Chapter 9 - The Kitchen Collision
The afternoon sun was casting long, amber shadows across the white linen tablecloths of Bellavita when my town car pulled up to the curb. The restaurant was closed between lunch and dinner service, but the brass bell above the front entrance chimed as I pushed the door open.
Sofia was standing by the hostess stand, surrounded by three heavy leather-bound financial binders. When she saw me, she hurried over, her expression a mix of relief and nervous tension.
“Margaret, thank goodness,” Sofia said, lowering her voice. “Two men from the city’s commercial licensing board were here ten minutes ago. They claimed they had an anonymous tip regarding code compliance on our basement grease traps and demanded to inspect the back storage rooms.”
My eyes narrowed. “Did you let them in?”
“No,” Sofia said firmly. “I told them our corporate counsel required formal written notice twenty-four hours in advance, and that they couldn't enter without you present. They left, but they muttered something about revoking our sanitation permit by Friday.”
“Graham’s dirty work,” I said, stepping past the hostess stand toward the kitchen corridor. “He’s moving faster than I expected.”
“That’s not all,” Sofia added, following closely behind me. “Look at this.”
She opened the middle binder to a vendor payment ledger from six months ago.
“When Adam was coming by the restaurant last year claiming he was helping you 'organize the supply chain,' he authorized a massive shift in our linen and produce contracts. He moved us away from our local family suppliers in the North End and signed us exclusively with a distribution company called Meridian Supply.”
I leaned over the counter, running my finger down the column of figures. “Meridian Supply? I’ve never heard of them.”
“Neither had I,” Sofia said. “So I called their billing department this morning using the corporate account number. Margaret... Meridian Supply is a wholly owned subsidiary of Sterling Commercial Real Estate.”
The kitchen doors swung open at that exact moment, and the low hum of the refrigeration units was interrupted by the heavy, deliberate tread of shoes on tile.
I looked up.
Graham Sterling was standing in the doorway of the immaculate commercial kitchen, his jacket off, his sleeves rolled up, looking every bit the predatory developer who thought he had finally cornered his prey. Behind him stood two burly men in grey suits who didn't look like commercial real estate agents.
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“You should have taken the buyout, Margaret,” Graham said, his voice echoing off the stainless-steel prep tables. “It would have been so much cleaner for everyone.”
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