“Correct.”
Corcoran purses her lips again, confused. I feel my breath quicken a little. There’s something about the pad and the pen and her creased brow that’s so evocative, thrusting me momentarily back to my hospital room in Massachusetts, where a state trooper pumped me for details about the accident as my head felt ready to explode.
“And you’re sure about that?” she asks.
“Sure of it?” I don’t really understand what she’s getting at.
“Sure she claimed to work for Ms. Blazer.”
“Well, she didn’t out-and-out say, I work for Eve Blazer, but she implied that. She said Eve wanted me to come down.”
“I see.”
“Are you having trouble finding her?”
“You could say that. We’ve spoken to every woman who works for Pure Kitchen Catering, and not one of them says she called you.”
Chapter 9
I start to blurt out my surprise at this news and catch myself. An internal pinging warns me to wait a beat, to answer carefully. I root through my memory, searching for any relevant detail from the phone conversation that will clarify matters, but come up empty.
“I got the impression that she was an assistant or helper,” I say, “or even one of the women I saw working in the kitchen when I went down there. But maybe it’s something else.”
“Like what, do you think?”
“Maybe . . . maybe she’s a freelancer, not a full-time employee. I don’t know. Or a friend. I suppose the chef could have asked a friend to make the call.”
Corcoran entwines her fingers, with the two pointers straight up, steeple-style, and then taps them to her lips as she considers my comment.
“A friend,” she says, letting the word just hang there for a moment. “Kind of odd to have a friend make the call.”
This whole situation is making no sense. Could one of the women in the kitchen be lying? And then I remember.
“Oh, wait, I have a record of the phone call, of course. She called my cell.”
I dig in my purse for my phone and scroll through the log. It occurs to me that the catering company may have a landline, and the caller could have used that to reach me, but at least there’ll be a record of it.
I find the number easily enough because I’ve barely used my phone since then. The call came in at 9:17 Saturday morning.
“Here it is,” I say, flipping the screen toward Corcoran. “Do you want me to jot it down?”
“No, thanks, I’ve got it.” She picks a pen from a ceramic mug that reads “Caffè Lena, Good Folk Since 1960” and copies the number.
“And when she called, she didn’t give a name, not even a first one?”
I’ve answered this question twice already, both today and on Saturday.
“Like I said, I don’t believe she mentioned it, and if she did, I wasn’t paying attention. I do remember she sounded young, with kind of a baby-doll voice. I asked her if it was about the money and she said she didn’t know, but I assumed that it had to be.”
I’m blathering. But her tone is unnerving. It hints that I’ve created an annoying wrinkle in the investigation or I’m not being completely transparent. I think again of the state trooper in my hospital room, the annoying cock of his head that suggested I was holding back information.
“Let’s jump back to that for moment. The money. It went missing on Thursday night, right? At a party Ms. Blazer catered.”
Okay, I shared this with Corcoran on Saturday, too, and she’s got it all scribbled down in that little notebook of hers. But maybe the case is pointing toward one of the waiters and she’s being careful to dot all her i’s.
“Yes, that’s right.”
“What kind of party was it? Big, small?”
“A dinner party. For seven people.”
“Did you give the party yourself?”
“Well, with my husband. He works for the opera company here.”
“And during the party, did Ms. Blazer interact with any of the guests?”
She holds my gaze, her eyes almost hooded by the weight of her thick dark brows. Oh please, I pray to myself, don’t let her ask for the names of the guests.
“No. She was in the kitchen the entire time.” I hold my breath, as if that could freeze her need to keep barreling down this road.
Corcoran slides her gaze back to her notes without moving her head and momentarily purses her lips. “I believe you said that when you noticed the money was missing, the waiters were still there, but you didn’t speak to them about it.”
So I’ve dodged the dinner-guest bullet, it seems—at least for now. I exhale slowly, hoping my relief isn’t obvious.
“No. I wanted to go through the house later and make sure that I hadn’t actually put the cash someplace else. Though I was nearly positive I hadn’t.”
“And when the money didn’t turn up, you decided to contact Eve Blazer directly. According to the two women who assisted her in the kitchen, you arrived at about ten. Did you call first?”