A Sleuth Is Born Page 8

  “Yes. That blog with the pictures and the nasty article about the Inn could be a big clue. It’s hard to get anywhere with anonymous reviews on an online store. But his website and domain give me more to go on. I’m working on it.”

  “Still thinking they’re the same person?”

  “Pretty sure. Plus—here’s the best part—it looks like they used a cell phone to snap those pictures. That may help me figure out more later. Sometimes there is metadata stored with photos.”

  “Don’t forget, you have to show me how you’re doing all this stuff. I want to catch the review troll as quickly as we can, but I also need to learn how to be a detective.”

  “I know, I know. We’ll have a lesson once I learn more. I was wondering if you wanted me to check into any of the poker players. This situation with Eddie’s death, Billy Ray saying the game’s rigged—does it seem a little fishy to you?”

  “More than a little. Perry and I are keeping an eye on the play. Maybe you should check into any connections between the players. And check into Lee’s background?”

  “I’ll do some digging about the charity, too.”

  “Then don’t forget—we have to compare notes. And you have to teach me how you found everything.”

  “I got it. Oh, and I’ve got a connection at that hospital. I’ll see what else I can find out about Eddie’s death.”

  “Oh boy, we might get lucky and have a real-life murder on our hands!” Bea said, rather gleefully. “That didn’t sound right. You know what I mean.”

  “Dude’s dead either way. No chance of hurting his feelings.”

  “Good point!” said Bea, holding her hand up for a high five.

  §

  Bea arrived in the kitchen and found Angela already there, pacing the floor.

  “Girlie, you gotta calm down. Just because Madame Bossybritches complains doesn’t mean you did anything wrong. Some people are always unhappy. She seems like someone who gets her way all the time by being impossible to please.”

  “I want so much to impress her,” Angela said. “Imagine the referrals we could get if we pulled off an exclusive event like this! But now I’m impressing her with how bad things are going. I hope we can do damage control. A client like her could make our reputation or break it.”

  “One client can’t make or break our entire reputation, Angie. Besides, are you sure we’d want a steady stream of picky richies coming through the Inn? People like Lee Glastonbury, who are never satisfied with anything? Are you forgetting the Inn was supposed to be a place for Betty’s fans?”

  Angela stopped pacing and looked at Bea. “You’re right. It wouldn’t hurt to be able to do the occasional posh event, though, would it? Especially if we can bring in this kind of money. More than that, I wanted to do this right. To prove that I can.”

  “You are a perfectionist, no doubt about it.”

  “Thank you for changing your outfit.”

  “It’s not exactly my style. But at least it’s still pretty comfortable.”

  “Bea, there’s one other thing I’m stressed out about. And I don’t know if we can fix it. Mrs. Glastonbury told me last night she thinks Chef Ming made a mistake that caused Eddie’s reaction—which means she thinks he killed Eddie.”

  “What?!” said Bea. “That’s just—”

  “Ladies,” said Mrs. Glastonbury, striding into the kitchen, “let’s not waste time. First, about those infuriating, unacceptable photos, do you have any idea who on your team leaked? And, pray tell, what you plan to do about it?”

  “Why do you assume it wasn’t one of your entourage, Lee?” Bea said.

  Lee glared at Bea.

  “Don’t worry, Mrs. Glastonbury,” Angela piped up, “we’ll remind everyone that this event is private.”

  “It’s a little late for that,” sneered the client.

  “And we will have someone sweep the grounds for trespassers. Aseem, Pat, and I will start tonight, taking turns walking the area. Those photos will be the last.”

  “We’re trying to track the owner of that blog down, too,” said Bea. “We’ll send a strongly worded letter about removing those photos once we do.”

  Angela waited a beat for Mrs. Glastonbury to turn away then mouthed “really?” in Bea’s direction, smiling. Bea responded with a wink and a nod.

  “That would certainly be an improvement. Now about the death of Eddie Kawai,” Mrs. Glastonbury continued, “This is a matter much less easily resolved. Angela, how do you plan to respond?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve already shown you the evidence that your chef caused the allergy attack—the peanut oil in the wok. That means the Inn must take action. I’d like you to make a clear show of responsibility. And I’d like the chef replaced for the safety of my guests. I’m making no promises, but this might be a way for you to avoid legal action.”

