Free Steamed by Jessica Conant-Park, Susan Conant Page A

should do in this freakish situation. Should they keep eating their dinners? Some were doing just that. Would they have to pay for their meals? Should they leave big tips to console the waitstaff? After this ordeal, would they leave no tips at all?
     
    Garrett and his crew had apparently stopped cooking when news of Eric’s death had reached them. They’d left the kitchen to cluster behind the bar, where they were talking amongst themselves.
     
    A charred smell wafted our way. “Cassie, I think something is burning in the kitchen,” I said flatly.
     
    Cassie yelled to Garrett, who bolted across the room to the kitchen to scrape up the remains of what looked like a trout that had seared itself to the cooktop.
     
    All of my television watching helped me to identify the medical examiner, a tall woman with a severe face and an air of authority. She entered through the front door and immediately barked orders at the men trying to do their jobs. She was escorted to the back corridor by one of the police officers and disappeared into the men’s room. I bet she never fainted.
     
    Clad in a white chef ’s coat, Timothy returned with my water. “God, I’m so sorry, Chloe. You must be devastated about Eric. I can’t imagine how you must be feeling. I know you weren’t together that long, but I know you two had a strong connection. Eric just adored you. He did.” Tim shook his head and actually had tears in his eyes. This man truly thought he was comforting a brokenhearted girlfriend. It seemed callous not to play along. What was I going to say? I’m in shock from seeing the gory body of a murder victim. Eric has nothing to do with it!
     
    Actually, I was in shock. If I’d been myself, I’d probably have poured out the whole story to Tim. Instead, I decided to play it as if I were so grief-stricken that I was unable to discuss my overwhelming feelings for Eric. “I just can’t believe this is happening,” I said truthfully. “Have the police said anything to you yet? Do they know who did this to Eric?”
     
    “No, nothing yet. The detective—his name’s Hurley—needs to talk to everyone here tonight and get their information so he can contact them later. And obviously he said he wants to talk to you, since you found Eric. Actually, let me go see if he’s ready for you. The sooner you talk to him, the sooner you can get out of here. You must want to go home more than anything.” He stood up and rubbed my back briefly before he took off in search of the detective.
     
    The strange thing was that I didn’t feel a desperate need to flee—or wouldn’t have, except for the sorrowful glances everybody kept casting my way. Since the consensus seemed to be that I had just lost the love of my life in a grisly crime, the whole restaurant seemed to be staring at me. I didn’t like being the center of attention, especially under false pretenses, but I have to admit that this kind of real-life high drama was new and intriguing to me, mainly because I grew up in the safe, uneventful suburb of Newton. The biggest crime ever to occur there was the discovery of a massage parlor that offered quite a bit more than massages. The establishment was shockingly located above a pediatrician’s office. One female so-called masseuse was quoted as saying that she charged one hundred dollars for her services “unless they think that’s too high.” But the news that really alarmed Newtonites was the discovery that not only was this place servicing its clients sexually but—gasp—some of the employees didn’t even have their massage licenses ! The only competition for that story was the exhilarating debate over whether or not Newton schools should become peanut-free zones to protect children with allergies. One mother was interviewed and insisted that her child’s diet required him to have peanut butter for lunch. In typical Newton fashion, her child’s need for peanut butter was greater than another child’s need to avoid