The Trouble with Talent. Kathy Krevat
at the beginning,” I said. “What’s this all about?”
“Your cop friend showed up at seven a.m. with a freakin’ warrant to search the entire kitchen,” she said, outraged. “She said they’re looking for the murder weapon and anything that could link Quincy to the murder of Benson what’s-his-face.”
My stomach felt like butterflies were having a death match in it. “Oh no,” I said. “That’s crazy.”
“Tell that to your friend,” Zoey said. “She looks serious as hell.”
“I can’t get in there and talk to her now.” I bitterly resented that the two-story building had only a few windows and I had no idea what was going on inside.
“With all of those people in there, we’re going to have to clean the crap out of that place before we can cook again,” Zoey said. “You have to look into this thing.”
I shook my head. “Quincy can afford the best investigator money can buy.”
“Then he should hire you.” She pointed at me. Zoey hated any injustice, and this kind of problem for her friend would be at the top of her list.
I should feel flattered that she believed in me so much, but I was sure Quincy would hire a professional private investigator, maybe someone who used to work for the FBI or something, especially since his life might hang in the balance.
Norma came out, followed by crime scene techs holding plastic evidence bags of kitchen tools—when I looked closer I realized they had grabbed anything that resembled a sharp stick and might be the murder weapon.
Like anyone with half a brain would actually bring something like that to work the day after a murder.
Norma was in total professional mode, brushing by me without an acknowledgement that we were friends. Her partner Detective Ragnor gave me a sympathetic smile, but I didn’t know if it was because of Norma’s behavior or because my friend was in trouble.
I wanted to say something in defense of Quincy, but what good would it do? Norma had to follow this path of investigation until it was finished even if it didn’t lead anywhere.
We waited another hour for the last investigator to leave, grateful that they took down the crime scene tape on their way out. Zoey and I raced inside and up the metal steps to Quincy’s office, our feet sounding like thunder, while the others headed into the kitchen to put it back together. Zoey beat me by a mile, and even with all of my recent running, I was huffing and puffing when I got up there.
Quincy leaned back in his desk chair, his hands folded over his stomach. He looked thoughtful rather than alarmed.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
He nodded. “I didn’t do it, so they won’t find anything.”
“Why are they going after you so hard?” I asked. “And where were you yesterday?”
“That’s the problem in a nutshell,” he said “My wife got real upset about my little fight. After I talked to you, she made me go to an all-day yoga retreat in Julian. No cell phones. No electronics. I got home after dark to the press waiting outside my house with no idea why.”
“Oh good,” I said. “Then you have an airtight alibi.”
He nodded. “I do, but according to the detective, they can’t find the yogi. He took off to India or something and he doesn’t own a cell phone, so until he comes back, I just might be under suspicion.”
Quincy’s eyebrows were furrowed. I recognized that look. He was deep in thought, exploring all of the possible ways this situation could go. When he was making a business decision, I let him have the time to think and he always came back with the most insightful statements, all the possibilities weighed against his vast experience, and then he’d say something brilliant.
This time, I didn’t have the patience to wait. “What are you thinking?”
He spared us a brief glance and said, “I’m wondering why there’s such an immediate big push like this. It seems to be more than me being a suspect.”
“Norma’s been off track before,” I said. “But eventually she gets to the right person.”
“Did they say why they questioned you?” Zoey pointed down to the kitchen. “And did all that?”
“Because I punched the victim,” he said. “Apparently, there’s a YouTube video of me threatening to ‘end him’ after I knocked him down.” That seemed to bewilder him. “I was so angry that I don’t even remember saying that.”
“That can’t be all they have,” I said.
“Plus some texts that I sent my daughter,” he said.
“How did they get those so fast?” I asked. “Never mind. What did you say?”
“Something stupid,” he said, not wanting to tell us.
“How stupid?” I demanded.
“That I’d ‘take care of him,’” he admitted. “Like I said, stupid.”
Zoey shook her head. “Even I know better than that.”
“It seems like I’m at the top of their potential suspect list.” Quincy pushed a stack of legal papers toward me. “They’re executing search warrants for my home and all of my businesses.”
“Well, that’ll keep them busy for a while,” I joked. Quincy had part ownership of more companies than I could count.
“They were especially interested in Turner Furnace Repair,” he said.
Uh-oh. “Do you know a lot about furnaces?”
“No,” he said. “I just helped the owner get a loan last year. Why?”
“I’m pretty sure that’s what blew up in the garage,” I said.
He nodded. “That seems to be where Norma’s questions were heading. Someone created the explosion to cover up the murder.”
Zoey scowled at me. “I’m sure Colbie will do everything she can to help you.”
“No. She. Won’t.” Quincy took off his reading glasses and pointed them at me. “I’m innocent and I don’t need anyone looking into this. We all know that Norma won’t rest until she gets her bad guy.”
He smiled but it didn’t reach his eyes. He was definitely worried.
* * * *
Commercial kitchens have strict cleaning codes, so Zoey and I helped clean every inch of the kitchen with the rest of the chefs. When we were finished, we went over the schedule to figure out how to fit in all of the cooking to fill the orders. Top priority was my monthly order for Twomey’s Health Food Stores. It had only been a few months since they started selling my food and I still got a thrill when I saw it on their shelves. I’d been able to expand to keep up with the increased demand, and expected another jump in their next quarterly order.
I opened my laptop, hoping for a response from Natural-LA Grocers, but was disappointed. Now was certainly not the time to ask Quincy if he’d heard from them.
I called my friend Tod to let him know I wouldn’t be able to make our normal late lunch.
“That’s fine,” he said, a little relief in his voice. Tod was agoraphobic and when I first met him, he hadn’t been outside for years. Now he was working with a therapist who made house calls. He was making progress—allowing me to come into his apartment once a week even though it caused him some amount of anxiety, and going out for quick meals at quiet restaurants in his neighborhood. I still hoped for the Hollywood ending, where he would be completely cured and take off to some exotic location that he’d only seen online. But that wasn’t happening anytime soon.
While I worked with Zoey, stir-frying chicken in a frying pan