I made a rude noise and smacked his arm, and he snickered.
We resumed our seats. A cognac snifter awaited me. I knew what the golden liquid was even before I lifted the glass and sniffed. I smiled. My favorite añejo tequila.
From behind the bar, Martin winked. “I know what you like.” He turned to my companion. “What’ll you have, Victor?”
“Guinness. A proper pub drink.”
“The man has good taste.” He grabbed a glass and started working one of the beer taps.
Was it my imagination or had the padre’s words been directed at Victor? I know what she likes. Or had that business with Dom messed with my head and was I reading coded messages in the most innocent of statements?
Of course, it was possible I wasn’t imagining a darn thing and that I should have started playing house with a French hottie years ago. It certainly had a way of making the men in my life sit up and take notice.
Martin returned with Victor’s ale and we clinked glasses.
“Cheers.”
“Santé.”
I took a sip. “I’m impressed by the way you handled yourself over there, Victor. You displayed admirable aplomb. How do you say that in French?”
“Aplomb. But really, what’s the sense in passing judgment at this point when we have so few facts? Dom might be a very bad man, that is possible. Or he might be a good man caught in a very bad situation.”
“Well, you know what I think,” I said.
“You believe Dom is innocent. Setting aside your history with him, let me say I believe you to be a good judge of character. I can tell this already. Perhaps it’s because of your work, the different types of people you interact with.”
“Most of whom no longer have a pulse.”
“You know what I mean,” he said. “Your clients are the ones who are left behind, those who are devastated, and bitter, and remorseful. You see people at their worst.”
“I see people at their best too. I see people summon strength and goodness when no one, including themselves, thought they had it in them. Anyway, thank you for the compliment.” I studied my snifter, took another sip. “You know, if Dom were guilty, he probably wouldn’t have shared the fact that he and the killer wear the same size shoe.”
“And if Bonnie thought her fiancé might be guilty,” Victor said, “she would not have encouraged me to see what I could dig up on my own.”
“Don’t kid yourself,” I said. “If Detective Hernandez suspected her fiancé was a murderer, he would not get a pass, believe you me. Conflict of interest or no, she’d get to the bottom of it. She might not be my favorite person, but she’s a dedicated cop.”
Victor looked past me, hand raised in a wave. I followed his gaze to the entrance, where Chloe Sleeper stood folding her little umbrella and scanning the room. She spied us and smiled. Two guys at a nearby table tracked her progress as she joined us. Not surprising really. She was young and attractive, even rain-damp and wearing jeans and a pink fleece jacket.
Victor rose and they pecked cheeks. When he continued on to her other cheek, the old Gallic two-step, she responded with a surprised “Oh!” and a self-conscious giggle.
She looked around. “There are some tables free. That might be more comfortable.” And more private, which I realized was her primary concern when she pointed to the most out-of-the-way booth, away from curious ears. Before moving from the bar, she asked Martin for one of the IPAs the pub offered on draft, then did a classic double-take.
“Aren’t you…?” she asked. “Weren’t you at the funeral yesterday? Working security?”
He grinned. “I’m a man of many talents. Ask Jane.”
Okay, that was not my imagination, right? I mean, this guy was as subtle as Pepé Le Pew. I doubt the padre was referring to his talent for lock-picking, which I’d seen him do. Or his talent for winning a poker tournament, which I’d seen him do. Or his talent for talking dirty to a corpse, which I’d also seen him do.
Oh, don’t start! It was a paid assignment. Sheesh.
Once we’d settled into the booth, Victor and me on one side, Chloe on the other, she dispensed with the Some rain huh? chitchat, instead reaching into her jacket pocket and producing a small plastic bag. Inside was a folded tissue. She withdrew the tissue and unfolded it, revealing a ring.
It was clearly an antique, judging by the fussy Art Deco setting, which appeared to be platinum. The rectangular diamond, perhaps half the size of Bonnie’s showy boulder, was flanked by smaller diamonds and two good-sized sapphires.
