by Amy Korman
“So then we looked for Jessica to talk to her about our idea. But”—Tim paused for effect—“neither Gianni nor Jessica was there.”
“What do you mean?” I asked. “Of course they were there. I saw them.”
“Not after eight-fifteen you didn’t,” Tim said definitively. “Because, trust me, we cased the restaurant. No chef, no Jessica.”
Tom, who clearly wanted Tim to shut up, wore a dismayed expression. “Kristin doesn’t want to hear this,” he told Tim. “You’re going to get us into trouble.”
I tried to make sense of what Tim had said about the missing restaurateur and his girlfriend.
“Maybe you just couldn’t find Gianni and Jessica,” I suggested. “It’s a big restaurant, and between the kitchen and the dining room, they could have been anywhere. I mean, why would Gianni leave his own opening party?”
“Listen, we know it’s weird,” insisted Tim urgently. “But we hunted for Gianni for at least half an hour, and we looked everywhere. Jessica gave us a full tour during construction when we first met with Jessica to discuss flowers. We literally cased the joint—went through the wine cellar, the restaurant, the kitchen, patio, and the office upstairs. They weren’t there.”
“Other than the guests and all the waiters, the only staff we could find were a bunch of guys in the kitchen who didn’t know where the chef was,” added Tom, who had evidently decided to jettison his fears and join in the conversation.
“Those kitchen guys are incredibly efficient,” said Tim. “They were in there searing baby lamb chops like nobody’s business, because people were eating them as fast as they could get those hors d’oeuvres out on the platters. But the sous-chef Channing, the one with the muscles—he was missing, too.”
“Also, the chef’s car was gone,” Tom told me. “The Fiat had been parked front and center outside the restaurant, but it wasn’t there when we looked outside.”
I thought back to the night of Gianni’s event. Come to think of it, I hadn’t seen much of the chef after the first hour or so of the opening party. If his car had been gone, he must have left the restaurant during the period that the Colketts were describing.
Which was around the time that Barclay Shields was getting his head bashed in.
So Chef Gianni, a certified rageaholic—one who hated Barclay Shields, because Barclay had built him a house so shoddy that it made Barbie’s Dreamhouse look like fine craftsmanship—was not at his own soiree during Barclay’s head-bashing.
“We finally sat down at the bar at about eight-thirty, got Bellinis, and then we noticed Jessica and Channing were back. Channing was carrying more lobster out to the dining room, while Jessica was on the patio, smoking,” said Tim. “We went out to talk to her, and then we saw that the chef’s red Fiat was back, too. You know the car. You can’t miss it. Bright red convertible, license plate reads GR8CHEF.”
“Tacky,” pointed out Tom.
“Jessica, by the way, looked a little, well, rumpled,” Tim told me, sipping his Bloody Mary and waggling his eyebrows suggestively. “Plus she had a big smile on her face, and you know she never smiles. And I thought I saw grass in her hair. I asked her if she knew where the chef was, and she said she had no idea.
“A minute later, we spied the chef back in the crowd of customers, mingling and looking positively cheerful,” Tim continued. “He acted like nothing was wrong, he didn’t have a care in the world.
“And then the next day, we read about Barclay Shields getting his nut cracked, and, well, what are we supposed to do?” Tim’s face registered fear, consternation, and tipsiness.
“Maybe the chef needed more, um, crème fraîche or something, and ran to the gourmet store in Haverford?” I hazarded. “And brought Jessica and Channing with him.”
The Colketts rolled their eyes. “Come on, Kristin, you have to admit that it’s beyond weird that the chef was missing while Barclay was getting attacked. Anyone on his kitchen staff could have gone to the store if he needed something. Maybe Jessica and Channing were in on the Barclay attack with the chef! The three of them could have put Barclay Shields under the bush where you found him.”
While I could easily envision the chef attacking Barclay, and maybe even picture Channing helping if he had some motive, I struggled to picture Jessica helping drag Barclay Shields across the fields of Sanderson in heels with her cigarette dangling elegantly from her fingers. Didn’t really compute—the only thing I could imagine Jessica dragging was on a Marlboro Light. But the Colketts needed to tell the police what they knew, that much was clear.
