If You Can't Stand the Heat

by Robin Allen

  I hung up and laughed at the absurd situation I found myself in: while sitting at my gay neighbors’ kitchen table because a murderer had burned my house, I had to confer with a stranger about my father’s medical condition because I couldn’t be with him in person because my stepmother was keeping me away from him, and my stepsister, who I don’t like and who was in jail, accused of murdering a Michelin-rated chef who had visited the restaurant at my father’s invitation because he needed investors, was putting all her trust in me to prove that she didn’t kill Évariste Bontecou, and doing so was keeping me from my job of saving Austin from botulism, typhoid, and hepatitis.

  Jamie called a few minutes later. And oh, yeah, I had to ask for help from my ex-boyfriend whom I haven’t spoken to in months because he cheated on me one night with someone I may or may not know.

  “That phone number ending in nine-one-one belongs to a lot of interesting parties,” he said. “A couple of private individuals, a Mexican restaurant, a Catholic church, Texas Parks and Wildlife, the Attorney General, an apartment complex, a wedding photographer.”

  “Great,” I said. “Who’s got time to chase down all of those leads?”

  He waited a beat, then said, “It also belongs to the Driskill Hotel.”

  “No shinola!” I said, sloshing tea onto the table.

  “No shinola.”

  “BonBon.”

  “Do she and Trevor know each other?”

  “She could be giving him French lessons for all I know.”

  “That sounds like frustration talking.”

  “You think?” I said sharply. “Do you know where I can get some truth serum?”

  “What’s your next step?”

  “Drinks at the Driskill?”

  “Give me an hour,” he said. “I’m doing a profile of Nigella Lawson and she’s supposed to call me right about now.”

  I hung up, a plan already forming in my mind. To pull it off, I needed a nice camera. I could borrow John Without’s Nikon and tripod without asking. He would never know. But the way my luck was running, I would probably trip and fall into a vat of old molasses and owe him $5,000 for damages and another $10,000 for mental anguish. The mental anguish part tempted me, but I did the smart thing and called the gallery to ask if I could use his equipment. He had helped fix my front door, so maybe he would help me again.

  “Not even if I liked you,” John Without said.

  “I’m not going to turn it on,” I promised.

  “Then go buy one and return it when you’re finished.”

  I didn’t want to say what I was about to say, but he left me no choice. “That’s going to take a really long time. I’ll probably miss the gallery opening. Please give Mrs. Luna my regrets.”

  Fuming silence, then, “Fine.”

  I hung up, grinning at my dual victory of getting what I wanted and annoying John Without. So much else hadn’t been going my way that I drank my tea, enjoying the feeling longer than I should have. I looked out the window and saw my clothes hanging limply in the sun. They looked different, so I walked outside to check on them. Someone had swapped out the hangers for clothespins. Again I had a strange fleeting thought when I looked at my chef’s coat. “What are you trying to tell me?” I asked it.

  I couldn’t find a parking space near the Driskill, so I parked in the alley by the service entrance and came through the back way, flashing my badge at the security guard, then past the service station, through the café kitchen, into the café, through the lobby, up the majestic staircase, and into the cool, dim cavern of the Driskill bar.

  I saw Jamie standing at the bar talking to Brian. When he saw me, he picked up his beer and a glass of red wine and walked toward me. His navy-blue t-shirt and faded jeans had just the right amount of cling to his muscular silhouette, his stride just the right touch of saunter in his brown boots. He smiled, and even from a few yards away, it devastated me. My breath caught at the sight of this tall, confident, intelligent, beautiful man I once loved. Still loved, darn it.

  We met in the center of the bar near the bronze statue depicting a man about to kill a runaway horse that was dragging his friend whose leg had caught in the stirrup. “Tough decision,” Jamie said, handing me the glass of wine. “Shooting the horse to save his friend.”

  I ran my finger along the small, bronze rifle aimed at the frightened horse’s head. “The horse is innocent, but we don’t know if the men are. They could have just robbed a bank.” I thought about Trevor and how I would have to sacrifice him for Ursula. And then I realized that it wasn’t such a tough decision.

