Page 16 of Death By Llama (Friendship Harbor Mysteries #7)

“Did you recognize him?” she asked suddenly. “He’s actually quite famous.”

I shook my head. “I only recognized him as playing Saint Nicholas.”

“He’s done quite a few commercials,” she told me. “He has one that airs pretty regularly for men’s hair gel.”

Of course he did. I tried not to make a face. “No. I tend to skip commercials though.”

“Anyway, I guess I was a little starstruck myself, but today, I got a real wake-up call.”

Just then someone tapped me on the shoulder.

I turned to see an unfamiliar man scowling at me.

“Are you the owner of this pub?” he asked.

“Yes. How can I help you?”

“My family has been waiting for well over thirty minutes for our appetizers.”

“Oh no,” I said. I saw that Dave was no longer seated at the bar, which gave me hope that he was in the kitchen picking up their order. But I immediately stood. “Let me check on it. I’m so sorry about that.”

The man still looked perturbed but nodded. As I passed Brandy, I asked her in a hushed voice, “Is everything okay in the kitchen?”

Brandy shrugged. “I think so.”

We certainly didn’t have enough patrons in the pub to warrant any delay on food. I pushed open the swinging doors to find Dave looking out the window toward the back of the restaurant.

“Is everything okay?” I asked.

Dave glanced at me. “Jimmy is just sitting outside.”

“What?”

Jimmy rarely left the kitchen when he was working. He didn’t even sneak out back for smoke breaks like my ever-revolving door of dishwashers always seemed to do.

I joined Dave at the window, seeing Jimmy sitting at the picnic table where my other staff ate their lunch on nice days. He just stared at the ground, his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped and hanging loosely between them.

“I hope he’s not sick,” I said, moving immediately toward the back door. “Dave, you need to figure out what apps that table with the kids ordered and dish it up. They just complained they’ve been waiting thirty minutes.”

He nodded. “Sure. On it.”

I stepped outside. “Jimmy.”

My usually silent cook didn’t reply, as expected. I walked down the wooden steps.

“Jimmy,” I tried again. Still no answer.

I was pretty used to this reaction from him. I was accustomed to his silent treatment, though his hung head and blank expression were a little unusual—and a little unnerving. Carefully, I sat down on the bench seat beside him.

“Are you alright?” I asked.

He nodded.

I waited a moment. “Jimmy, I know you’re a man of very few words, but you’re really worrying me. Could you give me some inkling of what’s going on here?”

“Just thinking about Peanut.” His voice was low and hoarse, sounding like his vocal cords were rarely used and needed to warm up to the rare practice. Which was true, I suppose.

I remained silent for a moment too, respecting his grief, then said softly, “He was a good friend to you, wasn’t he?”

He nodded again.

I wasn’t sure how he would react to it, but I patted his back, feeling the bones of his spine through his cooking smock.

Jimmy was such a strange character, that I sometimes forgot that he was a man getting up in years.

He usually seemed almost timeless—the mythical, magical cook who made chowder and other wonderful New England delicacies—but at this moment, he looked like a tired old man.

We sat there, both quiet. Then I asked, “Tell me about Peanut. What was he like?”

Not surprisingly, Jimmy didn’t answer right away. He scuffed the ground with the toe of his worn white sneakers.

“He was a bit of a loner.”

That made sense, considering I’d been here in Friendship Harbor for nearly a year and a half, and I’d never seen him before. He certainly made an impression upon our one and only meeting, so I was pretty sure I would have remembered him if I had met him in the past.

“He liked to drink,” Jimmy added, which was another obvious fact about the man. “He loved being the town Santa.”

Jimmy wasn’t really sharing anything that I hadn’t already deduced in the brief time I saw him.

“Peanut was misunderstood.”

Well, that I could buy.

“We met in grade school.”

“Wow,” I said, “so you’ve had a long friendship.”

JImmy nodded. “Over sixty years.”

