Hare Today, Dead Tomorrow

by Cynthia Baxter

  What’s on the menu? I wondered. Black bean soup? Blackened catfish? Blackberry tart?

  I was tempted to share my cleverness with my charming host, but I got the feeling he didn’t possess a particularly well-developed sense of humor.

  Besides, he clearly wanted me out of there. “Is there anything else I can help you with?” he asked sharply. His hands still in constant motion, he added, “I’m extremely busy.”

  “I can see that,” I couldn’t resist replying, glancing at the rows of empty tables.

  “In back,” he explained haughtily. “We’re preparing for dinner.”

  “Then I’ll leave you to it and let myself out. Thanks for all your help.”

  Instead of taking me at my word, the owner of G followed a few paces behind. When I opened the door to leave, he let out a yelp. He sounded like he was in pain.

  Before I had a chance to say something polite like, “Should I administer CPR?” he moaned, “What is that?”

  I glanced out the front door, expecting to see something horrifying like a mugging or a carjacking or someone carrying a fake Prada pocketbook. But all I saw was my van. It took me a second or two to realize that was exactly what had elicited his horrified reaction.

  “My place of business,” I replied coolly. “I’m a veterinarian. See?” I reached into my pocket and pulled out one of my business cards. When he didn’t seem the least bit inclined to take it from me, I deposited it on the front desk. “That van out there serves as my clinic.”

  “Surely you’re not planning on keeping that—that thing in my parking lot?” he huffed. His face had turned an interesting shade of red, making it the most colorful thing in the entire room. “I don’t want it scaring my customers away!”

  “I won’t be here long,” I said crossly. I couldn’t resist adding, “Thanks again, pal.”

  I hurried off, glad to be out of there. Unfortunately, I didn’t expect to get any warmer a reception at my real destination.

  Granite, I discovered as I stepped into my second restaurant of the day, was well-named. As soon as I walked in, I was confronted with huge slabs of slick, glossy stone. The floor was black granite, streaked with silver and white in a wave pattern, and the walls were speckled gray. Even the front counter was made of granite, making it a formidable fortress that separated the maître d’ from the huddled masses yearning to be fed.

  The effect was dramatic, but cold. And very primitive. In fact, I half-expected Fred Flintstone to come out of the kitchen hauling a tray of brontosaurus burgers.

  Unlike its competitor, Granite was buzzing with activity. A man who was presumably the bartender stood behind the speckled rose-and-gray-granite bar, cutting lemons and limes into neat wedges. Meanwhile, a young woman busily filled each of the vases centered on the tables with three fresh blossoms. From the back, I could hear the kitchen staff bustling around, no doubt engaged in all manner of slicing and dicing as they prepared for the onslaught of the dinner crowd.

  Almost immediately, a man about my age strode toward me, the heels of his highly polished shoes clicking purposefully against the smooth, hard floor. He was dressed in a gray suit that looked hand-sewn, if the tiny stitches around the collar were any indication, and his shirt was a dazzlingly bright shade of white. His hair looked painted on, thanks to some kind of hair gel that held each dark brown strand in place.

  “How may I help you?” he asked cordially.

  “I’m looking for Robert Reese,” I said.

  “I’m Robert Reese,” he said. Just by uttering those simple words, he exhibited a pompousness that made the proprietor of G look like an amateur. Then again, I figured, maybe the ability to make others feel as if they should have slunk in through the service entrance was a qualification for the job.

  “My name is Jessica Popper,” I said, standing up a little straighter. “I was wondering if I could have a few minutes of your time.”

  He peered at me more closely, as if he might be trying to figure out just how many minutes of his precious time, if any, I deserved. “You’re from...where?”

  I took a deep breath. “I’m a friend of Suzanne’s.”

  His expression instantly changed from aloof to outraged. He grabbed my arm and maneuvered me into a short hallway that, from the looks of things, led to the kitchen.

  “How dare you come here!” he cried. “How dare you even speak to me!”

  “Mr. Reese—Robert—I understand that you’re upset,” I said, struggling to keep my voice from wavering. “But you must listen to me. She is not in any way responsible for what happened to Cassandra. You know Suzanne. You were married to her, for heaven’s sake! Surely you must realize there’s absolutely no way she could have been involved!”

