Spoiled Rotten (12 page)

“Liz Walker, I used to come into the meat store a lot.”

“Oh, yes, I knew I recognized you. I talked to you a couple of times in the market bakery. Please excuse me, I'm a little distracted.”

“Is it your father, will he be all right?”

She looked confused and slightly vacant, like she was mulling something over.

“I'm sorry if I seem nosy,” I said. “It's just that I lost my father this year and you look upset. If you need to talk about it, I can lend you an ear.”

“Thanks, but it's not just that. You heard about my boss Mr. Tony being killed? It's been a terrible shock for me. I understand that your chef is the murder suspect.”

“He was, maybe he still is, but the police haven't arrested him. Not enough evidence or motive, apparently. Were you close to Mr. Tony?”

Maria bristled at the suggestion. “Where would you get an idea like that?”

“You just said you were in shock and it's not hard to see you've been crying.”

“I'm not made of stone. I found his body, you know. I'll never get that picture out of my mind. It's all starting to sink in. How do you think I'd react?”

“Sorry, I thought you were good friends.”

“I despised the man. He was repugnant.” She was venomous and in full attack mode.

“Are you surprised that I would use such a word? I graduated from high school with honours and I'm taking a correspondence course through the University of Toronto to further my studies.”

This was a side of Maria I had never seen before. I didn't know why I ever felt sorry for her. She certainly wasn't the poor little immigrant girl I had first taken her for. Remembering Winn's request, I ignored the bitterness in her voice and pretended concern.

“You were fairly young when you first started the job at Superior Meats, weren't you?”

“I wasn't the only one. There were other girls my age.”

“You've been there quite a while? You must have liked working for him at one time.”

She settled down, gaining control quickly. “It was difficult at first. Most of the girls quit because of the long hours and low wages. I didn't have the luxury, I'm afraid. A few of the older women had butcher's degrees from schools they attended in the old country, but they were of little use at Superior. The store had a strict policy — men only were allowed in the cutting room.”

Maria shuddered. I wondered what she was thinking.

I asked her quietly, “What is it, Maria?”

“In the beginning, when I undersold or wasn't fast enough, I was sent back to the packing station where the large commercial orders were made up for delivery. I hated that windowless room, so claustrophobic and always bone cold. It was like being buried alive.”

“Things will be a lot different at the store now, I would think.”

Maria smiled, “Oh, I think so, I'm quite looking forward to it.”

After my conversation with the widow upstairs, I hoped she had alternative means of employment.

“I dropped in to say hello to your boss's wife,” I said. “She seemed fine. I mean being poisoned doesn't seem to have bothered her much. In fact she seemed in a pretty good mood.”

Maria's eyes became instantly hooded and she looked down at her watch. Obviously she didn't want to talk about it any further. She twisted her watch around on her wrist so that she could read it. “I'm sorry, I really have to run. Since the store is closed today, I booked a dance rehearsal for this afternoon and I don't want to be late.” She stood, spilling a little unfinished tea in her cup on the table. “Nice talking to you. Bye.” She left quickly.

I was sliding my chair back and reaching for my purse when I spied a gold plastic shoe bag under the table. I opened it and pulled out a small piece of silky material. Several flyers were wrapped around it and a deck of playing cards still in their box spilled out and fell to the floor. I was about to pick up the cards, but Maria beat me to it. She palmed the deck of cards in one hand and reached her other hand out to me. “That's mine. It's my dance costume.” I handed everything over to her except for one of the flyers. I read the bold black lettering printed across the red paper:

TOSCANO'S DANCE HALL

DANCE COMPETITION

FIRST PRIZE $5000.00 DOLLARS

REOPENING CELEBRATION

JOIN US FOR FOOD, FUN AND

DANCE, DANCE, DANCE

DOOR CHARGE: $25.00 PER PERSON,

COUPLES $40.00

“Do you dance competitively?” I inquired.

She smiled wide. Nice teeth. “Yes, my boyfriend, Nicky, and I are contestants. We qualified for the finals last night. When we win this competition we'll qualify for other national contests. I'm so excited. I've always wanted to travel.”

Finally, something she was happy to talk about.

