Six

“Oz!” Mel yelled, and she ran towards him.

Joe grabbed her by the elbow, slowing her up. “You help Oz, and I’ll check the chef.”

Mel nodded. She ran around the body to get to Oz. His hands were covered in blood and he was shaking.

The door on the opposite side of the kitchen crashed open and the sous chef, Ashley, stood there. She took in the scene at a glance and shrieked the rafters down. “Chef! Chef! What’s happening? Chef!”

“Quiet!” Joe snapped at her as he crouched beside Miles, placing his fingers at the base of his throat. He dropped his hand, looking grim.

In the silence, Ashley pointed a well-manicured finger at Oz and screeched, “You! You killed him!”

Oz blanched, his face going pale. He turned to Mel and hissed, “I just came into the kitchen, I swear, and I found him like this. I think he slipped and fell.”

Mel glanced past Oz at Miles. He was lying on his right side. His face, what she could see of it, was covered in blood and it had pooled beneath his head. Mel felt her stomach churn as the distinctive coppery smell hit her nose.

Joe put his hand on Miles’s chest. Joe’s face was grim. “Call 9-1-1.”

Mel fumbled for her phone. She stared at it, trying to remember how to make a call. Nine-one-one was not computing.

Joe rolled Miles fully onto his back. Something was lodged under him and Joe lifted his shoulder and pulled out a wooden mallet, the kind used to tenderize meat. He began trying to revive him, using CPR, counting out the chest compressions as he went. He glanced at Mel and said, “It’s okay, cupcake. You can do this.”

Mel blinked, shook her head to focus, and opened the phone icon on her cell and dialed 9-1-1. It was difficult to talk with Oz beside her, trembling, and Ashley, still shrieking a constant, “Oh my god. He’s dead. Oh my god!”

More staff appeared in the kitchen and stood, watching in horror as Joe tried to get Miles’s heart started. The dispatcher answered and Mel went into fact mode.

A man had been found unconscious, with an apparent head injury, he was nonresponsive. She gave the address and waited while the dispatcher sent an ambulance to the resort. Joe was muttering to Miles while he worked on him. Sweat was beading up on Joe’s forehead and he was looking tired.

One of the line cooks, a robust Black man, stepped forward and crouched down beside Joe. “I know CPR, brother, let me give it a try.”

His voice was deep with a thick, rich drawl that sounded like Georgia or maybe North Carolina. Joe moved aside and the muscular man stepped in. He was direct, putting one hand over the other and pushing down on Miles’s rib cage, hard enough to crack it. Mel winced even as she knew it was likely Miles’s only shot.

Everyone stood still, watching the big man work, hoping he could bring the chef back. There was no response. Miles didn’t cringe or wince or give any indication that he was feeling anything that was happening to him. That’s when Mel knew. There was no saving him. Miles Gallway was dead.

---

“How is it that you two just happened to be here when a chef was found dead?” Stan Cooper, Scottsdale homicide detective and Mel’s uncle, was pacing back and forth across the dining room. He had taken a roll of antacid tablets and was popping them like they were Pez. “And, you, what were you doing with the body?”

This last bit was directed at Oz. He was seated at a small table with Mel and Joe and staring at his shoes as if he could find the answers to the universe in the scuffed toes and frayed laces.

“Uncle Stan, go easy on him,” Mel said. “He found Miles in his kitchen. He’s a little freaked out.”

Uncle Stan stopped pacing and stared at Oz. “Sorry. You okay, kid?”

At this, Oz glanced up. He met Uncle Stan’s gaze and gave a quick nod. It was a brave showing, because Mel could see that he was still trembling a bit and his eyes were wide, his face pale, and he hadn’t said a word since Joe had started giving Miles chest compressions. Both he and Henry, the name of the man who had helped Joe, had moved aside for the EMTs when they arrived. The medics had jumped in but there was nothing to be done. As Mel had suspected, Miles Gallway was dead and judging by the dent in his skull and the pool of blood he’d been lying in, he’d been murdered.

The thought made Mel shiver. She couldn’t pretend to have liked Miles Gallway. He was a bully and everything she loathed in a chef, driven by ego and unchecked power in his kitchen. Still, no one deserved such a horrible and grisly death. Not even an egomaniacal gasbag like Gallway.

“As for why we were here, we were just here to consult about the reception,” Mel said. “We finished meeting with Courtney, she can verify, and then came to the kitchen to say hi to Oz.”

