Murder Alfresco, page 2
part #7 of Nikki Hunter Mystery Series
I called his cell, intending to let him know I’d be working late and to ask when he would be home.
“Anderson,” he answered.
“Hunter,” I replied.
“Hey, babe. What’s up?”
“I’m doing two dinner surveys tonight and then I have to make a run out to the airport and install a surveillance camera for Leo Bender. Buddy wants to know what time you’ll be home.”
“Unless something changes, I should be able to wrap things up here by five or five-thirty.”
“Perfect. I’ll hang around until you get here.”
Buddy and I took a quick walk around the marina before climbing into my British racing green BMW 2002, and driving to the Woodside Radio Shack for Leo’s camera. I found a shady spot to park and rolled all the windows down, instructing Buddy to “Stay.” He looked back at me with his patented sad hound face. My boy is a real pro when it comes to inflicting guilt.
I purchased a wireless wide-angle pinhole surveillance unit that I would have to install above one of the ceiling tiles in the restaurant’s kitchen. I already had the cordless drill I’d need, having dealt with multiple installations in the years since I became a PI. In fact, I owed the discounted price of my sailboat to a camera similar to this one. My client had been a restaurant owner who suspected her chef was stealing frozen calamari. She’d neglected to tell her husband about the surveillance equipment I’d installed and one night we caught him on camera having sex, and then a coronary, with the hostess.
After watching that devastating video several times, my client turned to me and said, “You wanna buy a boat?” Since I was newly divorced and practically living in my office at the time, it made sense, and it was one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. I love the marina culture and the feeling of belonging to a community, and I’ve never felt more at home than I do on my Cheoy Lee.
I tossed the Radio Shack bag in the trunk of my car and cranked up the air conditioner before calling my best friend, Elizabeth Gauthier. Elizabeth is also a boat dweller. We met shortly after I moved aboard when I fell in love with her cat, K.C. Since I was fawning over her large orange tabby, it seemed rude not to introduce myself to Elizabeth as well. She’s a natural strawberry blonde, a little over five feet tall and about a hundred pounds, with hazel eyes, a scattering of freckles on her lovely heart-shaped face, and a stratospheric IQ.
Elizabeth is currently engaged to a former client of mine, Jack McGuire. Ten months ago, when I was working on a case for Jack, he ran into Elizabeth while searching the marina for my boat. Lightning struck the moment they met, and the rest, as they say, is history. I subsequently shot and killed Jack’s only sibling in order to save my own life. The fact that he doesn’t hold that against me speaks to his character. Needless to say, their upcoming union has my blessing. The wedding isn’t until next June, almost a year away, but I’m still logging as many Elizabeth hours as I can before she moves from the marina to Jack’s estate in Hillsborough.
She picked up after the second ring. “What’s up, honey?”
“I’m doing two dinner surveys tonight and I need a beard. Are you hungry?”
“That depends. Where are we going?”
“San Francisco.”
“Does that mean what I think it means?”
One of my clients owns Elizabeth’s favorite restaurant, Edouard’s, on Montgomery Street in San Francisco. Her love of the famous eatery has nothing to do with the sublime cuisine. Elizabeth is a celebrity junkie.
“Yes, we’re going to Edouard’s, but you will not be taking pictures like some crazed fan.”
“You’re no fun.”
“I’ll pick you up at seven.”
“Excellent. That will give me time to primp.”
I ended the call with a smile on my face.
When we got back to the marina I let Buddy water a few bushes, then retrieved the power drill from my office closet and locked it in the trunk of my car with the surveillance equipment.
We walked down to the boat, stopping briefly so Buddy could visit with his friend D’Artagnon, a black Labrador Retriever who lives down the dock from us with his human, Kirk, and is the unofficial marina watchdog. Buddy stayed with Kirk and D’Artagnon while I was in D.C., and the time they spent living together has strengthened their bond.
When we got home I showered onboard, selected an outfit for the evening, and, since I’d be up until at least 2:00 a.m., decided to take a short nap. Buddy dozed on the bunk next to me and I swear his proximity increased the ambient temperature by at least ten degrees. By the time the bedside alarm went off I needed another shower.
