French Pressed

by Cleo Coyle

  “Okay…” I said, my voice sounding a little shaky. I paused to drown my dread with more coffee. “Then what happened next? How did you get through Vinny’s front door and into his apartment?”

  “Easy.” Joy shrugged. “I had a key.”

  “A key?” Matt said, surprised. “Why did you have a key? Were you sleeping with Vinny, too?”

  It was an unsavory question to ask your own daughter: Was she cheating on her married lover with her gay best friend? Matt managed it without blinking an eye.

  “I wasn’t seeing Vinny on the side,” Joy said. “Vinny had no interest in me as anything but a friend—I guess now everybody knows why.”

  Matt blinked. “Oh.”

  “I mean, Vin was a quiet guy, but he was really cool and really talented. He gave me this impression that he liked someone back in Ohio, and that’s why he wasn’t seeing anyone here. Maybe that was true, or maybe it was just a line he gave everyone. Maybe he just wanted to keep his private life private.”

  “So why did you have a key to Vinny’s apartment?” I asked.

  “Because sometimes me and Tommy…” Joy scratched her head, looked away.

  “What?” Matt pressed.

  “This is just too weird to tell you guys.” Joy shook her head, started to walk out of the kitchen.

  “Honey, please.” Matt stood up, caught her arm. “You need to remember we’re on your side.”

  “We are.” I nodded. “And you do need to tell us everything, Joy.”

  After studying the floor for almost a minute, she finally admitted, “Tommy and I…we were sort of using Vinny’s place. You know, romantically.”

  Oh, Lord. That word again. I rubbed my temples, feeling a headache coming on. “How often?” I whispered.

  “A few times a week, in the beginning. There’s this wholesale cheese importer just around the corner, Newton’s Fresh Market, and Tommy took me there my first week working at Solange. Tommy’s really into cheese, and he thought it would be a real education for me to visit one of the places that imports it for him.”

  A real education? Right. I tried not to visibly cringe.

  “It was great. We had a lot of fun tasting these amazing European cheeses. Tommy was flirting with me, and…Well, I had the key to Vinny’s place because whenever he visits his family in Ohio, I feed his fish and water his plants. So I suggested to Tommy that we go around the corner and use Vin’s apartment to…you know…”

  Joy shrugged. She still hadn’t looked Matt or me in the face. Matt sat down again, exchanged glances with me. My ex-husband appeared to be as surprised as I was.

  “Joy, did we hear you right?” I asked. “Are you telling us that you’re the one who suggested taking Tommy’s flirtation to the next level? Tommy wasn’t the one to seduce you?”

  Joy shifted her feet, obviously uncomfortable. “You have to understand…I’ve been really into Tommy for a long time…” Her gaze moved from the floor to the window to the ceiling, anywhere but on us. “Ever since I read his book two years ago, I thought he was amazing. And then he taught a class at my school, and I totally wanted to work for him. But what really blew me away was when he flirted with me my first day on the job. Tommy never touched me or sexually harassed me or anything like that. He just gave me this amazing private tour of Solange’s wine cellar and cheese cave—”

  “Cheese cave?” Matt interrupted.

  Joy nodded. “Tommy’s really proud of his cheese plates. He changes the choices every week, and he picks the selections out personally. The cave’s just this small refrigerated room in the basement, where the temperature is constant. Anyway, we got in there, and he started feeding me cheese and joking with me. He was totally flirting. After that, just being around him was a high for me. I couldn’t stop thinking about him.”

  “But Tommy never actually suggested sleeping together?” I pressed. “You did?”

  “Oh, Mom, stop looking at me like you’re so disappointed in me! I know you are! And I hate that you are…And, the truth is…I’m disappointed in me, too.” Joy rubbed her eyes, let out a weary sigh. “I know it was wrong, throwing myself at a married man like that, not to mention my boss. I know it was wrong, okay?”

  “Joy, honey,” I said softly, “it’s not too late to end it.”

  “You just don’t understand what it feels like, Mom!” Joy threw up her hands. “Tommy Keitel wanting me?! Tommy Keitel! I couldn’t believe it! I still can’t!”

  Matt glanced at me. “Did I miss something?” he whispered. “When did young women start treating chefs like rock stars and ballplayers?”

