Murder at Le Bijou Bistro

by Dianne Harman

  “Sure,” DeeDee said, with a straight face. Al took personal safety very seriously. With his background in the Mafia, he had good reason to. She glanced over at Cassie again, who seemed distracted. DeeDee sensed it was better not to mention anything at the table, but vowed to find out what had caused her friend’s discomfort when she’d mentioned her children.

  A commotion from across the room made any more talk of Cassie and Al’s house remodeling impossible. A young woman appeared to be choking at a table in the corner, and the man dining with her had jumped up behind her. Heaving her gasping body to her feet, he began to perform the Heimlich Maneuver while stunned guests at the neighboring tables watched in silent horror. The woman retched onto the table, and the man released his grip on her diaphragm, only to have her fall flat on the table in a lifeless heap. Glasses smashed and dishes crashed as her body laid on the top of the table, motionless.

  Within seconds, Jake and Al were on their feet and rushing over to the table where the woman was. A few short minutes later they returned to the table where Cassie and DeeDee were sitting. Jake shook his head and said, “It doesn’t look like she’s going to make it.”

  A hum of confusion had arisen from the other diners, and the sound of a siren from an approaching ambulance was deafening.

  Al took a thick wad of bills out of his pocket and dropped them on the table. “Let’s get outta here,” he barked, as three paramedics burst through the restaurant door and ran over to the table where the woman was.

  “Al, that was the table that was supposed to be ours,” Cassie said as they walked past the table. Her voice cracked as Al hurriedly ushered her towards the entrance of the restaurant.

  DeeDee felt Jake’s steadying hand on the small of her back, and she stayed calm as he guided her through the bistro. Outside, she inhaled the cool night air with a deep breath, and looked at Jake questioningly. He shook his head as an indication for her to stay silent.

  Cassie, however, was more vocal. “What happened?” she asked with a look of panic on her face. “That woman’s dead, isn’t she? The woman who was sitting at our table, the table we were supposed to be at, is dead, right?”

  Al looked across at Jake, who nodded.

  “What happened, Jake?” DeeDee asked quietly.

  “She apparently choked on the cake she had for dessert. She wasn’t breathing, so I assume she’s dead.”

  Cassie started to sob, and Al pulled her close to his chest.

  DeeDee stammered as she forced her next words out. “And we’re supposed to think it was a terrible accident, right?” In her recent experience with murder victims, and unfortunately, she’d had a few, that had not been the case. Her words hung in the air.

  Al shook his head. “That’s not what the waiters were saying on our way out. Il y a eu un meurtre. I understand French pretty good, and unless I’m mistaken, that means there’s been a murder.”

  CHAPTER 1

  Shortly after 10:00 a.m., on a spring-like morning in late March, Myles Lambert pulled off his Burberry overcoat and sat down at his usual table by the window at Coffee or Die located in Pioneer Square, just as he did every day. A creature of habit, his daily routine rarely varied. Rising at 8:00 a.m., he ate breakfast alone in his two-bedroom waterfront apartment in downtown Seattle. Myles’ day started with a pot of Earl Grey tea, buttered wholegrain toast spread with a thin layer of orange marmalade, and a handful of vitamins.

  The English country-casual style of dress that he’d adopted ever since he’d studied Creative Writing at Oxford University in England in his twenties was reflected in his uniform of loose beige corduroy pants and a navy sweater over a button-down shirt. In spring and summer, he swapped the corduroys for chinos and the sweater came off, but never before May 1st. Tan, leather-soled Church’s brogues were his footwear of choice.

  Myles opened his laptop and booted it up, the blank screen staring back at him. “Thank you, Riley,” he said, smiling at the nubile young woman who brought his order. His eyes followed her back to the counter. Riley was just Myles’ type, a shapely brunette in her early twenties. Not that Myles ever indulged his sugar daddy fantasies this close to home. On his occasional trips out-of-town where nobody knew him, he found that friendly company from attractive females less than half his age was not hard to come by in the bars he frequented, so long as he flashed some cash.