“I'm selling tickets to help out with the door, would you like one?” Maria asked.

“Sure, why not. What kind of dancing?”

“It's all Latin, rumba, tango, salsa, you know. We don't do any ballroom style.”

“Sounds wonderful, I love the tango. I'll take two.” I figured I could find someone to go with me, maybe Jon or Rick, although they probably had dates. Well, maybe one of my old girlfriends. I haven't seen Diana for a while. Then a plan occurred to me. If my new detective friend wanted more information on Maria, then he might be interested in accompanying me to the dance. I threw my head back and let out a triumphant laugh, it was genius, I tell you, pure genius.

R
ick was on his way to Walker's. The chief health inspector had notified him that the source of food poisoning was not attributed to Walker's, a fact that Mr. Randolph already confessed to me in the hospital. The sanction was lifted. However, we would have to wait for an official green pass to put in the window before we could legally reopen. Our local inspector phoned to say he wasn't sure what time he could meet Rick to give him one. In any case, Rick wanted to wait for him at the restaurant and would call me as soon as he heard any news.

Whether we opened tonight or the next morning, the staff had to be alerted and the prep started from scratch. Rick was anxious to get the show on the road. In the meantime, I had somewhere else I wanted to go. It was almost 4:30, hours before I promised to meet Mrs. Wong for the market community meeting later tonight. I had plenty of time to spare.

Unable to get my Danish in the hospital's food court and feeling peckish, I drove east along Front Street to the St. Lawrence indoor market. A cavernous building open from the ground floor to the vaulted, sky-lighted ceiling above, it was large enough to hold a plane inside its belly. Hundreds of vendor stalls and cafés crowded the floor instead.

At the bottom of a sweep of terrazzo stairs, hidden in one of the corners of the basement, behind a massive, supporting stone pillar, and next to the men's washroom, an elderly Dutch lady wearing authentic wooden shoes sold me an aluminum pie plate brimming with cheesy garlic perogies. I am the private eye of food, if it's good, I will find it.

I took my stash to my car parked outside the Old Spaghetti Factory and ate them while watching the nine-to-fivers leave work for the day. I used a half a box of Kleenex to wipe the dripping oil from my face (to my dismay, the supply of wet towels I kept in the glove box had run out). By the time I finished cleaning myself up, it was time to head back.

Rick still hadn't called, making me apprehensive about our reopening tonight. Rick was one of those people who liked to keep the channels of communication open at all times. I called him at the restaurant, but there was no answer and no response in the office. I drove home and changed into heavier clothes. The weather was a lot colder than when I left the house this morning.

I met Mrs. Wong in front of her fruit store at a 6:00 p.m., meticulously locking the old wooden door with bolts and chains. Citing numerous break-ins amongst the area vendors this year, she was considering the installation of a metal security gate across the front entrance. We walked around the corner to St. Timothy's church through a light rain, not hard enough for me to want to be burdened with an awkward umbrella.

The meeting was held in the church's basement Sunday-school room. I recognized a few familiar faces from the meat store, sales girls who had waited on me over the years. We smiled at each other. None of us had exchanged phone numbers or even first names, but we shared common information about each other: whose husband shovelled the snow, whose kids were in what colleges, and where vacations were spent. The girls knew I owned a restaurant, but I doubted any one of them could tell you its location.

Maria was sitting in the front row beside Louise Kozinski, owner of the Cheese Emporium, and when I tried to catch her eye, she pretended to be engaged in a riveting conversation. She was obviously avoiding me and then it dawned on me. She hadn't mentioned the community meeting when I saw her at the hospital. Was she suddenly embarrassed about not inviting me, or was she afraid to acknowledge our acquaintance in front of the others?

The Superior Meats sales girls and a several butchers took up the remainder of the seats along the first row. I wondered if the girl with the false working permit was there, too, or was she in police detention awaiting a boat trip to take her back home? Eddie and Louis sat in the second row with fellow produce sellers, including Joseph Hamilton, who supplied the best plantain outside of Jamaica. Eddie waved to me gleefully and his grandfather nodded solemnly.

