Fran Rizer - Callie Parrish 05 - Mother Hubbard Has a Corpse in the Cupboard (4 page)

“Are you the young lady who discovered the corpse at Mother Hubbard’s Beer Garden this afternoon?”

“Yes, I am.” I recognized the voice then, just before he identified himself.

“This is J. T. Patel, and I know it will sound strange, like I’m tracking you down, but I decided to be daring and call you.”

“Is something wrong?” I asked. Otis sat there sipping tea and smirking.

“No, I just wanted to talk to you. I told Mr. Middleton that I would telephone you tomorrow because he said you were off work today, but I decided to call and leave my number for you instead. I’m glad I reached you. Are you busy?”

“No, I’m about to go home now. What do you need?”
 

Otis laughed silently so hard that he almost fell out of his chair.

“I’m only in town for two weeks, and I want to take you to dinner. I understand that you don’t know me, so I would never expect you to let me pick you up to go out, but I thought we might meet at a restaurant.”

“Are you inviting me to come back to the fair and eat corndogs with you?”

His turn to laugh. “No, I’d like to take you to the nicest restaurant in town. All you have to do is name it?”

Didn’t have to think twice.
 

“Andre’s.”

I’d only been there one time. My first date with Dr. Donald. Not my ex-husband Dr. Donnie, but the Dr. Donald Walters who was now my ex-boyfriend. We’d dated off and on a few years, but never got past disagreements and his womanizing nature until a while back when we’d become intimate for the first time. We’d gone home together from my brother Bill’s wedding to Molly. From then on, we’d been together every time we were both off until a few weeks ago when his calls came to a sudden, crashing end. He didn’t answer his cell or respond to my texts, so I’d finally broke down and called him at work. The receptionist took my message, but he never returned my call.
 

“Then Andre’s it shall be.” Patel’s voice brought me back to the present.

“I was kidding. Andre’s is very expensive.”

“I asked you to name the best, and the best always costs more. Have you eaten? I know this is short notice, but I’d like to go tonight if possible. If not, how about tomorrow?”

“It
is
sudden, but, yes, I think I’d like to have dinner with you tonight.”

Otis raised his eyebrows.

“Just give me directions or an address to key into my GPS and tell me what time to be there.”

I did, and we agreed to meet in an hour.

“Don’t you let that man know where you live, Callie,” Otis cautioned when I was off the telephone.

“I know that.” I was a little offended. Did my boss think I was stupid? “I’m not a little girl. I’m a grown woman.”

“I know. That’s what scares me.”

• • •

Anything but black. Lots of women choose a little black dress with pearls when going somewhere swanky, but since black clothing is required at work, I never wear it out socially. I’d had a quick shower and put on my newest dress, a dark purple with a gold thread through the fabric. Not having time to really do my hair, I pulled it into a sleek knot at the nape of my neck. I’d been thinking of having it cut, but the longer length worked well for a quick up-sweep. A dash of lip gloss and I was ready to go.

Andre’s is located between St. Mary and Beaufort, right off of Highway 21, almost exactly half way between my apartment and the fairgrounds. I spotted the British racing green Mini Cooper parked beneath the Spanish moss draping off the live oak trees when I pulled into Andre’s parking lot, but I didn’t expect it to be Patel’s car. He was watching for me because he was out of the Mini Cooper and standing by my Mustang by the time I parked. He held the door for me, and I liked that. Other women can have all the liberation they want. I expect equal pay for equal work, but I love having men hold doors for me, and there’s no question that if I’m dining somewhere like Andre’s, I won’t ever go Dutch treat.

“You look beautiful.” His dark eyes sparkled. I don’t know what I’d expected. Surely not the jeans he’d worn earlier that day and not traditional Indian garb. He wore a brown suit with a cream shirt, open at the neck. Maybe it was the moonlight, but I found him even more handsome than he’d been at the beer garden.
 

