Culinary Dreams

The wide front windows of Culinary Dreams were filled with a huge display of artfully arranged cutting boards and polished knives. A bell above the door announced our arrival. The aroma of spices hit my nose as we stepped inside.  The only ones I could truly make out wafting through the air were garlic and cinnamon. Daylight flooded in through the large windows making everything look clean and shining. I looked around the stylish store slowly, my gaze never quite stopping, gliding off and past things.  Every kitchen gadget imaginable for sale hung on wall displays. A sign over an aisle of shinny cookware identified it as Williams Sonoma.

A woman in her mid-forties greeted us with a radiant smile. “Welcome to Culinary Dreams. How can I help you?”

Garcia met her smile with one of his own as he said, “I’m Detective Garcia.” He waved a hand towards me. “My partner, Detective Waller. We’re with the West Chicago Crime Division and we’re investigating the death of Janet Floyd.”

The clerk’s smile disappeared. “Oh, my. What happened to her is dreadful.” She threw her hands up covering her face and sniveled.

A male voice towards the back of the store called out, “Pull yourself together, Fanny.” The man lifted his head to turn toward us with a scowl of irritation. Was he provoked because we were in the store or was, he upset with his clerk’s show of grief? I wasn’t sure.

I took a couple steps towards him, but he called out, “Don’t bother me, don’t bother me.” Ignoring his request, I pulled my jacket open to display my badge clipped to my belt. Without hesitating I moved deeper into the room and asked, “Cole Stock?”

At the rear of the store pinewood cabinets near the ceiling circled the outside walls. A long island of granite with ten stools sat in the center. Stainless-steel appliances and granite counter tops gave the place a polished look. Culinary/cooking award plaques hung on the back walls.

“I’m busy. I’ve got a class in an hour.”

Garcia and I walked towards him as I called out, “Are you Janet Floyd’s business partner?”

“Yes, but I’m too busy to talk.” Stock paused for a second to give us a dirty look.

That didn’t slow me down. If anything, it raised my irritation level. We walked toward the massive restaurant-sized stove to be near him as I said, “This will only take a few minutes. We have some questions.” I showed him my badge and gave him one of my cards.

Fanny made her way towards the back of the store with us and fussed around the island trying to set out some bowls. “It’s important, Cole,” she said softly.

Garcia tried to soothe him. “I can’t even imagine all the things that must be going on in your head right now since your business partner has been murdered.”

“All right, all right, what is it?” Chef Stock in his late fifties had double chins, and a mist of gray beginning to surface through his short, black hair. He was built like a fireplug, short with a belly slightly hanging over the white trousers that were two inches too long and bagged around his ankles. There was something different about his shoes, but I brought my eyes upward. A bright red stain stood out on the front of his white chef jacket. I might consider it blood, in my line of work, but in his profession, it’s probably tomato sauce. With a round face, the chef said, “The news reported someone found her on the bike trail yesterday morning.” His manner was curt and slightly agitated.

Garcia told them, “We’re sorry for your loss. We just need a few minutes to talk with you.”

The chef’s pale eyes popped open as he stared at us. A panicked expression settled over his face.

I took out a small notepad. I didn’t plan on jotting anything down, but it has been my experience that people feel their statements were more important if I jot down their words. Unconsciously, they thought investigators were more thorough and took the time to check that everything was correct. They were more precise with facts such as times, names, and places if it was written down. Some investigators prefer to use a tape recorder or pocket dictating device for taking notes; I prefer a low-tech notepad. “What was your relationship with Janet Floyd and Mr. Ovilebee?” The couple had been living together before she was murdered.

The clerk started wiping off a counter that really didn’t need cleaning.

With a tight-lipped smile, Stock said, “Janet was my business partner, but she had no business sense.” With a nod of his head, he added, “And I’ve met Ovilbee when he was looking for votes.” He chuckled gently, a stupid, arrogant sound.

Ovilbee was an alderman in town, running for major in the next primary.

“Did you notice any change in her behavior, work habits, even her mood lately?” I stared at him intently.

           “No. I haven’t got time for her moods.” He looked obstinate. “I heard the radio, so I know she was hit and killed with something. They didn’t say what.”

“We can’t disclose that either.” Watching him closely, I asked, “Do you know of anyone who wanted to hurt her?”

“No.” He kept stirring a pot of something cooking on a stove burner.

