“How long has it been like this?” I asked, pointing at the door.
“They started showing up at nine,” he said. “Just been getting louder and louder since then.”
“Is it at capacity yet?” There had to be rules about how many people were allowed in the courtroom.
He unclasped his hands and looked at the round clicker he held. “We can take three more people after you.” He shot me a look. “You are going in, aren’t you? Please don’t make me reset the clicker, Rebecca. Dan’ll kill me if I screw up the numbers on this one.”
I really didn’t want to go in. I hadn’t wanted to go at all, but Cynthia had made it clear that my attendance was mandatory. “We need to have a show of support for Antoine. The crew will be there in the front two rows with you as well,” she’d said.
“I’m going in. I just need to brace myself.” I shut my eyes and took a couple of deep breaths. First I thought about the lighthouse and the lake and the way the light played across them in different seasons, but then I remembered Antoine standing in front of the lighthouse claiming to have saved me from a killer and I felt my blood pressure rise. Instead I thought about my kitchen at POPS. I imagined the blue walls and the big wooden table. I listened for the sound of caramel sauce bubbling on the stove and smelled the aroma of coffee brewing. I focused on the way Coco Pop Fudge melted on my tongue. Then I opened my eyes and smiled at Raymond.
“Went to your happy place, did you?” He smiled. “Mine’s a beach.”
“Kitchen for me,” I said.
“Makes sense.” Then he blew out a deep breath and went back to staring straight ahead, probably mentally picturing warm sand and blue water.
I pulled the door open again and walked in with my head held high. I sailed down to the front row and sat down next to Lucy. Next to her was Brooke, with Jason on the other side of her.
Cynthia was over at the table for the prosecution chatting with the assistant district attorney. “What is she doing?” I whispered to Lucy.
“Honestly? I think she’s engaging in some kind of psychological warfare. That woman’s a little scary.” Lucy shivered.
“I think scary’s what Antoine needs right now. By the way, where is he?” I looked around the courtroom.
“They haven’t brought him in yet,” Brooke said.
He was probably changing into the clothing that I brought for him. He’d given me his hotel room key and I’d gone through his things to pick out his courtroom clothing. Cynthia had said to go sophisticated, but not snobby. I had ended up picking out a blue sweater that brought out his eyes, a pair of gray slacks and a pair of shoes that were shined to a high gloss.
I knew the second he walked in. I felt the change in the air. I saw the women reporters sit up taller. A few of them licked their lips. I turned around. I had maybe done a little too good of a job picking out his clothes. The sweater and slacks hung a little loose on him, but otherwise he looked like the picture of French sophistication and elegance. The bailiff led him to the table and he sat.
Lucy leaned forward and put her hand on his shoulder. He patted it and she began to cry.
“Lucy, are you all right?” Antoine reached into his pocket and frowned. I knew immediately what I’d forgotten. A handkerchief. Antoine always carried one. He shot me a look.
I scrounged some tissues from my purse and handed them to Lucy.
“Thanks,” she said between sniffles. “It’s just . . . it’s been so many days since I’ve seen you. I’m so relieved you’re all right.”
“Calm yourself. It will all be fine.” Antoine patted her hand and then turned to me and rolled his eyes.
Back in the day, I’d respond to an eye roll from Antoine by intervening somehow, creating a buffer between him and whoever was irritating him. I wasn’t intervening this time. She was his crew and he was on his own. I didn’t have time to tell him that because Judge Romero walked into the courtroom at that moment. All the sudden it was All rise and all that. Then Judge Romero took the bench.
He was an imposing man. Tall and broad-shouldered, but with a little extra weight on him as well. The mark of a man who enjoyed what was set before him at the table. Not gluttonous. Just appreciative. He had thick black hair, a well-trimmed beard and expressive bushy eyebrows. He took a moment and looked around the courtroom.
