Perforating Pierre (Jane Delaney Mysteries Book 3)

by Pamela Burford

  I didn’t like the sound of that. What would Victor do if he failed to get a warm and fuzzy feeling from Dom? If he came to the conclusion that sure, this guy could have offed his brother? “Please stop calling him my Dom,” I said. “He’s not… we’re divorced. I told you.”

  “It was friendly, I assume.” He took a swig of orange juice. “What’s the word you Americans always use? Amicable. It sounds like it was an amicable divorce.”

  “Yes, it was amicable. We’ve remained friends.”

  “My divorce, it was not so amicable.”

  “Oh,” I said. “You’re divorced?”

  He nodded. “After Columbia I returned to Paris to marry Emmie. It turns out we get along better when there’s an ocean between us.”

  “Children?” I asked.

  “No. It lasted precisely three years. The last two years and eleven months we struggled to make it work.” He shrugged. No one can shrug like a Frenchman. “What do you do, Jane?”

  “Hmm? Oh, you mean for a living?”

  “You said you work from home. And what a home, yes? In such a well-to-do neighborhood. I hope you don’t think me rude, but I’m curious what kind of home-based business affords such a lifestyle.”

  I almost told him that my newly elevated lifestyle was unrelated to what I do for a living, but that wasn’t true. My first after-school job had been pet-sitting for Irene McAuliffe all those years ago when I was still in high school. Which led eventually to my Death Diva business, which Irene helped to foster with frequent assignments and recommendations. Which led to the two of us becoming close enough for her to trust me to care for her beloved Sexy Beast after her death.

  By the time I’d laid it all out to Victor—the history of my bizarre business and how I’d come to be the guardian not only of Sexy Beast but of the grand mini mansion he’d inherited—we’d finished breakfast and were lingering over third cups of coffee.

  He signaled for the check. “I have a proposition for you, Jane.”

  And yes, I managed not to giggle, but it was a close thing. “What would that be?”

  “Pierre needs a proper funeral,” he said, “and a proper, what do you call it, a gathering. After the funeral. ‘Party’ doesn’t sound right.”

  “A reception.”

  “Yes. A reception. He had many friends, and some of those friends were prominent people. I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m an old hand at this,” I said. “I’m happy to help.”

  “Then I’ll hire you to do this for me,” he said. When I started to object, he raised a palm. “I won’t take advantage of your expertise, Jane. Don’t insult me by asking me to do so.”

  “Oh brother,” I muttered. This guy was good.

  “This will entail a great deal of work,” he continued, “and you’ll no doubt need to hire assistants. I assure you that as my brother’s sole heir, I can afford your professional services. Pierre would have wanted this done right.”

  He was correct about that. The Swing I’d known was a perfectionist.

  “So do we have a deal?” he asked.

  “That depends,” I said. “Are you going to stop threatening to rent a car and move to a hotel?”

  He pretended to struggle with the question. “Oh, I suppose so. If I must.”

  “Then I guess we have a deal.”

  5

  Stinking Badges

  “SO THEN SWING SAYS…” The man holding the microphone slathered on a ridiculous French accent that sounded nothing like his deceased friend. “‘Why? Doesn’t it taste like orangutan?’”

  Laughter and applause rippled across the ballroom. About a hundred fifty people sat at round tables and congregated near the bar and buffet tables. Everyone present was a vetted friend of the late Pierre Dewatre’s. This was an invitation-only funeral reception.

  I wore the fade-into-the-background outfit I reserved for funeral homes and other assignments that require a more respectable appearance: gray skirt suit, white blouse, and black pumps, my layered reddish-blond hair pulled back into a ladylike French twist.

  For flair I’d paired my usual fake pearls with an inconspicuous surveillance headset, which coordinated nicely with the small two-way radio attached to my waistband. The transparent earpiece and behind-the-ear coil were connected to a tiny microphone clipped to my lapel. This rig allowed me to remain in constant contact with my designated head of security and his two assistants.

