Slice and Dice (15 page)

“That was the plan.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve been stood up.”

“Remains to be seen.”

She gazed at him admiringly. “You know, men who look like you were born to wear a tux. If you were mine, Mr. Baldric, I’d make you wear one all the time, even to bed.”

“Would you now?”

“I’m not kidding.” Her voice grew decidedly seductive. “And I’d have a great time removing it, pearl stud by pearl stud.”

He glanced up at the front entrance as a young couple entered through the glass doors.

“Looking for your wife?”

He checked his watch. Quarter to seven. Where
was
she? “Listen,” he said, slipping his hands into his pockets, “if you’re not busy, why don’t I buy you a drink? You can fill me in on your vacation adventures.”

She considered it for a few seconds, then closed the magazine. “Sure, why not? The man I’m supposed to meet won’t be here for another half hour.”

His eyes still fixed on the glass doors, he said, “Great Let me just tell the front desk where I’ll be.”

“I’ll wait for you in the bar.”

After conferring with Hildegard and learning that she had expected Sophie back by four at the very latest Bram’s worry grew exponentially. Had the bad weather caused them to be in a traffic accident? Was his wife lying in a ditch somewhere, calling his name?

All right, he told himself. Sophie always said he had a little too much melodrama in his soul. Maybe he shouldn’t hit the panic button just yet. He’d give her another half hour. If she wasn’t back by then, he would not only hit the panic button, he’d stomp on it with both feet.

Striding across the lobby to Scotties bar, he noticed Paul Buckridge, Nathan’s younger brother, standing near the bank of courtesy phones. He was totally absorbed in the contents of a manila folder. On impulse, Bram walked toward him, his hand thrust out.

“Mr. Buckridge, hello. I’m Roger Thornhill … the, ah… food and beverage manager here at the Maxfield.” He wasn’t prepared to let Nathan’s brother know that he was worried about his wife. Better to hide behind an alias.

Paul stood up straight and shook his hand. “I thought I’d already met the food and beverage manager, a Mr. —”

“He’s my assistant. I trust everything has been to your liking during your stay with us?”

Paul adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses. “Yes, everything’s been fine.”

“Good, good. Your entire family feels happy and satisfied?”

“Yes, I’m sorry, Mr….”

“Thornhill. Roger Thornhill. An old New England name.”

“Right.” Paul cocked his head. “Did anyone ever tell you you look a lot like —”

“No, no one ever has.” Bram took him by the arm and guided him away from the phones.

“In
North by Northwest,
wasn’t Cary Grant’s character’s name —”

“I’m absolutely no good at movie trivia, Mr. Buckridge. Say, I don’t suppose you know where your brother is. I’d hoped to get back to him about a small matter today, but I haven’t been able to locate him.”

“I haven’t seen him since this morning. He had a date with an old girlfriend.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, funny thing, he ran into her by accident. I haven’t seen him so excited in years. Who knows?” He grinned, elbowing Bram in the ribs. “Maybe he got lucky.”

“Was he hoping to get lucky?”

“God, yes. She’s an old flame from way back. His first true love. As far as I’m concerned, you can wake me when it’s over.”

“You don’t believe in true love?”

“No, and I don’t believe in the tooth fairy either. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

“Certainly.” Bram let go of his arm. “But one last thing. I don’t suppose you know where they were having lunch?”

“Did I say they were having lunch?”

“Yes, I think you did.”

“Funny, I don’t remember it.”

Bram’s voice grew less friendly. “Call me psychic.”

Paul Buckridge stood back and really looked at him for the first time. “Why are you so interested in my brother?”

“As I said, I have a private matter I need to discuss with him.”

Paul tucked the folder under his arm and said, “Good evening, Mr. Thornhill.”

“Riming abruptly, he walked away.

Well, thought Bram, yanking on his French cuffs as he headed into the bar, that was a fruitless interaction.

“You look like you just lost your best friend,” said Lela as he slid into the other side of the booth.

“I wouldn’t go that far — yet.” He saw that she’d already ordered.

“The waiter said he’d bring you a martini as soon as you arrived. They must know your likes and dislikes around here. Pretty soft.”

“I’m a lucky man.”

“You don’t sound like you mean it.”

He smoothed his graying temples. “My luck, or lack thereof, isn’t a very interesting topic. Why don’t we talk about something else?”

“All right. How about some local color?” She drew her finger around the edge of her glass. “I understand there was a homicide in Minneapolis last night, a food critic.”

“Ah, another relaxing topic.”

“Yes, I suppose it kind of hits close to home, since your wife found die body and is taking over his position at the
Times Register.”

“If you’re wondering if I’m happy about Sophie’s choice of second careers, I’m not.”

“I don’t suppose you’ve got any inside information on why he died.”

Bram shrugged. “They’ve arrested a fellow named Hongisto. He owns a restaurant that Gildemeister basically killed with two negative reviews.”

“You’re saying it was revenge?”

“I assume so. And I can’t tell you how pleased I am to think that Sophie’s about to dangle the culinary sword of Damocles over the heads of the other restaurateurs in this town.”

“You know, Bram, I’ve been around the block more than once in my — shall we say — youngish life. I’ve never known a food critic to be murdered before, not that some of them don’t deserve it. Trust me, you don’t need to worry. Your wife isn’t in any danger.”

The waiter finally arrived with his martini. Hoisting it in a mock toast, Bram downed several swallows as if it had just arrived in the nick of time.