She didn’t mention that they were there to run interference in case Gallway came after Oz for taking his television spot. It wasn’t relevant, or so she told herself, because there was no way Oz had harmed Gallway and she wasn’t going to give Uncle Stan any reason to suspect Oz, beyond his finding the body, which had to be just sheer bad luck.

At the mention of their wedding, Uncle Stan looked momentarily misty-eyed. Mel had asked him to give her away with her mother, Joyce, and to her surprise he had gotten weepy and been unable to speak. Joe had assured her it was a good thing and that Uncle Stan was honored as opposed to horrified.

Things were complicated in the Cooper family. Mel’s father, Charlie, had passed away when she was in her early twenties, leaving Mel, her mother, Joyce, and her brother, Charlie Junior, devastated.

Her dad, Charlie Cooper, had been larger than life. He loved his family, red meat, stinky cigars, and a couple fingers of single-malt scotch, in that order. He was always quick with a joke and gave the best hugs, real two-arm bear hugs, that let the huggee know that he loved them all the way down to his squishy center. There was not a day of her life that passed that Mel didn’t miss her father, especially his big booming laugh, the sort that made you laugh with him whether you thought the joke was funny or not.

It had been over ten years since Charlie’s departure to the big distillery in the sky, and Uncle Stan, who had never married or had kids, had stepped in as a father figure to Mel and Charlie and had looked after Joyce. Recently, Joyce and Stan’s relationship had changed into a romantic one. Mel was still wrapping her head around it, even as it seemed appropriate. Uncle Stan gave the same bear hugs as her dad, which had been the greatest comfort to her after her father passed. And he always had her back—no matter what happened, Uncle Stan was there for her.

“Your reception, right,” Uncle Stan said. His eyes were still watery and he blinked a few times. He looked like that every time the wedding was mentioned, and Mel wondered how he was going to get through the day without breaking down completely. It was equal parts endearing and alarming.

His voice was gruff when he continued, “Okay, that makes sense.” He turned to Oz. “What were you doing in the kitchen with him?”

Oz’s eyes were huge. Mel reached over and patted his arm. “Just tell Uncle Stan exactly what happened. It’s okay.”

“Your attorney is with you,” Joe said. He gave Oz and then Stan a meaningful look.

“You’re a prosecutor,” Uncle Stan said. He made a low rumbling noise in his chest, at which Joe shrugged.

“At the moment, I am Oz’s representation,” Joe said.

“Do you think he needs that?” Uncle Stan countered.

“No, but still, I have the skills so . . .” Joe shrugged.

Oz glanced between them as if watching a Ping-Pong match. He seemed unclear as to who the winner was. Mel shook her head.

“Just tell Uncle Stan what happened,” she said. “Joe will step in if you need him.”

Oz nodded. He swallowed hard and then said, “I was in the walk-in cooler, preparing to feed the Beast.”

Stan held up a hand, “Stop. Beast? Who or what is the Beast, and what’s it doing in a restaurant’s cooler?”

“Sorry. That’s our sourdough,” Oz explained. “You use a starter to get it going and then you have to feed it water and flour every day until it’s ready. It’s like a living thing, so we call it ‘the Beast.’”

“Did anyone see you feeding it?” Stan asked.

“No, everyone else was out on the loading dock, helping with a delivery, but my bread guy, Tomas, can verify that I add to the Beast every day. He and I are the only two who touch it and he’d be able to look at it and know I fed it, as it doubles after a feeding when it’s ready to bake, and ours should double today,” Oz said. He looked thoughtful. “Except he’s on vacation right now.”

Uncle Stan nodded. “We’ll worry about that later. Continue.”

“I got finished with the Beast and came into the kitchen and washed my hands. I was just drying them when I saw Miles on the floor. Well, technically, I saw his shoes. I came around the corner and there he was. I thought he’d fallen and cracked his head. I grabbed a towel to sop up the blood and tried to rouse him without moving him, because it was clearly a head injury, but he didn’t wake up. I was just going to call for help when Joe and Mel appeared.”

“So, how long would you say you were with him?” Uncle Stan asked.

“I don’t know,” Oz said. “Time was moving really weird at that point. Maybe a minute, possibly two, but I was in the kitchen washing my hands for a few minutes before.”

“What was your relationship with Miles?” Uncle Stan asked.

“And now we’re done,” Joe said. “That has no relevance to Oz finding Miles on the kitchen floor.”

Joe had witnessed Miles’s abusive behavior towards Oz previously and Mel had enlightened him about Oz taking Miles’s place on the television show this morning. She wanted to ask Oz if he knew why Miles hadn’t shown up, but she didn’t want to mention it in front of Uncle Stan and give him the idea that there was bad blood between Oz and Miles. Just because they’d had a kitchen squabble didn’t mean they were enemies. Chefs fought all the time, but she knew people outside the industry didn’t understand it.

