Danger, Deceit and Dark Chocolate Cake Read online

  “Neve!” I said. “What’re you doing here?”

  Neve turned around and faced us. For once, she looked a little bit guilty.

  “You said not to interfere,” she said, twirling a strand of her long blond hair. “I’m not interfering.”

  “So you’re just following us around?” I said.

  Neve shrugged. “I thought I’d hang out at the bar, see if I can learn anything useful. I’m not bothering anyone.”

  “Don’t you have work?” Beth asked her. “Aren’t you working at that law firm as a receptionist?”

  Neve shook her head. “I quit last week. It’s hard to do investigation work and keep a full-time job.”

  I looked at Beth and rolled my eyes.

  Neve said, “Anyway, you guys can go back to chatting. I’ll just hang out here by myself.”

  She smiled at me, as though she’d found a spectacular loophole, and I shook my head. “No. You’re eavesdropping on our conversation. Why don’t you sit at a table like a regular patron?”

  Neve gave me a dirty look and then shifted her glance onto Melissa. She opened her mouth to say something, decided against it, and then stalked off.

  I turned to face Melissa again. “Now—where were we?”

  Melissa smiled. “What was that all about?”

  I shook my head. “You don’t want to know.”

  Beth and I settled down on barstools across from Melissa, and I turned around to make sure that Neve had settled down at a table where she couldn’t hear our conversation. I wondered why Neve was being so obstinate about wanting to work with us, but then I pushed the thought from my mind.

  “We were wondering about Vanessa,” I said. “Her boyfriend’s convinced that she was poisoned.”

  Melissa shook her head and leaned forward across the bar. “I’m not sure about that. I mean, he cares about her, and when she comes out of the coma, he’ll be able to tell her how much he tried to help. But poisoning? It seems a little far-fetched.”

  Beth said, “Have you had any instances of food poisoning here before?”

  Melissa tilted her head and looked off into the distance, trying to remember. “No,” she said finally. “Not that I can remember. Unless the people had food poisoning and never told us.”

  “What about the chef?” I asked. “Who is she?”

  “Xenia Alfero. Owen hired her personally, poached her from one of the most popular restaurants on Main Street, Brunetti’s.”

  “I’m assuming she’s a good chef,” said Beth.

  Melissa shrugged. “All chefs think they’re good.” She glanced over her shoulder, as if to make sure that no one else was listening to our conversation, and said, “We haven’t had any complaints about her cooking. But I heard there were a couple of food poisoning cases at Brunetti’s.”

  My eyebrows shot up. “Really.” I made a note to ask Xenia about those food poisoning cases, but Melissa was right—no chef likes to think their food was bad. “And how long was Xenia working at Brunetti’s?”

  “I’m not sure,” Melissa admitted. “But she must’ve been good. Owen wanted a really experienced, really good chef. He did the hiring himself.”

  “What about the rest of the staff?” Beth asked. “Did he hire everyone himself?”

  Melissa shook her head. “No, I hired the waitresses, and Xenia helped me hire the kitchen hands.” Just then, her phone buzzed, and she pulled it out of one pocket and frowned at it. “See?” she said. “I can see three words of this text but not the rest. It’s so weird.”

  I looked at Beth and smiled. She reminded me of Aunt Kira whenever she got a new phone.

  Beth said, “Is that phone new?”

  “Yes,” said Melissa. “You don’t know why it’s only showing the first three words of the text, do you?”

  Beth reached over and took the phone from Melissa. “See, you have to swipe this,” she said, “And then go here. That’s the whole text.”

  Melissa leaned back and her eyes opened wide. She looked like she’d just discovered the meaning of life, and she said, “Oh, my.”

  “Yep,” said Beth. “That’s all it is.”

  “All these texts,” said Melissa, reaching forward and scrolling through her phone. “No wonder. Oh, wow.”

  I smiled. “A lot of unread messages?”

  “Yes,” said Melissa. “I really should’ve shown my phone to someone sooner. Who knew technology could be so difficult?”

  “It can be,” I agreed. “You never know what they’ll come up with.”

  “Why’d they even show the first three words anyway?” asked Melissa. “It just doesn’t make sense.”

