French Pressed (10 page)

Matt blew out air.

Joy nodded, opened her eyes. “I overheard you talking about that to the lieutenant.”

“You weren’t by any chance carrying your Shun Elite last night, were you?”

“No way, Mom.” Joy shook her head. “I keep the Shun in my locker at Solange, along with the rest of my knives.”

“Good.” I’d saved up for months to buy that knife. It was probably the finest in the world: hand-forged and machine-edged by a Japanese manufacturer in Seki City, Japan, the samurai sword–making center for over 700 years. Maybe it was a venal concern, but I would have hated to find out my special Christmas present to my daughter had been confiscated by Salinas, too.

“Believe me, Mom, if the police found a knife on me last night, I would have been booked for murder already. Anyway, what about the knife? Was it one of Vinny’s, do you think?”

“The police say no. They checked his kit and said all his knives were in it. I
can
tell you that the knife that killed Vinny had a silver handle—”

“Then it’s not Vinny’s, for sure,” Joy said. “Vinny liked the feel of German-made knives because they have a curved edge for economy of motion. He used Henckels, and they all have wooden handles. My Shun’s like that, too.”

I searched my own memory. Though most of the blade was embedded inside that poor kid’s corpse, I saw enough of it to know the sharpened edge was flat, not curved. I asked Joy about it.

“If it’s flat, then it’s a French-made knife,” she said, “like the ones at Solange. Tommy had those knives made special in Thiers; that’s the knife-making center of France. They all have flat edges and silver handles, like the one Brigitte almost used on me last—” Joy froze. “You don’t think Brigitte really did it, do you?”

“It’s possible,” I said. “You know I’ve already given the woman’s name to Lieutenant Salinas.”

Joy nodded. “I gave him Brigitte’s name, too, Mom. And that’s what I’m afraid of.”

Matt spoke up. “What do you mean, muffin? What are you afraid of?”

“Dad, if Brigitte is guilty, and the police don’t nail her, she’ll know I accused her—and then there’ll be real hell to pay in Tommy’s kitchen.”

I glanced unhappily at Matt. He was scowling.

“Joy,” he said firmly, “I want you to quit.”

“Quit?!” Joy violently shook her head. “No way! My internship’s going well—and it’s
not
because Tommy’s given me a break or two. I’ve worked my
butt
off in that kitchen!” Joy’s face reddened with fury as she loomed over her seated father. “I was at the top of my class in school! That’s how I got the chance to work for Tommy in the first place, and I’m holding my own with that professional staff! If I quit, I’ll fail. And I
won’t
fail! I’ve come too far. I’ve worked too hard. Quitting is
not
an option, do you understand?”

Matt’s eyes had gone wide; his mouth was gaping. He’d obviously never seen this ferocious side of his daughter. Well, I had. And, frankly, I was proud of Joy. Without that fighting spirit, she’d never survive in the backbreaking, unforgiving, male-dominated world of the culinary arts.

I stood up, put my arm around my girl. “We understand, Joy. We do. Tell you what, why don’t you let me and your dad clean up those dishes, okay? You go upstairs and take a nice, long bath.” I led her into the living room. “I’ve got some really nice scented oils up there, vanilla and jasmine…”

Joy took a breath, let it out. “Okay, Mom.”

When she was finally out of earshot, I went back to the kitchen and faced Matt. “Our daughter doesn’t have to quit. I’m going to deal with Tommy’s cutthroat kitchen personally.”

Matt folded his arms. “And how are you going to do that?”

“Well, first I’m going to call up Solange’s maître d’ and tell him his coffee sucks.”

“Excuse me?”

I explained to Matt my idea. Actually, it was Mike Quinn’s idea, but my ex didn’t need to know that. “I’ll pitch a contract to improve Solange’s coffee service. It’s a way for me to get into Keitel’s kitchen and figure out what’s going on.”

“How are you going to pull that off, Clare?”

“Easy. I did it already for David Mintzer in the Hamptons. The restaurant should go for it. They won’t need to buy any equipment, because we have dozens of French presses stored in our basement for catering already. I can consign a portion of them to Solange for the time being. And I have more than enough roasted beans on hand to sell them for their dinner service. Tucker and Dante wanted more hours this month because they need the money, so they can take over my shifts.”

