No Reservations Required (10 page)

17

Bram stepped inside the Wackenhut room at the Rookery Club and looked around the empty bar. Backing out immediately, he nearly bumped into Sheldon Larr. Sheldon had just emerged from the kitchen carrying an extra-large vase of fresh-cut flowers for the table in the front foyer.

“I thought there was a board meeting this morning,” said Bram, tucking a lily he’d inadvertently knocked sideways back into the mix.

“It’s tomorrow,” said Sheldon, limping his way toward the front table.

“Tomorrow,” repeated Bram. How had he gotten that wrong? “Must have been a senior moment,” he called to Sheldon’s retreating back. Now what was he going to do? He had several hours before he had to be to the station and no particular plans. He stood for a few seconds and watched Sheldon set the vase in the center of the round, polished mahogany table, then adjust the bouquet, making sure every individual strand was perfect. Bram was so used to seeing Sheldon in his evening tux that it was strange to find him in a normal business suit and tie. Bram imagined that even with jeans and a T-shirt on, standing in a ditch digging a trench, Sheldon would look both immaculate and formal. He had a classic touch with clothes. This morning, he wore a pink rose in his lapel that exactly matched the color of his tie.

Looking up and seeing that Bram was watching him, Sheldon limped back toward the bar. “I understand your daughter is a wedding planner.”

“That’s right,” said Bram, wondering how Sheldon had heard about it. Perhaps he’d talked to Margie last night. “It’s just getting off the ground, but knowing my daughter, she’ll make a success of it.”

“She’s stopping by this afternoon.”

“She is?”

“One of our newest members, Nathan Buckridge, is getting married soon and he’s reserved the Rookery for the event. Sometime in December I believe.” He stroked his thin mustache.

Bram’d had no idea Nathan had become a member.

“Your daughter is coming by with Mr. Buckridge and his fiancée to look at the facilities.”

Nathan was like a sticky piece of gum Bram just couldn’t scrape off the sole of his shoe. He was sick to death of hearing his name, but he also knew he needed to resign himself to the fact that his daughter was about to plan the man’s wedding. Things could be worse—he could still be chasing Sophie.

“Would you like a table?” asked Sheldon. “Breakfast is served until eleven thirty.”

“No thanks,” said Bram. He was hungry, but he usually liked to eat an early lunch. He wished Sheldon a good day and drifted back to the De Gustabus room. Glancing up at the sign above the door, he laughed to himself, thinking what a crazy bunch of guys Vince, Lyle, and Bob Fabian had been.
No reservations required.
It was a play on words, one that appealed to Bram’s own eccentric sense of humor.

Vince was sitting at the table going over some papers when Bram entered.

“Baldric. How’s the digestion?”

Bram grimaced. “After you guys tried to poison me last night, I guess the best thing I can say is, I’m still alive.”

“Would I feed you something that could kill you?”

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

“Hey, speaking of culinary adventure, I’ve got some roasting camel eyeballs in the oven. Lyle’s coming back tonight for dinner and I’m planning to serve them cold—as an appetizer on toast points. Want to taste one?”

The idea of gagging down a camel eyeball nearly sent Bram over the edge.

“You’re looking a little green this morning, Baldric.”

“I was fine before I came in here.”

Vince smirked. “Have a seat. There’s fresh coffee in the carafe.”

“Just
plain
coffee?”

“Yeah, Baldric. Just the regular stuff.” He nodded to a sideboard. “Help yourself.”

Bram poured himself a cup before he sat down. “I thought the board was meeting this morning.”

“Nope,” said Vince, signing his name at the bottom of one of the papers. “Tomorrow.”

Bram’s gaze wandered to the photo of Bob Fabian still sitting at the end of the table, draped in black crepe paper. “You know,” said Bram, taking a sip of coffee, “this may seem totally crazy, but my mother-in-law thinks Bob’s still alive.”

Vince looked up, his expression startled.

“I know, I know. There’s no way that could be. But she’s been following the story in the papers. Seems the police never actually said the bullet Bob took killed him. I mean, it doesn’t make any sense. They’ve got this 911 tape of the phone call Bob made the night he died, the one reporting the shot taken at Ken Loy. I suppose it’s possible the gunshot they heard on the tape never actually hit Bob. But he was taken to the emergency room. Why do that if he wasn’t injured? Makes no sense.”

