Zero Dark Chocolate (A Miranda and Parker Mystery Book 5)

by Linsey Lanier

  The tall man in the tall hat went rigid and slowly turned around, alarm on his face. “Madame Joan. And you two. How did you get in here?”

  Andre forced himself between Fanuzzi and the chef. “I apologize, Chef Emile. Monsieur Le Blanc requested I take them to you. I should have refused.”

  Ass kisser, Miranda thought.

  “It is all right, Andre. Go about your duties. You, too, Labossiere.” He made a shooing motion.

  The short man left with a “Pfft,” while with several more bows, the young waiter turned and scurried away.

  Fanuzzi laid a hand on the chef’s arm. “Chef, you’ve got to—”

  He pulled out of her grip, stepping away. “Madame Joan, have I not told you? I have tried many times today to contact Odette. She does not answer her phone. There is nothing more I can do.”

  “We’ve received another phone call from the kidnappers,” Parker said sternly.

  At the word “kidnappers,” the chef winced like a puppy who’d been smacked with a newspaper for peeing on the floor.

  “This time a man was on the line.”

  “One of the men we believe your niece is colluding with,” Miranda added.

  A glazed look in his eyes, Chef Emile shook his head. “I am sorry, but as you can see I am very busy right now. I must prepare for la Fête nationale festivities tomorrow. Bastille Day. If Odette calls me—”

  Fanuzzi’s eye’s turned to hot dark coals. “The man on the phone told me there was a treasure.”

  “Quoi?”

  Fanuzzi waved her hands over her head as if she were about to go berserk. “The Amando family treasure. He’s giving you twenty-four hours to hand it over to him—less than that now—or he’s going to kill my Dave and your Odette and throw their bodies in the Seine.”

  Chef Emile’s pale blue eyes went wider and glassier. He shook his head. “Non. You are lying. This cannot be.”

  Miranda took a step toward the man. “I heard him with my own ears, Chef. He called Fanuzzi about an hour ago. He’s going to call back and tell us where to deliver the money.”

  Now Fanuzzi did go berserk. “He cut of my husband’s finger and sent it to me in a box!”

  As if someone had slugged him in the stomach, Chef Emile bent over and staggered to a small table in the corner. He sank into a chair and put his head in his hands.

  “Mon Dieu, mon Dieu. Oh, my precious little Odette, what have you done? What have you gotten yourself into?” His cries were as heart-breaking as Fanuzzi’s but none of them could indulge in grief now.

  Parker went to his side, put a hand on his shoulder. “We have people at French Intelligence trying to determine their whereabouts. But if they can’t do that in time, we have to be prepared to do as the man on the phone said.”

  “French Intelligence?” Chef Emile stared off into space.

  “Chef,” Parker said gently. “Is there such a treasure?”

  Chef Emile rubbed his hands, his pale blue eyes filling with tears, his mouth twisted in a grimace as if he’d just woken from a nightmare. But the nightmare was just beginning.

  Slowly he shook his head. “I do not know.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Lunging at the chef, Fanuzzi gripped the flaps of his white double-breasted jacket and shook him. “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

  “Joan! Get hold of yourself.” Parker pulled her off the man and she stood hissing at him like a rabid dog.

  “Please explain, Chef,” Parker said in his calm, rational tone.

  Miranda stuffed her own hands under her armpits to keep from punching the guy herself. As he began to answer, she forced herself to listen.

  The Chef glanced around the corner to ensure they were alone, then he raised his long-fingered hands in a helpless expression. “According to the Amando family legend, my great-great grandfather was very close to one of the presidents of the Third Republic. He cooked for him. The president loved the dishes he created just for him. His original recipes have been passed down to each generation.”

  Miranda chewed on her lip in impatience. They didn’t need a culinary history lesson now.

  “When the president grew old, he gave my great-great grandfather an endowment.” The chef made a sweeping gesture. “This very restaurant and enough money to run it for several years. It was said that in addition to being a talented chef, my ancestor was very frugal and a good investor. He saved the money. As did my great grandfather when he took over the place.”

