A Brisket, a Casket Page 6

  He sat looking thoughtful, his fingertips poised to rap the desk again. But he surprised me by instead reaching for his file folder and opening it.

  “I can’t share too many details about the autopsy results,” he said, eyeing the thin sheaf of documents in the folder. “But I can clear up some things you might’ve wondered while tossing and turning last night.”

  I nodded into the pause. And waited.

  “The good news is that it wasn’t the restaurant’s fault in any sense that would leave it legally responsible,” he said. “The coroner found nothing to indicate bacterial food contamination, mercury from the pipes, anaphylactic shock…I don’t know if you heard about it, but there was a case resulting from a mix-up in Kentucky a little while ago.”

  “That rings a vague little bell,” I lied, careful not to out A.J.’s horny mole with the Metro police. I wouldn’t have wanted to make trouble for him—or lose our inside source.

  McClintock fell into another silence, lowering his eyes to the folder as he flipped through its contents. Then he looked back at my face. And held the look.

  “Is this the bad news part?” I asked.

  “I’m afraid so,” he said. “Gwen, it’s the coroner’s firm opinion that Buster Sergeant was murdered.”

  I stared at him in disbelief. “I don’t…that is, it can’t be…”

  “Have you ever heard of carbofuran?”

  I shook my head.

  “How about something called Furadan?”

  “No.”

  “They’re different names for the same toxic compound,” McClintock said. “For a while, ranchers used it to kill coyotes that preyed on their cattle. That’s been prohibited for over a decade…but much as I hate to admit it, some local environmental authorities still put on blinders for their friends and constituents.”

  I considered that a second. “I’m guessing the prohibition didn’t come about because of some outpouring of sympathy for coyotes. Not that using it sounds very humane.”

  McClintock shrugged. “It isn’t,” he said. “But the larger problem with carbofuran is that it can also do away with innocent wildlife, including endangered species. One Missouri man, an agricultural farmer, got charged with killing three bald eagles and using poisoned bait in violation of federal regulations. Also killed a red-tailed hawk, a great horned owl, a bunch of other protected animals. I seem to remember President Bubba pardoning him before he left office.”

  I was staring at him again. “Was just any fool allowed to buy the stuff?”

  “Before I answer that, I’d have to know where the fool lived and what he wanted it for,” McClintock said with a thin smile. “I poked around the Internet and read about a Kenyan cattleman who wiped out a whole pride of lions with less than you’d use to fill an eyedropper. That wasn’t an isolated occurrence either…it got so bad there the whole species almost became extinct. Now it’s illegal to pick it up over the counter in Kenya, but legal in neighboring countries—and I’ll let you guess how thorough they are at border interdiction.”

  “A bribe for every open hand, huh?”

  “That pretty much describes things,” McClintock said. “In America, the EPA threatened to throw a blanket ban on carbofuran till the manufacturer decided to limit its sale to farmers who grow certain types of crops. They use it as an insecticide for resistant pests and feed it to their plants through the soil.”

  I sat there absorbing that. Porous borders in Kenya, legal loopholes and cronyism in the U.S. of A. It sounded as if the chemical could be gotten very easily if you wanted it enough.

  “The level of carbofuran found in Buster’s system would’ve taken out ten men,” McClintock went on. “There was enough in his food to kill at least another ten.”

  “You mean in our brisket?”

  McClintock nodded. “Everybody who ordered the beef at your deli was given three slices…does that seem accurate?”

  I struggled to pry my tongue from the roof of my mouth. “Right. Three per portion. That’s how Newt serves it…”

  McClintock nodded again. “The undigested meat in Buster’s stomach was poisoned. Also whatever was left on his plate. And he’d eaten almost two slices before he got up to sing.”

  “But that was only a little while after we sent out the orders.”

  McClintock nodded a third time. “He wolfed his food down fast, and the toxin took him down even faster,” he said. “Gives you an idea of its potency.”

  I sat looking stunned and astonished. “I don’t understand…how could it have gotten into Buster’s portion?”

