“Nae. But if the fridge is gonnae be down, the fish’ll go bad. Might as well make something of it while I can.”
“Thrifty thinking.”
“Oh, yeah, mate. This place is all about thrifty thinking.” He shot me a wink. “So this fish dip, it’s big here, aye?”
“Yeah, pretty big.”
“Aye, we get it in from some place. New England Seafood or some such.”
“Nice.”
“Aye. Do you know what they make that from? Back home we use salmon.”
“Guy I know uses whatever he catches. But the big meaty fish is best. Marlin, tuna, swordfish.”
“Aye, nice. Got some swordfish. Might have to give it a go.”
I nodded. It sounded like a plan. “You work here long?” I am nothing if not a master at the segue.
“Few months.”
“Right. And before that?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Noticed the accent, that’s all.”
“Aye, Scottish. But I trained in London. Worked last few years in Paris.”
“Paris. Not bad.”
“Two Michelin stars. More than not bad.”
I didn’t know a lot about Michelin stars except they went to expensive restaurants I never ate at, and Longboard Kelly’s didn’t have one despite Mick’s smoked fish dip.
“So what brings you to Florida?”
“Not the sun.”
“Not today.”
“Just the job. ”
I stepped over to a second counter and leaned against. I noticed a walk-in climate-controlled wine fridge. It had a keypad entry but the door lay ajar.
“What do you think about this business with the woman?”
The chef stopped slicing. The knife in his hand was long and thin.
“I been in here the whole time.”
“Not saying different. Just talking.”
“Aye, talking.”
“So you didn’t see anything?”
“Not a thing.”
“What about when you were out for a smoke?”
He frowned. “What makes you say that?”
“You do smoke.”
“How do you know that? What are you, Sherlock flippin’ Holmes?”
I wasn’t Sherlock Holmes. I wasn’t a drug user, for a start. Unless you counted beer, which I did not. But I did know a few chefs. Although most of the ones I knew called themselves cooks rather than chefs. But most of them smoked. I never got it myself. I always figured that taste was a fairly central sense when it came to cooking, and a pack a day had to kill any sense of taste stone-cold dead. But plenty of them did it. Plus this guy had nicotine-yellow teeth. He’d been smoking since he was a boy.
“Aye, I take a quick ciggie break e’ry now and then.”
“Where do you go?”
“Just nip outside the door here.” He nodded at the door that led to the corridor near the north exit. “You can stand just outside there and no get wet, even in a hurricane.”
“You ever get locked out? ”
“Locked out? Nah. The outside door is no locked, and the kitchen door, well, I just prop it open. You don’t get any guests coming back here unless they’re lost.”
I wandered over to the door in question and pushed it open. The corridor was still dark and the floor was still wet.
“Floor’s wet,” I said.
“Aye, I thought that was you, when you brought that big yin in from the seawall.”
“Yeah, you’re right. Wasn’t wet before?”
“Not last time I was out.”
I stepped back into the kitchen and let the door close. Just inside the kitchen were trays of glassware. I pulled one out. It was a champagne glass. I slipped it back in its slot and wandered back toward the door to the bar.
“Thanks for sandwiches by the way.”
“No problem. Hope you enjoyed.”
I got to the door and the chef picked up slicing the fish before him. I stopped before the door and turned back.
“So why did they fire you?”
“Who? What?”
“In Paris. Why did they fire you?”
“Who says I got fired?”
“You didn’t leave one of the culinary capitals of the world to take up making fish dip in Palm Beach. So what was the reason?”
“Listen, pal, I don’t know you, but I don’t owe you an explanation for anything.”
“You’re right. You don’t. I’ll just make up my own conclusions and discuss them with the police detective outside.”
“No, listen. No cops.”
“Okay.”
“I’m serious. No cops. I’ll lose my work permit. ”
“No reason for that to happen.”
This time he put the knife down. “There was an incident. It was a substance abuse issue. Can we leave it at that?”
“Not alcohol, I take it,” I said, glancing at the open wine fridge.
“No. Not alcohol.”
I knew plenty of cooks who snorted all manner of stuff up their noses. I didn’t get that either. After taste, I had to nominate smell as important sense number two for cooks.
“Who hired you?”
“Mr. Neville. And no, I dinnae lie to him. He knows about the whole thing. But he also knows I’m a good cook.”
It was the last bit that sold me on it. He had no pretension about himself. He didn’t refer to himself as a chef. He called himself a cook. Most of the good ones did.
“I know that,” I said. “Thanks again for the sandwiches.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The bar was quiet. Shania and Deshawn were talking in whispers at the bar. Anton was standing at the back of the room. Rex Bonatelli and Ken the camera guy were hunched over an iPad in the corner, looking at stuff they had filmed. Emery Taylor had laid out on one of the sofas. She was asleep with her head in Rosaria’s lap. Cassandra and Ron were on another sofa. They weren’t talking but they watched me walk over.
“Hell of a night,” I said quietly as I sat.
“Indeed,” said Cassandra.
Ron said, “That poor girl.” He waited a moment, and then he added, “Are you all right?”