Matt sighed. “I can’t see how you’re going to convince Tommy Keitel to hire you. The man doesn’t drink coffee. I don’t think he even
likes
coffee.”

“That’s the beauty of it. I don’t have to convince Tommy. The man I’m going to pitch is Napoleon Dornier, the restaurant’s maître d’. He’s in charge of the front of the house. And the front takes care of the wine and beverages.”

“What about Joy?” Matt asked. “How’s she going to feel about your doing this? She might freak, accuse you of horning in on her territory.”

I frowned, hoping my daughter was more understanding than that. “She was happy to have my help last night.”

“True, and she might be happy to have you around the kitchen now that things are dicey. But still…” Matt shook his head. “Let’s keep it from her until you’re sure you can even
get
a contract with the restaurant. Then we can both tell her together. It’ll sound more like a business venture for the Village Blend, rather than, you know…”

“Another way for me to spy on her?”

“You’re not spying on her,” Matt gallantly pointed out. “You’re spying on everyone
around
her. That’s a very important distinction.”

“Thanks, Matt. I mean it.” It was a big leap for him, considering his jaundiced view of my previous forays into amateur detective work.

He nodded, rubbed his eyes. “I guess even if Joy quit her internship this morning, she’d still be a suspect on Lieutenant Salinas’s list, right?”

“Right. I have to find out how that knife got into Vinny’s neck. And to do that, I’ve got to get into Tommy Keitel’s kitchen.”

“Okay, fine, get into his kitchen,” said Matt, rising from the table. “But after hearing Joy’s little tale of falling for Keitel, I think I’ve got the man’s number.”

“What do you mean?”

“When it comes to this snooping stuff, Clare, I may not be as good as you. But as a man, I can give you one good piece of advice.”

“What’s that?”

“Stay the hell out of Tommy Keitel’s cheese cave.”

“Mooooom!”

I left the kitchen to find Joy standing at the top of the stairs. She was wrapped in a towel.

“What is it, honey?” I called. “Can’t you find the scented oils?”

“No!” she called back. “I mean, yes, I found them. I was calling you because I heard your cell phone go off—twice. Whoever’s trying to reach you, it might be important.”

“Thanks, honey!”

I bolted up the steps and grabbed my handbag off the hall table. As Joy returned to the bathroom, I ducked into the master bedroom and shut the door. My phone listed three missed calls in the last thirty minutes, all of them from Detective Mike Quinn.

Mike.

Just seeing the man’s name on my cell’s tiny screen did something to my central nervous system. I couldn’t wait to talk with him, tell him everything that had happened last night, ask him for his help and advice and support.

I was about to hit my speed dial when I saw he’d left a message. I punched the buttons and listened, eager to hear something sweet and sexy.

“Clare, it’s me, Mike…”

By now, my body’s reaction to the deep, gravelly timbre of Mike’s cop voice was Pavlovian. Like a love-struck teen, a shiver went through me. I could practically feel his arms around me again. His mouth on mine—

“I can’t imagine why you’re not picking up…Actually, with Allegro in the apartment, I can, which is what’s eating me. So, uh,
look
…” There was a pause, followed by an audible exhale. “I’m going to be blunt with you, Clare. I don’t think things are going in a direction I like with us, and…I’m sorry, but I need to have
a talk
with you. Don’t call me back when you get this. I’m going on duty, and I’ll see you later anyway. I’ll drop by the Blend this afternoon.”

“A talk…” I repeated. My legs didn’t feel so sturdy all of a sudden, and I sat down heavily on the four-poster’s mattress. First Tommy Keitel wanted “a talk” with Joy. Now Mike Quinn wanted one with me?

“‘Don’t call me back,’ huh?”
Oh, hell no!
I hit speed dial. Mike’s cell phone rang and rang, and then sent me to voice mail.
Great.
I snapped the phone shut.

“This day just keeps getting better.”

“A
RE
you ready, Ms. Cosi?” Napoleon Dornier called from the kitchen doorway.

