Killer Gourmet (4 page)

Dirk stepped forward and flipped open his badge, showing it to Norwood. “How about if I lay down some laws for you? When I stepped through that door just now, you nearly took off my head with a metal pan. You assaulted a police officer, dude. And if my friends here didn't need you to cook dinner for all those people out there, you'd already be facedown on the floor wearing handcuffs, lickin' tomato sauce off the tiles.”

Ryan reached over and laid a hand on Dirk's shoulder. “Thank you, Detective Sergeant Coulter. But I think Chef Norwood has a much clearer understanding of the situation now than he had a few minutes ago when he threw that pan at you.”

John nodded. “And I believe we all understand that the important thing is, we get this dinner service under way. We have a room full of hungry guests out there who are not going to be speaking well of this establishment”—he gave Norwood the infamous, full-on Gibson glare—“or its celebrated chef come tomorrow morning. We must turn things around straightaway unless we want to wake up to hideous reviews.”

As the men continued to talk sense to the chef, Savannah watched the petite young woman in the red-trimmed coat as she stood and readjusted the red bandanna that held her mass of dark curls away from her face. Pretty in a girl-next-door, no-nonsense sort of way, she walked over to the two men kneeling behind the vegetable crates and gave them each a nudge on their shoulders. “Come on,” she told them. “The excitement's over, and those stations aren't going to man themselves.”

She hurried over to a computer screen and glanced over the orders listed there. “Five Chateaubriands, four lobster thermidors, seven beef Wellingtons. Let's get crackin', people.”

Savannah turned and saw a small cluster of waiters and waitresses staring through the windows of the double doors. She hurried over to them, swung the doors open, and said, “Everything's fine. Just ducky, in fact. Go back to your tables and tell everybody there was a small accident. A few pans dropped, that's all. Their suppers will be up before they know it.”

As the waitstaff scurried away to do her bidding, Savannah glanced over her shoulder once more at the chef and his team. She crossed her fingers, mentally knocked on an imaginary piece of wood, and hoped to high heaven that—for Ryan and John's sakes—they wouldn't make a big honkin' liar of her.

Because at the rate the kitchen staff was going, the guests of ReJuvene could consider themselves lucky if their delicacies were served blood-spatter-free.

 

“Gee, that was fun.”

Savannah looked across the table and saw a version of her debonair friend that she had never seen before. Ryan's appearance belied his cheerful words that had been uttered with an unmistakable note of sarcasm.

His dark mane, usually without a hair astray, had escaped the confines of its liberally applied gel and was now hanging down over his eyes. A tuft in the back stood on end like a child's rebellious cowlick.

His face glistened with a sheen of sweat that Savannah had seen only once before—at the end of a particularly grueling tennis match.

Ryan looked positively worn to a frazzle.

So did John.

He was slouching in a chair beside Ryan's. His face had the same haggard, dejected expression, and his arms hung down at his sides as though he were too weary to lift them.

“Yes, bloody good fun,” John replied with even less enthusiasm. “Let's do it again tomorrow.”

Ryan picked up a napkin from the table and wiped his brow. “And the next day and the next and the next.”

John gave him a derisive half-grin and a poke in the ribs. “Whose idea was this—you and I becoming restaurateurs? I seem to recall you first broaching the topic one summer evening over a cup of granita in Salinas.”

“Ugh, don't remind me.” Ryan reached across the table, grabbed Dirk's by-now-warm beer, and drank nearly half the glass in one long draft.

“At least the party's about over,” Dirk said as he shoveled the last bite of raspberry tart into his face, snatched the glass back from Ryan, and washed the mouthful down with what remained of his beer.

“And everybody seemed to have had a great time,” Savannah added in her best cheerleader voice.

Tammy nodded enthusiastically. “That table where the press was sitting for sure! I saw them taking pictures of all the dishes. They were superimpressed. I could tell.”

“How could they not be?” Waycross said as he carefully folded his napkin and laid it next to his empty plate. “That was a meal fit for a king . . . or a guy on his way to the electric chair.”

He looked around the table and saw everyone giving him a strange look. Shrugging, he added, “Just sayin'. If I was on my way out of this world, that'd be my choice for a last meal. Okay?”

Ryan smiled, reached over, and patted the kid's broad shoulder. “Thank you, Waycross. That's about the nicest compliment we've received tonight.”

Turning back to John, Ryan sighed and said, “Seriously, though, what are we going to do about Norwood?”

