Joe’s cell phone buzzed, and he glanced down at the caller ID. Wu Hsiang, his boss, was Face Timing him from his base in Vancouver, British Columbia.
“I need to take this,” he said to Tom, turning to the large flat screen television on the wall and pressing a button on a small remote-control handset. Wu’s face appeared on the screen.
“I’ll keep you informed of any updates,” Tom said, flouncing out with a backward wave, Giggy wriggling under his arm.
Joe focused his attention on Wu, whose wrinkled skin had the texture of crinkled, waxed paper, making him appear older than his sixty-something years. As the head of China Create Group, Wu split his time between his two families—the one with his wife in China, and the other with his mistress and younger children in Vancouver. Joe knew Wu was just one of the huge wealthy Chinese population there who bought eye-poppingly expensive homes for their mistresses. In Wu’s case, the property for his mistress had cost eleven million dollars.
“What’s going on down there?” Wu snapped. “Why didn’t you call me at the usual time? I expect you to be punctual, or else to let me know in advance if you need to move our daily catch-up slot. I was late for my golf game, waiting for your call that never came.”
“Sorry boss, I was sidelined by Carlucci without any notice,” Joe said, moving closer to the large screen. “He’s been raising the issue of a buyout again. I told him you wouldn’t hear of it.”
“Darn right I won’t.” Wu glared at him. “I blame you, by the way.”
Of course you do, Joe said inwardly to himself, his pulse quickening. It’s always my fault.
“Why’s that?” he asked.
“You’re the company representative in Seattle. It’s your job to deal with problems, and I’m telling you, Mario Carlucci is one big problem. The reason Mario wants out is because you two can’t get along. You’re the one who set up this deal, so I expect you to make sure it runs smoothly. If Mario continues with this buyout nonsense and gets his guys to look at the books, we could have some explaining to do.”
Joe stared back at the screen, glad of the distance between Wu, whose nostrils were flaring, and him. Wu paid him well, but Joe’s job wasn’t easy. Keeping Wu happy was a lot harder than dealing with Mario.
“Of course, I’ll deal with it,” Joe said. “What did you have in mind?”
“How typical. No initiative of your own.” Wu rolled his eyes. “The only way to get to Carlucci is in a language he understands, threats and violence, Joe. Do you think you can do that?”
Joe balled his fists, ready to put one of them through the screen where Wu’s sarcastic face was displayed. Instead, he twisted his expression into a smile as Wu described how he wanted Joe to anonymously send a note to Mario or a member of his family telling them they would regret it if Mario pursued the buyout.
“Sure,” Joe said when Wu was done ranting at him. “I can arrange that. Carlucci’s got it coming. And I’ll have great pleasure in giving it to him. Leave it to me.”
CHAPTER 7
“Is there anyone I should know about who’s coming in tonight?”
Gaspard Chastain, Executive Chef of the prestigious Canlis restaurant in Seattle, waited for the manager, Katie, to check that evening’s reservations on her iPad. Before service began, Gaspard liked to know if any important patrons would be in the restaurant that night and if they had any special requirements. Fine cuisine came as standard for all guests, with an added personal touch from Gaspard for regulars or high-profile visitors. Otherwise, the head chef did the cooking, with Gaspard only getting his hands dirty for very good customers of the restaurant.
Katie’s finger scrolled down the reservations on the screen. “Mr. Carlucci and his wife have a reservation at 9:00 p.m., table 3. Oh, and Senator Ringwood is bringing five guests in at 7:00 p.m. He’s asked for privacy so we’ve screened off the back section, tables 12 and 14.”
Like many restaurants, there was no Table 13, since it was considered unlucky. Gaspard, a man of superstition, was the owner of a rabbit’s foot key chain, and a firm believer in throwing spilled salt over his left shoulder with his right hand. He always walked clear of ladders.
A flicker of interest crossed Gaspard’s face. “Are the Carluccis dining alone, or are they bringing guests?”
“It’s just the two of them tonight,” Katie said, scrolling on down the list.
