Rosemary's Gravy (2 page)

I
t was well
after midnight when I tiptoed out of the kitchen with the last armload of picked-at food and eased the door shut with my hip. I waited until I heard the soft beep of the security system arming itself and then carefully made my way through the darkness to my car.

I was bent over the trunk, nesting the tray of stuffed squash into a spot next to the row of thermoses full of gravy when I heard gravel crunching behind me. I almost screamed but stopped myself in time. I slowly stood up, squeezed my eyes shut, and waited for the serial killer who was obviously skulking around behind me to strike.

When I was still alive a moment later, I forced myself to open my eyes and turn around. I found myself staring straight into the shining eyes of Antonio Santos, reputed Italian playboy, professional racecar driver, and next-door neighbor to the Patricks. By next-door neighbor, I mean owner of the distant mansion further down the private canyon drive, but you get the idea.

I’d seen him zooming by in his Bugatti Veyron every so often, usually with a dark-haired beauty in the passenger seat, but it’s not like he ever knocked on the door to borrow a cup of sugar or the weed whacker or anything. So it wasn’t immediately clear to me why he was standing in the driveway with a finger to his lips.

“You scared me,” I said.

“My apologies.” He gave me a smoldering look, which I immediately recognized from his photograph plastered all over the billboards hawking his macho body spray, Speed Demon.

“Uh, no problem. Can I help you with something?” I looked around but didn’t see a car. Had he
walked
up the winding canyon road?

“No, no. I just … I’m meeting someone,” he said in a hushed, confidential tone.

Good for Alayna.

I tried to hide my smirk. “Okay, well I have to go.”

I glanced at my watch. I had until one a.m. to get the food to the Loving Hands shelter before they lock the doors for the night. If I timed it right, I could hit the In-N-Out Burger on my way home. The thought of a greasy sack of fries and a burger got my mouth watering and put a spring in my tired step.

I left the Latin lover standing in the driveway and peeled out like I was driving one of his cars and not a nine-year-old Saab.

I
groaned
and smashed my pillow over my head in an attempt to block out the incessant hammering coming from the hallway. It was no use, though. The dull
thud
,
thud
,
thud
had penetrated my brain. I was fully awake now—and not too happy about it.

I threw off my light blanket and stomped toward the door to confront whomever had decided to embark on a home improvement project at seven o’clock on a Saturday morning. I caught a glimpse of myself in the foyer mirror, and let’s just say I looked like a woman who’d spent the night in a homeless shelter.

Instead of dropping off the party leftovers and making a run for my long-delayed fast food, I’d somehow been suckered by Deb, the pink-haired angel who ran Loving Hands’ perpetually understaffed kitchen, into peeling potatoes and making breakfast casseroles until the sun came up. Which had been about ninety minutes ago.

It wasn’t until I was wrenching open my apartment door, that I realize the hammering sound was actually some jackass pounding on my door. My planned diatribe was cut short when I saw the trio on my doorstep. I could feel my mouth hanging open, so I clamped it shut and passed a hand through my wild bedhead. A young guy in a dark suit, my apologetic-looking building super, Mr. Rizzo, and an intense, middle-aged women buzzing with aggression looked back at me. The woman stepped forward.

“Are you Rosemary Field?” She asked in a clipped voice that matched her all-business pantsuit.

“Yes.”

“I’m Detective Sullivan. This is Detective Drummond. May we come in?” She flashed her badge and was already halfway through the doorway when she asked the question. Her demeanor left no doubt that she was in charge.

My parents, card-carrying members of the ACLU that they were, had always taught my sisters and me not to invite law enforcement personnel into our private space. But then they turned out to have questionable judgment.

“Uh, sure, I guess.”

Mr. Rizzo backed away and drifted down the hallway, while the male detective followed Detective Sullivan through the doorway and closed the door behind him. I glanced down at my filmy nightgown and crossed my arms over my chest.

“Sorry to have woken you, ma’am,” Detective Drummond said. He gave me a boyish smile that I chose to believe was encouraging and not leering.

