French Pressed

by Cleo Coyle

  Nick laughed. “I think he cultivates that impression. Goes with his pumped-up French accent. But Nappy is definitely not gay, and he owed Brigitte—quite a lot. He was no more than a waiter at Martinique when she took over its kitchen. It was Brigitte who used her influence as executive chef to help him move to sommelier and then maître d’. That’s why; Dornier always took care of Brigitte, even after they broke up.”

  I told Nick about Brigitte’s death, and he absorbed the news in silence. I saw his eyes glistening. There was such a heaviness of heart about the man, it was almost contagious. And between Joy’s arrest and finding Brigitte’s tragic corpse, I felt my eyes tearing up, too.

  “I’m sorry to bring you this news,” I said, touching Nick’s arm. “And I’m sorry for your loss. In many ways, Tommy Keitel was a great man. I’d like to find out who killed him. Do you know if Tommy had any enemies who would want him dead?”

  Nick shook his head. “Tommy had a big ego. He stepped on toes. He fooled around. I suppose he could have hurt the wrong person. But I couldn’t tell you who. Tommy never discussed with me anything that caused him fear or dread. My friend was a happy man. That’s how I’d like to remember him.”

  Nick drained his glass. “Well, Ms. Cosi. I must leave you now. My restaurant is busy, and I must take care of her.”

  I rose and thanked him, remembering how Tommy had referred to Solange as a “her,” too. Then I returned to our table. Esther was leaning against Boris. She was snoring lightly.

  “She had too much vodka,” he said with a shrug.

  “I think I had too much, too,” I said, massaging my temples. “So before I pass out, let’s get Esther back to the car.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  I shuffled into the kitchen the next morning wearing tube socks, my oversized terry robe, and a St. Petersburg–sized hangover.

  “Coffee?” Matt asked.

  “Da.” I nodded. “With aspirin.”

  He poured me a cup, handed me the bottle. Then he set a tall glass of clear liquid in front of me.

  “Drink this, too,” he said.

  “I hope to God it’s water.”

  “What else would it be?”

  I shook my head, picked up the glass. “You told me to drink water last night, you know, and I still have the hangover.”

  “You didn’t drink enough. You passed out too soon.”

  Matt was right. He’d been waiting up for me. I told him as much as I could manage about my night in Brighton Beach, then the room began to spin, and I was down for the count.

  I drank the water, took the aspirin, sipped the coffee.

  “Okay,” I said, feeling the caffeine hit my veins. “Update me. Tell me what’s happening on the legal end.”

  “Joy’s arraignment is Monday—”

  “I remember.”

  “And Bree’s lawyers said they’re sure they can get our girl out on bail, but there are probably going to be restrictions.”

  “Such as?”

  “She’ll have to give up her passport. She has a roommate in Paris, and nobody wants her flying out of the country before her trial.”

  “Sounds reasonable.”

  “Also…she may be released under our recognizance.”

  “I think we can handle that, right? Joy’s not exactly a threat to society.”

  “Worst-case scenario—and this is a real possibility, so we need to be prepared—”

  “Just tell me, Matt.”

  “House arrest with some kind of electronic monitoring, like a leg bracelet.”

  I sighed, sipped at my coffee. “Joy will hate it, but at least she won’t have to rot in a jail cell, waiting months or more for a trial. Do you need me to do anything as far as the legal stuff?”

  Matt shook his head. “I’m taking care of it. Don’t worry. But you might want to stop by her apartment, pick up her mail, get some clothes and personal items. If she’s released tomorrow under house arrest, the lawyer is giving them our address as the holding location.”

  “Okay, will do. I’ll stop by her apartment later today—tomorrow morning at the latest.”

  I got up, poured myself more coffee, feeling a little better already, especially with the prospect of my daughter’s being released from jail in just one more day. What I didn’t feel good about was my investigation.

  I’d hit a dead end with Brigitte Rouille and another one with Nick from Brighton Beach. I’d have to sober up fast and start thinking about my other leads. In the meantime, I was grateful that Joy had good lawyers on her side. And I knew who to thank for that.

