I don’t know what shocked me more: Klara’s derogatory comments about Joel or her absence of shame about cheating on her husband. I couldn’t help but look at Sean to see his response to Klara’s statement, but his gaze was fixed on the duplicitous chef.
“Wait a minute,” Klara said, and I turned back to her. She frowned at me and then her eyes narrowed. “You’re trying to trap me into saying something incriminating, aren’t you?” I opened my mouth to protest but she held up her hand, palm out. “Please, I’ve seen enough cop shows to know how it goes. I had nothing—nothing—to do with Joel’s death.” Scraping back her chair, she grabbed her purse and stood up.
“Ms. Patrick,” Sean interjected in a calm but commanding voice. “Please.” He gestured toward her, indicating that she remain at the table. “We are not accusing you. Or anyone, for that matter. I am merely gathering information so I can get to the bottom of Mr. Lang’s murder. I am sure you want that as much as I do.”
She slowly lowered herself to her seat. I didn’t know what I could say that would undo the damage I’d done during the conversation, but felt I should try to make amends.
“I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression, Klara. I didn’t mean anything. I was just trying to be sensitive to your . . . relationship with Bryce.” I held out my hand in an offer to shake. “Will you accept my apology?”
She stared at me for less than a second, but it was long enough for me to understand that she was reassessing my motives. Then she nodded and clasped my fingers, almost immediately letting go again. “It’s ridiculous to think that I would have set that explosion,” she said. “If I were ever going to murder someone, I certainly wouldn’t do it by blowing up a kitchen.” Placing her hands over her heart in a dramatic gesture, she cried, “All that beautiful equipment!” She shook her head vigorously. “If you want my opinion, you should look more closely at Maurice. He had some serious issues with Joel, although I wouldn’t think he’d have the guts to do something as drastic as murder him. Or maybe Leslie Sterling. That woman is extremely competitive and vindictive. I could tell you stories about how she’s denigrated other chefs—including Joel—that would make your toes curl. Have you interviewed her yet?”
“Why don’t you enlighten us?” Sean encouraged her.
Klara sat back in her chair, tapping her nails on the table while she considered. As she was about to speak, Ryan reappeared behind her chair. His shadow fell across the table, blocking the sun. “Here she is,” Ryan said, putting his hands on her shoulders and kissing the top of her head. “Sweetheart, look who I bumped into at the Arts Center.”
As Sean and I got to our feet, a young man and woman stepped out from behind Ryan. They were clearly twins, and obviously Ryan’s children, as they both had his tall physique, dark hair, and square chin.
“Darling.” Klara rose to peck Ryan on the cheek. Her transformation was astonishing. She was once again the loving wife, as if she hadn’t declared to us a few minutes ago that she was glad her affair with Bryce was in the open. She reached out her arms to embrace the twins. “Carter. Carrie. How was the train ride?”
They stepped back, obviously trying to avoid contact with her, and neither of them responded to her question. Ryan directed his attention to Sean and me. “Ms. Wilkins, Officer Griffiths, these are my kids, Carter and Carrie.”
The young man stepped forward. “Pleased to meet you, sir.” He shook hands with Sean and nodded his head at me. “Ma’am.”
Carrie just raised her hand in a little wave hello.
“Wow, you guys look just like your dad,” I said. Ryan beamed, and Carrie rolled her eyes. I had to smile. Her reaction was so much like Trey’s would have been. “I bet people tell you that all the time, don’t they?” I added. “I have a son close to your age. Are you in college?”
Carrie nodded. “I’m a senior at NYU.”
“And Carter has just been accepted into law school,” Ryan boasted. “My kids have done me proud.”
“Yes, aren’t they wonderful!” Klara gushed.
“You must be proud of your parents, too,” I said to Carrie and Carter. “Considering all they’ve accomplished in the culinary world. I’m Lila Wilkins, the coordinator for the Books and Cooks festival. Your mother’s been taking the town by storm.”
“She’s not our mother,” Carrie corrected indignantly.
Ryan leaned toward his daughter. “Carrie, watch your manners,” he whispered.
