Slice and Dice (18 page)

Lifting his eyes and giving her a defeated look, he said, “Maybe you’d better check the rest of his reviews. He no doubt stepped on other toes.”

She nodded, though she didn’t want to believe that was possible. If critics thought retaliation against them for a bad review included murder, nobody would want the job.

“And hey, come to think of it, if you’d put a gun in the hand of my head chef the other night —”

“You mean David Polchow?”

“That’s the guy. He was breathing fire when he stormed out the door.”

Perhaps it was worth checking out. But as it was, the entire subject was starting to make Sophie uneasy. Surely there had to be another reason why George had been murdered. “Do you have Polchow’s address?”

“He lives in the Willow Square Apartments, near Riverplace.”

She took a pen and a piece of paper out of her purse and wrote it down. “Okay, any other thoughts?”

Harry shook his head. “The problem is, I didn’t know Gildemeister personally. Who knows? Maybe his wife hated his guts. Or his kids. But it’s all moot now. The police believe they’ve got their man. They aren’t going to do any further investigating, unless it’s to nail me. The worst part is, I hammered the final nail in my own coffin with those letters.”

Sophie tried to look encouraging. “Don’t give up, Harry. Please. I’ll do everything I can to help.”

“Maybe you think the real killer’s going to come down to the courthouse and turn himself in? As far as I can see, that’s the only way I’m not going to prison.”

She didn’t want to promise him too much, but she couldn’t just let him swing in the wind, with no one on his side. She really did believe he was innocent. For his sake, and for the sake of the lifelong friendship he’d shared with her father, she had to do something to find out what had really happened to George Gildemeister last Sunday night.

“Is everybody here?” asked Constance, glancing quickly around Paul and Nathan’s suite.

“Paul’s still in the shower,” answered Arthur. He was sitting alone on the love seat, smoking a cigarette and tapping the ash carefully into an ashtray. “He’s been out playing tennis and wanted to clean up before the meeting.”

Constance moved farther into the room. Sitting down on one of the brown mohair club chairs, she crossed her legs and adjusted her gray linen skirt over her knee. Although she loved her family, at this moment she felt a pang of anxiety so intense, it made her stomach clench.

Emily sat on the sofa, hugging her knees to her chest, the phone pressed between her ear and shoulder. A lock of straight blonde hair fell across her forehead, making her look more like a teenager than a well-respected professional photographer and the mother of two small boys. Kenny sat next to her, absorbed in a magazine. “Who’s Emily talking to?” mouthed Constance, looking back at Arthur.

“The twins,” he whispered, giving her a wink.

Constance would have loved to talk to her two grandchildren at home back in New Haven, but she had more pressing matters on her mind right now. She smiled at Nathan, who was standing by the windows, also smoking. When the family was nervous — they always were before a family powwow — almost everyone relied on nicotine to calm down. She supposed it was better than Valium or marijuana, but she still wished more of them would try to quit. So far, Paul had been the only one to kick the habit completely. She had to give him credit. He had more willpower than anyone else in the family, including her.

“No, Eric,” said Emily patiently, “you each get to pick one program to watch. That’s the way it works. You have to share.” She listened a moment. “Eric, tell Brandon to give the remote to Nanna Bailey. What?” She looked at Kenny, shaking her head. “No, not to you, to Nanna. Just because you’re one minute older than your brother doesn’t mean you get to control the TV Now, has Brandon given the remote to Nanna? Good. Tell him Mama says he’s a good boy.” She waited. “Eric, I’ve got to say goodbye. No, Daddy’s already talked to both of you. We’ll be home soon, pumpkin. You do what Nanna Bailey tells you to do. And don’t forget to brush your teeth before bed.” More silence. “You know the rule, sweetie. One treat after dinner, unless you want all your teeth to fall out. Do you want that, Eric? Your smile would look kinda funny.” She grinned at Kenny. “Good boy. Mommy and Daddy love you. Give Brandon a big hug from us. What? Say that more slowly. No, pumpkin, your brother can’t read. Well, I don’t care what he says. He can’t. Neither can you. I have to go now. I love you. Goodbye, Eric. See you soon.”