  We still had a few minutes before our con game started, so I led Jamie to the loveseat near the tiny fake fireplace. He sat against the armrest, and I plopped down right next to him. My head had almost reached his shoulder when I jerked up. I couldn’t believe how easily I had fallen into routine.

  I shot to the other end of the couch. “How’s Nigella?” I asked breezily.

  Jamie grinned at my pratfall. “Too busy making canapés for a dear friend’s wedding to talk to me. Her assistant promised that Nigella would call tomorrow morning.”

  I sipped the wine. “This is nice,” I said. “What is it?”

  “Not sure.” He looked chagrined. “It’s their house wine.”

  “Big spender.”

  “You don’t know the truth you speak,” he said. “Someone earning minimum wage would have to work for an hour to afford it.”

  “Well, whatever it is, it gets my approval. And you get my thanks.” I raised up my goblet and he clinked his glass against it.

  “Have you figured out the BonBon/Trevor angle?” Jamie asked.

  “Trevor is BonBon’s son whom she gave birth to as a teenager and had to give up for adoption to spare her family embarrassment.”

  Jamie raised both arms, sliding his hands along a marquee headline. “Starring Orlando Bloom and Victoria Beckham.”

  I took a big sip of wine to wash that thought out of my brain. “Okay, then how about something mundane, like they’re having an affair.” Trevor has a dangerous but vulnerable quality about him, and appeals to older women. Not even Nina is immune to his allure, often complimenting his tattoos or hair when their paths crossed. She would need smelling salts if she found out that her precious Ursula had gotten a close look at his illustrations.

  “That’s more reasonable,” Jamie said, leaning his head on the back of the couch to look at the hammered copper ceiling. I had an urge to kiss his neck. “How about this,” he said. “If BonBon convinced herself that Évariste was sleeping with Belize, she attempted to even the indentations in the bed by sleeping with Trevor.”

  I was sure Jamie hadn’t meant to make me think about his own infidelity, but I was glad he did. It snapped me out of the silly love fog I had been in for the past few minutes. “If Évariste knew about an affair, would he still have offered Trevor a job as his personal sous chef ?”

  He lolled his head to look at me. “Maybe Évariste offered him the job because he was sleeping with BonBon.”

  “That makes no sense to me.”

  “To keep an eye on his wife’s lover.”

  “Ah, smart man.” I said. “But it seems a bit paranoid. And creepy.” I threw out another idea. “BonBon wants to recruit Trevor for one of their restaurants.”

  Jamie threw it back. “She has plenty of experienced, well-known chefs to choose from.”

  “Maybe we’re looking at it from the wrong point of view. What if Trevor went to BonBon, wanting her to make good on Évariste’s offer and she refused?”

  Jamie sat up and looked at me. “I like that.”

  I did too, but then remembered what happened in the walk-in. “No, that’s no good. He got mad when he saw the number and didn’t answer his phone.”

  Jamie returned his gaze to the ceiling and we sat in amiable silence for a few minutes, both of us thinking. One would start to say something, then work out a rebuttal and fall silent again.

  “Okay,” Jamie final
ly said, “what if Trevor knew, or suspected, that his girlfriend was having an affair with his new boss. He told BonBon and she asked him to keep an eye on them. Then Évariste is murdered and … what?”

  “And nothing. That would be the end. No reason for them to speak any more because the affair is over.” I felt warm from the wine, or was it Jamie? “They could have planned to murder Évariste together. Trevor could easily have stabbed him on his way in from seeing Belize in her car. If he has it in him to kill Évariste and frame Ursula, he would have no problem lying about it.”

  “Are you suggesting that BonBon master-minded the whole thing and used Trevor’s jealousy of Belize to prod him to murder Évariste?”

  I answered his question with a nod, then stopped. “What doesn’t make sense is why she would want her husband dead.”