I nodded. It was a lie and he knew it. But I didn’t feel like giving voice to what I was feeling because I didn’t know what words to use. I had watched Ronzoni work on Carly for over half an hour. I had worked on her for another fifteen minutes myself. Nothing about that felt right. And nothing about this group felt right. There were lots of people in the world who weren’t my crowd. I didn’t get them and they didn’t get me. We all have our own tribes. But the thing was, with this tribe, no one seemed to get anyone else. It was like they spent time together because tennis threw them together, rather than choosing to remain together after tennis brought them to the same starting place.
“Do you have any leads?” Ron asked.
“Not much. Fragments.”
“But definitely not an accident.”
I shook my head.
Ron waited a bit, and then said, “Thoughts on who?”
“Everyone? They all seemed to have a reason. Take him.” I nodded in the direction of Anton. “He claims to be faithful but exhibits no signs of being so.”
“Do you believe him?”
“Does it matter?”
Cassandra sighed. “Maybe it’s the wrong question, Miami. Maybe it isn’t whether he has shown signs of being faithful but rather has he shown evidence of being unfaithful.”
“The difference being?”
“The difference being that he is he, he is not you. I know you’re mister tough guy, but I also know you dote on Danielle. That’s how you see these things working. He’s different. He doesn’t feel the need to prove anything to anyone.”
“I don’t feel the need to prove anything to anyone,” I said.
“If you say so, Miami. But think about what you did for a living before, and what you do now, and why.”
I didn’t want to think about that. Not now. Maybe not ever
. But Cassandra had gone and put it in my head. I was a baseball player. Had been since elementary school. Everything else was secondary, even my fleeting college football career. And then I met Lenny Cox. Lenny changed everything. I hadn’t spoken to Cassandra much about Lenny. She hadn’t been on the scene when we lost Lenny, but I had no doubt Ron had told her plenty. Lenny was the kind of person who left an imprint. He never suggested I become a private investigator, but I did. He never directly suggested I join his firm, but I did. He did leave me the firm in his will, but he gave no directions on how I should manage it, or the people who worked for me. Maybe because he knew. He’d left an imprint. I hadn’t always worn palm tree print shirts. Or linen suits, for that matter.
“I know he’s not the most personable fellow,” said Cassandra, “but that doesn’t mean he isn’t faithful.” She smiled softly. “We don’t choose our character flaws. They choose us.”
“Well, try this. Word is he cheated on a drug test at a team tournament they were in—he, Sam and Shania. And somehow covered it up.”
“And on the other hand he could be exactly what he appears to be,” she said.
“Maybe he cheated the test to save her. There seems to be a few people around trying to look after her interests. Good or bad.”
“Anyone other than Anton?” asked Ron.
“Deshawn. He’s like a brother to her. And her dad saw him like a son, apparently.”
“As I said before, Deshawn certainly has her interests at heart,” said Cassandra, “but his eyes say there’s more to it than brotherly love.”
“Maybe. Sam cares for her, too. Then there’s her dad. Everyone says he’s not one of those crazy tennis dads, but in the same breath everyone suggests he watches over her like a hawk. Carly didn’t have Shania as a client because she had her dad doing the agent thing.”
“Families can be tight,” said Ron.
Ronzoni moved across the room. I noticed he had been talking with Leon, and he angled toward us. He sat on the coffee table.
“Shania said Leon chose the hotel,” he said .
“Yeah.”
“Turns out he knows the chef. They worked in the same restaurant in Paris.”
“I spoke to the chef earlier. He neglected to mention that. But he did say he got the job here through a connection to the general manager.”
“Neville?”
“Aha.”
“So Leon knows Chef Dean and Chef Dean knows Neville.”
“And what completes that circle?”
Ronzoni shrugged.
“Does Leon know Neville? And if he does, why isn’t anyone saying so?”
“Maybe they have something to hide?”
“Everyone has something to hide,” I said. “But is it relevant? Maybe they have a secret. Maybe Paul Zidane found out that secret. Leon mentioned that Paul said all his problems were going to be sorted out this weekend. That he’d be in a good place.”
“That might be relevant if Mr. Zidane’s death wasn’t an accident, but it was.”
“Or maybe they don’t even know each other.”
Ronzoni slouched. “That isn’t helping.”
“I suppose you need to know all our whereabouts, Detective,” said Cassandra.
Ronzoni squirmed in his seat. There was nothing he hated more than bothering Palm Beach society folks about police matters, because there was nothing his boss hated more than getting calls of displeasure from Palm Beach society folks.
“I don’t think that’s necessary, ma’am.”
“Really, Ronzoni?” I tried not to smile. “A woman is deceased and you don’t think a full investigation is warranted. ”
“I don’t think Lady Cassandra is involved, Jones.”
“Based on what facts?”
“Based on . . .” He clenched his jaw at me. “All right. Lady Cassandra, where were you between the time you left the lounge this evening and the time you returned?”
She smiled. “In my room, resting.”
“Thank you. Happy, Jones?”
“What’s her alibi?”
Ronzoni said nothing. He just stared at me and then glanced with abject sorrow at Cassandra.
“I was with Ron.”
