THE DEADLY CLEAVER

2nd in the Recipes for Murder Series A culinary murder mystery of approximately 90,000 Words By Prudy Taylor Board

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Acknowledgments

My sincere thanks to Elise Oranges, my friend and co-worker, who traveled with me to Nassau on a fact-finding mission and waited patiently while I talked about subjects of no possible interest to her. And to my college buddy Bonnie Barstow, who made a second visit to Nassau while I did additional research. Also to the folks in Nassau who were wonderfully helpful ~ Danny Miller, limo driver and tour guide extraordinare, Konan Sawyer, crime scene officer with the Nassau Central Police Department, and Paolo Garzaroli, general manager of Graycliff. The mistakes are mine, but what is right I owe to them. And to every reader ~ thank you! I realize that you give me the opportunity to indulge in my fiction addiction. Please know that I genuinely appreciate the valuable gift of your time and I look forward to hearing from you. A promise: I will never be too busy to read and respond to your letters and your emails.

Dedication

For my daughter Jennifer and my son Byron

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THE DEADLY CLEAVER

Chapter 1

The scream from the kitchen ricocheted off the sun-splashed walls of the nearly empty main dining room in Junkanoo Bay Resort. The sound knifed through the torpid November morning and assaulted Clyde Colbys ears. She froze with a cup of coffee halfway to her lips. The slack jaws and wide eyes of her cinematographer Andy Zabriski and her producer Slade Winters registered the shock she felt. The scream was followed by another, then by the crash of china striking a tiled floor and the clatter of unsteady footsteps. Seconds later, the petite waitress who had taken their order broke through the double doors leading from the kitchen. Her face was a mask of fear. Sweet Lord Jesus. Her distress jarred the usual lilting rhythm of her speech. He be murdered. With one hand, she twisted the hem of her skirt. Her other hand clutched her chest as if to keep her heart from escaping. Placing the cup on the table, Clyde pushed her chair back and stood. Easy, she said gently. Easy. Show me. Choking back sobs, the waitress grasped Clydes hand and pulled her toward the kitchen, but stopped at the doors. The freezer. She pointed toward the far end of the huge stainless-steel kitchen. The freezer, she managed. He just be hanging there. In the freezer.

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Clyde looked over her shoulder and saw Andy Zabriski was hard on her heels. Stay with her, Zeeman. She pushed through the doors. The kitchen looked completely normal. No sign of a struggle. Nary a pot nor a pan seemed out of place, but the walk-in freezer door was ajar. She crossed the kitchen and glanced in. She caught her breath. Straight ahead, dangling from a meat hook, was a mans corpse. He wore a cooks outfit, but his white pants were down around his knees. Her eyes focused on a dark red stain, glistening, blackening on his taut, bare groin. His trousers were stiff, and a bloody icicle had formed as his life drained away. Clyde grasped the door for support. At his feet lay a neat mound of skin and flesh. She jumped as the freezers fan kicked on then noticed that the bloodstained white sneaker that lay next to an overturned pile of boxes of frozen shrimp. As she drew nearer, she saw that the corpses fingernails were broken and bloody, silent testimony to his desperate struggle to live. Behind her, she heard Zeemans quick, indrawn breath and Slade gagging. For the first time, she looked at the corpses face. Then it hit her and she felt her knees begin to buckle. This wasnt just a corpse. This was Kevin Sutherland. Her friend. Good God, she murmured, only half aware she was speaking aloud. Who could have done this to you? And why? Her experience as a police reporter kicked in and she backed out of the freezer. She took one final glance. Invoices and notes and scraps of paper were strewn around the floor of the freezer. Preserve the crime scene, she said to Zeeman who had followed her. She backed away

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from the freezer, then turned and gestured to the young waitress standing by the kitchen door. The waitress shoulders were shaking, her breathing was shallow and rapid and her eyes were glazed. Has anyone called the police? The girl didnt respond. Clyde hurried over and shook her. Do that. Now. Please. Relief that someone had taken charge washed across the girls face. She nodded and hurried into the chefs office, which was right off the kitchen. Clyde watched through the oversized plate glass window that separated Kevins office from the work area as the girl picked up the receiver and punched in numbers. A few seconds later, she spoke into the phone then nodded. Ill stay by the doors to keep people out of the kitchen, Zeeman volunteered. Why dont you get her out of here? He nodded toward the waitress. Clyde nodded and looked around. If youre looking for Slade, he ducked out. Hes probably in the mens room puking up everything down to and including his toenails. The waitress, tears streaming down her cheeks, emerged from the chefs office, but stood in the open door. Clyde took her hand. I called and the policeman he said he be here right soon. Glancing at the freezer door, she erupted in a series of gulping sobs. Chef was nice man. One time he save my job. Clyde put her hand on the waitresss shoulder and smiled. Thank you for calling the police. Glancing at the girls nameplate on her blouse, she added, Floriece, lets get out of here. Clyde dug into her jeans pocket and pulled out a tissue, which she handed to the waitress.

