Before her head cleared automatically her hand groped for the phone on the nightstand. She didn’t even remember putting it there.
“Hello?” she answered, holding her breath.
“Joanie?”
Her heart nearly stopped. She started to tremble from head to toe, like a dish of jello. Like her son, Tommy, when they thought he was having a seizure that one time. “Dave? Is that you?”
“Yes, it’s me.” He sounded frightened, shaky. “I’m okay, honey. Don’t worry.”
A flash of anger flushed through her. “What do you mean, don’t worry? Where the hell are you?”
“That’s the thing, honey. I don’t really know where I am. Oh, Joanie. Baby, I’m so sorry.” He started to blubber.
Her heart turned to mush. Oh, gawd. How could she be mad at him? All she wanted was to see him again. “It’s okay, snookums. Just tell me where you are and—”
“That is enough,” somebody said.
She heard a yelp and suddenly there was another voice on the phone.
“Madame Becker?” A female voice. Low. Hoarse. Frightening. The accent was French. Very thick.
“Yes?” She couldn’t keep her own voice steady.
“I assume you would like your husband back?”
“What do you mean?”
“Answer the question,” she demanded.
Joan’s anger shot back to life. Not at Dave this time. At this woman. “Of course, I would. Who are you? What have you done with him?”
“You will get your husband back when Chef Emile gives me what I want.”
“Say what?”
“Chef Emile,” the woman said slowly as if Joan were a perfect idiot.
“Chef Emile?” What in the hell did he have to do with this? Dave never even met him.
“You know him, do you not?”
“Of course, I do.” But not well. He was her teacher. She’d seen him three times. She decided not to tell the woman that.
“Then give him my message.”
“Your message?”
“The one I just told you.” She could hear the woman’s rage seeping through the phone. “I will release your husband when Chef Emile gives me what I want.”
Joan began to tremble again. She felt the hot tears starting to run down her cheeks. She had no idea what this stranger was talking about. “What do you want from Chef Emile?”
“He will know.”
And the phone went dead.
Chapter Twelve
Miranda rolled over and slung an arm around Parker, cherishing the feel of him, the smell of him even though she was still mostly asleep. It wasn’t time to get up yet. Couldn’t be. They’d only gone to bed a few hours ago. She just wanted to lay here and enjoy a long moment of peace.
But suddenly she felt him tense beneath her as a sound shook her brain the rest of the way awake.
Knock, knock, knock, knock.
Someone was pounding on their door.
“Wade? Miranda?”
She shot up. “Fanuzzi.”
Parker jumped to his feet and yanked on a pair of pants while Miranda wrapped herself in the sheets.
He got to the door first and flung it open. “Joan, what’s the matter?”
Fanuzzi’s short Italian frame appeared in the doorway. She was in a robe and her hair was sticking out all over. She looked as pale as death. “I heard from Dave.”
“When?” Parker ushered her into the room and shut the door.
“Just now. He called me on his cell.”
Miranda reached for her friend’s hand. “Where is he?”
“I don’t know.” She sank into the little desk chair, her eyes gazing at nothing. She was in shock.
“What do you mean you don’t know?” Miranda glanced at Parker as he reached for his own phone and began the tracker on Dave’s.
“He’d barely said hello when this woman got on the line.”
“Woman?”
“French woman.”
Miranda stared at her friend, forcing her features not to betray the rage bubbling inside her. Becker had gone off with some French woman and put his wife through hell? She’d kick his ass for sure.
Fanuzzi saw through her façade and put up a hand. “No, no. Not like that. The woman said…she said…” she started to gasp.
Miranda laid a hand on her shoulder. “Take is easy, Fanuzzi. Just get it out one word at a time.”
Fanuzzi took a deep noisy breath through her mouth. “The woman said I could have Dave back when Chef Emile gives her what she wants.”
“Who?”
“Chef Emile. The teacher of the cooking classes I’m taking.”