“Fine, let me know when they’re done, and I’ll come out and say hello to them after their meal.”
Katie left, leaving Gaspard deep in thought. A couple of months earlier, he had met Maureen Knight in the restaurant when she was having dinner with Mario and his new wife, who was Maureen’s sister, Kitten. The delectable Maureen had not strayed from his thoughts since.
It wasn’t often a woman captured Gaspard’s attention, but Maureen was like no other woman he’d met. On the night they’d been introduced, her laughter at something being said at the table was the first thing that caught his attention, even before he’d seen her face.
“Chef Chastain, this is my sister-in-law, Maureen Knight,” Mario had said, standing up to introduce her when Gaspard approached. From the moment she turned around to greet him, Gaspard was transfixed. Maureen may not have been as pretty as her sister, but to Gaspard, she radiated a beauty that transcended the traditional rules of aesthetic perfection. Her nose was a little too big, and her teeth weren’t perfectly aligned. Both quirks in her appearance endeared her to Gaspard all the more. Her dazzling green eyes, rapturous smile, voluptuous figure, and the sound of her husky laugh made his world light up the moment he laid eyes on her.
Gaspard continued to drink in every inch of her delicious form as Mario sang her praises. “Maureen’s enjoying the high life in one of the condominiums at the Waterfront Palace. Kitten loves having her living nearby, isn’t that right, sweetie?”
Kitten nodded, while Maureen eyed Gaspard. A handsome man, he was used to attention from female guests in the restaurant, and instinctively knew when a woman was interested in him. Maureen was harder to read than most, but not for long. “My sister and I have a lot of fun when Mario’s working, but it gets lonely for a divorcée like me, all by myself at night.”
She fluttered her eyelashes, and Gaspard swallowed hard. He had to tear his gaze away while mumbling something about being needed back in the kitchen. Once there, he inwardly chastised himself for not having said something smart, funny, or at least charming, when he’d had the opportunity to do so.
You bumbling idiot, he said to himself. You can’t let this woman get away. There’s something about her, a unique quality, that’s special.
He remedied matters as best he could by sending a bottle of the finest champagne to their table along with a special dessert that was not on the menu, a key lime cheesecake. The following day, he sent roses to Maureen at the Waterfront Palace, and when she called the restaurant to thank him, he asked her out for lunch. They started seeing each other after that, giving the Frenchman a joy for life he hadn’t known in a long while.
While his attraction to her had been instant, within a short time Maureen had carved a place in his heart in a way no other woman had been able to do, and he’d known many who had tried.
He remembered looking over at her on a sunny afternoon drive in the countryside in his Aston Martin convertible. Maureen’s hair was blowing behind her in the wind, and as usual, she was laughing about something. In that moment, she’d taken his breath away, and the image was forever etched in his mind.
“What is it? Why are you looking at me like that?” she’d giggled, leaning over to stroke his arm. “I think you should pull over now. I really want to kiss you, and if you’re driving, we might crash.”
“As much as I would love to stop the car and do just that, we’re not a couple of teenagers,” he scolded her, a smile spreading across his face all the same. “Can you wait until we get back to your place?”
“Fine,” she huffed, but not for long, and soon was joking around with him again i
n the affectionate manner he loved.
Meeting Maureen couldn’t have come at a better time for Gaspard, whose recent bipolar diagnosis explained the years of depression he had experienced, interspersed with periods of unbridled joy. In recent weeks, medicated and optimistic about the future, Gaspard had even considered settling down. He wondered if at sixty, finally, he had met the woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. Maureen was an independent spirit, not clingy, and not always available when he wanted to see her, which only caused him to desire her all the more. Which was why, when she’d suddenly stopped returning his calls, he had been at first hurt, confused, and then humiliated.
He wondered if Kitten could shed any light on the matter, and patiently clock-watched until after 10:00 p.m. when Katie popped her head around the kitchen door. “Table 3 has been cleared away,” she said. “The Carluccis? They’re ready to order dessert.”
