I wave off any further contact. He nods and says, “Have a good evening, Michael. I’ll talk to you soon.” With Michael’s returned reply, they disconnect.

“What wedding?” I ask immediately.

“A socialite here in East Hampton,” he says. “Why is that relevant?”

“I need a name.”

“Maria Carbella of the Carbella family. I’m confused. Who is dead and why does it feel as if you think this is connected to me?”

I think it’s connected to me, but so is he, now and in the past. And the question now is what connection does he have to Emma Wells? A chef would certainly be comfortable butchering animals, such as a pig. And so, I ask the question. “Were you contracted for the Emma Wells’ wedding?”

He grabs the counter. “Yes. Why? And why do I know that’s bad?”

“Because she’s dead,” I say, and wait for his reaction.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The color drains from Chef Roswell’s face and before I can stop him, he’s leaning over the trash, throwing up, and effectively contaminating the kitchen where evidence of a murder may well now hide. If there is anything I dislike outside large quantities of blood, it’s large quantiles of barf. I decide right then, he’s a hot man, in a hot man’s body, with a wuss, not a killer, buried inside. He’d never stomach butchering and draining a pig. He’s not our guy, but he’s also been targeted. The question is, why?

He grabs a paper towel and wipes his mouth. I gag a little, I can’t help it. “I only met her once, but she was a sweet lady,” he says. “I can’t believe she’s dead. How did she die?”

“Die?” I ask. “You mean, how was she murdered?” Andrew enters the room and I glance over at him. “Do you have officers on the scene?”

“I do,” he confirms.

“Can Chef Roswell sit in a vehicle while I search the kitchen? Preferably with the window down since he just lost his lunch in the trashcan.”

“Wonderful,” Andrew mutters, motioning to the chef. “This way.”

“I need to finish your dinner,” the chef argues. “I’ll clean up and get it done.” His gaze falls to me. “You hired me for a great meal.”

“We can’t eat the food, chef,” Andrew states. “Not this time.”

“I don’t understand,” he argues. “Do you think we tried to poison you?”

I give him a deadpan stare. He swallows hard. “Mary, mother of Jesus.”