The Wedding Soup Murder: An Italian Kitchen Mystery (15 page)

“I really appreciate this, Tim,” I said, glancing at his stony profile. “I know you don’t get that much time off.”
And that I’m taking you away from Lacey. Sadly.

“This is a stupid idea, Vic. You know that, right? Chef Bridges is probably gonna throw us straight out of her kitchen.
If
she’s even there.” He’d insisted on driving my Honda to the Belmont Club. (Apparently, I drive like an old lady.)

He was keeping his eyes on the road, his brows
knitted into a permanent frown. Though Lacey would no doubt turn it upside down later this evening. “I can’t believe you would get yourself involved in something like this again,” he said. “After last time.”

It occurred to me that
After Last Time
would make a great movie or book title. Too bad I was sick of hearing it. “Tim, I didn’t get myself involved. It happened the minute I overheard that conversation between Elizabeth Merriman and Dr. Chickie. And please don’t repeat that to anybody, okay?”

“Who am I gonna tell?”

“I don’t know. Your girlfriend, maybe?”

“We’re just dating. She’s not my girlfriend.”

Somehow a bitter little laugh escaped from my lips. “Does she know that?”

But Tim chose not to answer. We rode in silence for a few minutes; then I noticed Tim curl his lip, as though he’d thought of something distasteful. “So, what about you and Lockhart?” he asked.

“What about it? We’ve been out on one date and taken one walk together. Hardly a relationship.”

“But you’re going out with him again?”

“If he asks.”

He grunted, still frowning, and I thought the better of this line of conversation. “You know what, Tim?” I said. “I think we need another rule: no talking about our love lives.”

“Fine by me.” He pointed to the now familiar white building in the distance. “We’re just about there, Vic.”

As we approached the Belmont Club, I developed a nice case of the stomach flutters. Toscano had just
warned me off, yet here I was, back for another spot of investigating. “Hey, Tim? Would you wait in the car a minute after we park?”

“What the hell for? You just dragged me all the way down here to give you an excuse to get in.”

“Hang on, will you? I just need to check in with Sally at the bar for a minute, okay? We should probably make sure Kate is here. I’ll meet you back in the kitchen.” I neglected to tell him that if Jack Toscano was anywhere around, I planned to abandon the whole idea. But Tim was already cranky. “Wait for me to text you.”

He made his displeasure evident by screeching to a stop in the rear parking lot. “I told you we should have called first.”

“Kate never would have said yes.”

“There’s no guarantee she’ll even see us, Vic.”

Trying not to notice his impressive biceps, I patted his upper arm. “Just turn on the old Trouvare charm, pal.”

The delivery entrance to the club was open. Once inside, I skirted around the kitchen and made my way down the long hallway that led to the bar, sending up a quick prayer to St. Jude, the patron of lost causes. He must have been listening, because I got to the bar unhindered. I popped my head in, and was rewarded by a wave and a grin from Sally.

“If it ain’t the mystery writer! How ya doing, Victoria?”

“I’m good, Sally, thanks. Listen, is Kate here?”

She nodded, drawing a slow circle in the air around
her ear. “Crazy Kate’s here all right. And today’s lipstick is brought to you by the color purple.”

“Oh, good. I mean that she’s here, not the purple lipstick.” I peered inside the bar to make sure it was empty. “Uh, one more thing. Is Toscano around?”

She shook her head. “Did you need to talk to him?”

“No! Definitely not.” I pulled my head out of the doorway. “So, I’m just gonna go look for Kate.”

“Good luck with that!” she called after me.

I was in the middle of texting Tim when my head shot up at the sound of a deep, accented voice. Chef Etienne Boulé, he of the silver hair and bedroom eyes, stood blocking my passage in the hallway.

I flashed him a hopeful smile. “Chef Boulé, you may remember me from an event last weekend. I’m from the Casa Lido restaurant?” As his expression didn’t change, I made a desperate attempt at charm. “You may not recognize me without my hairnet,” I said, smiling wider and patting my freshly styled hair.

He nodded briefly. “You still have not told me why you are here.”

“Oh. Well, our sous chef, Tim Trouvare, was hoping to observe Chef Kate at work, since she is a renowned
pâtissière
,” I said, murdering the French with my high school accent. I tried not to notice him wince.

