by Cleo Coyle
“Oui, merci,” Eric replied, then turned to us. “Would you ladies excuse me a moment?”
Joy and I watched as he moved to that table with a trio of gentlemen.
The men spoke to Eric in French, and he appeared to be as fluent as Joy and my ex-husband. To my surprise, he turned and casually pointed to our table.
Joy and I smiled politely at the nodding gentlemen.
“Pardonnez-moi,” Eric said and came back to retrieve Joy.
With curiosity, I watched as Eric introduced her to the VIPs.
The heavyset older man with apple cheeks turned out to be a sixth-generation vintner from a renowned French family, and the two trim, middle-aged men were equally distinguished. One was France’s Deputy Minister of Tourism and the other editor in chief of the Marquess Guides—the highly respected publications that Eric’s company purchased to roll content into App-itite, his new mobile phone app for foodies.
The quiet dining room had become even quieter, and I realized Joy’s mother wasn’t the only one interested in hearing this conversation.
After the introductions, the Deputy Minister of Tourism asked Joy about her relationship to Les Deux Perroquets. With bubbly enthusiasm, my daughter told the story that Madame had conveyed to both of us many times—how she was related to Bettine, a young woman who’d scandalized her wealthy family back in the nineteenth century by running off to Rome with an Italian painter.
“When the young painter tragically died of influenza, Bettine returned to Paris,” Joy explained in French, “but her family refused to take her back, so she began dancing at the Folies Bergère, where the owner of a nearby brasserie saw her, fell in love, and married her. Bettine kept two pet parrots, a gift from her young Italian lover. Respecting that love, which in its own twisty way led the woman of his dreams to him, the Frenchman renamed his Montmartre brasserie Les Deux Perroquets.”
During the story, the three men nodded and began to smile and exchange pleased glances. Of course, I thought. What Frenchman wouldn’t appreciate such a tale of found love? And what Frenchman wouldn’t appreciate a beautiful young woman telling them the tale—especially one with a French heritage, who had a clear connection to the legend.
Joy herself appeared to have a grand time conveying Madame’s family history—even if it had been scandalous at the time. Eric seemed pleased, too, and I caught him a few times observing me watching my daughter shine.
I admit, my Mother Hen radar was up. There must be a strategic reason Eric is doing this, but what?
Eric spoke again. “Joy is also the daughter of the man who sourced Ambrosia. Her beautiful mother, Clare, roasted it to perfection.”
Eric gestured toward me, and the men shocked me by lightly applauding. (Later, Eric informed me these men had sampled my coffee at this very restaurant last fall—at fifty-five dollars for each rare, imported cup—and raved.)
I smiled in thanks and lifted my wineglass.
Finally, talk turned to the special blend Matt was sourcing, and I realized Eric was subtly pitching these VIPs on our Billionaire Blend. They asked him a few more questions and he turned once more to Joy.
“How would you use your parents’ rare blend in your cooking, do you think, Joy?”
There it is . . .
Eric was asking my daughter for our solution to his assignment, which meant one or more of these men had the power to unlock the door to that Billionaire Potluck.
Forty-nine
JOY understood immediately what was happening, and played her part to perfection, beginning with her inspiration from New York’s Chinatown.
“A chef there had an interesting way of smoking duck with tea—and I’ve always wanted to try it. But I would use a Bresse chicken breast and smoke it using my parents’ special coffee blend, infusing the succulent, French bird with the essences of earthy coffees sourced from the most remote regions on the planet.”
“What then?” the vintner asked, eyes bright. “How would you serve it?”
“To start, shaved thin as a carpaccio with a dollop of crème fraîche, a drizzle of truffle oil, and a garnish of coffee caviar. I’d arrange the slices as petals, a blossoming flower of flavor on the plate.”
The Deputy Minister of Tourism raised an eyebrow. “Did you say coffee caviar?”
