Rosemary's Gravy (10 page)

“Give me a minute.”

I ran back outside and tried to catch my breath. She walked me through the steps and stayed on the line while I opened Felix’s mouth and checked his airway, managing not to gag in the process. His skin was clammy and he still wasn’t moving. But his eyes were open. I could see his fear.

“It’s going to be okay,” I promised him. His face twitched as if he was trying to smile.

The 911 operator offered to keep the line open until the EMTs arrived, but I thanked her and hung up. I had another call to make. I reached for my purse again and dumped the contents on the table. I dug through the pile—lipstick, keys, emergency dark chocolate bar—there it was. I dialed the number scrawled on Detective Drummond’s business card and waited for him to pick up.

“Drummond,” he said after the first ring.

“It’s Rosemary. I need your help.”

I
was sitting
in the waiting room of the emergency department at the UCLA Medical Center alternately wringing my hands about Felix and wondering if the scent of barf was clinging to me or if it was just my imagination when the doors whooshed open and loud footsteps hurried toward me from outside. I looked up hoping to see Detective Drummond. No such luck. It was Pat and Antonio. I stood up.

“How is he?” Antonio said when they were still five or six feet away.

“I don’t know. They won’t let me go back because I’m not family and no one’s come out with an update. But, he was in pretty bad shape when they took him back.”

Pat gave me a look that made me think I definitely did smell like vomit. I forced myself not to look away.

“I’m sorry,” I said simply. For all his parenting mistakes, he was still Felix’s father. And I imagined his barely controlled rage was covering up a lot of fear and panic.

He didn’t bother to respond. Instead, he stalked off to bark at an admission desk nurse, who ran around to the open the door and take him back to see his son.

Antonio and I stood in awkward silence for a moment. Well, we were silent. The room was filled with the sound of battling televisions—one was blaring “Family Feud” while the other was blasting an MSNBC financial news broadcast at full volume. It was like being in a dueling piano bar in one of the inner circles of hell.

He grimaced as the matriarch of the Argawal family shrieked with joy at her clan’s successful steal from their opponent. Personally, I was delighted for her. During my time in the waiting room I’d come to loathe the Hampton family’s smarmy father. Who could trust a guy wearing both a belt and suspenders?

“Are you okay?” Antonio asked gently.

I felt tears well up behind my eyes and kept my focus on the game show until I could trust myself to answer him without crying. “I’m fine. I just can’t believe this happened.”

Now
that
was an understatement. I’d planned to spend my night indulging all the Felix fantasies I’d stockpiled during our weeks of dating, not sitting on a sticky, no doubt germ-laden, plastic chair watching two families fight it out over their ability to guess what their fellow Americans were thinking while some guy in a suit was screaming about the stock exchange and buying gold. I had spent the first twenty minutes in a flurry of texting with my sisters but then my phone battery had died. It was a good thing I’d called Pat from the ambulance.

Antonio looked at me closely and I forced myself to stay stoic. Although I suspected collapsing into a soggy, sobbing mess in Antonio’s arms would make me feel better, it wasn’t going to help Felix. “Really, I’m fine,” I reiterated.

“Okay. Good. Can you tell me what happened?” he asked in a low voice.

I gnawed on my top lip with my teeth and tried to come up with a reasonably sanitized, minimally humiliating version of the night’s events. “We had dinner in … at the, um, garden apartment.” He averted his eyes at the mention of the apartment where his own romantic evening with Pat had been crashed by the cops. I went on, “After we ate, he got sick. I have this thing about people yakking—”

“You also get ill?”

I looked at him in surprise. “Yes.”

“You’re very empathetic, yes? A compassionate soul. My mother was the same way.” His voice was gentle, almost reverent.

“Hmm.” I didn’t feel like getting into the science of mirror neurons at the moment, so I just nodded my agreement with a beatific smile.

“Go on. You got sick as well and then …”

“I went back outside. Felix had collapsed on the patio. He was conscious but it was like he was paralyzed. He was just lying there, limp, and it seemed like he was having a hard time breathing. It was really odd and happened so suddenly. He didn’t complain that he felt sick or anything. He was perfectly fine. And then, just like that, he wasn’t.”

He was more than fine, actually. He was revved up and ready to go.
I decided to keep that detail to myself.

“I’m sorry that Pat was rude to you. He’s just worried about his son.”

“It’s okay,” I assured him. I felt a certain degree of magnanimity about the whole thing—yes, Felix was obviously really sick, and, yes, the night ranked as among the worst romantic nights in history, but I’d gotten him medical attention quickly, and, someday, we’d have a good laugh about it. I could afford to act generously in the face of Pat’s unkindness.

