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“Scombroid fish poisoning,” the woman enunciated like one would a three-syllable word to a first grader. “Also known as histamine fish poisoning, where the victim suffers severe allergic reaction symptoms following the ingestion of contaminated fish.”
And then the cogs clicked into place. “Wait, are you suggesting you ate contaminated food at my restaurant?”
“My dear, I’m not suggesting anything. I’m merely informing you of what I’ve already told the health department. The poisoning spawns from bacteria as a result of improperly refrigerated fish. When fish is not chilled appropriately, it allows for histamines to form in the fish’s flesh and get infected with bacteria. Heat-resistant bacteria, I’ll have you know.” She lifted her chin higher with the authority earned through extensive Internet searches and scanned the few restaurant customers who looked up from their tables at her with worried interest. “No amount of cooking can cover up the spoilage, which I’m sure you’re well aware of. Many of these establishments often resort to using subpar ingredients to improve their bottom lines.”
“Hold the heck up.” Molly raised her hand. “Please do not tell me you’re coming in here to accuse me of poisoning my customers. I can assure you, I recently had all my equipment inspected. I’ve got the satisfactory sanitation inspection certificate hanging right over there ” Molly gestured toward the framed piece of paper that sat on the wall next to the register.
A piece of paper she’d already hung up—in its sparkly document holder frame she’d had custom made, no less—before the inspector’s heels had fully cleared her doorway.
The woman snatched back her lab report and pocketed the thing. “However you choose to come by your documents is no concern of mine. I figured with it being the holidays and all and with many local businesses often seeking vendor booths at the Aurora Winter Whimsy Festival, it would serve you to know what kind of response you’ll receive should you go forward.”
“Mrs. McCall, I think there’s been a mistake. I’ve taken every proper precaution to ensure?—”
“Save your pleas for the health inspector. They should be paying you a visit shortly.” With one more meaningful glance tossed to the remaining customers, the woman swept out of the restaurant. Moments later, wooden chair legs scraped against the floor as diners quickly wrapped up their meals, paid their bills, and left on her coattails.
“What the actual fuck!” Molly screamed as she slammed the front door. Before Bronze or Benny could say anything, she ran toward the kitchen and examined her walk-in chillers. One by one, she opened each fridge and stuck her hand inside, ensuring the temperature reading on the outside of the equipment was accurate.
Benny turned off the stove’s burners and came to her side. “No way those were malfunctioning. I would have known it.”
“I know,” she whispered as she leaned her head against one of the fridge doors.
“She could be lying,” Bronze offered. “Trying to get press for her club, scare tactics, what have you. There are any number of things that could have caused what she’s claiming, the least of which wouldn’t even start or end with this place. Did you see her face? The woman had more foreign matter floating around in there than space junk in an asteroid belt. It’s nothing. She’s nothing, Molly. Don’t worry about it.”
“I have to worry about it,” she said, then spun to face them. “You saw how those customers left after hearing what she said.” Then Molly recalled an earlier conversation with a diner a few days ago. “She’s not the first one to tell me they’ve gotten sick after eating here, either. I can’t prove it, but even if I could, it wouldn’t matter. Image is everything.”
The line had been something her old catering boss touted with more flair than a firecracker. The words had been ingrained into her and every chef under his employ since day one. It was why she’d spent so many nights perfecting the presentation of her cold apps, while commiserating with Braden and falling into a hole it would take her years to crawl out of. And now she was in another hole, this one born of her financial foolishness and stubborn pride over not wanting to go down with a ship that, in so many ways, she’d help set sail.
The back of Molly’s head went numb against the fridge’s soft incessant vibration. Above Benny’s and Bronze’s heads, painted into the wall with swirling lavender strokes, the words Suerte and Honeysuckles flowed like a river offering to sweep her away.
No matter that she couldn’t see the bottom or where she was headed. She never could and never relied on promises of luck and fortune to guide her anyway.
This was yet another reminder of the one constant in her life, and she wasn’t about to let some lab report sideline the opportunities the Winter Whimsy Festival could bring.
“We’re closing tomorrow,” she said on a swallow. “I need to get to the bottom of this, and it’s not like we’ll have customers beating down the door for eggs and coffee anyway, not if Mrs. McCall’s motormouth has anything to say about it. If a health inspector’s going to show up here, I want to be ready.”
Molly pushed off the fridge and stormed into her office, never once meeting the eyes of the two people who had the lovely distinction of seeing her at her worst.
She didn’t know why Brass’s golden gaze also flared in her mind or why it remained with her as she shut the door to puzzle out her next steps.
Chapter 19
The only thing worse than rage cooking a smorgasbord of potential choices to showcase at a make-or-break winter festival was doing so in a temporarily shut-down restaurant full of doubt, debt, and despair. There were a lot of things Molly could face. Deceitful ex-boyfriends, criminal bosses, and trumped-up male egos were some of her greatest hits. What she couldn’t stomach, however, was standing in a kitchen, with counters laden with goods she wasn’t sure would ever see the light of day, and not having a piping-hot churro waffle, made decidedly by someone who wasn’t her, sliding between her lips.
After all, if cinnamon sugar dough, spiced chocolate sauce, and humiliation couldn’t pull her out of her spiral, she wouldn’t like to meet the thing that could.
Probably had too many calories anyway.
Molly locked up the restaurant, wincing at the Closed sign that had been getting its share of sunny-side-up action for the past five days. After Mrs. McCall stormed into the place touting all sorts of vitriol Molly couldn’t defend against, the woman had made good on her threat. Sure enough, like a fly to shit, Aurora’s health inspector came knocking on the restaurant’s door the following morning.
The findings had been interesting to precisely no one. All of Molly’s equipment, food practices, and sanitation procedures were as aboveboard as could be. There were no signs of any malfunctions, poor food storage, and—thanks to Molly’s industrious late-night scrubbing session and the small fortune she’d invested in cleaning supplies—even her grease traps were spotless. The inspector was clearly hoping for an I’ve got you now! bust of some kind, as if the man earned a healthy commission for every dream he shut down. Instead, he’d begrudgingly supplied Molly with an updated permit of satisfactory inspection, mumbling the word unremarkable against the too-long fringes of his mustache.
Despite the clean bill of health her restaurant received, Molly had kept the place closed through the weekend. It was a hit she couldn’t afford, but like it really mattered? Debt was debt no matter how long it went unattended, and unless she figured out how to spin bullshit into bullion, a few days wasn’t going to make a difference. Besides, she knew better than to think her regular customers would be so forgiving so soon. The odds of her tables being filled after her weeklong disasters were, if she had to take an optimistic approach, slim to freaking none.
And then there was also the little wrinkle of not hearing from Brass since what her dramatic mind now referred to as The Incident.
Five days. Five days of not seeing him and her mind had devolved into nothing but lingering worries, dissolving sensations, and a shitload of self-important regret.
It was true Molly had never been musically inclined, but as the saying went, she could still name that tune in three notes . . . and apparently live off the royalties for the rest of her life.
