Free Not Exactly a Brahmin by Susan Dunlap Page A

omelets, all else was fluff.
    When crowded, Sunny Sides Up could seat fifty. Now, at eight-thirty in the morning, groupings totaling ten customers dotted the room.
    “Party of one?” a young woman asked me.
    “No. I need to talk to Adam Thede.”
    “He’s supervising the chef right now.”
    “I’m with the police.”
    Unconsciously, she took a step back. “I’ll tell him.” She hurried back to the swinging door that led to the kitchen. I noticed as she went through it that it led to another swinging door. No wonder there were no kitchen noises in the dining area. Adam Thede, I thought, must be more appreciated by his customers than his staff.
    Thede emerged in a minute. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark curly hair. He looked more like a fullback than a restauranteur. Even as he walked toward me, he surveyed the room, momentarily assessing each group of customers.
    “Jill Smith, Homicide Detail.” I held out my shield, but Thede waved it away.
    “What do you want with me? You don’t think we’ve poisoned …?” He had been smiling—a little joke. But he couldn’t bring himself to finish it.
    “Ralph Palmerston has been murdered. I need to talk to you about him.”
    “Who? What? Never met a Ralph Palmerston.”
    “Do you want to talk out here?”
    He whirled and looked toward his customers. They were forking in various green and tan comestibles, uninterested in us. Turning back to me, he said, “My office.”
    I followed him through the double swinging doors and past bags of rice and potatoes, each large enough to last me a lifetime. A chopping board was covered with leeks, endive, various types of mushrooms, and a number of plants, vegetables presumably, that looked as if they had been buried in the backyard for years. Thede indicated a door that said MANAGER. Inside was a four-by-six room, almost entirely filled with a desk and chair. Four stacking trays were piled at the side of the desk by the wall. On that wall was a poster of a face made from vegetables—tomatoes for cheeks, celery for the nose, and lettuce for the rather wrinkled forehead.
    “You want to sit?” He pointed to the desk chair.
    “ I’ll stand.”
    He moved around the desk and stood behind it. I pulled out my pad. We were two feet apart and both had our backs to the walls.
    “I’m going to ask you again, Mr. Thede, how is it you know Ralph Palmerston?”
    “I don’t. I told you—never met the man.” He had a fullback’s voice. It bellowed in the tiny room.
    “Are you sure? Think.”
    “Unless I shook his hand in passing or someone brought him to one of my parties. … When I host, checking the hors d’oeuvres and watching the bar takes all my time. I don’t see guests as anything but open mouths till after midnight. I’m giving a Halloween party tomorrow night and I know I won’t get to see half the costumes.”
    “What about business associations? Palmerston was the heir to the Palmieri Winery.”
    “I don’t belong to any associations. I only have this restaurant. I’m not a businessman, I’m a chef, or I was. Now I’m an entrepreneur.” He gave me an ironic smile as if realizing how un-entrepreneurlike he looked.
    In contrast to the dining area, this tiny office was dark and ill-ventilated. Already I could feel my back getting clammy.
    “Ralph Palmerston went to considerable lengths and expense to find out what was important to you. According to my source, he checked out all your suppliers, found out which were on the up-and-up and which ones you should avoid. According to my source, he was planning to use the information to surprise you. Now my—”
    Thede’s fist hit the desk. “Big deal! Why didn’t he tell me? A week ago I could have used that. If this Palmerston fellow had given it to me then, it would have been a real gift.”
    “How so?”
    “Don’t you read the papers? Didn’t you see the number of empty tables out front?”
    I nodded, but Thede didn’t seem to notice. “Some of