  Myles took a sip of his double espresso and felt the bitter hit of caffeine jolt his brain into life. Next, a sugar rush, courtesy of a raspberry glazed donut. He always had raspberry, and the staff set one aside for him each morning when the delivery truck arrived from the bakery. After he was finished with the donut, he followed a meticulous hand-washing process with a lemon-scented wet-wipe, the type that came in sealed packets and that Myles carried with him everywhere.

  It was only when he’d completed this ritual that he was ready to start writing for the day. Flexing his arthritic fingers, he began to type. The words came slowly, because Myles’ current work-in-progress was not a labor of love. It was more a means to an end. The chatter of the other patrons in Coffee or Die and the sounds that came from the coffee machines was a suitable soundtrack for Myles’ latest work of riveting non-fiction, A Brief History of Food, the Seattle Edition.

  It was one of a series of worldwide food guides aimed at tourists that was being pumped out by an international travel publisher. Myles considered there was no one more qualified than him to write it, and he was certain that it would be recognized by those in the know as setting a new literary standard for culinary writing. His plan was to land a publishing contract and use it as a springboard to a successful career of writing fiction.

  “Mind if I join you?”

  Myles was interrupted by the chair beside him being pulled out and scraped across the wooden floor. A disheveled woman with frizzy blond hair, flushed cheeks, and carrying an extra fifty pounds proceeded to plop herself down beside him. She waved to the man at the counter. “Hey, Rick, my usual, please.” Turning back to Myles, the woman laughed. “Don’t look so pleased to see me, Myles. You’d think the dog just brought in a bad smell.”

  “Gloria.” Myles faked a tight smile. “You know I hate dogs. You’re not all that bad. Anyway, fancy seeing you here, and what a coincidence.”

  “Not really,” Gloria said, shifting around in her chair. “These rickety seats aren’t made for big butts, are they? Only room for one cheek. Excuse me if I fall off.”

  “Don’t let me stop you,” Myles muttered. He brightened up a little after Rick handed a latte and two chocolate muffins to Riley so she could deliver then to Gloria, thus allowing Myles a nice view from behind as Riley returned to her station.

  Closing his laptop with a snap, Myles watched Gloria cram the first muffin into her mouth in a couple of bites. A forced smile remained on his face as he watched her eat. Regardless of his personal distaste for the woman, she was his boss and a certain etiquette was required from him. From where he was sitting, etiquette wasn’t in Gloria’s vocabulary. No one would ever guess the unkempt woman who had joined him was none other than Gloria Ekenbach, Lifestyle Editor of The Seattle Times. She cleaned up well for award ceremonies, but the rest of the time she looked like she’d been dragged through a ditch by a hurricane.

  Gloria washed down her first muffin with a slurp of latte and then her gaze settled on Myles. “I thought I’d find you here.” She nodded at the laptop on the table. “How’s the book coming along?”

  Myles’ eyes narrowed. “Are you checking up on me, Gloria?”

  Gloria shrugged and began to peel the paper wrapping off the second muffin. “Not at all. Checking in with you would be closer. We agreed when you took a sabbatical from your Food Critic column at the newspaper that we’d keep in touch.”

  “Yes, and I’ve telephoned you each of the last three months just as you asked me to do. Is there a problem?” Myles tried to ignore the chocolate crumbs that were nestled in the crease of Gloria’s double chin.

  “Not at
all,” Gloria said with a grin. She leaned across to touch Myles’ arm, and he flinched. “Quite the opposite, in fact. I just want to make sure you know you can take as much time off as you need. I know how important this book is to you, and we’re all rooting for you at the paper. Do you think another three months is enough?”

  “Hmm.” Myles rubbed his chin, hoping he looked pensive, but in reality he was stalling for time. He didn’t like the turn the conversation was taking. The fact that Gloria had come to seek him out to tell him not to hurry back to work wasn’t a good sign. He’d been the food critic at The Seattle Times for thirty-five years, and the lifestyle suited him well. Who wouldn’t like dining out every day in the best restaurants in the city, all on an expense account? Myles had also become a minor celebrity on the Seattle foodie scene, and he enjoyed the special attention he received in the restaurants he frequented. He wasn’t about to be ousted from that status without a fight.

  Gloria jutted her face closer to his. “I don’t want you to worry about the newspaper, Myles. We’ve got it covered.”