“See,” Ronzoni said to me.
“They could’ve have been in it together.”
“Jones—”
He stopped mid-insult as Rosaria appeared beside him, laden with blankets. We already had enough blankets to cover the Red Army, and it wasn’t like we were in a New England winter. There might have been a hurricane outside but it was still balmy. Since the power had gone out and AC with it, the room had actually warmed up a tad. But I figured she was bored and was trying to be useful. Cassandra took a blanket. Ron didn’t. Ronzoni didn’t. I had no plan to. I looked up at her to say no thanks. The expression on her face was weird.
She was grimacing and frowning at the same time, and jutted her head to the side like she had developed some kind of spasm. I thought for a second it was some kind of posttraumatic tick, but for the fact that her eyes were locked on mine. Then I got it. I stood.
“Let me help you.” I took the blankets from her. Clearly she wanted a private word, but she could have just asked. I couldn’t imagine Ron, Cassandra and even Ronzoni not picking up on her attempts to signal me .
We walked in the general direction of the bar. Neville was down the end near the kitchen door. I angled to the other end but stayed off the bar itself so Neville didn’t get the idea I wanted something from him.
“Rosaria,” I said.
“Sir, Miami, thank you.”
“For what?”
She looked confused. “For saving me.”
“Oh, that. No problem. De nada.”
Then she stood there looking at me like that was all she had to say but she couldn’t think of the words to end the conversation.
“Is there something else, Rosaria?”
“Sir, there is something. I know what has happened to the lady. It is terrible.”
“Yes, it is.”
“I don’t know if this is important.”
“Everything is important, Rosaria. No matter how small.”
“I heard something.”
I nodded but said nothing.
“The lady was talking with the man.”
“Which man?”
“The blond man.”
“Mr. Venturi?”
“Yes.”
“And what did they say?”
“They have an argument.”
“What did they say?”
“The lady, the lady who died. She said that it was over. They were done. She said that yes, maybe he should leave.”
“Leave? When did you hear this?”
“Before. This morning. Before we all try to go to West Palm. ”
Sam did want to leave. I knew that already. Now Rosaria confirmed why. But it didn’t change anything. The fact he tried to leave and got stuck here like me didn’t mean a thing. Necessarily.
“Did she say anything else?”
“No, not her. Not then.”
“Not then? When?”
“This evening. I was helping to bus the lounge. I did not mean to hear.”
“I understand. We don’t get to close our ears. What did you hear?”
“I was coming from the kitchen. The man, Mr. Venturi, he step in behind the bar and use the house phone.”
“Do you know who he called?”
“I think it was the lady.”
“You think? But you don’t know?”
“No.”
“Okay. What did Mr. Venturi say?”
“He say to not hang up . He say I need to speak to you . I know how you can get her on board . Slam dunk , he say.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes. He say okay . I meet you there . He say he knows where it is . Meet me at the south exit .”
“He knows where what is?”
Rosaria shook her head. “I do not know. But now I think, maybe the hot tub r
oom?”
“Then what?”
“Then nothing.”
“Nothing? Did he go in the kitchen?”
“No. I was in the kitchen. He walk out of the bar area and sit down in the lounge.”
“Okay. Thank you, Rosaria. ”
“No, sir. Thank you. I should not be on this earth anymore, but for you.”
“No, Rosaria. You should be on this earth. That’s why I did what I did.”
Chapter Thirty
Rosaria left me standing at the bar so I did what I do and I took a stool. Ronzoni was helping himself to some sliders that the chef had knocked up. No one loves free food more than cops. If sourcing free chow was a sport, cops would win the gold, silver and bronze. The chef had also put out some crudités—raw carrots, broccoli and snow peas—but Ronzoni left that stuff the hell alone. He sat next to me.
I gave him an update on what Rosaria had told me.
“He did try to leave,” said Ronzoni. “That wasn’t for show. He was in my car, remember?”
“Yeah, I remember. But what if it wasn’t planned. What if it was more like a crime of passion? We know the kid had a thing for her. We know she dumped him—in a professional sense, if not a personal one—and we know he didn’t take that so well. Maybe he meets her in the hot tub and tries to win her over with champagne.”
“Why would she meet him?” asked Ronzoni. “She’s just given him the brush-off, big-time.”
“Like Rosaria said, he’s got a plan for her, a slam dunk.”
“For what?”
“Maybe to win Shania as a client? That seemed to be why she was here. ”
“It’s thin.”
“But plausible. So let’s walk it through. The timer’s going. He’s got the bubbles, both in the hot tub and in the bottle. He meets her at the south door, he takes her there, he gets her in the hot tub. Then he gives her the plan.”
“But she’s not impressed,” Ronzoni said, chomping into a slider.
“Right. Maybe she disses him. He loses it.” I paused. “He does what he does.”
“Okay. So how’s he get away?”
“We come out looking for Carly. Maybe interrupt or maybe not. But the timer is still ticking. He doesn’t go out the south exit or we’d have seen him on the video. So he doesn’t go back in that way either. He goes down the walkway along the back of the hotel. To the north exit. He goes in that way. But then he comes out again.”
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