Killer in the Kitchen by Donald Bain

don’t know how . . .” Marcie spotted two customers coming through the front door and excused herself, leaving me to ponder what I’d just heard.
    That Brad and Marcie Fowler would allow an unhealthy situation to exist in their restaurant was a surprise to me, and apparently to them. I suppose that it was possible they’d overlooked a regulation in dealing with the Fin & Claw’s hectic opening and the events that followed.
    â€œTell me more about the inspection, Marcie,” I said in a low voice after she had returned to my table.
    â€œI’m sick over it. It’ll be around town before the day is out.” She looked around the restaurant. “Maybe it already is.”
    â€œHow serious
were
the violations?” I asked.
    She looked to the front of the restaurant, saw that no new customers were arriving, and took the chair across from me. “That miserable man Harold Greene came in here unannounced,flashed his stupid badge, and said he was here to inspect the premises. Brad told him he should have made an appointment, but Greene ignored that.”
    â€œSorry to interrupt, Marcie,” I said, “but it’s routine for inspectors to arrive unannounced so the owner doesn’t have advance notice and time to clean up.”
    She reared back and looked at me as though I were an enemy. I realized I probably shouldn’t have defended Greene so abruptly.
    â€œMaybe I’m wrong,” I said.
    â€œI don’t know, Mrs. Fletcher. Maybe you’re right. Anyway, Greene just marched into our kitchen, a clipboard and pen in his hand, and started looking around.” She leaned forward again. “Mrs. Fletcher, I swear to you, the kitchen is pristine. Brad is a fussbudget about cleanliness. At home he rinses the dishes so thoroughly that by the time he puts them in the dishwasher they’re squeaky clean.”
    I smiled at her anecdote.
    â€œGreene found some things that he said were violations, silly little things like whether certain cooking utensils were too close to one another, how we store mayonnaise—which, by the way, is the right way to store it. And then . . .”
    I waited.
    â€œHe got down on his knees and started looking at the floor under the range. He looked up, a smug expression on his face, and said, ‘mouse droppings.’”
    â€œOh, dear.”
    â€œMrs. Fletcher, those mouse droppings weren’t there when he arrived. He put them there. I know it. I just know he did.”
    â€œThat’s a serious charge, Marcie. What can you do about it?”
    She stood, misery etched into her pretty face. “He gave ustwo days to correct the alleged violations, but even if we do—and how do you correct something that isn’t there in the first place?—we’ve been fined four hundred dollars.”
    â€œThat’s a lot of money.”
    â€œEverything is a lot of money, Mrs. Fletcher. It seems that there’s no end to what we have to lay out. It’s a nightmare. This whole experience of opening a restaurant has been one big, expensive headache.”
    I smiled and reached for her hand. “It’s really early in the game,” I said. “Starting something as ambitious as a restaurant always involves unexpected expenses and setbacks.”
    â€œTell that to Brad,” she said.
    â€œWhere is he?”
    â€œIn the kitchen. Please look in on him before you leave. I know he’ll be glad to see you. He’s beside himself.”
    After I’d finished my soup and paid the bill, I took her suggestion and pushed open the swinging door into the kitchen, then questioned whether I should have. Brad was in the midst of a rant against his sous chef, Jake, calling him names I’d just as soon not repeat. Jake responded by whipping off his white apron and throwing it at Brad, who caught it and flung it across the kitchen.
    Jake pushed past me just as Marcie was coming into the