“Oh. Right.” The classes she was missing. “What the heck has he got to do with it?”
At a total loss, Fanuzzi raised her open palms. “All I know is that awful woman has my Dave.” She buried her face in her hands.
A woman? What about the two guys in that photo last night?
“No signal on Dave’s cell,” Parker said grimly.
“Somebody removed the battery.”
Parker nodded. “They don’t want to be traced.”
Miranda stepped over to look at the phone, glanced at the time. A little after six. “When does your class start?” she said to Fanuzzi.
“Quarter of seven,” she answered in a sad sounding Brooklynese.
Miranda turned back to Parker. “We should go talk to this dude.”
She watched Parker’s jaw tightened as his brain recalibrated his plan to visit his friend at French Intelligence this morning. From the deep crease between his sexy brows, Miranda knew if they had been alone, there would have been an argument.
But Parker was too classy to fight in front of a friend.
Instead he drew in a slow, measured breath. “Very well. We’ll see what this Chef Emile can tell us.”
Chapter Thirteen
Sheer necessity forced them to take the time to shower and dress. Miranda decided to go with the professional look and chose dark blue slacks with a matching jacket, a gray V-neck tee, and comfortable dress shoes. Intimidating enough, if the chef dude gave them a hard time. Parker’s choice of a charcoal business suit told her he was thinking along the same lines. And that he planned to visit his French Intelligence friend later.
When they met her in the hall, Fanuzzi had on a ruffly teal blouse, peach colored Capri slacks and sandals. She looked ready for her class.
Good cover, Miranda thought.
And then Parker insisted they eat breakfast. She would have argued about that, too, but decided to pick her battles. Still, by the time they climbed into the cab and headed for the cooking school it was well past quarter of.
“Chef Emile usually takes the class to the open air market on le Rue Lecourbe right away,” Fanuzzi told them as they rumbled through the narrow streets. “So we can pick up the fresh ingredients for whatever we’re going to make that day. The market opens at seven.”
“We should swing by there and see if we can catch him,” Miranda said.
“Chef Emile Amando,” Parker read from his phone and whatever site he’d brought up. “Renowned owner of the three-star Michelin restaurant Chez Amando on the right bank in Paris, an establishment known for its superb entrees and exquisite desserts.”
Miranda wrinkled her nose. “Michelin? Like the tire company?”
“One in the same.”
Suddenly coming to life Fanuzzi twisted around to face her. “Isn’t that a hoot, Murray? I thought it was weird, too, when I first learned about it. But it’s because the company wanted people to use cars—and get tires for them—to go to fancy restaurants. So they started a guide way back in the nineteen hundreds and rated eating establishments in it.”
More than Miranda wanted to know about the subject, but she was glad to distract her friend with something that piqued her interest.
“As an apprentice,” Parker continued, “Chef Emile studied under a master pâtissier, then became a commis de cuisine under his grandfathe
r and worked his way up the ranks, taking over as chef de cuisine at Chez Amando seven years ago. Son of César Amando and grandson of Gautier Amando, both also Michelin starred chefs, he has published several bestselling books on French cuisine, including Pâtisseries for You. Age sixty-two. Never married. No children.”
“Impressive.” So who is this woman? Miranda wondered. But she didn’t say it aloud for fear of shaking Fanuzzi out of her cooking zone.
“He’s famous,” Fanuzzi crooned. “Especially for his dark chocolate desserts. He does dark chocolate soufflés, macarons, creme brulees. He was the first to come up with that recipe. I’m so lucky to be learning under him.”
“That you are,” Parker agreed. Then he leaned forward to address the cabbie. “We’ll get out here.”
They had already passed the cooking school and were around the far corner from the building with its pretty lilac trim and lettering. The cab pulled to the curb, Parker paid the driver and held the door while Miranda and Fanuzzi climbed out.
They headed up the street, made another turn and after another zig and a zag, arrived at their destination.
