People looked to me for a response, but I kept quiet.
Giving up on me, Barbara elaborated on what she’d been saying. “And it depends on what happens now. If Mr. T seems appropriately upset but continues to do interviews and press about this story and acts like he was the victim here, too, it might work for him. Now everyone knows about his restaurant, and if he’s smart, he can turn the focus onto promoting the food, the staff, the location, et cetera.”
“That’s not a bad theory,” I said excitedly. Tim had been all over the news last week, tearfully talking about how wonderful Eric had been. Tim had lied: anyone who’d ever met Eric had known he was obnoxious and arrogant. “Except for the fact that Mr. T honestly just seems like a guy devoted to his restaurant and his food and his customers. He doesn’t seem like a murderer.”
“Of course he doesn’t,” Barbara said. “He has to come off like that. Murderers don’t usually walk around flailing guns and knives about. But your chef, he admitted to not being perfect. He acknowledged that he tried to hinder the competition by giving its chef partial recipes and leaving out ingredients. He was honest. He admitted that he’d done something unfriendly, let’s say, or competitive, but not murderous. Same thing with Mr. T’s ex-wife, Mrs. M. She sounds tough, but she’s so
outwardly
tough and true to herself that she has nothing to hide. She’s got control of her life, while Mr. T is having to start fresh after the divorce and is probably more desperate for success. He left a great situation business-wise and has everything riding on this new place. Considering the circumstances, I think Mr. T is acting a little too perfect.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” I said slowly. “I hadn’t thought of that at all. Mr. T did rush in and come off like a hero when he tried to ‘save’ Mr. Dough. And he got his fingerprints all over everything.”
Professor Buckley finally spoke up. “I’d like to hear how the class feels about the fact that Chloe has dominated this conversation today. What does that say about her and the kind of participant she is in a group setting? Are we, as a whole, resentful?” We all ignored him and continued with our theorizing.
I turned back to Barbara. “But why kill off a potential investor? If he’s so driven to make his restaurant succeed, why get rid of a source of income?” I asked. “Is that less important than publicity?”
“Good question. But you don’t know everything about their relationship. It does sound like Mr. Dough was becoming more of an annoyance than a great investor. He latched onto this group of restaurant owners and their world, and he was intrusive and bossy and generally made a pest of himself. And how do you know that Mr. Dough was really going to invest, anyway? Maybe he was so desperate to work himself into this crowd of people he obviously admired so much that he only pretended he was going to get involved. He certainly doesn’t sound like the most personable person. Maybe he was desperate for friends.”
I nodded enthusiastically. “Now that I think about it, it does seem like, uh, my date had been toying a bit with Mr. T, you know, getting as many free meals as he could, acting like he ran the place, ordering the staff around. And at the same time that he was yabbering about all the money he had to invest . . . I don’t know, but he also seemed like a pretty serious cheapskate. Maybe he wouldn’t have wanted to part with his precious money if he wasn’t going to be guaranteed a return.”
“Again,” began our exasperated professor, “let’s shift the focus to the current dynamics in this room. To what’s going on right now. What processes are present here?” He looked around hopelessly. “All right, let’s take a break. Everyone back here in ten minutes.”
Doug caught up with me in the hall. “I knew you were going to be trouble when I found you in the bookstore. Good group work today, Chloe.”
I smiled. I was beginning to enjoy Group Therapy. So far we’d cast suspicion off Josh and onto other possible suspects. Unfortunately, when the class resumed, Professor Buckley slipped out of his nondirective role by insisting that we quit talking about the murder, and then a lot of students got annoyed with him, so the remainder of the class was somewhat satisfying in terms of group process but disappointing with regard to exonerating Josh.
Still, the class had been productive. As soon as it ended, I went home to call Detective Hurley and let him know what my social work cohorts and I had come up with.
Detective Hurley miraculously picked up after the first ring. “Aren’t you supposed to be out catching criminals?” I asked him.
“Yeah, theoretically. Only this case isn’t moving as quickly as I’d hoped. Did you remember something that could help?” he asked.
“Well, I’ve been talking to Josh, and I have the impression that he’s your main suspect right now. But I definitely don’t think he did it.”
Hurley groaned. “Let me guess. You and Josh are . . .” He didn’t bother to finish the sentence.
“Well, yeah. No, not exactly. But listen,” and I ran through my social work class’s alternative theories. “I suggest you look at Tim and at Eric’s parents. I didn’t see Tim during the
exact
moment Eric was murdered. And his parents are whacked, if you want my opinion. Where were
they
that night?” I also stressed that Josh had been up-front about sabotaging Garrett’s food, and I dished out some of my classmates’ theories about restaurant promotion, parental pathology in relation to an emotionally distant son, and so forth.
“Chloe, I can’t tell you who to spend your time with, but I’d advise you to stay away from all suspicious parties. You don’t have any connection to these people. Leave it that way.”
But Detective Hurley was wrong. I
was
connected to Josh.
TWELVE
I called Josh late Thursday morning after class. I wasn’t trying to follow any rules about calling or not calling within a certain number of days since I thought that was all a bunch of BS.
“Hey, cutie! How are you?” he said cheerily.
“I’m good. I just got home from class, and I thought I’d check in with you about Friday night. Is it still okay if we come in for dinner?”
“Of course. You’re going to bring your friends Adrianna and Owen, right?”
“If that’s okay with you. I’m sure the restaurant will be swamped on a Friday night. I don’t want us to be in the way.”
