French Pressed cm-6

by Клео Коул

  “Welcome to my world.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Most Americans think coffee is supposed to come pre-ground in a tin can. It’s not always easy persuading people to pay premium prices for a premium product.”

  “True.” Keitel paused, considering my point. “But it’s easier in this city, you have to admit.”

  “I suppose. Of course, my customers only have to come up with an extra dollar or two for a transcendent experience. They can sip a cup slowly at one of my café tables and spend an hour on a beautiful piece of real estate. Your customers have to cough up well over one hundred to hang out in your house.”

  “Spoken like a proud member of the proletariat.”

  “I am. The democratization of luxury is my credo.”

  “I come from the working class, too, Clare. My father was a Navy cook who bought a diner. My mom worked in a bakery. I get where you’re coming from, but I’m a man who’s learned to appreciate the finer things; not having grown up with them makes them all the sweeter to savor, no?”

  The man had a point.

  Tommy shrugged. “Anyway, I have no problem with the markups on my menu. My customers come here for a four-star experience, and they get one.”

  “Except for the coffee.”

  Keitel shook his head. “You’re one pushy female, you know that?”

  “You have no idea.”

  “And you probably have no idea just how cutthroat my world is. People don’t just want good anymore, Clare. They want new. They want fresh, novel, invigorating experiences. And, you know what? I can’t blame them, because so do I. Solange is going to be five years old in seven weeks, and there are younger, flashier restaurants opening up every season, trying to seduce her customers away.”

  I found Keitel’s characterization of Solange as a “her” intriguing. He’d trained for over a decade in France, so assigning a gender to something like a restaurant was understandable. Then again, from what Joy told me, Chef Keitel had acted “married” to the place since it opened.

  Given his increasing and unexplained absences, however, I’d have to conclude that Tommy Keitel had been straying, not just on his wife and my daughter, but on his other mistress, Solange. The question was why? Wasn’t this his big dream come true, the restaurant he’d envisioned over a decade ago on the west bank of Paris?

  “Chef, I overheard you speaking with someone named Anton?”

  “That would be Anton Wright, Solange’s owner.”

  “It sounded like you two were having a disagreement about something.”

  “Let’s do two more cheeses,” Tommy said, completely ignoring my query. “Then we’ll have a complete cheese-and-coffee pairings offering to try next week. That’ll give the regulars something new, eh?”

  My eyebrows rose at that. “You want to put the tasting we’re doing right now on your menu?”

  “That’s what I just said, isn’t it? Now, close your damn eyes.”

  And he calls me pushy?

  Keitel slipped a Proosdy into my mouth. The cheese was from north Holland and had the characteristics of a really fine Gouda.

  “It’s hard on the initial bite, yet soft as the tooth penetrates. The flavor is much stronger than your previous offerings, but I’m a real sucker for muscular cheeses like this one.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, my grandmother ran a little Italian grocery, so I grew up on this kind of sharpness: aged provolones, pecarinos, and asiagos. The first taste can be overpowering, but I love a cheese that’s been well-aged.”

  “Is that so?”

  “I’m tasting some caramelized notes in this product…butterscotch, I’d say…and also some satisfyingly salty bursts—I’m assuming from tiny crystallized curds within the meat. I think that’s what’s so tantalizing about this one. The coarse little bursts provide big surprises. They catch you off guard with these unexpected explosions of intensity. The effect is highly stimulating.”

  “Well, then. Open up for more.”

  Keitel fed me another slice, and I continued to chew and swallow blindly. “I’d definitely want to pair this one with an espresso.”

  “My kitchen doesn’t have an espresso machine.”

  “Oh, right. Of course. We’re using French presses exclusively, so I’d fall back on our Italian Roast; that’s the next best thing to an espresso for that dark, caramelized flavor. The Italian is also luxuriously full-bodied.”

  “Full-bodied.” He grunted softly. “Now that’s something I can appreciate.”

  “And there’s a level of smokiness in the Italian that can take on the power and sharpness that’s present here. Really stand up to it.”