“I’d like to make some things clear before we get started,” he said. “I will not tolerate disruption in my courtroom. I have a zero-tolerance policy. That means one outburst, you’re out. One flash goes off, you’re out. One cell phone rings.” He paused and looked around the room like someone might be stupid enough to answer him. No one was. “That’s right. You’re out.”
He shifted in his seat and looked down at Antoine. “One last thing I’d like to say before we get started. Monsieur Belanger, I am a great admirer of your books, your show and your products. We use your vinaigrette all the time in our house. Exquisite. That does not mean, however, that you will be receiving special treatment in this courtroom. As much as it would pain me to lock up the man who taught me to emulsify a mayonnaise, I will do it if that is what the law dictates. Understood?”
“Oui, Your Honor,” Antoine said.
I started to giggle, but Romero glared at me and I settled down. Antoine knew exactly when to start speaking French and when to stick exclusively to English. It was another weapon in his arsenal that he used to subtly manipulate people into doing exactly what he wanted them to do. Judge Romero was the first official I’d heard him speak to in French since this whole debacle had begun. It was a subtle appeal to the man’s snobbery and had been deftly done.
Romero banged his gavel twice and Cynthia and Ron Ramsey, assistant district attorney, leapt to their feet. Ron was, well, a white guy. A middle-aged white guy in a suit with a tie. He was a little on the thin side. I didn’t think he was a good eater. “Are you ready, Counselors?”
In unison, they said, “Yes, Your Honor.”
“Excellent.” Judge Romero cocked his head to one side. “And how do you plead, Monsieur Belanger?”
Cynthia said, “Monsieur Belanger pleads not guilty, Your Honor.” Her voice was silky smooth. “In fact, we have before you a motion to dismiss. There is no concrete evidence linking Monsieur Belanger to the crime and there are a number of promising leads the police have not followed up on. He should never have been arrested in the first place.”
“And yet,” Romero said, “here we are.”
“Yes. We are here, but you could change all that, Judge.” Cynthia smiled. “You could dismiss this disaster of a case.”
Judge Romero looked through some papers on his desk that I assumed were the motion Cynthia mentioned. Then he looked up and said, “No.”
“Your Honor,” she began.
“No,” he repeated. “Do not irritate me this early in the proceedings.”
Cynthia quieted.
He nodded. “Now as to bail . . .”
Ramsey leapt in. “Judge Romero, Mr. Belanger has substantial funds and property in other countries. He is nearly the definition of a flight risk. Given the seriousness of the crime of which he’s accused—”
Romero waved his hand to cut him off. “I know. I know. I expected these arguments.” He rubbed his chin. “I’m afraid I cannot release your client on bail, Ms. Harlen. Mr. Ramsey is correct. He is a flight risk. He shall be held in custody until the time of his trial. Care to set a date for that, Counselors?”
There was an extended negotiation on dates and times, with Antoine’s trial date being set for two months from now. Antoine gasped when he heard the date. Cynthia dropped one hand to his shoulder and he stilled. “That will be fine, Your Honor.”
Judge Romero rapped his gavel twice and stood. The bailiff made all of us stand. Then the judge left the room.
“That’s it?” I asked Cynthia. “That’s the whole thing?”
“I don’t know. A reason for you to want us all there, I guess.” It hardly seemed worth it.
“Oh, you thought that was for the judge.” She smiled. “That was for them.” She gestured toward the mass of reporters and cameras and microphones.
I stared at her. “For the press? You wanted us here as a photo op?”
“Of course. You think this case is going to be tried in a courtroom? Don’t be naïve, Rebecca. This case is being tried in the court of public opinion and we are winning. I want to keep it that way.” She flashed a brilliant smile at one of the photographers.
I cringed. I wasn’t so impressed with the court of public opinion. It had had me in its spotlight not too long ago and it had thought I was guilty. I didn’t trust public opinion’s judgment one bit.
