Why Is Murder On The Menu, Anyway?. Stevi Mittman

to tell Drew Scoones, when he calls this afternoon, that I am busy dressing for dinner at Madison on Park and can’t really talk.

      And no, I can’t possibly see him.

      Perhaps he’d like a raincheck? I say cooly.

      He says it’s not raining. “Gonna see old Nine Fingers? She gonna be there?”

      I tell him that I don’t know, that again I’m sorry, but like I said, I’m busy.

      “Oh, don’t worry about me,” he says. “I’m sure I can find something to do. It’s not like I’ll be sitting in my apartment pining, sweetheart. I can always go hang out in a pool hall, drop in at Hooters, find somebody to keep the old bed warm.”

      I tell him I’m sure he can, while I hold earrings up to my ears and pick a pair of long, dangly chandeliers that Bobbie would tell me are so “last year.”

      I don’t know why he feels he’s got to be mean to me.

      “Won’t be quite the same, though,” he says, like he doesn’t know why, either.

      And I say, “I wish we were still friends,” then gasp when I realized I’ve said it aloud.

      “I’m still your friend,” Drew says and his voice is so low and soft that it does that thing to me I don’t want done, deep in the pit of my stomach. So I tell him that I’ve really got to go, but just before I hang up the phone he says that maybe he’ll just spend the night working on my murder investigation with old Hal instead of me. And he adds that he’s surprised I’m not more interested.

      And, of course, I don’t hang up. “It’s not my murder investigation,” I say in my own defense. “I didn’t even know the man. And I want to just put it behind me. I don’t like feeling like a murder magnet.”

      Drew is pretty silent, no doubt giving me time to play the whole scene out again in my head, to smell that sharp bitterness that filled the men’s room at The Steak-Out, to see the look of surprise on the dead man’s face. And, in some small, petty recess of my mind, to remember that the dead man is the reason Dana’s bat mitzvah may wind up being held in some Korean restaurant where kimchee accompanies every dish.

      “Well,” Drew says, “you might ask your friend tonight if he isn’t interested. I’m pretty certain he knew him.”

      Howard is stunning in his navy sports jacket and his khaki shirt, which he wears open at the collar so that he is not overly formal, but still well-dressed. The man truly knows how to put himself together. He looks out of place in the parking lot that serves both the strip of stores and restaurants on Park Avenue in Rockville Centre and the local Long Island Railroad station. Spring is in the air, and there is just the slightest warm breeze, promising the summer to come. My skirt with the sequins scattered over the flowers catches the breeze and propels me toward Madison on Park, where Howard says that Madison wants to talk to me.

      The restaurant is dim—usually a sign that they are hiding worn carpeting, frayed linens and a chipping paint job, but, maybe because of the soft music playing in the background, the place still manages to pull off a romantic air.

      It’s warm, in that homey sort of way where you get the sense that people come here fairly often, but only as the default choice. Despite its reputation, it doesn’t look to me like the kind of place you’d celebrate a new job (unless you’re me and the job is redecorating the place), or that you’d take your boss if you wanted to impress him. It’s upscale, but just barely hanging on by a thread. It’s comfortable, sort of.

      In fact, that’s what’s wrong with it. It’s not anything enough.

      It’s one of those places you agree on when he doesn’t feel like Chinese and you don’t feel like Italian, and Thai sounds too exotic and a hamburger too ordinary. Judging from the diners, it’s nobody’s first choice, but everyone can agree on it.

      Madison, her right index finger heavily bandaged, greets us at the door as though we are long-lost relatives from the old country. She is what my mother would call “on.” I think it has to do with being in her element.

      “What a fiasco,” she says and laughs a tinny laugh. “Well, at least the publicity hasn’t hurt us any.” She shepherds us through the half-empty restaurant to a spot against the back wall. It’s apparent to me that Madison on Park can’t live on its six-year-old Zagat rating much longer.

      A waiter appears and pulls the table out for me. I slide into the banquette while Howard takes the seat facing me and asks Madison how Nick is taking last night’s disappointment.

      She says they’ll surely never forget it and looks down at her bandages. She leans into the table and says quietly, “If it didn’t hurt so damn much, I’d cut off another one just to keep the sympathy diners coming in.”

      Howard looks just as appalled as I feel, and Madison seems to sense her mistake. She once again laughs her tinny laugh to signal she was only joking and then disappears toward the kitchen.

      I pick up my menu, open it and am surprised by the offerings. The choices are exotic. The prices are through the roof. I’m thrilled because I now have a bead on what the restaurant needs. Forget homey. Forget comfortable. You don’t pay these kinds of prices just for the food, you pay them for atmosphere.

      And if there’s one thing I know how to create, it’s ambience.

      I close my eyes, imagining this place with chandeliers rather than high hats, fabric walls rather than paneling, a fabulous window treatment. When I open them, I catch the faintest glimpse of someone through the window, just now walking out of view. Though I didn’t see his face, I’d know that leather jacket anywhere. So when Howard asks me if there is anything I see that I want, I nearly choke on my water. When I can catch my breath I tell him, as I always do, to order for both of us.

      Howard orders the inzimino, which he tells me is calamari, spinach, chickpeas and nero d’avola served on a crouton. I don’t have a clue what nero d’avola is, but I say, “and for me?” which tells him I’d only eat his choice at gunpoint, and even then I might not. He suggests the foie gras and braised duck terrine, and I give him my please take pity on me look. He orders me a tricolor salad and then goes on to order three different entrées of which he requests petit portions for us to share and taste. Like I would really touch a braised pork shank with pepperoncini and wild mushrooms over a ragout of root vegetables.

      While he orders, I watch Drew Scoones pantomiming outside the window. The best I can tell, he’s asking me to go ahead and ask Howard something. I shake my head. Howard catches me, shifts around in his seat so that he can see out the window, and asks what I’m looking at since Drew is no longer in view.

      I tell him the window treatment is dreadful. He turns back to me. Drew comes back into view. Howard turns for another look. Drew manages to disappear again.

      If Drew wants to know what Howard knows, he can ask him himself. What does he think? That Howard is a murderer? As far as I know, Howard’s never done an illegal thing in his life—if you don’t count the turn he made against the light the night that Drew followed us and pulled him over to give him a ticket.

      And that was entrapment.

      And Howard is not duplicitous—except maybe the whole trolling thing on JDate when we were first going out. But I don’t count that since he thought he was flirting with me and not with my mother, who’d registered me without my knowledge or participation.

      So what if he knew the Health Department Inspector? He’s a food critic. Shouldn’t he know the man who makes sure he isn’t going to get food poisoning doing his job?

      “So, Teddi, about The Steak-Out…” he starts. “I wanted to ask you—” But Nick comes over, his chef’s hat askew, and interrupts him.

      “Howard’s girl,” he says, nodding at me and grabbing up my hand to shake it. “Good to meet you again. Madison see you yet?” he asks, but he doesn’t wait for an answer. Instead he asks Howard if he can talk to him alone for a minute, apologizing