Echoes in Death (In Death #44)(17)

“Ouch.”

“So—” Eve spotted her chance, zipped to the curb in front of a massive delivery truck, which expressed its annoyance with a barking horn. “This caterer place should be about a block and a half west.”

She got out and, after judging the traffic, Peabody managed to nip out of the passenger side and squeeze between bumpers to the curb.

“What did the husband do?”

“He asked for the bill, signed for it. When the wife got back, he gave her the ’link, said ‘Happy Valentine’s Day, bitch,’ and stabbed her in the neck with his dinner knife.”

“Holy shit. He killed her, right in the Rainbow Room?”

“They had a candlelit corner booth. Nobody noticed this woman bleeding out while her husband polished off the rest of the champagne. Let that be a lesson to you.”

“To me?”

“Stay home and bang.”

Peabody, muffled in her scarf, aimed a suspicious look. “You made all that up.”

“Elina and Roberto Salvador, 2055 or ’56—not quite sure. You can look it up.”

The minute they stepped into Jacko’s, the siren scent of yeast and sugar assailed them. Peabody audibly moaned.

“I didn’t know it was a bakery.” Peabody closed her eyes, drawing in the scent. “I didn’t know.”

Not just a bakery, Eve noted. Through a side opening, tables and chairs, a bar, and a hostess podium stood in the dark. But here, in this section, the lights were on and sparkling on glass displays of muffins and pastries, coffee cakes and breads with drizzles of white icing.

Staff in white smocks bagged, boxed, and rang up purchases briskly. Customers waited while others carried out those fragrant bags and glossy boxes.

“Wipe the drool off your chin,” Eve advised, walking to the far end of the counter where a pretty girl of about twenty constructed more boxes.

“Need to speak to whoever’s in charge.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, if there’s a problem, I…” She trailed off, big blue eyes going bigger as Eve palmed her badge, held it up. “Oh. Oh, gosh. Just a minute, okay? Just a minute.”

She bolted, down the counter and through a swinging door.

“I know you personally can go days without actual food—which makes no sense as you have no body fat stored—but I need to eat.” Peabody huffed out a breath. “I was going to settle for a yogurt bar and egg pocket from a cart or Vending, but jeez.”

“Get something when we’ve finished the interview.”

“They have cinnamon buns,” Peabody said reverently. “Cinnamon sticky buns.”

“Don’t bitch about your own sticky bun after you scarf one down.”

“They are not to be scarfed, the cinnamon sticky bun, but savored.”

The pretty young thing hurried back. “Ma’am,” she began in a stage whisper, “Jacko can’t come out of the kitchen right now, so if you could go back?”

“Sure. We’ll go back.”

At the girl’s direction, they moved down the counter. On the other side of the swinging doors, the baking smells nearly had Eve’s reputedly zero body fat moaning out loud.

Besides a wall of busy ovens, she spotted some sort of mixer nearly as big as the woman running it, a line of stainless-steel cabinets, what she took to be a mammoth refrigerator, and racks full of trays and supplies.

At one counter, a man in a skullcap used some sort of tool to add tiny petals and leaves to a towering cake. At another, a girl used a different tool to squeeze batter into a tray filled with pleated cups.

At the center of it all, at an island counter, a big, broad-shouldered man wearing a white trailing cap and smock rolled out dough while he sang about getting down to live it up. He had a voice like a foghorn.

“Uncle Jacko? Here’s the police.”

“Huh? Oh, okay, okay. You’re a good girl, Brooksie. Go on back out.” Still rolling, he gestured at Eve and Peabody with his chin. “Come on over. We got a run on the buns like always. Gotta see the badges.”

He worked as he studied them, nodded. “Okeydoke, what can I do for you?”

“You catered a dinner party last night.”

“Had four events last night—two dinner parties. Which one?”

“Anthony and Daphne Strazza.”

“Ah, Mrs. Strazza. Sweet thing, knows her party planning. Yeah, we catered that. Party of fifty. Appetizer course, served in the living area, lobster medallions in a piquant sauce. Main dining room, warm salad—seared scallops, haricots verts, and bell peppers in a walnut vinaigrette with a main of roast prime rib—”

“Got it. Don’t need the menu.”

“It sounds amazing,” Peabody put in, making him smile as he spread butter over the rolled-out dough.

“You gonna eat, you should eat good.” From a bowl he sprinkled a mixture—Eve could smell the cinnamon and sugar—over the butter. “What’s the problem?”

“The Strazzas were attacked by an intruder after the party.”

His hand stopped mid-sprinkle, and all the easy levity died out of his face. “Is she okay? Mrs. Strazza? I mean, are they okay?”

“Mrs. Strazza’s in the hospital, and she’s stable.”

“What hospital? Gula!”