“Should I put on a tie? I have one in the car,” he said as he took my hand, not my elbow, and we walked up to the portico covered by a forest green canvas awning discreetly labeled “Andre’s” in white cursive over the door of the stucco building.

“Wait and see if it’s a requirement,” I answered.

A doorman welcomed us in with separate polite bows to each of us. Patel didn’t go into any details about reservations. He simply said, “J. T. Patel.” We were then met by the maître d’ who led us through a long hall with several closed doors on each side. Massive gold-framed impressionistic oil paintings hung on the pale peach walls. Slate floors edged around plush area rugs in shades of green and peach. From my previous visit, I expected a private dining room, and I wasn’t disappointed.

Smaller oil paintings adorned the dark green silk-covered walls, and a round table covered with a floor-length peach linen cloth centered the area. Patel held one of the two ornate French chairs with peach and green needlepoint cushions for me. As I was seated, I noticed that the peach roses on the table were fresh, not silk, and the vase and candleholders appeared to be lead crystal.
 

When we were seated, the maître d’ touched a switch by the door, and the tiny recessed spotlights shining on the paintings dimmed so that most of the remaining brightness came from the candles on the table.

No sooner had the maître d’ bowed out of the room than a server entered and presented a wine list to Patel. He looked at me. “Do you prefer a specific wine?” he asked.

“Actually, I don’t want wine tonight,” I said.
 

Patel smiled. “I do not care for wine either,” he said. “I find this lady’s beauty to be intoxicating enough for me.”

Oh, my heavens! I’d done it again. Here I was with another smooth-talker. Put ten men in a line-up, and I’ll be attracted to the one who turns out to be a womanizer, and usually they’re the smooth-talkers. Know why? Because they’ve had so much practice.

On my previous evening at Andre’s, Donald had ordered everything, including escargots for the appetizer, without asking me for any of my preferences. I don’t know why a woman who chows down on catfish and crawdads would feel queasy thinking about eating snails or slugs, but I had. This time was different.

“What would you like for an hors d’oeuvre?” Patel handed the starter menu to me. I’d had Burgundy Mushrooms before, and they were good, so I suggested those. He requested them and added an order of Basil Calamari. I sipped mineral water from a glass that was definitely fine crystal while we waited. The server brought the appetizers in small oval dishes with two delicate china plates. Though we each had a full setting of flatware he gave us each a sterling silver appetizer fork.

Donald had fed me appetizers off his plate. Patel graciously served the mushrooms and calamari from the dishes onto our plates and engaged me in polite conversation.

“Are you from here?” he asked.

“Born less than twenty miles from where we sit. I grew up here but went to school in Columbia.”

“Colombia? Why so far away?”

That led to a discussion of my education in Columbia, South Carolina, only three hours’ drive from St. Mary. Before I knew it, I was telling him about my divorce and changing professions from teaching kindergarten to working in a mortuary. “I was tired of dealing with five-year-olds who wouldn’t take their naps or be quiet. Now I work on people who lie still, never make noise, and don’t have to tee tee every minute.” Oops! I realized his culture was different from mine and he might not approve of a female talking about “tee tee” to a man she’d just met.

He laughed. “I grew tired of running a restaurant where all the customers thought everything should be curry. A lot of Indian food does have curry seasoning, but we eat many dishes that do not. I also had a bit of wanderlust, wanted to travel. The circus always fascinated me, but it was easier to get into food services at carnivals and fairs, so here I am.”

“Where are you from?” I’d wanted to ask that question earlier, but I’d hesitated for some silly reason.
 

“Born in Nepal, but I was brought here as an infant. I grew up in Florida, which is where I live during the off season. I still have an Indian restaurant there, specializing in the food my mother learned to cook before coming to America. Nepal is not part of India, but much of the diet is the same. My brother takes care of it when I’m on the circuit. ”

The server cleared our places and brought in the entrees. Once more, Patel allowed me to choose for myself instead of ordering for me. I liked that. A different waiter came in with a wheeled cart full of different kinds of breads. Patel asked which I would prefer, but I left that up to him. He selected crusty rolls baked with rosemary in them.
 

