by Rosie Genova
She didn’t have to twist my arm. I served myself some fruit salad and took a sesame-seed cookie. “Thanks for seeing me, Mrs. Natale.”
“I’m just grateful you want to help him, dear.” She didn’t take any food, but instead lit a cigarette. “Terrible habit, I know,” she said, blowing out her first puff with closed eyes. “Roberta is after me to stop. I’ll try to keep the smoke away from you, hon. Now, how can I help you?”
“Well, I’m trying to piece some things together about the night of the wedding. I guess you could say I’m testing other theories about what might have happened to Elizabeth Merriman.”
Brenda’s heavy-lidded eyes were knowing. “You mean other than Chickie killing her?”
“Well . . . yes.” I hadn’t expected Brenda to state things so baldly, and I sipped my tea to fill the uncomfortable silence.
“Victoria, do you think I don’t know what people are saying? I was never one to hide from things.” She poured herself a glass of tea and looked up at me. “Did Chickie make some mistakes? Yes, he did. Did he kill that awful woman? No, he did not.” She took a deep drag on her cigarette.
“I believe that, Mrs. Natale. And that’s why I’m here today.” Yet I could hear Sofia’s words clearly: Maybe Dr. Chickie really was the one who pushed Elizabeth over that seawall. Was Brenda’s blind faith in her husband misplaced? I took a bite of cookie for sustenance and readied my notebook and pen. “I have some questions. They may not make sense to you, and I’ll understand if there’s anything you prefer not to answer, okay?”
She waved her cigarette hand. “Go for it.”
“Okay, when we were chatting at the reception, you mentioned Dennis’s ‘trouble.’ His arrest is on record, so the prosecutor’s office will have that information. But do you know the circumstances of the assault?”
Brenda’s froggy eyes grew wide. “You don’t think Dennis—”
“Of course not,” I said hastily. “I’m just trying to get a picture of what happened.”
“I don’t mind telling you, because it was really kind of silly.”
A silly assault? “Go on.”
“It was a bar fight. A whole bunch of them drunk and banging each other around. He paid a fine and that was it.”
“I figured it was something like that. I appreciate your telling this. I do have another question, though.”
“Any way I can help, honey.”
“Do you know if either of Dennis’s parents was adopted?”
She frowned in confusion. “I have no idea. Is it important for Chickie’s case?”
“It might be. But it’s a long shot.” And please don’t ask me to explain, Brenda.
“Look, honey, if you think it will help Chickie, I’ll see if I can find out.” She bit her lip and frowned. “Though I’m not sure how you bring such a thing up to a person.”
“I understand. Are you friendly with Mrs. Doyle? Maybe there’s a way to get her talking about her parents.”
But Brenda was staring out at the water. Then she turned back to me slowly and gripped my arm. “Hang on, darling. I just remembered a conversation I had with Maureen. We were talking about the kids, you know, and how we hoped we’d have a grandchild soon. So then Maureen mentioned what a big baby Dennis was. Close to ten pounds, if you can believe it. Anyway, she had trouble delivering him.”
“I’ll bet,” I said, resolving not to tell Sofia this part of the story. “What else did she say?”
“This is the important part. She said her mother-in-law had said the same thing about Dennis’s father. He was also a very big man.” She waved the cigarette smoke away from me. “His poor mother labored for days or something.”
“That helps, Mrs. Natale. It really does.” So Mr. Doyle was not adopted and could be ruled out. “Also, do you know how old Mrs. Doyle is?”
“She’s younger than we are. Late fifties, maybe, but I know she’s not sixty.”
Assuming she wasn’t lying about her age, Mrs. Doyle was too young to be the lost child. But I had to be sure. “Could I ask you one other thing? Does Mrs. Doyle have blue eyes?”
Brenda was not ready for the curve I’d thrown her, and paused with her cigarette halfway to her lips. “Maureen? Blue eyes?” She shook her head. “No, dear. Her eyes are brown.”