  “Okay, Matt, I never thought I’d say it, but thank goodness you’re sleeping with Breanne Summour. That woman and I have had our differences, but she really came through for our daughter.”

  Matt nodded.

  “She must really care for you,” I said, giving him a little smile. Matt didn’t respond. His gaze fell to the pile of newspapers on the table in front of him.

  “Got the Times there?” I asked, turning my thoughts to a certain someone who cared for me.

  “Yeah.”

  “Would you mind handing over the real estate section?”

  “Why?”

  “I’d just like to look it over.”

  “Why, Clare?”

  I hemmed and hawed, not really wanting to get into my plans with Quinn. But Matt finally pressed hard enough.

  “Okay, okay,” I said. “Friday night, before Chef Keitel was murdered, before our daughter was arrested, Mike Quinn stopped by downstairs for a talk.”

  Matt’s eyes appeared to brighten. “He broke up with you?”

  “Almost. He gave me an ultimatum. Move out or move on.”

  “Wow. That’s harsh. But then…” He shrugged. “What else could you expect from a guy like that?”

  “Like what?”

  “A guy who locks people up for a living.”

  “He hunts down criminals and predators, Matt. He brings them to justice. He agonizes about making the world better, or at least a safer place for the innocent—”

  “Spare me.” Matt waved his hand.

  I frowned, took a long sip of coffee. “I understand how Mike feels. I mean, I’d feel exactly the same way if his estranged wife popped up unexpectedly and started gallivanting around his apartment.”

  “Did you say gallivant?” Matt made a face. “I don’t gallivant.”

  “It’s just an expression. Anyway, I’m going to move out of here.”

  “What?! Why?”

  “Because I don’t want to lose Mike Quinn. Why do you think?”

  Matt folded his arms, regarded me with a look of pure skepticism. “You’re in love with the flatfoot?”

  “I care for him. I want the chance to love him.”

  “What about us?”

  “Us?” I blinked, rubbed my eyes. My head was still a little fuzzy. I wasn’t sure I’d heard my ex-husband correctly. “Excuse me?”

  “Us, Clare. You and me.”

  “I don’t…I don’t follow. I mean, in case you’ve been Rip Van Winkling on me, we’ve been divorced for ten years. There is no us.”

  “We’re living together again.”

  I nearly spat out a fresh mouthful of joe. “We’re sharing a duplex. And you’re hardly here.”

  “I could be here more often, if that’s what you want.”

  I gaped at the man. “Matt, I can’t imagine what’s brought this on…”

  “Well, I was just sitting here, thinking about us, and I think maybe we should be one big happy family again: you and me and Joy.” He leaned forward, grabbed my hand. “Honestly, honey, listen to me. You and I have been through so much over the last year.”

  He raised his plaster cast just to remind me—as if I needed the reminder or the guilt trip.

  “Matt, please—”

  “We’ve worked so well together. You can see I’ve changed. I’m willing to change even more. I think we just need to try again.”

  “No.” I gently extracted my han
d. “Matt, how can I make you understand? The cocaine—”

  “I’m not using anymore! I’ve told you a thousand times. I’ll never use again. You can believe me—”

  “Matt, please! This isn’t about you. This is about me.”

  “You’re using coke?”

  “No! You were my drug, okay? It was a high, loving you, a fantastic high, but down the line, there was always the crash—the terrible, devastating, heartbreaking crash. You let me down too often, Matt. It was a terrible way to live.”

  “Please, Clare. One more chance?” Matt’s brown eyes were actually blinking hard.

  Why are you making this so difficult?!

  “Listen, Matt, I care for you. I do. And I always will. If you need me, I’ll be there—as a friend. But I can’t love you anymore. Not like I used to. You may have changed. I’ll give you that. But I need you to get this, okay? I’ve changed, too. I want something more. Someone who can give me more. I want Mike Quinn.”

  Matt was silent for a long moment, his expression studying my own. Finally, I asked my ex-husband something that I knew would make him understand: “If someone wanted you to become an addict again, would you?”