“Dad married Klara after we were already grown,” Carter explained in a gentler tone. And though he gave me a little smile, I didn’t miss the fleeting glance of disgust he directed toward his stepmother.
“You were only thirteen!” Klara exclaimed. “That’s hardly grown.”
Carrie’s face flushed. “And you were hardly a mother. All you cared about was your precious career. We might as well have been invisible.”
“Invisible?” Klara seemed unfazed by Carrie’s insults. “You were impossible little hooligans who’d been allowed to run wild for far too long. I could have been a whole lot worse.”
“Klara, let’s not get into that here. Those times are in the past.” Ryan was making an obvious attempt to keep his voice even. “And this is not the place.”
Carrie pointed her finger at her stepmother. “The famous chef Klara. You only married my father because you needed his culinary skills.”
Carter snorted. “Guess that’s better than marrying him for his money.”
“Kids, knock it off.” Ryan’s tone had a dangerous edge to it that I hadn’t heard before.
“Sorry, Dad.” Carter spoke the words, but his eyes didn’t reflect an ounce of genuine regret. “I’m going inside to use the restroom.”
Carrie grabbed Carter’s sleeve. “Wait up. I’ll come with you.”
When the twins had gone into the pub, Ryan turned to Sean and me and shrugged. “Families,” he said, shaking his head. “Sorry about that, but kids will be kids, no matter how old they get. You’d think since mine are in their twenties, they’d act more mature . . .” He trailed off and entwined his fingers with Klara’s. “You okay, hon?”
“Of course.” She pulled her hand back. “I’m fine.”
I glanced at Sean. The Patrick family dynamics had added another element of disquiet to this relaxed setting.
Sean clapped Ryan on the back in a show of solidarity. “Consider the incident forgotten. Children can be difficult at any age.” He nudged me. “Can’t they, Ms. Wilkins?”
I nodded, remembering the challenging time I’d had with Trey at the end of his senior year in high school. “Even when their parents would like to believe they’re perfect.” I smiled.
“Ms. Patrick.” Sean indicated the chairs. “Let’s continue our conversation. You were about to enlighten me about Ms. Sterling.”
Ryan put his hand on Klara’s arm. “I apologize, Officer Griffiths, but Klara has a panel to get to. Can she do this later?”
I checked my watch. “Ryan’s right. Klara and I both need to go, but we can meet again after the panel.”
Sean didn’t have a chance to respond for Carter and Carrie reappeared at the entrance to the patio section, arguing heatedly. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but I could see by their furrowed brows, abrupt gestures, and hostile glares that they weren’t having a friendly conversation.
“What now?” Ryan ran a hand through his hair.
“Do something with them,” Klara demanded, putting on her sunglasses. “They’re going to make a scene. What if members of the press are here?”
Ryan hurried forward and Klara, Sean, and I followed. After all, there was only one exit through the pub and I was in a rush to get to the panel on time, too.
“I’m not moving until I tell the cop what I have to say,” Carrie told her brother as she crossed her arms over her chest. I could tell by the defiant jut of her chin that she meant what she said.
Carter threw out his hands in a show of defeat and Ryan glanced at his children in confusio
n. “What are you talking about, Carrie?”
“We heard about what happened to Joel Lang. There was a reporter on our train and he told us everything. Even how the poor guy died.” Her eyes flashing with anger, she gave Klara a withering stare. “I bet you did it. I bet you’d do anything to keep the truth from getting out.”
I turned to see Klara’s reaction to this incriminating statement and noticed that Sean was studying her intently as well. The skin of her face had gone pale, but I couldn’t see her eyes beneath her sunglasses. She was gripping her cell phone so tightly that her knuckles were white and her chest seemed to be rising and falling more rapidly. But most of these physical tells only lasted a few seconds. Klara quickly recovered her poise and laughed derisively. “What drama are you stirring up now, Carrie?” she asked in a cool, haughty voice. “You’re always searching for your father’s attention in such juvenile ways.”
I couldn’t tear my gaze away from Klara’s hand. She’d yet to release her iron clasp on her cell phone. No matter what she said, Klara Patrick was furious. Or scared. Or both.