“It’s okay. Can I throw on some clothes?” I asked. My mind raced as I tried to figure out what would bring these two to my door. I sincerely hoped it was to personally inform me that my deadbeat parents had been apprehended by the taxing authorities in some jurisdiction that still had debtors’ prisons.

“That’s a good idea, Ms. Field,” Detective Sullivan said. “You don’t mind if we have a look around while you get dressed, do you?”

“What’s this about?” I didn’t have anything to hide—except that jar of chocolate frosting with the spoon stuck in it, which comprised the sole contents of my refrigerator—but I didn’t want anyone poking through my stuff, let alone the cops.

Detective Sullivan frowned, and I half-expected her to shout, ‘I’ll ask the questions here!’ as if we were on the set of a crime drama.

Young Detective Drummond must have been assigned the role of good cop because he glanced at her then said in a mild tone, “We have some questions about a crime that occurred last night.”

A crime?

“Did something happen at Loving Hands?” I asked.

He cocked his head at me. “The shelter on Inglewood?”

“That’s the one.”

“Why would you think we’re here to ask you questions about a homeless shelter?” He screwed up his face in confusion.

“Well, that’s where I was last night. I thought maybe someone broke into Deb’s car or something. I mean, I don’t know—
you’re
the police.” I looked pointedly at the little notebook he’d whipped out of his pocket.

“That’s right. We are,” Detective Sullivan said, seizing the opportunity to jump in and wrest back control of the conversation. “So go get decent and we can talk about what you know about the murder of Amber Patrick.”

Everything slowed down, way down, it was like a super slow-mo scene from a cartoon. Her words echoed distortedly. My hand made its way up to cover my mouth as if it were cutting through pounds of molasses. “Amber’s … Dead? What happened?” My legs were trembling, so I leaned against the wall to avoid giving the authorities a real show by falling over on my ass clad in nothing but my short nightie.

“She ate your cooking,” the detective cracked.

My eyes flew to the junior detective. “What’s she talking about?”

“Mrs. Patrick died from anaphylactic shock,” he said gently.

“What? She was fine when I left.”

I mean, I assume she was fine. She’d taken a bottle of wine from the server, said good night, and made her way up the stairs to her bedroom while Alayna and I were cleaning up the kitchen. The last time I’d seen her, she’d been a little unsteady on her feet but definitely alive.

“The autopsy hasn’t been completed, but the preliminary report is that she showed symptoms consistent with anaphylaxis at approximately oh one hundred hours and collapsed before Mr. Patrick could administer epinephrine,” Detective Drummond explained.

I shook my head. Everything in my field of vision became wavy, like I was looking through water. “I don’t understand.”

“Let me make it simple, then. You were advised when you began working for Mrs. Patrick that she has an allergy to tree nuts and shellfish, were you not?” Detective Sullivan snapped.

“Of course.” I answered numbly. I vaguely realized that I shouldn’t even be talking to her but I didn’t seem to be able to stop myself.

“And last night, you served your so-called famous vegan gravy, did you not?”

“Yes.”

“A search of the recipe database on the iPad in the Patricks’ kitchen showed that one of the ingredients in that gravy is cashews.”

“It is,” I agreed. “But I omit the nuts when I make it for Amber.”

“Apparently you didn’t this time,” she countered.

“I did so. I doubled the oatmeal and added some extra mushrooms,” I insisted.

Detective Drummond gave me a kind, almost apologetic, look. “We found the container of cashews in the trash in the kitchen, Ms. Field. You should put some clothes on. We’re going to take a ride downtown.”

I
was counting
the cracks in the pea-soup green paint that coated the walls of the interview room in an effort to stave off a panic attack when the heavy metal door swung open.

I hoped against hope that Amber herself would come sashaying into the room, babbling an explanation about trying out a method acting technique or starring in an episode of some show like “Punk’d,” but no such luck. Detective Drummond stood in the doorway and looked at me with sad, downcast eyes.

“I hope you’re here to tell me that my lawyer’s arrived,” I said with bravado that I certainly didn’t feel.