  I pressed the button on the mic and murmured, “Hey, guys, how’s it looking out there?” Members of the Society for Endangered Animal Rights had picketed the interment at Whispering Willows Cemetery and then reconvened on the sidewalk at the entrance to the Crystal Harbor Country Club, where the reception was being held. Thankfully they hadn’t disturbed the funeral mass at Holy Resurrection, but only because the law forced them to keep a distance of three hundred feet. A couple of cops were out there keeping an eye on things, for what that was worth.

  Martin’s voice filled my ear. “They’re keeping to the sidewalk. So far.”

  Yeah, that’s right, I’d put the padre in charge of keeping out the crazies. “The fox guarding the henhouse” was how Detective Cullen had put it when he’d found out. What did he think Martin was going to do, pickpocket his way through the mourners? And okay, it was entirely possible Cullen knew Martin better than I did, or at least was privy to some of the more intriguing aspects of his background, but the padre and I had been in a couple of tight spots together, and I liked to think I was a pretty good judge of character. Also I’d seen him in action and knew he was capable of subduing someone if necessary, even a strong, emotionally excited someone.

  Tina’s voice replaced Martin’s in my earpiece. “I don’t like it,” she said. “That Ramrod News lady is still out there, stirring things up. She’s stopping everyone coming and going, getting the SEAR idiots all whipped up. And her cameraman’s getting it all on tape.”

  “Great,” I said. Tina was Tina Cullen, an off-duty NYPD cop and—in case the last name sounds familiar—Paul Cullen’s daughter. When he’d found out Martin had hired his darling baby girl to work security today, he’d turned all kinds of interesting colors. I was afraid the poor guy would stroke out right there in Holy Resurrection. It was a good thing we were in a church and Cullen couldn’t get too vocal.

  By the time they were packing Swing’s box into the hearse, and the mourners’ cars were queuing up for the drive to the boneyard, Cullen had managed to get himself under control. Plus Tina was having none of it. She was as tall as her dad and as wide, only on her it was all muscle. Any poor sap who let the pink streaks in her spiky platinum hair fool them into thinking she was a pushover was in for a rude education, and that included her old man. Cullen continued to grumble and shoot Martin venomous looks, but that was as far as he took it.

  The padre’s other assistant was Ben Ralston, a local private investigator and mutual friend of ours. He also happened to be living with Martin’s mother, Stevie.

  It was more than two hours into the affair and the speechifying finally appeared to be winding down, thank goodness. Victor had been the first to take the mic. He’d spoken movingly of his brother, of Swing’s role as Victor’s surrogate parent, of his love of food and hospitality, of the hard work and determination that had helped him rise to prominence in the culinary world. He didn’t gloss over Swing’s personality quirks or the fact that he could be difficult to live and work with, but his wry observations were made with love and elicited warm smiles all around.

  After Victor had taken his seat, various pals and associates of Swing’s took their turns with the mic. Many of them were celebrities of one sort or another and not shy about public speaking. I’d never worked a funeral reception with so many mourners hogging the limelight, particularly those of the female persuasion who’d shared Swing’s bed at one time or another. The more liquor they imbibed, the more rambling and off-topic the speeches became. On a couple of occasions I’d had to gently wrest
the cordless mic from a speaker, ostensibly to give the next person a turn but in reality to keep too much private knowledge from becoming drunkenly public.

  I stood ready to snatch the mic once this guy was done and then spirit it away for good. Across the room I spied Maia Armstrong, a local caterer and buddy of mine, giving instructions to an assistant. In addition to Maia’s own delicious food, the buffet tables held some of the deceased’s signature dishes contributed by his assistant chefs. Prominent among them was, yes, the outrageously sexy Dixie Brisket. I couldn’t look at it without my mouth watering like a faucet. I was there to supervise, I reminded myself, not to stuff my face.

  Detective Cullen had no such qualms. I assumed he was also working that day, on the alert for guilty behavior by funeral-goers. Isn’t that what detectives always do on TV? But he appeared to take more interest in the Bluepoint oysters and lobster mac and cheese.

  And why not? After all, the guilty party—which is to say his one and only suspect—was absent from the proceedings. Although Dom and Swing had been friends until that final, fateful blow-up, Dom had decided his presence at the funeral would constitute both a distraction and fodder for the seamier news outlets.

