Turn Up the Heat by Jessica Conant-Park, Susan Conant Page B
Authors: Jessica Conant-Park, Susan Conant
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opening today and maybe not tomorrow,” Josh said. “They won’t even let us in the kitchen to cook for everyone here. Can you believe that? I’ll call everyone with reservations and see who I can reschedule. Maybe we can offer that party an extra course on the house to keep them happy. Snack, why don’t you see if you can convince someone to let us in the kitchen.”
I remembered Josh telling me that on September 11, 2001, the restaurant where he’d been working had stayed open. He and everyone else in the kitchen had spent the day cooking and talking to one another and to the few stray customers who’d drifted in. Preparing food and feeding people had helped him to get through that miserable day. When in crisis, chefs want to lose themselves in their work while simultaneously nurturing others. Now, Josh and Snacker wanted to take care of their employees by offering the solace of comfort food.
Gavin took a deep breath. “I’ve been told that I need to get all the other employees down here for questioning, too. Oh, here comes Blythe and Wade. Good. They can help with that.”
Noticing that Owen was pacing back and forth, I rose and went to him in the hope of calming him down. “Owen, do you want me to call Adrianna?”
“What? God, no! Just…not now! Chloe, they’re taking my truck away as evidence. I’m supposed to be picking up and delivering fish right now, not dealing with this.”
“Owen, your truck is…it really is evidence. The police need it. They can’t just remove Leandra’s body and let you drive off, can they?”
Owen shrugged. “I guess not.”
“Besides, the Daily Catch must have other company trucks, right? I’m sure your boss can let you use another one.”
“I don’t know.” Owen paused, looked away, and muttered some very bad four-letter words. “Maybe. I’ll go call my boss now and tell him what’s going on and see if somebody else can make my deliveries for me. This sucks.” I left him alone to make his calls.
Kevin, the head bartender, entered the restaurant, and then someone finally had the sense to get the coffeemaker at the bar going. Finally, with the apparent blessing of the police, all of us had coffee, if not food. I filled up a mug, added milk and a few teaspoonfuls of sugar, and joined Blythe, Wade, and Isabelle at one of the few tables we were permitted to use.
To me, Wade embodied everything obnoxious about Newbury Street. He was the essence of what’s nastily called Eurotrash, except that he was merely a Eurotrash wannabe. Two things kept him from actually being Eurotrash. First, he was obviously American and had never come close to jet-setting around the world. Second, far from being a trust fund child (who am I to talk?), he actually had a job. But Wade liked to give the impression that money was falling out of his pockets, and although he’d grown up a few miles outside Boston, he spoke with a peculiar accent evidently intended to make him sound multilingual. When not at Simmer, Wade could be found at any one of the posh coffee shops and bars along this upscale street, where he’d hang around smelling of expensive, unadvertised cologne and receiving air kisses from anorexic, Valentino-attired young ladies who sported oversized sunglasses. But Josh liked him as a GM—general manager—and when Simmer’s original GM had left after only two weeks, Wade had stepped in and done a great job.
“Dammit,” Blythe complained, “I can’t believe we’re closed for the next two days. I was scheduled to work doubles as a server, and for once, I could’ve made some money. And finally someone actually scheduled me without six other servers working at the same time. I would’ve made serious tips.” Leave it to Blythe to look stunning in the middle of a crime scene. My old friend was so naturally beautiful that even her poorly applied purple eyeliner didn’t detract from her looks. She’d pushed her short hair back with a headband and, flat-chested or not,
I remembered Josh telling me that on September 11, 2001, the restaurant where he’d been working had stayed open. He and everyone else in the kitchen had spent the day cooking and talking to one another and to the few stray customers who’d drifted in. Preparing food and feeding people had helped him to get through that miserable day. When in crisis, chefs want to lose themselves in their work while simultaneously nurturing others. Now, Josh and Snacker wanted to take care of their employees by offering the solace of comfort food.
Gavin took a deep breath. “I’ve been told that I need to get all the other employees down here for questioning, too. Oh, here comes Blythe and Wade. Good. They can help with that.”
Noticing that Owen was pacing back and forth, I rose and went to him in the hope of calming him down. “Owen, do you want me to call Adrianna?”
“What? God, no! Just…not now! Chloe, they’re taking my truck away as evidence. I’m supposed to be picking up and delivering fish right now, not dealing with this.”
“Owen, your truck is…it really is evidence. The police need it. They can’t just remove Leandra’s body and let you drive off, can they?”
Owen shrugged. “I guess not.”
“Besides, the Daily Catch must have other company trucks, right? I’m sure your boss can let you use another one.”
“I don’t know.” Owen paused, looked away, and muttered some very bad four-letter words. “Maybe. I’ll go call my boss now and tell him what’s going on and see if somebody else can make my deliveries for me. This sucks.” I left him alone to make his calls.
Kevin, the head bartender, entered the restaurant, and then someone finally had the sense to get the coffeemaker at the bar going. Finally, with the apparent blessing of the police, all of us had coffee, if not food. I filled up a mug, added milk and a few teaspoonfuls of sugar, and joined Blythe, Wade, and Isabelle at one of the few tables we were permitted to use.
To me, Wade embodied everything obnoxious about Newbury Street. He was the essence of what’s nastily called Eurotrash, except that he was merely a Eurotrash wannabe. Two things kept him from actually being Eurotrash. First, he was obviously American and had never come close to jet-setting around the world. Second, far from being a trust fund child (who am I to talk?), he actually had a job. But Wade liked to give the impression that money was falling out of his pockets, and although he’d grown up a few miles outside Boston, he spoke with a peculiar accent evidently intended to make him sound multilingual. When not at Simmer, Wade could be found at any one of the posh coffee shops and bars along this upscale street, where he’d hang around smelling of expensive, unadvertised cologne and receiving air kisses from anorexic, Valentino-attired young ladies who sported oversized sunglasses. But Josh liked him as a GM—general manager—and when Simmer’s original GM had left after only two weeks, Wade had stepped in and done a great job.
“Dammit,” Blythe complained, “I can’t believe we’re closed for the next two days. I was scheduled to work doubles as a server, and for once, I could’ve made some money. And finally someone actually scheduled me without six other servers working at the same time. I would’ve made serious tips.” Leave it to Blythe to look stunning in the middle of a crime scene. My old friend was so naturally beautiful that even her poorly applied purple eyeliner didn’t detract from her looks. She’d pushed her short hair back with a headband and, flat-chested or not,
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