“I really think you should call Officer Walt,” I told them. “This sounds pretty important.”
Tom Colkett shook his head. “We’re florists, not crime busters, doll,” he said firmly. “We’re not going to risk getting in trouble with the chef and losing customers over this. Customers don’t like scandal, and if we’re talking to the police, then that puts us right in the middle of a public mess. Plus, if Gianni’s going around trying to kill people, we could end up as veal piccata.”
“Did you notice anything the night that the chef fell over the railing at Sophie’s?” I asked them. “Because he’s convinced he was pushed. Was anyone near him around the time of his fall?” Other than you two, I thought to myself, remembering how quickly they had appeared at the top of the stairs after Gianni’s tumble.
“We didn’t see anything!” Tim insisted.
Tom nodded. “It’s true. We were out front downing a quick vodka, and had just come back into the house when we heard all the ruckus, and then saw him flying off that balcony. We didn’t see anyone else in the kitchen, so he must have just slipped.”
“Anyway, we’d better get back to work,” said Tim. “But please be careful about who you mention this to—we’re honestly scared.” The two gathered up their drinks, and headed back out to work their flower magic. I followed, wondering whether their story was invented to throw suspicion away from themselves, and onto the chef, Channing, and Jessica. Then again, the more I knew of the Colketts, the less I thought they were involved in any of the attacks. I also doubted they would have appeared on the landing if they had pushed the chef off Sophie’s terrace. More likely, they wouldn’t have shown their faces anywhere near the crime scene. I sighed, and made a left into the hallway.
“By the way, Kristin,” said Tim, gazing at my borrowed bauble, “great ring! Love that mega-rock!”
I FOUND JIMMY midway through the Philadelphia newspapers and watching a tennis match from the window seat, drinking coffee in his bathrobe. Again, the jazz was playing and the A.C. blowing, and he looked like he didn’t have a care in the world. The remains of a breakfast sandwich sat on the coffee table, along with a lit cigar in a silver ashtray. Jimmy greeted me in a matter-of-fact manner, and informed me pleasantly enough that there was no fucking way he was going home. So I drove to The Striped Awning and called Bootsie.
“THIS IS GOING to require a surprise attack,” Bootsie said when I reached her at the newspaper and gave her the short version of the Colketts’ confounding tale. “We need to go talk to Jessica right now, and see if she knows whether the chef had anything to do with Barclay’s attack. I’m going to call Joe, too. He’s friendly with Jessica, so he can come with us and convince her to spill the details. And after we talk to Jessica, I’m going to call Louis, Barclay’s lawyer . . .”
Sometimes it’s good to have Bootsie take over. Her plans don’t always make sense, and they often backfire, but at least she always has an idea.
“In the meantime, we just have to hope the chef’s not at the restaurant,” said Bootsie. “We need Jessica alone, and willing to blab.”
We tracked down Joe at Sophie’s house, where he had effected a breakthrough of sorts: He’d finally convinced Sophie to go with a tasteful shade of biscuit in her main rooms, and the painters were priming the walls, so he agreed to take a break. Bootsie swung by the shop, and she and I then zoomed over to Sophie’s to get Joe.
He leaped into the backseat of her Range Rover, with Sophie hot on his heels. Joe slammed the car door behind him, but Sophie, today clad in hot-pink spandex leggings and a minuscule pink sports bra, rapped on the car window, which Joe glumly rolled down.
“Hi, Beebee and Kristin!” Sophie said. “Can you bring Joe back ASAP? We got a lotta work to do here. Plus Gerda’s on the warpath. She’s got a major bug up her butt, and I don’t want to be stuck here with her all by myself.”
“It’s true,” confirmed Joe. “Gerda thinks someone’s been fiddling around with the lock to her office, trying to infiltrate her computer. She’s completely paranoid.”
Bootsie and I exchanged glances. “She’s nuts!” said Bootsie, who happens to be an excellent liar.
“Sometimes she really drives me crazy!” said Sophie, nodding. “But anyway, Joe said you have important business and that it might help figure out who clobbered my ex. Trust me, I want whoever did it found—so I can thank them personally!” She giggled for a second. “But seriously,” she added, “I know some people might even think I had something to do with it.”
