“Come on, Jules, let’s go to our table,” Sheila said, setting down her glass. “Ignore him. It was just a bit of harmless chitchat. Right?”
Jules grunted and followed Sheila to the table. He still had three courses to endure before his moment of truth, made even more painful by the need to pretend to enjoy the company of the other restaurant owners who were seated at their table and with whom he had no interest in talking to. It was even worse listening to their boring stories.
While the entree of maple glazed duck breast turned out to be delicious, the conversation was not. He was grateful Sheila was a natural mixer at these types of events. She made small talk and laughed along with the best of them, including Jules, asking nothing of him but a nod when she asked, “Isn’t that right, honey?”
It was after 10:00 p.m. when the award ceremony started and more than an hour later when the final award, Restaurant of The Year, was announced. Even though he had his speech written out on a piece of paper in his pocket, and had checked several times to make sure that it was still there, Jules knew it by heart, and was running through it in his head. He’d rehearsed it many times in the mirror at home, right down to the facial expressions, including a couple of moody poses he’d picked up from watching Johnny Depp movies. It wasn’t the first time Jules wondered if Johnny would be available in the future to star in the movie of Jules’ life, the best of which he was confident was yet to come.
What happened next was such a shock that afterwards, Jules could only remember it as a series of flashbacks. The look on Sheila’s face when the winner was called…a roar of applause…so many eyes on him, then looking away…a tall, slim man with a mustache walking up to the stage…laughter as the man on the stage called Jules’ name, while holding the award high in the air in triumph.
Jules clutched his head, feeling the onset of a migraine that he knew would last several days. His vision was blurred, the rush in his ears distorting the cacophony of sounds that were bombarding him from all directions. He wanted to cover his ears and run out of there, but that was impossible. He forced himself to clap, and smile, and even raise a glass for Le Bijou Bistro, who took home the top prize of the night. And he vowed right then and there that one way or the other, he would bring that restaurant down once and for all.
The bad publicity his competitor would endure from the death of a patron would be insurmountable, and probably result in it being closed down. And who better to kill than a high-profile diner, the foodie darling of the moment, Cassie Roberts? Bertrand had said himself she would be dining at Le Bijou Bistro on Wednesday of next week.
As far as Jules was concerned, it would be her last supper. He hoped she enjoyed it. Too bad she wouldn’t be around to write about it.
CHAPTER 9
It was shortly before noon when Jake and Al arrived at Le Bijou Bistro. Al didn’t want to go up on the passenger deck during the ferry crossing from Bainbridge Island, and Jake didn’t push it. DeeDee had mentioned to him once that she thought Al didn’t seem comfortable on the ferry, and if he had some kind of problem with it, Jake didn’t want to embarrass him. Instead, they spent the ride over to Seattle sitting in the car talking about the Seahawks, and the new players who would be playing for them in the fall.
Jake called Rob a couple of times to see if his assistant had any news for them yet, but he wasn’t able to get connected. The cell phone signal was intermittent on the ferry, and the chances of having a telephone conversation without it breaking up were slim to none. He decided to call him again when they reached Seattle.
“Ima gonna’ park here,” Al said, slowing his Maserati Levante and pulling into a no parking zone near the restaurant. “We ain’t got no time to waste.”
“You good for the parking ticket coming your way, Al?”
Al grinned. “That’s how I roll, Jake. Why don’tcha take a look in the glove compartment?”
Jake opened the glove compartment, and an avalanche of parking tickets fell out. Jake scratched his head. “Interesting,” he muttered, stuffing them back in. It seemed as though Al liked to live dangerously in everything he did. Jake didn’t want to point out that four or more unpaid parking tickets would result in the car getting the Scofflaw Boot, which was a wheel locking device that immobilized vehicles until all of the outstanding tickets had been paid, along with an additional fine of $145.
Al must have been reading his mind. “Frienda’ mine works for the city. Let’s jes’ leave it at that, okay?”
Jake turned to him with a blank look on his face. “What was that you were saying? Don’t think I caught it, Al.”
Al was already climbing out of the car. “Yer’ learnin’ Jake. C’mon, let’s go.”
