Carolyn
Uncle Bernie was the same dear man I’d now met twice, first, on my initial trip to New York City to meet my editor and agent and on this trip, when I bought the silver velvet dress—well, the same dear man except that he now had glass in both sides of his spectacles. He’d gotten a deal on new glasses from a cousin—that’s the New York way, everything wholesale.
Of course, he was horrified to hear that the velvet dress had been soaked at the party, but he said if I sent it over, he’d see if he could steam it back into usability. At present it was still dripping on the floor in our bathroom. Velvet soaks up a lot of water.
Loretta’s uncle did congratulate me on my publicity coup. He had seen at least three news items on my flaming turkeys, and his niece was delighted with my good fortune. Since I considered the party a disaster, I had to wonder how much good sense Loretta had. Possibly none. This was the second time I’d heard her peculiar view of the event at Pettigrew’s.
I did find a lovely ice-blue gown that fit me perfectly and provided a hefty discount because Uncle Bernie said it wouldn’t sell well in winter. People wanted warmer colors when the temperatures were below freezing. I didn’t mind; the price was right, I was in a hurry, and I could brag to Jason about all the bargains I’d finagled from hardheaded New Yorkers.
So Uncle Bernie hung my dress in a plastic bag while I called the cabbie Ming cousin, who didn’t speak much English but could find a written address and gave a 10 percent discount, which I had to give back as a tip. The fact that I tipped him at all, when a family member referred me, evidently made him very happy. He displayed a wide smile, revealing several missing teeth. I considered tipping Mr. Ming 15 percent next time toward a visit to his dentist, although Jason thinks 10 is adequate in most cases. He’s probably the only person who thinks that these days.
“Looking for an evening gown?” I asked the three Chinesemen as I exited Uncle Bernie’s building. I could have taken a subway to Pettigrew’s for the meeting, but I wanted to get there early so I could speak to the knowledgeable Mrs. Christopher.
Since the police couldn’t find the chef, I hoped that Mrs. Christopher might be able to provide information, and she did. Evidently Franz had not run away from the consequences of his crime; he had simply gone to a chef’s conference in Atlantic City. She also told me that he had been very unhappy because the book launch kept him in New York during the first day of his conference. Furthermore, Mr. Claudius Pettigrew had cancelled the company’s Thanksgiving dinner for employees because he didn’t want to eat turkey again so soon. Franz prided himself on the wild turkey he always prepared for the annual affair and was reportedly very disappointed, even angry.
“Artistic people are so difficult,” Mrs. Christopher remarked. “Not that you don’t seem to be a sensible woman, Mrs. Blue. I’m sure you’re right in thinking that the flaming turkeys weren’t just a culinary mistake but rather the work of some ill-wisher.”
“So Franz might actually dislike me,” I mused. How strange it was that a man who really didn’t know me would go out of his way to take revenge for things that weren’t my fault. It wasn’t fair. I’d have to alert Mr. Cratchett and Luz to the chef as a suspect; not that they didn’t know I had considered him one before, but that was for a different reason.
Mrs. Christopher’s assistant popped her head into the office and reported that three young Asian gentlemen were sitting outside and wouldn’t reveal whom they wished to see. “They’re with me,” I said nonchalantly and told them, as I passed by, that the chef might be responsible for the coma of Li Cheng Bao’s granddaughter, if the culprit wasn’t the man with the tricycle, but I was now going to a meeting in another office in the same building to talk to the private detective. They had the good grace to look embarrassed, and why not? They had failed woefully to be inconspicuous in their bodyguard duties, or maybe bodyguards weren’t supposed to be. I’d never had one before, much less three.
I then hurried into the ladies’ room to change into my new evening dress because I was afraid that I wouldn’t have time to attend the meeting, get back to my hotel, change, and arrive at Casa Guanajuato in time for dinner. Luz had accepted the dinner invitation without consulting me. Not that I didn’t want to eat at Roberto’s restaurant, just not before the opera. And what was I going to do with the clothes I’d worn today, hold them in my lap during the performance? I also hated the idea of going to the opera without first taking a shower. What a traumatic week this was proving to be, and there were the bodyguards, lounging in the hall across from the ladies’. I hurried to the meeting room, already late.
“My dear,” said Mr. Pettigrew, “you didn’t have to dress for this meeting, although you look quite charming.” I explained that I intended to go from here to Roberto’s restaurant and then the performance of Rigoletto.
“Well, Abraham Cratchett will arrive momentarily. He just called to say there’s a subway slowdown where he transfers from Brooklyn to the track that takes him here. Don’t you find his name charming? Cratchett is so Dickensian. It was his name that initially convinced me to hire him when my nephew made the introduction several years ago. It was at a time when we had need of a private detective’s services.”
I didn’t find it very comforting that my fate might lie in the hands of a man chosen for a Dickensian surname.
“An employee was skimming royalties from the authors’ accounts. Very disappointing of him. We had to fire the fellow once Abraham ferreted him out. I don’t suppose, being a young person, you’re familiar with Dickens, but Cratchett was the name of—”
“My mother began to read me A Christmas Carol when I was a child,” I interrupted. Although it was nice to be thought young, I felt rather insulted that Mr. Pettigrew took me for an ill-read person. “But I became so eager to find out what happened that I took over reading it myself,” I continued. “Of course, Mother was there to help me with the Victorian words and to comfort me when the book made me cry.”
