I caught a glimpse of him as I was putting the finishing touches to a couple of desserts.
I muttered something under my breath.
"Are you okay?" Cass asked, stepping over and peering out in a very non-inconspicuous way. "Oh."
"Yeah, oh," I said, tidying up the plates and sliding in a couple of spoons.
I handed them over to Shelly, who hurried away with them.
"Chef St. James." Getzoff strode over to the kitchen like he owned the place. "Looks like you have a busy night here."
I glanced up at him as I grabbed another couple of bowls and started spooning dessert into them.
"Very busy. Have you come for more of the lasagna?" I asked. "Or maybe I could tempt you with dessert?"
I ignored Cass’ glance at my face at the use of the word ‘tempt.’ He should know by now I was only offering food. Thisman didn't interest me in any way, except curiosity at why he kept lurking around.
"That does look good," he agreed. "I thought I'd come and see how you are. With all the goings on in the neighborhood."
"Goings on?" I looked up at him with one eye.
"Yes, there's been some unfortunate accidents in the local area over the last few weeks, possibly even months."
"With this amount of people in a small radius, you're going to get accidents," I said. I flashed him a slight smile before returning my attention to the dessert.
There was an increase in unexplained disappearances and the occasional murder since I started committing them, but I was careful to spread them out, knowing at some point the police would start looking for a pattern.
"That's true," he agreed. "But some are more suspicious than others."
"I’m sure they are." I put spoons into the next round of desserts and placed them up for Shelly to take to customers.
"I understand one of your staff was murdered right here in this restaurant," he said, looking around at the seating area as if somehow it would reveal blood that was spilt here.
I washed my hands and wiped them slowly on a towel. "That's right. The police are still looking for her killer."
"And you're still operating a restaurant here," he observed.
“A girl has to make a living," I said, making sure to add the right amount of regret to my tone. I didn't need to fake it. I still missed Erin. I hated what Gina did to her, but she of all people wouldn't have wanted me to close the restaurant because of it.
She knew the importance of the people I was helping here, and the money I donated to shelters from the profits. She wouldn't have wanted her death to be in vain, as they say.
"I’m sure she does," he said smoothly. "Why a restaurant?"
"Because that's where chefs work?" I suggested, answering his question with one of my own. "People have to eat."
Did he think I had something to do with Erin's death? Or was he digging into something deeper?
"Some people operate food trucks," he said. "Those are mobile, easy to move from place to place. To—I don't know, disappear if you wanted to."
"You must know some interesting people who operate food trucks," I said. "I prefer to stay put and feed my regular customers. I'm not sure there's much call for the food I prepare at local fairs and carnivals anyway."
"You don't think people want lasagna?" he asked.
"Not as much as they want pizza and hamburgers," I said easily.
Personally, if I was going to go to a carnival, I'd love lasagna, but that was neither here nor there.
"You've been in New York for a long time, Chef St. James?"