  “Thanks, Gloria,” Myles said, shrinking back. That woman has no concept of personal space, he thought to himself. “Very kind of you to let me know.” He balled his fists under the table to control the anger that was rising within him.

  “You’re a fine writer, and I know there are other writing projects you want to do once this book’s finished.” She gave him a knowing look. “This could be your chance to seize the opportunity and really go for it. You could get to the great unfinished novel that’s under your bed.”

  Myles glared at her. How did she know about his unfinished manuscript, the one he’d been working on for twenty years? But he didn’t keep it under the bed, it was boxed away in the second bedroom of his apartment. The room was used as an office, since no one ever came to stay.

  He tuned back in to Gloria, who obviously loved the sound of her own voice. “Think it over, Myles,” she was saying. “The temporary replacement we hired is happy to stay on for a while if you need more time. She seems to like it.” Gloria flashed what appeared to Myles to be a triumphant smile.

  “I’ve read a few of her columns,” Myles said carefully. Actually he’d read them all, and thought they were amateurish and badly written. “Cassie Roberts, isn’t that her name?”

  Gloria nodded with enthusiasm. “Yes. I know her style’s a lot less polished than yours, but she has a chatty down-to-earth voice the readers can’t get enough of. I thought it would take the pressure off of you, knowing that the column’s in good hands. So don’t feel you have to rush back to work, Myles. Really, there’s no rush at all.” She beamed at him expectantly. “I hope you’re pleased?”

  Myles nodded. He could feel the veins pulsing in his neck.

  “Excellent.” Gloria stood up. “I’m glad that’s settled. Call me in July, no, make it August. I don’t want to hear from you again until you’ve typed The End on your novel. Got it?”

  “Sure,” Myles said, with a heavy dose of sarcasm.

  “Oh, and Myles?”

  “Yes, Gloria?”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Myles watched with disgust as Gloria waddled out of Coffee or Die. Heaving himself out of his chair, he crossed the floor and removed that day’s copy of The Seattle Times from the newspaper rack on the wall. Returning to his table, he turned to the Food Spy column and stared at the page for a very long time.

  Cassie Roberts’ headshot smiled out at him, and the editorial taunted him with her perfect life. Her dinner dates with her new boyfriend were well-documented in her reviews, as were her talented children who she also roped in as her cutesy Spy companions. There she was, telling the world about her upcoming birthday dinner at Le Bijou Bistro. As if anyone cares, Myles thought. And then it hit him. The perfect solution to get Cassie out of the way, and finish his novel in one fell swoop.

  He didn’t even need to come up with a plan, because the blueprint had been in his head for years. In his unfinished book, Murder at Table 12, he’d already plotted and planned the perfect mystery of how an unsuspecting guest was murdered at dinner. Fate had brought him to this point in his life, a chance to finish the book and finally write the ending that had eluded him for so long. He knew the staff at Le Bijou Bistro, so it wouldn’t be difficult to set the wheels in motion.

  Cassie Roberts was just going to be the real-life victim.

  CHAPTER 2

  Al called room service as soon as he and Cassie arrived back at their suite at The Four Seasons Hotel. The town car he had at his disposal had taken them from the restaurant to the hotel in a matter of minutes.

  “I need coffee up here now, lots of it,” Al said in a low voice into the receiver, before replacing the handset with a click.

  “Not for me, darling,” Cassie said, looking over at him and shaking her head. “I just want to call it a night. That was quite a shock. I’m sorry for freaking out like that outside the restaurant, but this is one birthday I won’t easily forget.”

  Al walked across the room to where Cassie was starting to remove her clothes and put on a hotel robe. It swamped her petite frame, and she wrapped the cord twice around her waist and tied it before rolling up the sleeves.

  “Hey,” he said, pulling her close. Cassie’s head barely reached his chest. His wife of less than two weeks wrapped her slender arms around him, and he silently rocked her in an embrace until her trembling body stilled.

  When she eventually raised her face to his, Al leaned down and planted several delicate kisses across her forehead and cheeks. “C’mere, and sit down,” he said, wiping away a tear from below her eye with his thumb, and guiding her toward the lounge area by the window, with its sweeping views over Elliott Bay and Puget Sound. Cassie shivered, and Al pressed a button, causing flames to start dancing in the fireplace mounted in the wall.