“Oui, monsieur . . .” Joy briefly described a technique of molecular gastronomy, which allowed a chef to create tiny spheres of flavor from almost any liquid.
They asked her for more ideas, and she gave them—coffee and cream lunette, little, domed pasta circles with a filling of the same coffee-smoked Bresse breast shredded and tossed in French butter and black truffles. The delicate pillows would then be placed on a mascarpone-based cream sauce and finished with shavings of white truffles . . .
“Interesting use of Bresse chicken,” the vintner said. “But you must promise not to follow your colleague’s example and throw the poor birds back at the farmer!”
Everyone laughed, and Eric was now beaming.
My daughter and I had done what Garth suggested—created dishes around stories. I agreed with the Metis Man on that one: cuisine was lifted by the conversation around it, which made for memorable meals.
“What about dessert?” the editor of the Marquess Guides prompted. “What sweet would you make us, mademoiselle?”
“Coffee gelato, I think, made fresh from my parents’ special blend. I’d use it as the center of a tiny bombe, layer that with crushed hazelnut praline and another layer of mascarpone gelato laced with Ugandan gold vanilla beans—my father told me about those,” she proudly added.
“I’d create a thin espresso-infused sponge cake on the bottom layer and once the tiny layered ball was frozen, I’d finish the outside with a magic mocha shell using Chef Thomas Keller’s famous method—Valrhona chocolate, cold-pressed coconut oil, and my parents’ special coffee blend. I’d also want to emboss the chocolate with a design.” She smiled politely at Eric. “For Mr. Thorner here, I might use a rose with thorns circling the bombe and paint it in using edible gold leaf.”
A hush fell over the table as the group considered Joy’s double reference to a bombe.
Touché, I thought. If Garth can bring up Joy’s explosive past, she can bring up Eric’s . . .
Luckily, Eric saw the humor. (We’d set him up for the perfect punch line.) “It sounds absolutely delightful, Ms. Allegro,” he declared. “As long as your bombe does not go off.”
The table of men burst out laughing, and Joy glanced back at me.
Brava, I mouthed and lifted my glass again.
Finally, all three men glanced at each other. The vintner locked eyes with Eric. “I would very much like to taste this new coffee.”
“I agree,” said the Deputy Minister of Tourism. “And those dishes sound delightful, mademoiselle.”
“I would like to taste them also,” the vintner declared.
“So would I.”
Joy turned to see who had spoken last. It was L’Ambroisie’s own chef. Joy greeted him with a touch of awe, and he invited her to see his kitchen. With a silent glance of elation back at me, she followed him out of the dining room.
When Eric returned to our table, I leaned close.
“Merci,” I whispered.
“No, Clare, thank you,” he softly replied. “You and your daughter sealed the deal. On May first, I’ll be bringing your coffee to my very first Billionaire’s Potluck.”
It was another elaborate setup, of course, another play by a young master player. I was grateful for the time spent with my daughter. Given the events of the past two weeks, however, I was now anxious to question Eric privately.
I tried to enjoy our coffee and dessert, but it wasn’t easy.
I couldn’t stop thinking of Madame and her worry for her old friend; of Nate, the earnest professor, sitting in jail; and of my own Mike Quinn with his dire warning.
More than ever, I needed to know . . .
Is Eric Thorner, the master strategist, also a maste
rmind of murder?
Fifty
THE night had been a grand success and Eric was jubilant. After dropping Joy off at her apartment, Eric told his driver to take us “home,” which turned out to be a charming town house on the Left Bank.
Eric’s butler in Paris, an older man named Hervé, showed me to my room and quickly disappeared. My small suitcase was on the floor, my things unpacked.
I was about to change when I heard a light knocking at the door.
“Care for a nightcap?”
It was Eric, still in his formalwear. He shrugged, smiling like a schoolboy. “I’m still so juiced. I don’t think I can sleep.”
“It was exciting, wasn’t it?”
“It was. Come on, let’s talk in my room—”
“I would like to speak with you, Eric, but not in your bedroom—”
“Clare, it’s a suite with a sitting area. Come . . .”