“Yes! Please, come in,” I replied. “Sit down.”

It was just after noon. I was dressed to kill in a conservative forest-green business suit that I’d hastily appropriated from Madame’s Valentino collection. With borrowed emerald studs in my ears, a stunning emerald necklace encircling my throat, green silk heels, and my dark brown hair smoothed into a neat French twist, I looked like a vendor worthy of pitching a four-star establishment.

I’d set up five French presses on one of the large round tables in Solange’s empty dining room. There was no lunch service today, a result of the police interviews, which had taken place all morning, according to Dornier. So the dining room’s cherrywood tables were still stripped of their white linens.

Back in the kitchen, the prep cooks were hard at work starting sauces and braising meats for dinner. The smells of a mushroom duxelles suffused the air with sautéing shallots and fresh tarragon as the leather-padded double doors swung wide on their hinges and Nappy Dornier swaggered out.

With six hours to dinner service, I wasn’t surprised to find him not in his formal evening wear but in comfortable street clothes. He looked less like a scarecrow in his loose beige khakis and untucked polo. The lime green color was a bold statement, given the bright red color of the man’s short, spiky hair, but then Dornier, with his pricey amber cat glasses, didn’t strike me as the kind of guy who was willing to fade into the woodwork.

Getting the appointment with the man had been remarkably easy. The moment I’d dropped David Mintzer’s name, Solange’s maître d’ couldn’t have been more accommodating.

“Name-dropping only matters when it serves an end,” Madame liked to remind me. “Use it stupidly, and you’ll be seen as an unctuous idiot. Use it judiciously, and you’ll go far.”

Well, so far, it had worked like a charm to get me in this restaurant’s door. But then New York was the sort of town that thrived on networking and connections. I hadn’t come to this burg with a pedigree or e-Rolodex, but over the years I’d gotten to know the customers of the Blend, and the natural relationships that developed were often very helpful.

David Mintzer, for instance, was well-known in New York as a successful and influential entrepreneur. Lucky for me, he maintained a town house in the Village and loved my espressos. That connection led to an offer to spend last summer in the Hamptons, setting up the coffee service for his newest restaurant—an experience that couldn’t have come in more handy at the moment.

“Let’s start with a Kenyan,” I told the maître d’ as he settled into a chair. Dornier was one of the city’s most accomplished and respected wine stewards, so the Kenyan Single Lot medium roast was a natural choice. I’d already coarsely ground the beans and steeped them for four minutes in the press. Now I pushed the plunger down and poured Dornier his very first sample of Village Blend coffee.

“Please take in the aroma first, monsieur. And then taste it as you would a fine wine. Slurp it with some air so that you can spray the coffee on your entire palate.”

Behind his amber cat glasses, Dornier appeared skeptical but curious as he brought the cup to his nose and then his lips. With one slurping sip, an eyebrow rose.

“Hmmmm,” he said as if he couldn’t trust his own taste buds. He tried another sip. “It’s quite good, Ms. Cosi. I must say, I’m favorably surprised.”

I noticed that, out of his maître d’ uniform, Dornier’s French accent was barely detectable, but then he wouldn’t have been the first front-of-house worker in a French restaurant to pump up the Gallic show for his customers.

“Now close your eyes,” I told him. “Sip again and tell me what you taste.”

Dornier nodded, clearly game for the experience. He dropped his eyelids and sipped once, twice, three times. “There’s a striking fruitiness in this coffee. I’m tasting notes of raspberry and lemon. Very nice. But I think the strongest flavor is black currant…”

“Anything else?”

Dornier took a few more slurping hits. “There are most definitely umami characteristics here…”

I smiled at his use of the term. It was a popular adjective in culinary circles, describing one of the basic tastes sensed by the receptor cells on the tongue: sweet, salty, sour, bitter…and
umami
, the Japanese word for a savory or meaty flavor.

“I detect a hint of sun-dried tomato. Yes…and an earthy steak flavor in the finish.” Dornier’s eyes snapped open. “My goodness, Ms. Cosi. I’m absolutely flabbergasted. This coffee is reminiscent of a Grand Cru!”