  “Give it up, Matt. You’re old.”

  Matt grunted.

  I focused on my daughter again. As wrong as Joy was in her actions, I knew how incredibly easy it must have been for her to fall for a man like Keitel. An infatuation burned bright as the sun at Joy’s age. It blinded you to everything else. Tommy, on the other hand, was older and presumably wiser. If I could get him to see that what he was doing wasn’t fair to Joy (not to mention his wife), maybe he’d act like a grown-up and end the affair.

  Of course, I knew my grown daughter’s love life was none of my business. But as Joy’s mother, I believed my daughter’s happiness and well-being were very much my business. If I could privately persuade Keitel to cut Joy loose, at least one ugly aspect to this catastrophic mess would be over. As far as the other aspect, that was going to be much trickier.

  “Let’s get back to Vinny,” I said. “Did he know that you and Tommy were using his place for sex?”

  “Not the first time, but I told him about it right after. He said it was okay with him if we used his apartment, as long as I left the place clean and stuff.”

  “And when was the last time you and Tommy used it?”

  Joy frowned so deeply I thought she might cry. “The last time was the afternoon of Uncle Ric’s decaf coffee–tasting party at the Beekman Hotel—you remember, Mom, that’s when I introduced you to Tommy for the first time? Ever since then, Tommy said he was just too busy. He keeps saying, ‘We’ll do it again soon’…but we haven’t done it since…”

  Good. “Okay, so it’s been about a month since you and Tommy were there together.” I nodded, thinking through the forensics. “From what I saw, Vincent Buccelli kept his apartment spotlessly clean. A lot of the fingerprints and DNA were probably already washed away. But you did unlock the door last night, Joy, which means your fingerprints are on the knob, right?”

  She nodded silently.

  “And the key?” I asked.

  “Lieutenant Salinas confiscated it.”

  “More evidence,” I said, sighing. I went back to massaging my temples. Joy turned around and started cleaning the dishes. Matt drank his coffee in silence. Finally, another question occurred to my ex-husband—a good one.

  “Joy, did you tell Lieutenant Salinas about you and Tommy using Vinny’s place for sex?”

  “No, Dad.” Joy stopped cleaning and turned around. “All I told Salinas was that I had a key to water Vinny’s plants and feed his fish. I didn’t mention Tommy at all. I didn’t see any point in bringing his name into it.”

  “But Tommy may mention it when the police interview him,” I pointed out. “That’s not good, Joy. It’ll make it look like you held back information, which you did.”

  “It was my private business!”

  “That’s not how Salinas will see it.”

  “But—”

  “How about the murder weapon?” I asked, hoping she might be able to recall whether she’d seen it before. “Did you get a good look at it?”

  “No. I just couldn’t…” Joy closed her eyes, hugged her stomach. “I couldn’t look at Vinny long enough. Not after seeing him in all that blood.”

  “Well, I took a long look at Vinny’s corpse and the weapon that killed him.” I glanced at Matt. “It was a ten-inch chef’s knife.”

  Matt blew out air.

  Joy nodded, opened her eyes. “I overheard you talking about that
to the lieutenant.”

  “You weren’t by any chance carrying your Shun Elite last night, were you?”

  “No way, Mom.” Joy shook her head. “I keep the Shun in my locker at Solange, along with the rest of my knives.”

  “Good.” I’d saved up for months to buy that knife. It was probably the finest in the world: hand-forged and machine-edged by a Japanese manufacturer in Seki City, Japan, the samurai sword–making center for over 700 years. Maybe it was a venal concern, but I would have hated to find out my special Christmas present to my daughter had been confiscated by Salinas, too.

  “Believe me, Mom, if the police found a knife on me last night, I would have been booked for murder already. Anyway, what about the knife? Was it one of Vinny’s, do you think?”

  “The police say no. They checked his kit and said all his knives were in it. I can tell you that the knife that killed Vinny had a silver handle—”

  “Then it’s not Vinny’s, for sure,” Joy said. “Vinny liked the feel of German-made knives because they have a curved edge for economy of motion. He used Henckels, and they all have wooden handles. My Shun’s like that, too.”

