Deliciously Deadly

Robert's choice in women was interesting, to say the least. Because he was a chef, he used to compare women to the condiments found in his kitchen. He would always tell me over lunch hour about his dream woman. 

“Babe,” he would say (for he always called me Babe), “you know what my dream woman is? She has nice mustard hair, not soy sauce like yours. Plump ketchup colored lips and fair mayonnaise skin. And her personality. Oh, that personality!" At this point he would usually put the spoon or fork-full of whatever he was eating down and use his hands to further illustrate his point. "Not a sweet and sour pickle relish like yours-love it though I do, don't read me wrong. No, she is all hot peppers, dangerously fiery, and beware of that first bite.” He would then sigh and get a far off look in his eye before he continued to eat. 

I'll never feel pain again like I did that day he died.

I remember the night particularly well. I had come into his restaurant for dinner, not wanting to cook something for myself. This was partly due to laziness, partly due to need to talk to a decent individual, and partly due to the aching back, sore feet, and screaming headache starting in my frontal lobe. And anyways, I lived alone-apart from my two pet goldfish-so I saw no harm in missing just one meal. Seeing me, Robert stopped working to talk briefly. We chatted for a couple minutes, mostly making useless small talk, when she came in.

I was first alerted to her presence by the squawk of the ridiculous parrot Robert insisted he had to have for his door. Every time a person opened the door, the feathered red beast would rear its mechanical head and let out the most ear splitting sound a soul could hear. I hated the thing-even though it went well with the "random bits of this and that" theme Robert had going-and thought it needed to go. The customers loved it though, and according to Robert, “You can't take the tomatoes out of the spaghetti sauce when that's the part everyone loves best.” Whatever that meant.

I lifted my head slightly to see who the offender was this time, and immediately my heart sank, for reasons I did not care to explore. Standing by the door in a blue striped top not fit to be worn by a nudist, and a mini skirt equally as skimpy was Robert's dream girl.

I swear, if people could ever materialize from words, this woman was the very flesh out of Robert's mouth. You couldn't get a more accurate reproduction if you had a court reporter write down the details every time Robert started describing her. She was of medium height and dirty blond, with blue eyes that looked like they could freeze toast and bright red lips that were too big to be real. Her torso was short, with generous chest and short neck, but her legs were so long and shapely they would make a model jealous.

She wasn't all that pretty.

“And he wouldn't believe me that basil was the wrong...” His words halted in their tracks, and his mouth dropped straight to the floor. Still leaning against the bar, he just stared, for a full ten seconds, before closing his mouth and making frantic movements. It was like someone lit a match under him, he moved so fast. I doubt you could have gotten a faster response-after the initial shock of seeing the woman wore off-from a race horse.

He got up and removed his apron (though I don't get why he didn't feel the need to do so with me), then checked his reflection in the counter's mirrored surface. He didn't need to though, Robert had looks that would put movie stars to shame. The brat knew it too, because every time he caught me looking, he would send me a wink, and I would feel my face turn a shade more red than the tomato special served every Tuesday.

After checking to make sure that every last hair was in place, he rushed up to the woman in a manner that made it appear he wasn't rushing at all. My best friend was star struck by a floozy.

“Hey ma'am. It's nice of you to drop in, but it's five till six, and I need to close up.” Robert's Texas accent would shine through whenever he was shocked, and at that point it was thicker than syrup. Not even I had been graced with hearing it come out so pronounced before.

The floozy batted her foot-long eyelashes and fingered her handbag, smiling up at him with a look that I'm sure had felled many a man. I couldn't have gotten Robert's attention then if I tried. “If it's time to close up, then why is she still in here?” She sent a wilting look my way, but I just scowled back. “And anyways, I just want a cup of coffee. Care to join me?”

Robert was panting like a dog. “I would love to Miss...”

“Samantha Grady.”

“...but I really have to close up.” He turned and gave me a “pretty please?” smile. I ignored him. “I guess one cup wouldn't be too bad though.” He showed Samantha to a table, then sat down himself. “Babe, would you mind getting two cups of the special coffee? Leave the pot.”

Me, get him coffee for his new friend. The nerve! I was tempted to get the coffee just to pour it in his lap, but I knew he would never forgive me. Like an obedient dog, I went and got the coffee, with anything but a smile on my face.

The special coffee, served only on extremely rare occasions, was twenty dollars a pound. I visited Robert regularly and never had occasion to taste it. Why this over-paid one-hit wonder deserved a cup I'll never understand.

I poured the coffee and retreated to my corner of the bar. I didn't want to eavesdrop, but this was war. I had to know everything the floozy was telling my friend. They talked for a good ten minutes, with me playing errand-girl, before things went downhill fast. While Robert turned to ask me for more coffee, Samantha must have slipped something into his coffee without our knowledge, because the next thing I knew, as he took another sip, Robert started having convulsions.

His body shook so violently, I felt for sure the ground was shaking with his six-foot-five, one hundred eighty pound body slamming into it over and over again. I froze in shock. The only thing I could do was sit and watch while he clutched his throat and writhed on the floor, huge blue eyes holding my attention the whole time. All too soon, it was over. My best friend since Mrs. Bossy's kindergarten class was dead. The paramedics had to lift my loudly grieving body off of his when they came to take it away.

By this time, Samantha Grady  was long gone, as would be expected from a low down, no good floozy of a murderer. I had a pretty good guess of why he was murdered, too. A day or so after Robert's death, my mind jumped back to a conversation he and I had a few weeks earlier. It was after closing time, and he was walking me out to my car. He was acting odd. He was constantly wringing his hands and shaking, and sweat formed in a ring around his brow.

Concerned, I asked him if anything was on his mind. At first he just continued to walk in silence, but then he sighed and looked at me with a look I will never forget. “You know the kitchen remodel I got a year ago?” I nodded. “Do you know how I got the money?”

“You told me you saved it up.”

His face fell. “I got it from a shark. I thought I had enough money, but when the contractors gave me the quote, I was five thousand short. It was either come up with the money or scrap the whole thing. I didn't have that kind of cash anywhere, so I borrowed it. I figured I could make up the payments with the money I was bringing in.” His voice weakened.

“I was wrong. At first I was able to make the shark's minimum, but it got too much. Interest started piling up, and my profits were dropping. I started getting messages, 'Pay up or cash out'. Now I think they're following me.”

I told him then to go to the police, but he outright refused. His pride wouldn't allow it, and I imagine there was also a dose of fear in there, along with other reasons I can only guess. I was going to go to them myself, but chickened out. I too was afraid. Now I realize I should have gone anyway.

The only good news came three months after Robert's death. I was stoically finishing some soup in a cheap diner across town when something on the TV caught my ear.

“A woman's body was found today washed up on shore. It has been identified as that of a woman named Samantha Grady.”

Police weren't sure if she was pushed or if she jumped, and frankly I don't care. She stole from me the only person I truly cared about, and for that she deserved to die. I would have preferred it to have been much more gruesome.

A month later, I moved to Florida. The memories of a lifetime spent in San Francisco were just too painful to deal with alone, especially having no family. The goldfish never really did listen well.

As for Robert's restaurant, last I heard it had been turned into a laboratory for analyzing toxic chemicals. I can only hope they got rid of the parrot.


Word count: 1663