  Kari, however, was there. She’d told me Dom hadn’t wanted her to attend but that her mom had thought she needed “closure.” I’d promised Lana I’d keep a close eye on the girl and make sure it wasn’t all too much for her. So far she was holding up. Perhaps Lana’s maternal instincts had been on the money. Stranger things had happened.

  Unfortunately, the guy with the mic did not appear to be running out of steam. He was a wealthy Japanese-American fellow in his mid-thirties named Joe Oshiro who’d inherited a chain of popular sushi restaurants. Joe kept riffing on the theme of Swing’s supposed penchant for serving up endangered species. Apparently he thought the idea had enormous comic potential. But then, if his anecdotes were accurate, so did Swing.

  Joe sipped from the martini in his other hand. “So Swing invites them into the kitchen at Dewatre,” he said, “the whole Sixty Minutes crew with their cameras and everything. And very seriously he tells Lesley Stahl he wants to address the rumors that have been circulating about him. The public has a right to know, he says.”

  I scanned the ballroom, happy to see that Sophie Halperin, Crystal Harbor’s mayor and a close friend of mine, had made it. She and Sten Jakobsen, a local attorney who’d done legal work for Swing, were chatting as they piled their plates at the buffet. Through my earpiece I heard Ben say, “I caught one of the busboys taking video on his phone. Turns out he’s a production assistant for Ramrod News.”

  Tina cursed. Martin said, “You need any help?”

  “Nah,” Ben said. “I deleted the video and put the fear of God into him. He won’t be back.”

  I pressed the speaker button and said, sotto voce, “Guys, we need to be doubly on the alert if they’re pulling stunts like that.” I’d liked Swing and was glad to be able to help his brother, but I was ready for this whole stressful day to be over.

  Joe finished his martini and wound up for the pitch. “So Swing opens up the big steel freezer and shows them what he has inside. It’s crammed top to bottom with packages wrapped in white butcher paper. They’re labeled ‘Mountain Gorilla,’ ‘Snow Leopard,’ ‘Spotted Owl’…”

  His audience roared with laughter. “Needless to say, that segment never made it onto the show.” Joe’s grin lost some of its luster. “Swing enjoyed tweaking anyone gullible enough to believe the rumors, but those of us who knew him knew that he never could have done what they accused him of. He loved animals. The World Wildlife Fund was his favorite charity. Right, Victor?”

  From his seat across the room, Victor nodded. He looked especially handsome today in a brand-new dark navy suit he’d managed to have rush-tailored in time for the funeral. He’d paired it with a snowy white shirt and subdued striped tie.

  I knew that the members of SEAR wouldn’t be at all impressed that Swing supported the World Wildlife Fund. They saw it and similar organizations that actually accomplished something as mainstream sellouts.

  Joe finished by inviting Swing’s friends to make contributions in his memory to the World Wildlife Fund and finally relinquished the mic. I pretended not to see the two or three raised hands as I slipped the mic to Maia’s assistant with a command to make it disappear.

  I made my way through the room to Victor, who sat chatting with a thirtyish redheaded woman I knew to be Swing’s agent, Chloe Sleeper. I recognized her from that Ramrod News episode when she faced off against Romulus Tooley, the SEAR spokesman, as well as from her picture on Swing’s phone. She’d tried to call him the day he died.

  The two of them stood. Victor introduced us and we shook hands. The television didn’t do justice to Chloe, who was a petite beauty with large green eyes and enviable cheekbones.

  “How long were you Swing’s agent?” I asked.

  “Just under a year,” she said. “Did you know him?”

  I nodded. “For the past three years since he opened Dewatre.” Was it my imagination or did her expression alter, just slightly? Probably wondering if I’d been one of his myriad bed partners. It occurred to me that Victor might be wondering the same thing. For some reason, that bothered me more than any speculation on the part of Swing’s agent.

  “I saw you on Ramrod News,” I told Chloe. “For what it’s worth, you came off much more favorably than that blowhard Tooley.”

  At the mention of his name, she looked like she wanted to spit. “That’s not hard to do. The man’s a parasite. He’s just after publicity.”