  I searched my own memory. Though most of the blade was embedded inside that poor kid’s corpse, I saw enough of it to know the sharpened edge was flat, not curved. I asked Joy about it.

  “If it’s flat, then it’s a French-made knife,” she said, “like the ones at Solange. Tommy had those knives made special in Thiers; that’s the knife-making center of France. They all have flat edges and silver handles, like the one Brigitte almost used on me last—” Joy froze. “You don’t think Brigitte really did it, do you?”

  “It’s possible,” I said. “You know I’ve already given the woman’s name to Lieutenant Salinas.”

  Joy nodded. “I gave him Brigitte’s name, too, Mom. And that’s what I’m afraid of.”

  Matt spoke up. “What do you mean, muffin? What are you afraid of?”

  “Dad, if Brigitte is guilty, and the police don’t nail her, she’ll know I accused her—and then there’ll be real hell to pay in Tommy’s kitchen.”

  I glanced unhappily at Matt. He was scowling.

  “Joy,” he said firmly, “I want you to quit.”

  “Quit?!” Joy violently shook her head. “No way! My internship’s going well—and it’s not because Tommy’s given me a break or two. I’ve worked my butt off in that kitchen!” Joy’s face reddened with fury as she loomed over her seated father. “I was at the top of my class in school! That’s how I got the chance to work for Tommy in the first place, and I’m holding my own with that professional staff! If I quit, I’ll fail. And I won’t fail! I’ve come too far. I’ve worked too hard. Quitting is not an option, do you understand?”

  Matt’s eyes had gone wide; his mouth was gaping. He’d obviously never seen this ferocious side of his daughter. Well, I had. And, frankly, I was proud of Joy. Without that fighting spirit, she’d never survive in the backbreaking, unforgiving, male-dominated world of the culinary arts.

  I stood up, put my arm around my girl. “We understand, Joy. We do. Tell you what, why don’t you let me and your dad clean up those dishes, okay? You go upstairs and take a nice, long bath.” I led her into the living room. “I’ve got some really nice scented oils up there, vanilla and jasmine…”

  Joy took a breath, let it out. “Okay, Mom.”

  When she was finally out of earshot, I went back to the kitchen and faced Matt. “Our daughter doesn’t have to quit. I’m going to deal with Tommy’s cutthroat kitchen personally.”

  Matt folded his arms. “And how are you going to do that?”

  “Well, first I’m going to call up Solange’s maître d’ and tell him his coffee sucks.”

  “Excuse me?”

  I explained to Matt my idea. Actually, it was Mike Quinn’s idea, but my ex didn’t need to know that. “I’ll pitch a contract to improve Solange’s coffee service. It’s a way for me to get into Keitel’s kitchen and figure out what’s going on.”

  “How are you going to pull that off, Clare?”

  “Easy. I did it already for David Mintzer in the Hamptons. The restaurant should go for it. They won’t need to buy any equipment, because we have dozens of French presses stored in our basement for catering already. I can consign a portion of them to Solange for the time being. And I have more than enough roasted beans on hand to sell them for their dinner service. Tucker and Dante wanted more hours this month because they need the money, so they can take over my shifts.”

  Matt sighed. “I can’t see how you’re going to convince Tommy Keitel to hire you. The man doesn’t drink coffee. I don’t think he even likes coffee.”

  “That’s the beauty of it. I don’t have to convince Tommy. The man I’m going to pitch is Napoleon Dornier, the restaurant’s maître d’. He’s in charge of the front of the house. And the front takes care of the wine and beverages.”

  “What about Joy?” Matt asked. “How’s she going to feel about your doing this? She might freak, accuse you of horning in on her territory.”

  I frowned, hoping my daughter was more understanding than that. “She was happy to have my help last night.”

  “True, and she might be happy to have you around the kitchen now that things are dicey. But still…” Matt shook his head. “Let’s keep it from her until you’re sure you can even get a contract with the restaurant. Then we can both tell her together. It’ll sound more like a business venture for the Village Blend, rather than, you know…”

  “Another way for me to spy on her?”

  “You’re not spying on her,” Matt gallantly pointed out. “You’re spying on everyone around her. That’s a very important distinction.”