  “Our best guess is it was injected after the brisket was put on his plate.”

  “Inj—you mean with a needle?”

  “That makes the most sense. A syringe is efficient. You know the chemical’s going where you want it. And its exact concentration. Besides, the other portions at his table tested clean.”

  “What about the uncut beef in the kitchen?”

  “Clean too”

  “So you think…what? That somebody at my restaurant had it in for Buster?”

  McClintock was quiet. He shut the file folder and pushed it to the middle of his desk.

  “It depends whether the person who dosed the food knew which plate Buster was getting,” he said. “All that’s definite is somebody wanted to kill somebody else.”

  I resisted the urge to yell “Cut!” while making a chopping gesture with my hand. “Detective…I’m telling you right now that there are no homicidal maniacs working for me.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t have to,” I said. “It isn’t like a customer can tiptoe into the kitchen without being noticed. And the food couldn’t have been tampered with in the dining room.”

  “You’re positive?”

  “One hundred percent,” I said. The real figure was probably somewhere between forty and sixty percent—or maybe thirty and forty—but I admit to having been in profound denial. “Buster’s table was full of guests. He was surrounded by people. I can’t believe they all could’ve missed seeing someone shoot his food full of poison with a hypodermic like…like Doctor Fiendish.”

  Doctor Fiendish? Don’t ask where that one came from. It’s just scary that something so weird could have left my mouth.

  He thankfully ignored it. “We ought to back up some,” he said. “I used to be surprised by what supposedly normal folks are capable of doing to other folks. Sad fact is, though, I’ve been at my job long enough so nothing gets ruled out.” He paused, shifted gears on me. “There anybody on your staff who might’ve had dealings with Buster?”

  “Well, it seems like everyone around town bought cars and trucks from him…”

  “I meant dealings of a personal nature.”

  McClintock’s faint smile made me want to go squirming under my chair. I was an endless reservoir of perceptivity, wasn’t I?

  “I don’t know,” I said. “If somebody did, I figure he or she would’ve mentioned it when we booked his party. He was such a huge VIP—”

  “Nashville isn’t New York. It’s a different world here. People have ties going back a long way. Grudges too sometimes. And they don’t always talk about them.”

  I looked at him. “You’d know best about that sort of thing,” I said. “But if one of my employees had a problem with Buster Sergeant, it’s breaking news to me.”

  McClintock grunted, rapped out another series of beats on the desk. Then he hitched his chair forward a little, leaning closer.

  “I’ll need to speak with everyone at your restaurant,” he said. “As I mentioned over the phone, I wanted to give you notice before I start my interviews. And before the press gets wind of this being a criminal investigation. A medical examiner’s autopsy report is public record in Tennessee. We’ve got ways to stall its release a while with a murder case, but there are going to be leaks. Sure as we’re sitting in this room, word’ll get out that Buster was murdered at your delicatessen.”

  My eyes bulged betw
een schmeers of lifter cream and super-concealer. I was back to imagining lurid tabloid headlines. Plural. A whole montage of them swirled around my brain like in some old Orson Welles movie.

  “This is going to kill my busin—”

  I cut myself off. A man was dead. How cruddy would it sound if I whined about the news stories pushing my business, my already on-life-support finances, and worst of all, Uncle Murray’s dream, into the grave with Buster?

  Assuming he wasn’t cremated so his ashes could be scattered across one of his car lots, of course.

  My head ached. I don’t know how long I sat there goggling at McClintock. Maybe it was only a minute, but it felt like ten. Meanwhile, a very basic question was nagging at me. And had been since he’d phoned the restaurant.

  I took a deep breath to pull myself together. It worked to a negligible extent.

  “How come you told me about the report…and your investigation?” I asked. See? Basic.

  McClintock was still leaning slightly forward, his gray eyes studying me, his fingers tapping again.

  “Your uncle had a reputation for helping lots of folks in this town,” he said. “I wanted to repay his generosity.”

