“Celebrities. The beautiful people.”
I let myself smile a little, gesturing toward the bar. “Me either.”
“How was your relationship with Mr. Beauvais when he died?”
“Good, I would say.”
“And his mental state?”
I turn a fork upside down on the table. “He was worried about his daughter in rehab, pretty worried about the restaurant, too.” I take a breath, add the truth. “His health was not great.”
“The restaurant was in trouble?”
I nod. “Not really my realm, but yes, I think everyone kind of knows that.”
The guy leans forward. “What kind of relationship do you have with his family? His ex-wives, his kids?”
“Not much. I’m friendly with Rory, and I know both Maya and Meadow, but only socially, really. Maya is letting me stay at Belle l’été.”
“That’s the house Augustus owned?”
“Yes.” It strikes me as something they’d already know, so they’re leading up to something. “Is there something in particular you think I might know? I’ve only had this job a couple of days and I need it.”
Vaca lifts his chin. “If you knew someone poisoned him, who would you finger?”
I blink. “Poisoned?”
“It’s still inconclusive, but the evidence is pointing that direction.”
I know a lot about poison as a method of murder thanks to a class on Agatha Christie I took as an undergrad. “Fairly hard to pinpoint, isn’t it?”
His eyes narrow. “Did you poison him?”
I meet his gaze. “He was the best thing that ever happened to me, Detective. Why would I kill him?”
“Did you know he was sleeping with the bartender at Peaches and Pork that night?”
I feel an electric shock jolt my nerves, setting them abuzz. “No, that’s not right.”
“I’m afraid it is,” he says. There’s a slight, aggressive satisfaction in his pronouncement. “He was also sleeping with Meadow, fairly regularly by the look of it.” He settles a grainy photo of the two of them engaged in a passionate embrace. Her shirt is pulled off her shoulder, which Augustus is kissing. “Were you aware?”
“No.” I swallow, and it takes everything I have to keep my voice even. “But I did suspect. They spent a lot of time together after Maya went to rehab.”
“Do you think Meadow could have poisoned him?”
I meet his eyes again. “No,” I say distinctly. “She loved him like he was the sun and moon and stars.”
“How does she feel about you?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see my boss come into the room, and I stand up. “How do you think she feels? Sorry, I have to get back to work.”
Dinner is slow, and as the newbie, I’m the first to be cut. It has taken all that I’ve got to keep a professional face up during service, so I’m not disappointed.
The good news is that my tips are excellent and I have some money in my pocket as I head out, trying to decide what to do with myself. It’s not quite seven thirty, and I don’t really want to return to Belle l’été yet. For one thing, I’m reeling from the bombshells the detectives dropped on me, and for another, I really need that room and I don’t want to get on Maya’s nerves.
Instead of wallowing, I head back to the library to do more research. It’s already closed, so I carry my laptop to one of the patio restaurants along State Street. The Sunday crowds are remarkably thin, and I doubt anybody is going to care if I nurse a beer for a couple of hours. I had a good meal at work but order some tapas to go with it, Marcona almonds and little roasted peppers and olives. Augustus would have ordered the pulpo, octopus, but I can’t bring myself to eat something that’s smart enough to free itself from an aquarium, which I saw in a video somewhere.
Girls walk by in tiny dresses and tinier shorts, and boys follow in groups. It’s warm and clouds are gathering over the ocean, but no one has said a word about it raining. Even if it does, I’m sheltered beneath a canvas roof and will be fine.
When the server delivers my plate, I fire up the laptop. The man next to me is talking quietly and repetitively to himself, but he’s easy enough to ignore.
Did someone kill Augustus? It seems so wildly unlikely. Even his enemies loved him in some way. Only Maya managed to keep up her walls against him, and she’s off the hook.
Still. Poisoned? The possibility rolls around in my gut.
On the computer, I call up the raft of images of him I find on Google. So many of them. So many with Meadow.