“I need to talk to Chef Roswell,” I say, walking past Kane and going inside the house.
I find him in the kitchen, still busy at work. “Dinner will go on,” he declares. “I don’t know what the hell Naomi just pulled, but I do apologize.”
I find it odd that he stayed in the kitchen, rather than attending to whatever issue his employee created. Kane apparently does as well. He steps to my side and says, “Chef Roswell,” his words heavily accented which I know to be by intent. I’ve learned that when Kane means business, he lays it on thick. And he knows very well that’s when they think of him being his father’s son. “Let’s put dinner on hold and have a conversation.”
Chef Roswell looks between me and Kane, turning off a burner beneath a pot as he does. “Oh, holy hell. Did she steal something?” He grabs a towel. “And I apologize. I was trying to save your dinner.”
“How well do you know her?” Kane presses.
“As I mentioned when I arrived,” he replies, “she was a last-minute replacement of my scheduled sous chef. I’ve never worked with her before. Did she steal something?” he presses again.
“Did the service send her?” I ask.
“That’s what Naomi told me,” he says. “She called right as I arrived in the Hamptons and told me she was here to replace Michael, the scheduled chef. He wanted to be with his family today, so I’d told him if he decided not to come, just make sure I have a backup. I assumed that’s what happened. What is going on?”
“I sensed tension between the two of you,” I say. “What was that?”
He clears his throat. “She was immediately hands-on, and by hands-on, I mean on me. I quickly figured out that she was distracting me from her lack of experience. She didn’t understand basic prep. I’d have called the service, but it was a little late for changes. Obviously, I should have.”
Something about his explanation doesn’t sit right. Kane’s cellphone rings and he motions toward the living room. I nod and walk to the opposite side of the island across from the chef, and meet his stare. “Are you aware that I’m with the FBI?”
Surprise slides over his face. “No. No, I had no idea.”
“Naomi is now a person of interest in a murder investigation,” I inform him.
He pales. “Murder?”
“Yes,” I say. “Murder. Call the sous chef that was supposed to be here. I need to know he’s okay.”
“Right. Of course. I wish I understood what was going on, but yes. Now I do as well.” He yanks off his gloves and tosses them in the trash before he grabs his phone from his pocket to dial.
“On speaker,” I instruct. “No need to freak him out right now. Just check in with him. I’ll contact him again if it’s needed. What’s his name?”
“Michael Young,” he says, and then he does as instructed, hitting a contact icon and then the speaker button. The caller ID tells me they know each other fairly well and I’m a bit surprised the service would get in between their communication.
The line rings three times before I hear, “Chef Roswell.”
At Michael’s voice, the chef’s shoulders relax with an obvious punch of relief. I believe the chef truly was worried.
“I was going to call you,” Michael continues. “Thank you for letting me take today off. My mother is overjoyed.”
“I wish I could take credit,” Chef Roswell replies. “I was told you cancelled.”
“Cancelled?” Michael asks, sounding genuinely confused. “I wouldn’t do that to you. What’s going on over there at the service?”
“Do you know who called you?” the chef asks.
“I can’t remember her name,” he says. “It wasn’t the normal person I talk with. I’m sorry I deserted you. I’d never do that. Are you screwed right now? I mean, damn, man. I can’t get there in time to make a difference.”
“I’ve got things under control,” he says. “I just wanted to check on you and tell you Happy Thanksgiving. I need you at that wedding next weekend, though.”
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.