  “It doesn’t make sense with the facts you have now.”

  I banged my fist against the couch. “The entire world has stopped making sense.”

  He covered my hand with his. “You’ve seen me through enough investigations to know that this is the storm before the calm.” He interlaced his fingers through mine. “A breakthrough is just around the corner.”

  His hand felt rough and safe. “It better be.”

  Jamie sat up and looked around. “I assume we’re at the Driskill because of BonBon. Is she going to meet us down here?”

  I pulled my hand from his. “BonBon thinks my stepsister killed her husband, and the last time we met she whisked herself into an elevator without so much as a glance back at me, so no, she’s not going to meet us.” I didn’t mean to come across so condescending and apologized.

  “So what’s the plan? Or do you just enjoy drinking wage-slave wine while your butt rests comfortably on cow’s hide?”

  “I called BonBon on the way over here. I said I was your assistant, and made an appointment for you to interview her.”

  “She agreed to speak with a food journalist?”

  I squinched my mouth sideways. Jamie cocked his head. I sipped my wine.

  “Who does she think I am?” he asked.

  “It’s not that bad,” I said. “She balked when I asked for an interview, saying that she didn’t want to speak of her husband’s death. So I appealed to the socialite and publicity hound in her and told her you were a lifestyle reporter who wanted to do a profile on her for the Sunday edition. Front page.”

  “Her husband was murdered three days ago.”

  “Yeah, and what does that say about her that she agreed to meet you?”

  “She’ll know I’m a fake as soon as I walk in the door without a photographer.”

  I held up John Without’s tripod and patted the black canvas backpack that held his camera. “That would be me.”

  “She’ll recognize you,” he said, his protest tinged with approval. Jamie didn’t become the city’s most influential food writer without pulling a few fast ones, and this was a great fast one. I learned from the best.

  I pulled out a baseball cap and a pair of tinted glasses and set them on the table. Jamie looked at them, then at me. “That’s your disguise?”

  “It always worked for Jim Rockford, ” I said. “Trust me, that woman is so self-absorbed, she won’t give me a second glance.” I stood. “Come on, I told her you’d call when you arrived at the hotel.”

  “What’s the plan exactly?” Jamie asked when we boarded the elevator.

  “You’re interviewing BonBon,” I said, untucking my shirt so I would look sloppy and uninteresting.

  “I mean what do we really want to know? I can’t just ask her if she killed her husband.”

  I pulled my hair forward to hide more of my face, then snugged the hat down. “Just do your Jamie Sherwood thing. Get her talking about Évariste and go where that leads.”

  “Right,” he said dubiously as the doors opened. “You look like a boy.”

  “That’s the idea.” I put on my glasses as we walked down the hall. “Barbara Hershey and Debra Winger.”

  He knocked on her door. “A Dangerous Woman.”

  The widow Bontecou looked deadly in a black suit and black platform heels. She had twisted her dark hair into a glossy chignon, and wore makeup that would have taken me hours to apply, but had probably taken her only meenoots. I wanted to look up at Jamie’s face to see his reaction to her, but didn’t want to risk her seeing through my disguise so I kept my eyes on the floor.

  She invited us in by leaving the door open and turning her back to us. I couldn’t believe what I saw inside. The room looked as if she had just checked in. No piles of clothes, no magazines, no upended shoe boxes. A gleaming silver bucket filled with fresh ice and a bottle of champagne rested in the middle of the table next to two champagne flutes.

  “Mrs. Bontecou,” Jamie said, extending his hand. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”

  She turned to face him and I watched her eyes travel from his face to his feet, her contrived smile turning predatory as she discovered a very handsome man standing in her hotel room. “Merci,” she purred, placing her hand in his.

  “Thank you for meeting with me.” He released her hand and gestured toward me. “This is my photographer, Timmy. If it’s okay with you, he’ll be looking around the room, assessing the props and lighting while we begin the interview.”

  She looked quickly at Jamie’s left hand. “Of course.”

