As crazy as she’d behaved with Joy, however, I frankly couldn’t see Brigitte Rouille bolting out of Solange and hopping a train to Queens to take out her frustrations on Vincent Buccelli in a homicidal bender. That assumption made me feel a little guilty about giving Salinas her name—but only a little.
If Brigitte wasn’t guilty of murdering Vinny, then she had little to fear from some police questioning. In fact, maybe a visit from the authorities would inspire the troubled woman to seek some professional help before she did hurt someone.
So who else could have done it? I’d been asking myself this for hours, of course, and after Salinas released my daughter, I’d specifically asked Joy about Vinny’s friends or a possible boyfriend. She said he was a loner, and it was totally news to her that he was gay. On the other hand, she confirmed that he’d never talked about having a girlfriend or liking any girl, and he’d certainly never made a pass at her.
If Vinny Buccelli was in the closet, could he have been carrying on some kind of secret gay affair that went badly?
By the end of the evening, Lieutenant Salinas had started asking questions around that exact theory. Vinny could have been the victim of a crime of passion, a gay lover or encounter that had turned deadly. If so, the young man’s secret affair could have been with another student at the culinary school or a fellow cook at Solange. Who else would carry a ten-inch French knife around with them?
As I lay there in the living room, watching the slowly breaking dawn lighten the world beyond my French doors, I considered calling Mike Quinn.
I’d thought about Mike earlier, too, while I was waiting for Joy to be released in Queens. But I’d decided not to bother him. He’d been leading his own important task force into the wee hours, and there was little he could have done to influence a man like Salinas anyway. I figured it would be better to let things play out, let Salinas see for himself that there was no reason to suspect Joy of murder.
I’ll be seeing Mike soon enough, anyway, I told myself. I’ll ask for his advice when he drops by the coffeehouse.
Finally, just before five, I dozed off.
Around nine I awoke to the sound of a coffee grinder. I moaned, rolled over on the couch cushions, and pulled the throw up to my neck. Technically, this was my morning to sleep in because Tucker was opening the Blend, but when I heard the sound of laughter a few minutes later, and smelled the aroma of my freshly brewing Morning Sunshine Blend, I sat up.
Voices and another laugh came from the kitchen. I got to my feet, wrapped myself in my baggy terrycloth robe, and approached the kitchen doorway.
“Okay, muffin,” Matt’s voice declared. “You made coffee for me, so I’ll cook breakfast for you.”
“With one arm?” Joy replied.
“I can cook an egg with one arm. Just watch me.”
I smiled, pausing just outside the room to eavesdrop a little more.
“Step aside, Dad, and I’ll cook you the best egg you’ve ever tasted!”
“Better than my famous peppers and eggs?”
“Much better,” Joy said.
“Then I defer to your expertise.”
I heard a chair move and then a clank as a pan hit the stove top. The refrigerator door opened next.
“That’s how I got my job at Solange, you know.” Joy said. “For my audition, Tommy told me to cook him an egg.”
“That doesn’t sound like much of a test,” Matt said.
“You’re wrong, Dad. According to Tommy, it’s the simplest ingredients that truly test a chef’s skill and imagination—not to mention technique.”
I continued to listen, feeling only a little guilty for spying. It was a charming domestic scene that would have warmed my heart a decade ago, when it would have counted. Now it only made me sad and maybe a little resentful, too.
It was so easy for the two of them now. But then Matt always had been the yearned-for parent. Oh sure, he showed for the important moments: birthday parties, school plays, high school graduation. He’d arrive laden with presents and stories about exotic, faraway places. For Joy, those were the good times, with a doting, if temporary, father. And then Matt was gone, before the return of the disappointments, arguments, and frustrations of normal, messy, everyday living.
During Matt’s absences, I raised my daughter as well as I could, but I resented having to be the sole authority figure, the de facto disciplinarian, the spoilsport, the stickler. I was the miser who vetoed things that were too costly, the prude who said no to activities a teenager didn’t have the maturity to handle.
“You know, I can make a pretty good egg,” Matt said.
“Sure. Uh-huh,” Joy said skeptically.
“Don’t you remember those peppers and eggs I cooked for your eleventh birthday?”
“That was my ninth birthday, Dad. And the answer is yes, I remember—”
“Doesn’t seem that long ago.”
“That’s because you’re old now.”
“Excuse me, little girl, but those eggs must have been pretty good for you to remember them.”
“How could I forget such a disgusting, greasy mess?”
“You’ve got to be kidding! My peppers and eggs are world famous.”
“You should have drained the peppers before you added the eggs.”
“Drain the peppers? But that’s where the savory flavor is—”
“It’s grease, Dad. Artery-clogging, cottage-cheese-thigh-creating grease. All it does is make you fat.”
“Fat? Do I look fat to you? No, wait, don’t answer that. I’ve been living pretty easy with Breanne, and this arm has interfered with my workouts for the last few weeks.”
“Is that why you’re getting a paunch?”
I covered my mouth to stifle the snort.
“I do not have a paunch,” Matt replied, sounding appropriately irritated. “What are you, size four?
“Six.”
“In my opinion, you should eat more. You don’t want to end up like the skinny models in Breanne’s magazine. They wolf down the catered lunch, then throw it back up right before the shoot.”
“Gross,” Joy said. “I could never do the bulimia thing, which is too bad, because I love to eat. And my butt’s too big.”
“Your butt is not too big,” Matt rightly affirmed. “In fact, you look skinny to me, and nobody trusts a skinny chef. You should pack on a few pounds, just enough to show you like to eat. Look at your mother—”
“Ahem!” I exclaimed, deciding it was a good time to cut Matt off.
Walking into the kitchen, I found Joy standing by the stove in sweatpants and a T-shirt, and my ex-husband lounging at the table, his hand around a mug, a floor-length silk Japanese kimono swathing his muscular body (Breanne again. No doubt).
Matt brightened when he saw me. “Clare? How did you sleep?”
“Sleep?” I muttered. “What’s that?”
“Come here, Mom,” Joy said, looking serious.
“What?” I said. “What did I do now?”
My daughter’s arms opened wide. “You only totally came to my rescue twice!” she exclaimed, and before I knew it, Joy was hugging me like she used to when she was a little girl. “Thank you, Mom,” she said, swaying back and forth with me in her arms. “You were so great, coming to Vinny’s last night and standing up to that detective! I don’t know what I’d do without you! I love you!”
My eyes met Matt’s. He was smiling so big I thought his face was about to split.
“Am I dreaming?” I whispered to him.
He shook his head. “Your daughter loves you. You don’t believe her?”
“Joy,” I said, “your dad helped last night, too. I never would have made it up to Vinny’s apartment without your father’s innate ability to act like a big, dumb jerk.”