Page 27 of Wham Line
(On the other hand, I didn’talwaysread the signs.There were so many.And sometimes they felt very judgy.)
We ended up parking a couple of blocks away in one of the town’s visitor parking lots.Fortunately, February wasn’t exactly a busy tourist season for Hastings Rock.Bobby and I hurried back toward the restaurant, the wind shrieking in my ears and propelling us along and occasionally threatening to tear off my glasses.Bobby, on the other hand, only acquired a tousled look that, along with the stubble, made him look evenmorelike a snack.
On the outside, nothing indicated that the restaurant had recently been the site of a murder.In fact, aside from where a dog had been digging in the landscaping, it looked picture perfect.When we stepped inside, Mizzenmast felt like a different place.Sunlight flooded in through the plate-glass windows, making the space warm and mellow and open.The same light turned the reclaimed wood silver and ran a prismatic band along the wineglasses hanging over the bar.People crowded the bar, and almost every table was full; more people waited in the small vestibule.Raised voices competed with the pop of a cork, the clink of glasses and cutlery, and the high, whinnying laughter of a thin, White thoroughbred of a woman who looked like the definition ofladies who lunch.It smelled like garlic and lemon and the slightest hint of fish (but in a good way), and between the sunlight and the crush of bodies and the gas fireplace, it was sweltering—all of which, I have to add, spiked my anxiety into the red.
“Are you kidding me?”I asked, trying to make myself smaller in the crowd.“What are all these people doing here?”
“Trying to get lunch,” Mr.Ratcliff said.In the scrum, Hastings Rock’s nosiest neighbor was standing at my elbow.His beady eyes glittered.“I hear you found Indira after she shot that man.”
“Indira didn’t kill anyone,” I said.
“Is it true he was her ex-husband?”
“How did—”
“Is it true she shot him so many times he looked like hamburger, and they had to use the kitchen spatulas to get him off the ground and then the spatulas broke so they had to use the snow shovels—”
Listen, I’ve read—and written—some pretty gruesome stuff.But my jawdropped.
“Excuse us, Oscar,” Bobby said.His hand was already at the small of my back, steering me into the wall of bodies.“If you have questions about an ongoing investigation, you should direct them to the sheriff’s office.”
“—and when you saw him you passed out?”Mr.Ratcliff called after us.
“I did not pass—” I twisted around—or tried to—but Bobby kept steering me forward.“I didnotpass out,” I told Bobby.
“I know.”
“Even if shehadshot him into hamburger and they had to get the snow shovels to scrape up all the blood and guts.”
A woman who must have been from out of town gaped at me.
“Indoor voices,” Bobby murmured and went back to pushing me ahead of him like an icebreaker.
When we finally reached the hostess stand (er,attendantstand), guess who was there?
Nalini’s eyes got huge.And then, clutching a stack of menus in her arms, she scuttled toward the kitchen.
I went after her, but she was fast, and she passed through the swinging doors to the kitchen a moment before I caught her.I followed.On the other side of the doors, the chatter of the restaurant patrons died away and was replaced by shouts in English and Spanish, the sound of metal on metal, the hiss of hot oil.Sous chefs and line cooks and prep boys (I made that last one up) danced a frenzied ballet, often narrowly missing each other, saved at the last minute by someone barking a warning.One little guy who couldn’t have been older than twenty was so locked in on the celery he was slicing, he looked like an island in all the chaos.
“—don’t care!Get back out there and do your job!”Talmage shouted at Nalini.The head chef—and now full owner—of Mizzenmast was pink-cheeked from the heat, and her honey-blond hair was damp with sweat.Then Talmage caught sight of us.“Hey!You!Stop bothering my staff and get out of my kitchen!”
Nalini darted past us, trying to hide behind the menus as she ran.
“Mrs., uh, Malick?”I tried.“We were hoping to talk to you—”
The chef surged toward us.“What didn’t you understand about get out of my kitchen?”
“Excuse me—” Bobby began.
“Get out!”It was a full-throated scream.In its wake, the kitchen fell silent—no one moved, and the only sound came from the gas burners.Face reddening, she screamed again, “Get out!Get out!Get out!”
Bobby tilted his head, and I headed through the swinging doors.A hush gripped the dining room; dozens of eyes fixed on us, and a cold, sweaty prickle climbed my chest.Behind us, Talmage’s screams continued to ring out, now directed at the staff.
“Let’s get out of here,” Bobby muttered.
Every gaze in the room followed us as we made our way to the door.Mr.Ratcliff’s nose was practically quivering.
Running footsteps and a low-pitched “Hey” made me turn.A young man in a kitchen uniform jogged toward us, waving to flag me down.