  Miranda resisted the urge to make a finger across the throat, “cut it short” gesture.

  “All my ancestors were clever business men. During the occupation my grandfather got supplies by feeding the Nazi generals. He managed to pass a portion of the supplies to the Resistance. He saved many people who would have otherwise starved.”

  Noble. Miranda hoped this Amando was just as generous.

  “It was when my great grandfather died that rumors began to abound about this so-called Amando family treasure. Some said it was a pistol owned by Napoleon. Others insisted it must be the jewels of Marie Antoinette. Others said it was a painting by DaVinci. As the years passed the speculation grew only more extravagant. And these fantasies are still spread today.”

  What? Miranda threw her hands in the air. “Fantasies? Speculation? Are you saying there isn’t a treasure?”

  “I am saying I do not know whether it exists or not.” He lowered his voice. “But in the room each Amando has occupied as an office down the years there is a safe. My father once told me the treasure was in there.”

  Miranda watched Fanuzzi’s eyes fill and a muscle in Parker’s jaw twitch.

  “Where is this safe?” he asked.

  Cautiously, the chef looked each of them in the eye one by one.

  Then he rose. “Follow me.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chef Emile led them through a short hall and up a winding staircase to the rooms upstairs. At the end of another passageway, he stopped and opened a door. “My office.”

  Miranda followed Fanuzzi inside.

  The airless room was about half the size of Parker’s office back at the Agency, and looked about two hundred years older. An ornate desk inlaid with mahogany stood in one corner. It formed a half circle, like a round dining table sawn in half. A cinnamon colored leather chair decorated with tufts sat behind it.

  The walls were a deep mustard shade she’d seen on ancient metalwork. The lamps looked like something envisioned by Toulouse-Lautrec.

  Against the far wall a tall arched window was hung with thick brocade. The remaining wall space was lined with decorative tables and bookshelves holding dusty old volumes, all of them giving the place a musty smell.

  It was obvious the Amandos who’d run this place over the decades had spent little time here. No doubt they were always in the kitchen.

  In the middle of the room Fanuzzi spun around, eyeing the century old furniture. “I don’t see any safe,” she said, her voice breaking.

  “It is behind that filing cabinet.”

  Chef Emile gestured to a tall antique-looking wooden chest with intricate carvings down the sides and fancy swirling brass handles. It stood against the wall opposite the desk and looked heavy and foreboding.

  “Let’s move it then,” Parker said.

  He stepped to one side of the chest while Chef Emile went to the other. After much grunting and straining, the two men shoved the thing a few feet away from the wall.

  Embedded into that wall was a square door about two and a half feet wide, just as tall, and just as high off the floor.

  Symmetrical.

  Its surface was a tarnished bronze with a decorative border along its edges of colorful swirling shapes, like piping on a cake. It looked old. Centuries old.

  And in its center was an old-fashioned combination dial.

  “Don’t just stand there. Open it,” Fanuzzi demanded.

  Chef Emile raised his palms with a sheepish grimace. “That is what I have been tryin
g to say. I do not know the combination. It was lost and never given to me. As far as I know, it has never been opened.”

  Miranda stared at him. Fanuzzi stared at him. Parker’s face was hard granite.

  “You do not believe me? It is true. If I knew the combination I would have opened it myself by now.”

  Miranda put a hand on her hip. “What the hell does that mean?”

  The chef’s face took on a dour expression as he closed his eyes and shook his head. “I am ashamed to admit it. I have made some bad decisions over the past few years.”

  “What are you talking about?” Fanuzzi’s voice had an edge of hysteria.

  The chef lifted his hands in another helpless expression. “The economy has been bad. Food costs are up. Expenses are up. Sales are down. People, even the wealthy, are not dining out as much. Last year I took out a loan. A balloon loan. It is due next month.”

  “But you can repay it, right?” Fanuzzi said.

  “No. I cannot.”

  “What will happen?”

  “The bank will take the restaurant.”

