Chapter 9
HARLOW
"Don't look now," Cass said, taking the dirty plates off the servery countertop and carrying them over to the sink to rinse them.
"What am I not looking at?" I turned the handle on the pasta maker while keeping half an eye on two pots of sauce.
"Hans Getzoff just walked through the door." Cass held a fork in his hand, a little too long and a little too much like he might stab Getzoff through the eye with it.
"Nothing we can't handle,” I said lightly. "Just act normal."
He placed the fork into the dishwasher and washed his hands more vigorously than usual.
I snorted. "As normal as we can." That wasn't too much to ask, right? We were relatively normal on the outside. It wasn't until you scratched the surface that you found what was going on underneath. If you scratched hard enough.
Granted, I didn't let other people close enough to do it, most of the time.
"Try to act normal. Got it," he said with a nod of his head. "Um, what is that again?"
The smile on his face was half amusement, half panic. Eyes flicking back toward the seating area.
"When I figure it out, I'll let you know," I quipped. "I think it means do your job and don't panic."
"Work and don't panic," he said slowly. "Okay, I can do those." He seemed relatively certain of that at least.
"You should probably stay in the kitchen too,” I added. "The less he sees of us, the better."
"Unless—" Cass started to say.
"Chef St. James." Getzoff appeared at the kitchen door.
"Detective Getzoff," I said with more enthusiasm than I felt. "How nice to see you again."
I was lying through my teeth, but that was a small crime compared to other things I'd done, so I figured the universe might let it slide.
"What brings you here?" I asked.
My heart thumped too hard in my chest. Almost to the point of pain. Not the good kind either, worse luck. Not like when Jules fucked me, so perfectly hard.
Was Getzoff was about to accuse me of something? Maybe the death of Lionel Gammage? Maybe feeding victims to my customers. Maybe…
I couldn't think of anything else. My mind was racing too fast.
"I enjoyed your food so much the other night, I thought I'd pop in and try the food here," he said lightly.
"That's very flattering," I said sincerely.
I didn't have to bullshit my way through this one. I was proud of my cooking. I'd worked hard to develop my skills. This was a compliment I could comfortably accept, even from someone who gave me the creeps.
"I'm sure Shelly will be more than happy to show you to a table and take your order," I said, which was a not-so-subtle hint for him to step away and leave me to my work, both in the restaurant and after hours.
"You're not going to show me around yourself?" he asked, his tone slick, like he'd put too much butter on his personality bread.
I must be hanging around Boner too much. That was the kind of observation he'd make. Along with something like, 'It's never a good idea to overdo the lubrication. Or underdo it.'
I almost heard his voice in my head, saying that and laughing. If he was here right now, he'd defuse the situation so much better than I could.
I forced a smile. "There's not much to see. This is the kitchen. That's the seating area." I gestured from one to the other.
"So I see." Getzoff took another step further inside, scanning the kitchen with his intense blue eyes, as if he could see through the cabinetry, or past the fridge door to the contents. As if somehow the dishwasher would reveal something incriminating about me.
"We passed our health inspection the other day," I said, pretending to assume he was checking for cleanliness before he sat down to eat.
I won't lie, I have had customers insist on inspecting the kitchen before they committed to a meal.
"I'm sure you did," he said, his eyes stopping on Cass for a moment before returning to me. "I'm sure you thoroughly clean your workspace."
He said it so carefully, deliberately, I was ready to choke on air.
Apparently so was Cass, since he had a sudden coughing fit. He threw his hand over his mouth and leaned away into the corridor that led to the back door of the restaurant.
"Our hygiene here is second to none," I said firmly. "You could eat off the floor."
I had a sudden vision of Getzoff, chained to one of the tables, doing just that. Begging to be released. Insisting he wouldn't arrest and lock us up.
I shoved the image away. The last thing I wanted was to detain a police officer, especially here. One person strolling by, one casual peer in the window, they'd see him.
No, that was a bad idea for so many reasons.
Getzoff glanced down at the floor. "That would be an interesting dining experience."
"Yes, it would," I agreed, keeping my tone as congenial as possible. "I don't think it'll catch on, though. People like the comfort of a good chair and a table."
"Yes, a good chair is definitely a must," he said, injecting meaning into it I couldn't quite figure out.
Was there any way he knew about Solomon Danforth tying Boner and Archer to chairs?
Not unless one of us told him. Solomon's minions weren't around to tell the tale.
No, Getzoff was guessing, but I didn't know why or how it was so specific.
I'm being paranoid, I told myself. He's making small talk. I'm reading things into it that aren't there.
Was it a police detective thing, to speak in a way that made people twitch? As if they'd confess some great crime after he put on the back foot?
Good luck with that. I wasn't going to be back-footed so easily.
