Dangerously Dark, page 4
Now that would never happen. Poor Carissa.
“It’s not who attacked Carissa. It’s what,” Austin told me. “The air in that trailer was dangerously low on oxygen. Carissa must have rushed in there and been overcome almost instantly.”
I remembered her haste to impress me. I nodded. “She did.”
“It’s a good thing you followed her. Another minute or two without sufficient oxygen, and she would have been in serious trouble. I’m guessing that the open trailer door let in enough air to keep you upright and Carissa okay—once she was outside.”
But not Declan. I frowned. “Whatever got to Declan is the same thing that made Carissa pass out? Like a poison?”
I wasn’t sure how that meshed with the asphyxiation theory.
“Sort of. Do you know much about liquid nitrogen?”
I shook my head. “My oeuvre is chocolate. That’s it.”
“Well, liquid nitrogen is a cryogenic liquefied gas.” Austin gave me a watchful look. “That means it gets—”
“Really cold. I don’t need the kindergarten version.”
He almost smiled at that. I was starting to like him—flannel shirt, shaggy hair, Portland-style beard, and all.
“Right. Well, aside from being cold, liquid nitrogen is also colorless, odorless, tasteless, noncorrosive, and nonflammable. Ordinarily, it’s nontoxic and inert—”
“Which is why it’s used for freezing ice cream,” I surmised, “and in molecular gastronomy.” In certain Michelin-starred restaurants, I knew, fancy foams and flavored orbs were all the rage. I still didn’t get how it led to suffocation.
“Yes.” Austin nodded. “But in certain circumstances, it can also produce tissue damage, cause cold contact burns—”
I remembered the frost on Declan’s face and shivered.
“—or act as a simple asphyxiant. One with no early-warning system.” Austin’s tone suggested I should be following along.
I appreciated the vote of confidence, but . . . “You lost me.”
“Okay. Let’s put it this way. Atmospheric air—the air we breathe—is a mixture of oxygen and inert nitrogen, plus small amounts of other gases and water vapor. Make sense so far?”
I was getting antsy. It had been a long day already.
Plus, after hearing Carissa ramble on about science while she’d been describing Churn PDX, I was beginning to feel like the mental midget in the crowd. Did everyone around here kick it Mr. Wizard style? Since when did making food require a Ph.D.?
Austin was a slacker type, but he seemed brilliant.
“If allowed into the air we breathe, liquid nitrogen expands rapidly,” he explained, seemingly deciding to skip a few steps to get to the point. “One liter of liquid nitrogen becomes 24.6 cubic feet of nitrogen gas. So if it’s released without adequate ventilation—say, in a small, enclosed trailer—”
My gaze shot to Carissa’s Airstream. I shivered again.
“—it can displace oxygen in the air and cause suffocation.”
Aha. Yikes. “How do you know all this?”
Modestly, Austin shrugged off my question.
“If that’s true,” I pushed, “why would anyone use it?”
“With the proper protective gear and safety devices, it’s fine. Laboratories across the country use it with no problem. Even beginner medical students use it to work with tissue samples and things.”
“Yeah,” someone said. “Bars use it with no problem, too.”
Startled, I looked to the side. The dark-haired man I’d noticed berating the news crew earlier stood there, evidently having listened to Austin’s scientific spiel without comment.
Until now. “Which is where I suggest we go,” the newcomer suggested with a compassionate look. “The drinks are on me. Let’s all hash this over in private at Muddle + Spade.”
His emphasis on “in private” couldn’t be missed. Neither could his distinctive cadence (an Eastern European flatness to his vowels) or his overall aura of charisma. Just being around him made me feel a little better somehow. I’d been too busy reacting to the events of the day to notice before (and I was slightly appalled to be noticing now), but he was gorgeous.
You know, in a “sexy starving artist” kind of way. If he was a guitarist in an indie band that played at Cartorama, or a sculptor who showed his pieces at a nearby gallery, I wouldn’t have been surprised. He had that bedraggled-but-sensitive look about him. Tall, broad-shouldered, and sinewy. Dressed in a deep-V-necked T-shirt, jeans rolled up at the hems, and vintage oxfords. A few tattoos, some silvery chains in his chest hair, and icy blue eyes. Not to mention, cheekbones to die for.