Victor breathed something in French and lifted the ring, turning it to view all sides. “This is my great-grandmother’s engagement ring.”
Chloe nodded, with a sad smile.
“When our parents died,” he said, “Pierre and I divided everything of value, including Maman’s jewelry. He got this.”
Chloe’s eyes were moist. “He gave it to me two months ago. July Fourth. We went to this huge fireworks display out east. Swing threw together this whole gourmet picnic, complete with candles, champagne, even a white tablecloth. And then during the big crescendo he brought out this ring and—” Her voice cracked. “It was… magical.”
“You two were going to be married,” Victor said.
She nodded again, too overcome to speak.
“I had no idea,” he said. “I didn’t even know he had someone special.”
“No one knew,” she said. “About some things, Swing was very private. He planned to surprise you the next time you visited.”
“This is typical Pierre.” He wore a gentle half smile.
“Plus there was his public image, the playboy chef,” Chloe said. “He was trying to get that Food Network show, and he figured he had a better chance if he kept the bad-boy persona going awhile longer.”
I nodded politely, but even Chloe had to know that the playboy reputation hadn’t been undeserved. Just yesterday she’d sat in the ballroom of the Crystal Harbor Country Club and listened as more than one tipsy female grabbed the mic and shared far too many details of recent intimate encounters with the dead chef. Sure, maybe they were trying to outdo one another, but I didn’t believe it was all lies and exaggerations.
And then there were the rumors that had swirled around Swing the whole time I’d known him, as recently as the day before his death. That last one had involved a well-known female food writer who’d been on the judging panel of his latest competitive TV cooking bout. Even discounting the rumor mill, we’d all seen pictures of Swing on those entertainment-news programs cozying up to this or that dewy starlet.
Is that still a word? Starlet? I can’t help picturing Jean Harlow.
Okay, if nothing else, I know for a fact that just last week he tried to seduce my friend Maia Armstrong, the caterer. Yes, the same Maia who’d provided the vittles for his funeral reception a few days later. Maia is levelheaded, ego-free, and honest. If she says Swing tried to get into her pants, then you can take that, as the saying goes, to the bank.
Did Chloe really believe her fiancé was putting on an act for the sake of his playboy image? Could she be that much in denial?
“Thank you, Chloe.” Victor reached across the table and squeezed her hand. They were both misty-eyed. “You didn’t have to return the ring. That was… It means a lot to me.”
“It’s a family heirloom,” she said. “It doesn’t belong to me anymore, not really. Not without Swing—” She broke off, her hand covering her mouth as she struggled for control.
I was reminded of another family heirloom I’d encountered last spring, a gaudy, gem-encrusted brooch in the shape of a mermaid which Irene McAuliffe had hired me to liberate from the corpse of her former best friend during said bestie’s wake. Don’t judge me, it was complicated! That theft hadn’t gone quite as planned, but in the end that heirloom, too, had ended up where it belonged.
Chloe cleared her throat and collected herself. “I’d appreciate it if you kept this to yourselves, about me and Swing. At this point it would just
be… well, that kind of attention would make me uncomfortable. You’re the only ones who know besides Detective Cullen.”
“I understand,” I said. “It’s nobody else’s business.”
Victor nodded in agreement.
Considering how private Chloe and Swing had kept their engagement, I assumed she’d never had the opportunity to show off that beautiful ring in public, never had the pleasure of accepting congratulatory hugs and well-wishes. The thought made me sad.
I was mentally groping for a conversational topic that didn’t involve dead fiancés and their fake (yeah, right) bad-boy reputations when I remembered something I’d been meaning to ask Victor about. “So. I didn’t know you’re a smoker.”
“Me? No,” he said.
“Don’t tell me no. I saw you smoking outside the country club yesterday.”
“Ah, that. I quit years ago, but when I’m upset, sometimes I…” He searched for the word. “I relapse. I bummed a smoke from one of the busboys.”