The streets in this section were similar to the ones they’d hiked through yesterday. Lined on both sides with charming old, cream colored buildings, which were decked with lots of windows and fancy balconies, and formed into the oddly shaped corners where streets intersected every which way.
But the lane in use for the outdoor market was jam-packed.
A buzzing hive, where the strange accents and strange scents of strange people from all over the world mingled with the earthy smell of fresh fruits and vegetables. Scaffolding had been erected along the whole length of the street on both sides, and was covered with makeshift roofs to create temporary store fronts.
Produce hung in bags from hooks and was piled in crates in mismatched columns along either side of the two long rows.
Potatoes and carrots and tangerines. Nuts, avocados and figs. Lemons from Nice. Mangos from Peru. Truffles and pomegranates.
The crowd was so heavy it was hard to move. Miranda didn’t know how they were going to find the famous chef and his students. But with Fanuzzi at the lead and Parker just behind, she fought her way through the throng while vendors called to her in French, beckoning like carnival barkers to taste a bit of orange or an apple, or to give a freshly sliced melon a whiff.
A woman elbowed her in the ribs as she argued with a seller in French. A man on the other side stepped on her foot and scowled as he shook his head at whatever he was being offered.
Didn’t even say, “Excuse me.”
Another woman was trying to quiet a squalling baby while she picked out tomatoes for this evening’s dinner.
Miranda wanted to cover her ears. She reached for Fanuzzi’s arm. “Do you see him, yet?”
Fanuzzi batted her away. “He’s here. Just give me a minute.”
“Okay. Okay.” They had no time to lose, but she knew her friend was all too aware of that.
She took another few steps and realized she’d gotten wedged between a crate of squash and a woman who wanted to examine each one.
She twisted around and had just freed herself when she spotted somebody watching her from across the way. Or thought she did. She couldn’t see much in the shadows of the low awning. Dark jacket. Long, oily hair. Sunken cheeks. Dark and hollow eyes. A man?
He seemed to be eyeing her with the intensity of a leopard on the prowl. A cold shiver went down her spine.
She nudged Parker. “Do you see that guy?”
He turned his head in the direction she’d indicated. “No.”
The man was gone.
“What did you see, Miranda?” There was more than concern in his low, strong voice.
But she wasn’t sure what she’d seen.
Fanuzzi snatched at her hand. “There he is!”
Miranda swung her neck back. “Where?”
“Right over there.”
At a booth down the way she saw a very tall man in a white dress shirt and dark slacks. He had a large nose and disheveled gray hair and was holding up a blueberry to several younger folk, who all seemed to be hanging on his every word.
“They must be charnu,” he told them, gesturing with a lanky arm. “How you say? Plump. And the skin, it must be nice and tight. The color, it must be the deepest blue. All the way through. Not like this one.” He tossed down the berry shaking his head in disgust and picked up another. “This one. Comme ça.” He kissed his fingers and spread them high in the air. “Parfait!”
A real performer, Miranda thought. But he looked as gentle as someone’s grandfather. How could he be involved in whatever had happened to Becker?
“Chef Emile,” Fanuzzi called out.
The gray haired man put down his blueberry and peered through the crowd. He found the source of the voice and smiling warmly, made his way over to her.
“Ah, Madame Joan. Bonjour. How are you? Can you return to class today? Is your emergency over?”
“Not exactly, Chef.”
“Let me handle this.” Parker worked his way around some crates and extended a hand. “Bonjour, Monsieur Amando.”
The smiling turning to curiosity as the man took Parker’s hand. “Bonjour, monsieur.”
“My name is Wade Parker. I’m a friend of Joan’s. As is my wife, Miranda.”
The chef stretched a long-fingered hand out to her as well. He looked as if he hoped they were food critics. “Bonjour, madame. Happy to meet you.”
“Bonjour,” Miranda replied, shooting Parker a look.
They should get on with it, she thought. But once again there was no time for arguing.