  Keitel was quiet a long moment as he fed me another bite. “It’s good to have that bite in there, don’t you think, Clare?” His voice sounded lower and softer all of a sudden. “It’s something I think a woman like you, with such well-developed senses, can appreciate. The pungency awakens that mature palate of yours, am I right? Excites it? Challenges it?”

  I swallowed uneasily, my eyes still closed. Up to now, I thought we were talking about cheese. But now I was getting the distinct impression that Tommy Keitel was talking about something else.

  Thirteen

  I opened my eyes. In this small space, the chef’s larger-than-life presence felt even larger. His muscular forearms appeared sculpted in granite. His confident energy was almost palpable. Without even touching me, I felt an unnerving infiltration of my personal space (but then, of course, the man was hand-feeding me with my eyes closed).

  All things considered, I could actually understand why Joy had been so taken with the accomplished chef. He was arrogant, true, but he was intelligent, witty, and extremely magnetic. Unfortunately, he was also completely wrong for my daughter.

  “Chef Keitel—”

  “Call me Tommy, Clare. You’re not one of my line cooks.”

  “Okay, Tommy…I’d like to say something to you that I don’t want you to take badly.”

  Keitel laughed. “What? You don’t like my cheese cave?”

  “Your cheese cave is magnificent. It’s your taste in young women I’m having a problem with.”

  “Oh, is that right?” The chef’s laughing blue eyes suddenly appeared far less amused.

  “Joy mentioned to me that you two haven’t gotten together in a while, and I thought that maybe you were having second thoughts about your relationship with her?”

  Tommy rubbed his jutting chin and studied me for a long, silent moment. “Clare, do you by any chance remember the night you met me? It was at the Beekman Hotel, during that coffee-tasting party last month?”

  “How could I forget?”

  Tommy snorted. “You looked like you wanted to slap me—or strangle me with your bare hands.”

  “What are you? Psychic? That was my exact thought.”

  “I didn’t have to be psychic to know what you were thinking. I could see it in your face—and, to be completely honest, I was shocked at how young your face was.”

  “What?”

  “When Joy told me we’d be meeting her mother at the party, I expected a little old gray-haired lady, like my own mother back in Phoenix. When I saw how young you were, not to mention how attractive, I started to realize just how young Joy was. I know that probably sounds like a monumental cop-out on my part, but…” Tommy shrugged. “After that night I couldn’t quite see her the same way anymore. I actually got to thinking you were more my speed.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “Take it easy. I’m not hitting on you…” He raised an eyebrow. “Not unless you want me to.”

  “I want you to end your affair with Joy.”

  “Is that so?” Tommy leaned back against a wooden shelf and crossed his arms. “Normally I wouldn’t take a directive like that seriously. I wouldn’t even take an order like that from my wife seriously.”

  “Then I feel sorry for you—and your wife.”

  “Well, you don’t know m
y wife, Clare. I’m just a paycheck to her. Not that it’s your business.”

  “I know it’s not. But I am Joy’s mother, and even though she’s a grown woman now, I feel I have a right to protect her from—”

  “Stop.” Tommy held up his hand. “Don’t lecture me. I’ve already made the decision to break it off. So you can save your sanctimonious speech for Joy’s next inappropriate suitor.”

  “Really? You’re going to end the affair?”

  “Really.”

  I closed my eyes with extreme relief. “Thank you, Lord.”

  “You’re welcome, but I already told you to call me Tommy.”

  I opened my eyes. The man was smirking again. “You know, Keitel, you may have the biggest ego of any man I’ve ever met—including my ex-husband. And believe me, that’s not an easy feat.”

  Tommy laughed. “I’m going to take that as a compliment.”

  “Well, it wasn’t meant that way.”

  “How do you think I got here, Clare? By being consumed with self-doubt?”

  I frowned. How could I argue with that?

  “Stop fretting, okay?” he said. “I’m telling Joy today. I actually can’t stand it anymore. She just won’t stop hitting on me. It’s embarrassing.”