  We waited for her to finish going through all of her unread texts, and then we complained about technology a bit more.

  “You spend so much time learning how to do things,” said Melissa. “Isn’t it meant to be easy? Why make everything so complicated?”

  “Who knows,” said Beth. “But I guess that’s why people like jazz—it’s smooth and easy to enjoy.”

  “That’s true,” said Melissa. “Jazz is making a comeback. I guess people revolt against technology by listening to nice music.”

  “Does it get really busy here?” Beth asked.

  “Sometimes,” said Melissa warily. “Why?”

  “Owen gave us the impression the place was doing reasonably well,” I said.

  Melissa shrugged. “I guess. For a place that’s only been open three months.”

  “I heard there was a fire a few weeks ago?”

  Melissa glanced off at the stage. The song ended, and she joined in with the audience to clap softly. When the next song started, Melissa looked at us and said, “Yeah, six weeks ago. The fire broke out in the kitchen—faulty wiring, apparently. Place got fixed up and back running ASAP.”

  “So it was just an electrical problem? Was anyone blamed for it?”

  Melissa shook her head. “It happened at around three in the morning. The place wasn’t too busy, so the kitchen hands had stepped out for a smoke, and Xenia had gone outside to make a phone call. The fire department came over right away.”

  “And there was no harm done,” said Beth.

  “No real harm,” said Melissa lightly. “No one got hurt or anything.”

  “And what about the ghost?” I asked, watching Melissa closely. “There’s a rumor this place is haunted.”

  Melissa smiled and rolled her eyes. “People say the darnedest things.”

  “So you don’t think the place is haunted?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t want to jinx myself by saying that I don’t believe in ghosts. But… I don’t believe I’ve seen any ghosts here.”

  “Owen said it was hard to hire staff because of the rumors. Has anyone you tried to hire asked you about the ghost?”

  “Sure. I tell them I’ve never seen it. But you can’t stop rumors, right?”

  I frowned and glanced at Beth. I could tell that she was thinking the same thing as me: the rumors had to have started somewhere.

  Beth said, “Has anyone actually seen the ghost?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Melissa. “I try not to encourage that kind of talk here.”

  Another song ended, and after another break in the conversation for applause, I said, “Did you know that Vanessa had a stalker?”

  Melissa looked at me carefully. “You’re not serious?”

  I nodded. “Her boyfriend told me. She didn’t say anything to you?”

  Melissa pressed her lips together thoughtfully, and then she said, “No, I don’t think so. But I might have overheard Vanessa talking about it with Emma, who’s a waitress here. You should ask Emma about it. Why, do you think the stalker had something to do with the poisoning? If it really wasn’t food poisoning, that is.”

  I shrugged. “Bill told me the stalker left Vanessa a single red rose at her doorstep. Sometimes he left her notes, complimenting her singing. But it was never anything creepy. You wouldn’t happen to know who might be here whenever Vanessa sa
ng, would you?”

  Melissa shook her head slowly. “I wish I did. But we don’t have security cameras in this place. And besides, the stalker might not have come in every day. Maybe he just watched her sing once or twice, and then started leaving her flowers.”

  “Hmm,” I said. “But you don’t recall seeing anyone particularly creepy hanging out here when Vanessa was singing?”

  “No, not really. Vanessa sang from seven to nine in the mornings, and then from ten to four, she waitressed. She’d go home in the afternoons. So whoever saw her sing must’ve come in on a morning.”

  “Do you have any regulars?” Beth asked.

  “Sure,” said Melissa. “There’s a number of people who come in before work. We’re only a short drive from the offices on Leopold Street, so there’s a couple of office-goers who come in once or twice a week. Some couples do breakfast dates these days.”

  “Anyone who comes in every day?”

  “I’m afraid not,” said Melissa. “You really think this stalker might’ve had something to do with Vanessa’s poisoning?”

  “Maybe,” I said. “Maybe not.”

  Beth said, “What time did Vanessa eat the ceviche on Sunday?”

  “Lunchtime,” said Melissa. “She ate at about two thirty and complained about feeling ill. She took off at about three o’clock, an hour before her shift ended.”