“Do you have any idea who did this to her?”

“Who did it?” His voice mocked me like an eternal resentment of my existence. “Isn’t that what you’re supposed to find out?” He shrugged. “I suppose she was killed by some assailant.” He threw his head back with a slight grin like he was smart to come up with that line.

His attitude must have really bothered Garcia because my usually calm partner cleared his throat and said, “Mr. Stock, a woman you dealt with every day has been killed and we’re looking for her murderer. You can nicely answer our questions here or we could take you in for questioning.”

I added to the bluff, “Free board and lodging and free PR as a murder suspect.” I saw the look Garcia gave me, but I was on a roll. “Or we can offer you a round-the-clock tail, a free wake-up service, maybe even throw in a raid or two right during your cooking classes.” I stopped to catch my breath.

My partner added to the scare tactic by saying, “And who knows what else we can cook up.”

Irritated, I replied, “You are being difficult, but you better cooperate because I am going to find the piece of shit who did this. Got it?”

Looking directly at my gaze he said, “I hope you do. I hope you do, Detective Waller.”

Garcia moved around beside him and placed a calming hand on his wrist. “We’re not accusing you of anything, Mr. Stock. But you may be able to help us anyway. Now take a couple of deep breaths and try to relax.”

For a minute Stock seemed to be thinking it over.

During the pause, I glanced up at an annoying flickering fluorescent bulb overhead that was giving me a headache or was it this suspect that made my brain knot? I tried to remind myself he’s not guilty until we can prove it.

Chef Stock noticed my glance and called out to his assistant, “Get this light fixed before anybody else comes in this morning.”

She scurried towards the front of the store. I assumed she was going to make a call to a handyman immediately.

Garcia asked, “Did anyone who worked for her have a motive for killing her?”

“We had a clerk, Bonnie Lillie, we had to let go about two months ago.” Stock took an agitated breath. “We had her arrested for running credit cards twice. She was pocketing the cash on the second swipe through.”

I jotted the name in my notebook. “We’ll look into her.” Remembering what Ovilbee had said about Janet’s business partner, I asked him, “But what was the problem you had with Ms. Floyd?” I leaned in closer, getting right into the man’s face. “People say, you two fought, Mr. Stock!”

“Are you accusing me of murder?”

Garcia’s features tightened and his eyes narrowed. “We’re here for the truth.”

Stock’s breath whooshed out of his lungs. “It was the store versus the classes.” His shoulders sagged and he sighed dramatically a few times, maybe to stall. “I’m not sure what people say about me, nor do I care, but I can tell you that Janet was a difficult person.” He did a hard obvious swallow. “We didn’t see eye to eye, but that’s what business partners do.”

This is what we’d been waiting for, his explanation. I could see it in the man’s posture. Even if he was being an ass, at least he was beginning to open up, so I asked, “What parts of the business were you each responsible for?”

He pulled his shoulders back and said, “Look, I teach creative cooking classes like Kentucky bourbon with southern fare, cutlery skills, Mexican brunch, and tomorrow evening I’m doing an herbed pasta salad.”

I refused to break eye contact with him. “Pasta salad? What’s that, a box of macaroni with dried herbs?” I saw the clerk cringe as I said that.

 “I’ll have you know boxed pasta will never cross my palate.” His voice raised in irritation. “I make my own fresh pasta and teach my students how to cut fresh herbs properly to bring out the most succulent, intense flavors.” The chef smacked his lips. He turned towards the stove top and stirred something in a large pot. The aroma was mouth-watering. “The sales end of the store has never been my bailiwick, but I’ve been in the cooking business a long time.” The chef lifted lids to uncover treasures of simmering food.

“What’s that great smell in here?” I asked.

“I’m trying something new, beef short ribs. It’s a delicacy, made with bay leaves, garlic, onion and liquid smoke. If you take the class, you’ll get the recipe. ”

“I’d like to try that sometime, but usually I don’t have time to cook. In fact, some evenings I get home so late I just have pop tarts.” I was trying to be funny to break the tension.

“Those disgusting objects are foul. Don’t ever say that again,” he snapped and kicked the bottom of the island where he was standing.

I looked down towards the noise and then realized what was so unusual about his shoes. The vain Cole Stock was wearing platform shoes to make himself look taller. It wasn’t much of an illusion with the extra thick soles.