“Not at all. I told Maddie you were coming in, and she’s going to have places set up for you at the kitchen. We’ve got an open kitchen like Essence does, but I hope you’ll have a better time at Magellan than you did there. So, what’ve you been up to the past few days?”
I told him about visiting with my parents and sister, and my idiotic field placement. I left out the discussion I’d had in group therapy. Why ruin the conversation by mentioning that he was a murder suspect?
Josh thought my father’s crabfest story was hysterical. “You want me to make you soft shell crabs? This is your last chance before the season’s over.”
“That would be wonderful. Ade and I love soft shell crabs. But Owen has some sort of seafood phobia that dates to a bad shrimp he ate ten years ago. He hasn’t eaten anything that’s lived in the ocean since,” I said apologetically.
“No problem. I’ll make him something else, and you girls can have soft shells, okay?”
According to BCGSSW’s policy on avoiding nonsexist language,
girl
was an unacceptable term for someone over the age of eighteen. Suggested nonsexist terms included
female adolescent
and
woman.
Obviously,
You adolescent females can have soft shells
wouldn’t do at all.
You women can have soft shells?
Possibly. But for really good soft shells, I’d have been willing to tolerate even egregiously sexist language, particularly because Josh, however manly, struck me as more boyish than as adolescently male, and his use of “girls” was clearly intended to convey affection.
“I don’t want to be a bother . . .” I started.
“Stop. I want you to have anything you want on Friday.” Hm. Double meaning there? I hoped so.
We hung up and, even though I had a full day ahead of reading about the atrocities of the health-care crisis in this country, I did a happy dance around the kitchen.
On Friday, Adrianna showed up precisely at three. For a minute I thought she might be going out of town: she had a three-piece luggage set with her. I looked at her questioningly.
“Supplies.” She smiled. She lugged the suitcases into my room and started unzipping them. “Now, I wasn’t sure what you’d be in the mood for, so I brought a little of everything.”
I sat down on the rug as Ade began showing me various outfit options for the night. Even though she was skinnier and leggier than I was, she wore her clothing even tighter and shorter than I did, so her things usually fit me well enough. “Okay,” she said. “Strapless black knee-length dress?”
I shook my head violently. “Not unless I want to be flashing my boobs at Josh while he cooks.”
“So, we’ll save that for your next date?”
“Ha-ha. Keep going. And nothing white. You know I’ll spill food on myself.”
We ran through a few more outfits before we settled on a stretchy, short-sleeved pale green top and a matching short skirt with tiny flowers.
“Now we’re highlighting your hair,” she announced. “Your roots are disgusting.”
I could always count on her for honesty, if not for tact.
Adrianna spent the next hour weaving chunks of my hair into completely unflattering foil sheets. “If my hair turns green, I’m going to kill you,” I threatened.
“Shut up. I’ve done this a million times. Besides, would I ever make you look like a freak? It would reflect badly on me.” She giggled and continued to torture me.
When she’d finished glopping on the vile-smelling chemicals, I stood up and looked in the mirror. Aluminum foil stuck out all over my head. “This was not at all what I was going for,” I moaned pitifully. With my luck, Noah would show up at the door any moment and I’d have to answer it like this.
“Then don’t look in the mirror until I’m done.”
Within an hour, the foil and glop were gone. So were the dark roots. As if by magic, I had snazzy highlights in my red hair. After I’d showered and dried off, Ade blew my hair out. Twenty-five minutes of yanking, I was done. As she rubbed a defrizzing serum through my smooth style, she said, “It’s a tiny bit humid out tonight, and I do
not
want you frizzing up. Now,” she ordered, “start your makeup while I get dressed.”
I turned on the oldies station while we finished beautifying ourselves. I listened to Adrianna sing along to “Don’t Pull Your Love (Out)” and was satisfied to realize that she was completely tone deaf. Ha! One thing she wasn’t good at!
When she’d finished getting dressed, I said, “You don’t look like yourself.” She had on the kind of boring, conservative outfit she never wore—gray dress pants and a long-sleeved, button-down white shirt—and her newly brown hair was pulled back in a low ponytail. I should have felt insulted. “I know what you’re doing,” I said, “and you don’t need to. I’m not worried about Josh trying to pounce on you. I want you to look like
you
again. Wild and hot. Okay?”
“This is your night, and I didn’t want you to think I was trying to . . . can I go back to blonde tomorrow?”
I nodded and hugged her. “You’d better. Now, put on something low-cut, skimpy, and sexy, okay?”
“Yay! Chloe’s back! This Josh Driscoll must be something special if you’re so relaxed and happy,” she teased. “And I’m ready for a margarita.”
I blended up our drinks while she changed into a fuchsia tank dress, shook her hair out, and applied more makeup. “We’ve got half an hour before Owen gets here,” she said, “so I say we drink up and discuss your love life a little more.” She leaned in to me and whispered, “Did you shave your legs?”
Two strong drinks later, Owen picked us up in his beat-up Blazer, which was possibly the ugliest car I’d ever seen, dark brown with yellow stripes on the sides. “Ugly and reliable, just like me!” Owen always said. Please. He was gorgeous. Very Irish looking, Owen had fair skin, dark hair, and bright blue eyes. He and Adrianna actually made a strange-looking couple, since she was always glamorous and style conscious, and he bought most of what he wore at a vintage clothing store in Harvard Square. We jumped into the Blazer, and Owen hit the gas.