  Beth said, “Why’d she have the ceviche? How are staff meals allocated?”

  “Usually, they just pick something off the menu,” Melissa said. “Sometimes Xenia makes a bit too much of something. So, she might make too much salad one day, or too many roast vegetables. And the staff will be asked if they want to eat that for their lunch or dinner.”

  Beth nodded and said, “And how did it work with the ceviche? Did Vanessa order it off the menu?”

  “No,” said Melissa. “We don’t always do ceviche. Xenia had made a big batch of prawn ceviche that day, and we had a little left over. The lunch rush had died down, and Xenia said someone from the staff could finish it up if they wanted.”

  “So Vanessa ate it at about two thirty,” I said, more to myself than to anyone in particular. “Perhaps it went bad over the extra hour that it stayed out.”

  Melissa nodded. “Maybe.”

  “But assuming she was poisoned,” said Beth, “did Vanessa have any enemies here? Anyone she didn’t get along with, who might’ve wanted to hurt her?”

  “Not really,” said Melissa. “She got along pretty well with most of the girls here.” She frowned thoughtfully, and then she said, “But the other day—Friday—she had an argument with Emma. I didn’t hear what she said, but they definitely raised their voices.”

  “Who’s Emma?” I asked.

  Melissa nodded her head towards a petite, slightly chubby Asian girl, who was clearing a table some distance away.

  “You can go chat with her and ask about the argument,” she said. “She might know if Vanessa had any other enemies. But I’m sure she didn’t,” she added. “Vanessa was lovely. I’m sorry she got so sick. Being in an induced coma, how horrible.”

  Melissa sounded quite upset, so I said, “They’re going to take her out of the induced coma in a day or two. She should be back to normal soon.”

  “I hope so,” said Melissa. “I’d hate to think that someone got so sick eating food prepared here.”

  “Well,” I said, “accidents do happen.”

  “Yeah,” said Beth. “Like the fire. Lucky Owen had all his insurance in place.”

  “Yeah,” said Melissa. “Lucky.”

  She seemed to be annoyed about something, and I guessed it had to do with Owen. So I said, “What’s it like, working for Owen? How long’ve you been working for him?”

  “About seven years now,” said Melissa. “I was at the café for all those years.”

  “You must know each other really well,” said Beth.

  Melissa shrugged. “I guess so. I mean, he’s an okay boss. He gets annoyed sometimes over little things, but everyone’s got their issues. The pay’s good, so I guess I can’t complain.”

  She smiled, but the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. I wondered what she was hiding—perhaps it was a romantic issue?

  As if reading my mind, Beth said, “Working all these long hours must make it tough to have a relationship.”

  Melissa shook her head slightly. “My boyfriend doesn’t mind. We’ve been together almost ten years now, so it’s not too bad. What about you guys, are you single?”

  “We are,” I said. “Both of us.”

  “What about Owen?” Beth asked. “Is he single?”

  “He’s seeing someone,” said Melissa. “He’s been with his latest partner for three years now. They seem pretty serious.”

  I nodded, suddenly at a loss for questions.

  “Thanks for your help,” I said. “I guess we should go chat with the chef now, see what was up with that ceviche.”

  “Good luck,” said Melissa. “But people don’t admit their mistakes easily.”

  Chapter Nine

  Xenia was sitting in one corner of the kitchen, reading something on her iPhone. She was an olive-skinned woman with frizzy brown curls, a wide frame, and doughy cheeks. She looked up when we walked in, surprised. And then, realization glimmered in her eyes.

  “You must be Mindy and Beth,” she said. “Melissa said that you’d want to speak with us about Vanessa.”

  I smiled. “I’m Mindy, this is Beth.”

  “Xenia,” she said, shaking our hands. “Good to meet you.”

  I looked around the kitchen. It was all stainless steel and gleaming implements, but there was nobody here other than Xenia. “Where is everyone?”

  “They’re off,” said Xenia. “The kitchen hands work shifts. I work from seven till ten thirty, then I’ve got an hour’s break, then I work till two. I’m off after that. Ada does the night shift.”