Whoops. Scratch that. “To die for” is a terrible idiom.
Austin wasn’t impressed. Not by the new guy’s modelesque good looks or by his magnetism. My new friend kept talking.
“The first signs that displacement is happening are dizziness, headaches, fatigue, and nausea,” Austin lectured on.
He went on to describe something called the Leidenfrost effect, but I was busy immediately experiencing all of the symptoms he’d mentioned—just as I had, I remembered, when I’d stepped into Carissa’s trailer. I felt unsteady and lost, sorry I hadn’t done more to help. Probably, Austin did, too. It was clear that he dealt with trauma by taking refuge in facts. We had that in common. I hadn’t been able to stop cataloguing Cartorama and its residents since hearing Carissa’s scream.
My gaze wandered back to Deep V-Neck. Held.
He’d somehow persuaded the local TV-news crew to leave earlier than they otherwise would have, I recalled. He’d started out enraged—as evidenced by his waving arms and forbidding expression—but by the end of his encounter with the reporters, everyone had been on friendly terms. Now I understood why.
As far as protectors went, Cartorama could have done worse. It was sweet that he’d come charging to the pod’s rescue, hoping to spare Cartorama and its vendors further upset.
“. . . but for some people, the first sign of trouble is unconsciousness.” Austin broke into my reverie. “That’s all. Death isn’t necessarily painful or traumatic. It just is.”
This whole conversation was macabre. I couldn’t help being interested, though. I wanted answers. Austin seemed to have them.
“Not ‘painful or traumatic’? Speak for yourself, dude,” someone blurted from nearby. “I’m plenty traumatized.”
It was the blond woman in the piglet T-shirt. She was back.
So was the sultry brunette in the tight vintage dress. While I’d been listening to Austin’s explanation, they’d both appeared out of nowhere. I wondered where they’d gone. And why.
“As far as Declan knew, he just fell asleep.” Austin shrugged, seeming heartened by that fact. I wanted to be, too. But I wasn’t. “In fact, death by critical hypoxia is sometimes recommended as a more humane means of capital punishment. When arterial oxygen saturation falls below sixty percent, it—”
“Dude!” The blond piglet–T-shirt girl looked aghast. “Shut up!”
“That’s enough science for now.” Deep V-Neck put his hand on Austin’s shoulder, steadying him—and silencing him, too. He gave a reassuring glance to the gathering vendors. By now, I saw, the area’s residents had left, doubtless to get on with their days, leaving only the Cartorama sellers. Jokingly, he jostled Austin’s shoulder before letting go. “And here we all thought you were only interested in finding obscure candy bars and becoming head goblin in that MMORPG you play, Austin.”
I knew what “obscure candy bars” were (delicious) and what “MMORPG” were (massively multiplayer online role-playing games—think Dungeons & Dragons played as a video game in an online virtual world: nirvana for nerds), but I didn’t know why Deep V-Neck was (subtly) making fun of Austin for playing them.
Maybe it was just the handiest means of distraction—a way to help the T-shirt woman in the same way he’d protected Cartorama and its vendors. Because he had to want to dissect what had gone on this morning, just the way I did.
Searching for understanding was human nature. It was why we were all still there, talking about what had happened to Declan Murphy. Searching for meaning in what felt like catastrophe.
I faced him, momentarily distracted from his dreaminess by my own curiosity—and my (inexplicable) urge to defend Austin.
“Almost seven million people play World of Warcraft,” I pointed out with a private hat tip to my friend Eduardo in Sao Paulo. He’d used the voice-acted version of the Mists of Pandaria expansion to teach me Portuguese. Let’s just say I had a pretty unusual grasp of the language at this point. (Obrigado, Eduardo!) “There’s nothing wrong with MMORPGs.”
Beside me, Austin stood straighter. Good. All the same . . .
“Don’t you want to find out what happened?” I asked.
“Yeah, don’t you want to know?” Austin prodded, defensively squaring his shoulders in a way that reminded me how young he seemed, despite his grasp of science. “Plus, I’m a goblin engineer, Berk. I deal with explosives, not leadership.”