  “Thanks, Matt. I mean it.” It was a big leap for him, considering his jaundiced view of my previous forays into amateur detective work.

  He nodded, rubbed his eyes. “I guess even if Joy quit her internship this morning, she’d still be a suspect on Lieutenant Salinas’s list, right?”

  “Right. I have to find out how that knife got into Vinny’s neck. And to do that, I’ve got to get into Tommy Keitel’s kitchen.”

  “Okay, fine, get into his kitchen,” said Matt, rising from the table. “But after hearing Joy’s little tale of falling for Keitel, I think I’ve got the man’s number.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When it comes to this snooping stuff, Clare, I may not be as good as you. But as a man, I can give you one good piece of advice.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Stay the hell out of Tommy Keitel’s cheese cave.”

  “Mooooom!”

  I left the kitchen to find Joy standing at the top of the stairs. She was wrapped in a towel.

  “What is it, honey?” I called. “Can’t you find the scented oils?”

  “No!” she called back. “I mean, yes, I found them. I was calling you because I heard your cell phone go off—twice. Whoever’s trying to reach you, it might be important.”

  “Thanks, honey!”

  I bolted up the steps and grabbed my handbag off the hall table. As Joy returned to the bathroom, I ducked into the master bedroom and shut the door. My phone listed three missed calls in the last thirty minutes, all of them from Detective Mike Quinn.

  Mike.

  Just seeing the man’s name on my cell’s tiny screen did something to my central nervous system. I couldn’t wait to talk with him, tell him everything that had happened last night, ask him for his help and advice and support.

  I was about to hit my speed dial when I saw he’d left a message. I punched the buttons and listened, eager to hear something sweet and sexy.

  “Clare, it’s me, Mike…”

  By now, my body’s reaction to the deep, gravelly timbre of Mike’s cop voice was Pavlovian. Like a love-struck teen, a shiver went through me. I could practically feel his arms around me again. His mouth on mine—

  “I can’t imagine why you’re not picking up…Actually, with Allegro in the
apartment, I can, which is what’s eating me. So, uh, look…” There was a pause, followed by an audible exhale. “I’m going to be blunt with you, Clare. I don’t think things are going in a direction I like with us, and…I’m sorry, but I need to have a talk with you. Don’t call me back when you get this. I’m going on duty, and I’ll see you later anyway. I’ll drop by the Blend this afternoon.”

  “A talk…” I repeated. My legs didn’t feel so sturdy all of a sudden, and I sat down heavily on the four-poster’s mattress. First Tommy Keitel wanted “a talk” with Joy. Now Mike Quinn wanted one with me?

  “‘Don’t call me back,’ huh?” Oh, hell no! I hit speed dial. Mike’s cell phone rang and rang, and then sent me to voice mail. Great. I snapped the phone shut.

  “This day just keeps getting better.”

  TEN

  “ARE you ready, Ms. Cosi?” Napoleon Dornier called from the kitchen doorway.

  “Yes! Please, come in,” I replied. “Sit down.”

  It was just after noon. I was dressed to kill in a conservative forest-green business suit that I’d hastily appropriated from Madame’s Valentino collection. With borrowed emerald studs in my ears, a stunning emerald necklace encircling my throat, green silk heels, and my dark brown hair smoothed into a neat French twist, I looked like a vendor worthy of pitching a four-star establishment.

  I’d set up five French presses on one of the large round tables in Solange’s empty dining room. There was no lunch service today, a result of the police interviews, which had taken place all morning, according to Dornier. So the dining room’s cherrywood tables were still stripped of their white linens.

  Back in the kitchen, the prep cooks were hard at work starting sauces and braising meats for dinner. The smells of a mushroom duxelles suffused the air with sautéing shallots and fresh tarragon as the leather-padded double doors swung wide on their hinges and Nappy Dornier swaggered out.

  With six hours to dinner service, I wasn’t surprised to find him not in his formal evening wear but in comfortable street clothes. He looked less like a scarecrow in his loose beige khakis and untucked polo. The lime green color was a bold statement, given the bright red color of the man’s short, spiky hair, but then Dornier, with his pricey amber cat glasses, didn’t strike me as the kind of guy who was willing to fade into the woodwork.