“So how was the show?” Darcy asked when she brought over a large box of carrots for processing.
“Good. I’m going back on Saturday.” At least that’s what she’d meant to say. Unfortunately, she’d yawned a little at the end.
“Oh yeah, performing at night and working in the kitchen in the morning is a real good idea,” Darcy muttered. “Try not to bleed on stuff, okay?”
MG began scraping the carrots, dropping the peels into the waste sink. One of the chicken blogs had recommended feeding the chickens carrot peels since the hens seemed to like them and the peels were full of nutrients. Right now the vegetable scraps the kitchen produced went into the garbage, but she wondered if she could talk Joe into letting her have some peels to try it at home.
“Hey, you, runner,” Jorge called. “Go get me some tomato paste from the pantry.”
She wasn’t sure what he was working on, but it apparently required his total concentration. He didn’t even look up to see if she’d heard.
She put down the carrot she was scraping and headed for the pantry, a small room at the side of the kitchen where they kept all the staples that didn’t need refrigeration. The organization was fairly loose, although she’d gotten used to it by now—canned goods in one section, bottles in another, sacks of flour and sugar and salt at one side, pasta above the cans. Since she was the one who was supposed to put away the new deliveries of supplies, she’d even managed to make a few improvements, although people kept shoving things around, which made it hard to keep up.
She rifled through the cans, looking for tomato paste. It was usually toward the front since they used it for everything from pasta sauce to braised buffalo, but today she didn’t find it immediately. She reached toward the back of the shelf, which was too deep for her to see clearly, trying to identify the tomato paste can by touch. Her fingers slipped over the shapes until she reached something tall and slippery. Something that definitely shouldn’t be there.
“Hey there, honeybuns, need some help with that?”
Whether it was her exhaustion or Fishhead’s stealth mode, MG didn’t know, but she definitely hadn’t realized he was behind her until he spoke. She jumped, whirling to face him. It was never a good idea to have your back to a groper. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Yeah. Seemed like you were kind of busy. Let’s see what you got on that shelf.” Fishhead reached over her head and pulled something to the front.
She gaped. It was a bottle of balsamic vinegar that shouldn’t have been anywhere near the canned goods. “What the hell is that doing there?”
“My, my, my. Got yourself a real nice little present here. This stuff would run you around a hundred bucks retail.” Fishhead’s lips spread in a singularly unattractive smile.
She stared at him. “That’s not mine. Jorge sent me in here for tomato paste. That was out of order on the shelves.”
“Uh huh,” Fishhead’s smile slid into something closer to a smirk. “So how did it get out of order in the first place, honeybuns?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen it before.”
“What’s going on in here?” Fairley stood in the doorway to the pantry, scowling.
“Look what turned up at the back of the canned goods shelf.” Fishhead brandished the bottle of balsamic in Fairley’s direction.
Fairley stared at the bottle, narrowing his eyes, then turned to MG. “How did it get there?”
“I don’t know,” she repeated. “I was looking for tomato paste.”
“Aren’t you the one who puts away the supplies?” Fairley’s jaw tightened.
“Yes, I am. But I didn’t put that bottle there. Actually, I’ve never seen that bottle before so far as I know. All the vinegar is on the other side of the shelves.”
Fairley and Fishhead exchanged glances. MG tried to figure out what the hell was going on. Why should it matter so much that a bottle of vinegar was in the wrong place? “Shall I put it back on the shelf with the others?”
“No,” Fairley snapped. “LeBlanc needs to see this.” He nodded toward Fishhead. “Go see if he’s available for a few minutes.”
Darcy and Jorge stood just outside the door to the pantry. Jorge’s expression was thunderous. MG guessed the delay in finding the tomato paste was not a minor thing in his eyes. She reached toward the back of the shelf and took down a small can, handing it to him. “I’m sorry. Here it is.”
He took it without comment, turning on his heel to stalk back to his station. Darcy stayed where she was, watching Fairley, her expression stony. “You got some problem with my assistant?”