  I looked at him across the desk, sensing he wasn’t being altogether frank. “Maybe I’m wrong,” I said, “but after speaking to my manager last night, I got the impression you knew Murray.”

  “Your manager.”

  “Yes. Thomasina Jackson. It was obvious you and she know each other.”

  McClintock met that with silence—and all the expressiveness of a bare plasterboard wall. His hands on the desk, he pushed to his feet and motioned toward his door without acknowledging my question.

  “I’ll be in touch soon, Gwen,” he said, going over to open the door for me. “I should walk you out to the elevator.”

  “I can find it,” I said. “Thanks, anyway, Detective Mc—”

  “Beau,” he said. “Please. Let’s both keep it on a first name basis.”

  Sure, why not? Though I’d have appreciated it if my question hadn’t seemingly bounced off deaf ears.

  I nodded, turned, and stepped into the hall. In the elevator, I glanced at my watch and realized it was almost eleven o’clock. Good. Thom would be at the restaurant by now and I wanted a few words with her. My hunch was she’d try to steamroll me once I got started…but that would be fine.

  I was just pissed enough not to care.

  Chapter Six

  On my way back to the restaurant, I smoked half a Pall Mall and then detoured into a relatively new place on Fourth Avenue called Happy’s Sweet Shop for emotional reinforcements—in other words, a high-voltage chocoholic charge of Three Musketeers, Butterfinger, and Baby Ruth bars. Plus a bag of Hershey’s Miniatures. Oh, and a six-pack of Nestlé Crunches naturalmente.

  “That’ll be twenty-four dollars and eighty cents,” said the tubby storekeeper. “Y’need a bag?”

  “Yes, thanks,” I said, and paid him. And then waited as he looked over my purchases.

  “Don’t know if I can fit all these in a single bag,” he said.

  “Well, how about using two bags?”

  He pulled a face, nodded toward a sign on his register. Covered with transparent tape, it read: We have reduced the number of plastic bags leaving our store to help protect the environment.

  “I try’n conserve,” he told me. “Resources, y’know.”

  I looked at Happy, assuming he was Happy and not just someone who happened to work for him. While I considered myself as ecologically conscious as the next person, the load of chocolates I’d emptied from my shopping basket was roughly as high as Kilimanjaro. And anyone with a functional pair of eyes would’ve realized that the mini-slouch hanging from my shoulder could barely hold my cell phone, wallet, and take-along makeup kit without bulging apart at the seams.

  I considered asking if I was supposed to balance everything on my head—but decided against it. This was the South. It was inhabited by polite, gracious Southerners, never mind that the man provisionally known as Happy seemed to possess none of those qualities. I would either learn to fit in or remain a displaced East Coast gefilte fish.

  “Actually,” I said. “I’d be very obliged if I could have those bags.”

  Obliged, I thought. O-blee-iged. A nice, tactful Southern-sounding word.

  Happy frowned, reached under his counter, and produced a fabric sack with the name of his shop printed on it. “We sell this here tote for five dollars,” he said. “It’s reusable.”

  And free advertising. Maybe a week or two back, a salesman from a custom-tote maker had come into the deli and offered me a hundred complimentary samples, offering to put our logo on at no cost. I’d passed, figuring they didn’t suit our needs.

  “No, thanks,” I said with a smile—and an obliging one at that. “Plastic bags are fine.”

  Undaunted, Happy wagged the sack in my face. “Give you a dollar off ’cause you made a large purchase,” he said. “I read somewhere how a plastic bag can blow from a picnic table, wind up in a storm drain, then wash into a river. Next thing you know, it’s smotherin’ an innocent seal pup in the middle a the Atlantic ocean.”

  I willed my smile to stay put. It wasn’t easy. There was being green, and there was using it as an excuse for being cheap. “I’ll stick with plastic, if you don’t mind,” I said.