Okay, I thought, it’s probably safe to say that Dennis Doyle is not Elizabeth’s grandson. And the assault charge stemmed from a bar fight, not an attack on someone. He’s probably not a violent guy. But is he lying about when they last saw Elizabeth Merriman? And if so, why? “Mrs. Natale, there’s one other thing. What time did you all leave the reception?”
Almost at once, Brenda Natale shifted her eyes back to the water. “We left at eleven thirty,” she said.
“And you’re sure about that?”
She nodded and looked down at her tea. “Yes. Elizabeth was still in her office. We could see her through the window.”
It was the same story Dennis had told me, nearly word for word. And if I asked Roberta, she’d probably tell me the same thing. And I had no doubt it was rehearsed. “Okay, then,” I said. “Eleven thirty it is.”
“We did leave at eleven thirty,” said a voice from behind me. “But I went back.” Dr. Natale kissed his wife, who only shook her head. “I have to tell her, Brenda,” he said.
Brenda stubbed out her cigarette and sighed. “Then have some tea first,” she said, and poured him a glass.
I waited, pen poised and heart fluttery. Was I about to hear a confession? “Dr. C.,” I said, “maybe you shouldn’t—”
“It’s okay, Victoria. Johnny told me not to talk about any of it, but this is different. Your father’s like my family.” He passed his hand over his eyes and rubbed the stubble on his chin. “I think I’ll feel better if I tell the truth.”
I put the pen and notebook away, and Dr. Chickie gave me a faint smile. “Thank you,” he said. He drank down half the tea, set the glass in front of him, and folded his hands. “As I said,” he began, “we all left the reception at eleven thirty. And Elizabeth was still in her office. But I had Dennis take Roberta and Brenda in his car, and I stayed behind. I wanted to try to plead my case with Elizabeth one last time. I went to her office and laid an envelope of cash on her desk. I said it was the first installment of the money I owed. I told her I’d pay back every cent of the money, but would she please not press charges.”
“What did she say?”
“She said no. Then she said, ‘It’s too late, Charles. The wheels of justice are already turning.’” He shook his head. “That’s how she put it. ‘The wheels of justice.’”
“What do you think she meant, Dr. C.? Had she begun the process of pressing charges?”
“I’m not sure.” He slumped in his seat, turning his glass from side to side. When he spoke again, his voice was barely audible. “But I would expect an arrest is imminent.”
“You don’t know that, Chickie,” Brenda said, gripping her husband’s arm.
“It’s probably a good idea if you don’t say any more about this, Dr. C.” I started to gather my things, but glanced longingly at my uneaten fruit. It would be tacky to stuff my face while my orthodontist’s life was falling apart.
“Wait a minute, Victoria,” Dr. Natale said. “I do have one other thing to say before you go—and this you can write down. When I left Elizabeth Merriman’s office at eleven forty-five last Saturday night, she was very much alive.” His bloodshot eyes held my own. “And that’s the last I saw of her. So help me God.”
Chapter Seventeen
That evening, after a quick dinner in my cottage, I called Sofia. After a pregnancy update—morning sickness a little better, and, no, Danny didn’t know yet—I filled her in on my visit to the Natales.
“So, it comes down to who was still around that club at midnight,” Sofia said.
“And if any of them had motive,” I added.
“So let’s think about this logically, Vic. Assuming Dr. Natale is innocent, Elizabeth was probably m
urdered for one of two reasons: revenge or money.”
“Right,” I said. “Revenge points us to somebody tied to Merriman Industries; money points us to the lost child.”
“There might be a Merriman connection we’re missing,” Sofia said.
“There might,” I agreed. “But I’m leaning toward the lost child. If that child felt abandoned, he or she would have another reason for murder besides Elizabeth’s money.”
“Absolutely. And here’s a thought: What if the biological child approached Elizabeth and was rejected?”
“You might be onto something here. It would be like being abandoned twice, wouldn’t it?” As I pondered this theory, I remembered Kate’s nearly irrational dislike of Elizabeth. “Hang on, Sofe. Remember I told you I overheard Kate and Elizabeth fighting the night of the murder? I couldn’t make out much of it, but I clearly heard Elizabeth say something like, ‘Out, out! Do you hear me?’ What if Kate is the biological child and chose that time to tell Elizabeth? What if that was the rejection?”
