A Dinner to Die For by Susan Dunlap

He was worried about it. It put him in a shitty mood.”
    “How bad a cold?”
    “Almost gone. Anyone else would have forgotten it, particularly on a busy night like that. But with him you’d think it was pneumonia. He was still using the horseradish. I’m surprised we had any customers left, the way he’d been sneezing and blowing out there all week.”
    I stared, amazed. Paradise was a small place. Even a delicate, shielded sneeze would resound through the dining room, disrupting the aura of understated elegance that Biekma had been so proud of. A barrage of snorts and blows would have been devastating.
    “Why did he work the desk if he was that sick?”
    Suddenly his face seemed to close. “Don’t know.”
    I didn’t believe that. “What would be your best guess?”
    His shoulders tensed and stayed tense. Even though he wasn’t speaking, the hiss permeated his breathing. His pale eyebrows were scrunched together, creating a hummock of flesh at the top of his nose. “Okay. Look, Biekma was an asshole. He shouldn’t have been in here at all, sneezing and snorting all over the food. He could have infected half of Berkeley with his colds. He got them often enough. Why didn’t he take a decongestant like a normal person? But no, he had to doctor himself with his horseradish. And he didn’t touch that till he had his soup, after all the customers had left. Fat lot of good it did anyone at that hour. But tell him that. What did he care who he annoyed, who he infected, who he stepped on when he raced over the finish line first? Ashoka offered to host, but Biekma wouldn’t have it. Not The Witty Voice of the Gourmet Scene, Mr. Almost Guest Host. No way would he share the limelight.”
    Yankowski’s face was red; his breath screeched; the strong, silent facade was gone. Had Yankowski himself been one of the people Biekma had stepped on? Before he could regain control, I said, “You could have made more money waiting tables or busing dishes. Did Biekma keep you—”
    “Nah. I don’t want that,” he said, breathing through his mouth.
    “Why not?”
    “Can’t be bothered.”
    “Can’t be bothered with what?”
    “People. They’re a pain in the ass. With dishwashing, I do my thing and I leave.”
    “Not in this kitchen, not according to you. You can’t avoid people here. You can’t even avoid Mitch Biekma. And for all that hassle you make, what, five bucks an hour?”
    He tried to answer but his breath caught. He gasped. “Don’t need much.”
    “There’s more to it than that, isn’t there?”
    His faced purpled.
    “What?”
    Taking short, labored breaths, he peered nervously through the doorway into the dining room.
    “Yankowski, withholding information in a murder investigation is a crime. I don’t have to remind you about jail, do I?”
    He clenched his hands over his elbows. Even with his mouth open, his breath was shrill. He looked like he’d take a bulldozer to move. I didn’t want to have to call Grayson to help get him to a car.
    “Yankowski, this is your last chance. Give me an honest answer or you can be silent at the station.”
    His hands clenched tighter. He hissed louder.
    “We’ll keep asking you; we’ll run you through files, we’ll talk to your neighbors and friends, and enemies. We’ll send your fingerprints to the computer in Washington. We’ll find what it is you’re covering up. It’ll just take time, ours and yours.”
    He didn’t move. His breath was pitched so high it sounded ready to explode. Then it stopped. He grabbed me by the shoulders, lifted me up, and flung me back against the sink. I landed hard on my ribs. My feet flew out and I hit the floor.
    The back door banged. Yankowski was gone.

CHAPTER 11
    “Y ANKOWSKI’S GONE!” I YELLED to Grayson as I ran out the door, my back throbbing with each step. On Grove Path, I paused. Yankowski was nowhere in sight.
    “Smith?” I spun around. The rookie guarding the yard was pushing himself up. Where’d he