Mrs. Wong answered my question about the two German brothers, Hans and Karl Jorgen, the bakers. According to her, the brothers still lived over the sixty-year-old bakery their father started when he immigrated here after the Second World War. The market was predominantly Jewish at that time and Karl senior, their father, had found it hard fitting in. His kindly old neighbour, Mr. Solomon, felt sorry for the young immigrant with a family to feed and suggested he make steamed bagels and flatbreads.

Mr. Solomon went so far as to give Karl his mother's treasured Hebrew recipe bequeathed to him and kept under lock and key in her documents box. Mr. Solomon was long gone now and so was Mr. Jorgen, but his two sons continued to get up at 4:00 a.m. every morning to bake the delicious Montreal bagels, flatbread, and poppy-seed cakes that were famous city-wide. The two brothers, their wives, and six noisy children took up an entire row.

A few of the seats remained empty on both sides of the fish-store owners, reeking of — you guessed it — fish, and a group of nattily dressed second-hand clothiers filled the rest of the seats. The trendy new and used clothing stores were spreading steadily, replacing the overly populated vegetable stands. I loved wearing vintage dresses when I was younger. I'd look like a bag lady if I wore one now.

Mrs. Wong and I sat in the back row. I didn't want to stick out and she had to leave early to cook for her family. She counted on her fingers out loud to me: a husband, her mother and father, his mother and father, two sons, two daughters, her sister, her sister's husband, and their infant baby. I find it hard cooking for two. Just because I own a restaurant doesn't mean I like to cook.

Louise stood and walked purposely to the fold-out banquet table at the front of the room. She asked if she could get started with the meeting and everyone settled down.

“First, I want to thank all of you for attending tonight's meeting. I realize it's not a nice night out and many of you would like to go home. Again, thank you for coming. Some of you are full-time residents and some of you own businesses in the area. Many of you are employed by the local businesses, as well.” She nodded at the girls in the front row. “Nevertheless, we all have the same agenda tonight. It is very important that we welcome Mr. Tilson; our new representative from City Hall. We are a community that needs to speak out and be heard. As Mr. Albright's assistant for the last few years, Mr. Tilson has become familiar with some of our more serious concerns. Crime on the street has risen. Drugs and drug users have become more noticeable, even during daytime hours. Garbage litters the streets and stores sit vacant, inviting rats and other vermin. The future of the market depends on action. Hopefully, tonight our new representative will be able to answer your questions.”

I was relieved that Louise didn't start the meeting with the words “my friends.” Most likely the other residents of the market had deciphered her secret code by now.

“Albright pretended to listen to our problems and never did a ting. Full of excuses, him missing deadlines, and not enough names on our petitions.” Joseph stood, half turning, to allow his question to reach the others. “Is Mr. Tilson going to be our new representative or is he just standing in temporarily because Albright is dead?”

Good question
, I thought, and took note of the absence of “Mr.” in front of Albright's name. He didn't warrant much sympathy from Joseph.

After looking toward the door and then at her watch, Louise offered an explanation: “Unfortunately, Joseph, since our new city councillor is not here, I can't answer that. I'm sure the traffic has held him up and he will be arriving momentarily. And I'm sure he means no disrespect. We all know how clogged the streets are at this time of day, especially with all this rain. Regardless, I think we should give Mr. Tilson a chance. Whether he's a permanent replacement or temporary doesn't matter. We need to get things done. The meeting tonight is about bringing the market back to life. Once we have made ourselves clear, city council will recognize our wishes and have no choice but to follow through on previous promises, regardless of any changes to the board.”

“I haven't met the newcomer. What's he going to be like to work with?” asked Hans from his chair. He didn't have to stand. His voice was deep and resonant and I picked up on a slight northern European accent. “Mr. Albright was all talk and as Joseph pointed out, never did a
ting
.” He and Joseph grinned at one another.

Louise answered, tight-lipped, “I understand Mr. Tilson is extremely supportive about this committee's objectives.” Her face was becoming mottled with colour. She clearly wanted to move on to dealing with the new city representative. The fact that he hadn't showed yet wasn't being taken as a good omen. Tongues had begun to wag.

“So where is he?” asked Karl angrily.