"I can show you to a table if you like," I said. "Then I really should get back to work."
I'd stopped turning the handle. I started again now. Winced when the pasta came out the other end slightly wonky. I cursed myself. I'd have to put it through again. Yes, no one would know when it was buried under sauce, but I'd know. The imperfection would drive me up the wall.
"That's not necessary." Getzoff gave me a smile as though he was being generous in some way. Like leaving me to get back to my job was a big deal for him.
I managed to contain a bristle. Men who were full of their own importance also drove me up the wall. It didn't matter what someone looked like on the outside. If they were arrogant on the inside, they weren't my type.
Smooth as hell wasn't my type either, to be honest. I liked my men a little rough around the edges. Who didn't look at me like I climbed a ladder and stabbed the moon to death.
People, yes, not the moon.
Getzoff gave Cass another long look, then turned and walked over to the table beside the window. He pulled out the chair for himself and sat down before picking up the menu and scanning it.
"Have you ever poisoned anyone?" Cass asked in my ear, making me startle.
"What? No." I turned around quickly. "For one thing, that could be traced back to us. For another, he hasn't done anything wrong."
"Not yet," Cass said on an exhale. "You know he's going to, though. He has that look."
I wanted to ask what look, but instead I nodded.
"He really does." I pressed the back of my hand to his chest, over his heart and whispered "Someone like Granger Fairfield."
Cass glanced down at me, then back at the detective. "Yeah, exactly. He's got that 'I can do whatever the fuck I want, and no one can stop me' thing going on."
"That still doesn't mean he's up to something," I pointed out.
He hadn't accused us of anything. Didn't pull out a badge and insist on searching the place.
Of course, he'd need a search warrant for that. Honestly, I'd be happy for him to search the place to his heart's content. He wouldn't find anything here. I was much too careful for that.
Besides, it was months since anyone came through here and ended up on the menu.
"I ran a check on him.” Cass picked up a washcloth to wipe the counter that didn't need wiping. "Nothing came up. He was top of his class. One of the youngest detectives in the city, yada yada. Clean as…"
"As this place," I suggested.
"Cleaner." His lips twisted in irritation.
I knew Cass hoped to find something. All of the guys wanted an excuse to go after Getzoff and get him off our backs. If we could do that without being caught.
"He knows something," Cass said, tossing the washcloth aside. "I don't know what it is, but he knows something."
"I get that impression too," I admitted.
As long as we played it cool, he wouldn't learn anything about us. If I kept looking panicked when he appeared, sooner or later he'd figure out something was up.
"Harlow." Shelly stepped over to the servery. "The customer at table four wants something that's not on the menu." She looked apologetic.
"Of course he does. What is he asking for?"
"He's requesting lasagna,” she said. "I told him it's not available today, but he's insisting."
"I'll rustle some up," I assured her. "Let him know it'll take a little bit extra time."
She nodded, "Yes, Chef."
Cass looked over at me from where he stood in front of the sink.
"You know what Boner would say to that."
I snorted. "Yes, I do, but it's still not grounds to…ground someone." Difficult customers were a dime a dozen around here. I lost count of the amount of times I'd been asked for things that weren't on the menu. Fortunately, this was one I could rectify quickly enough.
I grabbed another ball of pasta dough out of the fridge and made lasagna sheets to throw together with the Bolognese sauce.
I'd left it off the menu for the last few weeks to give it a rest. I liked to keep things interesting and fresh. There was a chance I was overthinking it. Should I add it back on? People would order it.
Although I suspected he would have asked for something else instead.
While the lasagna was in the oven, I put together a salad and plated it, leaving enough room for the lasagna.
"I like watching you work," Cass remarked.
"Because it's more fun to watch people work than it is to do it yourself?" I joked.
He was a hard worker. He knew that, but I couldn't resist the dig.
He pushed his glasses back up his nose and pretended to look offended. "It's because you make it look so easy," he said. "But it's really not. It's like watching an artist paint a masterpiece.”
"Their masterpieces last longer than mine do,” I said.
I didn't mind putting in the work to produce something that took a few minutes to eat. I loved what I did. And I loved seeing people enjoy food. Even people like Getzoff.
"Yours tastes better," Cass replied.
"Oh?" I arched an eyebrow at him. "How many paintings have you eaten?"
He tipped his head back and burst out laughing, which was too fucking adorable.
"None," he said once he caught his breath, "I'll stick to eating actual food."
"And drinking milkshakes," I finished for him.
"That too," he added.
I pulled the lasagna out of the oven, sliced it carefully and placed it on the plate beside the salad.
Every so often I looked out at Getzoff, who seemed to be watching my customers while he waited for his meal.
Yeah, he definitely knew something.