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  “You’ve only worked with a couple of women chefs?”

  “Yeah,” Josh admitted. “But I’m not even thirty yet, so give me some time.” He smiled in the hope of lightening my declining mood.

  “How come Isabelle is the only female in your kitchen now?” I was irritated.

  “Because when I was hiring, I didn’t have any women come in to interview. I have no problem hiring women, but if they don’t apply, I can’t hire them.”

  “Okay, well, that’s not your fault, I guess,” I conceded.

  “Same here,” volunteered Digger. “I’ve worked for more than two women, but still only a few, and I’m well over thirty, and I’ve worked at a lot of places. Some of the women chefs have been crap, and a few have been great. Actually, one of my biggest influences was the first chef I worked for, who was a woman. She was the most awesome chef. She used great flavors. She went through hell with us and gave us just as much crap as we dished out. I think most women in the kitchen have this tendency to be real timid, you know? You gotta pay your dues and peel fifty pounds of potatoes when you start out, no matter who you are or who you know. Women take that to mean that they’re being ignored or treated unfairly. And in this profession, a woman has to stand out and grow some balls. You can’t hide out or be squeamish. When you get out of school, it’s easy to disappear into a hotel job and shape cantaloupes to make a pretty fruit plate. Women give up and don’t always want to play the game.”

  “So a woman has to act like a man? Like an imbecile?” I crossed my arms and glared at Digger. “Do you think any of this has to do with the whole idea that women in positions of authority are labeled bitchy and men are labeled confident?”

  Lefty braved the conversation. “Unfortunately, yes, ma’am. That is very likely. Like they were saying, this is not a perfect profession. There are still very outdated attitudes in the culinary world, and we’re all guilty of allowing that to happen.”

  I settled for saying, “Yes, you are. It’s not the nineteen forties.”

  Lefty got points for acknowledging men’s contribution. I probably lost points for finding it cute that he called me ma’am. My one year of social work hadn’t granted me the magical power to remedy female oppression or even to eradicate sexism from my own attitudes. But maybe the vivid picture that Digger, in particular, had portrayed of the macho environment in restaurant kitchens could give me some insight into Leandra’s murder. I hoped, and strongly suspected, that the atmosphere in Josh’s kitchen fell toward the lower end of the machismo continuum. Furthermore, it sounded as if Leandra, far from resenting idiotic antics, had willingly participated in them. Still, it was possible that one of Simmer’s employees had taken a joke too far. Could Leandra have been accidentally killed in a kitchen prank? If so, Josh, Snacker, Isabelle, Javier, or Santos might have had something to do with her death. But Leandra hadn’t actually worked in the kitchen. Were Simmer’s front-of-the-house employees, people like Wade, Kevin, Blythe, and the other servers, also guilty of fraternity-style behavior? And what kind of prank gone wrong could have resulted in Leandra’s death?

  Even Top of the Hub’s out-of-this-world dessert menu didn’t make me feel better. And I still had nothing to put in Leandra’s memory book except one unflattering word: bitch.

  TEN

  JOSH slept over. Cranky though I was about the dinner conversation, I trusted Josh to treat people fairly. I pushed aside my annoyance at the culinary field’s rampant unfairness to women and let Josh compensate me for it. Plus, this was one of the few nights I had with him when we were both awake, and I wasn’t about to pass up such a pleasurable opportunity.

  My overworked chef left for Simmer before eight the next morning. I got out of bed sometime after nine. The only positive spin I could put on my Leandra memory book assignment was that I’d get to see Josh again today. To get material for the memory book, I was obviously going to have to march down to the restaurant and physically extract positive remarks from the employees. The possibility of inventing loving remembrances crossed my mind. In fact, it appealed to me. The hitch was that the entire Simmer staff would attend the memorial service on Monday, and it would be a little awkward to present a memory book filled with quotations that sang Leandra’s praises attributed to people who had disliked her. So, using my imagination was a last resort. I was sure that if I approached the Simmer staff in person, everyone would be hard-pressed to say anything but nice things about their deceased coworker. That was the plan.