  Al eased Cassie onto the sumptuous gold-colored sofa. There was a rap on the door, and Cassie looked up with a start. “S’okay, it’s only the coffee,” Al said, striding across the carpeted floor, and putting his hand in his pocket to get out a tip. He closed one eye and looked through the peephole before opening the door. Taking the tray from the waiter without letting him enter their room, Al tipped him, closed the door, and turned the lock. Returning moments later, he set the tray down with a thump on the low dark wood table.

  “Jes’ take a sip for ol’ Al,” he told her when he’d poured two cups of coffee and sat back down beside Cassie, handing her one of them. He waited until she’d taken a sip from the cup. “Atta girl,” Al said with an encouraging smile. “We gotta talk, and this can’t wait. So Ima gonna start, okay?”

  Cassie nodded, her eyes wide.

  Al took a deep breath before beginning. “Thing is, like I told ya’ before, I done things in my past that ain’t pretty. Can’t go changin’ any of that now. But there’s a coupla’ people I can think of who might be happy if Al De Duco was six feet under. Or his wife, for that matter. Ya’ know what I mean?”

  Cassie gasped.

  “Now don’t go jumpin’ to conclusions,” Al said. “Ain’t nothin’ or nobody gonna hurt ya’ with me around. Thing is, we gotta be sensible and think this through. It’s possible that woman fallin’ down dead like that had nothin’ to do with us. But then again…”

  Cassie put her cup down and reached out for Al’s hand. “Al, I know you’re no saint, and I was aware of what I was letting myself in for when I agreed to marry you.” She raised an eyebrow. “The reality might just be sinking in, but that doesn’t change how I feel about you. I need to toughen up a bit, that’s all. I’m not usually so emotional, but I think the champagne went to my head a little this evening.”

  Al grinned. “Yer’ doin’ great,” he said, his beefy hand gently covering hers. “Best wife a guy coulda’ wished fer. Don’tcha doubt that fer a second. Thing is, somethin’s tellin’ me that murder tonight, if it was in fact a murder, was too close to us to be a coincidence. Ima gonna’ check out the people that might be gunni
n’ fer yours truly, but is there anyone ya’ can think of, might have it in fer ya’?”

  Cassie stared at Al in confusion. “What on earth do you mean? Why would someone want to kill me?”

  Al rubbed his forehead. “I dunno. But ya’ gotta think hard ‘bout this. Do ya’ have any enemies, or people with a grudge against ya’, might wanna see ya’ dead?”

  Cassie’s face crumpled. “Good grief. Not that I know of. Then again, I don’t suppose Johnny thought so either, and look what happened to him.” Johnny Roberts was Cassie’s former husband, who had been murdered on a golf course in Whistler the previous year. Cassie pulled her hand away from Al and raised her arms, pressing her palms hard against her temples. “I can’t believe this is happening. I wonder if Jake and DeeDee could help us. They have a lot of experience in this type of thing. If we could find out more about the woman who died, and if it really was murder, that would be a start.”

  “I was jes’ thinkin’ the same thing,” Al said, in a soothing tone. “Ima gonna’ give Jake a call and see what he can find out from his source in the police department. And that guy Rob that works with him is a genius when it comes to gettin’ information ‘bout people. Thing is, Rob’s gotta have somethin’ to go on. I need ya’ to rack yer’ brains ‘bout anyone ya’ might have upset lately, that could want ya’ outta the way.”

  Cassie gripped Al’s knee. “I know I’ve upset my daughter,” she said, her voice shaking. She lowered her head. “Our marriage has disturbed her more than I ever could have imagined.”

  Al leaned over and smoothed Cassie’s hair. “Briana ain’t no murderer. That child loves ya’ more than life itself. She’s jes’ hurtin’ is all. She’ll come around, I’m sure of it. It’s jes’ gonna take time. Ima thinkin’ more along the lines of people ya’ mighta’ rubbed up the wrong way with one of yer’ restaurant reviews. Ya’ didn’t mince yer’ words on some of them bad’uns. How ‘bout someone at the newspaper, that kinda’ thing?”