Vince just shook his head.

“Who set up the funeral?”

“Andy Gladstone. Lyle and I were pallbearers.”

“Right. I remember that now.” Bram tapped his fingers on the table. “Did you ever see Bob . . . after he died? Was the casket ever opened?”

“Not when I was around.”

Bram stared at him a moment, then said, “Nah, can’t be. A guy might want to fake his own death, but the entire police force would have to go along with it.”

Vince seemed reluctant to weigh in on the subject, which Bram found odd. Vince was usually full of opinions on just about everything.

“You don’t know any reason why Bob would want to fake his death, do you?” asked Bram.

“Nope. And I don’t mean to speak out of turn, Baldric, but maybe your mother-in-law needs to get herself a life. Bob’s dead and gone. I hope to God he’s in heaven with Valerie. That’s what he wanted.”

“Yes,” said Bram. “That’s what I think, too.” He took another sip of coffee. “But it is strange that the police keep hedging about it. One of the detectives on the case is a friend of mine. He told me this is the most convoluted case he’s ever worked on.”

“Really?”

“Al Lundquist. You talked to him yet?”

Vince’s eyes dropped to the papers in front of him. “His partner came by a couple days after Bob died.”

“You and Lyle were the last two people to spend time with him that night—other than his killer.”

“True.”

“Did he seem depressed, anxious, or upset about anything?”

Vince shook his head. “On the contrary. I’d say he was upbeat.”

“This past year must have been a hard one for him. The fact that he died on the anniversary of Valerie’s death is . . . well, even you’ve got to admit it’s kind of coincidental.”

“I suppose.”

“If he
did
die.” Bram watched Vince’s face. His reticence made Bram itchy. He was sure there was something Vince was holding back.

“He’s gone, Baldric. Off floating somewhere on a cloud, enjoying the view. Forgive me if I’m overstepping again, but I’ll bet your mother-in-law loves conspiracy theories. She believe Oswald shot Kennedy?”

Bram laughed. “Hell no.”

“My point exactly.”

“Yeah,” said Bram, stretching his arms over his head. “And it’s well taken. All I can say is, if I were Phil Banks or Andy Gladstone, I’d be watching my back right about now. I assume you saw the morning paper. You know that 911 tape points the finger at one of them in Loy’s murder.”

“So I hear.”

“Your niece is dating Banks, right?”

“Temporary insanity.”

“I like Chris. I wouldn’t want to see her get mixed up in any of this.”

Vince frowned. “You and me both. Banks should stick to women his own age. Leave the kids alone.”

“Chris is hardly a kid. Early thirties, right?”

“She’s still a kid in my book.”

Just as Bram got up to warm what was left of his coffee, Chris stuck her head inside the door. “Hi, you two. You up for some company?”

“Hey,” said Vince, his mood instantly brightening. He stood to give her a hug. “You’re a long way from home.”

“I thought I’d drive in and give you the good news in person.” She grinned at Bram. “You can both be happy for me.”

“Happy about what?” asked Vince, pulling out a chair for her.

She held out her left hand.

Bram’s eyes popped at the sight of the diamond ring and the gold band.

“Banks?” said Vince, his smile evaporating. “Are you two engaged or something?”

“Married,” said Chris, her heart-shaped face beaming with happiness. “Yesterday.”

“Congratulations,” said Bram, filling up the silence her announcement had created. He could see Vince was having trouble knowing what to say.

“Aren’t you happy for me, Uncle Vincent?”

“Yeah. I guess.”

Chris sat down. She tugged the edges of her varsity coat together over her chest. “I know you don’t like Phil, but that’s because you don’t know him.”

“He’s been married twice, and he’s old enough to be your father.”

It was water off a duck’s back. Chris was head-over-heels in love. Bram could see it in her eyes. You couldn’t talk someone who was in love out of that love. If Vince tried, he was in for a fall. Although Bram didn’t know Vince all that well, he knew he’d never been married. Occasionally he’d talk about one of the women he’d lived with over the years, but he never struck Bram as the romantic type. In his late fifties now, Vince probably spent his spare time watching ball games or fishing. Bob Fabian and Lyle Boerichter were his two best friends, perhaps his only real friends. But Vince clearly loved his niece. And it was obvious he thought she’d just made a big mistake.