“Oh no,” we all said at once, in a rush of words.
“No one thinks that!” added Bootsie, in a patently false tone.
“Well, I didn’t,” said Sophie sourly, her mouth smooshed into a sad little moue. “I don’t believe in violence. I believe in big divorce settlements!” She giggled again. “Well, anyway, great to see you, girls. Come over for some champagne when the house is done!”
Joe hit the up button on the window quickly as Bootsie two-wheeled it out of Sophie’s place, and I filled Joe in on what the Colketts had told me about the chef and Jessica.
“Unbelievable,” Joe said. “But, yeah, I could totally see the chef attacking Barclay.”
“And somehow the chef got Channing and Jessica to help him! Probably, anyway,” said Bootsie.
“Did you get any more info about the Colketts’ relationship? Brothers, married couple, cousins?” asked Joe.
I shook my head regretfully. “Nope. I’m starting to think the Colketts’ status is one of life’s mysteries, like Stonehenge,” I told him. “I’m not even sure I want to know.”
Bootsie steered us into the gravel driveway at Gianni, and we all trooped inside to look for Jessica. A hostess stood at her station up front, organizing the menus for the lunch crowd and adjusting her glossy dark hair.
“Is Gianni here?” I asked her, sotto voce, hoping against hope that he wasn’t.
“Chef Gianni’s at physical therapy for his broken ankle,” said the hostess nonchalantly. “He has it for two hours a day for the next four months. And boy, is he pissed about it.” She snickered to herself at that, proving again that the chef was not a beloved boss. It seems that threatening your busboys and regularly excoriating the staff as hopeless losers doesn’t do a lot for employee morale.
“And Jessssicaaa, is she here?” Bootsie hissed in a loud whisper.
“Outside,” said the hostess, looking bored and pointing to the patio.
Jessica was sitting at one of the small outdoor tables, sketching what appeared to be a furniture layout for a residential client, in the shade of a big sycamore tree. She had on jeans and sandals, and no makeup. Actually, she looked even prettier than usual without her usual Manolos and glossy façade of makeup. She had a slight tan, and, something I’d never realized before, a few adorable freckles on her elegant nose. She greeted Joe in a friendly manner, and was amiable enough to me and Bootsie when he introduced us.
“We heard something that we wanted to ask you about, Jessica,” said Joe hesitantly. “It’s kind of awkward—but did you know the chef was missing for something like thirty minutes during the opening party last week? Friends of ours noticed he was gone, and they tried to find him all over the restaurant, but then they noticed his Fiat wasn’t parked behind the restaurant.”
Jessica sat up straighter and looked at us, but appeared unconcerned. “You know what, I didn’t know he left the party,” she admitted. “But I had to go run an errand myself that night, so I didn’t really keep track of Gianni after the first fifteen minutes or so of the party.”
“An errand?” asked Joe, pulling up a chair and sitting down at Jessica’s table. “What kind of errand are we talking about?”
Jessica, a girl not easily fazed, turned pink, and a small, goofy smile came over her face.
“Were you off schtupping that hot guy Channing that night?” blurted out Bootsie. “Because we heard you were both missing during the party, and that you had grass in your hair after you got back!”
There was a moment of shocked silence as we all stared at Bootsie, and then at Jessica.
“Um-hmm,” Jessica confirmed. “You know what, I’m not gonna lie to you. I was with Channing that night.”
“I knew it!” cried Bootsie. She and I both sat down at Jessica’s table, too.
“We’ve been having a fling for about a month now,” said Jessica proudly, after looking around to make sure none of the restaurant staff was listening in. “It started out as just a one-night thing, but during the opening party, somehow I found myself back in the kitchen, sneaking out the back door with Channing. There was something about that night—I guess it was the vodka, and the crowd, and the warm weather—that just put me in the mood!”
“Where’d you go?” Joe asked. “Did you do it in your car?”
“No, we took Channing’s truck over to the fields at Sanderson and did it behind a haystack,” confided Jessica. It seemed that once Jessica started talking about sleeping with Channing, she couldn’t stop. She’d been bottling it up for weeks, and now the floodgates had opened.
