The day before I found the body in the walk-in cooler, I was preparing one hundred servings of chicken cordon bleu for the Daughters of the American Revolution luncheon. It was that kind of restaurant and that kind of time. When chicken cordon bleu, which is chicken stuffed with ham and Swiss cheese, was considered haute cuisine. While I was pounding chicken breasts with a wooden mallet, Amy, the new waitress, patted my butt as she went to the salad-prep table. I didn’t mind; she was cute. Sometimes Jimmy, the waiter, would also pat my butt as he walked by.