It was a smiling Gaspard who made his way from the kitchen and across the dining room to where Mario and Kitten were sitting by the window, deep in conversation. No one watching would ever have guessed that knots were churning in his stomach, such was his craving for news of Maureen.
“Mario, Kitten,” he said smoothly, reaching out to shake Mario’s hand. “I hope everything was to your satisfaction?”
Mario chuckled. “Superb, as always.” He lifted his glass. “The wine’s going down wonderfully, isn’t it, darling?”
Gaspard turned to Kitten, who was eyeing her husband with amusement. “Can I tempt you with a dessert?” he asked. “I have something I think you would enjoy.” He lowered his voice. “It’s not on the menu. For special customers only.”
Kitten looked up and gave him a gleaming white smile. “I’ll have to pass, unless it’s your key lime cheesecake, and if it is, I might be tempted.”
Gaspard gave her a solemn wink. “Let me see what I can do. No Maureen tonight? I do hope your sister is well. I’ve been trying to call her, but it seems we keep missing each other.” Although his statement was truthful, it was apparent to him that Maureen was avoiding him. He hoped against hope that he was wrong.
If Kitten knew the facts, she showed no sign of it. Instead, she raised her glass to her lips and took a sip of wine. “Oh, Maureen’s the same as ever,” she said, setting her glass back down. “You know, hard to keep track of. I swear, I can’t keep up with what she’s doing, or with whom. She’s a very busy little lady.”
Gaspard could feel the tension in his gut rising. His chest began to tighten. He didn’t know the precise nature of what Kitten was referring to, but he had his suspicions. The first time he suspected Maureen was seeing other men was over breakfast one morning after they’d spent the night together at her condo.
“Your phone keeps beeping.” Gaspard was exasperated by the pinging sound interrupting their conversation every couple of minutes. “Aren’t you going to see who it is?”
Maureen had shrugged and turned the phone to silent, slipping it coyly into her purse. “It’s such a nuisance. I have a dentist’s appointment later today. They must be texting me to confirm it.”
Something about the way her face had flushed made Gaspard suspect she wasn’t telling him the truth. She kept her phone out of sight after that, and the one time he’d sneaked a look at it when she was in the bathroom, it was switched off. They had never directly discussed whether either of them was seeing other people, but Gaspard suspected he wasn’t the only person keeping Maureen company at night. Kitten’s words were still ringing in his ears when he realized Mario was speaking to him.
“Chef? About the party next week at the Waterfront Palace. I believe my designer, Briana Roberts, has been in touch with you, right?”
In a daze, Gaspard nodded. The catering booking for the party had been made some time earlier. He’d been looking forward to it, because he knew Maureen would be there, and her condo was conveniently located downstairs for a nightcap. Now, he wasn’t so sure about attending at all.
“Of course,” he said to Mario, while inwardly wondering if there was any way he could get out of it. He might be able to get one of the other chefs to take over. “I’ll be speaking to Briana to finalize the details. It will be perfect, of that I can assure you.” With a half-bow, Gaspard strode back to the kitchen, on the premise of checking whether there was any key lime cheesecake.
*****
“This pot is filthy and you people are animals,” Gaspard yelled once he was behind the swinging kitchen doors. He ran his finger along a row of shelving, before raising it to his eyes and inspecting it at close quarters with a sneer. “The kitchen is to be deep-cleaned, tonight. Floors, wall tiles, the lot.”
A sous-chef spoke up. “But, Chef we cleaned yest…”
“No buts. I don’t care if it takes you until morning. Do I make myself clear?”
The kitchen staff moved out of Gaspard’s way as he pulled out pots and pans and piled them beside the kitchen porter’s plate and pot wash area. The walk-in refrigerator was his next port of call, ranting as he checked dates on stock items, even though it had been done that morning. By the time he left Canlis a couple of hours later, two waitresses were crying, the kitchen porter had threatened to quit, and a sack of flour had been spilled on the pantry floor, the white dust causing everything to be cleaned from scratch once again.
