Tantalize (7 page)

“Mitch!” I whispered, checking the door. “God, don’t sneak up on people!”

“Quincie, Quincie, I, I, sweetie pie, I was just seeing if you needed a hand.”

Mitch and I looked after each other. Had for years.

“S’okay,” I said, filling him in on what I’d discovered as we both sneaked next door. “Did you see anybody?”

“No, nope, didn’t see. Been down at the hike-and-bike trail, watching the ducks swim, swimming ducks, on the lake. Swans, too! It sparkled, sparkled so nice today, that lake did. Came on back up the hill. Sor, Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m calling the cops.”

“Then I gotta go, if you’ll be, if you’re gonna be —”

“I’ll be fine.” Truth was, I wished he’d stick around until the police got there, but it seemed selfish to ask. “You go ahead.”

Mitch and area law enforcement had a mixed relationship at best, not that I’d ever asked for details. He’d haunted the neighborhood my whole life, sometimes bumming change or a sandwich, sometimes joining me as I walked to school or work. Mitch was a local institution, a frequent write-in candidate for mayor. People liked him and his ever-changing signs. I liked him, too — his dentally challenged smile and easygoing attitude. As had Vaggio, who’d fed him on more nights than not.

I pulled my cell phone from my purse. The charge was low, but it connected. I speed-dialed 911, and crouched behind the prickly pear cacti dividing Sanguini’s parking lot from the one behind the Tex-Mex restaurant next door.

Despite ongoing farewells, Mitch lingered. Too loyal to bail. Tugging on the cuff of his flannel PJ bottoms, I urged him to hide beside me.

The police kept me on the line, answering questions, making it clear I was to vacate the area. I didn’t.

T
hey sent two squad cars, lights off, no sirens, one officer per sedan. Neither much older than me. I stayed still, waiting to see what would happen next.

Mitch hovered until they entered the building. “I’m going, gotta go, go.”

“Go ahead,” I whispered as Mitch began to creep away. “And by the way,” I raised my voice, “good luck with the new sign.”

He grinned, using it to wave good-bye, straightening to march to the sidewalk and plead his case to passersby.

Seconds later, the cops were escorting a skinny, cowpoke-looking guy out of the kitchen door to the back lot.

“Fellas, I’m telling you,” he was saying in the kind of tone used to talk the suicidal off bridges, “I work here. A Mr. Davidson Morris hired me this morning. He gave me the keys, said we needed a new menu yesterday, and took off with his girlfriend to a concert in San Antonio. I thought I’d come in and get the feel of the place, start playing with the appliances . . .”

Oh, oh, oh no, I thought, relieved Vaggio’s killer hadn’t been lurking in Sanguini’s kitchen, surprised Uncle D had neglected to tell me he’d finally managed to hire a chef, embarrassed I’d called the cops for nothing. None of which was an excuse for letting APD grill the guy or, worse, haul him away.

“Wait!” I called, bounding out of my hiding place, catching my leg on a cactus needle, drawing a thin line of blood. “Officers?”

The cuter of the two paused. “Stay back. This is police business.”

“I’m Quincie Morris, the one who called 911. That man he just mentioned, Davidson Morris, is my uncle.” Breathing hard, I slowed to a stop in front of them on the asphalt lot. “I’m sorry about the false alarm. I didn’t know about Mr., uh, Mr. —”

“Johnson, Henry Johnson,” the detainee pitched in.

After the police left, I gave my full attention to the new guy. His fair hair, widow’s peak, gangly limbs, and western shirt. No more than twenty-two or three. I could hardly believe Uncle D had chosen such a young chef. We were desperate, but so much was at stake. It was a good thing my uncle had assigned me to keep an eye on him.

Johnson smiled, and I noticed the teeth. They were pointed,
all
of them.

“What the hell?” I asked.

“I almost forgot,” Johnson replied with a horsey chuckle. “No wonder the coppers kept staring at me like that.” He lifted out pointy wax teeth to reveal his real, regularly shaped lower set. “I was playing with these when the police showed up. What do you think?” He raised one bent elbow as if to cover all but his hazel eyes with an imaginary cape. “I vant to suck your blood.”

“It’s a little much,” I said, laughing. “How’s your cooking?”

“If you’d like to join me inside,” he offered, “I’d be happy to show you.”

I considered it, but I was still skittish about being in the kitchen and not quite ready yet to deal with Johnson one-on-one.

“Let’s meet back here tomorrow morning,” I said. “You, me, and my uncle D.”

“Sounds swell,” Johnson replied.

U
ncle D shut the front door of the house behind us.

“Lock it,” I urged.

“Oh, sure.” As he reached into his pants pocket for the keys, his cell trilled.

I crossed my arms in the bright sunshine as my uncle took the call.

“Uh,” he said into the phone. “Hang on.” Uncle D put his hand over it and yawned. “It’s Ruby. Can you give us a few minutes?”

Uncle D had shown up at home from his date with Ruby after 4
A.M.
that morning, too mellowed on artificial substances to appreciate what I’d had to say about Johnson and my call to 911. A mere five hours later, his squinty, bloodshot eyes suggested he’d seen enough Death Jam for a while.

“We’re going to be late,” I said.

