The mention of yet another wedding has my attention.
“I’ll be there,” Michael adds. “And if the service cancels me, I’ll call you personally to confirm. I should have done that anyway. I normally do.”
The chef eyes me for instructions.
I wave off any further contact. He nods and says, “Have a good evening, Michael. I’ll talk to you soon.” With Michael’s returned reply, they disconnect.
“What wedding?” I ask immediately.
“A socialite here in East Hampton,” he says. “Why is that relevant?”
“I need a name.”
“Maria Carbella of the Carbella family. I’m confused. Who is dead and why does it feel as if you think this is connected to me?”
I think it’s connected to me, but so is he, now and in the past. And the question now is what connection does he have to Emma Wells? A chef would certainly be comfortable butchering animals, such as a pig. And so, I ask the question. “Were you contracted for the Emma Wells’ wedding?”
He grabs the counter. “Yes. Why? And why do I know that’s bad?”
“Because she’s dead,” I say, and wait for his reaction.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The color drains from Chef Roswell’s face and before I can stop him, he’s leaning over the trash, throwing up, and effectively contaminating the kitchen where evidence of a murder may well now hide. If there is anything I dislike outside large quantities of blood, it’s large quantiles of barf. I decide right then, he’s a hot man, in a hot man’s body, with a wuss, not a killer, buried inside. He’d never stomach butchering and draining a pig. He’s not our guy, but he’s also been targeted. The question is, why?
He grabs a paper towel and wipes his mouth. I gag a little, I can’t help it. “I only met her once, but she was a sweet lady,” he says. “I can’t believe she’s dead. How did she die?”
“Die?” I ask. “You mean, how was she murdered?” Andrew enters the room and I glance over at him. “Do you have officers on the scene?”
“I do,” he confirms.
“Can Chef Roswell sit in a vehicle while I search the kitchen? Preferably with the window down since he just lost his lunch in the trashcan.”
“Wonderful,” Andrew mutters, motioning to the chef. “This way.”
“I need to finish your dinner,” the chef argues. “I’ll clean up and get it done.” His gaze falls to me. “You hired me for a great meal.”
“We can’t eat the food, chef,” Andrew states. “Not this time.”
“I don’t understand,” he argues. “Do you think we tried to poison you?”
I give him a deadpan stare. He swallows hard. “Mary, mother of Jesus.”
Now that he finally gets the point, I step to the bar where I’d been sitting, grab a notecard, scribble down my number and slide it in front of the chef. “I’ll need you to come to the station for questioning. Text me at noon tomorrow on the dot. If you don’t, we’ll hunt you down. I’ll hunt you down. It’s not ever a fun reunion when I hunt someone down. And now, you may go.” I flick Andrew a look. “If Police Chief Love agrees.”
The chef pales all over. “Police Chief Love?”
“Yes,” Andrew confirms. “Police Chief Love. And I’d like you to go to the station and get fingerprinted.”
Chef Roswell inhales and nods, removing his apron. “Whatever is needed.”
A timer goes off and he forgets all else, tossing the apron on a barstool and grabbing a potholder before rushing to the stove. A few moments later, he places a dish of mac ‘n’ cheese, bubbling with delicious cheese, on top of the stove. Oh, how painful killing this meal is to my growling stomach.
“It’s not poisoned,” he assures me. “No one touched it but me and my reputation is exceptional. And my mac ‘n’ cheese is the best on planet Earth.”
The man might know how to tempt a woman, even more so than Kane, outside that moment where he used the trashcan for a belly dumpster.
And yeah. It’s probably safe to eat the food, despite said dumpster location. However, using “probably” as a judgment call is about as stupid as assuming you know what you can’t validate. “Considering Emma Wells’ condition when I saw her last night,” I say trying, “I’ll pass.”
“Oh,” he says flatly. “I see. I ah, I see.”
I doubt it, I think. The man has thrown up in a trashcan, turned ten shades of white several times, and he’s still offering me food. Andrew motions to Chef Roswell to get moving and fortunately, he moves in Andrew’s direction. I walk to the hallway, grab my field bag, slide it across my chest, and glove up.
Once I’m back inside the kitchen, I walk straight to the refrigerator, open the door, and look for a jar of blood. There isn’t one. Of course not. That would make one of the people visiting our house tonight more obviously involved. It just never ends up that easy for me. I start walking the area, bagging samples of food, our salt and pepper shakers, and other random items, as I decide everything edible needs to go. I’m not sure how Emma died, but she was in the kitchen, water was in her hand, and that means she ate something that killed her, or she took medication.