“Doesn’t it?” Uncle Stan asked. “As I understand it, the baking kitchen is Oz’s domain. Why was Miles Gallway in there?” He looked at Oz, who wisely said nothing. “Miles has his own kitchen, doesn’t he?”

“Yes, but he’s the chef de cuisine,” Mel said. “So, he’s technically in charge of all kitchen operations, including Oz’s.”

“So, he’s your boss?” Uncle Stan persisted.

“I prefer supervisor,” Oz said.

Uncle Stan stared at him with one fuzzy gray eyebrow raised higher than the other. If he was getting the inkling that there was no love lost between Oz and Gallway, which Mel was quite certain the sous chef, Ashley, would be sure to confirm, he didn’t say so.

“Detective,” a uniformed officer called to Stan from the kitchen door. “The crime scene investigators would like a word.”

“Be right there,” Uncle Stan said. He gave the officer a brisk nod and the uniform disappeared. He glanced back at Oz and asked, “Between you and me, do you know of anyone who would want to harm Miles Gallway?”

Oz froze. He looked like Uncle Stan had just kicked his knees out from under him. Mel wanted to jump in before he could say anything that might incriminate himself but she also didn’t want to look like she was afraid of his answer.

“Professional kitchens are volatile on their mellowest days,” Joe said. His voice was even as if he weren’t trying to preemptively poke holes in Uncle Stan’s question. “I’m sure things are said by the heat of the grill that don’t mean anything at the end of the day. Would you say that’s correct, Oz?”

Oz nodded. “Sure. It can get pretty intense.”

“So, there’s really no way Oz can accurately answer that question,” Joe said. “Right, Oz?”

“It would be hearsay,” Oz said. He glanced at Joe. “That’s the right word, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Joe said.

Stan gave them a look of chagrin. “Fine. Wait here. I need to check in with my team, but I may have more questions.”

He strode towards the kitchen and Mel watched him go, feeling terrible that they were on the opposite side of things at the moment. Because there was no doubt that Oz would be considered a suspect, and Mel would do whatever it took to prove her friend’s innocence. She knew it didn’t look good for Oz to have Miles dead in his kitchen, especially given Miles’s animosity towards Oz, which had probably escalated since Oz took his spot on television that morning. She had no doubt that someone was going to tell all, making Oz look like a prime suspect.

As soon as Stan was out of range, she asked Joe, “What do we do?”

“We let the police do their job,” he said. “We help them in any way we can, but we don’t offer up Oz as a sacrifice to the wheels of justice.”

“I really don’t like my name and the word sacrifice in the same sentence,” Oz said.

“Understandable,” Joe said. “But that scene with Miles storming into the kitchen the other day was witnessed by enough people that someone is going to tell Stan and then you’re going to have questions to answer.”

Mel glanced at Oz, who looked like he might be ill.

“But I would never . . .” he said.

“We know, Oz,” Mel assured him. She made her voice firm. She didn’t want him to have any doubts. “Don’t worry. Joe is going to make sure you’re not a suspect. Right, Joe?”

Joe glanced at Oz and said, “Absolutely. You really don’t need to be concerned. Stan knows you and he knows you didn’t have anything to do with what happened to Miles. It’s going to be okay.”

He put enough lawyerly oomph on the words that Oz’s shoulders dropped and he took a deep breath. “Okay.”

Mel glanced around the dining room. Uncle Stan’s partner, Tara Martinez, was deep in conversation with Clay Perry. Clay looked distraught and Mel wondered if he was more upset that he’d lost a renowned chef or that Miles was dead. Then she immediately felt bad for the uncharitable thought. Clay had seemed like an affable guy. Although, Miles had certainly put him through it. She wondered if Clay’d had enough and lost his temper with the chef. He was a golfer, maybe he had a righteous swing.

“What are you thinking?” Joe asked.

“That Clay Perry, the owner, might have had a motive,” she said.

“Like what?” Joe asked.

“Annoyance is the first thing that comes to mind,” she conceded. “Probably not enough to commit murder on that alone.”

Mel glanced back at the owner and noted the woman standing behind him, scrolling through the phone she held in one hand while holding a martini in the other. Everyone else in the room was either dressed in chef clothes, golf attire, or business casual. Not this woman. She was wearing a red string bikini and stiletto sandals with a sheer flowing beach cover-up that looked more like something to wear over a negligee. Her hair was pulled back in a messy bun and her sunglasses were perched on top of her head. Her skin was a very deep shade of sun-enhanced bronze and Mel suspected her life was spent poolside, as this was the sort of tan in which hours were invested.