Gaspard stormed out, jumped in his Aston Martin and sped away. The thought of Maureen cheating on him with another man was too much for his ego to bear. He berated himself for having ignored the signs that were there all along, his anger disguising the fact his heart was also a little bit broken.
No one has ever done anything like this to me, he thought to himself. I am the top chef in Seattle and the world. I teach workshops for three months each summer in France, and they are always filled a year in advance. Does she not know how important I am?
He drove for miles, not looking at signposts or paying any attention to the time. The gas in the tank was low when he turned and headed for home, the seeds of a plan having formed in his mind. Disregarding the dull ache in his chest from Maureen’s cruel treatment, the worst blow was to his pride.
To have a woman not answer my calls and reject me like I am nothing—how dare she? What if people find out she rejected me? I will be the laughingstock of the restaurant scene.
The party Gaspard had been so looking forward to at the Waterfront Palace was weighing heavily on his mind. He’d been excited about seeing Maureen, but now the thought of her attending, possibly with another man, was intolerable. Somewhere along the drive he convinced himself if something really, really bad was to happen to her that night, no one would ever suspect him as being the murderer.
Not a soul in the United States knew his father taught him how to hunt when he was a boy or that he became a crack shot over the years. He’d always thought the United States had it right about their gun laws, and he owned several of them. What was even better was that he would be leaving for France shortly after the big party for his annual hunting trip and food workshops.
When he returned back to his home he smiled to himself, locked his car, and let himself into his condominium in West Seattle. Sometimes, the answer appears when the listener is ready, he told himself, remembering his horoscope from that morning’s newspaper, which he checked daily without fail before leaving for work. It had said something about a person appearing enticing, but to consider all the options before deciding on a course of action. He was sure it was some kind of karma and that the stars had aligned.
When he got to France he would go see his astrologist and see what she had to say, but of course he wouldn’t tell her what he had done before leaving Seattle. If she saw it in his chart, well, maybe he’d tell her that once in a while the charts could be wrong.
CHAPTER 8
A uniformed doorman met Cassie and Al when they arrived at the Waterfront Palace and escorted them to the door of the private elevator to the penthouse. From there, it was a quick and smooth ride to the twenty-fifth floor, whe
re the party was in full swing.
“Nice pad,” Al commented as they stood in the wide-open hallway that stretched the width of the building with floor-to-ceiling glass on either side. Overlooking Elliott Bay, the condo had an unobstructed view of Mount Rainier, all of downtown Seattle, and the Olympic Mountains. Docked below was a cruise ship destined for Alaska. Al accepted a brochure from the hostess.
“We could probably do with a place to live when we come to the city,” he said, looking around. “That was a good idea of ours to come tonight.”
Cassie eyed Al with unconcealed mirth. “That’s high praise coming from the man who calls The Four Seasons Hotel a home away from home. Let’s take a look around.”
They each took a drink from a tray held aloft by a passing server, a whiskey for Al, and a glass of wine for Cassie, and along with many of the other guests who were milling around, took their time exploring the vast residence. The hallway led to a great room styled with sleek modern furnishings, off of which was a state-of-the-art commercial size kitchen and a large dining area. Another corridor led to three bedrooms and three baths. The master suite had a waterfront view and walk in closet. A study and laundry room completed the floor plan.
As they were walking around, Cassie overheard some of the other guests complimenting the interior styling. “Who’s the designer?” a young woman said to her partner, flipping through the brochure. “I wonder if they do private commissions.”
Cassie turned around to the couple. “I hope you don’t mind me eavesdropping, but the designer is my daughter, Briana Roberts,” she said. “She should be here somewhere. I’ll ask her to speak with you.”
“Please do, we’d love to meet her,” the woman beamed. “We’re in the market for a couple of rental properties, and this is the nicest we’ve seen by a mile. You must be very proud of her.”
Murder at the Waterfront: A Northwest Cozy Mystery (Northwest Cozy Mystery Series Book 7) Page 5