I was just getting on a roll with my delusional optimism when two things happened to bring me back to earth and miserable reality.

One, Pat came back from the exam area flanked by two grim-faced, white-coated medical professionals and announced, “He’s been poisoned.” Everyone stared straight at me.

Two, right as Pat dropped his bombshell, Detective Drummond strolled in through the entrance.

I
stared
out the rear passenger window of Detective Drummond’s car not seeing anything. After some indeterminate period of time, I registered the fact that we weren’t moving.

I leaned forward and wrapped my fingers through he wire cage that separated me from the front seat. “Why are we just sitting here?” I asked Detective Drummond.

He met my eyes in the rear view mirror and shook his head. “I’m trying to decide what to do with you.”

That wasn’t what I expected to hear. After the doctors had reported that Felix was suffering from food poisoning, which in their medical opinion was the clear result of inexpertly, if not negligently, prepared seafood, Pat had erupted. Purple-faced, he’d demanded that Detective Drummond arrest me. And Detective Drummond hadn’t wasted any time in reciting the Miranda warning and hustling me out of the hospital waiting room and into the back seat of the car.

“Aren’t you going to take me down to the station and throw me in some depressing, cramped room until your boss decides to come in and yell at me while she throws some metal chairs or something?” The image of Detective Sullivan hurtling furniture cheered me up enough that I managed a small grin.

“You’re pretty cavalier for a woman who’s been accused of poisoning her boyfriend,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “Also, your blouse is on inside out.”

I was past the point of being embarrassed by my clothing mishap. Narrowly avoiding being vomited on while making out apparently thickens a girl’s skin. “I didn’t accidentally poison Felix. Just like I didn’t serve nuts to Amber. Believe it or not, I
am
a professional chef. I know what I’m doing in the kitchen. Anyway, am I under arrest or not?”

He shrugged. “I mainly wanted to get you out of there and away from Mr. Patrick. He doesn’t seem to have the best handle on his temper. But, Rosemary, you need to understand that the mess this food poisoning business has put you in.”

I stared blankly at him in the mirror.

He sighed and ran his hand through his hair, leaving spiky brown waves in his wake. “Who’s been charged with killing Amber Patrick?” he asked in a put-upon, teacher’s voice.

“Pat. Although you apparently think Felix did it. Or do you? I can’t keep track.”

He ignored that. “And who was our initial suspect?”

“I was.”

“Right—because you were her chef, and you made her last meal. And now Felix is deathly ill after eating a meal you prepared.”

“Hang on. My cooking didn’t kill Amber. You
know
I didn’t use nuts in that gravy. Someone poured peanut oil in her wine, remember? And Felix may have food poisoning—”

“Did you listen to anything those doctors said? Felix told them you made ceviche.”

“So?”

“So you served him raw scallops, and twenty minutes later he was sick as a dog.”

“First of all, ceviche isn’t
raw
. The food is denatured. That means it’s cooked in acid. It’s completely safe. What I was going to say was, he may have food poisoning, but he
didn’t
get it from eating my food.” I could hear the indignation in my voice. “Maybe he got a bad burger or something when he was out this afternoon.”

He knitted his eyebrows together in a worried vee. “Can you stop arguing with me long enough to focus? Surely you can see that you just displaced Pat as prime suspect again. Tell me you understand this. The facts may bear you out, but the way it looks …. Well, it looks bad for you.”

“Wait a minute. What’s this do to your pet theory? Do you think Felix poisoned himself to put me back in the hot seat?” I said it in an effort to show how absurd it was to think Felix had killed Amber. But as the words came out of my mouth, I started to wonder. Could he have? It seemed crazy but no more crazy than the fact that I was once again in police custody.

Apparently, Detective Drummond didn’t think it was overly fantastical either, because his face took on a thoughtful expression and he was silent for a moment, considering it. Then he shook his head. “Doubtful. Too risky. What if he didn’t get sick until after you left? He could have died.”

I decided not to mention that our plans had called for me to spend the night. “Then who do you think did this? Pat?” I didn’t see how Pat could have done it, given that his son hadn’t given him the time of day since his arrest. And, as far as I know, Pat wasn’t much of an actor. His worry in the waiting room had seemed real.

Detective Drummond started the engine and rolled the cruiser out of the parking lot. “I don’t know. And until Felix’s test results come back, I’m sorry, but we’re going to have to operate under the assumption that you gave him food poisoning—accidentally or not.”