  Great time to get your financial troubles off your chest. But Miranda didn’t care about this restaurant. If there was anything of value in that safe it was going to save Becker.

  She turned to Parker. “Can you crack that thing?”

  “I can try.”

  He adjusted his slacks and bent down in front of the safe. He gave the dial a few turns, then pressed his ear to the door and began to fiddle with the lock with those talented fingers of his.

  “He’ll get it,” she whispered to Fanuzzi.

  Miranda had seen Parker at work before and she knew the magic those fingers could do. Not to mention the things he could do to her with them. She knew their nuances first hand.

  Back and forth. Back and forth. To the right. To the left. To the right again. Neatly manicured nails over the antique’s patina, teasing out the combination.

  They held their breath and waited. If there had been a clock in the room its ticking would have been the only sound.

  After an eternity, Parker reached for the brass handle, gave it a yank—and scowled.

  Fanuzzi was the first to come to life. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s being stubborn.”

  “Be more stubborn,” Miranda told him.

  He turned and gave her a look that was half affection, half irritation. Then he set his shoulders and went at it again. Once more he worked the dial back and forth, back and forth, listening hard, ear against the ancient metal.

  Miranda folded her arms, trying to stem her anxiety. She could only imagine what this was doing to Fanuzzi. C’mon Parker. You can do this. You’re the king of B&E.

  But a safe was different from a house lock.

  Once more Parker grasped the handle and pulled. Nothing.

  “Damn.”

  Miranda could feel the fury rising under his skin. “You need a stethoscope.”

  “Unfortunately I left mine at home.” His wry tone made her stomach ache.

  Again Parker gritted his teeth, gathered all his concentration and turned the knob.

  And again they waited. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. This time Miranda thought she could hear Fanuzzi’s heartbeat in the stillness.

  She bit her lip as she watched Parker’s strong fingers slide around the handle.

  Third time’s the charm. This had to be it. His muscles contracted as he gave it a jerk.

  “Bloody hell!” He rose to his feet. “Not enough numbers clicking.” He looked like he wanted to kick the thing.

  Fanuzzi hurried over to the safe and yanked on the handle as if she could open it with sheer will. “What the hell’s wrong with this thing?” She looked up at Parker with the eyes of a pleading child. “Can’t we get a locksmith?”

  With a groan Chef Emile ran his hands over his face. “I did once. He could not open it.”

  “Can’t we try somebody else?”

  “The shops are closed. Everyone is preparing for Bastille Day tomorrow.”

  Miranda felt like she would go crazy any minute. They had to get that treasure out of that damn safe.

  She put her fists on her hips and glared at the thing. “We should take a sledgehammer to it.”

  Chef Emile’s watery blue eyes went wide. “It is a historical artifact.”

  Fanuzzi spun around and screamed at him, “You think an artifact worth my Dave’s live?”

  Parker put his hands on Fanuzzi’s shoulders. “There are structural issues, Joan,” he said in a calm voice. “This building is old. We could collapse the wall. It wouldn’t be safe. Besides I’m afraid all that would take too long.”

  Fanuzzi broke out of his grip and started to pace frantically around the room. “You’re right. We’re wasting time. We just need to raise some money. The asswipe who called me won’t know whether it’s the treasure or not.”

  Miranda glanced at Parker. “Where are we going to get a hundred million Euros?”

  Fanuzzi waved her hands in some Italian gesture of impatience. “We can fake some of it. Most of it. Use some real stuff on top and the rest underneath would be fake.”

  “And what if he figures that out before we get Becker and Odette back?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know.” She marched over to a small chair in the corner and sank into it. “All I know is I want my Dave back.”

  Miranda went to her, stroked her back. “I know. We all do. We’ll figure out something.” Damned if she knew what.

  Parker rubbed the back of his neck. “Surely your father put the combination in a secure place, Chef.”

  “Perhaps. But I do not know where.”

  Fanuzzi popped up and went to the round, table like desk. “Maybe he stuck it under here.” She crouched down to look. “Or under a drawer. I found a love note from a girl under one of my son Charlie’s desk drawers. He was so embarrassed when I found it.”