After a quick glance that demanded rather than asked her to be patient, Parker turned on the charm for the chef. “I’m the owner of the Parker Investigative Agency in Atlanta, Georgia.”
Chef Emile seemed surprised. “In the United States? Where Joan is from?”
“Yes. My wife and I are private investigators. We’re here on business.”
Miranda watched the chef’s expression go from friendly to concern.
“Is there a problem?”
Parker lowered his voice. “I’d rather not talk on the streets. Is there somewhere we can go?”
The chef blinked at Parker. He looked like he was wondering if he were in a movie and where the hidden cameras were.
Then he nodded. “My office at Le Gastronomique Divine. But I must finish my lesson here.”
Parker’s voice grew darker. “It would be best to go now, chef.”
Chef Emile turned sober and nodded. “Of course.”
He gestured to a young man Miranda assumed was an assistant, gave him instructions for the students, then turned to Parker.
“This way,” he said, pushing through the crowd.
And he led the three of them back through the shoppers and down the charming streets to the cooking school.
Chapter Fourteen
“Now. What is this all about?” The chef asked.
He had brought them to a narrow room on the second floor of the Le Gastronomique Divine building. A space with a definite ancient palace feel.
Miranda sat in a flowery throne-like chair that matched the ones Parker, Fanuzzi, and the chef were in, surrounded by high walls adorned with intricate trim and gorgeous murals painted by long dead artists. The ceiling glittered with gold leaf, more paintings, and a delicate crystal chandelier.
Chef Emile’s “office” would make one of the sitting rooms back in the Parker estate look like it had been done in early thrift store.
Miranda felt she should have a teacup in her hand, with pinky extended.
Oblivious to the décor Fanuzzi put her face in her hands and blurted out a reply. “Oh, Chef Emile. I think my husband has been kidnapped.”
The chef’s gray brows popped to his hairline. “Quoi? Kidnapped?”
Parker rose to put a supporting hand on Fanuzzi’s shoulder. “Joan’s husband, Dave Becker, has been missing since Wednesday morning
.”
Chef Emile blinked at Parker. Then at Miranda. Then at Fanuzzi. “Quelle horreur. That is dreadful. You poor thing. Of course, I can give you an extension for your classes.”
Fanuzzi shook her head. “It’s not about the classes. It’s about a phone call I got last night. Or really early this morning. Just after six.”
“A phone call?” The chef looked lost.
“Joan spoke to her husband then,” Parker told him stiffly.
“I kept asking him where he was. He said he didn’t know. And then a woman got on the line.”
“A woman?” The chef readjusted his long legs as if he were very uncomfortable. He didn’t want to get involved in his student’s marital issues.
Still on the cusp of tears Fanuzzi nodded. “A woman. She said I could have Dave back when you gave her what she wants. Chef Emile, what is she talking about?” Her Brooklyn accent was filled with distress.
Chef Emile’s mouth opened, his expression as rigid as an over baked custard. Slowly he rose and took several long-legged strides to the tall window. In silence he stared out at the street.
“Merde,” he whispered at last.
Miranda was tired of the drama. “I take it that means you know this woman?”
He spun around and faced her, looking as if he might break into tears, too. “It is Odette.”
“Who’s Odette?” Miranda asked, at the same time Fanuzzi did.
Looking as if he’d aged ten years, the chef plodded back to his chair and sank into it, his head in his hands. “My niece.”
Niece? So that was how he was involved in this. Or at least it was the start of an explanation. “What does she want?”
He leaned back and stared out the window again as if he wished he could jump out of it. “I suppose she wants her job back.”
Miranda slid a glance at Parker who was still at Fanuzzi’s side. He looked really irritated. Almost as irritated as she felt.
“Can you elaborate on that Monsieur Amando?” Parker’s voice was calm but chilly.
He waved a hand at Parker without looking at him. “Please call me Chef Emile. Everyone does.” It seemed like an automatic response.
Zero Dark Chocolate (A Miranda and Parker Mystery Book 5) Page 6