I didn’t think the most important task here was reaching an understanding of Austin’s MMORPG role, but Berk only smiled.
“You’re right. Sorry, Austin.” He turned to me. “That reminds me that you haven’t met any of the rest of us.”
He took it upon himself to perform the introductions. I couldn’t help noticing how smoothly and likably he did so—starting with himself. He put his hand on his chest and bowed.
Yes, it was a little cheesy. But it worked. You had to be there to understand the effect that an Old World/ New World man—especially one with a searching smile—could have on a person.
“I’m Tomasz Berk.” He clasped my hand. “You’re Hayden?”
“Hayden Mundy Moore.” I omitted my usual chocolate whisperer label. It wasn’t relevant here. “Didn’t I hear you say something about drinks?”
“You did.” His smile broadened, but his eyes stayed sad. “I guess you’re one of us now, Hayden. Why don’t you come on over to my place?”
I followed his head tilt toward a nearby building, right alongside everyone else. And that’s how I became an honorary member of the Cartorama cart pod, melded into the family like a Venezuelan dark chocolate into a bitter soufflé of trauma, confusion, and the vagaries of a technology I didn’t understand.
I did know one thing for sure, though. After today, it was going to be a very long time before I wanted another ice cream.
Three
If you’ve worked in the food service industry, then I don’t need to tell you that the staff quickly tend to become a family. If you haven’t slung hash or waited tables, picture the most mismatched, dysfunctional, fiercely loyal crowd of egomaniacs and malcontents you can imagine, then add fire and sharp knives.
Voilà! That’s a restaurant kitchen, patisserie, or confectioner for you. Tempers flare. Egos run amok. Differences of opinion become bitter rivalries, stoked by day-to-day demands and the need to make money in a low-margin, high-risk business.
At Cartorama, I learned that afternoon while sampling chocolate porter at Muddle + Spade, things were much the same.
There were still temperamental head chefs, sulky servers, demanding line cooks, and grumbling cleanup crews at the cart pod—but they all tended to be the same person, filling each of those roles at once. Each food cart was a microcosm of a typical restaurant, usually with a stressed-out entrepreneur at its helm. There was Austin Martin and The Chocolate Bar. Carissa and Churn PDX. Tomasz Berk and his bar adjacent to Cartorama.
Muddle + Spade was the epitome of a Bridgetown watering hole. Decked out in modern-meets-steampunk style (with a dash of lumberjack thrown in), it occupied a renovated warehouse next door to Cartorama. There were antlers on the walls, antique penny farthings in the rafters, and ironwork on the bar. Scraped maple flooring lay underfoot. Mullioned windows were draped with white Christmas lights, but for now we enjoyed the afternoon sunshine. It was cozy, quirky, and edgy, all at the same time.
True to his word, Tomasz served us all drinks on the house. That’s how I came to be savoring my creamy chocolate porter at lunchtime without a single qualm. (Hey, it had been a hard morning.)
As the handwritten A-stand outside had boasted, Tomasz’s bar featured artisanal cocktails made with muddled herbs, homemade simple syrups, tangy vinegar-based shrubs, and cacao essences (along with food, of course). My needs were simple. I needed to steady my nerves. I needed to know if Carissa was okay (or at least as okay as she could be, given the circumstances). I needed to know who else was part of the Cartorama family.
They were all my suspects, I decided as I gripped my condensation-beaded bar glass, giving everyone a wary eye. I had to be on my guard. Now more than ever (after Maison Lemaître), I understood that sometimes appearances could be deceiving.
Take the dishy temptress in the body-hugging dress, for instance, I thought as I watched her chat with Austin. She seemed to be a burlesque performer transported from the fifties to present-day Muddle + Spade—one who’d stopped downtown for some tattoos on the way. But, in fact, she was probably a murderous, scheming . . .
. . . friend of Declan’s, who was devastated to have lost him, I relented as I watched her blow her nose into a tissue. Her mascara ran. Her scarlet lipstick was smudged. She looked utterly lost and alone, and I just couldn’t remain suspicious of her. The contrast between her almost costumey appearance and her genuine air of distress was too jarring. I felt sorry for her, instead.