“Well, I guess you’re allowed. That business with Lee Romano was certainly upsetting.” I regretted the words the instant I said them, recalling that Lee was now Chloe’s client.
“I’m so sorry about all that,” Chloe said. “I didn’t think Lee would, I don’t know, gloat like that.”
Victor said, “You have no control over what other people do.”
“No, but…” She groaned. “I didn’t want you to find out that way. That I’m her agent and all.”
“You’re entitled to represent whoever—”
“Yeah, I know.” Chloe raised a palm to stop his polite disclaimer. “But it still felt crappy to hear her go on like that at the worst possible time.” She trailed a finger through the condensation on her beer glass. “I keep telling myself Swing wouldn’t have wanted me to sit around and let my business languish after he was gone.”
I didn’t glance at Victor, but I suspected his thoughts mirrored mine. There are plenty of ways to keep your business from languishing that don’t involve signing your dead fiancé’s estranged partner as a client before he’s even in the ground.
She added, “I know for a fact he would have wanted me to take care of myself.”
Since she seemed to need approval, Victor and I made the appropriate noises.
I asked, “How did Lee and Swing end up as partners in that Manhattan restaurant? Hummingbird.”
“Oh, this is going back, what, fifteen years?” Chloe turned to Victor.
“Eleven,” he said. “Pierre spent his first few years in New York working in various kitchens, learning the ropes and making connections. He wanted his own restaurant, but he didn’t have the capital.”
“He did have the talent, though,” she said.
“Talent wasn’t the only thing Lee was looking for in a partner,” he said, “or even the most important thing.”
“What?” I said. “You already told me they weren’t a couple.”
Chloe said, “That doesn’t mean she didn’t appreciate his killer looks and lively personality. To say nothing of the sexy accent, that whole French thing.”
I looked at Victor for his take on that last part.
“What can I tell you?” he deadpanned. “It’s a burden.”
“Okay, I think I’m getting it,” I said. “Having a partner like Swing would bring attention to Hummingbird, enhance its visibility.”
“Lee had been a renowned chef for many years at that point,” he said. “She owned a successful midtown Manhattan restaurant. But she had bigger plans for it.”
“So she brought Swing on board to help those plans along,” I said.
“She made him a partner,” he said, “under very favorable terms. Favorable to him, that is, although I don’t know the details.”
“So he got his restaurant,” I said. “And in return, Hummingbird reaped the benefit of all that raw sex appeal and joie de vivre. Sounds like everyone came out ahead.”
“Lee would disagree,” Chloe said. “To hear her tell it, Swing spent the next eight years absorbing everything she had to teach him, about both cooking and the industry, while he established himself as a major player. Then… and this is her version of events, not mine.”
“Understood,” I said.
Victor finished for her. “Then he left Hummingbird and opened Dewatre.”
“She puts it differently,” Chloe said. “He ‘abandoned’ Hummingbird. ‘Gutted’ it. Destroyed everything she’d spent her entire career working for.”
“Well, that’s just Lee being bitter.” My gaze bounced between the two of them. “Right?”
Victor looked uncomfortable. “She had to buy out Pierre when he left. By then he possessed substantial equity in the business. Hummingbird closed its doors a few months later.”
“Lee was off the scope after that,” Chloe said. “Now we know why.”
She’d been busy remaking herself for the small screen.
“Let’s face it,” she continued, “she wasn’t wrong when she said it’s no longer about talent. Nowadays you have to be telegenic, glamorous even, to make it on TV.”
“Well, all those nips and tucks apparently paid off,” I said, recalling Lee’s boasts the day before. “She’s close to getting her own show.”
“Maybe.” Now it was Chloe’s turn to look uncomfortable. “Negotiations have kind of… hit a rough patch.”
“Well, even if that one falls through,” I said, “there are other opportunities, right? I mean, the Food Network’s important, but they’re not the only game in town.”