  “No. I wouldn’t.” Matt looked away. “But do you really think it’s fair to compare a destructive, addictive drug to me? I’m the father of your child.”

  “She’s not a child anymore. She’s grown. She’s an adult. These terrible decisions of Joy’s have driven that point home to me like never before. She’s going to fly, and she’s going to fall. But I want her to be free…and I need to be free, too…”

  “You’re leaving the coffeehouse business?”

  “No! I love managing this coffeehouse. I love working for your mother. She’s like a mother to me, too, and always has been. I don’t see any problem with us continuing to work together. I’m not quitting the Blend, Matt. I’m just quitting you.”

  Matt’s head jerked back, as if I’d physically slapped him.

  I tensed, still stunned that he was taking this so hard. This is ludicrous! There is no reason for him to act like this, to cling so tightly, especially given his address for the last solid month!

  “I don’t want to hurt you, Matt,” I quickly added. “I honestly didn’t think I could. You’ve been intimately involved with Breanne for almost a year, haven’t you?”

  Matt looked away again. He was quiet a long moment. Then, finally, he sighed and gazed back down at the stack of papers in front of him. “I have some things to do, Clare.” His voice had gone cold. He ran a hand over his face, pushed back from the table. “I’ll see you later.”

  “Okay…” I said. My grip tightened on the coffee cup. This had gone badly. I could tell. And I wasn’t happy about that. Matt wasn’t just my ex-husband; he was also my business partner. I did have a future with him, too—just not a sexual one. Oh, Lord. Did I just mishandle this whole thing?

  “No hard feelings?” I called to his retreating back.

  He said nothing in reply, unless you wanted to count the slamming of the apartment’s front door on his way out. I took a breath, drank more coffee—and my gaze fell on the pile of papers across the table.

  I got up, moved over to Matt’s seat, and began rifling the pile for the Sunday Times real estate section. That’s when I noticed something on the top of the pile. One of New York’s tabloids was open to a Gotham Gossip column.

  I saw that Matt had made a number of doodlelike circles and triangles next to a small article, as if he’d been contemplating something for a long time after reading it.

  My eyes scanned the newsprint.

  …and an arrest has been made in the murder of Tommy Keitel, executive chef of acclaimed Upper East Side restaurant Solange. The young woman taken into custody late Friday was an intern in Keitel’s kitchen and has been identified as Joy Allegro, daughter of Trend magazine editor Breanne Summour’s hunky flavor of the month, Matteo Allegro, a fixture on the local club scene…

  Crap.

  I wasn’t surprised to see the news about Joy. Keitel was a noted chef, and Solange was a popular restaurant. I’d already braced myself for some bad publicity for my daughter and our family, but I was stunned that the New York Journal chose to link Joy with Breanne through Matt. And the way they referred to my ex-husband was downright emasculating. The trashy gossip column loosely implied that Matt was one notch above Breanne’s gigolo.

  That “flavor of the month” jibe must have really irked Matt for him to suggest getting back together with me…

  But then the media-celebrity culture did expect a certain progression in relationships. Breanne and Matt had been seen around town for a long time; and when that happens, people naturally anticipate wedding bells. When they don’t get them, they start speculating—and speculation in a New York tabloid is never a pretty thing.

  Just then, the phone rang, halting any further conjectures on my part about Matt, Breanne, and their publicity problems.

  “Hello?” I said, picking up the kitchen extension.

  “Hello? Is this Clare?” said a vaguely familiar female voice.

  “Yes.”

  “It’s Janelle. Janelle Babcock from—”

  “Solange, of course! My favorite pastry chef.”

  “I heard about Joy, Clare,” Janelle said, “and I was wondering how she was doing.”

  I gave Janelle a quick update. “…and she should be out on bail tomorrow. At least I’m praying she will. I could use the help in that department, if you’re so inclined.”

  “She’s already in my prayers. Tommy and Vincent are, too,” Janelle replied. “Of course, I don’t believe for a second that Joy killed anyone. Not Joy. No way, nohow.”

