Deadly Intent (3 page)

Worried his brother was headed for a life of crime, Tony had tried to stop him from taking the offer. Arturo had just laughed at him.

“Are you nuts, Tone? Just look at me.” He had spread his arms wide, determined to make his point. “Here I’m just another gang leader, an ugly, badass spic with no money and no future. There ain’t much I can do about the ugly spic part, but I sure as hell don’t have to stay penniless all my life.”

His vision had been right on the money, because within a month Arturo was making a thousand dollars a week, tax free, and living the good life. Business was so good in Toledo that he had taken a partner, a man by the name of Ian McGregor.

Two years later, during a sting operation, McGregor was

arrested, then later released when he had handed Arturo to the D.A. on a silver platter.

Although Arturo had sworn to get even with McGregor someday, Tony had prayed his brother would forget his former partner’s betrayal and go on with his life. No such luck. As soon as Arturo had learned from the prison grapevine that McGregor was out, he had started packing.

Cursing under his breath, Tony walked into his room, took out his own duffel bag from the closet and threw it on the bed. Keeping Arturo from killing McGregor wasn’t a job he looked forward to, but if he didn’t do it, who the hell would?

Abbie called Campagne’s kitchen the restaurant’s nerve center, and anyone who had ever been there would agree. It was a busy, noisy place where the frantic pace was enough to make first-time visitors count their blessings they hadn’t chosen the restaurant business.

Abbie felt exactly the opposite. No matter how many hours a day she spent in this kitchen, or how worn-out she was at the end of the day, she never tired of the sights, sounds and challenges that had become such an integral part of her daily life.

Glad to see that the kitchen was running with the efficiency and precision of a well-oiled machine, she took her apron from a hook and smiled as Brady walked over to her.

“How did it go?” he asked eagerly.

Her sous-chef was a personable young man with movie star good looks, short, spiky blond hair a la Brad Pitt and an engaging smile. A broken elbow had ended a promising baseball career and forced Brady to examine new options. On a dare from his buddies, who loved his cooking, he had enrolled in a local cooking school, and upon his graduation

had landed the job of second assistant to the chef de cuisine in a Philadelphia restaurant. Three years ago, when Abbie had opened Campagne and was looking for a sous-chef, she had come upon his resume and had immediately set up an interview. After the first ten minutes together, Abbie knew she had found her man. Their compatibility was such that they quickly broke the barrier of employer/employee relationship, and became good friends.

Brady had spent hours with Ben, helping him with his batting, so Abbie gave him a detailed replay of the game, knowing he expected nothing less. When she told him about Ben’s spectacular triple in the final inning, and the three RBIs, Brady beamed.

“He’s a shoo-in for the all-star team,” he said with a confident nod.

Abbie tied the apron around her waist. “Don’t tell him that, okay, Brady? I don’t want him to be disappointed if he’s not picked.”

“If he’s not picked, I’ll have a little heart-to-heart with his coach.”

Abbie let out a groan. “Oh, no. You’re turning into one of those Little League fathers who thinks his kid is so much better than the others.”

Brady laughed. “All right, all right, I’ll shut up.”

The young man by her side, Abbie started walking around the large room filled with stainless-steel appliances, glancing at the order slips clipped to a rotating rack, lifting lids, smelling, tasting, peeking in the oven where four individual cassoulets bubbled gently in their little clay pots.

“Anything unusual happen while I was gone?” She moved to the shoulder-high swinging doors and glanced into the crowded dining room.

“The president of the university and his wife are at table

three. They’re celebrating their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary.”

Abbie recognized the silver-haired academic. Both he and his wife were regular customers and generous sponsors of the yearly food festival, the proceeds of which went to a local women’s shelter. “Send them a bottle of champagne, will you, Brady? Compliments of the house. And tell them I’ll be by later to wish them a happy anniversary.”

Brady immediately snapped his fingers at a passing waiter and repeated Abbie’s instructions. “Oh,” he added with a twinkle in his eyes. “I almost forgot. Your admirer is here.”

Abbie raised a quizzical eyebrow. “I have an admirer?”

“Oh, don’t play innocent with me, you wench. You know darn well I’m talking about Professor Higgins. He couldn’t make it for lunch today, so he came for dinner. And of course, he insisted on sitting at his usual table. I had to do a little reshuffling, but I figured it was worth the trouble, being he’s such a good customer.”

Abbie had no difficulty spotting the dapper, retired professor sitting in the small alcove. Oliver Gilroy, who had left his native England fifteen years ago to teach English literature in the U.S., was a charming man with an appreciation for fine food and everything that made life pleasurable. In a roomful of people, he didn’t particularly stand out. He was small and slender with neatly combed gray hair and the kind of features that were quickly forgotten. He was, however, somewhat eccentric, always arriving at the restaurant at the same time every day—twelve noon—requesting the same table and always ordering the same wine, an Australian chardonnay, regardless of what he ate.

It was true that he seemed to have grown fond of Abbie, but she suspected that this show of affection stemmed more

from her resemblance to his daughter, whose picture Abbie had seen, than a romantic attachment. It was his good manners as well as his refined British accent that had prompted Brady to nickname him Professor Higgins, the unforgettable character in My Fair Lady.

“I think he brought Ben another present,” Brady whispered.