  Before leaving for Simmer, I opened all the windows to my condo to let fresh spring air into my little space. Even with the windows closed and locked, it would’ve been easy enough to break in. If a burglar showed up in my absence, at least there wouldn’t be any damage to the doors or windows. Or so I rationalized.

  When I reached Simmer, I stood outside the front door on Newbury Street and phoned Josh, who left the kitchen to let me in. I’d had zero interest in revisiting the back alley and had driven around side streets for twenty minutes until I’d found a parking spot. The weather forecast called for blue skies, bright sunshine, and temperatures in the mid-sixties, so I was sure that the patio would be packed for lunch today. Consequently, a lot of the staff would probably be scheduled to work, and I’d have an excellent chance of cornering Leandra’s colleagues and squeezing quotable remarks from them.

  Josh swung open the front door. “Hi, babe. How you doing? You still mad at me?” He pulled me in close and kissed my neck softly.

  “I wasn’t mad at you.”

  “I knew you weren’t that mad since people who are really mad wouldn’t have let me do what I did last night. Right?” he teased.

  “Get that look off your face.” But I couldn’t help smiling. “I really wasn’t mad at you. I was just disappointed to hear what you guys had to say last night. But everything that was said just goes to point out what rational beings women are. And frankly, Digger’s comments, especially, reflect badly on the male species. I just think it would be responsible of you to do your part to change the culinary world’s attitude toward women, at least in your kitchen. Be a role model.”

  “Chloe, seriously. Right now, I am doing everything I can just to keep this place running!”

  His tone of voice told me that I’d chosen a bad time to enjoin him to stand up for women’s rights. My face fell.

  “God, I’m sorry. Come here,” he wrapped his arms around me. “You’re right. You are. I’m swamped right now. That’s all. Snacker just got here, and Javier doesn’t come in until this afternoon, and I really need those extra hands today. That’s no excuse, but I’ve got so much going through my head all the time. I’m going to work on it, though, I promise. It’s important.”

  I hugged him back. “It’s okay. And thank you.”

  “I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  Josh kissed the top of my head. “Let’s go in. Be prepared. It’s going to be a madhouse back there soon, so I don’t know how much you’ll get out of these people.”

  We stepped into the kitchen. Santos was sweating over the stove, where he was stirring steaming vats of a highly seasoned broth. Isabelle was at one of the stainless counters working on vegetables. Snacker was on the phone rolling his eyes and looking exasperated. Wade, Kevin, Blythe, and several servers I didn’t know were rushing in and out of the kitchen.

  “Why are things so nuts today?” I asked Josh.

  “This is what happens when you reopen. Everything has to be prepped again, and we’re still getting more orders in. Belita and her assistants just showed up. Don’t ask me why they’re late. The waitstaff is here early because that party that we canceled the day Leandra died is now coming in tonight, and that has to be perfect, so they’re making sure everything is in shape. And the patio should be booming for lunch and—”

  “Breathe!” I interrupted him. “Why isn’t Javier here yet?”

  “What? Yeah, I don’t have time to breathe today. And Javier isn’t scheduled to work until later i
n the day because I’ll catch hell from Gavin for my labor cost, and he’s already pissed at me over my food cost. Anyhow, good luck with your memory book.”

  “Perhaps you’d like to be the first to give me something for the book?” I said wistfully.

  Josh sighed. “Sure. Give me the paper.”

  I handed over a page, and Josh snapped it into his clipboard. I remained silent for a moment, desperately hoping no one would need him for sixty seconds.

  “There you go,” he said, returning his page.

  “That’s it?”

  Josh had written all of four words: “Leandra will be missed.”

  “I’m sure someone will miss her,” he insisted. “I’m not going to lie on a memorial page! I’m sorry she was murdered, really I am, but I can’t honestly say that I’m going to miss her. Here, I’ll add more.” Josh grabbed his page back.

  “She was a hard worker who interacted energetically with her fellow employees.”