I bit down so hard on my lower lip that I tasted blood. After a long pause, when I trusted myself to speak, I asked, “May I at least turn my shirt right side in before you parade me through the station and book me.”
Book me?
I could hardly believe what I was saying.

He cleared his throat and kept his eyes on the traffic ahead. “I’m not taking you to the station. I’m taking you home.”

We rode in silence across town. I don’t know what he was thinking, but I was thinking my best move was to keep my mouth firmly shut so I didn’t say anything to make him change his mind.

When we reached my apartment, I sat up straight, ready to spring out of the car as soon as it slowed to a stop. But when I reached for the door handle, duh, there wasn’t one.

Detective Drummond killed the engine and walked around to open the door and let me out.

“Thanks,” I mumbled.

“You’re welcome.” He waited until I raised my eyes to meet his gaze. “Do you want me to walk you up to your place?”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Even though you’re an impossible pain in the ass, I sort of feel sorry for you. I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

Great. That’s what every woman wants to hear. I’m so pathetic this hardened law enforcement officer pities me.

I squared my shoulders. “I’m fine. And I don’t need your sympathy.” I started to walk away with as much dignity I could muster, digging through my purse for my keys. I made it about a third of the way up the stairs before he called my name. I stopped and looked over my shoulder.

“This should go without saying, but don’t leave town.” His tone of voice was kind, but the words tore at me, highlighting just how upside-down my life had turned.

I just nodded that I understood and turned back around fast, before the tears that were threatening to fall could escape and humiliate me any further—if such a thing was even possible at this point.

T
he next several
days were a tearful blur. I spent most of my time clinging to the phone, talking to whichever one of my sisters could spare the time to deal with me and my woes. I got the impression that Sage and Thyme had worked out between themselves a schedule for calling to check on me. Ordinarily, I’d chafe at being handled by my younger sisters, but this wasn’t an ordinary situation. I was, not to put too fine a point on it, a complete mess.

Felix was still in the hospital but was expected to make a full recovery, at least according to Alayna, who was the only person associated with the Patrick family who was still speaking to me. Pat had sent a certified letter from his attorney, officially firing me. Felix had left instructions with the charge nurse on his floor that he didn’t want to speak to me. Even Antonio, who I thought might be somewhat sympathetic to my situation, had tersely asked me to not to contact him again when I called him for an update.

On the afternoon of the fourth day of my self-imposed exile, even Alton Brown’s voice was getting on my nerves and my craving for a bacon cheeseburger had reached epic proportions. So I found a big pair of sunglasses in my dresser—the kind a 1940s movie star might wear to evade her adoring fans—and ventured outside, blinking at the sunlight. I enjoyed the feeling of the sun warming my shoulders through the windows as I headed to the In-N-Out Burger.

I ordered at the drive-through window and ate my burger at a nearby park. I fed the edges of my bun to the gathered pigeons and sat on the bench soaking in a little more sun as I watched them. When I returned to the car, I fully intended to head back to my apartment but the Saab seem to have a mind of its own. Before I knew it, I was parking in the cracked and weed-choked abandoned lot behind Loving Hands.

I did a quick survey of the interior of my car to make sure nothing of any perceived value was visible before locking the doors. Then I squeezed through the busted-up chain link fence that surrounded the back of the shelter and slinked in the back door into the kitchen. As usual, Deb was running a one-woman show.

I coughed and knocked on the stainless steel shelving to announce my presence. “Hey.”

She turned in the direction of my voice, wiping her hands on her stained apron. “Hey, yourself. Where’ve you been? You think people stop needing to eat just because you get yourself caught up in a Hollywood scandal?”

Well, that answered the question of whether Deb had heard about my most recent troubles. I pushed the sunglasses onto the top of my head and tried to think of a witty comeback. Instead, to my horror, I burst into tears.

Her face softened and she hurried around the counter. “Hey, hey, stop that. I was just kidding, I didn’t mean to upset you,” she said. She ripped off a rectangle of industrial unbleached paper towel and handed it to me.

I dabbed at my eyes with the sandpapery towel and sniffed, “I’m just so embarrassed.”

“Embarrassed? You’re famous! Do you have any idea how many people in this town would give their left boob to get as much press coverage as you’ve gotten in the past week?” she laughed.

I blew my nose into the rough paper towel and immediately regretted it. “I’m not famous, I’m notorious,” I protested. I crumbled the paper towel into a ball and tossed it into the trashcan.

“Notorious, infamous, famous, whatever—this town thrives on celebrity. It’s all the same.” She was shaking her head at me.

“Can we talk about something else, please? Anything else.”