“The woman beside him?” Mel asked, although she already suspected.

“That would be Mrs. Perry,” Oz said.

Mel nodded. Just as she figured.

Mrs. Perry looked up from her phone at her husband. She tipped her head in the direction of the resort and the pool beyond and he shook his head no in refusal. She heaved a very dramatic sigh, made a bored face, and went back to her phone. Clearly the pesky death of the resort’s executive chef was of no interest to her.

“What about the guy over there? Who’s he?” Joe pointed to a man in the corner of the room. He was prowling around his area with the restless energy of a caged big cat. He was bald with round glasses and a dress shirt and skinny jeans that oozed into a pair of combat boots.

“That’s Simon Marconi,” Oz said. “He’s the producer who is scouting talent for the Foodie Channel. Supposedly, he was hoping to resurrect Miles Gallway’s television career.”

“Didn’t Gallway get fired for being inappropriate with some of the staff on his show?” Mel asked. She had done some research on the chef after their altercation last week.

“Marconi felt like he was due for a comeback,” Oz said. He shrugged as if he had no idea how the producer had come to that conclusion.

They sat silently, watching the television producer pace. He was stopped by people occasionally, and he acknowledged them with a terse nod but he didn’t pause to chat.

“Well, someone didn’t think it was time,” Joe said.

Mel couldn’t argue with that. From what she knew of the very brief time she’d spent with Gallway, she didn’t think he warranted the time of day, never mind a television career. That being said, she didn’t believe he, or anyone, deserved to be murdered. Let him live his life out in shame with no glory, sure, but not murder. Of course this was assuming he had been murdered. She supposed that was what Uncle Stan and the crime scene unit would determine.

“Did either of you notice a weapon of any kind?” Mel asked. She kept her voice low so that no one around them could hear.

Oz shook his head. “I only saw him and a whole lot of blood.”

“Maybe,” Joe said. “When I went to move him, there was a wooden mallet under his shoulder.”

Mel snapped her fingers. “That’s right, the meat tenderizer.”

Oz’s eyes went wide. “Why would that be in the baking kitchen? We don’t use those.”

“Exactly,” Joe said. “The only reason that would have been under his body was because someone used it on him or maybe he was using it to defend himself.”

“A crime of passion, then,” Mel said. “I can’t imagine anyone put much thought into killing him if they just grabbed a meat tenderizer and walloped him with it.”

“So much blood,” Oz said. He sounded queasy.

Both he and Joe looked down at their hands. They’d cleaned up after the EMTs had arrived but Mel knew they could feel it still there on their skin. The same thing had happened to her once when she found a dead man in a ball pit, and sometimes she still dreamed about it. There was no recovering from finding someone murdered. It stayed with you as you pondered their last moments, what they were thinking, feeling, or doing. Were they frightened, angry, or taken by surprise? The endless loop of questions never stopped. She shivered.

Joe immediately put his hand on Mel’s back in a comforting gesture. She leaned into it. It was one of those silent moments of communication that they had come to share. It was this bond, this simple understanding of each other, that made her more certain than ever that marrying Joe was the best decision of her life.

She had crushed on him since she was twelve and he was sixteen, but he hadn’t noticed her until she was a grown-up. Oh, he said he’d recognized that she was going to be a knockout when she was a teenager, but by then he was already in college, living a different life as he pursued a career in the law. It hadn’t been until Mel opened up the bakery that Joe had reappeared in her life as he stopped in to visit his sister, Angie, and mooch a cupcake or two.

The bakery had given Mel many things. The achievement of her dream of being a chef, financial independence, and the ability to work with her best friends, but the most significant thing it had brought into her life was the return of Joe. For that, she would be ever grateful.

“Why are you asking me all these questions?” a voice snapped.

Mel glanced across the room to see Ashley standing with Clay Perry, Uncle Stan, and Detective Martinez. The young woman had her hands on her hips in a belligerent stance.

“We’re just trying to establish what happened,” Uncle Stan said. He was using his calmest talk-the-angry-person-down voice.

Ashely didn’t respond well. In a shrill voice that had a bit of a slur in it, she continued, “Questions, questions, questions! Everyone knows who killed Miles Gallway. It’s the same person he had a fight with last week, and he’s sitting right over there.”

She turned and pointed right at Oz.