“Well, how ’bout this: you go ahead on foot. I’ll take the car and beat you there. How does that sound?”

“Fine.” I could only hope he and Ruby were in the midst of some kind of melodrama that would lead to a permanent breakup.

It’s not like Uncle D had always been like this. He’d graduated with honors in poli sci from Texas State. But this past year he’d been more and more absent, wild. At work, he was usually his old self, but whatever. It was probably all Ruby’s fault.

Making my way through the neighborhood, down the hill, up South Congress, I felt hyperaware of each passing stranger — a mom pushing a stroller of twins on the sidewalk, the neighborhood locals and tourists reading newspapers at the outdoor coffee shop, the gardening crew at the Unitarian church, the cops in the passing patrol car. I’d always paid attention when I walked, but not with this kind of intensity. Not as though anyone might be a killer.

I reminded myself that I couldn’t let what happened to Vaggio change my whole life, that the street was busy, populated, and that at seventeen, I was practically a woman.

I let myself in the back door of Sanguini’s, peeking into the kitchen first before stepping in. No Uncle D, and his convertible wasn’t in the back lot yet either.

I heard a car pull in behind me and turned in the doorway to spot Johnson parking. He’d arrived at Sanguini’s armed with an open box containing Calphalon cleaner, a tin of paprika, a small bottle of canola oil, and a collection of wooden forks, spoons, ladles, and spatulas. He was a few minutes early.

“Black cherry utensils,” he said at the back step. “Very pathogen-resistant.”

I wasn’t sure whether to be impressed with his vigilance against salmonella or insulted by his implication about the cleanliness of Vaggio’s kitchen. Then I remembered it had been last scrubbed by a private service recommended by APD’s victim services counselor.

“Miss Morris?” Johnson asked.

The neighboring shops had opened minutes earlier. To the south, a few beat-up employee vehicles cluttered the lot next door. To the north, the lot was empty. On our property, one car had been parked between the lines in the first row, Johnson’s beige SUV. I was being rude, not letting him in, but new hire or not, he was a stranger.

“I know what’s wrong.” Johnson handed me the box, plucking two spoons and holding them like a cross in front of his heart. “This is a ‘vampire’ restaurant. Aren’t you going to say it?” His smile revealed classic fangs, which looked silly with his rodeo T-shirt and faded Wranglers. “Uh-hem.”

“Huh?” I replied, no idea what he was talking about, trying to dredge up an inoffensive way to say I wasn’t comfortable with the idea of the two of us alone together.

“Enter freely and of your own vill,” he intoned. “Not,” he went on conversationally, “that public places require an invitation, but just for fun.”

And that was when Uncle D swung his yellow 1970 Cutlass convertible, also known as “The Banana,” into the parking lot. Top down, in sorry need of a wash.

“Absolutely,” I said. “Come on into the air conditioning.” I called “Hey,” to Uncle Davidson, whose returning wave looked weak. At least he was off the phone.

Turning on my sandal heel, I led the two men into what had been Vaggio’s dream kitchen and dumped the box on the brushed stainless countertop, which was littered with more wooden kitchen utensils. Black cherry, no doubt, and crusty from food prep.

I peered into the stockpot filled with a watery mess of congealed rigatoni and the saucepan laden with rock-solid marinara. In addition to being disgusting, it spoke little of the new chef’s creative zeal. To his credit, though, Johnson immediately picked up the pot and headed toward the sink to dump it out.

“Quincie, honey,” Uncle D began. “You two can make nice while I go lie down in the break room. My head’s killing —”

“No,” I said. It was too soon for one of us to be in the break room while the other was in the kitchen with someone new. “I mean, why don’t you two haul in the recliner?”

My uncle slung an arm around me, misunderstanding my anxiety as pissed-offness. “Sorry about last night.”

With a sigh, I shrugged him off and fetched a bottle of orange Gatorade from the fridge. “Rehydrate,” I suggested.

As Uncle Davidson and Johnson exited the stainless doors, I told myself they’d just be gone a minute and flipped the radio on to KUT. The piece playing was classical, Bach or Beethoven or one of those B-named composers.

I glanced from the door to the dining room to the door to the break room to the door to the hall to the door to the parking lot. When Uncle D had redesigned the place, he’d been thinking about flow, not defense.

But now we were taking precautions. Outside official business hours, the back door would always be locked. Uncle D had promised he’d remember. Plus, he was talking about hiring a couple of bouncers and/or security guards. Soon.

My uncle and Johnson returned with the old vinyl recliner, struggling to figure out the angle at the doorway. The beat-up chair looked out of place in the ultramodern kitchen, in front of the two cash registers. My uncle sank down and extended the footrest. The Gatorade bottle sat on the floor beside the chair, untouched as he closed his eyes. Meanwhile, Johnson got scrubbing and I pushed up on the counter to supervise.

By the time Johnson hung the saucepan onto the overhead rack, the radio was accompanied by the nasal snore of my uncle, who slept like the dead.

“Hungry?” the chef asked, lavender eyes attentive.

Wait a minute, I thought. “You have lavender eyes?”

They’d been — what? — hazel the night before.

“Contacts. I thought they might make me look more otherworldly.”