  “That’s what worries me.” I jerked my head in the general direction of the sidewalk picketers. “I can’t see Tooley and his pals quietly leaving today without putting on some sort of show.”

  Victor spoke up. “Especially with those TV cameras on them.”

  A reluctant smile tugged at Chloe’s mouth. “Swing would have enjoyed this. He’d have been out there goading them.”

  I glanced at Victor. He wasn’t smiling, and I sensed he was thinking the same thing I was. Swing’s goading of these unstable fanatics might very well have gotten him killed. Sure, writing “SEAR” at the crime scene would be counterintuitive if the murderer really was connected with the organization. Why draw the police right to you? On the other hand, I didn’t see Cullen giving them the slightest glance. If Tooley or one of the other SEAR nut jobs put that knife in Swing’s chest, then leaving their calling card might have been intended as a kind of reverse diversion, as in Why on earth would I murder someone and take credit for it? I must be innocent. Either that or the killer was so off the deep end that pride in his accomplishment overcame any concern about getting caught.

  Bottom line: SEAR and its spokesman were in no way off the hook as far as I was concerned.

  In my earpiece I heard Martin check in with Ben and Tina: their locations, what they were observing. All quiet on the country-club front if you didn’t count the more or less peaceful demonstration going on the requisite three hundred-plus feet from where we stood.

  Victor glanced around the ballroom. To Chloe he said, “You must know Lee. Leonora Romano.”

  “Of course.”

  “I haven’t seen her today. I know things were strained between her and Pierre, but I can’t believe she wouldn’t show up.”

  “She’s here. She was at the church and cemetery, too.” Chloe wore a knowing smile. “You just didn’t recognize her. She’s had a little work done.”

  He looked dubious. “Unless she’s inhabiting a totally new body…”

  She shrugged. “That’s kind of what we’re talking about.” She quickly scanned the room and pointed to a small cluster of people at the bar. “There she is.”

  He peered at the group, shaking his head in bewilderment.

  “In the bright red suit,” she said.

  After a stunned moment, he said, “No.” The head-shake turned vigorous. “Impossible.”

  The object of their d
iscussion was a mature, stylish woman with carefully coiffed blond hair and a good figure. The crimson suit looked like it had been sewn on her, with a nipped-in peplum jacket and short, body-hugging skirt. Sky-high, pointy-toed heels completed her sedate funerary attire. She stood conversing with a dapper, portly man I knew to be a bigwig at the Food Network. She noticed Victor gaping at her and sent him a little wave, raising her finger in a “one minute” signal.

  Victor turned to Chloe. “The last time I saw Lee, she weighed at least three hundred pounds and lived in sweats and overalls. Her hair was a frizzy gray mess. And that is someone else’s face.”

  Chloe lowered her voice. “Scarlett Johansson’s if we’re being specific. That’s who she was going for.”

  “Where are those thick eyeglasses she always wore?” he asked. “Contacts, finally?”

  She shook her head. “Vision-correction surgery. Weight-loss surgery. And she hired a wardrobe stylist.”

  He shook his head sadly. “Why? To turn herself into some kind of plastic doll when she’s such a gifted chef? She’s the best.”

  “Better than—” Chloe faltered “—than almost anyone.”

  “Better than Pierre.” He gave her a knowing smile. “You can say it.”

  “There’s no point in getting into all that now. They moved apart, but they never stopped respecting each other.” Chloe seemed to recall my presence. “Lee and Swing had a history.”

  “So I gather.” I watched Lee detach herself from the network exec and begin to make her way toward us. “How long were they together?”

  “Eight years,” she said. “Hummingbird in Manhattan—that was their restaurant. Oh.” She noted my reaction. “You thought they were a couple?”

  “Well…” I shrugged.

  “Understandable,” Victor said, “considering Pierre’s reputation. Lee was one of the few females of his acquaintance he did not… was not involved with,” he ended politely.

  I wagged my hand. “Add me to the short list.” My face heated. Why had I felt a need to say that? It might be because I didn’t want this accomplished, discerning, and yes, sexy man to view me as just another of his brother’s many conquests.