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Quieter now, Floreice led Clyde through the dining room into the lobby where guests and staff were congregating against a backdrop of jungle murals with huge red, blue, and yellow macaws and flamingos, towering royal poincianas and lithe palms. Floreice, the desk clerk called sternly as he caught sight of the sobbing waitress. Handle yourself, girl. His right eyebrow soared. You face like a squall of rain. Mr. Ferguson is so looking for you. He said for you to take the staff into the breakroom. Whats up? Clyde asked. The clerk snorted. You mean other than the chef be murdered and his body be hanging in the freezer? How did you find out? Clyde demanded. From your Mr. Winters. He scowled at the waitress. Floriece, you be doing what I told you. Now. You dolt, Clyde snapped. Cant you see how upset she is? And tell Mr. Ferguson I want to see him before he starts brutalizing his employees. Unless, of course, he wants me to do a story on television about his unfair labor practices. The clerks eyebrows rose. Yes, mam, Miss Colby. Ill tell Mr. Ferguson. Thank you, Floriece mouthed. He be always humbuggin me. Humbuggin? Floriece looked back and whispered, Pickin on me. Humbuggin. Clyde nodded and watched as the waitress led the kitchen crew and maid staff through a door on the right of the desk into the hotels service area. Alone in the lobby except for the clerk who was studiously avoiding her, Clyde drifted toward the huge windows facing Junkanoo Bay. The resort overlooked the small shops of West

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Bay Street to the rear and white sandy Junkanoo Bay Beach in the front. To the west, the famed pink towers of the venerable British Colonial Hotel rose against the horizon. Shed learned in e-mails from Kevin that Junkanoo Bay Resort was relatively new; it had been built in 1983, just ten years after Nassau had declared its independence from Great Britain. As a result, the architecture was more island than British colonial with wide sweeping verandahs on three sides. Traffic was already clogging Bay Street as vendors, jitneys and taxis made their way to Prince George Wharf where the huge cruise ships would soon dock. A white sedan pulled under the concrete portecochere that shaded the resorts Bay Street entrance. The words Central Police were painted in square black letters on the side of the car. Two officers emerged. The driver, the older of the two judging by his graying hair, was dressed in the Bahamian police constables uniform consisting of a light blue shirt, navy blue trousers with a wide red stripe and a navy blue hat with a red stripe and a gold emblem. The other man wore stonewashed jeans, a black pullover and a black stocking cap. His badge hung from a metal chain around his neck. A blue car pulled up behind the white sedan and three additional constables emerged and took their posts at the front door. The first two entered the lobby, glanced around and headed toward the desk. The clerk gestured toward the dining room and Clyde followed at a discreet distance. Trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, she slid into a booth to wait for Zeeman. Zeeman stood in front of the double doors leading into the kitchen. While she watched, the detective in plainclothes waved his badge at Zeeman. The detective spoke so softly she couldnt hear what he was saying, but Zeeman stood to one side and the detective entered the

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kitchen. The constable took a stance in front of the doors and motioned for Zeeman to move away. Zeeman walked over to Clydes booth and sat down across from her. You might say the Bahamian police are investigating a fatality resulting from a case of badly chopped nuts. Zeeman grinned his small, tight grin and raised his Konica/Minolta light meter to his eye, looking through it in the manner of Sherlock Holmes and the magnifying glass. The corpse was her friend, but Clyde understood that Zeeman wasnt being disrespectful. During her stint as a police reporter with the Miami Chronicle, shed learned macabre humor was the defense mechanism cops and reporters used to deal with the ever present death and tragedy. Have you checked in with Rod the Clod yet? Our inestimable station manager who reminds us every day that he signs our paychecks? Not yet. Bet Slade has though. Youd better do it, Clyde. Were both on his shit list. He was so hoping wed screw up at Far Horizons Resort. Clyde laughed. Yeah, he was really hoping hed have an excuse to dump Clydes Gourmet Galley and my contract. She sighed. And youre guilty of being my bud. Yeah, youre right. She pulled her cell phone out of her jeans pocket, flipped it open, tapped the station managers number in her contacts list and waited. When his nasal voice growled in her ear, she briefly described what had happened then held the phone away at a distance as he erupted. Goddammit, Colby. I send you to do a simple show about a simple cooking contest and you turn it into a fucking assassination. She didnt say anything, just waited and finally he