“You really are upset, aren’t you?” All her normal playfulness dropped away.

In its place Bram could see real concern in her eyes. For some reason, it surprised him that she would care. “I’m okay. Or at least I will be when my wife gets back.”

“You know, guys like you don’t grow on trees. I hope Sophie knows what a lucky woman she is.”

“I hope so, too.” Taking another sip, he continued. “So what have you been up to since I saw you Saturday?”

Her serious expression returned.

“Hey, what’s up?”

“It’s good to have a friend. You are my friend, aren’t you?”

“Sure.”

She glanced down at her drink. “I was hoping you’d say that. I don’t know you very well, but I feel that you’re an honest man. I’m a good judge of character. It comes in handy in my line of work.”

“The UN.”

She looked up at him. After a long moment she said, “Friends trust each other, right?”

“That’s what I’ve heard.”

“What if I told you I didn’t work at the UN? That it’s just a cover story I sometimes use?”

“Why?”

She gazed at him pointedly, then looked down again. “For anonymity’s sake. Sometimes it comes in handy in my profession.”

“You’re a spy?”

She had a surprisingly wicked laugh.

Bram was delighted that he’d said something funny, though he didn’t know what. Even so, he enjoyed watching her. Her laughter made her seem more touchable somehow.

“I’m a writer,” she said finally.

“Ah, I get it. If you construct a particularly bad sentence, you don’t want anyone to know who did it.”

She shook her head and smiled. “I like you, Bram. You’re good for me. You don’t take life as seriously as I do. I need that kind of perspective sometimes.”

“You can always count on me for perspective.” He finished his drink and then held up the glass, motioning for the waiter to bring him another.

“You can’t tell anyone what I’m about to tell you, okay? That’s essential.”

He crossed his chest and held up his hand. “Deal.”

“This really is serious.”

“My lips are sealed. But why take the chance of confiding in me, basically a total stranger?”

She hesitated before answering. “Sometimes I need a solid physical presence to bounce ideas off of. I do a lot of traveling in my line of work. My life can get pretty lonely at times.”

“What exactly is your line of work?”

Again she hesitated. “I started out as an investigative reporter. For the past ten years I’ve been writing unauthorized biographies.”

“Any published?”

“Yes, seven.”

“So you write the kind of books that elevate gossip to art?”

She lifted her head and met his eyes directly. “My books are carefully documented. I hold myself to the very highest standards. That’s why I’m so good at what I do and why publishers salivate when they hear I’ve found a new project. I find what my subjects want to bury — the lies, the hypocrisy, and the sizzle. I entertain, but at the same time I enlighten. In this country, we make celebrities into minigods. In my books, I bring them back down to earth. I feel as if I’m performing a public service, showing how insidious the notion of celebrity really is. We’re all alike underneath.”

“No saints, no heroes?” The waiter arrived with Bram’s second martini.

“Would it surprise you to learn that, once upon a time, I actually thought I might be a saint? I came from a very devout Catholic family, raised on the stories of the saints. When I was ten, it occurred to me one day that I really was a superior being. And my family, well, they were pillars of the community. It seemed only right that they would produce someone special. I knew I might have to suffer, even be martyred, but once the idea was fixed in my mind, it took some pretty hard knocks to push it out.”

“Like what?”

She sipped her drink. “Oh, things like discovering my mother was the town whore. And my father, well, he wasn’t really my father. My real father was the parish priest who baptized me, the one I made my confession to every week. I was fifteen when I discovered the truth. You can imagine that it came as quite a shock. So I started digging deeper into my family’s background. Turns out the man I thought was my father liked little boys. That’s probably what drove my mother into the arms of other men, not that she wasn’t predisposed that way to begin with. Believe me, you don’t want to hear the rest”

“It gets worse?”

She nodded. “So you can see why there are no saints in my world. I’ve been searching for years to find a true hero, but they don’t exist. They’re all just people — fallible, corrupt sinners all.”

“You must believe there’s one out there, otherwise you’d stop looking.”

Her features slowly tightened. “No, I lost my faith in humankind’s essential goodness a long time ago.”

For some reason, Bram didn’t believe her.

“I’m researching something right now that may turn out to be the biggest book of my career.”

“Anyone I know?”

She paused to light a cigarette. Lowering her voice, she said, “Constance Buckridge.”

“So that’s why you’re staying at the hotel, why you wanted to go to Kitchen Central the other day.”

She nodded, exhaling smoke high into the air.

“You’re after an all-American culinary icon. But what could be interesting about her life? It’s sort of Ozzie and Harriet with Ozzie dying just as Harriet wins the lottery.”

“I’m sifting through the essentials right now. It could be as simple as infidelity, but I’ll bet my bottom dollar it goes much deeper. Perhaps,” she added, lowering her voice again, “as deep as murder.”

He wasn’t shocked by much these days, but he was shocked by that. “Do you have proof?”

“Not yet. I’m just beginning my research.”

Bram tried to rub the tension from the back of his neck. “Okay, but if you’re so well known in the publishing world, how come I’ve never heard of you?”

“Lela Dexter isn’t my real name.”

He should have guessed as much. “What is?”

“Marie Damontraville.”

Of course. Now he remembered. That’s why she’d seemed so familiar the first time they’d met. He’d interviewed her once many years ago. “You were on my show. The book was about —”

“Mickey Mantle.”