I moseyed into the galley and started a pot of coffee brewing before stepping under the stream of cool water. After my shower I walked out to the galley alfresco and poured a mug of the heavenly Kauai dark roast Bill had bought for me as a welcome home present. He knows the way to my heart is through high-end caffeine.
I took my coffee back into the head and did the hair and make-up thing. In this heat, I would put off getting dressed until the last possible minute. I was just adding a coat of lip gloss when I felt the boat sway, causing the wand to land a swipe of gloss on the tip of my nose. Bill was home. I quickly spritzed some Must de Cartier on my throat, and greeted him wearing nothing more than my signature scent and a smile.
I was still smiling forty-five minutes later when, after a third shower, I zipped up my strapless, indigo-blue cocktail dress and stepped into a pair of fawn-colored ankle strap sandals. Bill clasped the turquoise necklace behind my neck, and I was ready to go. I gave both of my guys a kiss goodbye, Bill on the lips and Buddy on the snout, and climbed the companionway steps, sensing two pairs of eyes on my posterior.
I felt lighter than air as I approached my best friend’s boat. My life was finally back on track. I was in love, my bank balance was healthy, and no one had tried to kill me in almost two weeks.
I knocked on the deck of Elizabeth’s trawler and she stepped out through the open door in a backless ivory halter dress and four-inch red stilettos. Her strawberry blonde locks were piled on top of her head in an elaborate French twist with a few loose curls at the crown and rhinestone bobby pins holding everything in place.
“Holy shit!” I said. “Who are you trying to seduce?”
She grinned happily. “You should talk. You look fabulous, honey.”
“Thanks. You know I’m not going to let you ask for anyone’s autograph tonight, right? I’m working. We need to keep a low profile.”
“If you plan on keeping a low profile you should probably cover your chest. You, in a strapless dress, are not inconspicuous.”
“It’s too hot for anything else. Come on. Let’s go.”
I was subjected to bridal talk all the way to San Francisco. We parked in the underground lot at 505 Montgomery and walked the remaining distance to Edouard’s, enjoying the cooler temperature and the lights and sounds of the city around us. I wouldn’t want to live in San Francisco, but I always enjoy visiting. I’d made the reservation for 8:00, so we were a little early.
The matronly hostess, Alicia, greeted us like old friends. The previous hostess had been a snob and a tyrant, and I’d been instrumental in her termination. Alicia told us our table would be ready shortly, and asked if we’d like to wait in the cocktail lounge. Since the owner had requested both bar and restaurant surveys, I happily agreed.
There were two bartenders on duty at the moment. Both were male and dressed identically in white shirts and jackets with black ties and slacks. One was dark-haired and in his mid-thirties, about five foot ten, with chiseled good looks and an athletic build. The other was blond, in his late twenties, and had a subtle surfer-dude persona working for him. I stood back and allowed Elizabeth to decide where we would sit.
It was a Thursday night and, while the restaurant itself was busy, there were several unoccupied bar stools. Elizabeth tilted her head to the left, looking coquettish, and touched the tip of her index finger to her full lower lip. The dark-haired bartender zeroed right in. I might as well have been on another planet. Elizabeth may be small, but her sex appeal is mighty. She nodded her approval and we perched on stools in front of the brunette. His nametag read Brad, and he had lovely white teeth, which he displayed for Elizabeth as he placed cocktail napkins on the bar.
“What may I offer you lovely ladies this evening?”
It was nice to know he was aware that Elizabeth wasn’t drinking alone, even though his head never turned in my direction.
“I’ll have a tall mudslide,” Elizabeth purred.
Yes, she was in love and engaged, but her dedication to the art of flirting will never diminish. It’s just part of who she is.
The studly bartender glanced in my direction. I hated to interrupt the flirt-fest, but I had a job to do, so I got on with it.
“What kind of non-alcoholic beer do you have? I’m the designated driver tonight.”
He quickly rattled off a list that included Clausthaler, Buckler, Gerstel Paulaner, St. Pauli, and Beck’s. I opted for the Buckler.