Hearing her husky voice rise over the bar’s murmur, I leaned closer, hoping to break into the conversation. Tomasz had introduced her to me as Lauren Greene—proprietress of Sweet Seductions, a food cart featuring treats with risqué names and an over-the-top, indulgent slant—but we hadn’t spoken at length.
Looking at her now, I didn’t doubt Lauren knew how to stir up a craving—for chocolate or herself. Her knee-length dress showcased plenty of cleavage but left the rest of her assets to the imagination. I would have been envious of her bodacious look, but the fact is, that kind of over-the-top femininity is so far outside my wheelhouse that I could only marvel at it.
Would I have liked to make men drool over me the way Austin currently was salivating over Lauren? Sure. Some of the time. But I have my own charms. Plus (usually) a cache of chocolate samples from grateful clients to sweeten my allure. I do okay.
Sniffling, Lauren wadded up her tissue. She nodded blankly. Beside her, Austin patted her hand in a comforting fashion.
At that, Lauren seemed to notice him for the first time. She stared at his hand on hers, then recoiled violently.
“No. I can’t do this.” She slid off her bar stool and left.
I watched her make her way across the bar, wiggling past other vendors as they quaffed cocktails and craft beers. Her walk was a spectacle, equal parts promise and tease. Men stared, including Tomasz. So did the girl in the piglet T-shirt.
Janel White, I reminded myself. That was her name.
She wasn’t one of the Cartorama vendors. Unlike the other people at Muddle + Spade, Janel hadn’t sold smoked salt pretzel bark or gianduia-stuffed beignets at one of the pod’s carts. She was (as I understood it) strictly a customer—and an outsider?
I could relate, actually. Now that the immediate crisis was past (and the cocktails had begun flowing in earnest), everyone had assembled into what appeared to be their usual cliques. Chocolate candy people gathered near the bar’s vintage coin-operated video games. Chocolate bakers held court near the pool tables. Chocolate “artisans” (who created fusion goods combining chocolate with bacon, chiles, herbs, or other ingredients) perched at tables near Muddle + Spade’s kitchens, where they could glimpse what came from the ovens and critique it.
I didn’t see how anyone could find fault with the spread Tomasz had provided. There were grilled brioche sandwiches filled with melted chocolate and sea salt (surgically quartered for easy noshing), delectable cocoa crumb tartlets with sweet mascarpone filling and marionberry jam (all locally sourced), and a plate offering cinnamon-spiked churros with chocolate and caramelized cajeta dipping sauce (house made, naturally).
The only thing there wasn’t was any camaraderie being extended to Janel White. Maybe the foodies resented her T-shirt? Portland’s culinary scene was a meat-centric one, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t plenty of room for veggie lovers who eschewed everything pork-filled, beef-stuffed, and/or garnished with a duck’s, quail’s, or chicken’s egg. Why was she alone?
The newfound crime-solving side of me piped up to suggest that Janel was being shunned because she was a murderer. I told my suspicions to take a hike and went to talk with her, instead.
I started with my never-fail opener.
“Hi! Do you mind if I sit here?”
(I never said it was fancy. Just effective.)
Looking frazzled, Janel frowned more intensely at her laptop. Surrounding it were books and notebooks, scattered pens, and an open backpack. On the laptop itself was one of those peel-and-stick decorative “skins” depicting a burst of red and pink hearts and fireworks. Janel White was a romantic, then.
My mission to make her feel included ought to be easy.
“I don’t really know anybody here,” I persisted with a winning smile. “It’s getting kind of awkward, to be honest.”
She finally looked up. “Why don’t you leave, then?”
So much for friendliness. “I want to pay my respects.”
“You didn’t even know Declan.” Upon saying his name, Janel choked up. Her eyes swam with tears. She rapidly blinked them back, then cleared her throat. Her gaze wandered to the people clumped at the bar. “But then nobody here did. Not really.”
At the oddly smug half smile she gave, I was hooked. Janel White was a little weird, but that didn’t mean she was wrong.
It was possible Janel knew something no one else did.
I took a swig of my second porter. (But who’s counting on a day like today?) “What do you mean, ‘nobody here’ knew Declan?”
Janel shook her head. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”
“Sure, it does. Declan matters to everyone here.”