  “But Mrs. Glastonbury, I’d like to at least talk to Chef Ming first. He’ll be here any minute, and we can sort out what happened.”

  “Besides, now that Eddie’s gone, so’s our allergy problem, right?” Bea interjected. Angela put her hand on her forehead, looking like she might faint. “Just saying, Angie. Why should we fire Chef Ming when there’s not even any reason to anymore?”

  “I’m not saying you have to fire him, Angela,” snapped Mrs. Glastonbury, “although I can’t imagine why you wouldn’t. It’s your reputation. You do what you have to do. What I’m saying is I want a public acknowledgment of responsibility. And I don’t want that chef in the kitchen for the remainder of our event. I trust you will comply with this request.”

  Her directive delivered, Lee marched out of the kitchen. As she whipped through the swinging doors that led back into the breakfast room, she crashed right into Foxy—who’d been crouching behind the door, eavesdropping. The collision knocked him to the floor. Mrs. Glastonbury peered down on him, momentarily dazed.

  “Well if it isn’t Mr. Foxy!” Bea said. “Perhaps your new nickname should be Snoopy. Can we help you with something, Snoopy? Snacks in the breakfast room not to your liking?”

  Ever smooth, even in disarray, Foxy picked himself up off the floor and instantly recomposed himself. “Not snooping. I thought Angela might need a little moral support. Angela, I just want you to know, I think you’re doing a great job. And I think the other players agree.”

  Angela beamed and coyly tilted her head. “It’s nice to be appreciated, Foxy.”

  Mrs. Glastonbury rolled her eyes. “Mr. Foxworth, I am quite sure you don’t speak for our entire group. And in any case, the success of our event is my responsibility. I kindly request you stay out of these affairs.”

  She turned on her heel, fuming, and headed out of the kitchen—keeping her head down to avoid meeting the eyes of the chef, who brushed by her into the kitchen as she was leaving it.

  “You wanted to see me, Angela?” said the chef. He was physically trim, his dress tidy. His crisp chef whites were branded with the Inn’s logo; his head was covered in a tight red bandana. Everything about him radiated a passionate professionalism.

  “Yes, I have to share some terrible news, Chef Ming.”

  “Foxy, I don’t think we need you here for this,” Bea said diplomatically. “What I mean is, take a hike, Slick.”

  “She’s right, Foxy,” Angela said, touching Foxy’s arm. “I appreciate your support, but we need to speak with the chef in private.”

  “No problem. Perhaps we could meet for coffee or a drink later. I’d just like to check in. And don’t forget that tour you promised me.”

  “I think Angela will be very busy, won’t you, Angela?” Bea interrupted. She gave Foxy a little guiding push towards the door.

  Foxy complied, but looked back at Angela and mouthed “I’ll find you later.” He grinned and flashed his mouthful of perfect pearlies her way once more. Bea would have sworn she heard Angela release a tiny sigh.

  “How can I help you, Angela?” said the chef.

  “There’s no e
asy way to say it,” Angela began. She soberly explained that Eddie’s allergic reaction appeared to have been caused by the doughnuts, and that, after a secondary reaction, Eddie had died. Haltingly, she then told Chef Ming about Mrs. Glastonbury’s discovery of the wok and the peanut oil—which seemed to be the cause of the reaction.

  “I get it was an accident, chef. A terrible, innocent mistake. But surely you can understand that Mrs. Glastonbury has reason for concern. She’d like you to step aside for the rest of the event.”

  “No, I don’t understand at all,” the chef replied firmly. “There’s no way I caused that poor man’s death.”

  “The wok’s still on the stove, and so’s the peanut oil,” Angela said.

  “I didn’t put them there. How would I have produced all those doughnuts using a single wok? What a ridiculous idea. I used the brand-new deep fryers, and I filled them with palm oil—as anyone who knows how to fry doughnuts would. You can even see doughnut sediment in the tray.”

  Angela and Bea leaned in to see the minuscule traces of fried dough that had dropped into the tray.