“I don’t know what you think you are doing,
mademoiselle
,” he said, “but Chef Kate will not take kindly to someone attempting to, shall we say,
imitate
her work.”

I gasped. “Did you think we were here to steal her recipes? I promise, Chef, we would never do such a
thing. Truly. Tim and I simply want to watch her work.”

He stood in the middle of the hallway, arms crossed. I was close enough to catch the faint scents of sandalwood and tobacco, and I was arrested by his dark eyes. “Let us hope that is the case,” he said. One side of his mouth lifted in amusement, and just as I was thinking how attractive he was, I caught sight of his wedding ring. Some girls had all the luck.

“No more than one hour,
mademoiselle
,” he said, holding up a finger. “If you last that long. Now, if you will excuse me.” The moment he was past, I finished the text.
Coast is clear
.

But just because the coast was clear didn’t mean I was comfortable sailing it. I slunk down the quiet hallway toward the kitchen, hoping Tim would get there ahead of me. Even if Kate was immune to Tim’s charms, he still stood a better chance with her than I did. I pushed open the heavy doors slowly, a sense of dread shadowing me as I entered the spacious kitchen. We would probably get kicked right out on our behinds. Even if we could stay awhile, there was no guarantee I’d find out anything about Kate’s past or her argument with Elizabeth.

Inside, a few of Chef Etienne’s staff were prepping at various stations, but none appeared to notice me. That is, except for my old friend Antoine, who greeted me with some dubious French words and an expressive leer.

I hurried past him, thinking I’d take my chances with Crazy Chef Kate, whose voice boomed from the
dark recesses of the kitchen. “What the hell are
you
doing back?”

I heard Tim’s deep tones, but not his words, as he tried to calm her. “No way,” she responded. “I work alone.”

Once I was within earshot, I paused to listen. “But, Chef,” Tim said, “I just want to observe. Everybody in the business knows your pastry work is primo.”

Primo? You couldn’t have come up with a better one there, ace?
Just as I entered Kate’s lair, she wheeled around and pointed a shaking finger at me. “And what are
you
doing sneaking around?”

Whoa. That
was
some purple lipstick. She was also wearing purple eye shadow and two bright spots of blush. That and her green head scarf gave her the look of an oversized grape. “I’m . . . I’m not,” I stuttered. “I mean, I’m with Tim.”

“Well, you can both turn around and go home. I’m not interested in babysitting either one of you. I’ve got work to do.”

Tim dialed up his smile from charming to blinding. “What are you working on today, Chef?”

Kate let out a sigh. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m making puff pastry for a peach
tarte tatin
.”

“Oh, my gosh,” I said, “we just did a peach
torta
, didn’t we, Tim?” But Tim only rolled his eyes.

“What a coincidence,” Kate said, her hands on her hips. “Considering peaches are in season and all.” She stalked past us to the large refrigerator and I gave Tim a look:
Should we stay?

He lifted his chin slightly, which I took as a yes. I took a place at the corner of her work counter, and Tim stood a respectful distance behind her. Holding the wrapped dough, she looked at us in disgust.

“All right,” she said. “I can see I’m not gonna get rid of you. You, Casa Lido Chick, stay right where you are.” She frowned deeply, her snaky eyebrows wiggling in her forehead. Then she turned to Tim, her expression softening by a fraction. “You, Mr. Charming, you can watch. But stay outta my space.”

“Yes, Chef,” he said, brushing me away with his hand as though it were a tiny broom and I was a dust bunny. I frowned at him, but moved down a bit.

Why was she willing to let us stay? She didn’t seem to need her ego stroked, despite Tim’s flattery. Chef Massimo had talked about her passion for her work; maybe she wanted to share it with an audience. As I watched her clownish face furrow in concentration, I had a different thought. Did she suspect we were here for a different reason? One that had to do with Merriman’s death? Maybe she was simply trying to figure out how much we knew. Whatever her reasons, I had one chance to move the conversation in one of two directions: the night of the murder and her fight with Elizabeth or her own past. Which would get us thrown out faster?