Abbie’s gaze stopped on the miniature wooden rail car beside the professor’s wineglass. Now that he was retired, Professor Gilroy was able to devote more time to an old passion—trains, which he painstakingly built from prefabricated kits. After finding out Abbie had a young son, he had brought Ben a Big Boy locomotive he had just completed. He had followed that present with a log buggy, a livestock car, a gondola and several freight cars.

Although Abbie had tried to discourage him, he continued to add to Ben’s collection, claiming he would do so until Ben had a complete set of the Southern Pacific Railroad, one of the professor’s favorites.

She would stop by his table during her rounds later on, and since she knew he was fond of cream puffs, she would ask Brady to fill a box of his favorite pastries to take home with him.

Brady let out a chuckle. “Nothing like buttering up the child to impress the mother, eh?”

“For God’s sake, Brady, will you stop it? The man is old enough to be my father.”

“So what? He’s well educated, not bad-looking, wealthy, from what I heard. And it’s not like you couldn’t use a little romance in your life.”

Abbie made a face. “Thanks for reminding me.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yes, you think I lead a dull life.” She gave him a playful tap on the arm. “Let’s put that creative mind of

yours on something that will really pay off—like that roast duck for table one.”

By eleven o’clock, the last satisfied diner had finally left, the staff was gone, and the kitchen was as immaculate as it had been that morning. Alone in the empty dining room, Abbie stood at the cash register, counting the day’s receipts. Fourteen thousand dollars. Not bad for a Monday night.

Reaching under the register, she took out the pouch she used to make her daily deposits at the bank. As she slid the money into it, her gaze swept over the deserted room. Even now, after three years as the owner of Campagne, she always experienced a feeling of pride at the realization of all she had accomplished in such a short time. Circumstances, rather than choice, had dictated the path her career had taken. As a wife and mother of a new baby, she had been satisfied running a catering service that allowed her to set her own hours. But after her divorce from Jack, she had realized that in order to make some serious money, she had to set higher goals for herself. And that meant opening her own restaurant, a dream she’d had since her first day at the Culinary Institute.

At first, the thought of taking such a risk had been overwhelming, but little by little, as she took inventory of her talent, her determination and her finances, fear turned to excitement. She could do this. She would do this.

Using the money from her divorce settlement plus what she had managed to save over the years, she financed part of the venture and convinced her banker to loan her the rest. The first year hadn’t been easy. Or the second. With so many well-established restaurants in the Princeton area, Campagne was slow in catching the attention of the public. But thanks to a few good reviews and word of mouth,

Campagne was now one of the hottest eateries within a twenty-mile radius.

Unlike some owners of French-country restaurants, she had resisted the temptation to clutter the dining room with the expected terra-cotta pots, lavender sprays and other country artifacts. Instead, she had gone to France and brought back several bolts of souleiado, a Provencal cloth that came in tones of blue, red, green and yellow, and had turned them into tablecloths. The dishes, brilliant ocher pottery, were also from the south of France, as was the bubble-glass stemware. Except for an antique tapestry she had unearthed in a local flea market years ago, she had left the saffron-colored walls bare. The effect was nothing short of spectacular.

“All right, girl,” she said, stuffing the money pouch into her purse. “That’s enough gloating for one night. Time to go home.”

Humming softly, she walked from the dining room, through the kitchen, turning off the last light switch before going out the back door.

She had almost reached the Acura when a figure stepped out of the shadows.

Abbie held back a cry of alarm. Holding her purse against her chest, she reminded herself that Princeton was one of the safest communities in New Jersey. In the three years she’d had the restaurant, she had never had a reason to be afraid, even at this late hour.

It wasn’t until the stranger took another step forward and came to stand directly under the lamppost that she recognized him.

The man from the ballpark.

With a sinking feeling in her stomach, she looked around her. The parking lot was deserted. She was alone. A true gentleman, Brady had repeatedly offered to stay with her

until closing and walk her to her car, but she had always turned him down. Now she wished she hadn’t.

“Who are you?” she asked, trying to keep her voice from shaking. “What do you want?”

The obvious answer was money, yet she sensed this was more than a robbery. If money was all he wanted, what had he been doing at the ballpark? The thought she might be raped brought a quick burst of panic, but did not render her helpless. If that’s what he was after, he would have one hell of a fight on his hands. Thanks to a course in self defense she had taken after her divorce, she knew how to take care of herself.

“What’s the matter? You look nervous.” As he talked, the stranger reached inside his shirt pocket and took out a cigarette and a Zippo lighter. Without taking his eyes off her, he tapped the cigarette gently on the lighter’s flat side. The gesture was vaguely familiar but she couldn’t place it. Or the man. “You’re not scared of me, are you, Abbie?”

He knew her name. Was that good or bad?

Acting braver than she felt, she inspected him closely, trying to remember when and where she might have run into him. At the restaurant, perhaps? Back during her catering days? Now that he was closer, she saw that his eyes were either dark brown or black. His hair was the same color, a little too long for her taste, and combed back, exposing angular features and a narrow forehead. She estimated him to be about forty.

She was certain she had never met him before, but apparently he knew her. Or maybe he had caught the interview she had done for the CBS network a couple of weeks ago. That could be it. People she didn’t know now stopped her in the street, or at the farmers’ market where she shopped, to congratulate her on the award.

Curious, and not wanting to offend a potential customer,

even a peculiar one, she said, “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, Mr....?”