  Despite my relief at hearing the end was near, I couldn’t help feeling offended by Keitel’s words. “Listen, mister, you’re talking about my daughter, and—”

  “You’re taking offense. Don’t. She’s a lovely girl. But she’s just that: a girl. I’m not interested in romancing her. I’m way beyond that crap. Frankly, I forgot how needy young women at Joy’s age are. She wants continual reassurance. She wants constant attention. She wants things I can’t begin to give her…so I’m sending her to Anatomy.”

  “What?” My head was spinning with the multiple bull’s-eyes the man was hitting. This guy was way more evolved than I gave him credit for. “Say that again? Where are you sending her?”

  “To Anatomy,” he repeated. “You haven’t heard of Robbie Gray’s three-star downtown?”

  “Yes…of course I’ve heard of the restaurant. It’s just that…Joy’s been so happy working here at Solange. Are you telling me that you’re firing her?”

  “I’m relocating her, that’s all. Robbie’s a good guy and a brilliant chef—not as brilliant as me, you understand.” He gave me a little wink, presumably to take the edge off his unbridled arrogance. “He’ll take over her internship year. I talked to her school an hour ago, told her Vinny’s death was too much of a shock since they were friends. And it’s better for her to relocate. They agreed. I’m going to give her top grades for her work so far. There won’t be any problems.”

  I knew this would be very hard for Joy to take. She wouldn’t get the breaks at Anatomy that she’d gotten under Keitel, but then it wouldn’t be the first time in history that the end of an affair on the job would end the job, as well. It wasn’t the worst thing in the world for Joy to learn that early in her working life.

  “So.” Tommy smiled. “Are you going to slap me now?”

  “No.”

  “Too bad. It might have been a turn-on—for you.”

  I rolled my eyes. “You’re sick, you know that?”

  “I’m just an uninhibited package of self-actualized testosterone. You can’t condemn me for that.”

  “Yes, I can. And, the truth is, I’m relieved that Joy’s leaving your restaurant. For a lot of reasons. You do know that Vincent Buccelli was killed with a knife from your kitchen?”

  “What?” Tommy’s confident mask suddenly fell. He looked genuinely horrified. “I didn’t know that. The police never mentioned it.”

  “They will. My guess is today’s interviews were only the first round. And since we’re being truthful here, I’ll be truthful, too. I only came here today because of Joy. I wanted to get in here to keep an eye on her—more precisely, the people around her. The way Vinny was killed suggests someone with knife skills did the deed. The knife’s handle and blade shape resemble the ones you’ve got here at the restaurant, and I believe someone here at the restaurant killed that boy.”

  Tommy’s eyes narrowed. “Who?”

  “I don’t know. But I’d like to find out. Did you know Vinny was gay?”

  “No.”

  “Did he have any kind of special friendship or relationship with anyone at your restaurant?”

  “The police asked me that, and, frankly, I don’t know…If he was, it wasn’t obvious. He certainly kept it under wraps.”

  “And did you say anything to the police about you and Joy using Vinny’s apartment for sex?”

  “Merde.” Tommy closed his eyes, took a breath. “How do you know about that? Did Joy tell you?”

  I nodded. “But she didn’t tell the police.”

  “I didn’t, either.” He ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “I didn’t think it was smart to give them a reason to look harder at her—or me, frankly.”

  “Should they have?”

  “You think I killed that boy?” Tommy met my eyes and held them. “I’m an ambitious prick, Clare. And I can be cutthroat in my business decisions. But I’m not a murderer…with maybe one exception.” His fists clenched. “When I think of an innocent kid like Vincent Buccelli being stabbed to death, it makes me want to kill whoever did it.”

  Either Tommy was very good at faking honesty, or he was actually being honest with me. In this close proximity, I leaned toward the latter.

  “If you didn’t hurt Vinny, then who did?”

  “I told you, Clare, I don’t know. He was a quiet kid. He didn’t have any close friends here, apart from Joy, or enemies—apart from Brigitte picking on him constantly, which is only one of the reasons I let her go.”