Jake caught up to where Al was striding down the street toward the dark red painted exterior of the restaurant on the corner where they’d dined the previous evening. Al banged on the door, which was locked from the inside, although they could see the staff through the windows.
“Open up,” he bellowed, while his fist continued to rattle the door.
Inside Le Bijou Bistro, several heads turned, and a man approached the entrance dressed in a black waistcoat and pants, with a white shirt and black bow-tie. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, and he was carrying a clipboard. Jake recognized him as the maitre’d from the night before.
“We open at midday, sir,” The maitre’d said through the door, making no attempt to open it. He pointed to the sign hanging against the glass. “Please, come back then.”
Al clasped his hands together, stretching out his arms until his fingers made a loud, sharp click. Jake saw the maitre’d wince, indicating that the sound had also reached him. Al’s voice was low and menacing. “Ima gonna’ ask you again, sir, to please open the door. This is matter of grave urgency.”
Al reached inside his jacket, and Jake held his breath while he waited for Al to produce his gun. It wasn’t something Jake would have recommended in broad daylight, and he looked around to see if anyone else had noticed them. The only other people in the street were quickly walking to wherever they were going, minding their own business, and not paying any attention to Al and Jake. Jake exhaled a sigh of relief when instead of a weapon, Al produced a wad of cash, which he held up for a moment before the maitre’d stepped closer, turned the lock of the door, and held it open for them.
“Monsieurs, please come in.”
Al went in first, pressing the cash into the man’s hand, followed by Jake. The maitre’d secreted the cash with a sleight of hand that came from years of accepting discreet tips. He could not have been more charming as he lifted two menus, and beckoned them to follow him. “Please, this way, gentlemen,” he said, heading for a table by the window.
“Keep walkin’,” Al instructed him, “down towards the back, outta view from people goin’ by.” They walked the length of the bar, where the bartender stood polishing glasses in anticipation of a busy lunch crowd, and then past several waiters setting tables with gleaming silverware. When they reached the back corner near the kitchen, Al spoke again. “Sit,” he ordered them both. Al sat beside the maitre’d, and Jake sat opposite them. Al’s back was to the wall, giving him a clear view of the empty restaurant. He removed his sunglasses, folding them carefully on the table, and squinted at the maitre’d. “What’s yer’ name?”
“Pierre, sir,” the man replied. He held out two menus, and his voice cracked. “Will you be eating with us today?”
Jake shook his head, and reached for the menus, setting them down. The cooking aromas of the dishes being prepared in the kitchen were tempting, but the only thing on his and Al’s menu was solving Megan Reilly’s murder. “We were hoping to ask you a few questions, Pierre,” Jake began, “about the incident at the restaurant last night. My friend here is concerned that the woman who was murdered was sitting at the table originally reserved for his wife and him. Understandably, that causes him a great deal of distress.”
Pierre shrugged his shoulders and raised his palms in the air. “I k
now nothing of any murder, monsieur. It was a very sad case of a woman who choked on her food. It happens rarely, but we are not the only restaurant where such a tragedy has occurred. Our sympathies are with the family, but I assure you there was no foul play involved at Le Bijou Bistro last night.”
Al cracked his knuckles which immediately commanded Pierre’s attention. Then he began to move his jaw from side to side, the sound of his teeth grinding making Pierre shrink back. “Why don’tcha think a little harder, Pierre? When we was leavin’, I overheard the waiters whisperin’ in French somethin’ ‘bout a murder. Ima pretty good à la Française, you see.” Al looked over at Jake and winked. “Remind me to tell ya ‘bout my stint in the French Foreign Legion some time.”
Al and Jake both turned to Pierre, who was shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “Take yer’ time, Pierre,” Al said, folding his arms. “We ain’t goin’ nowhere. We got all day. But here’s a tip from Uncle Al. Why don’tcha jes’ get it off yer’ chest, and we’ll be outta’ yer’ way? I guess ya’ll have customers arrivin’ fer lunch soon. Yer’ call, my friend.”