“Lee’s pinned all her hopes on that one show,” she said.
“Pierre’s show.” Victor’s expression was stony. “The one they offered him right before he died.”
Chloe nodded miserably. “She has blinders on. I’ve been trying to get her interested in starting at the bottom, like Swing did. Working the local media, doing talk-show gigs, gradually building a fan base.”
“Let me guess,” he said. “Lee Romano isn’t interested in working her way up. It’s her own show or nothing.”
“That’s kind of where we’re at,” she said. “She feels the world owes her.”
“Well, that show they offered Swing,” I said, “it wasn’t even up for grabs until… while he was still alive. So how can she be so fixated on it?”
“She wasn’t ready for any media appearances until very recently,” Chloe said. “I mean, you know, with the surgeries and all. Like she said yesterday, the timing for this show is perfect. Sorry,” she murmured to Victor.
He took a long swig of his Guinness. “So why is the network balking?”
“Well, you know, it’s very competitive…” Chloe started.
“It’s because she’s difficult, yes?” he said. “They don’t want to work with her.”
She looked like she wanted to deny it, but what would be the point? Victor had known his brother’s former business partner for years. Finally she said, “I tried to set her up with a professional image consultant, one who specializes in communications skills and dealing with the media. She refused to even consider it. But I don’t have to tell you, her personality can come across as, well, abrasive. Even more so on the small screen.”
“So she makes this huge investment in her body,” I said, “transforms herself top to bottom, but when it comes to her attitude problem, what, she’s in denial?”
“‘What attitude problem?’” Chloe said, mimicking Lee. “As far as she’s concerned, it’s the rest of the world that has the problem.”
7
Smoking Jacket
“HAVE YOU THOUGHT about what colleges you want to apply to?” My question was directed at Tucker Nearing, sitting next to Kari in the backseat of Dom’s dark-blue BMW. I was in the front passenger seat, looking at the couple over my shoulder as Dom drove. Mine was the typical chatter of an adult trying to make conversation with a teenager she didn’t know all that well. “I mean, I know you’re still a junior, but I assume you’ve given it some thought.”
Dom had just picked me up at my house. He and I had somewhere to be—somewhere I really, really had no desire to set foot, but it had to be done—and we were giving the kids a lift to the train station on the way. They were headed to Manhattan to stroll the High Line, the mile-and-a-half-long elevated park built on long-disused railroad tracks, before dinner and a concert.
“But where do you want to go to school?” I asked him.
“Johns Hopkins.”
“Baltimore,” I said. “Not so far away. Why Hopkins?”
“I want to go into medicine. Orthopedic surgery probably.”
“Wow. That’s pretty focused for someone your age. Why that specialty?”
He shrugged. “I broke my leg a couple of years ago. That’s when I started getting interested. It fascinates me, our skeletal structure, the way we’re put together.”
“Tucker’s a whiz at science.” Kari squeezed his hand. “Math, bio, all that stuff. He’ll totally get into any school he wants.”
He offered an embarrassed smile. “Maybe. Depends on the SATs. I’ll need some coaching for the writing portion.”
“I didn’t know any of this about you,” I admitted. “I guess I just associate you with the swim team.”
“Hey, if someone wants to pay me to swim for a living, no problem,” he said with a grin.
This was the longest conversation I’d had with Tucker Nearing. I found myself liking him. “You know, Tucker, your interests kind of tie in with an assignment I’m working on.”
Kari looked dubious. “One of your Death Diva things? Really?”
“Hey, it’s not all gore and goop.” Today’s unpleasant task notwithstanding. “This dead surgeon’s kids are having me catalog and sell his collection of antique medical instruments.”
Tucker was immediately animated. “Cool! You think I could take a look?”
“I don’t think they’d mind.” I grinned. “And from what I know of Dr. Walters, I’m pretty sure he would have approved.”
Perforating Pierre (Jane Delaney Mysteries Book 3) Page 9