Now was my chance to question this man, really question him. With the amount of alcohol he’d consumed, I was fairly sure he wouldn’t be able to lie without giving himself away, so I followed Eric down the hall.
True to his word, he fixed me a drink in a comfortable sitting area. If there was a bed, it was beyond one of the three closed doors off this space, which put me at ease.
A fire crackled in the hearth and Eric handed me a snifter of an obscenely delicious Armagnac. I had no doubt the vintage was rare and the price equally obscene.
“To the Billionaire Potluck,” I said, tapping my glass to his.
“Where I’ll debut the most expensive app ever marketed.” Grinning, Eric set his snifter aside and leaned close. “I’ll bet you never heard of the I Am Rich app?”
“You’d win that bet.”
“It’s real, Clare, or it was. The app cost a thousand bucks to download, but had no function at all. Eight people bought it. Some of them complained and it was taken off the market. The whole thing was crazy, but it got me thinking.”
“About scamming people?”
“About an exclusive app for the superrich. A portal to purchase certain high end products that can’t be put on the mass market because of their limited availability. My blue roses. THORN smartphones. The Billionaire Blend—”
“Advertising!” I cried. “That’s why you wanted into the potluck.”
He nodded. “The billionaire app is not something that can be sold in a magazine ad. But the potluck will involve importers, purveyors of specialty foods, vintners, people who will want to be included in the app. Billionaires who own hotels, casinos, and restaurants will hear about the app via that potluck dinner and they’ll want it for themselves, for their managers, their chefs, and sommeliers. Once word gets out, the app becomes a Veblen good—the more expensive and exclusive it is, the more the wealthy and influential will covet it.”
And the more Eric will profit. From the sale of the app, and from a small percentage of cash he will garner from each transaction.
“You made your fortune in mobile gaming. Are you going to give that up?”
“Game apps will have their day, become passé, and pass away,” Eric replied “I want to grow something more permanent, create something my father would have understood and been proud of.”
“You never speak about your parents.”
“My dad was a sweet man. A big Santa Claus to his employees.”
“He owned a chain of regional restaurants, right?”
“Big Billy’s All-Nite Brunch. Twenty-four locations in the Midwest. The menu was comfort food—mac and cheese, meatloaf, roast chicken, spaghetti, twenty-four-hour breakfast.” Eric drained his snifter. “Dad just wanted to make people happy.”
I knew that Eric sold his father’s regional restaurant chain for seed money to launch THORN, Inc. Now I wondered if that end to his family’s legacy haunted him. Or was it something else? Guilt, perhaps . . .
“Before he was arrested, Nate Sumner told me the story of Eva’s bullying, and her death—”
“Did Nate tell you how I changed the game after that poor girl’s suicide? How I gave a million dollars to a nonprofit anti-bullying group?”
“He didn’t.”
“Of course not.” Eric rose and began to pace. “I was devastated, Clare. It was like an ugly nightmare flashback . . .”
“Flashback?”
“With all my physical problems, I was bullied, too.”
“You?”
“I suffered from Scheuermann’s kyphosis. The older I got, the more twisted my spine became. The other kids called me Humpty-Dumpty because they were too ignorant to call me Quasimodo. The way my peers saw it, I was always falling off the wall and being put back together in the operating room. Even my sister joined the chorus.”
“And your parents?”
“Dad did all he could. Spent a fortune on doctors—”
“And your mother?”
“When mother was sober, she looked at me like I was a freak. When she was drunk, she didn’t see me at all. I hated it, Clare.”
“Did you hate Nate Sumner for reminding you?”
Eric snorted. “Nate? No way. That poor old man was framed.”
I blinked, astonished by his answer. “I agree. But who framed him?”
Eric poured another drink. “From that doubtful look on your face, you probably suspect me.”