“Exactly, monsieur. Quality coffee beans, if processed, roasted, brewed, and served correctly, will show off as much complexity as a fine wine.”

The sound of one person clapping echoed across the empty dining room. I looked up to find Chef Tommy Keitel himself doing the honors. He was leaning near the doorway to his kitchen. There was a hint of superior amusement in his expression. Apparently, he’d been standing there awhile, watching me conduct the tasting.

“Tommy!” Dornier waved him over. “You
must
come here and sample this.”

It was difficult not to remember how I’d first met Keitel—at the Beekman Hotel, with one of his heavily muscled forearms around my daughter’s young waist. But I forced the image from my mind. I had to sell Dornier on my services, and I wasn’t going to score any points by being hostile to the restaurant’s executive chef. For my own daughter’s well-being, my issues with Keitel had to be put on hold.

The larger-than-life chef pushed himself off his leaning position and moved across the dining room. He was wearing black slacks and running shoes, a plain gray T-shirt beneath the chef’s white jacket, which he buttoned up as he strode toward me.

“I heard you were coming, Clare. How are you?” He extended his hand.

“Fine, Chef Keitel.” I placed my hand in his. “And you?”

“I’ve had better days.” His large hand shook mine and held it, his piercing blue eyes staring into me. “You’ve heard about Vincent Buccelli?”

I nodded, stepping back, tugging my hand free of his hold. “Joy and I found out last night. Did the police come by this morning to talk to you and your staff?”

“Yeah, they did. They questioned everyone.”

“For
hours
,” Dornier sniffed unhappily. “I’m terribly sorry for young Vincent, but no one here knew a thing about what happened to him or why. I believe the police were wasting their time. They should have been spending it in Queens searching for the crazed thug who murdered him.”

Dead silence ensued after that little speech.

I nearly started grilling Dornier at that moment, asking him where he’d gone after he’d left Solange last night—and, more importantly, where Brigitte Rouille had gone, and where the woman was now. Was she back there in the kitchen? I’d been let into the restaurant through the front door, and Dornier instructed me to set up in the dining room. He hadn’t allowed me into Keitel’s kitchen.

That was a bad break to start. Joy was due to begin her shift in two hours. More than anything, I wanted answers. But I wasn’t a member of the NYPD, I didn’t have a PI license, and unless I could convince these men to sign a contract with me, I was going to be out on my ear in the next five minutes.

Keitel cleared his throat. “So, Clare, what have you brought here that’s got Nappy so excited?”

“This Kenyan coffee to start.” I poured Chef Keitel a cup.

He sipped, paused, and drank more.

“You’re sampling the legendary SL-28,” I informed him, “probably the most respected coffee varietal in the world.”

“Is that so?” Keitel exchanged glances with Dornier. “And how did you get hold of it?”

“Well, most coffee farms in Kenya are small. They form cooperatives and auction their lots on a weekly basis, primarily to big exporters, which is why most Kenyan coffee ends up in blends. But Matteo, our buyer, doesn’t rely on a big exporter. He goes directly to the bidders at the Nairobi Coffee Exchange to score pure, uncut lots for our coffeehouse business.”

I refilled the men’s cups. “Matt samples the lots personally to make sure we’re getting the crème de la crème of the Kenyan coffee experience. The green beans are shipped to New York, and I personally roast them in our basement. The moment a bean is roasted, it begins to lose flavor, so I roast regularly to ensure superior quality with every cup.”

Chef Keitel exchanged another glance with his maître d’. The chef’s expression remained neutral, but from the single nod and arching of one eyebrow, I got the idea he was favorably impressed.

“I brought four other wonderful coffees for you to sample today.” I forced a smile. “Shall I prepare them?”

“I don’t think so.” Keitel folded his arms and regarded me. “Look, this Kenyan coffee is good enough, and I appreciate the trouble you’ve gone to, but—as I understand it—this little presentation came about as a result of your
own
coffee experience here last evening?”

Dornier visibly tensed. “Please, Tommy. Let’s not go there.”

“No,” he said. “I want Clare to understand why she was given whatever swill she was served last night.”

Dornier let out a tortured sigh and waved his hand. “You explain.”