  He stared at me coldly. “I might actually have believed that, at one time. But you’re absolutely right when you say that I know Suzanne. We have a long history together, and I’m completely aware of exactly who she is and what she’s capable of.” He sniffed. “I had my moment of truth, all right—at the expense of my Starsky and Hutch lunch box.”

  I blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “Suzanne knew how much I loved that thing,” he said in a low, icy tone. “I carried my lunch to school in it every day from second grade until fifth grade, when lunch boxes became socially unacceptable. When I think of all the peanut butter and Marshmallow Fluff sandwiches my mom made, all those little packets of elf-shaped cookies she tucked in there, just for me...” His voice became too choked to go on. He took a deep breath before adding, “It was one of the few things in my life I’ve truly treasured.”

  I just listened, curious about where he could possibly be going with this. But the fire in his eyes told me that, sooner or later, I’d find out.

  “And then . . . and then...when we were almost through with the divorce proceedings and we were dividing up all our stuff—in an extremely civilized manner, I might add—I suddenly remembered it. I’d stored my beloved lunch box in a carton with some of my other valuables.”

  Like your KISS and Alice Cooper records? I wondered. Or maybe your stash of Pop Rocks?

  “I looked for it, but it wasn’t where it was supposed to be,” he went on bitterly. “So I asked Suzanne, very calmly, where it was. Do you know what she did?”

  I didn’t, but I would have bet my clinic-on-wheels that she hadn’t whipped out a sharp object and gone berserk.

  “She laughed! And not just any laugh either. It was a cruel, high-pitched laugh! ‘I gave it away,’ she said. She gave it away!”

  I cleared my throat. “Well, obviously that was rather... vengeful. But she was undoubtedly going through a difficult time, with the stress of the divorce and all, and—”

  “But that’s my point!” Robert insisted. “Suzanne can be vicious! She’s capable of things I never would have thought possible! There’s no limit to what she can do!”

  “Surely you must see there’s a difference between getting rid of a lunch box and committing murder!” I cried.

  “Is there?” he replied coldly. “Cassandra was my life. I adored her. I loved her like . . . like no man has ever loved a woman. The two of us clicked the very first time she walked into my restaurant, not long after I told Suzanne I’d had enough of her extreme behavior and wanted out of our marriage.

  “I remember meeting Cassandra like it was yesterday. She showed up here wearing a black suit and carrying a briefcase, looking like she was working for Donald Trump instead of her family’s winery. Then she launched into her sales pitch, trying to convince me to add Thorndike Vineyards’ entire line to my wine list, instead of just their chardonnay and merlot...”

  He sighed wistfully. “I even remember every word of our first conversation. We talked about how important it is for restaurants to offer really good wines by the glass, instead of just by the bottle. We agreed on that point one hundred percent. It was clear from the start that we were made for each other.”

  Funny; I didn’t recall the “good-wine-by-the-bottle-versus-by-the
-glass” discussion ever being part of my dating history.

  “Cassie and I were about to begin a life together as husband and wife,” Robert went on with the same intensity. “Don’t you see that Suzanne had already demonstrated just how far she was willing to go to hurt me?”

  An icy glaze covered his eyes, one that told me he’d frozen me out. “I think you should leave,” he said. “Now.”

  “But Suzanne’s entire future is on the line!” I protested.

  “I have nothing more to say to either you or Suzanne. Except that I hope she gets exactly what she deserves.”

  He turned abruptly and stalked off, the staccato clicking of his shoes punctuating his exit. I stood watching him, my head spinning over his unwillingness to even consider the possibility that Suzanne was innocent.

  Still, now that he’d made his position clear, I knew I couldn’t expect any help from him.

  Struggling to catch my breath as a crushing wave of defeat washed over me, I turned to leave. In fact, I’d almost made it to the door when I heard, “Mademoiselle! Wait!”

  At least, I thought that was what I heard. Glancing around, I didn’t see a soul aside from the members of the restaurant’s staff who were focused on setting up for dinner.