  Her black stockings swished softly as she walked to the small table in the corner of the room. “S’il vous plait,” she said, extending her hand toward the other chair.

  I pretended to poke around the room, keeping the two of them in my sights from under the brim of my hat. As predicted, BonBon paid no attention to me. She inserted a cigarette into her cigarette holder and Jamie took the lighter from her and lit it. She beamed at him, then pursed her lips and blew out a long stream of smoke.

  I felt a sneeze coming on and pressed my forefinger hard against my upper lip. Not now, I pleaded with my sensitive nose. A small sneeze escaped that I managed to turn into a cough. BonBon glanced in my direction, then returned her attention to Jamie.

  Jamie removed a small, black voice recorder from his pocket and placed it on her side of the table. He had once told me that people were usually more talkative before he started asking questions on the record, so he didn’t turn on the recorder until he needed to.

  “How are you holding up?” he asked.

  “I am okay, but the children are feeling very low.”

  Children?

  Jamie said, “I didn’t know Évariste had children.”

  “They are my children, from another man. Évariste does not want it mentioned. He says he wants to protect them. From what, I do not know. I think he wants to protect his image.”

  “How would children hurt his image?” Jamie asked.

  “Children always do damage to the image of a playboy, Monsieur Sherwood.”

  Playboy? More like portlyboy.

  BonBon looked at the champagne bucket and Jamie took the hint. “Shall I pour?” he asked.

  I didn’t like the formal tone he had adopted to impress BonBon.

  She nodded and sucked on her cigarette as Jamie expertly popped the cork and poured. I also didn’t like where her eyes lingered. After he sat, she raised her glass and tipped it toward him, then drank deeply.

  Jamie sipped from his glass, a small smile on his face that was meant for me. Champagne makes him as silly as a five-year-old with a secret. “His activities must have been difficult for you,” he said to BonBon.

  “We do each other the favor of not discussing our personal lives. He plays when it is convenient. The more famous he is, the more convenient it is.” Her voice sounded shaky. A look of sadness crossed her face, but no tears, then she quickly composed herself. “I thought you were interviewing me, Monsieur Sherwood, for the society page.”

  So much for small talk.

  “Yes,” he said, turning on the tape recorder and taking out his notepad. “Tell me about your background, Mrs
. Bontecou. What would you like the people of Austin, Texas, to know about your life?”

  She told him about growing up in Nice, the daughter of a banker and a ballet dancer. How she rebelled against her parents’ desire for her to meet wealthy men through the proper social channels, instead preferring to be a cocktail waitress in the casinos in Monte Carlo, which was where she met Évariste. “Évariste tells everyone we met at a casino, yes, but he always forgets to mention that I was serving him cognac and he tipped me one thousand francs each time.” She laughed coldly. “Those lies of his do not matter now,” she said, taking another swig of champagne, “so I will tell you the truth. It is true that he proposed to me the night of our first meeting, but he was drunk and I said no. That he does not tell about.”

  Too bad Jamie wasn’t interviewing her for a real article. This was good stuff.

  “Évariste has a drink problem,” she continued. “And a gambling problem. And a women problem. Which means we have a money problem.” She stubbed out her cigarette and prepared another one, which Jamie dutifully lit for her. This time, she cupped her hand around his and gazed at him through the veil of smoke curling between them.

  I shut the bathroom door harder than I needed to. BonBon let out a yip and looked my way, then back to Jamie. “Are you married, Monsieur Sherwood?”

  Why did she have to keep calling him Monsieur like that?

  Jamie refilled her champagne glass. “Divorced.”

  “So you know about … how do you say … compromise. About doing what must be done for the sake of the marriage, for the children.”

  The smoke reached my side of the room, tickling my nose again. I pressed on my upper lip so hard my gums receded. I should have walked into the bathroom to let the urge pass, but didn’t want to miss anything. I pressed harder.

  “Yes, I do understand,” Jamie said. “Were there a lot of compromises in your marriage?”