“Hmmm.” There was doubt in that one syllable. “I don’t know, Vic. That’s a weird time and place to say, ‘Hey, I’m your long-lost daughter,’ don’t you think? It sounds more like she was getting fired.”
“Very shrewd, Ms. Delmonico. You’ve given me something else to think about, and maybe given Kate Bridges another motive for murder.”
After I got off the phone, I took a walk on the beach to think about my next course of action. It didn’t take me long to realize there was only one thing to do. But I needed Tim to do it.
• • •
“I really appreciate this, Tim,” I said, glancing at his stony profile. “I know you don’t get that much time off.” And that I’m taking you away from Lacey. Sadly.
“This is a stupid idea, Vic. You know that, right? Chef Bridges is probably gonna throw us straight out of her kitchen. If she’s even there.” He’d insisted on driving my Honda to the Belmont Club. (Apparently, I drive like an old lady.)
He was keeping his eyes on the road, his brows knitted into a permanent frown. Though Lacey would no doubt turn it upside down later this evening. “I can’t believe you would get yourself involved in something like this again,” he said. “After last time.”
It occurred to me that After Last Time would make a great movie or book title. Too bad I was sick of hearing it. “Tim, I didn’t get myself involved. It happened the minute I overheard that conversation between Elizabeth Merriman and Dr. Chickie. And please don’t repeat that to anybody, okay?”
“Who am I gonna tell?”
“I don’t know. Your girlfriend, maybe?”
“We’re just dating. She’s not my girlfriend.”
Somehow a bitter little laugh escaped from my lips. “Does she know that?”
But Tim chose not to answer. We rode in silence for a few minutes; then I noticed Tim curl his lip, as though he’d thought of something distasteful. “So, what about you and Lockhart?” he asked.
“What about it? We’ve been out on one date and taken one walk together. Hardly a relationship.”
“But you’re going out with him again?”
“If he asks.”
He grunted, still frowning, and I thought the better of this line of conversation. “You know what, Tim?” I said. “I think we need another rule: no talking about our love lives.”
“Fine by me.” He pointed to the now familiar white building in the distance. “We’re just about there, Vic.”
As we approached the Belmont Club, I developed a nice case of the stomach flutters. Toscano had just warned me off, yet here I was, back for another spot of investigating. “Hey, Tim? Would you wait in the car a minute after we park?”
“What the hell for? You just dragged me all the way down here to give you an excuse to get in.”
“Hang on, will you? I just need to check in with Sally at the bar for a minute, okay? We should probably make sure Kate is here. I’ll meet you back in the kitchen.” I neglected to tell him that if Jack Toscano was anywhere around, I planned to abandon the whole idea. But Tim was already cranky. “Wait for me to text you.”
He made his displeasure evident by screeching to a stop in the rear parking lot. “I told you we should have called first.”
“Kate never would have said yes.”
“There’s no guarantee she’ll even see us, Vic.”
Trying not to notice his impressive biceps, I patted his upper arm. “Just turn on the old Trouvare charm, pal.”
The delivery entrance to the club was open. Once inside, I skirted around the kitchen and made my way down the long hallway that led to the bar, sending up a quick prayer to St. Jude, the patron of lost causes. He must have been listening, because I got to the bar unhindered. I popped my head in, and was rewarded by a wave and a grin from Sally.
“If it ain’t the mystery writer! How ya doing, Victoria?”
“I’m good, Sally, thanks. Listen, is Kate here?”
She nodded, drawing a slow circle in the air around her ear. “Crazy Kate’s here all right. And today’s lipstick is brought to you by the color purple.”
“Oh, good. I mean that she’s here, not the purple lipstick.” I peered inside the bar to make sure it was empty. “Uh, one more thing. Is Toscano around?”
She shook her head. “Did you need to talk to him?”
“No! Definitely not.” I pulled my head out of the doorway. “So, I’m just gonna go look for Kate.”
“Good luck with that!” she called after me.
I was in the middle of texting Tim when my head shot up at the sound of a deep, accented voice. Chef Etienne Boulé, he of the silver hair and bedroom eyes, stood blocking my passage in the hallway.