He didn’t answer right away, just kept staring at me with an unreadable expression. I caught myself about to squirm in my seat and stilled my body. Was this some sort of interview technique intended to leverage the discomfort so many people seem to have with silence? If so, Detective Drummond was in for a surprise. I’d attended at least a half dozen silent meditation retreats at monasteries and yoga centers growing up. I mean, I’d gone ten days without speaking to my fellow spiritual pilgrims as a thirteen-year-old girl. I wasn’t about to crack under the pressure of an uncomfortable pause. I pasted a beatific smile on my face and stared back at him.

After about ninety seconds, he blinked and then answered. “No, no lawyer. But your boyfriend’s out front kicking up a fuss, throwing his weight around.”

I opened my mouth to inform him that I didn’t have a boyfriend but then thought the better of it. Maybe Deb hadn’t been able to get a hold of the legal aid attorney who helped out at the shelter. Maybe she’d sent the janitor or one of the regulars down to pose as my boyfriend and ... and do exactly what, I wasn’t sure. I hadn’t been charged with anything (yet), so it wasn’t like anyone could bail me out—at least, I didn’t think so, based solely on my steady diet of police dramas on Netflix.

The police officer kept talking. “Sullivan sent me back here to cut you loose before the kid makes good on his promise to call the mayor at home on a Saturday morning.” He shook his head. “Must be some kind of hot and heavy relationship if he’s down here springing you instead of home mourning the loss of his stepmother.”

My overwhelmed brain struggled to make sense of the words he was saying.
Felix
had come to rescue me? In my confusion, I forgot that I wasn’t volunteering any information and said, “Felix and Amber weren’t what you’d call close.” As soon as the words popped out of my mouth, I wished I could grab them and shove them back in. But it was too late.

Interest sparked in Detective Drummond’s eyes. “Oh, really? How ‘not close’ were they?”

‘Not close’ enough that he called her a whore yesterday,
I thought. What I said was, “I really don’t know.”

He shook his head as if he were disappointed in me. He dropped the subject, though, and made a motion to usher me toward the door. As I walked past him, he asked in an offhand manner, “Hey, what made you decide to plan a formal sit-down dinner for last night’s meal? Vegan turkey with all the trimmings? Seems like an odd choice, considering Thanksgiving was months ago.”

I turned back to meet his eye. I was willing to stay silent about Felix’s simmering hatred for his stepmother, but I couldn’t let this guy impugn my professional reputation—or what was left of it in the aftermath of my client dying, apparently as a result of my cooking. He was looking at me with what appeared to be mild curiosity and genuine interest.

“I didn’t. Yesterday morning, Amber changed my seasonal tapas menu to Thanksgiving dinner for forty.”

His eyebrows crawled up his forehead and the skin around his eyes crinkled as he considered this information. He morphed from casual foodie into intense police officer instantly. “Really? Did she say why?”

I thought back to the previous day. With all my prep work for the party and Amber’s prep work for her body, there hadn’t been an opportunity for me to speak to her before her guests began to arrive. In fact, I realized, she hadn’t said a word to me until just before she’d tripped her way up the stairs at the end of the night. “No,” I said slowly. “Actually, she didn’t even tell me herself. She sent her husband to tell me.”

I looked meaningfully toward the door. I could tell he was just itching to ask me all sorts of questions, but I wanted to get out there before Felix got bored waiting and left me to my own devices. The detective’s cheek muscle twitched, and I could also tell that he was remembering the fact that Felix was throwing some sort of fit in his boss’ office. He sighed then nodded his head in a short, serious motion and pushed the door open for me. He led me through the maze of dingy, narrow corridors until we reached the front reception area.

As we rounded the corner into the lobby, Felix must have heard the sharp clacking as Detective Drummond’s dress shoes struck the scuffed-up tile because his head jerked up from his iPhone as if someone had pulled an invisible string. I found myself wondering if the highly polished shoes were standard issue.
I
sure wouldn’t have wanted to chase a perp in them. But then I readily admit the best thing about being a chef is having a bulletproof excuse for wearing Crocs.