“The food was fantastic,” John replied. “The service impeccable. Top drawer, all the way.”

“But the attitude. That level of drama every night?”

John shook his head wearily. “It can't be borne.”

“Tomorrow we start looking for a new chef.”

“Done. Life is too short to tolerate the likes of such an arrogant, violent cad as that—five-star chef or not. Surely we can find a sane individual who doesn't terrorize the staff.”

Noticing that the last remaining guests were standing and gathering their things to leave, Ryan rose and hurried over to say good-bye and see them to the door.

“I'm sorry things didn't turn out as well as you'd hoped in all ways,” Savannah told John, “but overall, the night was a rousing success.”

Tammy nodded eagerly. “I heard that at the end of Disneyland's first day, Walt actually cried because of all the things that went wrong. And look how well that worked out in the end.”

John reached over, took Tammy's hand, and kissed it. “Thank you, love. Rave reviews from one's nearest and dearest—that's what matters most. And you're right; all's well that ends well.”

Savannah smiled and picked up her fork, intending to pilfer the last bite of raspberry tart off Tammy's plate when she wasn't looking. But no sooner had she reached across the table to do so than a nerve-shattering scream came from the kitchen area.

Savannah dropped the fork and leapt to her feet.

So did everyone else. En masse they rushed, once again, to the double swinging doors at the back of the room.

As they ran, they heard several more cries—each worse than the one before.

During her time as a police officer, Savannah had heard more than a thousand screams. Screams of rage, pain, fear, and drunkenness. People screaming for all sorts of reasons, and sometimes for no reason at all other than to attract attention or express a minor annoyance.

But there was only one reason for that sort of scream—a cry that went straight into the heart and the marrow of the bones, causing those who heard it to steel themselves for the worst life had to offer.

Nobody screamed like that unless somebody was dead.

O
nce through the double doors, Savannah needed only a couple of seconds to spot the body. It lay on its back in a dark red puddle of gore on the floor in front of the stove.

She required a bit longer to identify the corpse.

The white of the chef's jacket was mostly stained crimson, but she could still discern the black buttons and piping. And the sheer bulk of the man alone told her it was Norwood.

Even though she was the first one into the room, the first to kneel beside him, and the first to press her fingers against his still warm, blood-slick neck, Savannah needed no one to tell her there would be no pulse.

The amount of damage that had been done to the body—multiple wounds that she could see on his chest and abdomen and several gaping slashes to his head—were some of the worst homicide injuries she had ever seen.

No one could have survived such an attack.

So absorbed was she by the gruesome sight that she was only vaguely aware of Dirk asking her, “Well? Is there a pulse?”

“No,” she replied. “None.”

She rose and turned to the young woman nearby, who was still screaming hysterically. She seemed to be stuck in some sort of horrible, nightmarish mind-warp, repeating the same gut-twisting shriek over and over and over again.

Savannah rushed to her and grabbed her by the shoulders. She shook her gently, trying to get her attention. But the woman was staring down at the gory figure on the floor, transfixed, her eyes wide with horror, as she continued to wail that terrible, shrill cry.

Savannah whirled her around, forcing her to stand with her back to the body as Dirk, Ryan, and John examined it.

Placing her hands on either side of the woman's face, Savannah held her head tightly, compelling her to look straight into her eyes.

“It's over now. Stop your screaming, sugar,” Savannah told her in a voice both kind and stern. “Try to get ahold of yourself, darlin'. What's done is done. It's over.”

For the first time, the woman appeared to see her, and she stopped crying. But she was breathing so deeply, so hard and fast, that Savannah knew she was hyperventilating.

“Come over here,” Savannah told her. She led her toward the back door and sat her down on one of the vegetable crates where the same two fellows, who had been hiding there earlier, were cowering once again.

“Don't you two go anywhere,” Savannah told the men. “That policeman over there is going to want to talk to you both, for sure.”

The workers exchanged quick looks of apprehension.

“Don't worry,” Savannah told them, anticipating the reason for their concern. “He's not the immigration police.”

She glanced back at the scene behind her—at Dirk, who had moved away from the body and was now scouring the area around it for anything out of the ordinary that might be evidential.

Ryan and John were doing the same. Though it had been years since they had carried FBI badges, the skills and mind-sets of professional investigators never changed.

Just outside the now-open double doors, Tammy and Waycross watched silently, their sweet faces registering the full horror of the situation. Behind them stood several of the waitstaff, looking equally traumatized.