Jake admired how relaxed Al was in this kind of situation. He was speaking to Pierre as casually as if he were inquiring about the price of apples at Whole Foods Market. Not for the first time, Jake wondered about the pace of Al’s previous life in the Mafia. It must have been frenetic if a conversation like this didn’t cause him to skip a beat.
Pierre sighed heavily. His voice was low when he began talking. “I know nothing for sure. Only that a cake was delivered yesterday afternoon with instructions it was to be a surprise for the couple dining at Table 12. The person who delivered it was insistent it should be served to both diners for dessert, even if they ordered something else.”
Al frowned. “Both diners, ya’ say? Did the man at Table 12, Mr. Robertson I think was his name, also have some of the cake?”
“Non, monsieur.” Pierre’s head moved from side to side. “When the cake was served, the man said he wasn’t big on chocolate, but the lady accepted. A waiter who was taking an order at the next table witnessed the whole thing. He told me he didn’t think the lady choked. The way he described it to me, it was more like she couldn’t breathe and went into a seizure after a couple of bites.”
“Let me see if I’ve got this right,” Jake said. “You said the cake wasn’t made here, and that it was delivered from somewhere else. Is that right?”
“Oui, monsieur.”
Al drummed his fingers on the table. “Let’s cut to the chase. Where did the cake come from, and what sorta’ joint accepts random cake deliveries with instructions who they should go to, without checkin’?”
Pierre looked haughtily at Al and said, “Monsieur, we are not the cake police. It happens quite often that a special cake is delivered for a customer. The supplier was one of our regulars, a reputable local company called Creative Cakes. I understand it was a new delivery driver, but that is not so unusual either. Mr. Robertson and his companion were also celebrating a special event last night, so it was an innocent mistake.”
“They ain’t celebratin’ now,” Al said, his face grim. “That poor Robertson guy must be goin’ out of his mind.” He turned to Jake. “We gotta’ find him, and tell him we’re gonna’ help get to the bottom of this.”
“I’m already working on that,” Jake confirmed. “I have his telephone number, and I’m planning on calling him later. Pierre, you’ve been a big help, thank you. Is there anything else you think we should know?”
“Know about what?” A tall, slim man with a mustache appeared at the end of the table. He nodded at Pierre. “That will be all, Pierre. I’m sure you have work to do.”
Pierre excused himself and rose from the table, hurrying off.
“Gentlemen. My name is Bertrand Christolhomme. I’m the owner of Le Bijou Bistro. How may I help you?”
Jake extended his hand. “Jake Rogers. I’m a private investigator helping with the investigation into the death of Megan Reilly, the woman who died here last night.” He motioned to Al, who was eyeing Bertrand. “This is a friend of mine, Al De Duco. It’s possible Al and his wife were the intended victims.”
Bertrand’s eyes narrowed. “Are you sure no one else sent you?” He shook hands with Jake and Al in turn, before slumping into the seat Pierre had vacated.
Al grunted. “Sure we’re sure. Who else d’ya think mighta’ sent us?”
“It’s probably just me being paranoid,” Bertrand said, looking around to see if anyone could hear him. “This incident is going to cost me dearly. There’s already been a leak saying the coroner’s preliminary findings are that the woman was poisoned. You can imagine what terrible publicity that is for my business. The phone hasn’t stopped ringing with cancellations all morning. I thought that weasel Moreau might have sent you, looking for more dirt so he can leak it to the press. He’s going to be milking this to his advantage, I have no doubt of that.”
“Do you mean Jules Moreau?” Jake said. “The guy who owns Frogities? I saw the Food Spy review of his place a while back in The Seattle Times. There was a quote from him saying he was expecting to win the Restaurant of the Year award. The reason I remembered it was because it seemed like a very arrogant thing to say. In fact, it made me never want to go there.”
Bertrand smiled tightly. “Yes, that’s him. I saw him last week at The Edgewater, when Le Bijou Bistro picked up the very award he thought Frogities would be taking home. He acted like he was gracious in defeat, but believe me, I know he’s out to even the score. He’s already poached my best wait staff and chefs. If there’s any way he can use this to twist the knife in more, he will. He won’t rest until my restaurant is closed down, and I’m bankrupt.”