Carrie smiled smugly while Carter stood behind her, looking pained. “I’m talking about your affair with Bryce St. John. Carter and I know all about it, and we came to tell Daddy so he could get rid of you once and for all.”
Klara began to protest but Carrie cut her off. Addressing Sean, she said, “Klara was always badmouthing this Joel Lang guy. You should find out if he was about to spill the beans like I just did. My precious stepmother would have had to shut him up. She’s nothing without my dad and she knows it. And he doesn’t know about her fling. Not until now.” She pointed at Klara, her expression one of raw hatred. “Take her in for questioning, Officer Griffiths. Hopefully, there’s a reporter nearby who can snap a picture of the famous Chef Klara being led away in shame.” She shifted her focus back to her stepmother. “There’s no such thing as bad press, right, Klara? You’ll probably sell out of cookbooks. People love it when a celebrity takes a fall.”
Ryan looked from Carrie to Klara, clearly too stunned to speak. When he finally found his tongue, his words came out as a sorrowful rasp. “Is it true, Klara? Is this true?”
The pain in his voice was terrible to hear. He had spoken softly, almost tenderly, and I wished he could be spared from the hurtful truth, but it wasn’t my place to intervene. This was between Ryan and his wife.
But Klara ignored him completely. With a little toss of her head she said, “I have a panel to attend,” and pushed past Carrie and Carter. She disappeared into the pub, leaving the rest of us standing in shocked silence. And in that moment, the flower-scented patio lost its charm. No amount of birdsong or sunlight could erase the shadow that had just fallen over us.
Chapter 8
STILL IN SHOCK, I RAN ALL THE WAY TO THE ARTS CENTER and only paused on the steps for a minute to catch my breath. As I entered the lobby, Jude grabbed my arm. “It’s about time you arrived. All the panelists are here except Klara. Do you know where she is?”
“Right behind me,” I said. “But I suspect she’ll be a little late.” I hurriedly told him what had happened at the pub.
“Such drama,” Jude remarked when I was finished. “Klara’s life is straight out of a novel. Perhaps she’ll pen a tell-all instead of a cookbook.”
I wasn’t as amused as he was by this notion and I was certain that Ryan wouldn’t be either. However, there was no time to brood over the Patricks’ marriage, so I followed Jude to the panel room. Right before we entered, I ran my fingers through my hair and straightened my skirt. “Do I look all right?”
“You look fabulous, as always.” He reached forward to reposition a lock of my hair.
I stepped back. “Don’t, Jude.” As charming as he could be, there were times when I didn’t welcome his invading my personal space.
“What? It was sticking up.” His smile was all innocence. “Let’s go.”
The room was buzzing with conversation, and it seemed that every chair had been taken. Jude and I made our way to the front where the panelists sat behind a long table, their books on stands in front of them. As I greeted my two cozy author clients, the food critic, and the other chefs, Klara came rushing up to the table and took her place beside Bryce St. John. I retrieved my index cards from my purse and settled into my seat.
Taking a moment to scan the audience, I saw Klara’s assistants, Annie and Dennis, in the front row. Beside them, Charlene Jacques was talking to Franklin. I was delighted to see my mother sitting near the back with Makayla. My mother was waving frantically and grinning from ear to ear. I wiggled my fingers at her and my friend, wishing I had arrived earlier so I could have chatted with them.
“May we have your attention, please?” Jude tapped his microphone. The hubbub quieted. “Welcome to our panel, ‘Killer Tales From the Kitchen,’ where we will explore the joys and challenges of writing about food,” he began. “Our illustrious panelists have a range of expertise and I’m sure you’ll come away from this event having been entertained and educated. I’m Jude Hudson, an agent at Novel Idea, the company sponsoring this event. And at the other end of the table is my lovely co-moderator and fellow agent, Lila Wilkins.”
I smiled at the audience and raised the microphone. “Good afternoon. Can you all hear me okay?” At the many nods and yeses, I carried on. “We are going to have so much fun this afternoon. Sitting before you are mystery authors, celebrated chefs, and a renowned food critic. Every one of these individuals writes about food from a different perspective. Let me introduce them. Directly beside me is Lizzie Abbot, author of the Vegetarian Murders mystery series. Her latest book, Tofu Terror, was just released. Lizzie, when I read your books and come upon a passage containing food, I almost want to become a vegetarian. How do you do that?”