Felix pocketed the phone and rushed toward us. “Rosemary, are you okay?” he asked with a surprising amount of concern.

He grabbed me by my shoulders and hugged me close to his solid chest, and I noticed the following things: one, he smelled like bourbon; and two, Detective Drummond was shuffling his feet and staring fixedly at the wall.

“I’m fine,” I said. I pulled back and searched his face. “I want you to know I didn’t kill Amber. There weren’t any nuts in that gravy.”

He waved away the subject of his stepmother’s death. “We can talk about it someplace else. Let’s get you out of here.”

He didn’t need to ask me twice. Without so much as another glance at Detective Drummond, I started for the door.

As Felix pulled open the door, the detective called after us, “We’ll be talking to you again soon, Ms. Field. In the meantime, don’t make any plans to leave town.”

F
elix didn’t say
anything as we walked through the parking lot toward his Porsche Boxster convertible, which I couldn’t help but note was parked illegally in a fire zone.

“Really? At the police station?” I asked.

He just laughed at my disbelief and beeped his key fob to open the door. As we neared the car I noticed a parking ticket tucked under the driver’s side windshield wiper. He saw it, too, and plucked it away. He stared right at me while he rolled the slip of paper into a ball and tossed it to the ground.

“Add littering to my list of heinous crimes, Rosemary.” He gave me a big grin.

Despite myself, I had to laugh. After the miserable morning I’d spent dealing with the cops, his trust fund baby antics amused rather than irritated me. My mood improved even further when he hurried around to the passenger side of the car and held open the door for me.

“Thanks.” I settled myself back into the soft leather seats while he slid behind the wheel and revved the engine as if daring the police to come out and give him a ticket for anticipated speeding. I just shook my head. Then I had a thought. “Are you sure you’re okay to drive?”

He shot me a look. “I’m fine. Why?”

“I thought I smelled booze on your breath.”

“Oh. My dad and I were, uh, honoring Amber’s memory.”

Uh-huh. More like celebrating the fact that the wicked witch was dead. But I just nodded. “Oh.”

“I had one drink, hours ago. Honest.”

As he peeled out and merged into the traffic flowing by, I said, “Thank you for coming to get me.”

He slipped a pair of sunglasses out of the visor and onto his face. “No thanks needed, Rosemary. You never should have been dragged down there in the first place, I know you didn’t kill Amber.”

I bit my lip, hesitating. Finally, I decided to go ahead and ask. “How can you be so sure? Do you know who did?”

He glanced over at me but I couldn’t read his expression from behind his shades. The buttery leather suddenly felt hot and sticky against my back.

After a moment, he answered in a flat, emotionless tone. “No, I don’t. But I’m sure it wasn’t you. I’ve seen Amber berate you plenty of times. You never get upset by it. You never get upset by anything, and I don’t think your equanimity is an act. I just think you’re not that kind of person.” He flashed a smile and returned his attention to the traffic ahead.

It was true. I did maintain my cool when Amber was ripping into me, and, while I wouldn’t say it was an act, it certainly didn’t come easy. I just couldn’t afford to lose my job. As a result, I did more loving kindness meditation while working for a Hollywood actress than I’d ever done while living with my parents.

That thought made me realize for the first time that I
had
almost certainly just lost my job. The woman who had hired me was lying in the morgue. And I somehow doubted Pat and Felix were going to keep me around for my gluten-free pad thai. My stomach lurched and I thought I was going to redecorate the interior of Felix’s sports car. I clamped my mouth shut and focused on my breathing until the moment passed.

Oblivious to the how close he’d come to a vomit-covered vehicle, he kept talking. “Are you hungry? I’m starving.”

Was I hungry?
As unbelievable as it might sound, after spending the morning at the police station refusing to answer questions about whether I killed my boss, and now facing the looming prospect of joblessness, I was famished.

“I guess I could eat a bite,” I said in a noncommittal way, hoping that he was asking if I wanted to grab a lunch and not suggesting that I go back to the mansion and cook him something. Although the latter would suggest job security.