Al exchanged a look with Jake. “Ya’ think he hates ya’ enough to murder someone in yer’ restaurant so as to discredit it?”
Bertrand rubbed his unshaven chin. “It’s hard to imagine anyone’s mind works that way, but yes, I guess it’s possible.”
Al stood up, and Jake followed his lead. Al slapped Bertrand on the back. “Thanks fer your help, monsieur. Ima thinkin’ we need to pay Mr. Moreau a little visit.”
They nodded at Pierre on the way out, who didn’t make eye contact with either of them.
When they were outside, Al turned to Jake and said, “Yer’ thinkin’ what I’m thinkin,’ right?”
Jake nodded. “Yep. Let’s add Moreau to the list of suspects. I’ll cover him and Creative Cakes. How about you call Rob and see about the others?”
Al walked rapidly towards his car. “Got it. Let’s make sure our ladies are safe first. Coupla’ other people I need to check on as well. Looks like whoever sent that cake was quite happy to kill both me an’ Cassie. I gotta’ call Harry, for protection.”
“Who’s Harry?”
“An ol’ buddy of mine,” Al said. “Full name’s Harry the Hatchet.”
Jake wished he hadn’t’ asked.
“One more thing, Jake. It jes’ occurred to me that Cassie wrote in one of her columns that she always asked to be seated at Table No. 12 when she visited a restaurant, cuz’ she’s been told that’s where the restaurant seats ‘portant guests. I overheard her request Table No. 12 when she made the reservations at Le Bijou Bistro.”
“Al, that’s doesn’t sound good.”
“I know.”
CHAPTER 10
Al stared at the view across Elliott Bay and Puget Sound from Cassie and his penthouse suite at The Four Seasons Hotel. Apart from the occasional spider in the bathtub, he couldn’t fault the place, but he was definitely looking forward to when the home they’d bought on Bainbridge Island would be ready for them to move in. The bullet-proof windows and state-of-the-art security system were going to be installed shortly, and the moving company was on standby.
Cassie had talked a lot about buying a sailboat, but so far, Al had been able to stall her. Before that happened, he had to get over his fear of water, or it would be like throwing money down the drain. Given the way he
felt right now, there was no way he’d get on a small sailboat. He could live with an expanse of water at the end of his new garden, but going on a boat for fun was beyond his comprehension, and it wasn’t even for fishing.
Since it meant so much to Cassie, he’d agreed to her suggestion to attend a series of hypnotherapy sessions for his aquaphobia. Privately, he thought some of Cassie’s ideas about new-age therapies were just a bunch of mumbo-jumbo, and he suspected the hypnotherapist was bound to be an overpriced quack. But feeling about Cassie as he did, if she asked him to jump off a mountain without a parachute in a leap of faith, he knew he’d do it. However, he’d made her promise she wouldn’t start waving healing crystals around. That was where he drew the line.
Al just wanted to find out who had murdered Megan Reilly, so he could eliminate whoever was gunning for him and Cassie, if in fact someone was, and get on with what he was hoping would be a long and happy married life. If the last few months since he’d met Cassie were any indication, they had a rosy future ahead.
He pressed in Rob’s number on his phone. “Yo Rob, it’s Al De Duco. Whaddya’ got fer me?”
“Hey, Al, good to hear from you. I’ve been waiting for your call. I’ve got some pretty interesting stuff.”
Al paced up and down by the windows, impatient for Rob to get to the point. “Shoot, man, and don’t leave nothin’ out.”
“I won’t,” Rob began. “First off, as to the restaurants Cassie wrote about, you know, the ones that she gave bad reviews to in her Food Spy column.”
“Yeah?”
“They all say business has never been better. It appears there’s truth in the old saying that there’s no such thing as bad publicity. All of them are reporting an upturn in reservations since Cassie reviewed them. They’re calling it The Food Spy Factor.”
Al grunted. “Even the place where the Seafood Surprise was frozen in the middle? I’m tellin’ ya’ we didn’t expect that. They’re lucky Cassie didn’t get sick after eating there, or I woulda’…er, I dunno’, I woulda’ hadda’ take some serious action.”
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