“Abraham’s mother is our editor and proofreader for the Judaica line, which is small, but, I feel, quite excellent,” said Mr. Pettigrew. “Mothers are such an important influence, and what a lovely story about your mother reading you Dickens. I do hope you keep in touch with her. Petronius was a terrible correspondent when he went off to Cambridge for his B. Litt. I will admit he took a first, which pleased me.”
Petey took a first at Cambridge? Now there was a surprise! “My mother died when I was about twelve,” I replied. “My father, who is a history professor, raised me and was more interested in history than Dickens.”
“Ah, that explains all the culinary history you included in your book. I found some of it quite entertaining. Abraham!” A young man with rumpled black hair, a heavy five-o’clock shadow, a long black coat, and earmuffs panted into the room. “Mrs. Blue, this is our house detective, Abraham Cratchett.”
After the introductions, Abraham removed his winter wear and announced that Petey had briefed him on the case. He dropped into a chair and began to question me. “Do you always flambé turkeys? I’ve never heard of that.”
I said no, I hadn’t previously heard of it either, but Roland had insisted.
Did I think that I might have mistakenly included anything that caused the conflagration?
That question was the clue that he intended to blame me. Had the publisher hired him for that very purpose, so all the lawsuits and charges would be directed my way? “Absolutely not,” I snapped. “I don’t like flambéing, so I tested the cognac before I used it on the turkeys. It was fine. The chef saw me doing that. When he returns, he can tell you.” But will he, I wondered, if he sabotaged the turkeys because he missed a day of his wretched conference? “Mrs. Christopher tells me that he’s gone to Atlantic City, but that he might have reason to dislike me, thus making him a suspect.”
“Oh, surely we don’t suspect Franz. He’s been cooking here for more than ten years,” Mr. Pettigrew objected.
“I think I’ll need to talk to Mr. DuPlessis first,” the detective decided.
Claudius Pettigrew frowned. “I doubt that Roland is a suspect. After all, he chose the author, commissioned the book, and even insisted on the book launch. Since it’s something we rarely do, I hardly think he’d want it to go poorly. I imagine the fact that he threw the first flaming turkey over the balcony was just a matter of bad judgment, or panic when he perceived such an unforeseen problem.”
“Petey threw the first turkey down,” I pointed out. “Roland just followed his example.”
“I should add that Roland had a heart attack after the police talked to him,” said Mr. Pettigrew. “He’s in the hospital.”
“I didn’t know that,” I gasped. If my editor tampered with the turkeys, no wonder police interrogation triggered a heart attack. “Is it serious?”
“Not fatal, at least, but not surprising either. Roland does not take good care of his health. He’s been warned repeatedly about his eating habits. Perhaps this unfortunate incident will convince him to mend his ways,” said Mr. Pettigrew.
“Would Mr. DuPlessis or anyone else that you can think of—an employee, an author, a competitor—have anything against you, Mr. Pettigrew, anything that might move them to sabotage the party?” Abraham asked, busily making notes on the answers to his questions.
After so long a period of thought that I had to glance at my watch to see how late I was going to be for dinner, Mr. Pettigrew said, “I really can’t think of anyone, unless some author whose book we rejected took offense, but there must be thousands of those.”
“Is anyone trying to buy you out?” asked Cratchett.
What an insightful idea, I thought. If someone managed to burn the building down, the business would take a serious drop in value and could be resituated somewhere less prestigious and less expensive.
Mr. Pettigrew laughed. “I haven’t had an offer in, oh, four or five years, and I do believe at this point everyone in the publishing world knows that I would rather close Pettigrew’s than sell it out of the family.”
Cratchett nodded. “In that case, I’ll continue checking the logs of people who entered and left the building on the day in question. Then there are the surveillance cameras to finish monitoring, and I’ll need to interview everyone who was in the kitchen after Mrs. Blue prepared the turkeys and left for the day.”
Obviously our private detective had more than a Dickensian name to recommend him. “I’ll help you,” I said promptly. “I’ve had some experience with detection, and you know Luz, who’s already lending you assistance, is an ex-policewoman. I’ll be at the opera tonight, but I’ll be available tomorrow and until this is cleared up.”
“But solving the problem is what Mr. Pettigrew pays me to do,” Cratchett objected mildly.
“And no one has more at stake here than I. I’m innocent of any wrongdoing and want it known as soon as possible, so you can count on me.” I looked at my watch, which read 5:45 P.M. “I must leave. I’m going to be late for dinner.”
“Not to worry, my dear,” said Mr. Pettigrew. “My driver will take you.”
“Do you think he can get me to Casa Guanajuato in fifteen minutes?” I asked.
“I’m sure he can, my dear.” Mr. Pettigrew looked at his watch, a pocket watch no less. He really was a dear, quaint man, now that I didn’t suspect him of wanting to shuffle all the blame off on me. He called downstairs to the driver, and I left within minutes, relieved to be free, but wondering if I should have stayed to hear what they had to say. Mr. Cratchett had remained in his seat.
The bodyguards were still in attendance, so I told them that I had a responsible driver to take me to the restaurant where I was to have dinner, and my host would drive us to the opera and home, so they could feel free take the evening off.
“You don’t tell us what to do,” said the one who had followed me into the jade shop.