  “Of course, there’s not much. The fryers hadn’t been used before.”

  “But chef, that still doesn’t explain the peanut oil—there’s residue in the wok,” Angela said.

  “I don’t need to explain that,” said Chef Ming. “I have no reason to lie. No chef in his right mind would use a wok to prepare doughnuts for 20 people. More important, I am a trained professional and would never put an allergic guest at risk.”

  The chef dragged two boxes out of the walk-in refrigerator. One was clearly labeled “Donut Fry Oil. 50 lbs.” “It’s solid palm oil. And as you can see, it’s mostly empty. The fryer takes 40 lbs.”

  Angela and Bea watched as the chef picked up each item from the second box.

  “These are the ingredients we used to make the doughnuts—all provided by Mrs. Glastonbury except the fry oil.”

  The chef held up a canister with a handwritten label: “gluten-free flour,” followed by vanilla bean paste, imported French baking chocolate, organic eggs, local butter, and empty envelopes labeled “organic yeast.”

  “I even saved the empty bags and bottles,” said the chef. “I didn’t want there to be any doubt I’d used all the ingredients.”

  “Thank you, chef,” said Bea. “Mrs. Glastonbury must be mistaken.”

  “Even if she is mistaken, she is our client,” said Angela. “Chef Ming, I’m sorry, but I have to ask you to sit out the next few days. I’m sure you understand. Customer’s always right and all that.”

  “No, I don’t understand,” replied the chef, his face flush with emotion. “This is beyond ridiculous. Beyond insulting. I’m meticulous about food safety—and about guest satisfaction. Isn’t that why you hired me? If you can’t trust me, there’s no point in having a relationship at all. I have a reputation outside your inn to maintain, too. I hardly intend to make this the last stop of my career.”

  The chef yanked open the snaps of his chef’s coat and tossed it onto the shiny stainless steel chef’s table.

  “Good luck, Angela. For tonight, check the second box in the walk-in. I’ve already done most of the prep for dinner. You’ll just have to find someone to cook it—I mean, if you can trust I didn’t poison the food when prepping it. For tomorrow night—and the rest of your life—you’re on your own.”

  “Chef, there’s no need to be so hasty,” Angela said, taken aback by the chef’s angry reaction. “I don’t want to lose you. She’s just a very important client. I thought you’d understand.”

  “Sometimes you have to choose, Angela. I can’t stay where I’m not trusted. I realize you’re new to this, but I thought you would have more backbone.” He spun around and stormed out of the kitchen.

  Angela looked stricken. The chef’s assessment of her maturity hit a nerve.

  Bea looked at Angela with slightly raised eyebrows. “You sure this is how you want to play it, Angie?”

  “Bea, why can’t you see we need to please her!”

  “Girlie, I don’t like your chances of pleasing her, no matter what you do. Bullies like her aren’t ever satisfied. Was it worth losing Chef Ming over? You worked so hard to lure him here. He’s gonna have another job in a heartbeat.”

  “It’s still possible he used that peanut oil,” Angela said weakly. “Technically, we can’t say for sure he didn’t cause Eddie’s death.”

  Almost on cue, Chef Ming opened the door a crack and spoke through it.

  “If you’re still thinking I might have killed Eddie, better think again. Even if I’d used the peanut oil—and I did not!—read the label. It’s refined peanut oil. No peanut solids. The odds of it causing a reaction are practically non-existent. Kind of like your reasons for getting rid of me. If you want to run a hospitality business, get a clue!”

  “Chef Ming, please wait—” Angela said. But he was gone before she said it and not looking back.

  “What now, Angie?” Bea asked. But Angela was in no mood to talk, her self-induced stress reaching a new peak.

  “Please save it, Bea. I’ll figure something out,” she replied, rushing out of the kitchen.

  Bea inspected the half-empty peanut oil on the stove. Chef Ming was right: the label said it was “highly refined.” A box of plastic gloves sat behind it on a shelf. She pulled one onto her right hand, carefully picked up the oil, and carried it with her out the door.

  §

  Foxy was eavesdropping again, more carefully this time. He chided himself about his earlier carelessness: Unacceptable. A rookie mistake.