Lizzie straightened and held her book in front of her. She was tall and thin, with long, strawberry blond hair. “Thank you, Lila. Well, when my protagonist, Andrea, makes a dish, it is always something I’ve prepared and enjoyed myself. I’ll often go through much trial and error to come up with a satisfying flavor, so I know the dishes intimately. When I describe them in my writing, I use my personal experience to express the joy I felt when I feasted on the dish.”
“That’s certainly reflected in your writing, Lizzie. Continuing on—”
“Sorry to interrupt.” Lizzie leaned forward toward the audience. “I just want to say that, contrary to the title of my latest book, tofu is a wonderful food. So versatile.”
“Thank you, Lizzie. I’ve never actually made anything with tofu before, but I will definitely consider trying it now.” As the audience chuckled, I smiled and indicated the woman sitting beside Lizzie. “Our next panelist is Judith Alain. She’s a cozy mystery author whose first book in the Delectable Desserts mystery series, Killer Sweets, was just released. Judith, your main character, Karen, seems to be an expert when it comes to desserts. Does that come from research or experience?”
Judith grinned widely. Slightly overweight, she wore a stylish multicolored sweater that brightened her face and emphasized her sea blue eyes. “A bit of both, I guess,” she replied. “But mostly experience. My mother was a Cordon Bleu–certified pastry chef, and even from a young age, I would be at her side as she created exquisite dishes. I learned a great deal from her, especially when it comes to appreciating quality ingredients and pure, rich flavors.” She smiled sadly. “My mom died a couple of years ago, and I think I wrote the Delectable Desserts series to honor her. My character Karen is a lot like her.”
“What a wonderful way to pay homage to your mother, Judith,” I said. A few members of the audience clapped. Looking over at them, I noticed Sean at the back of the room, standing beside Ryan Patrick.
Ryan looked like a specter. His face was gray with shock, and his eyes were dark and haunted. He stood with his arms pinned to his side, his shoulders slumped and his expression one of absolute dejection. I felt a rush of sympathy for Klara’s husband, but all I could do was offer him a compassi
onate smile before turning my attention back to the panel.
“Next to Judith is renowned food critic Doug Corby, whose book A Foodie’s Diary was on the New York Times bestseller list for several weeks. Doug, you have very high standards when it comes to food and those standards are reflected in your reviews. Do you find it difficult to criticize a chef’s work, knowing that they’ve put their heart and soul into their craft?”
I couldn’t help but feel that Doug’s pointy, ferret-like features reflected the personality that came through in his writing. He twirled his pencil-thin mustache. “Not at all. I write truthfully about what I taste, and I have no trouble whatsoever with being honest.”
“But you have a lot of trouble understanding good taste,” Klara sputtered as she rose from her chair. Both Bryce and Jude took an arm and persuaded her to sit back down. Bryce whispered something to her, and I couldn’t help but watch Ryan as his wife immediately responded to her lover. His face was a mask of anger and humiliation, and his hands had coiled into tight fists. Sean gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder, as if to say, “I feel your pain. Hang in there, man.”
Gazing around, I knew I needed to return the focus to Doug. “I believe you ruffled some feathers in the culinary world with your book, and you’ve probably made some enemies over the course of your career. Does that bother you?”
Doug grinned. “I love it when chefs hate what I write. Listen up people: Food is ambrosia and should be treated with respect. If I see that it’s not, I will call the erring chef to task.” He leaned his head toward the other end of the table. “Even you, Klara.”
Klara glowered at him, but Jude had a firm hand on her arm. The audience tittered animatedly.
“This should generate some interesting discussion,” I said. “But first, let’s introduce the rest of the panel. Next to Doug, we have the lovely television chef and author Leslie Sterling. Her latest cookbook is called Over the Top. Leslie, you’ve received criticism that your food is too rich and too expensive for the average cook. What is your response to that?”
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