“Sure, sure.” Shaking his head, Jacko began to roll the sheet of covered dough into a tight roll. “But I can tell you nobody who works for us would hurt anybody.”
“That’s the truth.” Gula patted his arm. “But I’ll get you a list.”
“We work in a lot of high-end homes and event areas,” Jacko continued and, taking a lethal-looking knife, cut the roll into slices.
The girl who’d been filling paper cups brought him a saucepan. “Perfect timing,” she said.
“Thanks, sweetie. She didn’t work the party,” he added when she had walked away, then he poured something that smelled obscenely delicious into a pan. “I have to trust who works for me, so I have to know them. A lot who do are family. And nobody works an event for Jacko’s until they’re trained. I’ve been doing this for better than fifteen years. Never had an employee so much as take a napkin from a client. Nobody who works for me and Gula is going to hurt somebody.”
“They might have impressions, might have seen something, someone. You might have,” Eve added.
“I stick to the kitchen mostly.” He covered the pan with a cloth.
“And you know everyone who worked the event? Every server, every cook, every valet.”
“Every one. Know a lot on the guest list, too. Not all, but more than a few. Professionally. Dr. Hannity snuck back into the kitchen. We did his daughter’s wedding a couple years back. He had a beer and some samples. And Mrs. Wyndel came back for a bit. We do all her catering. She wanted to talk to me about a party next month—baby shower for her niece. Like that,” he said with a shrug. “Otherwise, I don’t much mingle. Hate parties.”
Eve laughed before she could stop herself. “Me, too. But I figured you’d love them.”
“Like cooking and baking.” He wiped a big hand on his apron. “Might as well make a living doing what you like.”
“I hear that.”
He walked over to another counter, picked up a rack of cooling cinnamon buns. “Have a sample.”
“We’ll buy some on the way out,” Eve told him. “We’re not allowed to … take samples.”
He lowered his brows, jabbed a finger at two of the buns. “These two aren’t for sale. I’m not sure they meet my standards. I’d like an opinion.”
“Dallas, I’m dying here.” Flanked by Jacko’s beetled brows and Peabody’s pleading eyes—and assaulted by the scents—Eve surrendered.
“Fine. Okay.” She picked up a roll, took a bite. And wanted to weep.
“Terrible,” she said over another bite. “I don’t know how you stay in business serving something like this. I ought to confiscate the whole bunch.”
“Batch,” he said, grinning. “I’m going to box these up. You take them with you.”
“Really, we can’t—”
“You can, too.” He said it fiercely, and Eve caught the faint glitter of tears as he grabbed a box. “You do your job, I do mine. I like that girl. I’ve got a girl of my own about the same age. Don’t know what I’d do if somebody put her in the hospital.”
Eve waited a moment. “But you didn’t like him. Anthony Strazza.”
“Didn’t really know him. I worked with her.” Then he shrugged. “Didn’t like him much. He’d give you the cold eye. Some people figure if you feed them or do for them, you’re less. He was like that. She’s not. She was afraid of him.”
“Why do you say that?”
“You wanted impressions, right? Back a year or so ago, we were working out the details, the menu for a party. Sitting in the dining room of their place with charts and lists and the samples of desserts I’d brought. Having some coffee. Having some fun with it, and she was laughing. He came in, and I saw it. Just for a second. I saw fear in her eyes. She covered it, jumped up, reminding him who I was, what we were doing. All bright and shiny. But her fingers were trembling when she reached for one of the charts we’d worked on.”
Jacko’s mouth tightened. “We never met like that again. Mostly worked things out via ’link or e-mail.”
The woman who’d been ringing up sales came in through the swinging doors, studied Eve, Peabody. “Mom said to give the police this disc.” She pulled it out of her pocket. “It’s got the names, contact numbers, addresses of everybody who worked the Strazza event. And how long they’ve worked for us, if they’re family.”
She looked at her father. “Mom’s taken over for me on the counter. I’m supposed to talk to the police.”
Leaning down, Jacko gave her a smacking kiss on the top of her head. “Nothing to worry about, baby.”
“Dr. Strazza was killed? And Mrs. Strazza’s hurt?”
Xena had the same big blue eyes as her cousin, and a bundle of gold-streaked chestnut hair under a white cap. She took a bright red water bottle out of her apron pocket, guzzled. “I just can’t believe it. But it couldn’t have been any of us. I mean, none of us would ever … Plus, everybody left before me and Hugh. All of us, I mean.”
“You’re sure of that.”
“I know everybody on that list. My brother’s on that list. He worked as bartender, and he left before dessert. Nat and I served that, then I sent her home. All the kitchen staff but Elroy left during dessert. And he left with Nat. We had Bryar, Zach, and Hugh on valet—Hugh served as runner. What I mean is, he worked wherever he was needed. Hugh told me Zach and Bryar left together, walking to the subway. Even in a good neighborhood, Dad doesn’t like any of the girls to walk by themselves after an event. Lacy served as bartender with Noah, my brother, and she left with Rachel, Trevor, and Marty—kitchen staff. Rachel, Trevor, Marty, and I live together. They were still up when I got home.”