Fed up

wilted by lunch. Come on!“ Then Josh said to me, “Sorry, I’m back. Hey, has a detective called you yet? ”
    “No. Did someone call you?”
    “Actually, a detective showed up while the health department guy was here. He made me run through every detail of the day. Nice guy, but I had to repeat the same answers three times while I was trying to work. He may call you, too, and I assume he’ll talk to everyone else who was there.”
    “Josh, did the detective tell you... Josh, what killed Francie was digitalis. It’s a heart medicine. She was poisoned. Leo called me, and he told me. So, I hope they’d want to talk to everyone there. Do you know if they have the video footage? I was thinking there might be some useful evidence on there.”
    “The cops do have it. They made sure I knew they had it, and they reminded me I better be telling the truth, since they had a detailed record of the day.”
    So much for getting my hands on the video. I changed the subject. “Is everything going all right at Simmer? Gavin seemed to be in a bit of mood last night.”
    “Yeah, just the usual bs around here. It’s all good.”
    “Seriously? Because it seems like things have been pretty rough for you there. I know Gavin has been riding you pretty hard about food and labor costs, and you’re still working such long days—” I started.
    “Look, I don’t want to talk about this, but trust me. Everything’s going to work out.”
    “If you say so,” I said with some doubt. “Hey, it was good to see Digger the other day. Except for the circumstances, I mean. How’s he been doing?” I asked.
    “Good. Same old grind at his restaurant, too, but I think he’s doing great.”
    “Oh, good. I guess I thought he looked a little off the other day,” I hinted. “Even before everyone got sick. Kind of pale.”
    “Pale? Well, you know us chefs. No one gives us a day off to go relax in a hot tub or lie in the sun.”
    “I just thought maybe he wasn’t feeling well. Maybe a virus.” I cleared my throat. “Or a heart problem.”
    “What are you talking about? Digger doesn’t have a heart problem, you kook.” I recognized the sound of a pan hitting the professional-sized gas range in Simmer’s kitchen.
    “Oh, good. Is there anyone in his family with a heart condition? Maybe he should be careful about—”
    “Are you out of your mind?” Josh started laughing. Meanwhile, I poked myself in the eye with the mascara wand, smearing dark brown goop all over my eyelid. “I don’t know what you’re up to, but Digger is the same as ever, and I don’t know the slightest thing about his family. Is this about this poison? The heart medicine? Whatever you’re doing, you’re not being subtle. So, what’s going on?”
    “Um, nothing. Forget it. I don’t want to talk about it yet.”
    “Chloe? Spit it out.”
    “Then tell me what’s going on at Simmer,” I countered. “Fine.” He laughed again. “We’ll call it a draw.”
    “Agreed.”
    “Give Inga a kiss for me, and tell her I said good luck at the groomer’s.”
    I shut down the computer, gathered my client files, and got Inga into her carrier. On the way to my car, I repeatedly assured Inga that everything she was about to endure was for her own good. Once we got to the Fancy Feline, the owner, Glenda, confirmed what I’d been telling Inga; Glenda was as horrified as I was about the state of Inga’s coat. “What monster did this to you, sweetheart?” Glenda asked as she gently examined the little cat. But Glenda had goods news: she thought that she’d be able to shave off the mats rather than Inga’s entire coat.
    I apologized to Glenda for the blood and urine that remained on Inga. I’d done my best to get the mess out, but I’d wanted to avoid hurting or frightening her; I was playing good cop, and Glenda was stuck playing bad cop. When Inga was back in her carrier, I poked a finger through the grated door and wiggled it at her. She looked pathetic and scrawny.
    “I promise I’ll come back for you. I promise.” I wiped tears from my eyes as I left the shop.
     

 
    TO avoid feeling overwhelmed by my sympathy for Inga, I spent the ten-minute drive to my parents’ house cursing the clumsiness of my efforts at detection. As social work’s answer to Nancy Drew, I was a flop. The official investigators, however, weren’t exactly a success, at least so far, and they’d presumably known the autopsy results longer than I had. Furthermore, they