Page 27 of So Bleak

Faith laid a hand on her partner’s arm. “What happened, Marcus?”

“Eleanor berated my server for our wine selection. She wanted more California wines.” He made his voice higher-pitched and nasal. “‘To reflect the modern assortment of fine wines that exemplify the French tradition around the globe.’ Bullshit. California wines are trash, and I would never serve that swill in my restaurant.”

“Did you tell her that?” Faith asked.

“Of course I did! She is a professional! She should know better!”

“Did you tell her that, or did you shout her that in your dining room while calling her names and swearing at her?” Michael asked.

“I…” Marcus reddened and fell silent.

“What about Harold Grimes? What happened with him?”

Marcus shrugged. “He’s a pig. He wants slop. He started asking me why there was no cassoulet or potatoes au gratin.” Marcus shivered. “Do you go to a fine American restaurant and ask for a hot dog or macaroni and cheese? Of course not! I told him to leave my restaurant.” He shook his head. “They’re just… they’re fools.”

His anger faded, leaving a forlorn expression that Faith might have sympathized with if it weren’t for every other experience she’d had with him. “People just don’t understand. Food doesn’t just have to be sustenance. It’s art! It’s life! It’s…” he lifted his hands again and let them drop. “The world is cruel, and life is hard. If we are fated to wander this cruel world and live this hard life, then why can’t we elevate these experiences to mean more than just their basic function? That is the whole purpose of French cuisine. It should be the purpose of all cuisine, but only France seems to get it right. Every bite should be an adventure! Every taste should be a melody. It’s not about following trends or showcasing diversity or appealing to the unwashed masses. It’s an expression of life itself, not the cruelty of survival, but the triumph of experience!”

He sighed and shook his head. “No one understands anymore. No one…” He slumped and said, “Arrest me if you want. I don’t care anymore.”

“Are you confessing to the murders?”

“I didn’t kill them, but there’s nothing left for me. I think there never was. I was born in the wrong country, and I waited too long to get out. It doesn’t matter what happens to me now.”

Faith sighed and looked at Michael. “Any news from CSI yet?”

“I’ll call them.”

He left the room to make the call, and Faith turned back to Marcus. "Can you account for your whereabouts the nights of their murders?"

“When did they die?”

“Eleanor Crestwood died nine days ago at Cucina Toscana.”

Marcus scoffed. “I’d never visit that pigsty.”

“Where were you?”

“I was at the restaurant. I am always at the restaurant. From six in the morning until ten o’clock at night.”

“Do your security cameras work?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never checked.”

“We’ll follow up on that. The same for two nights ago when Harold died?”

“The same. Always the same. That place is my life. Was my life.”

The door opened, and Michael waved Faith outside. Faith left Turk to guard Marcus and joined Michael on the other side of the two-way mirror. “What is it?”

“They didn’t find anything,” Michael said, frustration evident in his clipped tone. “But that doesn’t mean anything. He’s had more than enough time to clean the murder weapon. It could be at his home, or he could have dumped it, or—”

Faith lifted her hand and said, “Tell CSI to get security camera footage to confirm hisalibi. In the meantime, we’ll hold him on the assault charge. But I have to be honest, Michael, I don’t think he’s our guy.”

“You don’t? Why not?”

“He’s got a temper, but you’ve seen it. It’s up and down. One moment, he’s swinging a knife, the next he’s bemoaning the state of the world. He’s the kind of guy who would stab someone to death in a fit of passion, not the kind of guy who would hold a grudge and carefully prepare a poison to kill them from a distance.”

Michael sighed and planted his hands on his hips. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re probably right. Damn it.”

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