  “That sounds like she was doing calisthenics with everyone!” I complained.

  “Take it or leave it, kiddo.” Josh shrugged his shoulders.

  I growled. “I’m going to find someone who has something nice to say about this poor girl.”

  “I love you for your optimism. I have to talk to Isabelle.”

  “She better not be peeling carrots or sculpting cantaloupes all day!” I warned him as he walked over to her station.

  Josh’s written comments did not bode well for my assignment.

  Aha! Belita, the cleaning woman I’d spoken with the other day, crossed the kitchen and went into the dining area. She might be able to give me something about Leandra. With luck, it would be something positive. Belita, after all, hadn’t worked directly with Leandra.

  Waving my papers above my head, I scurried into the dining room. “Belita! Belita!”

  She turned to me and put down her bucket and mop. “Oh, hola, Chloe.” She smiled warmly and then brushed some straggly hair from her face.

  “Por favor, could I talk to you?”

  “Sí, okay,” she said, nodding. “I so honest, you know? Not like some of these others here!” She gestured to the bathroom. “I obey laws, okay? Who else, with this drugs everywhere? I do nothing wrong.”

  Did Belita think that I was here to ask her about Leandra’s murder? “I just wondered if you had any happy memories of Leandra that I could write down here.” I showed her my memory pages. “Maybe you could ask your friends if they have anything to say about her?”

  “Leandra?” Belita blew air from her lips. “She like the others, you know? Nobody sees me here except nice Jason and Josh. And that Gavin, he pay me in cash, which I like very much. But that girl never see me!”

  Leandra regularly ignored the cleaning crew. I couldn’t write that! “Would anyone else you know want to say something?”

  “That Kevin! He takes bottles. All the time, he is taking bottles. Javier tell me this. That poor Gavin! He nice, nice man to me!”

  We had hit a communication breakdown. Among other things, I didn’t know enough Spanish to discuss memory books. And what did Belita mean about Kevin? He was taking bottles? Her accent, however, made Kevin and Gavin sound similar. Maybe I had misunderstood. Or maybe not. Both Kevin and Gavin picked up and moved bottles. Kevin was, after all, a bartender, and Gavin owned Simmer.

  “So Kevin took bottles?” I tried to clarify.

  “Sí, Kevin take Gavin’s bottles to him! All the time! That Leandra know, and she no care!”

  I still wasn’t following, and I didn’t have time to try to decipher what she was telling me. I wished that I’d taken Spanish in high school and felt embarrassed that I couldn’t understand Belita. She knew a hundred times more English than I knew Spanish. “Belita, did you like Leandra at all?” I was willing to take anything, even some neutral comment.

  “Leandra was bitch!” Belita declared as she spat into a bucket.

  I sensed a common theme.

  “Okay. Well, thanks anyway.”

  “You? You is nice girl. You, I like.” Belita patted my cheek and left to do her work.

  Isabelle was one of the sweetest people I knew. I could certainly count on her to give me something appropriate for Monday’s celebration of Leandra’s life. I again braved the kitchen, where I now found Isabelle slicing beef tenderloin—and not, I was pleased to note, carving fruit displays.

  “Hi, Isabelle,” I greeted her.

  “Hey, Chloe! Look, Josh is letting me slice the beef for the party today. Isn’t that cool? Josh said I’ve been doing such a good job with everything else he’s taught me that he’s going to let me take on more responsibilities. I’m even helping him plate the dishes for that party!” She must have been the happiest beef slicer in the entire world. I silently thanked Josh for supporting her.

  “I’m so glad that you’re enjoying your job. Josh must be impressed with you if he’s giving you more responsibility. He makes everyone pay dues and earn his respect, so you must have been doing something right.” In case she felt unfairly treated in Josh’s kitchen, I passed along some of my feminist insights from the previous night’s dinner.

  Isabelle’s only response was to say, “Josh is great! I love it here!” She smiled as she continued working.

  I explained about the memory book and asked whether she had anything to contribute.