“You have to admit, it’s ingenious. Framing Nate slows down Solar Flare, an organization that cost you money last year because of their protest against those Pigeon Droppings Tshirts. It also gets rid of Charley, who may have found out things you didn’t want her to know . . .”
“Believe me, Clare, I had nothing to do with any of that. And I can prove to you that I didn’t frame Nate in one sentence.”
“Go for it.”
“I’m paying my company’s law firm to defend him.”
Fifty-one
ERIC informed me that a few hours ago, a judge in New York City denied Nate Sumner bail. The old professor was stuck in Rikers, but Eric’s lawyers were already crafting an appeal.
“If Nate is innocent, who’s guilty in your eyes?” I asked.
“You forget, Clare. My car was supposed to be parked at the server farm when the bomb went off, not in front of your coffeehouse. My servers were the target. Grayson Braddock wanted to shut them down. I don’t think he intended to kill Charley, but that’s how it turned out.”
“You don’t think Braddock set the bomb himself, do you?”
“He was an Outback punk once upon a time, so I wouldn’t put it past him. But Braddock is smarter now, so he no doubt hired someone.”
“Someone who knew how easy it would be to frame Nate? Someone who had access to your schedule and could get into your car without suspicion?”
Eric frowned. “Yes. Which means Occam’s Razor would be the wrong approach to take in this case.”
“Run that by me again.”
“Occam’s Razor dictates that when you hear hoofbeats behind you, you should think horses, not zebras. But what if you’re on the African veldt?”
“I get it. You’re saying the police went for the obvious suspect when they grabbed Nate, because they thought they had physical evidence and a motive—”
“But I believe we’re in Africa, Clare. The hoofbeats we hear are not horses, they’re zebras. And the guilty party has a first name that’s muddled those black-and-white stripes—Gray Braddock. I’m not going to let him get away with murder.”
“Gray didn’t do it without help. It looks like an inside job.”
Eric shook his head. “The officers of my company are the only people with that kind of access. They’ve been with me from our start-up days. They’re like family and I trust them.”
“Garth Hendricks wasn’t around when you were a start-up. How much do you trust the Metis Man?”
“Garth is my mentor, Clare. He became my mentor before we ever met.”
“I don’t understand.”
“My life changed when I read his book. I used his principles
to grow my company. I wouldn’t be here now if it wasn’t for Garth’s teachings.”
“That must be some book. What’s the title?”
“Puncturing the Donut: Thinking Outside the Corporate Pastry Box.”
I laughed. “Garth Hendricks used to be a baker?”
“No, and that’s not funny. The title is a business metaphor. Garth compares corporate cultures by postulating how different organizations might approach the problem of putting holes in donuts.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m not. Garth showed how one company might create the hole before baking. Another company might cut a hole after frying, while a third company might use donut holes to make another product. The problem comes when a corporation builds their philosophy around manufacturing the hole—which, if you think about it, is the creation of nothing.”
“But a very important nothing,” I interjected. “You can’t have a donut without the hole.”
“Now you’re thinking like Garth Hendricks.”
I frowned. “I thought I was making a joke.”
“Garth’s philosophy is no joke,” Eric shot back. “I used his basic tenets to make Pigeon Droppings a hit.”
“When Braddock cornered me at the Source Club, he said you would never share that secret with me.”
“’Why not? I have nothing to hide.”
“Then tell me, Eric.”
“In his book, Garth said that performance is nothing without performance art, and he was right. I launched THORN, Inc., with my college friends, and for a solid year we did the best work we’d ever done to make the best mobile game ever. We went on sale the same day as eleven hundred other apps, just one of the crowd. Sales were modest but steady, but it couldn’t sustain our company for long. I soon realized the performance was over. Now it was time for performance art.”
Eric poured his third Armagnac and rubbed his stiff neck.
“Back in those days, I ate a lot of meals at Dimmy’s, an all-night diner in Bel Air. So did Judd Rogan, the director who made all those raunchy teen comedies ten years ago . . .”
