I approached the police officer. “Sir! Can you help me? I was supposed to meet someone who lives in that building. Can you please tell me who was killed in the fire?”
“Ma’am, I’m sorry. There hasn’t been a formal identification yet. He was someone who lived here.” The officer adjusted his hat and pulled his gloves on tighter.
“How can you not know who it is yet?” I paused. “Oh God.” The dreadful image of an incinerated body, a body burned beyond identification, flashed through my head. What a monstrous way to die! “It must have been so awful… for…”
“We don’t know much at this point, but I can tell you that it appears the victim died of smoke inhalation.” He cleared his throat. “The guy was probably asleep and just never woke up. It looks like the fire started in the kitchen, probably at the stove, and the smoke detectors had been disabled. People do that sometimes, you know, if something has set them off, and then they just leave them that way. So it looks like this was all a terrible accident.”
Oh no. Disabling the smoke detectors was just the sort of thing Digger would do, especially if he’d been doing a lot of cooking for the new restaurant. Chefs were used to big flames and lots of smoke while they cooked. After repeatedly setting off the smoke alarms, he’d probably gotten sick of opening the windows and fanning the rooms to get the noise to stop; I could easily picture Digger yanking the damn alarm out of the ceiling just to get it to shut up. But it looked like there were two apartments on the first floor, so maybe the fire hadn’t started at Digger’s place. I asked the officer.
He shook his head. “Thankfully the other person who lived downstairs is away for the week.”
“That’s right,” Norris barked. “She went to Arizona. Joked she was excited to get away from the smell of ginger and coriander for a while. For me, that goddamn grease smell was the worst. Like we live at a McDonald’s, for Christ’s sake! In fact, grease is probably what started the fire. Grease fires are the worst, you know.”
My knees began to buckle under as the reality of Digger’s death hit me. I shot Norris a look. “That was my friend who died in the fire, you jerk. And his food wasn’t greasy, ever! He was a talented professional chef, not some hack who did nothing but plunge frozen foods into a fryolator.” My eyes began to sting, and I could hear my voice tremble.
“She’s right.” I felt a gentle hand on my back and looked to my right. A woman with graying hair pulled into a braid stood next to me. “That young man was a lovely person. He was sweet. He used to bring me food when he’d made extra, which happened a lot recently. He said he was working on a menu for a new restaurant, so he was cooking all the time, that boy. Yes, Norris, some of his food was sometimes a little peculiar, I’ll give you that. He loved funny spices and strange vegetables that I’d never heard of, but that boy never made anything greasy, that’s for sure. You watch your mouth, Norris, and don’t speak ill of the dead,” she warned.
Dead. My stomach twisted into a solid knot, and I dropped my head down between my knees to keep the world from spinning. I inhaled deeply, but all I took in was the rank smell of burned air. I stood up and managed a weak smile at the kind woman.
She nodded slightly at me and pulled a blanket tightly around her shoulders. “I’m Barbara. I lived upstairs. Chef Digger cooked for a living. He’d know all about kitchen fires. Norris, you know as well as I do that he’d be the last person to start one. Something else started that fire.” She coughed. “Or someone else.”
I froze and stared at Barbara. She was right. Even if Digger had been stupid enough to disable the smoke detectors, he was too skilled and too careful to cause a fire. He was just as fastidious as Josh was about keeping kitchens sanitary. Chefs were accustomed to unannounced visits from health inspectors and were keenly aware that inspection scores could affect their salaries and bonuses. Besides, Digger prided himself on maintaining a sterile kitchen. Even if the rest of his apartment had been a complete dump, there was no way that his kitchen would have had the layers of smelly grease and gunk that posed a fire hazard. He wouldn’t have left an oven or burner on, of course. And if he had actually been cooking in the wee hours of the night and had somehow managed to start a fire, he certainly would have known how to put it out; he and Josh both kept bins of baking soda near their restaurant stoves so that they could dust out flames in an emergency. I’d have bet anything that Digger did the same at home.
A car horn blared. Turning, I saw a black Hummer idling in back of the police barricade. The driver was arguing with an officer. Until that moment, I’d totally forgotten about Kyle and Hank Boucher.
“Excuse me,” I said to Barbara and Norris.
I made my way to the environmentally unfriendly vehicle that Hank had no doubt rented for his stay in Boston. I couldn’t imagine that Kyle had chosen this monstrosity. My guess about who’d picked the Hummer spoke well for Kyle. In any case, his father was in the driver’s seat-yes, probably in every sense of the phrase. Hank was just as well groomed off camera as he was on. He was a tall, lean man with graying hair that was slicked back, creating a severe look that I found unpleasant. I wondered if his deeply tanned skin was the result of his worldwide traveling or if it was one of those spray tans that were so popular with celebrities.
I approached the passenger’s side of the Hummer as Hank was complaining about the neighborhood. “Nice work, son. You’ve managed to put us smack in the middle of luxury here, haven’t you?” Hank gestured grandly. “We’re sure to find culinary greatness living in one of these stupendous buildings. And just because there’s a serious police presence in the neighborhood doesn’t mean that we should be thwarted by the threat of gang violence, does it? Where the hell are we supposed to park around here, anyway? Not that I’m overly anxious now to get going with this supposed tasting you’ve set up, but since we’re here, we might as well get it over with. I don’t imagine there’s valet parking nearby, is there?”
Kyle squirmed uncomfortably.
I pursed my lips. “Hello, Mr. Boucher,” I said coldly. “I’m Chloe Carter. I hardly think you need to worry about gang violence or valet parking right now. There’s been a fire in my friend Digger’s building. He apparently died in the fire.”
“Typical!” Hank barked angrily. His face barely moved, and I suspected a good dose of Botox was preventing any expression. “Good job, Kyle. This book is coming along swimmingly, isn’t it?”
“Dad!” Kyle glared at his father. “You can’t blame me for this.”
“Christ, let’s get out of this hellhole before something else happens.” Hank started to back the car up to make a three-point turn.
Kyle shot me an apologetic look. “I’ll call you later, Chloe.”
I watched in disbelief as the pair drove off. Hank had hardly glanced at me, and Kyle had been too wrapped up in his father’s obnoxious behavior even to ask how I was. I wanted to get out of there, too, but as I began to head toward my car, I realized that Digger’s girlfriend and manager, Ellie, might not know of his death. Backtracking, I found Norris and Barbara still staring at the charred, sopping remains of the building.
“Does either of you know whether Digger’s girlfriend has been here? Whether she knows what happened?” I asked.
Barbara shook her head. “Sorry, hon, I don’t know anything about a girlfriend.”
Norris rolled his eyes. “There’s another thing. Not only did this guy smell up the entire street, but there was a whole business of women in and out of the place. Like we’re some sort of brothel here!”