Brad opened the bottle and poured the beer into an iced pilsner glass, which he set in front of me, then began preparing Elizabeth’s mudslide. I took out my smartphone and entered a few survey notes. Thank God for technology. I used to have to duck into a restroom stall if I wanted to take notes during a survey. Now, everyone just assumes I’m texting or checking my e-mail while I document details for the reports I later submit to my clients.
Elizabeth had just sampled and approved of her drink when Alicia came into the bar and informed us that our table was ready. Brad looked so disappointed I had to stifle the urge to giggle.
We were seated at a table for two near the fireplace. Alicia offered us menus and told us our server tonight would be Claude. This was good news for me, since Claude was a new hire and the owner had neglected to request a pre-employment background check on him.
I was reading the menu and Elizabeth was sipping her mudslide and people watching when Claude approached, causing a shadow to fall over the table. He was at least six foot six and well over three hundred pounds, with café mocha skin and a cherubic smile. With a name like Claude I’d been expecting a slender Frenchman with an aquiline nose and an attitude. I was pleasantly surprised. The French individuals of my acquaintance are not well suited to work in a service industry because they tend to be extremely outspoken and are often condescending.
Claude wore a black tuxedo with a crisp white shirt, a red cummerbund, and a black bow tie. I wondered where he had found a tux in his size. Maybe King-size Direct or Tuxedo Big and Tall. He asked if we’d like to hear tonight’s specials, and proceeded to describe a pan-seared Black Angus filet mignon with pommes landaises and white truffle oil. The expression on his face convinced me that he’d personally savored the entrée and that it had been an orgasmic experience. The other special was a three-grain mixed mushroom risotto parmigiana reggiano, which sounded appetizing, but did not make his eyes flutter the way the filet mignon had. Claude was a foodie, pure and simple, and a delightful character to boot. His smile was infectious and his eyes twinkled with joy as he took our orders.
I selected the haricot vert salad with goat cheese, sundried tomatoes, almonds and balsamic reduction, and the Coq au Vin in red wine sauce as my entrée. Elizabeth ordered the escargots appetizer and the pan-seared California wild sea bass. Claude collected the menus, bowed with tremendous dignity for someone his size, and withdrew from the table.
I took out my smartphone and made notes reflecting my delight with our server, along with a few comments about the restaurant’s atmosphere and the general sense of well-being exhibited by the patrons.
There were a few celebrities present, but they weren’t on Elizabeth’s top ten list, so we talked some more about her wedding plans. She and Jack had decided to charter a cruise ship out of San Francisco for the affair. They would be married at sea by the captain, and the reception would also take place onboard. It sounded idyllic to me. I may have commitment issues, but I’m still a sucker for romance.
Claude served Elizabeth’s appetizer and my salad eight minutes after taking our orders, and checked on our satisfaction two minutes later. Excellent timing on his part, and his response to our enjoyment was undiminished by another of his tables demanding his attention to request a second bottle of wine.
My haricot vert salad was scrumptious. I love the tangy combination of fresh greens, balsamic dressing, and goat cheese. Elizabeth was equally thrilled with her escargots. We traded bites until both plates were clean.
Claude collected our empty dishes and immediately served my Coq au Vin and Elizabeth’s sea bass. Considering the number of tables he was juggling, he was an attentive and enthusiastic server. He’d be getting an outstanding report from me. The only thing that tainted our dining experience was a woman at a nearby table wearing way too much Flower Bomb perfume. I could almost taste it, and it interfered with the exquisite flavor of my Coq au Vin, but it wasn’t the restaurant’s fault so I’d leave that detail out of my report.
We chatted more about Elizabeth’s wedding, and I told her about my creepy encounter with Abetha Mimbo. She was relieved when I told her I hadn’t taken the case.
“You have enough craziness in your life without adding to it,” she said, and that was the truth.
When I requested the check, Claude delivered the black leather folder with a flourish, commenting that it had been a great pleasure serving us and he hoped to see us both again soon. This guy was amazing. I saw “head waiter” status in his future.