I flashed him a hopeful smile. “Chef Boulé, you may remember me from an event last weekend. I’m from the Casa Lido restaurant?” As his expression didn’t change, I made a desperate attempt at charm. “You may not recognize me without my hairnet,” I said, smiling wider and patting my freshly styled hair.
He nodded briefly. “You still have not told me why you are here.”
“Oh. Well, our sous chef, Tim Trouvare, was hoping to observe Chef Kate at work, since she is a renowned pâtissière,” I said, murdering the French with my high school accent. I tried not to notice him wince.
“I don’t know what you think you are doing, mademoiselle,” he said, “but Chef Kate will not take kindly to someone attempting to, shall we say, imitate her work.”
I gasped. “Did you think we were here to steal her recipes? I promise, Chef, we would never do such a thing. Truly. Tim and I simply want to watch her work.”
He stood in the middle of the hallway, arms crossed. I was close enough to catch the faint scents of sandalwood and tobacco, and I was arrested by his dark eyes. “Let us hope that is the case,” he said. One side of his mouth lifted in amusement, and just as I was thinking how attractive he was, I caught sight of his wedding ring. Some girls had all the luck.
“No more than one hour, mademoiselle,” he said, holding up a finger. “If you last that long. Now, if you will excuse me.” The moment he was past, I finished the text. Coast is clear.
But just because the coast was clear didn’t mean I was comfortable sailing it. I slunk down the quiet hallway toward the kitchen, hoping Tim would get there ahead of me. Even if Kate was immune to Tim’s charms, he still stood a better chance with her than I did. I pushed open the heavy doors slowly, a sense of dread shadowing me as I entered the spacious kitchen. We would probably get kicked right out on our behinds. Even if we could stay awhile, there was no guarantee I’d find out anything about Kate’s past or her argument with Elizabeth.
Inside, a few of Chef Etienne’s staff were prepping at various stations, but none appeared to notice me. That is, except for my old friend Antoine, who greeted me with some dubious French words and an expressive leer.
I hurried past him, thinking I’d take my chances with Crazy Chef Kate, whose voice boomed from the dark recesses of the
kitchen. “What the hell are you doing back?”
I heard Tim’s deep tones, but not his words, as he tried to calm her. “No way,” she responded. “I work alone.”
Once I was within earshot, I paused to listen. “But, Chef,” Tim said, “I just want to observe. Everybody in the business knows your pastry work is primo.”
Primo? You couldn’t have come up with a better one there, ace? Just as I entered Kate’s lair, she wheeled around and pointed a shaking finger at me. “And what are you doing sneaking around?”
Whoa. That was some purple lipstick. She was also wearing purple eye shadow and two bright spots of blush. That and her green head scarf gave her the look of an oversized grape. “I’m . . . I’m not,” I stuttered. “I mean, I’m with Tim.”
“Well, you can both turn around and go home. I’m not interested in babysitting either one of you. I’ve got work to do.”
Tim dialed up his smile from charming to blinding. “What are you working on today, Chef?”
Kate let out a sigh. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m making puff pastry for a peach tarte tatin.”
“Oh, my gosh,” I said, “we just did a peach torta, didn’t we, Tim?” But Tim only rolled his eyes.
“What a coincidence,” Kate said, her hands on her hips. “Considering peaches are in season and all.” She stalked past us to the large refrigerator and I gave Tim a look: Should we stay?
He lifted his chin slightly, which I took as a yes. I took a place at the corner of her work counter, and Tim stood a respectful distance behind her. Holding the wrapped dough, she looked at us in disgust.
“All right,” she said. “I can see I’m not gonna get rid of you. You, Casa Lido Chick, stay right where you are.” She frowned deeply, her snaky eyebrows wiggling in her forehead. Then she turned to Tim, her expression softening by a fraction. “You, Mr. Charming, you can watch. But stay outta my space.”
“Yes, Chef,” he said, brushing me away with his hand as though it were a tiny broom and I was a dust bunny. I frowned at him, but moved down a bit.