Eight
That afternoon, Sprocket and I drove into Cleveland to pick up supplies. Grand Lake is great, but there’s no one who can get me the quantities of butter I need at a price I can pay without choking, so once a month or so I drive in to shop at the big warehouse store. With all the increased business at POPS, I needed to make the trip earlier than I’d intended. Plus, sometimes it’s good to get out of town. The constant buzz from the reporters in front of the store and the chanting from the Belanger Bunnies had all started to get to me.
I clicked on the local talk radio station as I came into range and listened to a local poet read and talk about the book launch party she would be having at a bookstore that weekend. I wondered if she needed a caterer. It was a good poem. It would be even better with popcorn. The segment ended and the host announced she would be going to commercial, but to stay tuned because celebrity chef Sunny Coronado would be on next.
I almost drove my Jeep off the road. Sunny was here? In Ohio? How many tirades had I listened to about Sunny Coronado? How many plates had been flung against the wall as his name was spit into the air? Sunny Coronado was Antoine’s nemesis. I know it sounds ridiculous to say that someone has a nemesis. Somehow it conjures up pictures of well-muscled men and women in spandex suits with stuff blowing up around them. Trust me, if Antoine could have blown up Sunny Coronado’s kitchen and gotten away with it, that man’s Viking would have been blown to smithereens years ago.
I listened to the interview as I drove the rest of the way. Sunny was starting a new line of spice mixes. There would be a Mexican-themed mix, a French-themed mix, and an Italian one to start. The radio host asked, “Will you be doing an English-themed mix?”
Sunny laughed and said, “No need. Just boil whatever you’re cooking until it’s dead.”
You really can’t go wrong with a joke about the Brits’ cooking or their teeth.
This was one of the reasons Antoine hated Sunny as much as he did. Sunny made people smile. Antoine tended to make people swoon. It’s also a good reaction, but not the same reaction. Antoine wanted all the reactions, all to himself.
Sunny was, in many ways, Antoine’s total opposite. Short and round where Antoine was tall and lean. Sunny always seemed to be a little bit sweaty and doughy. Antoine was quintessentially cool and calm.
One would think that Sunny would be the jealous one. One would expect that Sunny would be the one wishing he were more like Antoine rather than the other way around.
One would be wrong.
Sunny exuded a certain joie de vivre, an unconditional embrace of everything that life had to offer. Antoine was all about discernment and taste. Sunny’s messy haphazard approach in the kitchen, on his television show, in his cookbooks drove him crazy.
Now Sunny was branching into creating products like Antoine had. That was going to go over like a cake with a burned bottom. One more thing was bothering me. What the heck was Sunny Coronado doing in Ohio of all places?
* * *
When I got back to Grand Lake, I dropped off my butter at the shop and went over to the jail. Huerta took me back to see Antoine. The weight he’d lost was even more apparent in his orange jumpsuit than it had been in the courtroom. “Have you been eating?”
“I wish I could.” He sounded morose.
Antoine was not one of those people who stopped eating during times of stress. Of course, I didn’t think I’d ever seen him under this much stress. The fate of a television show might seem like big stakes, but it’s nothing compared to fighting to keep yourself out of jail for life. “You need to relax and eat. Have you tried yoga? Deep breathing? Visualization?”
“I do not need to relax, Rebecca. I need something edible. Do you know what they served me for lunch today?” He shuddered.
I shook my head. I didn’t know, but I had a bad feeling.
“Bologna! Bologna sandwich! On white bread. With that horrid orange cheese your country claims so proudly. It tasted as if they had left the plastic wrapping on! And whatever that substance was that they said was mayonnaise.” For a second I thought Antoine might actually be sick talking about Miracle Whip.
“I’ll bring you something.” The words were out of my mouth before I thought about what I was saying.
He reached across the table to take my hand. “Oh, would you? Nothing elaborate. But maybe a slice of that fabulous quiche you used to make? The one with the leeks?”