Bram had no particular opinion about her marriage one way or the other. He might be able to recognize Banks if he saw him in a crowd, but that was about it. If Chris was happy, that was good enough for him. Chris was a sensible young woman. She’d grown up poor but loved, so she’d turned out to be a fine, levelheaded woman. Maybe she
was
looking for a father figure in a husband—and financial security— but that didn’t necessarily mean the marriage was doomed. Pop psychology be damned.

“Only thing is,” said Chris, fingering her rings, “since I quit my job, I’m kind of bored. Not when Phil’s around, but he has to work a lot and then I’m left at home with nothing to do. Phil tells me to go shopping, but you can only shop for so long before that gets boring, too.”

“You want a part-time job cooking, you’ve always got one here at the club,” said Vince, rubbing his balding head.

“Thanks. But Phil wants me home when he gets home. I need a gig with flexible hours.”

“He sounds like he’s from another century,” Vince grunted.

She shrugged.

“Hey,” said Bram. “Something just occurred to me. I’m interviewing Victoria Svensvold this afternoon. You might be able to help her.”

Victoria Svensvold was a big name in the cookbook world, and an even bigger name in Minnesota. She’d written the definitive work on American regional cookery and was now tackling the food of Scandinavia. She’d spent the last two years traveling back and forth between Norway, Sweden, and Denmark.

“She’s working on a new cookbook,” said Bram. “That’s what we’re talking about this afternoon.”

“Gee,” said Chris. “How could I help her?”

“She’s at a point with the book where she’s tested all the recipes herself, but she’s looking for another tester, someone who has some cooking experience who can take the recipes and make them in their own home kitchen, then give her written feedback on what might not work. She used to employ a woman who was in her early seventies, but she’s pretty much retired now, so Victoria’s on the lookout for a new recipe tester. It would be the perfect job for you. You could do it around Phil’s schedule.”

Chris’s eyes glowed with excitement. “Do you really think she’d consider me?”

“If I put in a good word for you, you bet I do. Look, why don’t you come with me to the station. We could stop somewhere and pick up some lunch, and then when Victoria arrives, I can introduce you to her.”

“Deal,” said Chris. “This is incredible. I just married the best guy in the world, and now maybe I’ve just snagged the best job in the world. I never thought I’d get this lucky.”

Half an hour later, Bram and Chris walked into the Speakeasy Cafe, a new restaurant in Fridley, not far from the radio station. Bram had been wanting to give it a try for months, and this seemed like the perfect opportunity.

Because the word of mouth was so good, the dining room was crowded. Bram and Chris were shown to a table in the back, near the large open kitchen. The smell of wood-fired ovens filled the room with the wonderful aroma of applewood and pizza.

“I could eat a horse, I’m so hungry,” said Chris, tucking a leg under her as she sat down.

The hostess gave them each a menu.

“If you’re in the mood for horse meat,” said Bram, “you should have stayed at the club. I’m sure your uncle could have whipped you up a horse meat stir-fry, or something along those lines.”

Chris rolled her eyes. “Yeah, he does have unusual tastes. I walked in on one of their totally gross dinners a few months ago. There was this pot sitting in the middle of the table. I made the mistake of asking what was in it.”

Bram wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

“It was a curried hog testicle stew. I guess hog testicles taste really good with sweet potatoes and peppers.”

Bram grimaced. “Did you try it?”

“Do I look stupid?”

Bram checked her over. “No, you look pretty intelligent to me.”

“Thank you. Those three guys. When you were with them, they were a total hoot. They were always laughing or joking about something. I feel so sad for Uncle Vincent.”

“They were really tight, huh?”

“Yeah, well, except, the last time I saw them together, Mr. Boerichter—he’s the pilot—and Mr. Fabian didn’t seem to be getting along. Lots of heavy stares, withering looks. You know the deal. It seemed pretty intense.”

“Do you know what it was about?”

She shrugged. “I asked my uncle about it later, and he just said they’d been arguing politics. Both Uncle Vincent and Mr. Boerichter are totally liberal. Mr. Fabian was an old-school conservative, so I guess I can understand it. I’d heard them argue politics before, but I’d never seen Mr. Fabian or Mr. Boerichter get that worked up. I mean, they’d talk back and forth, call each other names, but it was, like, always with a twinkle in their eyes.”