  “That sounds neat,” Beth said. “It must be hard staffing a twenty-four-hour place.”

  “I guess so,” said Xenia. “But that’s not my problem. My problem’s serving up the breakfasts and lunches.”

  “Do you like it here?” asked Beth.

  Xenia shrugged. “I guess so. Owen offered me a pay raise to come here, and he promised me this place would be hot. So far, I’ve got the pay raise but the place isn’t hot. I’m okay with that.”

  “What kind of food do you make?” asked Beth.

  “All kinds. Depends on the produce available, really. Burgers, pastas, those are our staples. Eggs and waffles for breakfast. And then I do the seasonal stuff. Like that ceviche—that’s what you want to ask about, right?”

  Beth and I both nodded, and Beth said, “You don’t believe it was food poisoning.”

  “Not just that,” said Xenia. “I know for a fact that she didn’t get food poisoning. No way, no how.”

  “What makes you so confident?” I said.

  “Here’s the thing.” Xenia looked up at us seriously. “It’s actually very difficult to get food poisoning from ceviche. To make a ceviche, you have to denature the seafood in an acid solution, which I did. This solution removes all traces of botulinum and any other toxins. So there’s absolutely no way Vanessa could’ve gotten food poisoning from the ceviche.”

  I looked at her carefully. Xenia seemed awfully sure of herself, and Melissa’s warning that people didn’t like to admit to their mistakes rang in my ears.

  Beth said, “And you’re sure you denatured the prawns correctly?”

  “Absolutely,” said Xenia. “There’s no way traces of botulinum could’ve remained in the prawns. If Vanessa did get food poisoning, she got it from somewhere else, not my ceviche.”

  “Have there been any food poisoning cases here before?”

  “None,” said Xenia vehemently. “I run a good kitchen, always have, always will. Even when I worked at Brunetti’s—there weren’t any food poisoning cases when I was on the job.”

  I looked at Beth and raised one eyeb
row silently. Melissa had mentioned food poisoning at Brunetti’s, but maybe that had happened after Xenia had left.

  Beth said, “If Vanessa didn’t get sick from your ceviche, she must’ve gotten sick from something else. Did you see her going out to eat anything?”

  Xenia shook her head. “No, as far as I know she was in here the whole time. Maybe she had something in her bag. Or maybe someone poisoned the ceviche.”

  I frowned. Even though Xenia seemed awfully sure of herself, I had to agree that it seemed unlikely that bad prawns had put Vanessa into a coma.

  “Who would’ve poisoned the ceviche?” said Beth.

  “I don’t know,” said Xenia flatly. “Maybe it was Alyssa?”

  “Who’s Alyssa?”

  Xenia cracked a smile. “She’s the ghost. The waitress who was killed in this building.”

  Beth and I exchanged a glance, and I said, “You don’t really believe in that stuff, do you?”

  Xenia shrugged. “I used to think ghosts weren’t real. But sometimes when I step out to make phone calls, I can hear banging in the kitchen. I come back and things are in different places from where I left them. Some of the girls say they see a white apparition late at night.”

  I gulped, trying not to think about ghosts.

  Beth said, “Let’s get back to the ceviche. How do you decide who eats what?”

  “Well, the girls sometimes ask me to make them a burger or a sandwich. If there’s leftovers, I send a text asking if anyone wants it. I sent one about the ceviche, Vanessa said she’d have it, and then I texted everyone back saying the ceviche was taken, it was Vanessa’s.”

  “What time was this?” I said. “What time did you send the text that said the ceviche was Vanessa’s?”

  “A bit before two, I think,” said Xenia.

  “So everyone knew that Vanessa would eat the ceviche,” said Beth.

  There were a few seconds of silence, as we were each lost in our thoughts.

  And then Xenia said, “No way was this food poisoning. Four people in the restaurant ate the ceviche, and none of them got sick.”

  “It’s not possible for only one person to get sick from botulinum poisoning,” Beth said. “It’s not like normal food poisoning, where some people might have a strong immune system and not get sick. Botulinum poisoning affects everyone who ate the poisoned food. Everyone who ate the ceviche would’ve gotten sick. Maybe they just didn’t say anything.”