“Sure. Make yourself useful while we talk.” She handed me an eight-inch knife and directed me toward a mountain of baking potatoes.

There was something soothing about the act of slicing through the firm tubers. I established a constant rhythm with the knife and poured out the whole ugly story while I made short work of the pile. By the time I finished telling her about my unemployment and police surveillance, I had a heaping pile of uniform potato slices. It was nice to see my knife skills hadn’t deteriorated during my week of self-pity and dark chocolate.

I glanced over at her, and she quickly smoothed out her expression to hide the fact that she was impressed. “Huh.” She swept the potatoes into a large pot. “What makes you think the police are monitoring you, exactly?”

“I’ve seen Detective Drummond’s car creeping down the street in front of my building several times. I think he’s making sure I haven’t skipped town. I don’t know why they don’t charge me already if that’s what they’re going to do,” I said with a sudden flash of anger.

“Well, I’m sure they don’t want to have to backtrack with the press again. So far, they haven’t retracted their statement that Roland Patrick killed Amber.”

“They haven’t?” My jaw fell open. “I just assumed they would have by now. I mean, if they really think I … did it.”

She narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms over her apron-covered chest. “You know, I get a lot of down-on their luck people coming through here.”

“I imagine so.”

“I don’t judge.”

“That’s probably good,” I told her, wondering where this was going.

“Everyone makes mistakes,” she said, staring hard at me.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake. Are you seriously asking me if I killed Amber?” I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“What? No. Don’t be a flipping moron. I’m just wondering if it’s not
possible
that you did accidentally feed Felix bad fish? I mean, I understand your not wanting to admit it, being a chef and all. But if you just conceded that it could have happened, by mistake, you’ll probably get the cops off your back. Pride goeth before the fall and all that.” She gave me an encouraging little nod.

I rubbed my forehead and tried to come up with a polite way to tell her she was an idiot without sounding hubristic, if that’s even a word. I exhaled slowly. “See, here’s the thing, Deb. I
know
I didn’t give him food poisoning.”

“How can you know for sure? Accidents happen, Rosemary.”

I held up my fingers as I ticked off the reasons. “One, the scallops were fresh. I didn’t buy them myself, but Alayna used the fishmonger I go to. They looked white and clean, they smelled fresh, and the muscle wasn’t pulling away. Two, I prepared them properly. The acid from the limes would have denatured the scallops within fifteen minutes, max. They were safe to eat. Three, I ate them, too. I didn’t get sick.”
Well, not from the food, at least.

Her expression grew thoughtful. After a moment she nodded. “Huh, that actually makes sense. And the police know all this?”

I started to say yes but stopped to really think about it. “Um, maybe? Er, no, probably not.”

She arched an eyebrow at me. “Maybe you better give tall, dark, and well-mannered a call.”

“Pardon?”

She reached into her apron pocket and plucked out a business card. “Detective David Drummond,” she read before slipping it back into its spot. “He’s stopped by at least three or four time since Amber Patrick died. Seems like he really cares about getting to the bottom of this—and it seems like he cares about you.”

D
etective Drummond squinted
at me across the picnic table. “You don’t like it,” he pronounced.

Actually, I like hot dogs more than any self-respecting holistic chef should admit. But the grilled foot-long was daunting. “No, really, I’m just full. I had a late lunch.”

He scrunched his face up skeptically and chewed his dog while he stared at me.

I stared back. “I had a bacon cheeseburger two hours ago, dude. Cut me some slack.”

He laughed so hard I thought he was going to choke. “Sorry,” he said, taking a swig of his craft beer.

“What’s so funny? That I ate a burger?” I could only imagine the false impression this guy had of me.

“Well, yeah, that’s funny, too. But I can’t believe you just called me ‘dude.’ I would have expected Detective Dude.”

I smiled despite myself. I guess we both had some false impressions to get past. “Fair enough.”

He swallowed and leaned forward, placing his elbows on the red-and-white plastic tablecloth. “So what did you want to talk about?”

“Sorry for dragging you out on your day off. It’s really not urgent.” I fake laughed, feeling self-conscious about bringing up my status as a suspect with a guy about to drip ketchup down the front of his Jimmy Buffett t-shirt.

“Don’t do that,” he said around a mouthful of bun. “You said you wanted to talk. Talk.”

I picked off a piece of the hot dog and nibbled on it. “Um, I was wondering where you guys stood on the investigation. Or, I guess, the investigations—into Amber’s death and Felix’s … illness.”

“Are you asking if you’re still a suspect?” He used his free hand to shield his eyes from the sun so he could get a good look at my face as he asked the question.

“Yes,” I answered simply.