As it turned out, it was the former.

“Good. There’s a fantastic
taqueria
right around the corner. You’re gonna love it.”

He hit the gas and cut off an SUV to make a left turn onto a side street at a rate of speed that I was certain was neither safe nor legal, tires squealing. My not-quite-settled stomach protested. We crawled along for another block, stop and go, stop and go, then he took another left and pulled into an uninspired strip mall. The taco joint was sandwiched between a dry cleaner and a garage. He found a spot in front of the garage and parked. I eyed the restaurant in disbelief. I realize he’s a human being just like me, but it was impossible to picture Felix hunched over a melamine table eating a taco out of a plastic basket. I shouldn’t have worried; as it turned out, he had other plans.

“This place is great,” he assured me as we walked through the door.

At the jangle of bells announcing our arrival, the guy behind the counter raised his head and beamed. “Ah, Señor Patrick!”

“Miguel, how you doing, my man?” Felix said, reaching out to shake the man’s hand.

“Good, good. You want your usual?”

“You know it.”

“To go?”

“Of course.”

Miguel eyed me with open curiosity. Even on my best day, I knew I didn’t compare to the well-heeled Malibu Barbies Felix probably brought in here all the time. But on a day when I’d had almost no sleep and then been dragged out of bed at seven in the morning and hauled down to the police station? I have long, straight blonde hair, but that’s where the California girl comparison ended. For one thing, my hair was piled in a messy knot on the top of my head. For another, I wasn’t wearing any makeup to hide the dark smudges under my eyes. And to complete the picture, when Detective Drummond and his evil pal Detective Sullivan had told me to get dressed I’d grabbed the first clothes I’d found—a pair of slouchy gray sweatpants and a faded Duke tee shirt. In other words, I looked like fresh-buttered hell.

I smiled at him in the hopes that friendliness would make up for my appearance.

“And what will
la señorita bonita
have?” Miguel asked, returning my smile.

The pretty woman? Either this guy had extraordinary low standards or Felix was an outstanding tipper. I chuckled and scanned the menu board behind his head. “What’s good?” I asked.

“Everything,” he and Felix answered in unison.

“In that case, surprise me,” I said, suddenly overwhelmed by the mere thought of choosing a meal. To my dismay, all the shock and stress of the day poured over me at once. I was a woman teetering on the verge of breaking down.
You just need something to eat
, I told myself.
Blood sugar’s probably low.

Miguel nodded as if accepting my challenge. “Good, good,” he said as he bustled away.

Felix grinned down at me. I suddenly felt awkward being out for lunch with my dead boss’ stepson. I searched my mind for a topic of conversation but came up empty. I was too drained to devise appropriate small talk, so I pretended to study the menu so as to avoid having to talk to Felix.

After a moment, the whirring of a commercial juicer saved me from having to even pretend to talk. It sounded like a jet taking off. After several loud minutes, the noise cut out. A moment later Miguel returned, bearing two large glasses. One was a bright orange color and the other was the lightest pink.

Only in Los Angeles,
I thought,
would a taco stand double as a juice bar. Everywhere else in America, you get your tacos with a frosty Corona.

“Here. Something to drink while you’re waiting.” Miguel handed the glasses over the counter. He thrust the orange one into my hands and handed the pink one to Felix.

I sniffed the vibrant liquid. “Carrots?” I guessed.

Miguel nodded. “With some lime juice, cilantro, and fresh ginger. It should pep you up. Late night, eh?” He flashed a knowing smile and glanced toward Felix.

I flushed. Not only was my exhaustion showing, but Miguel was making wild assumptions about its cause.

“What’s his?” I said nodding my head toward Felix’s juice.

“Oh, it’s my usual,” Felix answered quickly. “Apple pineapple.”

“And a little chamomile and valerian,” Miguel added.

I cocked my head. “If ginger and cilantro are for a pick-me-up, what’re the chamomile and valerian for? Are you trying to calm him down?”