Oliver and I had become friends when we were in our teens, so about fifteen years ago. Sixty years. That was wild. Although I knew Oliver and I would be friends forever.

We fell into compatible silence again. But after a moment, I built up the courage to ask the question I’d really been wanting to know.

“Jimmy, do you really believe Peanut’s death was an accident?”

Jimmy didn’t say anything, prodding the dirt with his toe again. Finally, he spoke in his rarely-used gravelly voice.

“One thing I know is Peanut could hold his liquor.”

I wasn’t sure about that after watching the spectacle I had seen yesterday.

Peanut falling and rolling around on the ground didn’t exactly seem like someone holding their liquor.

Jimmy did know him better though. But that testimony wasn’t exactly definitive proof that Peanut had been murdered either.

I was surprised when Jimmy continued.

“I’ve seen Peanut get pulled over by the staties and walk a straight line and recite the alphabet backwards without batting an eye—he would be three sheets to the wind.”

A certain pride filled Jimmy’s voice as he recalled the incident—or incidents, more likely.

I was sure that drinking and driving wasn’t something a person should be proud of.

But then again, I guess it was, in its own strange way, an impressive feat.

In certain circles. Not my circles, but with the old timers of Friendship Harbor.

Jimmy surprised me by continuing. “Peanut only had one addiction he was never able to kick.”

I glanced at my cook. It sure sounded like his friend’s alcoholism was a pretty big addiction he’d never been able to kick, but I didn’t say anything since Jimmy was grieving—and I didn’t want to make any comment that would stop him from sharing.

Jimmy stringing this many words together at once was already something of a miracle in July.

“He could never give up the gambling.”

“He was a gambler?”

“A terrible gambler. Always lost way more than he won,” Jimmy said, nodding. “Owed money to just about everyone in town.”

I glanced at him again. Now that was a reason why somebody might have killed him.

“He owed me plenty of money,” Jimmy added. Then he looked at me for the first time and cracked a smile that appeared as rusty as his voice. “Guess I’m never gonna see that money.”

Even though it seemed oddly inappropriate, we both smiled at each other.

“Can you think of anyone who might have been mad enough at him to want to hurt him?” I asked.

Jimmy pondered that. “Probably a couple folks.”

Well, that didn’t narrow things down.

“But if I had to pick one, it would be his brother, Cheddar.”

I tried not to laugh at the name. But seriously who gave these guys such ridiculous nicknames? At least I hoped they were nicknames. If Peanut and Cheddar was on their birth certificates, it could explain a lot about their life choices.

“Well, I best get back in and start cooking,” Jimmy said as if he’d talked about as much as he could.

I suddenly recalled the family waiting for their appetizer.

I was going to have to comp their meal even if Dave had managed to serve them, but that was fine.

Jimmy and I had never had a moment like this.

And even more than getting some info on Peanut, I was touched that Jimmy trusted me enough to talk with me.

“Yeah. I think you’ve got some tickets waiting for you.”

He nodded and slowly stood up. Again, I was reminded that Jimmy was an old man. I really hoped he would be my cook for a long, long time, but now I found myself worrying about him. I had sort of seen him as almost immortal. Meant to be a part of Steamy’s as long as the place existed.

I watched as he ambled back into the kitchen, his domain, his haven. I remained seated at the picnic table, contemplating what he’d shared with me.

Maybe my gut had been off this whole time. Maybe Narcissist Nick was simply just an annoying, two-timing jerk, and Peanut’s brother, Cheddar, was involved in Peanut’s demise. Or it could truly have been an awful accident.

I considered possible theories for both as I enjoyed the sun on my skin and the bright colors of my grandmother’s wildflower garden. Cosmos, Shasta daisies, and black-eyed Susan’s swayed cheerfully in the warm summer breeze.

But the peaceful moment was over.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught movement. Just a flash, but I was sure it was a person. Going toward Jack’s stable.