“Nappy here has trained his waiters to provide the highest-quality service possible. So when a customer asks for something that’s not on the menu, his server—in your case, René—will attempt to supply it so that the dining experience is not a disappointment.”

“I see.”

“No, you don’t,” said Keitel. “Coffee is not on our menu. And it never was. Since you ordered it, René took it upon himself to brew you some from our
employee
coffeemaker.”

Dornier appeared to sink down farther in his chair.

“Let me guess,” I said. “The machine’s old. It’s dirty. And the coffee that’s brewed inside it comes in preground aluminum packets with unspecified expiration dates.”

“I had no idea this was going on,” Keitel said. “Now—thanks to you, Clare—I
do
.”

“And now you can do something about it,” I countered.

“Yes. I can.” Keitel’s blue gaze speared Dornier. “I can make
sure
we never serve
employee
coffee to our paying customers
again
.”

“
Or
you can put quality specialty coffees on your menu,” I pressed.

Keitel shook his head. “Why would I want to go to the trouble?”

“For profit, of course.”

“My customers don’t order coffee.”

“If it’s not on your menu, how
can
they order it?”

“You’re arguing an unsubstantiated point.”

“I can substantiate it in two seconds flat. Do you know what your customers are doing after they leave your restaurant?”

Keitel frowned. “What does that have to do with—”

“They drive to Long Island and north Jersey. They check the overseas markets. They head downtown to party into the wee hours. I grant you that a portion of your clientele would be only too happy to continue drinking port, ice wine, or cognac on top of the substantial amount of vino they’ve already consumed with their food, but this is New York. The night is just beginning at nine or ten o’clock when they leave your dining room. Offering coffee is a way to wake up for the drive home, the ongoing business deal, even the lovemaking that goes on, after dinner is concluded.”

Keitel stared at me for so long, I thought perhaps he’d been flash frozen. Did the man think I was completely nuts? I glanced at Dornier. He was still sipping the Kenyan, apparently waiting for his chef de cuisine to make the decision.

“Look…” I pressed, “why not at least try a dessert pairings menu with my coffee? Give it one week. I promise you’ll not only sell my coffee at premium prices to people who would have declined more alcohol anyway, you’ll sell more desserts.”

Dornier sat up a little straighter. “Did you hear that, Tommy?”

Keitel grunted once. He stared for another few silent moments, then without any discernable articulation of words, turned and stalked back toward his kitchen.

Crap.

I figured that was it. I was dismissed. Time to pack in my French presses and go—until I realized Keitel hadn’t disappeared through the swinging gateway to his domain. Instead, he was holding one door open and sticking his head through it.

“Janelle!” he bellowed into the busy kitchen. “Come out here!”

An attractive, full-figured, African American woman answered the command. She wore a burgundy chef’s jacket and a flat, burgundy baker’s cap. Beneath the cap, her shoulder-length ebony hair was styled in rows of beautiful tight braids. Her skin was mocha, and her roundish thirtyish face displayed Creole features.

“What is it, Chef?” she called, wiping her hands on the white towel that was thrown over her shoulder.

Keitel held the door open for her. “Come with me, please,” he said, his voice softer and much more polite as she moved toward him.

“Janelle, this is Ms. Clare Cosi,” he said, leading her to our table. “Ms. Cosi is Joy Allegro’s mother. She also happens to manage a coffeehouse downtown, and she’s proposing a contract with us to supply gourmet coffee.”

Janelle’s face immediately brightened. “Are you asking my opinion, Chef?”

“I am.”

“By all means, let’s taste what she’s brought!”

He speared me with his gaze. “Clare, I’d like you to meet Janelle Babcock, our pastry chef. If you’re proposing a dessert pairings menu with your coffee, you’d better win her over.”

I held out my hand. Janelle shook it with surprising fervor. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Ms. Cosi—”

“Please call me Clare.” I smiled at the woman, realizing this was the Janelle that Joy had mentioned to me weeks ago. She was a graduate of Le Cordon Bleu in Paris and had come to Solange not from France but from the pâtissier position in a New Orleans restaurant that had been destroyed by Hurricane Katrina.