  “Thank you, Janelle.” I rubbed my chin. “You wouldn’t by any chance have any idea who did kill Tommy and Vinny?”

  “I wish I did. Honest to God. I didn’t know a lot about the man’s personal life. But…now that you bring it up…”

  “What?”

  “Well…if you want to know more about Chef Keitel, maybe you should come with me this evening. I’m going over to the Kingston Funeral Home with the other line cooks. We’re going as a group to pay our respects.”

  “I see…” I thought it over a moment. “Do you think I should talk to the other cooks?”

  “I think you should speak to Chef Keitel’s wife. If she’s not too broken up, maybe you two can discuss things, figure out who the man’s enemies were. Who may have wanted to…you know…do what they did.”

  I nodded, checking my watch. “What time are you going?”

  “You’re coming?”

  “I’m coming,” I said, making the decision on the spot, and we quickly made plans to meet.

  I still had Madame’s green Valentino suit and her exquisite emerald necklace and earrings. It wasn’t the traditional black, but then this wasn’t a funeral; it was just a viewing. Madame’s clothes were conservative, tasteful, and dripping with class; they’d be my perfect camouflage for the Upper East Side crowd.

  Okay, so the designer suit didn’t fit me perfectly, but with a pin here and there, I knew it would get the job done, just as it had the day before, when I’d pitched Dornier and Keitel on my Village Blend beans.

  My God. It seems like a lifetime ago…I froze and closed my eyes, realizing: It really was a lifetime ago for Tommy Keitel.

  With a sigh, I reached for the coffee carafe to pour myself another. Chef Keitel’s viewing was bound to have some uncomfortable moments, but it was likely to have some good leads, too. Either way, I was definitely going to need another big cup of nerve.

  TWENTY-TWO

  THERE he was. Tommy Keitel. Larger than life. Smaller in death.

  The big man was dwarfed by his own casket—a huge, expensive affair of heavy metal camouflaged with a veneer of polished cherry wood that appeared to be the same fine grain as Solange’s dining room tables. The handles were brass, the trim gold-plated, and the interior’s lining of warm yellow silk looked as sunny as his restaurant’s wal
ls. It was quite a final resting place; but then why shouldn’t a four-star chef get a four-star send-off?

  The mortician had dressed Tommy’s corpse in a dark suit. The terrible wound at the base of his throat was well covered by the starched white color of his dress shirt; and his tie was a beautiful royal blue that came close to matching the arresting blue of his eyes, which were closed now, so I couldn’t exactly check my opinion on the palette match.

  “I’m so sorry this happened to you, Tommy,” I murmured, hands clasped together. “May you rest in peace. And I can only hope that wherever you are they’re smart enough to give you a few ingredients and a good-quality range…”

  Janelle and I had arrived ten minutes earlier by cab. The evening viewing was crowded, and we’d waited in line to sign the condolence book. We moved to the casket, where she’d said her prayer beside me. Then Janelle went off to find her line cook colleagues, and I stayed near Tommy’s casket, contemplating my strategy for catching his killer.

  The funeral home’s viewing room was very large, and jam-packed with people. It was also packed with flower arrangements that spilled out into a second sitting room beyond.

  The aroma was cloying, and if Tommy’s spirit was really in that casket, it probably would have bolted upright by now to roar: The long-stemmed lilies can stay, but will you people please burn those damn carnations! I can’t breathe in this stink!

  “…it’s a tragedy, I tell you. The art of the restaurant has been lost to the public relations racket. People who just want to make a quick buck…”

  I overheard the familiar voice and turned to see a familiar face. The food writer and restaurant critic Roman Brio had entered the viewing salon. Roman was a heavyset man with the round, chubby-cheeked face and intensely luminous eyes of a young Orson Welles. I’d met him a month ago, at the same Beekman Hotel tasting party where I’d first met Tommy Keitel. He was a friend of Breanne Summour’s, owing to his frequent flamboyantly written contributions to Trend magazine among other publications.

  “…there’s a term I often use called ‘palate fatigue,’” Roman continued to expound, his basso voice distinct over the buzz of conversations.