  He was standing near the break room doors when he heard Chef Ming exit out the back of the kitchen, towards the parking lot. Time to hustle!

  He jogged down the Inn’s hallways, scanning for anyone who might see him. He had to be sure the other players (or, heaven forbid, Lee) didn’t notice he was up to. Finally , Foxy spotted Chef Ming standing by his car on the far side of the lot.

  “Chef, wait up,” he said, taking a deep breath as he walked across the lot, reestablishing his air of cool self-assurance. “I overheard what happened. I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah, I’m not used to getting accused of poisoning people with my food. Especially when there’s plenty of proof I didn’t do it. But whatevs. Angela’s got some learning to do. Some growing up, too.”

  “What if I told you,” Foxy said, looking around to be sure he wasn’t seen, “that I’m looking into what happened to Eddie—quietly. Would you be willing to help? The thing is, we’d have to keep it between us.”

  “Why not? You’re a rich dude, right—will you think of me for your next fancy dinner?”

  “Sure,” said Foxy. “You’ll be the first person I think of when planning by next soiree.” Foxy reached into his pocket for his wallet. “Remember,” he said, finger to lips, “hush-hush.”

  The chef made a zipper motion across his lips. Then he hopped into his car and drove off.

  Foxy turned back towards the Inn and scanned the scene once more. No one else was in the parking lot. But was someone standing at that window? Foxy thought he saw a drape drop back into place. He decided it must have been a shadow.

  §

  Bea arrived back at her suite and realized she’d somehow misplaced her card key. Drat, she thought. She didn’t want to tromp all the way to the front desk carrying the heavy, slippery bottle of oil one-handed—especially since she wasn’t sure anyone would even be there to help her. She might drop it on the way, or have to tote it all the way back to her suite if no one was working the desk.

  Bea put the oil down next to the door of her suite, intending to leave it there while fetching a new key. But what if someone saw it and wondered what it was doing there? What if someone saw an opportunity to destroy evidence?

  She picked up the bottle and knocked on the suite next door to hers: Pat’s.

  “Can I use your internet speaker to call the front desk. I lost my key.”

  “Come in,” said Pat. “You
don’t even need to call for a key. You can go through the connecting door to your suite. I don’t think you locked your side.”

  “I guess I figured if yours was locked, we’d be good,” replied Bea, setting the bottle down on the desk.

  “Interesting thinking from someone who had a manuscript stolen not that long ago. Better start thinking like a crook if you want to learn to be a detective.”

  “I might have if I’d thought a crook had moved in next door!” Bea said defensively. But inside, she was a little annoyed with herself. She was an expert at sniffing out shenanigans at the poker table. Those were the same skills she needed to transfer to her detective training—the things that would bring her whodunit yarns to life—yet here she was, acting all trusting.

  “What’s with the peanut oil—and the glove?” Pat said, opening the connecting door to Bea’s suite.

  “Hold your horses, I’ll tell you in a minute,” Bea said as she walked back into her suite. She used the internet speaker to call the front desk and asked them to bring her a new card, then rejoined Pat and plopped onto the bed.

  “Well if you don’t want to tell me about your mysterious bottle, I’ve got a few tidbits to share,” Pat said, scrolling through notes on her laptop. “Shall I start with Operation Troll Patrol? I got lucky and found metadata on the review bomber’s photos—including the name of a professional photographer in San Francisco. That’s the good news.”

  “Show me,” asked Bea. Pat gave Bea a quick demo of the software she used to analyze digital photos. “Wahoo! I’m starting to feel like a real detective now. Does this mean we’re homing in on our culprit?”

  “That’s the bad news. I called the photographer. He hasn’t owned the phone for a while. He sold it to one of the pawn shops he uses to buy camera equipment. Doesn’t remember which shop.

  “I’m gonna call the pawn shops he mentioned. But it’s a longshot. Pawn shops sell tons of phones. Unlikely they’ll know who they sold it to. Even if they do, they might decide the information’s private. The phone’s really old—that might narrow it down at least. But we have to assume the photos might be a dead end.