Savannah heard the woman sitting on the crates gagging, and a moment later the pungent stench of vomit joined the coppery scent of blood in the air.

That particular nauseating combination was a common odor that Savannah had smelled many times.

More than once, she had wondered if the millions of people who found the topic of murder so fascinating—even “romantic” in a perverse, macabre way—would have found the sordid reality so intriguing had they experienced it firsthand.

She suspected that five minutes at a real homicide scene would have put much of the public off their true crime shows forever.

One of the men left his hiding place behind the crates and stepped closer to her. “Your friend is not the immigration police?” He cleared his throat and shifted nervously from one foot to another, not meeting her eyes.

“No,” she replied.

“What kind of police is he?”

Savannah looked at Dirk, who was speaking on his cell phone. She could hear just enough of his conversation to know that he was requesting Dr. Liu's presence. Dr. Jennifer Liu—the county coroner.

“Unfortunately,” she said, “right now he's the murder police.”

 

No matter how many years Savannah had known Dr. Liu, she would never get over the momentary surprise she felt when she saw the Asian beauty enter a crime scene. Tall, statuesque, and usually dressed in an outfit that would be more appropriate on a high-priced hooker, Dr. Jen hardly fit most people's idea of a medical examiner.

Tonight was no exception.

She entered the kitchen by way of the back door. And as was her habit, she left the accompanying CSI team momentarily outside so that she could have a solitary “first impression” look.

She was sporting a pair of over-the-knee, black leather boots with a matching miniskirt. Her blouse was sheer enough to be illegal, except for the two strategically placed and slightly less transparent front pockets.

Her waist-long, silky black hair was pulled back and fastened with a large clip embellished with peacock feathers and rhinestones.

Her exotic black eyes lit up when she spotted Savannah.

“When I heard that he was the one who called this in”—she gave a curt nod in Dirk's direction—“I was hoping you'd be here,” she told Savannah.

Taking in the boots, the miniskirt, and the peekaboo blouse, Savannah said, “Sorry you got called away from your party. I'll bet it was a fun one.”

Dr. Liu gave her a slightly confused look. “Party? What party?”

Savannah shrugged. “Oh, nothing. I just thought that . . . Never mind. Glad you're here.” Savannah glanced down at the still-distraught young woman, whom she had now identified as Francia Fortun, the sous-chef.

Lowering her voice, Savannah whispered to the M.E., “It's a messy one. Very high on the Yuck Factor Scale.”

The doctor gave a flippant nod of her head, which caused her peacock feathers to quiver a bit. Her beautiful face registered no trace of concern as she glanced around the room, looking for the victim.

Dr. Liu had seen it all. Her Yuck Factor Scale was set much higher than her fellow human beings, making her difficult to impress.

But Savannah did notice a momentary look of surprise that registered in those dark eyes when Dr. Liu spotted the corpse near the stove. Was that even a trace of revulsion that she saw cross the doctor's face?

Wonders never ceased.

But then, even hardened professionals like the county medical examiner seldom saw such a brutal homicide. Most killers were content with a bullet or two, or a few stabs to their victim's most vital areas.

This was definitely overkill in one of its most gruesome forms.

The doctor gave Dirk, Ryan, and John only a cursory nod before she walked over to the body and squatted beside it.

Savannah couldn't help grinning . . . just a little. Dr. Liu was an excellent coroner, but she was all female. And Savannah knew that any woman who owned a pair of boots as expensive as those would never kneel in a pool of blood while wearing them.

“Somebody did a thorough slice-and-dice on him,” Liu said, accepting a pair of surgical gloves from Dirk.

“No kidding,” Dirk replied. “Looks like his head went through one of these giant food processors.”

Savannah heard Francia give a little groan and start to gag again.

For the sake of the young woman and the crates of vegetables that had already been fouled, Savannah reached down and pulled her to her feet.

“I think you've been in here about long enough,” Savannah told her. “Let's get you to a more peaceful surrounding, and we can have a little talk just between us girls.”

Savannah turned to the two workers and crooked her finger. “You fellas come along, too. Y'all are looking a bit peaked around the gills. Reckon you could use a change of scenery, too.”

 

Savannah led the three into the dining room, where she suggested that the men take a seat in one corner.

As she led Francia to the opposite side of the room, she motioned for Tammy and Waycross.

They hurried over, eager to participate in any way. She knew they were dying of curiosity about the whole horrible affair, but they were well-trained enough to keep a low profile unless invited in.