I knew which one. “Of course.”
“And perhaps a salad with a nice vinaigrette.” He rubbed his thumb over the back of my hand.
I steeled myself against the little shivers his touch was sending through me. I didn’t want to feel those, but after ten years of marriage he knew all too well how to cause them. “Sure.” I pulled my hand out from his.
“Can one get a decent baguette here?” he asked, looking thoughtful.
Can one get a decent baguette anywhere outside of France? Honestly, not really, according to Antoine. “Sadly, no. There are some good breads, but no baguettes that you would like.”
He sighed. “I suppose no cheese, either.”
“No. There’s some good cheese. That I can bring.” There was even some decent Brie coming out of Millersburg.
“And yet nothing to eat it on. Dommage.” He shook his head.
I knew where this was going and I wasn’t going to rise to the bait. I was not baking bread for my imprisoned ex-husband. There were lines. “No,” I said. “You can eat cheese on a cracker or not at all.”
He made the same face he’d made about the Miracle Whip. “Not at all, then.”
“Do you need anything else? Some books?” I asked.
He shook his head. “No. The magazines, the shaving cream and the deck of cards you dropped off earlier should suffice for a time.”
“What magazines and cards?”
“Someone left them at the front desk in a box with my name on it. The desk sergeant brought them to me after they’d been examined. You didn’t bring them?” He frowned.
“No. I didn’t.” I shrugged. “Probably one of the Bunnies.”
He nodded. “Of course. That makes sense.”
“By the way, did you know that Sunny Coronado is in Cleveland getting ready to launch a new line of spice mixes?”
“Sunny Coronado is here? In Ohio?” Antoine sat up so abruptly his chains jangled.
“Uh, yeah. That’s what I just said.” Jail time had taken away Antoine’s appetite. Had it taken away his hearing, too? “He’s launching a new line of spice mixes.”
“Rebecca,” he said, reaching across the table as best he could to take my hands. “You need to find out what Sunny is doing here. It is very important.”
“Why?”
“Please. Just believe me. He should not be here. Something is not right.” He looked down at his hands. “If I were Sunny, I would be anywhere but near here at this moment.”
“Antoine, what’s going on?”
He sho
ok his head. “No. Never mind. Forget I said anything. Please, just bring me some of that lovely quiche before they kill every taste bud I have in my mouth.”
I didn’t push him any further, but the idea of asking me to pretend that he hadn’t said anything was as ridiculous as asking his ex-wife to bake bread for him.
* * *
It wasn’t hard to find information about Sunny on the computer. I checked his travel schedule. The trip to Cleveland seemed out of place. Dario walked in as I was looking. He leaned over my shoulder. “Is that Sunny Coronado?”
“Sure is.” I wasn’t surprised that Dario recognized him. Sunny was almost as famous as Antoine. Almost, but not quite. Until this new venture into spice mixes, he hadn’t had any product lines. So no giant cardboard cutouts in the grocery stores, no commercials on television, no advertisements in magazines or newspapers or on websites or blogs. This move could be the step that put giant cardboard cutouts of him in grocery stores all over the country and his name on the lips of every even vaguely foodie-type in the country.
“Aren’t he and your ex kind of like the East Coast/West Coast feud of the cooking world?” Dario sat on the edge of my desk, head cocked to one side.
“Basically. Sunny’s in Cleveland right now. It seems like a weird coincidence.” Or perhaps no coincidence at all.
“Mmhmm.” Dario straightened. “No one likes weird coincidences once the popo get involved, now do they? You think this has something to do with your man?”
“First of all, Antoine is not my man.” I really was getting tired of explaining that. I was wondering if I should start carrying my divorce papers around with me. “Second, do you think that’s crazy?”
Dario looked off into space for a second. “Yeah. I do, but I think any murder is probably pretty crazy. What do you think his connection with the chick who got offed might be?”
Pop Goes the Murder Page 12
