Murder, Honey
by Vinnie Hansen
"Carol," my mom always said, "be careful what you wish for. It might come true."
Head Chef Jean Alcee Fortier was a case in point. I'd wished him dead a dozen times, and I remembered the last time clearly. I'd stumbled into Archibald's at three thirty a.m. in a semi-somnolent state. Even after years of working as a baker at this swanky restaurant, I hadn't adjusted to the hours.
I entered the building from the loading dock, which was on the front of the building, but well-screened from the brick U where valets in maroon uniforms with gold braid would later hustle to park Mercedes and BMW's.
A sixty-watt bulb illuminated the time clock. This was one of Eldon's subtle manipulations, to make us squint, and therefore to focus, on what we were doing. People underestimated Eldon. That was his m.o. The bumbling, mild-mannered Clark Kent exterior hid a cunning kitchen manager. He disarmed by dithering. He created a sense of incompetence while all the hard evidence suggested otherwise. For one thing, he'd held onto his job in Santa Cruz, one of the most competitive towns in the world for eating establishments. Secondly, the kitchen made a profit for the conference center.
The hall lights were off, but I knew the place like my home. On the right was the Employees Dining Room (EDR), and on the left the employee restrooms and unisex locker room. The hallway deadended in a supply room, a swinging door into the kitchen at its left.
I was more asleep than usual. Chad had awakened me at midnight with a cough he'd recently developed. He'd been busy sleeping right through his nagging little harumphs, until I shook him awake.
"What cough?" Even half-asleep, he was a hunk. His blue green eyes gradually comprehended and glinted with annoyance. "You woke me up to tell me that?"
"You're keeping me awake."
"Go sleep on the couch."
"You go sleep on the couch," I retorted. "Why should I have to sleep on the couch when you're the one who's choosing to gradually commit suicide with cigarettes?"
"You wait until the next time you get a cold, Carol."
"Cold, my ass," I muttered while I jerked my pillow and the top blanket and retired to the living room. Chad's breathing galled me. Life was not fair. Just as his deep breaths lulled me like a fountain, a cough lodged in the middle, like a skip in a record.
I'd slept not at all, and entered the fluorescent glare of the locker room in a sleepwalking state. Not that many years ago, the female employees had changed clothes in the tiny restroom, while the male employees commanded the convenience of the locker room. Then this last bastion of chauvinism had been converted to a unisex facility with a screened section in each of the far corners. I didn't see Fortier at first, but he certainly had seen me, and had made no attempt to cover himself. More naked than Adam, he sat on a bench in front of the lockers.
I gasped.
"Thank you," he said, in a voice like black velvet and old whiskey. "I know I'm good-looking, but I don't inspire many gasps." He smiled, a wicked, relishing grin, his white teeth set off by olive skin. At 3:30 in the morning and stark naked, he looked impeccably groomed, his black, wavy hair recently barbered and brushed straight back. He stood, revealing the works, broad shoulders, washboard stomach, and a penis to match his ego.
"Excuse me," I said, backing out. I should have known decorum was a wasted effort.
"Hey, Carol, don't go. My linguini needs some salsa."
"Salsa on linguini?" I stammered. "Yuck."
I went outside to cool my anger. The asshole. Why did all the women flip over him? Given the image only now fading from my retina, that was a rhetorical question. I understood how his young, new girlfriend Delores mistook his low-life humor for charm, but how could mature women like Suzanne or Concepci—n take inconsideration as joie de vivre? With the right looks, I thought bitterly, a person could get away with murder.
On the loading dock, I faced the grounds of the conference center and inhaled the jasmine and eucalyptus-scented darkness. Archibald's was on a wooded hill, high above the fog-shrouded Santa Cruz. I enjoyed the serenity.
I wondered what the hell Fortier was doing here so early, although in truth, he often was the second person to arrive. I begrudgingly acknowledged that he was deserving of his position as Head Chef, and wondered if a sexual harassment complaint would cost me my job. I was also pissed because I'd been too startled to think of a snappy comeback.
As I paced the concrete dock, waiting for someone else to arrive, I had one of those momentary epiphanies where I understood completely why my husband Chad smoked. Looking back, I suppose I waited out there getting chilled because I expected the next arrival to be my buddy and comforter, Buzz Fraser. Instead, I heard a motorcycle roar through the night. Unlike the rest of us who parked a half-mile away and stumbled to the kitchen, Patsy drove her Harley right up to the dumpster.
"Hey, kiddo, whatcha doing out here?" the disembodied voice said. Patsy wore black leather, and I couldn't see her, only the winking red reflector on her helmet.
"Oh," I said airily, "I'm contemplating how to kill a son-of-a-bitch."
Another thing my mom used to say was "hold your tongue." Needless to say, I never listened. As a matter of fact, when she said that, I'd stick out my tongue and grab it to prove that I was the impossible, incorrigible kid that she claimed. Little did I know that I was about to develop a keen appreciation for my mom's clichŽs.
Order Murder, Honey
Contents © Vinnie Hansen. Please do not repost or print without permission.