  Happy gave me a crooked look that I guessed was supposed to fill my moral cup with shame. Things were getting weird. Happy’s Sweet Shop was an implicitly stress-relieving, dare I say, happy-sounding name for a store. Since I’d been stressing out in a major way, this had seemed like the perfect occasion to pay it a first visit. But Happy had quickly soured me on the place.

  He was getting my change out of his cash drawer when I noticed the large paper shopping bags on a wall hook behind him.

  “How about giving me one of those?” I said, pointing. “I’m sure that’d be enough for my candy.”

  He glanced over his shoulder. “They only come with our twenty-five-dollar gift boxes.”

  “But I just spent twenty-four eighty.”

  “Which is short’a twenty-five,” he said. “Besides….”

  “You can keep the change. That’ll bring me up to twenty-five even.”

  He shook his head. “As I was startin’ to explain, ma’am, policy’s policy,” he said. “You didn’t purchase a gift box.”

  That did it. Bye-bye tact. He could shove his store policy.

  “Look, I want to get going,” I said. “You can either put my chocolates in a couple of plastic bags or one big paper shopping bag. But you’re putting them in something I can carry out of here without me paying an extra cent. Unless you want the whole neighborhood to know you’re a squeaker.”

  “A what?”

  “S-q-u-e-a-k-er,” I said, spelling it out to him. “Not to mention a stingy, miserly jerk who’s made me a very unhappy customer.”

  Happy backed away, staring. I figured my angry words had surprised him. Unless maybe my eye makeup needed freshening. But it was guaranteed to last twelve hours and hadn’t failed me yet.

  A moment passed. Happy’s face went from wearing an expression of shock and awe to…I couldn’t tell. It definitely softened, though. “Hang on,” he said. “You own that deli around the block, right?”

  I nodded.

  “That explains it,” Happy said, sounding downright sad all of a sudden. As I tried to figure out what to make of it, he silently packed my chocolates into the plastic bags and put both into a shopping bag. Then he took the fabric tote he’d tried pawning off on me, carefully folded it in half, and added it to the shopping bag’s contents for good measure. “Here you go, on the house.” He pushed the bag into my arms. “I’m sorry.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Just that I’m sorry,” he said, shaking his head without explanation.

  I left Happy’s Sweet Shop in a funk, which was not what I’d counted on. It was as good a reason as any for me to stop
midway up the street, tear open the pack of Hershey’s Miniatures, and bolt down a Crunch bar before heading back to the deli.

  The front door was locked when I reached it, as it should have been with an hour to go till lunch. I didn’t feel like fumbling for my keys while in schlep mode with the shopping bag, and instead walked up the alley to the side entrance. It was always open for deliveries that time of day.

  The kitchen itself was empty, and I could hear my lunch crew eating out in the dining room. Anyone who’s worked at a restaurant knows it’s SOP to grab some chow before the place opens, and Newt’s special Friday cholent had drawn everybody into the action. I had three waiters on shift—Raylene Sue Chappell, Medina Ramirez, and our headwaiter, Vernon Reeves, who boasted of having been my uncle’s first hire and was ancient enough to have served Abraham and his flock their daily matzos…or had it been it manna?

  Anyway, I went through the kitchen and pushed through the double doors, figuring I’d say hello to everyone before heading upstairs.

  Normally it would’ve been quite the merry jamboree out there. Luke had stuck around while I was gone, and A.J., Newt and Jimmy were also at the table. But they were all kind of drooped over their bowls, and I can’t say it surprised me. None of them was under the illusion that this was anything close to an ordinary day…except, it seemed, for Thomasina, who was making her usual deliberate inspection of the booths and tables, slowly working her way between them like a warship on patrol.

  I swept past the crew with a wave, pretending not to notice Luke’s concerned expression. I hadn’t told him why I’d rushed off a little while ago, but he wasn’t dumb, and would know it hadn’t been to go on a chocolate spree—my sweet shop bounty notwithstanding.

  Her back to me as I approached, Thom didn’t bother to look up from a bus cart full of pickle and sauerkraut bowls that had come under her critical scrutiny.

  “We need to talk,” I said, halting behind her.