Flu

Chapter 98

"Damn! I was hoping we could sleep in this morning," Rick grumbles, reaching for his insistent cellphone. He's never heard panic in Mark's voice before, but it floods the manager's words now. "Rick! You've got to come to the restaurant, right away. And we need Kate."

What's going on?" Rick demands.

"You and Kate will see when you get here. And tell her we need her as a cop."

Kate pushes up on her elbows. "What's wrong, Babe?"

"I don't know, but we need to get to Imagination Patch. And you'll be responding in your official capacity."

Mark meets Rick and Kate at the entrance to the eatery and motions them toward the kitchen. Writer/apprentice chef Busby Centerfield lies on the floor, his fingers still curled around the handle of an iron skillet and dried blood surrounding a knife stuck in his chest. "I came in to set up for the weekend and found him," Mark explains. "I checked for a pulse, but he was cold like he'd been dead for hours. He's been coming in at two or three a.m. to start the baking. He likes, liked, to sit out front when we opened and check out customers as models for characters in his book."

"Did you call 911?" Kate queries.

"I figured it was too late for first responders. That's why I asked Rick to bring you."

"It would have been better to get a marked unit over here immediately to secure the scene, but I'll deal with that now. I'll also need to call in a medical examiner. Lanie said she was going to Pennsylvania to visit Lorne this weekend. I think Perlmutter's on duty. We'll need CSU too. And Mark," Kate instructs, " until the other cops get here, make sure no one else wanders in."

"I'll take care of it," Mark promises. "I'm sorry, Rick, this shouldn't have happened. I was sure Imagination Patch had good security."

"It has excellent security," Rick confirms. "I had an expert from the precinct check it out."

"Busby might have let in whoever attacked him," Kate proposes. "It could have been someone he knew and trusted."

"And when Busby realized he was in danger, he grabbed that frying pan to defend himself," Rick assumes. "But he was too late."

Kate pulls her phone out of the pocket of her heavy jacket. "Perlmutter may be able to tell us more about how Busby died."

Closing his eyes, Rick shakes his head. "Oh, joy!"

Perlmutter glances up from Busby's body. "The killer had considerable muscle. He forced the knife through the victim's ribs, to penetrate the heart."

Rick's mouth thins, and his eyebrows plummet. "Not 'the victim,' Perlmutter. He has a name: Busby Centerfield. He was looking forward to seeing it on a book jacket."

"The only opus on which Mr. Centerfield's name is going to appear will be my autopsy report," Perlmutter retorts.

"Babe," Kate breaks in, "Busby was one of your mentees. Do you know of anyone who would want to hurt him?"

"Kate, to tell you the truth, Chef was more of a mentor to him than I was. If Busby had become a successful author, it probably would have been of a series of culinary mysteries, like the ones they make into movies for one of the Hallmark channels. Nothing wrong with that, " Rick adds hurriedly. "Rex Stout got a lot of mileage out of Nero Wolfe's gourmet predilections."

"I should talk to Chef, then. I've never heard you call him anything but that. What's his name?" Kate asks.

"Benedict Auchincloss."

"No wonder you call him Chef. You want to make the call?"

Rick checks his watch. "I doubt he'll need calling. He's always here before we open. Busby would have done most of the prep work, but Auchincloss should be showing up any minute. You'd better make sure the boys in blue let him through."

"I'll tell them."

"Terrible, terrible thing," Chef declares. "Such a loss. Busby had more talent in the kitchen than most of the culinary school graduates I've met in the last ten years. Perhaps it was the writer in him. He was fascinated by the creative process. The way he combined ingredients in new ways was close to genius."

"Can you think of anyone who would have wanted to do him harm?" Rick questions.

Benedict spreads his hands. "No one."

"How about something that upset him?" Kate asks.

Chef's upper body bobs from the waist. "Yes, yes! To make the perfect crust for the pies, the protein content must be exact. Our suppliers specify the percentage in the flours they deliver. For pastry, it's eight. General-purpose is higher, and bread flour is higher still. Busby claimed the amount was off in the last lot we received. He had a batch of tough crusts, even after adjusting the water and shortening. He called up the company to complain. I believe he threatened to expose them in a book, or ask Mr. Castle to do so."

"Would a baking supply company take a complaint like that seriously?" Kate wonders.

"It would be unlikely the company would worry about an operation as small as Imagination Patch," Chef offers. "Still, if Busby got chains or franchises to back him up, that could pose a serious problem for them."

"Busby never mentioned anything to me about putting flour in a story. But I haven't been around Imagination Patch much while Kate and I were winding up a case," Rick admits. "He might have been planning to tell me about it this weekend."

"Who's your flour producer?" Kate inquires.

"Sir Lancelot, it's an employee-owned outfit in Vermont," Chef replies. "But we buy through a distributor, Eastwick Baking Supplies. Eastwick works out of a warehouse in the Bronx. Mark can give you all the information concerning our orders."

Rick considers the spreadsheets always at hand on Mark's tablet. "Of that, I have no doubt."

Kate tears the lettuce for a late lunch, with excessive vigor. "Babe, do you really think Busby was killed over flour?"

Rick narrowly avoids slicing his finger as he dices a ripe tomato. "I don't know. Normally when a man is stabbed in the heart, I'd say cherchez la femme. But Perlmutter believes that from the angle of the blade and the strength required to inflict the wound, our perp was probably a tall male. He pantomimed the motion as he described it."

"Still, the killer could have been a lover – or ex-lover," Kate points out.

"I'm pretty sure Busby was straight. When he did the people-watching essential to constructing believable characters, he generally preferred the female of the species. When is there supposed to be someone we can talk to at Eastwick?"

"According to the voicemail message, the only business the company handles on weekends is pre-scheduled deliveries. No one will be in the office until Monday morning. But they get in early," Kate adds, "at seven a.m."

"Hmm. Most likely because they have to get a bunch of trucks back on the road. Imagination Patch will be closed down until CSU clears it," Rick notes. "That probably gives us what's left of our weekend to enjoy. Alexis is at the lab at Hudson U, and Mother has two performances today. For the rest of the day, our home will be strictly our own. Or we can go anywhere you like, assuming you wish to brave the biting breezes to get there."

"Going back and forth to Imagination Patch was enough time out in the cold. And I just got that special edition Blu-ray of Nebula Nine with the added commentary from Gabriel Winters. We could make some cocoa, cuddle up, and binge," Kate purrs.

"Can I heckle?" Rick pleads.

"No, but if you vacuum it up afterward, you can throw popcorn at the screen."

Rick leans in for a kiss. "Sold."