  “Attendez-wait!” This time, I knew I wasn’t imagining things. Even I didn’t make up voices that spoke in French.

  Sure enough—this time, when I looked around, I spotted a stout, fortyish man with the same chubby cheeks and soft tummy as the Pillsbury Doughboy peering out at me from the door that opened into the kitchen. He was also wearing the same kind of chef’s toque the little guy from the TV ads wore, along with a crisp white apron.

  “Come inside,” he insisted, beckoning with his hand. “I would like to talk weeth you.”

  I scanned the restaurant, making sure Robert Reese was nowhere in sight. Then I ducked into what turned out to be the back of the kitchen. Because the spacious cooking area was L-shaped, the rest of the staff couldn’t see us.

  “Are you the chef?” I asked, noticing that he seemed to have staked out this part of the kitchen for himself. A huge stainless-steel bowl was filled with flour. A second one, not quite as large, contained a mountain of eggs. In between, rolled out on the counter, was a thin circle of dough as big as a pizza. Other ingredients—a mound of cocoa, a basket of plump red strawberries—sat in wait.

  “I am zee pastry chef,” he replied in a thick French accent. “Jean-Luc Le Bec. But please, call me Jean-Luc.” He picked up a tray of the most delectable pastries I’d ever seen in my life. “Napoleon?”

  “Thanks, but not before dinner.” I was tempted, but somehow, I had the feeling that one of Robert Reese’s key employees hadn’t sneaked me into his kitchen for the sole purpose of impressing me with his puff pastry.

  He glanced around nervously. “I overheard what Robert said to you about hees great love for Cassandra.”

  Eavesdropping? I liked this man already. “Yes?” I prompted.

  “Perhaps thees is not my business, but I cannot stand by while terrible lies are being told.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice to a hoarse whisper. I was pretty sure I could smell chocolate on his breath. “The truth is that Robert and Cassandra, they would fight like—how do you say—cats and dogs. Sacré bleu, they break up all the time! The wedding ees on, the wedding ees off...” He shrugged helplessly. “Those of us who know them both, we are never sure eef they are madly in love or the worst of enemies. And we are certainly not one hundred percent certain that thees wedding will really take place.”

  “I see.” And I did see. While it had occurred to me before that Robert Reese could have had something to do with his fiancée’s murder, he’d suddenly moved into a primo spot on my list of suspects. “Monsieur Le Bec, do you remember—”

  “Jean-Luc,” he insisted.

  “Jean-Luc.” Just saying his name required using muscles in my cheeks I hadn’t even realized I possessed. “Jean-Luc, do you remember any conversations Robert and Cassandra had right before she was murdered? Did they argue? Or talk about the wedding or...or their relationship?”

  He frowned pensively. “I know they recently had a terrible fight about what kind of icing to use between the layers of the wedding cake. Moi, I refused to get involved. When the bride wants whipped cream and the groom prefers buttercream, there ees no doubt that the situation is going to become—how do you say—zee explosion!”

  Maybe in your world, I thought, careful not to let my disappointment show. “Was there anything else you heard them talking about—perhaps last weekend?”

  Once again, he glanced around. My heart began to pound. I was sure the happy couple had to have disagreed on something a little more important than which combination of fats and carbohydrates would be most appropriate for celebrating the beginning of their life together.

  “Last Sunday, I overheard Cassandra arguing with Robert.” Jean-Luc pronounced the name the French way, with the accent on the second syllable: Ro-bear. “They were fighting about the best way of dealing with Preston DeVane.”

  “Who?”

  Jean-Luc sniffed. “Preston DeVane, the owner of G.”

  Aha! I thought. So I wasn’t the only one who found the restaurateur next door to be less than neighborly.

  “The man ees a total fraud,” Jean-Luc hissed, waving his arms in the air histrionically. “He tells everyone he studied cooking in Paris. He forgets to add that he’s referring to Paris, Texas, and that his training consisted of taking a class in—how do you say—zee adult education.”

  I could understand how such a misrepresentation could be a serious threat to the public’s confidence in the man’s meringues. But I didn’t get how Cassandra and Robert fit in.