  “There are other reasons?”

  “Brigitte’s back on uppers again. I don’t know which kind, but she knew the conditions of my hiring her. No drugs. She’s using again, so she’s fired.”

  I nodded, knowing Brigitte may or may not have been responsible for Vinny. Either way, I had to consider other possibilities—and fast. Tommy’s patience could run out on me any second in his chilly cave. And I was close to freezing. But now was my best shot at getting some answers.

  “Not to change the subject, Tommy, but is Anton Wright the only owner of Solange?” I had to ask the question, if only to put to rest Mike Quinn’s theory about organized crime being involved with the restaurant.

  Tommy’s brow knitted. He was obviously confused by my question. “Yeah, Wright’s the only money man. Why do you care?”

  “I was just curious.”

  “No, you weren’t.” Tommy’s jutting chin lifted. “I can see it behind those bright green eyes of yours. You have an ulterior motive. What is it? You plan on hitting the man up for backing to open your own restaurant?”

  “No. Nothing like that. I was just wondering if maybe he was involved with some shady partners. My father was a small-time bookie back in PA, so I’m not exactly an innocent about the way organized crime works. I know they can infiltrate legitimate businesses pretty easily, operate around them. Vinny’s violent murder with a knife right out of your kitchen could have been a warning of some kind.”

  “That’s a hell of a leap. You think Vinny was whacked?”

  “It’s a thought.”

  “It’s ridiculous.”

  “So someone from the mob isn’t threatening you or the owner, pressuring you or Anton Wright for more money, a bigger cut?”

  “Listen, Anton’s the son of a Brooklyn butcher. He doesn’t like to admit that, but he grew up just like us. Then he became a stockbroker and made a few million on Wall Street, but it was always his dream to go into the restaurant business. Opening Solange was a big deal for him. It’s the third Manhattan restaurant he’s backed but his only successful one—due to me, of course. There’s nothing more to it than that. Hey, are you shivering?”

  “I’m okay.”

  “No, you’re not. I should get you out of here if you’re col
d.”

  “Is there anyplace else we can be alone to talk?”

  “Not really, but does that matter?”

  “Yes.” I put my hand on his chest, an automatic gesture as he moved to leave. “Just a few more questions—”

  “You sure, Clare? Look at you. You’re covered in goose bumps.” The back of his hand moved to test my cheek. “Your flesh is like ice!”

  “It’s okay. Really. I’m fine.”

  “No, you’re not.” Before I could stop him, he’d stepped close and began to rub his large hands up and down my freezing arms. “How does that feel?”

  I smirked up at the man. “Inappropriate.”

  Tommy laughed. “You really are a pistol, you know that? Too bad I didn’t meet you before your daughter—”

  “Tommy? Are you in there? They said you came down—” The door to the cave cracked open. And so did my world. My daughter stood there with a look of complete devastation on her young face. “Mom?”

  Oh, no.

  “Mom? And Tommy? I don’t believe it.”

  I backed away from my daughter’s lover. “Joy, this isn’t what you think—”

  “Yes it is,” she whispered. “I’m not an idiot.”

  She bolted. I chased her. But her feet were in running shoes, and mine were in high heels. She was up the steps and out that restaurant’s back door faster than Brigitte Rouille.

  I moved as quickly as I could through the shade of the concrete alley. By the time I reached the open sidewalk, the afternoon sun was blinding. I’d spent too much time in Tommy’s dim cellar. It had wrecked my vision.

  I shaded my eyes and searched uptown then down, but bodies of pedestrians obstructed my view. I darted and moved one way then another. But it was no use. I had no idea where my daughter had run.

  “No! I can’t have lost you!”

  Tommy strode up behind me. “Clare, I’m sorry that happened.”

  “You and me both!”

  We stood together on the sidewalk, squinting against the sun’s glare as we spent another minute peering up and down the street.

  “Don’t sweat it, Clare,” Tommy finally said.

  “She’s my daughter, you jerk! Of course I’m going to sweat it!”