  Isabelle’s face hardened. “Leandra didn’t like me very much. Did you know she called me ‘rat girl’? She used to tease me about having grown up the way I did, and she said Josh only gave me this job because he felt sorry for me. Do you think that’s true?” She clapped the knife down onto the cutting board.

  “No. Josh didn’t pity you, Isabelle. Josh talked to you before he offered you this job, right?”

  She nodded.

  “Well, he must have seen something in you that gave him a good feeling about hiring you. Nobody made Josh hire you. You got this job on your own, and you’re keeping it on your own.”

  Leandra was lucky to be dead. If she’d been alive, I’d have murdered her myself! Well, I’d have felt like it. In reality, I’d have delivered a nasty talking-to that included words like ignorant and insensitive, and I’d have engaged in lots of dramatic finger-pointing.

  “Leandra was terrible,” Isabelle said. “She fooled Gavin into going out with her. He is nothing but wonderful, and I don’t know how she tricked him into liking her, but she did. So, no. I don’t have anything to give you for this memory book!” The usually soft-spoken Isabelle had raised her voice enough to make Josh and Santos look over.

  I didn’t like the way Isabelle was acting. I understood it, but I didn’t like it. She clearly had a big crush on Gavin. Could she have been so distraught about his relationship with Leandra that she’d murdered her? The truth was, I didn’t know Isabelle very well. I’d met her when I’d volunteered at the agency that had been helping her to get off the streets and create a better life for herself. She’d seemed sweet and eager to work hard, but I hadn’t known and still didn’t know much else about her. Josh said she was a quick learner who was devoted to his kitchen. She could still have a dark side, couldn’t she? It was unthinkable to me that Isabelle was involved in Leandra’s death. Almost unthinkable.

  My thoughts returned to Belita’s statement that Kevin was taking bottles. Could Belita have meant that Kevin was stealing bottles of liquor? Would a Simmer employee do such a horrible thing? What kind of person would undercut Gavin’s and Josh’s efforts to make Simmer a success? The same kind of person who would commit murder? If Leandra had found out about the stealing, she might have confronted Kevin and threatened to tell Gavin. I knew all too well how hard Josh was working to make Simmer profitable and how deeply Gavin cared about his restaurant. Meanwhile, their main bartender, Kevin, was stealing from the restaurant? What a terrible thing to do! Restaurants, I knew, made most of their money from alcohol sales. I’d been a little horrified to learn just how high the markups on alcohol were. The funny thing about restaurant a
lcohol sales, Josh had explained to me, was that cheaper bottles of wine were the ones that were marked up most, whereas the expensive, high-quality wines were marked up least. If someone—Kevin?—stole a bottle of wine that had cost Simmer ten dollars and would have sold for twenty-eight dollars, the restaurant’s loss would be greater than the original cost of the wine. But any thievery would cost the restaurant something, and if Leandra had discovered that someone was pilfering, she might have been outraged enough to confront the culprit. Perhaps Gavin’s girlfriend had paid dearly for protecting Simmer? Or, more true to her character, she was somehow protecting herself? My impulse was to present the idea to Josh and Gavin, but I was far from sure that I’d understood Belita correctly. She might not have meant that Kevin had been stealing.

  I returned to the task of gathering material for the memory book. I hoped that the front-of-the-house staff, who’d worked closely with Leandra, would have fond recollections of her. At this point, I’d have been overjoyed to hear even a few neutral statements about Leandra: she’d liked roses, her favorite food had been raspberry sorbet, she’d preferred bourbon to scotch, and she’d been crazy about dancing to zydeco. Anything!

  Snacker had slipped past me while I’d been speaking to Belita. He was now schmoozing Blythe while she set up tables. Forget it! I loved Snacker, but I wasn’t up for watching him salivate all over Blythe today. I’d try again tomorrow. I popped my head into the kitchen and quickly waved good-bye to Josh, who was on the phone and scribbling on a notepad. He looked so stressed out that I didn’t want to disrupt him. He covered the phone with his hands and blew me a kiss.