  “But what did that have to do with Granite?” I asked.

  “Cassandra was insisting that Robert should sue him. But Robert, he said that fighting him in the courts would only—how do you say—aggravate zee situation.”

  “And what exactly was ‘the situation’?” I asked, my curiosity piqued.

  Jean-Luc shook his head and clucked in a way that only a Frenchman can cluck. Or a chicken. “Preston DeVane is a truly wicked man.”

  My ears pricked up like Max’s when he hears me use the word ride in a sentence. Calling someone “wicked” was fightin’ words, at least where I come from. I had the feeling it was pretty much the same en France.

  “Do you mean...he’s rude?” I already knew the answer to that question.

  “Nom de dieu, eet is much worse than that! He has done the most unethical things,” Jean-Luc sputtered. “I have actually seen him—weeth my own eyes!—standing outside as our waitstaff was leaving za building late at night. I see heem in our parking lot!”

  “To scare them?” I asked, confused.

  “To offer them more money! He has stolen from us two of our best waiters...and...and...” He stopped, closing his eyes and drawing his puffy lips into a straight line. “He stole our sous-chef!”

  “Shocking,” I said, giving a little cluck of my own. While I recognized that the restaurateur next door was guilty of unethical behavior, I was disappointed that his past crimes weren’t a little more extreme.

  “And that ees not all!” Jean-Luc continued. “He has come here, acting as eef he were just another customer!”

  No law against that, I thought. But I could see from the crazed look in Jean-Luc’s eyes that, to him, this was a major infraction.

  “He has ordered everything on the menu, and then tasted...just a leetle! Just enough so he can steal all our ideas!” A venomous look crossed his face. “Even my signature dessert, my crème brûlée with chocolate drizzle and raspberry compote. The next thing you know, I read in the New York Times that G is now featuring an innovative new dessert, crème brûlée with chocolate drizzle and strawberry compote. I am telling you, there ees no end to what Preston DeVane will do to destroy Granite!”

  “That’s horrible!” I exclaimed, doing my best to sound sympathetic.

>   I had to admit that I’d never really thought of the restaurant business as dog-eat-dog. But Jean-Luc’s comments were putting it in a whole new light. The industry was apparently fraught with pressures, from impressing reviewers to pleasing demanding customers to coming up with unique ways of combining sugar and fat. And here I’d thought all a restaurant had to do to succeed was serve up a decent meal.

  And given this cutthroat climate, Preston DeVane certainly sounded like trouble. Deciding that it made sense to take a closer look at him and his restaurant, I added Have dinner at G to my mental To Do list.

  Still, pouring a little chocolate syrup over crème brûlée and tossing a few strawberries onto the plate was a far cry from murdering your competitor’s fiancée.

  As I turned off Minnesauke Lane and onto the long driveway that led to my cottage, I realized that my foray to the East End had left me exhausted. My head was spinning from all the people I’d met and the conversations I’d had, first at Thorndike Vineyards, then at the Thorndikes’ home, and finally at the two restaurants I’d visited in East Brompton. I couldn’t wait to share it all with Nick—not only everything I’d learned, but also the big white box of pastries that Jean-Luc had insisted on sending home with me, enough napoleons and éclairs and other luscious-looking pastries to keep my late-afternoon cup of coffee from getting lonely for a long, long time.

  It felt surprisingly good to walk into my cottage and find him sitting on the couch, looking very much at home. The prospect of us living together, which I would have expected would make me break out in hives, was turning out to seem less terrifying than I thought. After all, it seemed like such a practical solution to the crisis surrounding Nick’s living arrangements, especially since it was only temporary.

  Besides, there was something to be said for having a human being excited about me coming home, instead of just members of the canine, feline, and avian groups.

  Of course, officially saying hello to Nick had to wait until I’d gone through Max and Lou’s usual greeting. As always, they both stuck their noses through the front door even before I’d gotten it open, so anxious to give me the greeting they felt I deserved that they fell all over each other, their paws skittering across the wooden floor. Lou had an advantage, since his gangly legs were so much longer than Max’s. But Max was a terrier, and terriers never give up.