Stock curled the side of his mouth in a smirk. “When she didn’t come in yesterday, I tried to phone her, but no answer. Later I heard on the radio she was dead. I was shocked and upset. I mean to say, MURDERED. What are the chances of your business partner being beaten to death? But I don’t have time to show my emotions or mourn over it. Running a business doesn’t allow for such things.”

  He didn’t seem to be a very caring guy and I wondered why Ovilbee didn’t call Janet’s workplace to inform her business partner of her demise. Maybe they weren’t on the best of terms.

I changed the subject. “How did you and Janet meet?”

“She came to several of my cooking classes at the College of DuPage. We became acquaintances and decided to start a business together. We hadn’t known each other for that long, but I wanted to break out of the college environment, make some real money. This,” he waved a hand through the air to indicate the store, “had a lot of potential. We scraped up our down payment. Actually, I think she got hers from that guy she’s living with.”

“How long were you partners?” Garcia asked.

 “We were business partners. Nothin’ else,” he quickly corrected Garcia. “The store’s been open almost two years.” He leaned his ample body on the island. “In the beginning, we worked well together when we had a skeleton staff and a meager budget, but I knew we could be much bigger.” He took a deep breath. “I love cooking, baking, teaching people to get as excited as I am about my craft. Lots of regulars come back here again and again and even ask for more different classes: things like how to make bagels, chocolate, homemade pastas, oils and vinegars. Regulars I’ve gotten to know well. That’s how I know I’m doing what I’m meant to do.” In a pompous tone he said, “I never get bored with the classes and I never want to do anything else. Except I’m terribly bored clerking, pushing the sale of pots and pans. I want to teach.”

I could picture him ranting like this at his business partner or anyone who would listen.

“Accountants or sales reps are fine jobs and lots of people are happy doing them all their lives.” He jutted his chin and his voice got more intense. “Do what you love to do. That’s how I feel and that’s what I told Janet.” He waved a large spoon in the air. “I’m putting my foot down, no more doing what I hate, but she wanted to drop my cooking classes. She said they were too much trouble to prepare for them. But the classes bring in twelve to twenty people every time and they buy her gadgets.” He stirred another pot of something as he said, “Instead of fighting all the time, I thought of finding someone to run her part of the business.” He paused for a moment. His voice lowered, “Like I have to now.”

A sign at the end of an aisle identified a beautiful set of Mardi culinary knives on display within the chef’s reach, but I asked my next question anyway. “Where were you at the time of the murder?” I looked him right in the eye.

Chef Stock looked horror stricken. “Are you asking if I have an alibi? Surely you can’t suspect me, for Christ’s sake. Or are you telling me the cops have been on the case for two days and still don’t have any real leads?”

 “We’re looking at all the evidence, Mr. Stock. Can you tell us where you were Wednesday morning?”

“I was here, of course.”

“Alone?”

Stock drew himself up to his full height. “No.”

Garcia didn’t look convinced as he questioned, “May I ask who was with you?”

“Fine, I’ve nothing to hide. It was our clerk, Fanny.” He waved the large spoon towards his assistant at the front of the store. “She was in early stocking shelves. She lives here in town.”

The chef and I stared at each other for an uncomfortably long time. Breaking eye contact would be a sign of weakness. Finally, he admitted, “Okay, Janet and I didn’t get along. I was even wondering if I could afford to buy her out.” He pounded the table for emphasis. “How could I manage a loan like that?”

A bead of sweat appeared on his forehead and slid down his face. The kitchen isn’t that hot. Do we make him nervous?

Garcia made a note in his spiral book as I thrust my face to within eight inches of Stock and threatened, “If I learn you’re holding back information from me, I’m going to come back with a warrant for your arrest.”

The chef assured us, “I’m telling you the truth. I’m worried about the crime around here. I used to keep my home unlocked.” He hit himself on the chest on the word “my” with a dull thunk. “No more, not after this happened to Janet.” He rubbed his hands down the front of his apron and looked up at a clock on the wall. “I can’t talk now. I have to get ready for a class. My students will be coming soon.”

“Fine,” I said, realizing we didn’t have any substantial evidence to link him to the murder and I would check neighboring businesses to see if they saw him come in early yesterday. Was he trying to get away from our questions? “Thanks. Now go ahead and get ready for your class.”

Stock nodded. His step was quick with purpose as he retreated into a back room.