Fairley grimaced, but said nothing.
MG desperately wanted to ask Darcy what was happening, but she had a feeling now was not the time. Fairley stood with his arms folded across his chest. He looked a little like a prosecuting attorney in chef’s whites.
A moment later, Fishhead returned, followed by Joe. If Jorge had looked thunderous, Joe supplied the lightning. “Okay, Fairley, what the fuck is so important that I had to cut off a call to the main office?”
Fairley unfolded his arms. “This bottle of aged balsamic was hidden at the back of the shelf there, behind the canned goods. Dietz found it. Ms. Carmody claims she’s never seen it before. However, Ms. Carmody’s the one who’s responsible for putting deliveries away.” His voice at the end dripped with sarcasm.
MG took a breath to argue, but felt Darcy’s hand on her arm. She glanced up. Darcy shook her head slightly.
Joe was staring at Fairley, his forehead furrowed, his mouth narrowing to a thin line. “So you think Ms. Carmody here was planning to steal a bottle of balsamic?”
MG’s mouth fell open. For once she had absolutely nothing to say.
Fairley’s expression stiffened. He shrugged. “I’m just telling you what happened.”
“Well, it’s easy enough to find out.” Joe turned toward her, his eyes suddenly blazing. “So, Ms. Carmody, did you put that bottle of balsamic back there?”
MG felt her own temper spark. “No, Mr. LeBlanc, I did not. I came in here to get a can of tomato paste for Jorge. That’s the first time I saw the bottle.”
“When was the last time you were looking through the cans?”
She paused to think. In all the disruption over the vinegar, she hadn’t considered that. “Yesterday, I think.” She turned to Darcy. “Was that when you wanted the hearts of palm?”
Darcy nodded. “Hearts of palm salad. Lunch yesterday.”
Joe folded his arms across his chest. “Was the bottle there yesterday?”
MG shook her head. “I don’t know for sure. I don’t think so, though.”
Joe turned back to Fairley. “Okay, that takes care of it. Anything else?”
Fairley looked like he was gritting his teeth. After a moment, he sighed. “No. Not right now.”
“Good. Everybody stay out of my way for the next twenty minutes. I got calls to make.” He turned without looking at her and stalked out of the kitchen.
Fairley glanced at her, his eyes narrowed. “Get on with whatever you were doing.”
“Yes, sir,” MG muttered and headed back to the prep sink and her carrots.
Darcy leaned across the counter as she went back to scraping. “That asshole is after you, kid. Just like I said.”
MG sighed. “Which one?”
“Does it matter? I’d keep an eye on both of them, if I was you.”
MG grimaced. “I’d rather not watch Fishhead, but you do what you have to, I guess.”
“You do at that.” Darcy straightened and headed back to her station.
Surprisingly enough, Joe managed to get through the call to Resorts Consolidated without saying anything insulting. Of course, he also didn’t say much of substance, but he figured not snarling at anybody was a definite plus.
He was surprised at how angry he still felt half an hour later. The sight of MG standing there, flanked by Dietz and Fairley, had set off some primal reaction that made him want to punch somebody. Probably Dietz, who looked like he needed it.
When Fairley walked into his office, he managed not to snap his head off, but it was a near thing. “Yeah?”
“You want my resignation?” Fairley was trying to stare him down. Joe could have told him that never worked.
“You want to hand it in?” He knew he should care, but at the moment he didn’t. He didn’t have time for this crap.
“Not particularly, but I can’t work with you if you don’t respect my judgment.”
“Your judgment?” Joe leaned back in his chair. “You mean your judgment that MG Carmody is a thief based on one bottle of balsamic vinegar being out of place? What the hell kind of judgment was that anyway, Fairley?”
Fairley pursed his lips, looking sort of like an outraged scout master. “You know as well as I do that theft is the reason a lot of restaurants go under. And pilfering expensive ingredients is one of the easiest ways to steal.”
