“I just wish she’d been this tidy in her personal life, then she wouldn’t be in so much trouble right now.”
On my way to the bedroom to gather up some clothes, I spied a blinking light in the living room: Joy’s and Yvette’s answering machine. The digital display indicated there were nine messages.
I sighed and pressed Play.
“Message one. Thursday, twelve fifty-five p.m.,” the electronic voice announced.
“Bonjour, mon amie,” chirped Yvette. “I’m sitting in an outdoor café on the Left Bank, up to my chin in hommes, hommes, hommes. More fool you for interning in New York City, where all the men are married or unemployed actors. Oo-la-la! I’ll take Paris. Call me—and don’t forget to water the herb garden.”
“I’d better do that before I go,” I reminded myself.
“Message two. Thursday, eight nineteen p.m.”
There was a pause. I heard breathing on the digital recording, from a man who was no longer breathing. Then came the voice of a ghost. A dead man. “Hey. It’s Vinny—”
“Mike, listen!” I cried.
“I’m here,” he said.
“Joy, I have to talk to you,” Vinny said. “I left a message on your cell, too. When you get off work, come out and see me, okay? Something happened last night when I stayed late to do all that prep work Brigitte assigned to me. I was in the walk-in fridge for a long time, so long that Anton Wright thought he was alone. Well, I overheard Mr. Wright in the kitchen—”
There was a long pause, and my heart stopped, thinking the time had run out on the message.
“Anton was talking to someone on his cell,” Vinny continued. “He and this person planned on doing something bad. Stuff you wouldn’t believe. Listen, Joy, you have to come see me. I can’t go in to the restaurant. When Anton saw me, I ran. And now I’m scared to go back. Chef Keitel is, like, never there anymore, and I don’t have his cell number, so I don’t know how to warn him what Anton’s planning, but I know you see him. You have to warn him. He’ll listen to you. Then maybe he can tell me what I should do, too! You have to talk to him before it’s too la—”
“End of message,” the digital voice declared.
“There’s the proof,” I said. “Vinny heard Anton plotting the murder of Tommy Keitel. He tried to tell Joy so she could warn Tommy.”
Mike shook his head. “That’s what you thought you heard, but to anyone else, that message is inconclusive.”
“You’re crazy—”
“Listen to it again, Clare. Then imagine how a jury might hear it. And how a defense attorney might spin it as referring to something completely innocent.”
I played the message again, and my shoulders sagged. “You’re right, Mike. There’s no real proof here.”
“No, there isn’t.” Mike folded his arms. “But I think I know how we can get it.”
“How?”
“Last night you went out on a limb for me. Do you think you could do the same thing for Joy?”
My eyes met Mike’s. “I think we both know the answer to that.”
I arrived at Solange at seven fifteen, almost an hour before the festivities were to begin. I flashed Joy’s invitation to the man at the door.
“Madame, you’re—”
“Early, I know. But I wanted to speak to Mr. Wright and Mrs. Keitel.”
I breezed past the doorman, strode into the dining room.
The tables were set, complete with name tags. Members of the waitstaff were still bustling around. I didn’t recognize anyone, but why should I? For this event, Solange was staffed by men and women from Robbie Gray’s restaurant, Anatomy. The crew from Solange was on the guest list.
I spied Faye Keitel in the middle of the dining room, speaking with a tall maître d’. She looked stylish in a designer gown that put Madame’s green Valentino suit to shame. Her highlighted blond hair was coifed in an elegant French braid, her makeup perfect. Beside the pair, I saw Anton Wright in black tie. He held a wine bottle at arm’s length while he read the label.
Faye tensed when she noticed my approach. Anton sensed her reaction and set the bottle aside.
“Remember me?” I said.
“Oh, hello,” Faye replied, forcing a smile. She glanced at Anton. “This is Clare Cosi. She’s—”
“The mother of Joy Allegro, the innocent girl you framed for murder.”
The maître d’ did a horrified double take. Faye and Anton didn’t even blink.
“Please excuse us, Matthew,” Faye said.
“Very well,” the maître d’ replied, then disappeared into the busy kitchen.
Anton stood beside Faye, arms folded over his chest. Faye Keitel peered down her nose at me.
“You’ve gotten our attention. Say your piece,” she demanded.
I ignored her, faced Anton Wright. “I know all about that phone call the other night. You planned Tommy Keitel’s murder in Solange’s kitchen. Vincent Buccelli told me all about that conversation—before you murdered him.”
“You’re crazy,” he said unconvincingly. Clearly Anton was rattled. But Faye Keitel regarded me through a gaze like ancient ice.
“Why would Anton kill his golden goose?” she asked.
“Because the goose was about to fly the coop. Tommy was bored and wanted a new challenge.”
I faced Anton again. “Tommy told you he was gone when his contract expired, which messed up your plan to franchise the Solange name, didn’t it? How could you find backers without Tommy’s reputation to peddle?”
Anton sneered. “I already had the investors, because I’d already sold the idea. I’d signed the contracts and taken the money—”
I blinked. “My God, no wonder you were so desperate.”
“I took a bath on those other restaurants,” Anton said. “Solange was a moneymaker, but it didn’t make up for my losses. I needed the cash, so I sold the franchise idea. All Tommy had to do was sign on to the deal, and he’d be a millionaire ten times over—”
“But he wanted nothing to do with your scheme. He wouldn’t even sell you the recipes, would he?”
Anton winced, and I knew I’d struck a nerve.
“What do you want, Ms. Cosi?” Faye asked.
“The same thing Billy Benedetto wanted,” I replied.
When I mentioned the late Mr. Benedetto, even Faye seemed rattled. I took some satisfaction in that.
“Oh, yes. I spoke with Benedetto, too. Before Anton murdered him.”
“What do you want?” Faye repeated impatiently.
“My daughter is going to cop a plea for Tommy’s murder,” I replied. “She’ll spend six or seven years in prison. When she gets out, you are going to back her restaurant to the tune of six million dollars.”
“Now why would we do that?” Anton asked. “You can’t prove your ridiculous claims.”
“I don’t have to prove anything,” I replied. “All I have to do is talk to Roman Brio. He’d certainly be interested in my tale, interested enough to ask questions, maybe write an exposé. What would happen to your deal then?”
Anton locked eyes with Faye. “With Benedetto gone, I thought we were through with blackmail—”
“Shut up,” Faye said softly.
But Anton wouldn’t. “There’s precious little profit in this as it is. We can’t slice off another piece of the pie. That’s why we got rid of Benedetto—”
“I told you to shut up, Anton.”
“I should have never listened to you, never let you seduce me, talk me into this,” Anton said.
“Excuse me, Anton,” I said. “But you wouldn’t be the first sucker who let his mistress talk him into murdering an inconvenient husband.”
“I didn’t kill Tommy!” Anton replied. “Vinny, yeah, because I had to. And Benedetto because he was costing me money. But it was Faye who killed Tommy. She couldn’t wait.”
Faye howled, and I whirled to face her. She had a steak knife in her hand, lifted from one of the place settings, and she lunged at me!
I managed to deflect the blade with my forearm, which saved my life. It plunged deep into my shoulder instead of my throat.