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spoke again, this time in a calmer tone. Do the story. Its got a local angle. Budgets too tight to send another crew down there so youre it. Hes excited, she whispered to Zeeman. He wants us to do a story since Kevin Sutherland was a well known chef in Fort Lauderdale and Miami. She put the phone back to her ear. You will remember that youre no longer a police reporter and that means you will not try to solve the murder. You will leave that to the police. The station manager made no attempt to hide his irritation as he continued. Youll do the story only because I dont have a crew to send, and Im making an exception only because this is a food-related story. And you will be mindful of PR or you and your show are history. She smiled sweetly at Zeeman and covered the phone with her hand. He wants us to be polite. But Rod Delmont was still talking. What effect this will have on the Bahamas Classic Culinary Competition? Its too soon to tell. . . she began. But you will keep me posted, he interrupted. It wasnt a question. She banged the phone in the palm of her hand. Gee, Rod, youre breaking up. She hit End on the phones screen and snapped it shut. I can only take small servings of Rod Delmont. Zeeman shrugged. Youre not alone in that. You got enough to do a standup now? Sure, Clyde said in a confident voice, but she felt tears welling. She wiped them away. I cant believe Kevins dead. She searched in her pocket for a tissue, but found none so she took a deep breath before continuing, Just last night he went over the culinary competition program with me. He was helping me decide what to cover. We had years to catch up and we

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10

talked so late we closed the bar. She shook her head. Its not like we were close friends, but we tied on a few good ones when we judged a chocolate festival in Boca and a chili cook-off in Fort Lauderdale. She eased out of the booth. And what was done to him was so brutal. I cant believe anyone could hate him that badly. Who. . . Zeeman shrugged. Not that its going to do any good, Clyde, but someone should remind you that youre not a detective. I know Im not, Zeeman, but Kevin was a friend. And he was just getting his life back in order. Its so unfair. Zeeman shrugged his narrow shoulders. I said it wouldnt do any good, but I can tell our Mr. Rod Delmont I tried. About that stand up. Clyde steeled herself. Time to stop thinking of Kevin as a friend. It was just a body in the freezer. This was a murder and it was a story. Her story. Sure I can do a minute reporting that one of the areas favorite chefs has been murdered, including 20 seconds on Kevins background, and report the Nassau police are investigating. Behind them, the younger detective was interviewing the clerk at the front desk while the older officer was bringing staff one-by-one out into the lobby where he was quietly interrogating them and making notes on a clipboard. She followed as Zeeman slid out of the booth and headed to the lobby. He studied the lighting and checked for different angles, then shook his head. I was hoping we could use the investigation as a backdrop, but that hotshot detective would throw us out on our asses. How about out front? Under the marquee.

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11

Just what I was thinking, Young Top Chef. Its a cinch they wont let us back in the freezer. You ready? Shame you couldnt get any pictures of the body. Who says I didnt? I got it from every angle. He held up his cell phone and clicked it open to show her the photos hed taken in the freezer. Hed been careful to position the phone so that the chefs mangled genitalia wasnt revealed. Resolutions lousy, but its better than nothing. Yyou get your story together and I go up to my room, get the gear and find Pete./ As Zeeman headed toward the elevators, Clyde pulled her reporters notebook and a pen out of her pocket and sat down on a window seat in the sunny lobby to rough out her script. A shadow fell over her notes. She looked up to see the young plainclothes cop blocking the sun. He held a notebook in his hand and had a pen behind his ear. If it werent for his eyes and the badge, he could pass for a reporter, she thought. Is there anything I can help you with, Officer? He flipped open a wallet and displayed an ID card. Pierce Dunning, he said. Crime Scene Officer. Are you a guest here? She nodded. Clyde Colby. She pulled a business card from her purse and handed it to him. Im here with my crew filming the Bahamas Classic Cuisine Competition for my TV show, Clydes Gourmet Galley. You found the body? No, the waitress did, but . . . Please come to the police station with me, Miss Colby. For answering questions. Why cant I just give you my statement here? He shook his head. You need to come with me. If you like, we can have a representative from your embassy meet you at our headquarters.

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I have things to do here. . . Come with me, please,. His full mouth was tight and his dark eyes were impersonal. With a barely discernible nod of his head, he motioned for one of the uniformed constables to come over to where they stood. Exasperated, Clyde agreed. Just let me tell my producer and my cinematographer where. Im going. This is a murder investigation. We have been informed you were the last person to see the victim alive. You need to come with me. If you have nothing to hide, you need have no fear. Before she could argue, the constable moved to her side. He took one elbow and Dunning the other and she found herself ushered politely but firmly through the front doors of the resort and into the back seat of the waiting police car.