Everything on the check was accurate, and I paid with cash, leaving a generous tip.
Our next stop was Dominic’s, an Italian restaurant that has valet parking the owner wants rated along with the restaurant and bar. I hated turning over my sweet little 2002 to the college-age valet, but it was part of the job in this case. I could only hope that his appreciation of Elizabeth’s shapely legs would prevent him from dinging my new paint job.
The maître d’ at Dominic’s was charming in a Marcello Mastroianni kind of way, and seated us at a window table that I suspected he kept available for his more attractive clientele. He presented us with menus and said our server would be right with us.
Dominic’s has a lovely, warm ambiance, almost like being in someone’s home, if that someone could seat up to eighty people in their dining room. It was elegant, but inviting, and the spicy aromas coming from the kitchen were intoxicating. Our waitress, a blonde in black slacks and a white blouse that revealed a healthy amount of cleavage, approached and gave us a rundown on the specials. Everything sounded wonderful, but we’d both eaten more than we should have at Edouard’s, so we ordered the vegetarian antipasto and coffee. I watched our server’s expression dim only slightly as she calculated the reduction in her anticipated gratuity.
The antipasto was divine, and I made up for the lack of an entrée by over-tipping, again. I’d be reimbursed by the owners anyway. We adjourned to the bar and I ordered an Irish coffee while Elizabeth stuck with her favorite, the mudslide. The bartender serving us was in his late twenties and very professional, dressed in black slacks, a white shirt, and a red vest, but showed little interest in conversing with customers until an attractive young man seated himself next to me. I sometimes forget that approximately ten percent of the adult population in San Francisco is gay, lesbian, bisexual, or transsexual.
By the time we stepped outside and I handed the valet my ticket, it was already 10:00 p.m. I needed to get Elizabeth home. She had to work tomorrow and I needed to change clothes before installing the surveillance camera at SFO.
CHAPTER 3
I changed into jeans, a tee shirt, and my cross-trainers, knowing I’d be spending time on a ladder in the Veranda’s kitchen, and arrived at SFO a little before 12:00. I didn’t want to show up early at the restaurant and have to order anything potentially toxic while waiting for Leo’s staff to leave, so I browsed around the airport gift shops until 12:15. Hopefully all of the employees would be gone by then.
Leo was in his chef’s jacket frying up a bacon cheeseburger for the only customer in the place. He also wore a pastel lilac hairnet, the signature color of the Veranda. All the waitresses wore lilac shifts with white aprons, and the male employees wore lilac workout pants with short sleeved white shirts and aprons.
After Leo had served his customer I collected my Radio Shack bag and joined him in the kitchen. He dragged a six-foot aluminum ladder out of a storage closet and I showed him where to set it up. Since the camera had a wide-angle lens, I wanted to position it as close to the center of the room as possible, so we’d be able to keep an eye on the entire kitchen.
Leo went to check on his lone customer while I took out my cordless drill and climbed the ladder. My plan was to drill a hole in the center of the panel before removing it from its frame and installing the camera, which would be hidden in the crawl space above. The drilling was almost effortless, but when I removed the drill bit from the ceiling tile I caught a whiff of something funky. Kind of a decomp-and-rotting-egg smell with a side of ammonia. I shuddered, wondering what might be causing the noxious odor.
I climbed down the ladder and set my drill on the center island, then climbed back up to remove the panel. As I lifted and tilted the ceiling tile a mountain of rat droppings showered down over my head and shoulders. I held my breath and tilted the tile further in order to lift it out of the frame and was greeted by a rather large dead rat, which was stuck to the panel. It was grey with white sox and a pink nose and feet. I may have screamed, and I think I peed a little.
Leo came running back into the kitchen, looked up at me, and said, “You got a live one?” The asshole was grinning ear to ear!
My mouth would have dropped open if I wasn’t afraid of inhaling death cooties. Instead, I handed Leo the panel with the rat on it, hastily climbed down the ladder, and ran to the sink where I scrubbed my hands and face with dish soap.
“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me there was a rodent problem, you jerk?” I hissed.