Just when I thought Louise was going to pop a cork, the double doors to the church's meeting room burst opened and a young man bustled into the room. He was probably in his mid-thirties, still dealing with adult acne, and was pale and thin with a slightly concave chest.

“I apologize for my tardiness, Mrs. Kozinski,” the man said nervously, obviously trying to ingratiate, and placed his rain-stained leather satchel on the table. Stepping in as area replacement, I thought he might be overwhelmed by his new station in life and a bit of a featherweight for the job. He reminded me of the type you see volunteering at voter's booths or going door to door for the Humane Society.

He slipped off a noticeably wet coat and glanced around for a suitable spot to let it dry. Not finding one and getting no help from Louise, he finally hung it over his chair. “Hello, everyone, my name is Arthur Tilson. Again, I apologize for being late. I was Mr. Albright's office assistant for three years and have assumed his position as councillor to the area. I'm sure all of you were just as shocked as I was to hear of his death and will miss him very much.”

“If you were with him for so many years, how come you don't know we couldn't stand the son of a bitch?” asked a grocer whom I didn't recognize.

“Now let's watch what we say, Tomas, there are children in the room and I think we should forget about the past and focus on our future,” said Louise patronizingly.

“Yes, yes absolutely,” said Mr. Tilson, looking at his hands, which I could see shaking from my seat in the back, “that is precisely why I'm here, of course. Unfortunately the rain and traffic is not the sole reason why I am late. I went to the hospital to see Mrs. Cecilia Vieira.”

“Mr. Tony's wife,” whispered Mrs. Wong, in case I didn't know.

“She called me this morning and asked for a private meeting. She wished to personally inform me of her plans for the neighbourhood and since she is fully aware of this meeting, she thought it would be good for me to get this out on the table tonight.”

Mr. Tilson cleared his throat like he had a canary stuck in it. “Superior Meats is closing. Now that she is the sole owner of the store, she doesn't want to manage the operation or live with the constant memories of her late husband.”

“I wouldn't want to either,” said one of the girls sarcastically.

“Who is she selling the business to?” asked Maria sharply.

“Ah, well, that is the problem. Mrs. Vieira is not selling the business, she is selling the building.”

“What? She can't do that!” cried Maria jumping to her feet.

“I'm afraid she is,” he responded. “She has also inherited the properties adjoining the meat market building, one on either side, and another one a few doors down. They are hers if she decides to sell.” Mr. Tilson's voice was quavering and I wondered if he hadn't said too much.

In the hospital, Mrs. Vieira boasted she would be rich as a result of her husband's death. Being an addict to searching online real-estate properties, I knew that land in the downtown sector sold at a premium. The Superior Meats building alone spanned two property widths and the depth of the lots were about three. Together with the connecting properties, the square footage of the land would be substantial and could be sold as a parcel to developers for millions; a quicker and more lucrative means of return, by far, than from her husband's retail meat supply business.

Right across the board, the sales from red meat were diminishing. With the growing concern of growth hormones and the massive slaughtering of animals, I was buying less meat not only for the restaurant, but for personal consumption, as well. Chicken and fish entrees have substituted the heavy meat specialties that once dominated most restaurant menus. Although, at Walker's we still serve a freakishly large number of steak and frites. Sometimes you have to treat yourselves to sodium-injected cholesterol, nothing else will suffice.

Maria was fuming. She pointed to the group around her. “What about his employees? They haven't been paid last week's wages and haven't been given any prior notice of this sale.”

“Your outstanding paychecks will be mailed to you and Mrs. Vieira will compensate all the employees with severance pay. I'm afraid she is not willing to reopen the store under any circumstances.” His voice cracked. “Although I'm not really the one who should be telling you all this, I have been advised by Mrs. Vieira to speak freely — closure of the store is immediate. Your services are no longer required and her lawyers are handling your cases now. You should be hearing from them soon.” His voice was almost gone.

The room of people seemed too stunned to answer. Louise was the first to speak. “Listen, everyone; I am very sorry for the men and women who are losing their jobs. This is terrible news and I realize it's a great shock for you all. But we must welcome Mr. Tilson as our new representative at City Hall. We are here to support changes in the market and should try to get beyond this to matters that concern us all.”