Page 16 of Wham Line (The Last Picks #10)

She gave a small laugh. “I think restaurateurs might be worse.”

Tilting my head toward the bar, I said, “They seemed pretty close the other night. But today, they had some kind of spat.”

Talmage absently smoothed a hand over the tablecloth; the gesture made me think of Indira, and how she had straightened the silverware.

“I don’t know if they’re close,” she finally said.

“But they go way back. They’ve both been on the scene for a long time, and Seattle didn’t use to be so big.

Someone told me they even worked together at some point. ”

“Is that true?”

“No idea.”

I filed it away for future consideration. “Do you know what Sparkie and Larry might have been arguing about?”

“Money,” Talmage said dryly. “Sparkie’s probably trying to get Larry to invest in her stupid mushroom idea.”

“What’s that?”

“Farm-to-table mushrooms. Everything’s mushrooms. God, I think she wants to have the restaurant be on the farm, and the diners go out and pick their own mushrooms, clean them, that kind of thing. It’s a whole experience. She wouldn’t let up about it with Mal.”

“What did Mal think?”

“Mal likes other people to take the risks,” Talmage said with a strange little smile.

That seemed like as close to an opening as I was going to get. “I heard a few stories about Mal. About—about his business practices, I guess. For lack of a better term.”

Talmage stilled in her chair.

“I was wondering if you’d tell me about Mizzenmast,” I said. “How it’s incorporated, what kind of financing you had to get, how Mal fit into the picture—”

“No.”

It wasn’t silence, because the din of silverware and voices and a shrill, drunken giggle made the air sharp.

“Um, please?”

“I’m not stupid. I know what you’re trying to do. Those other restaurants—I know. I didn’t kill Mal, and I’m not going to help you frame me.”

“I’m not trying to frame you.”

“I don’t know Ms. Singh. I never met her.

I feel sorry for her, and I think what Mal did to her was awful.

I didn’t know about that until—until later.

But from what I can tell, she’s the one who had a reason to want Mal dead, and the sheriff seems to think the same thing.

” Some of the sting went out of her voice as she added, “I know you’re trying to help your friend. ”

“I’m trying to understand what’s going on.

Mal had a history of shady business dealings that left a lot of chefs in the dust while he stole their hard work; those are facts.

And last night, when you and Mal were arguing, you said, ‘This is my restaurant.’ So, I think it makes sense to ask you what you meant—”

“No,” Talmage said and stood.

“You can either talk to me about it or to the sheriff.”

“Then I’ll talk to the sheriff,” she said.

“When my lawyer tells me to.” She turned to go, and then she whirled toward me.

She gripped the back of the chair until her knuckles went white.

“I’m not the only one who argued with Mal, just so you know.

Mal argued with everyone. He and Larry got into a huge fight yesterday—why aren’t you asking Larry if he killed Mal?

Jethro was there; he heard the whole thing. ”

“I—”

“And Sparkie followed Mal out into that alley. What about that?”

“Talmage, I’m not accusing you.”

“Yes, you are,” she said. “Because you think I’m just like your friend, and you think I let Mal take advantage of me. But you don’t know me. And frankly, you didn’t know Mal. If Mal was taking advantage of anyone, it was—”

She stopped herself.

“Who?” I asked.

She peeled her fingers free from the chair and took a step back. “I’ve got to get back to work. Please don’t bother me again, Mr. Dane, or I’ll have to talk to the sheriff.”

With a final glance around the dining room, Talmage headed for the kitchen.

I pushed back my chair and got to my feet. Nalini had never brought our drinks. Our food had gone to Sparkie. And after that conversation with Talmage, I’d be lucky if the only thing the chef did was spit in my food. I was going to find Bobby, and we were going to pick up burgers somewhere, and—

Out on the restaurant’s deck, which wasn’t being used in the winter, a lanky young man with dark hair scurried past the plate-glass windows—head down and obviously hoping not to be seen.

Jethro was huddled into his coat, clearly trying to make himself as small as possible.

If anything, it only drew more attention to him.

His cheeks were flushed under what appeared to be a fresh breakout, and he kept looking over his shoulder, as though checking that no one was behind him.

Bobby reappeared from the short hallway that led to the restroom. He came across the dining room and joined me in time for both of us to watch Jethro walk out of sight.

“I’m sorry about that.”

“It’s okay, Bobby. You can do whatever you need to do.”

“No, I meant—I’m sorry for how I talked to you.”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay. I—”

But a crash from the bar interrupted him.

Sparkie lay on the floor, arms and legs akimbo.

Shock rippled through the crowd. A woman said, “Oh my God!”

Bobby and I ran toward her. Bobby reached her first, of course, and he knelt next to her, leaning down to check her vitals.

“She’s not breathing,” he said as he began to check her airway. “Call nine-one-one.”