Joe took a deep breath. Time to back off a little. “Agreed. But one misplaced bottle of vinegar isn’t proof that somebody’s stealing.” Of course, the losses that Kit Maldonado had pointed out to him were a lot closer to proof, but somehow he didn’t feel like sharing that with Fairley yet.
Fairley straightened. “Is there some reason I’m not supposed to suspect MG Carmody of being a thief?”
“I don’t know—logic maybe?” Joe snapped. “Think about it, Fairley. Assuming the damn vinegar was deliberately placed there by somebody who planned on moving it out of the kitchen and selling it, and I’m telling you that’s not exactly a dead certainty, but even assuming that’s true, MG Carmody’s the least likely person in the kitchen to be doing it.”
“Because?” Fairley’s jaw tightened.
“Because she’s an amateur, damn it! She’s the least likely to know aged balsamic vinegar is worth a fair amount of money. And she’s also the least likely to know who might buy it from her. Hell anybody else in the damn kitchen, including you and me, is a more likely suspect than she is.” Joe rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, telling himself to cool it. Another minute and he’d be firing Fairley just for the hell of it.
“All right, I’ll keep that in mind,” Fairley said stiffly. “But I’ll also keep more careful track of expenditures from now on.”
“Fine with me.” Joe sighed. “You got the staff meal ready?”
“Of course.” As usual, Fairley sounded like he had a sizeable stick up his ass.
“Great. Go ahead and get it out on the table. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Fairley turned on his heel, stalking out of the office.
Joe rubbed his eyes. He was guessing the rest of the day would be a wash. He only hoped the dinner service wasn’t as screwed up as he was afraid it was going to be.
Chapter Thirteen
By the time MG got home, she’d more or less calmed down from the encounter with Fishhead and the Beav. Fishhead had worn the same smirk for the rest of the afternoon, like he was congratulating her for putting one over on everyone. The Beav simply pretended she didn’t exist, which made things easier all around.
Joe hadn’t said anything to her, although in reality she didn’t exactly expect him to. If he pulled her aside in front of everybody, that would pretty much confirm that they were an item. Not that Darcy needed much confirmation.
She and MG took their bowls of squash bisque from family meal out onto the patio to eat at the picnic table, as far from Fishhead and Fairley as they could get. Darcy split the focaccia sandwich she’d brought along in two. “So have you told Joe about the gig yet?”
MG shook her head, grateful for once that her mouth was full.
“Why not? Afraid he’ll be pissed?” Darcy shrugged. “My guess is he’ll be more pissed that you didn’t tell him than he would be that you’re moonlighting as a singer.”
“I don’t think he’ll be pissed. I just don’t know how to bring it up.”
“How about ‘Hey, guess what, I’m singing in Oltdorf on Saturday’?”
“Yeah, I could do that I guess.” MG took another spoonful of soup. She could do it, but she probably wouldn’t.
“Just sing for him. He’ll love it.”
“Maybe.” She wasn’t sure why she didn’t feel like telling Joe about the gig, but she knew she didn’t. Yet. Maybe they had a ways to go before she was ready to share everything with him. And maybe she was afraid of what he’d think when he heard her.
And maybe, most of all, she was afraid she’d screw up again.
Yeah, I’m a singer. Not a very good one.
When she got home an hour later, she pushed herself to do her chicken chores before the last of her energy dissipated. She’d meant to let the hens out into the grass, but she found she just couldn’t face it. For tonight, they’d get commercial food and like it. Maybe tomorrow she’d ask Darcy about the carrot peels.
Theoretically, she should ask the Beav, since he was in charge of the kitchen. But clearly she wasn’t going to do that. For all she knew he’d accuse her of wanting to steal valuable peelings and sell them on the black market.
Finally, she was done in the chicken yard and came back into the house to collapse at the kitchen table. Dinner would be a bologna sandwich and a beer. She rubbed her eyes and wondered if she could just get by with the squash soup from family meal. Right now all she could think about was sleep.