“Well, yeah, you are.”

I wasn’t surprised so much as irritated. “This is so stupid. You
know
somebody was trying to frame me for Amber’s murder. I mean, you
know
that.”

He polished off his hot dog and raised both hands in a ‘don’t shoot the messenger’ gesture. “Listen, we have a problem. Sullivan still likes Roland Patrick for her murder, but his high-price attorney is making a lot of noise about the fact that you had access to Amber’s wine
and
just happened to prepare the meal that nearly killed Felix. He keeps yammering about Occam’s razor. Whoever the heck Occam is.”

“William of Occam. He was a Franciscan monk who lived in the Middle Ages.”

“What’s his razor have to do with anything?”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “Is this dumb cop schtick a put on?”

He laughed. “You should say what you’re thinking, Rosemary. Don’t mince words.”

I pursed my lips and waited for him to answer my question.

“Fine,” he said finally. “Guilty as charged. Yes, I know what Occam’s razor means. And if you do, too, then you know it means things don’t look good for you. The simplest explanation is usually the right one.”

“What I know is that Pat’s lawyer’s talking out of his butt, and that’s an oversimplification. Occam’s razor isn’t meant to be used to solve crimes for crying out loud. It’s a scientific principle that holds that when there are competing hypotheses of equal predictive ability, you should choose the one that makes the fewest assumptions,” I said in a voice I used to reserve for lecturing undermotivated undergraduates when I was a teaching assistant.

He appraised me for a moment. “Oh, that’s right. I forgot about your background in chemistry.”

The way he said it made a chill run down my spine. I’d assumed the police had looked into my past, but
knowing
that they’d done it, and knowing that he had to know all the ugly details about my parent’s financial shenanigans struck me. I felt invaded. And humiliated.

I pushed past my shame and said, “Okay. That’s another thing. Given my knowledge of chemistry, I could have easily poisoned both Amber and Felix without leaving a trace.”

“Don’t repeat that.” He leaned forward, all tense and serious. “Do you understand me? You might think that the logic of a statement like that will convince people of your innocence, but it will have the exact opposite effect.”

It occurred to me that he probably really shouldn’t be coaching me this way; but I was glad he was doing it. “Okay. Got it. I’m just —” I blew my bangs out of my eyes while I tried to put a name to my feeling. “I’m frustrated. I didn’t kill Amber. I didn’t poison Felix. I can tell you, in as much detail as you need, that those scallops were fresh and properly prepared. Another thing—I ate them, too. I didn’t end up in the hospital. The simplest explanation here doesn’t involve me at all. But you guys won’t listen, and the cloud over my name is ruining my life.” It sounded melodramatic, even to me, but it was how I felt.

“Ruining your life,” he repeated, leaning back and crossing his arms over his chest. “You mean your love life?”

“Well, yes, as a matter of fact. Felix won’t talk to me. So he obviously believes whatever lies you and his dad’s lawyers are spinning about me.”

“Now hang on. Don’t go blaming your romantic troubles on the LAPD. Lover Boy isn’t talking to
us
, either.”

“He’s not?”

“No. He won’t cooperate with our investigation. And from what I hear, he won’t meet with his father’s legal team, either. So, he’s not saying anything to help you, but he also isn’t saying anything to hurt you—at this point.”

This was interesting news, which merited further consideration later. “Okay, well, your stupid investigation is also affecting my career. As in, I’m unemployed and unemployable.”

He belly laughed like that was the funniest thing he’d heard all day. Then he wiped actual tears—tears of laughter—from his eyes and caught his breath, “Sorry. That’s cute. This is
Hollywood
, Rosemary. It’s not like the rest of the world. Your notoriety makes you a hot commodity. Do you mean to tell me your voicemail isn’t full of people wanting to interview you, turn your life into a movie of the week, and have you wear their latest fashion design?”

“I haven’t listened to my messages, to tell you the truth. I’ve been too busy.”
Yes, very busy hiding in my apartment drowning my sorrows in dark chocolate.

“Well, let me give you a piece of free advice: you need to strike while the iron’s hot. Capitalize on your fame, or infamy, now. Because your fifteen minutes are probably almost up.” He crumpled his wrapper into a ball and lobbed it into the nearby trashcan then stood and wiped the crumbs off his pants. It was almost exactly the same advice Deb had given me.

“But if I draw attention to myself like that won’t I just piss off Detective Sullivan?”

He shook his head at me like I was a child. “A girl’s gotta eat. Sullivan probably thinks it’s suspicious that you
aren’t
out there giving interviews and hawking your gravy at Whole Foods.”