“Channing is the best sex of my life!” she told us breathlessly. “I’m not usually the outdoorsy type, but since Channing used to work at Sanderson and loves trees and cows and all that crap, I’m trying to get more interested in, you know, nature.”
“What time did you go?” Bootsie asked Jessica. “You never realized the chef was gone?”
“We left right around eight,” said Jessica. “I checked the time, because I knew we couldn’t be gone more than half an hour, or Gianni might realize we were both missing. And we were back here by eight-thirty—maybe a few minutes earlier, even.”
“You went all the way over to Sanderson, did it, and got back here in less than thirty minutes?” I said, impressed.
“What do you think?” said Jessica, gesturing with her thin, tanned hand toward the firehouse-turned-restaurant behind her, where Channing had just appeared from a side door.
We all looked over. Channing was picking up a case of wine from a liquor truck that had just pulled up to carry it inside. He had on a white T-shirt, jeans, and a day’s growth of beard over his male-model jaw. His muscles rippled in the sunshine, and he sizzled a grin our way.
“Yeah, that works,” said Bootsie. “Drive over, find a spot behind some hay bales, boom, then drive back. It might not even take me half an hour!”
“Why does this even matter?” asked Jessica, frowning a little in the sun. She shielded her eyes as she looked over at us. “I mean, I know it wasn’t very nice to cheat with Channing behind Gianni’s back. But all Gianni does is work, and then go home and watch the Food Network. He’s obsessed with getting his own show by the time he turns forty.” She paused. I noticed Joe’s eyes widen at this piece of information. Joe’s ambition is to get a design show on TV, but he only admits this after he’s had a lot of tequila.
“I promised myself I’d tell Gianni about Channing as soon as the restaurant was up and running, but then the timing was bad after he fell and injured himself. I’m going to break up with Gianni, though.” Jessica looked distinctly nervous as she said this, and we all imagined the apocalyptic tantrum that her news would unleash.
“Well, I might not tell Gianni about Channing right away,” Jessica amended, “but I am going to end it with him. I did have feelings for Gianni when we first got together, but I just can’t
take his temper anymore. Plus all I can think about is Channing.”
The beefcake that is Channing reappeared from the side door to heft more pinot noir into the restaurant. Jessica smiled girlishly and shrugged.
“Did you notice whether Gianni’s car was here when you and Channing left to go, uh, get your freak on the night of the opening?” Joe asked Jessica.
“I never looked,” she said. “Gianni parks that stupid red Fiat right in front of the restaurant so everyone can see it, but, honestly, Channing and I took off so fast that night that I never even noticed Gianni’s car. I guess it could have been gone.” Jessica paused, and stared at us curiously.
“Why are you asking about Gianni? Do you think Gianni was stalking us that night?” she said breathlessly. “Does he know about me and Channing?”
“That’s not what we’re worried about,” Joe reassured her. As we all got up to leave, he turned back thoughtfully toward her. “Jessica, considering the chef’s temper, maybe you should wait a few more days to break up with him. Just till the end of the week, okay?”
“You don’t have to spell it out for me,” said Jessica, who seemed to be in the mood to let out a Hoover Dam’s worth of information. “In fact, and I’m only telling you this because I’m planning on getting the hell out of town ASAP, people don’t even know Gianni’s real story! He tells everyone he came here from some fancy town in Tuscany just a few years ago, but that’s bullshit. He originally came over to the U.S. from the not-so-scenic part of Sicily, and his first restaurant was a pizza parlor in Newark!”
“You mean, like actual greasy, cheesy, comes-delivered-in-a-box pizza?” said Bootsie.
“Oh yeah,” Jessica said. “We’re talking sixteen-inch sausage-and-pepperoni pies served on Formica countertops. Gianni knew Barclay Shields then, too! That’s when their feud started. Barclay was named Beppe when they were back in Newark, and he had a stake in Gianni’s first pizzeria. When Gianni decided to reinvent himself, he had to pay off a bunch of guys in Jersey before he could launch Palazzo. Some of the guys were upset that Gianni got a fancy new life.”
