’re pretty busy, though, moving food in and out of the kitchen. Your best bet would be to ask Sheila or one of the others inside.”

I didn’t think Anthony would appreciate me bothering Sheila again, so I made a mental note to get back to her, then I thanked Kevin for the information and gave him my card.

As we drove away, Lottie said, “I can almost hear those little gears grinding in your brain. What are you thinking?”

“I’m not sure what to think, but I’m going to tuck that information away, just in case Gunther’s name comes up again. To quote my favorite police sergeant, Gunther is a person of interest.”

 

Since it was not yet seven o’clock when we got back to town, I decided to take a drive over to the New Chapel Meat Market, where Vince Vogel worked, to see what I could learn from him. The market was a popular place, selling fresh beef, pork, chicken, and lamb, deli meats, cheese of all types, bakery breads, and local produce. The store had a loyal following and was always busy, especially during the predinner hours, which was why it stayed open until seven.

When I stepped inside the store, a dozen people were lined up at the glass counter waiting to place their orders, and another dozen were in the checkout line by the door. I took a numbered ticket and joined the throng, hoping the clerks worked fast.

Luckily, my number was called a short five minutes later. I asked whether Vince was there and gave my name. The clerk disappeared through a doorway in the back, and a moment later Vince stepped out, searching the faces on the other side of the counter.

Vince was an ordinary-looking man—sandy brown hair, light brown eyes, crooked nose, clean-shaven face, average height—with the upper arms of a weight lifter. He had on a white butcher’s coat covered by a black bib apron that looked like it was made out of thin rubber. His hands were covered by surgical gloves. I made a mental note to check whether any fingerprints had been found at the murder scene. Surgical gloves might be an easy thing to slip in one’s pocket.

“Hi,” I said, giving him a little wave. “Remember me from the wedding?”

“Sure,” he said with a grin. “You were the short bridesmaid.”

I forced myself to smile back. “Yep. That was me—the short one. Do you have a few minutes? I’m trying to track down some information on Jack Snyder.”

His grin dissolved into a look that verged on hostility, and for a moment I was sure he would refuse, but after a brief hesitation he pointed toward a door at the other end of the counter. “Go through that doorway. I’ll meet you in back.”

I squeezed around customers and made my way into what appeared to be a cutting room. It had two big butcher-block tables in the center—one of which had huge slabs of red meat on it—white cardboard boxes stacked on white wire shelves, a big, stainless steel door that I assumed led to a meat locker, and an array of different types of knives close at hand. I couldn’t stop myself from shivering. The room was icy cold.

“Slip this on,” Vince said, handing me an oversized white jacket. I put it on and had to push back the sleeves to find my hands. He took a slab of beef ribs from one table, laid it out on the other table, and picked up a cleaver.

“So,” he said, “you’re looking for information about Jack?” He brought the cleaver down hard into the meat, splitting it in two and making me jump.

“I’m helping a friend work on this murder case, and Claymore said you’ve known Jack since you were a boy, so I was hoping you might be able to shed some light on why someone would want to see him dead.”

“A friend?” He hit the ribs again, splitting them neatly down the middle. He folded the two halves together, then hit them crosswise. “Is this friend a cop, by any chance?”

“Nothing like that,” I said, waving away his concern. “She’s simply a good friend.” I didn’t elaborate, hoping I wouldn’t have to.

He eyed me for a moment, then pulled a new slab from the pile. “So you want to know about my history with Jack.”

“It would be helpful.”

He spoke in brief sentences punctuated by swift blows to the meat. “We were neighbors at one time. My family lived next door to his. They were decent people. I haven’t seen Norma since Bill died. I hear she’s very ill now.”

He continued to work but didn’t continue to talk. I glanced at my watch and saw that it was seven o’clock. I’d have to be direct. “Listen, Vince, I know Jack was responsible for some trouble you had down at IU—a false arrest, I think Claymore told me. What was that about?”

Vince took another hard whack at the meat. “Jack stole a car and told the cops I did it.”
Whack.
“He was ticked off because he thought I blackballed him to keep him out of the fraternity.”
Whack.
“Bastard ruined my career plans.”

“Why did you leave right after Claymore’s wedding Monday night?”

Whack.
“I don’t see that it’s any of your business why I left.” He raised the cleaver again, then lowered it with a sigh of impatience. “Look, if you came here to ask me if I killed Jack, just say so. I don’t have anything to hide.”