Kate worked on the pastry with mechanical precision, folding it and then smacking it down again with her hands. As she worked—fold, smack, fold, smack—the sweat beaded across her forehead and her breathing was labored. She was tiring quickly. I didn’t know
much about puff pastry (except that it made a mess when I crunched down on it) but Kate was working up a sweat with it. I opened my mouth to ask her about it, but Tim shook his head.

“Have you always wanted to work in pastry, Chef?” he asked.

Kate grunted in assent, grabbed a towel, and swiped it across her forehead, leaving a streak of orange makeup behind. “I started out doing deliveries for a bakery. Then worked my way inside the kitchen.”

Thank you, Tim, for that opening.
“Were you young? When you started, I mean?” Both heads swiveled in my direction; both faces bore the same expression:
Who invited you?

But Kate answered me. “I was fifteen when I worked there.”

“I was about that age when I was bussing tables at the Casa Lido,” Tim said.

“I worked there every summer,” I piped up, but neither of them paid attention.

“Where were you trained, Chef?” Tim asked.

“Paris,” she said. “And New York,” she said breathlessly.

“Wow,” I said. “How does a kid who starts out working in a bakery end up in Paris?”

Kate looked up from her work, her arms rigid. “What do you mean?”

“Oh. Just that it’s sort of a huge leap. I mean, that was an amazing opportunity for you.”

Her eyes shifted to Tim, the dough, and back to me. “Yeah,” was all she said.

I had to push the conversation in a more personal direction; it would be a strain, but probably the only chance I’d have to learn anything about Kate’s past. Without looking at Tim, I took the plunge. “You must have gotten a lot of support from your parents.”

Her hands tightened on the wooden pin. Tim mouthed
What the hell?
over her head, and the silence that followed hung like dark cloud. When she spoke, her tone was deadly. “What do my parents have to do with anything?”

“Nothing. Just . . .” My voice trailed off at the sight of her face. Her painted-on brows smudged from sweat. Her eyes darkened in fury. The orange make-up streaked, her face yellow pale in the places she’d wiped it clean, the lipstick that made her mouth look bruised. What had Sally said about Kate?
That there was something off about her.
And that was especially true at this moment.

“That’s right,” she said. “Nothing. And that’s what I have for the two of you. Nothing. Now get the hell out of my kitchen.”

“Sorry, Chef,” Tim started to say, but she stopped him with a warning hand. I backed away from the counter, spun around, and pushed through the kitchen doors into the hallway. The car was parked out back, but I took the long way around through the front of the building. There’d be hell to pay when Tim caught up with me. But I would happily deal with it.

While I hadn’t learned anything definite, one thing was clear: The mention of Kate’s parents had caused her to react with anger and possibly a hint of fear.
Why? Was she adopted? Or had she been abandoned? Was she, in fact, Elizabeth Merriman’s biological child? If so, she stood to gain a fortune from her death.

Tim was waiting for me when I got to the car; I steeled myself for a lecture, but he was strangely quiet. He had pulled off his bandanna, leaving his curls askew. For just a second, he was my Tim again, and I had to sit on my hands not to touch him.

“Look,” I said, “I know you put yourself on the line for me today. But I did find out something that may be important.”

“Good for you.” His hands rested on the wheel, but he didn’t start the car. He sat unmoving, staring out the front window. Finally he turned to me, his expression dark. “You know that was stupid, right?” he said softly.

“I know, Tim. She might have been somebody who could help you in your career, and now we’ve alienated her—”

His hands tightened on the wheel and his eyes widened. “Is that what you think I’m upset about? Myself?” He shook his head. “You have some opinion of me, Vic.”

“Well, why
are
you upset? I don’t understand.”

He pointed to the building behind us. “In case you haven’t noticed, that woman in there is a psycho. I don’t know why you had to ask her about her parents. For all you know, she could have been the one who killed Merriman, and you just pissed her off big time.”

He was worried about me
. A strange thrill took hold of me as the truth dawned: Tim was actually putting me
ahead of himself. I rested my hand on his arm, and at least he didn’t shake me off. “I don’t intend to have anything else to do with her,” I said. “And I won’t come anywhere near the Belmont Club ever, ever again.”
Unless I get married someday
. But that was a thought best kept to myself.

He patted my hand and sighed. “You have to cut it out with this investigation BS. Stick to the books, okay? You can solve as many mysteries as you want in them.”