Killer Gourmet by G.A. McKevett Page B

questioning look. Savannah nodded.
    â€œNo problem,” Tammy said with a tremulous, pseudobright smile. “One full-bodied, dry Cabernet Sauvignon coming up.”
    Tammy scurried away to get the wine and Waycross followed her to the bar for the beer. Savannah turned to Francia.
    The sous-chef had removed her jacket and was wearing only a thin tank top underneath. Savannah tried not to stare at the fascinating array of tattoos that were now visible. But they were impressive.
    She had everything from kitchen knives dripping with blood, to a collection of beautifully portrayed vegetables, to the words “I Cook to Live, I Live to Cook” inside an ornate banner. On her shoulder were salt and pepper shakers.
    Obviously, Francia Fortun was a “foodie” of the first order, fully dedicated to her craft.
    â€œSpeaking of the traumatizing things you’ve seen tonight,” Savannah began, “let’s hear it all.”
    â€œAll? You want me to relive everything I’ve just been through right now? I don’t even know who you are—except some friend of Mr. Stone and Mr. Gibson. Why should I talk to you?”
    â€œBecause you have to talk to somebody. As a witness, you’re going to have to give your statement, and if it isn’t to me, it’s going to be to that detective in the kitchen, Sergeant Dirk Coulter. Frankly, between the two of us, I’m the nice one. He wouldn’t be letting you have a Cabernet Sauvignon, dry, full-bodied, or otherwise. So you ought to spill it all to me and consider yourself lucky.”
    â€œAre you a cop?” Francia’s dark eyes reached deep into Savannah’s. And it occurred to Savannah that this young woman—for all of her hysterical screaming earlier—was no shrinking violet.
    â€œI used to be. As a matter of fact, for years I was Sergeant Coulter’s partner. Now I’m a private investigator. So don’t worry. I’ve been around this block once or twice before. You’re safe with me.”
    Tammy arrived with the wine and water and placed the glasses in front of them. “If you need anything else,” she said, “I’ll be right over there in the bar area. You know, like some saltine crackers, or pretzels, or something to settle your stomach. I noticed you were having a problem earlier with a bit of nausea and—”
    â€œI’m fine now. Okay?” Francia snapped back. “It was just a bit of a shock, you know. But I’m all right. Or at least I would be if everybody would just leave me alone and let me drink this wine.”
    Tammy hurried away and found a seat out of earshot next to the bar.
    Once Waycross had delivered the beers to the grateful men in the corner, he joined her. They sat, heads together, whispering to each other and pretending not to watch the interview on the other side of the room.
    Savannah took a sip of her ice water and said in her gentlest “good cop” tone, “Feel free to guzzle every drop of that wine. I’ll even get you another, if that’s what you want. But you’re going to have to tell me what happened in the kitchen earlier. Absolutely everything. Or you and I are going to be sitting at this table all night.”
    Francia did exactly that. She guzzled the wine so quickly that Savannah couldn’t help bemoaning the waste of a good, dry cabernet. It went down the hatch so fast that it could’ve been nail polish remover and Francia wouldn’t have tasted it.
    â€œOkay.” The sous-chef took a deep breath and slouched in her chair. “Ask anything you want. But you saw what I saw. Him lying there all cut up and bloody. That’s it, that’s all.”
    Savannah’s heart sank. So much for an eyewitness to murder.
    She should’ve known; it was never that easy.
    But, of course, Francia Fortun could be lying.
    Savannah looked her over, as she had several times already in the kitchen, searching for