“Tammy,” Savannah said, “would you mind getting Francia here a glass of ice water? And Waycross, I think those two gentlemen over there in the corner could use a couple of cold beers to quiet their nerves.”

She nodded toward where the waiters, the bartender, and a couple of busboys were huddled around the fireplace, whispering among themselves. “Get them something, too, if they need it. And tell them not to leave until Dirk questions them. Okay?”

“Sure,” Tammy said. “And how about you, Savannah? Can I get you something?”

Savannah sighed, feeling a few years older than her octogenarian grandmother. What a day this had turned out to be. So much for a relaxing, culinary treat.

“Oh, I'm sure my nerves could use a cold beer, too. But I'll pass and settle for ice water like Francia here.”

“Actually,” Francia interjected, “if they can have a beer, I want a glass of wine . . . if it's all the same to you. A full-bodied, dry Cab. After what I've seen tonight, I think I deserve it.”

Tammy gave Savannah a questioning look. Savannah nodded.

“No problem,” Tammy said with a tremulous, pseudobright smile. “One full-bodied, dry Cabernet Sauvignon coming up.”

Tammy scurried away to get the wine and Waycross followed her to the bar for the beer. Savannah turned to Francia.

The sous-chef had removed her jacket and was wearing only a thin tank top underneath. Savannah tried not to stare at the fascinating array of tattoos that were now visible. But they were impressive.

She had everything from kitchen knives dripping with blood, to a collection of beautifully portrayed vegetables, to the words “I Cook to Live, I Live to Cook” inside an ornate banner. On her shoulder were salt and pepper shakers.

Obviously, Francia Fortun was a “foodie” of the first order, fully dedicated to her craft.

“Speaking of the traumatizing things you've seen tonight,” Savannah began, “let's hear it all.”

“All? You want me to relive everything I've just been through right now? I don't even know who you are—except some friend of Mr. Stone and Mr. Gibson. Why should I talk to you?”

“Because you have to talk to somebody. As a witness, you're going to have to give your statement, and if it isn't to me, it's going to be to that detective in the kitchen, Sergeant Dirk Coulter. Frankly, between the two of us, I'm the nice one. He wouldn't be letting you have a Cabernet Sauvignon, dry, full-bodied, or otherwise. So you ought to spill it all to me and consider yourself lucky.”

“Are you a cop?” Francia's dark eyes reached deep into Savannah's. And it occurred to Savannah that this young woman—for all of her hysterical screaming earlier—was no shrinking violet.

“I used to be. As a matter of fact, for years I was Sergeant Coulter's partner. Now I'm a private investigator. So don't worry. I've been around this block once or twice before. You're safe with me.”

Tammy arrived with the wine and water and placed the glasses in front of them. “If you need anything else,” she said, “I'll be right over there in the bar area. You know, like some saltine crackers, or pretzels, or something to settle your stomach. I noticed you were having a problem earlier with a bit of nausea and—”

“I'm fine now. Okay?” Francia snapped back. “It was just a bit of a shock, you know. But I'm all right. Or at least I would be if everybody would just leave me alone and let me drink this wine.”

Tammy hurried away and found a seat out of earshot next to the bar.

Once Waycross had delivered the beers to the grateful men in the corner, he joined her. They sat, heads together, whispering to each other and pretending not to watch the interview on the other side of the room.

Savannah took a sip of her ice water and said in her gentlest “good cop” tone, “Feel free to guzzle every drop of that wine. I'll even get you another, if that's what you want. But you're going to have to tell me what happened in the kitchen earlier. Absolutely everything. Or you and I are going to be sitting at this table all night.”

Francia did exactly that. She guzzled the wine so quickly that Savannah couldn't help bemoaning the waste of a good, dry cabernet. It went down the hatch so fast that it could've been nail polish remover and Francia wouldn't have tasted it.

“Okay.” The sous-chef took a deep breath and slouched in her chair. “Ask anything you want. But you saw what I saw. Him lying there all cut up and bloody. That's it, that's all.”

Savannah's heart sank. So much for an eyewitness to murder.

She should've known; it was never that easy.

But, of course, Francia Fortun could be lying.

Savannah looked her over, as she had several times already in the kitchen, searching for anything in her personal appearance that might give clues to her character.

She wasn't sure what the tattoos meant, other than that she was fiercely passionate about being a chef.

It was a bit tough reading the clothing of a person who was dressed in a uniform. The generic garb of the sous-chef—a white jacket with a red collar and cuffs and black pants—told her nothing.