  Miranda squatted on the outer side of the desk, ran her hand under the back of the fancy trim.

  Nothing.

  “Give me a hand with this, Chef.”

  Parker and Chef Emile went to work on the antique filing cabinet, pulling out drawers, peering underneath them, looking through old, dusty papers.

  They went through the book shelves, the books, the tables, every square inch of the place—and came up with zip.

  Miranda resisted the urge to look at her watch but she knew time was slipping through their empty fingers.

  Chef Emile raised his hands then let them fall to his side, his shoulders slumped in sorrow and frustration. “I do not know what to say.”

  “Think, Chef,” Fanuzzi pleaded. “There’s got to be something you remember your father saying to you. Surely he gave you a clue sometime. Maybe when you were a kid?”

  Chef Emile sank into his leather desk chair and stared at the mess they’d made of his family’s office. He looked worn and defeated, as if he’d aged ten years since they’d come here.

  He rubbed his forehead with his long fingers. “I am trying to remember something. Anything.”

  Again there was silence in the room. This time a silence of despair.

  Suddenly Fanuzzi straightened. “Wait a minute. What’s that saying you’re always telling the class? The one your father always said?”

  “Le secret est dans la recette.”

  “Yeah, that’s it. ‘The secret is in the recipe.’”

  “Oui. He said that to me all the time. ‘Remember, Emile,’ he would say. ‘Le secret est dans la recette.’ But it does not make sense. A good recipe of course, is key. But there is more to the finest cooking than the recipe. There is imagination. Vision. Talent.”

  The fog began to clear in Miranda’s head. “So why did your father say that to you?”

  “I do not know. Wait.” Chef Emile shot to his feet and snapped his fingers. “I have just remembered something. Oui, of course. Why did I not think of it before?”

  “What?” Fanuzzi demanded.


  “It was at my first communion. My father and I had a moment alone in the parlor. He put me on his lap and told me how proud he was of me, that he wanted me always to live up to the family reputation. And then he said—”

  “What?” Miranda demanded.

  “He said if I were ever in any trouble. If I needed money to remember Le secret est dans la recette. The secret is in the recipe.”

  Parker frowned. “Chef, are you saying—?”

  He nodded giddily. “Oui! Madame Joan, you are a genius. The combination to the safe must be hidden in the recipe.”

  Miranda folded her arms. “Which recipe?”

  “It must be the one my family is most famous for. The Amando Dark Chocolate Piece Montée.”

  “Huh?”

  “Oh, it’s a wonderful creation. Chef Emile told us about it in class.” Fanuzzi was suddenly back in culinary mode. “Layers and layers of all sorts of profiteroles.”

  “Huh?” Miranda repeated.

  “Cream puffs. They make up a crouchembouche. That’s a cone-shaped tower of them held together with a glaze.”

  “A glaze of the finest dark chocolate in France, in the family recipe,” Chef Emile added.

  “Yes. That’s one thing that makes it so unique.”

  Glad that was cleared up.

  “A piece montée can be any kind of shape. But the ones created by the Armando family are known for their artistry.” Fanuzzi explained. “It could mirror a monument or a castle. And the chocolate can be dark or milk or white. There can be caramel, too.”

  Miranda wanted to shake her friend. This information wasn’t much of a clarification. Unless—

  “Are you saying—?”

  The chef nodded again. “Oui. The combination to the safe is somehow hidden in the recipe.”

  Miranda was unconvinced. “How?”

  Fanuzzi waved her hands impatiently. “A recipe is made up of numbers. Half a cup of this, two teaspoons of that. Somehow these numbers have to give us the combination.”

  “Again, how?”

  Fanuzzi blinked at her, then lifted her arms. “We’ll have to figure it out.”

  “I know the recipe by heart. My father made me memorize it. I will translate it into English.” Chef Emile found a pad of paper and a pencil in the rummage, sat at the desk once more and began writing.