“Man, Chef Moon Pac really went all out on the presentation.” Perry’s genial mask was obviously back in place (if it was a mask).
Chastain signaled to his waiter. “Is this sotong?”
“That’s squid for you civilians,” Roman said.
The waiter shook his head. “Stingray.”
As I considered my next line of questioning, I watched the waiters place three large white bowls on the table. Each contained a mashed chili paste that resembled a thick salsa. Beside each was a plate of bamboo skewers.
“This is sambal belacan, very hot,” the hostess said. “It contains a chili pepper called bhut jolokia—”
“Christ, are you kidding me?” Chastain squawked. “That stuff’s like an 800,000 on the Scoville scale!”
“The what scale?” asked a man at the end of the table.
Roman rolled his eyes. “The Scoville heat unit is used to assess the chemical heat given off by capsaicin, the active ingredient in chili peppers.”
“Please use the skewers to dip the seafood into the sauce. Don’t get any on your hands, or touch your eyes,” the hostess warned. “When we handle these peppers in the kitchen, we wear rubber gloves.”
As an added precaution, the waitstaff set small plates of black-speckled salt beside the volcanic sauce. Curious, I tasted some with my finger. It was salty, of course, but with the added licorice taste of five-spice powder. (I didn’t know a lot about Asian cooking, but I did know five-spice powder was used extensively in Chinese dishes and consisted of equal parts cinnamon, cloves, fennel seeds, star anise, and Szechuan peppercorns.)
“If the fire is too much, use the salt to cleanse your palate,” the hostess warned. “Wine, water, or tea will only make the peppers burn longer.”
Rafe Chastain boldly skewered a strip of stingray and dipped it into the sauce. As he chewed, we all waited to see if he’d keel over or run screaming from the room.
“Wow,” he said, face flushed. “That’s a real mouth peeler. But tasty.”
Intrigued, I followed his lead, touching the corner of my fish into the potent sauce. When I bit into the stingray, nothing happened at first. Then the inside of my nose began to burn, and I blinked back tears. When the heat reached my throat, I was certain I’d swallowed fire. But as the burn subsided, other layers of flavor surfaced. I coughed, tasting a sweet and tangy smokiness.
Unable to stand the burn, I took a quick spoonful of salt, which made me cough some more. I felt a bead of perspiration roll down my back. The experience was capped by a rush of pleasure that must have resembled a drug high.
“Whoa...” I croaked. “That clears your sinuses.”
“Feeling good, Clare?” Chastain grinned big as he took another look down my blouse. “Pleasure chemicals are releasing now in that hot and tasty little body of yours to counteract the capsaicin. Endorphins are a real aphrodisiac, by the way. It ain’t opium, but it’s legal.”
Good Lord, Chastain’s getting drunker by the dish. But I’m not cutting him any slack. One more look down my blouse, and I’m pouring that hot sauce down his pants!
Neville Perry opened his mouth and waved air into it. “I’d serve this—if I still had a restaurant.”
The tone was dry again. Perry was back to self-deprecation. He even shot me a wink. Clearly, my friendship with the hated Breanne wasn’t that serious of an issue to him.
Maybe if I poke the wound a little...
“But, Neville, your restaurant was ruined. Your reputation shredded. Don’t you miss running your own business?”
Perry shook his head. “Truthfully, Clare, I have no regrets. In the end, having the Wicked Witch of Style criticize my restaurant was a stroke of luck.”
“Luck?” I blinked. “You’re being ironic, right?”
I was waiting for the rage, the obscenities, the verbal threats to Breanne that he’d naturally want me to convey to her. But Perry remained relaxed, authentically, it appeared.
“Honestly, running that place was wearing me down. Now that it’s closed, I’ve launched a new career as a food writer. My blogs about Breanne have opened up some surprising opportunities. Her rival publications are lining up to offer me assignments in their magazines, a publisher’s just bought my cookbook, and two newspaper syndicates are in a bidding war to put me under contract for a national column on food and wine.”
“Wait... you’re saying that you’re happy with how things turned out?”
Neville shrugged. “In a way, I owe Breanne a thank-you—not that she’s ever going to get one from me. Skewering Trend’s trendsetter is just too damn much fun. She’s burned a lot of people over the years, and they’re my most loyal readers.”
Neville Perry was glowing now, and it was more than the effect of the bhut jolokia. The culinary school graduate was obviously a mama’s boy who wanted fame and fortune but didn’t want to work very hard or long to get it. Writing blog entries and restaurant reviews was apparently a lot easier for Perry than running a restaurant, so he’d found a happier career path. He looked pretty proud of himself, too, and the truth is, the man really was turning his devastating failure into success. I couldn’t condemn him for that. More to the point, I was beginning to conclude that Matt’s bride-to-be had been right all along.
This man was a joker (or a joke, depending on your view of his past). But a killer? No, I don’t think so. Sure, his feelings toward Breanne weren’t charitable, but then neither were mine.
I began to get irritated with myself for going on this wild-goose chase. The day felt totally wasted. What I’d witnessed at Breanne’s magazine was classic office politics. Big deal. Alert the media. Neville Perry’s black-wrapped meat cleaver was my strongest lead—and it had led me to a dead end. I was sure of it.
I forcefully speared another piece of stingray and dipped it in the hotter-than-hell sauce. But before I could take the first bite, there was a loud crash in the foyer, and a woman cried out.
I stared in horror, the skewer hanging between my plate and my mouth, as our gentle hostess was pushed through the kitchen doorway so hard she bounced off the wall. Then the waiters and two men in kitchen smocks marched into the room single file, their hands behind their heads.
Finally, three men charged into the room. They were all in dark clothes, and their heads and faces were covered with black ski masks. The tallest of the three waved a big, nasty-looking handgun.
“If nobody moves, nobody gets hurt,” said the tall man with the gun, his voice muffled by the ski mask.
“What’s going on here?” One of the well-heeled guests rose from his chair. “What do you men want?”
You idiot, I thought. Sit down and shut up.
Too late. One of the two shorter bandits stepped forward, snatched a bottle of wine from the table, and clubbed the man with it. The woman beside him screamed as the outraged diner dropped back into his seat, clutching his head.
“Didn’t you hear me?! I said nobody move!” the armed man cried, dark eyes wild behind the mask.
The shorter bandit stepped around the gunman.
“Your wallets, jewelry, watches, and money in this bag.” He tossed a red pillowcase at the woman. “Fill it now, lady! Before jefe decides to pop someone!”