Several times he told me I could call him J. T. or Jetendre, but he was set in my mind as Patel. He assured me that would be all right, too. It was nice to be treated so well, to be eating such first-class food in such an elaborate setting. I could almost forget how horrible the day had been.

Then he said, “I noticed you when you and your friends came into Mother Hubbard’s. The red-haired one and the tall one are both attractive, but you stood out.”

Uh-oh! I hadn’t known he was there. I’d understood the bushy-haired guy to say he’d called for Patel after I reported the body. Was Patel in that canvas cupboard, perhaps shooting a man?
 

“You were there when we sat down?” I questioned.

“I was in the kitchen area, but I could see the three of you. I don’t miss three good-looking women when they come in. I had to go to another one of the tents on business or I would have simply stayed there and enjoyed the pleasure of watching you.”

“You didn’t know the man who was killed?”

“No, and that’s strange. He was wearing a Middleton’s Midway jacket, but I’d never seen him. I have several different food stands, so I circulate all over the fairgrounds, but when the authorities turned him over, they had me look at him to see if I could ID him. I didn’t recognize him. Of course, he could be a roustabout that I’d never noticed, but I try to be aware of the people around me.”

My expression must have indicated that “roustabout” was not a familiar term to me.
 

“Do you know what I mean?” Patel asked, and I shook my head no.

“A roustabout is a person who assembles the rides and games when the fair arrives and

takes everything down when we leave. I explained that to your sheriff when he asked if I knew the victim. That’s when I spoke with him to ask who you were, but instead of him answering, the older man with the funeral home told me about you.”

“That would have been one of my bosses. What did he say about me?”

“Your name and that you work for him.” He looked sheepish. “And, yes, I asked if you are married. I’m not interested in married women.”

That was nice to know. I’m not interested in married men.

“What about you? Are you married?” I asked.

“No, and I’m not divorced. My wife was killed in a car accident during the first year of our marriage. I have no children either.”

That made me sad, but not so despondent that I turned down dessert when the server showed us a tray of sweets. Patel chose some kind of fancy concoction with mangos in it, while I chose—chocolate!

Too soon we’d finished eating, though in reality, we’d been there quite a while. I just like to sound literary once in a while, and saying “too soon” makes me feel smart.

“Is there anywhere around here where we might dance?” he asked.

“Kenny B’s has a band and Georgio’s is a piano bar. They both have dance floors, and they’re both near here.” I knew it was time to go home, but it felt good to be with someone who appreciated me so much. I was having such a wonderful time that I didn’t want the evening to end, and I didn’t want to think about Maum in the hospital.

• • •

Patel took care of the bill and left a generous tip. He walked me to the Mustang. “You choose the place.” He smiled. I chose Georgio’s. The dance floor there is small, but Kenny B’s is a meat market kind of place, and I didn’t want to go there.
 

Patel followed me to Georgio’s and still made it out of his little Mini Cooper car and over to the Mustang to open my door for me. On the way inside, I asked, “Do you travel in such a small car?”

He laughed. “No, I tow that small car behind the motor home I travel and live in when I’m with the fair. Tonight I drove it out to meet a beautiful woman who found a dead man in my beer garden.” I didn’t tell him that I once found a dead man in my brother’s motor home at a bluegrass festival. TMI. That would definitely have been TMI.

I was glad we’d come. Dimly lit and cozy, the piano music begged us to dance, and we did. Patel wasn’t one of those men who talk while they dance. Until dinner, I’d had an unpleasant day. Now it was comforting just to let him hold me. If I’d wanted to say anything when we began dancing, it would have been, “Don’t talk now,” but I didn’t need to say it. He held me close without squeezing too tight and without trying to cop a feel.