“Jeez,” said Paul, emerging from his bedroom wearing a light blue terry-cloth robe and rubbing his wet hair with a towel. “You don’t know how glad I am that I’ve always used birth control.”

“Paul!” said Constance, her tone scolding.

“He’s just jealous,” said Emily, smirking at her brother.

Paul sat down on the love seat next to his uncle. “So,” he said, tossing the towel over his shoulder, “we’re all here. But we already know the big secret.” Glancing sideways, he added, “Uncle Arthur let the cat out of the bag yesterday.”

“I know,” said Constance, shooting Arthur a withering look. “But we still have to talk about it. It’s important that we’re all on the same page here. I don’t want any member of this family talking to Marie Damontraville. Is that understood? Kenny is searching for a legal way to stop the book before it ever gets written.”

“I don’t get all the urgency,” said Paul. “I mean, what do we have to be so afraid of?”

“We’re not afraid of anything,” said Constance, knowing she sounded a little too defensive. “We’re just protecting our privacy.”

Emily took hold of her husband’s hand. “We’ve all got things in our past we don’t want the entire world to read about.”

Constance knew her daughter was referring to her arrest in New York City. Even though it was many years ago, the memory still stung.

“Not me,” said Nathan. “I’m clean as a whistle.”

“Right,” grunted Paul, puckering up and blowing him a kiss. “Seems to me you got this family into some big-time hot water a few years back during your, shall we say, Greenpeace days. Hey, speaking of Vashti Wells —”

“Stop it!” ordered Constance. This was too much. Paul had always been the one to push everyone’s patience to the limit, but lately he was even more contentious than usual. “I told you I never wanted to hear that woman’s name again.”

“She’s still in town, you know,” continued Paul, ignoring his mother’s outburst. “I checked. Same house.”

“Zip it,” ordered Emily. She shot her brother a cautionary look. “How long do we have to stay in this town, Mom? It’s getting to all of us.”

“Until we’ve come to a decision on New Fonteney,” she replied, her voice firm.

“I think we should buy it,” said Kenny, speaking up for the first time. “Just as a piece of real estate, it’s a good investment.”

“I have no idea whether or not it’s a good investment,” said Paul, “but as a site for a cooking school, it leaves a lot to be desired.”

“You’re just saying that because I found it,” said Nathan.

“And you want us to buy the property just so you can be close to your old girlfriend.”

“That’s not true!”

“No? You mean the romantic reverie you’ve been wandering around in since Saturday has nothing to do with Sophie?

Maybe I’m mistaken, but I thought I overheard you telling Emily last night that you intended to marry her.”

“It’s none of your damn business.”

“But it is mine,” said Constance, wondering if there was any truth to it. She’d seen them together at Kitchen Central, but she had had no idea her son still had feelings for Sophie. “She’s married, Nathan.”

“So? She’s still in love with me.”

“She told you that?” asked Arthur, looking up at him.

“She didn’t need to,” said Paul. “She just did her usual swoon.” He mimicked a swoon, falling across his uncle’s lap. “Romeo and Juliet, right? Or, maybe, given the time period, Sonny and Cher?”

“Just stuff it,” said Nathan. “And don’t use my love life to change the subject. New Fonteney is a perfect spot for a second campus.”

“Boys,” said Constance in exasperation, holding up her hand.

“Don’t ever expect them to agree on anything,” said Emily, her voice full of disgust. “I think you should ignore them and follow Kenny’s advice.”

“Why?” demanded Paul. “He’s just a lawyer. He doesn’t know a damn thing about the needs of a culinary academy. And besides, he’s not even a Buckridge.”

“For that matter, neither is Nathan,” said Emily.

“You’re all my children,” said Constance, attempting to put a stop to this ridiculous argument.

“Even Kenny?” asked Emily.

Gritting her teeth, Constance replied, “He’s the father of my two grandsons, isn’t he? And they’re our future.”

Arthur finished his cigarette, stubbing it out in the ashtray. “I suggest we get back to the main reason for this meeting. Marie Damontraville.”

“Why don’t we hire someone to bump her off,” suggested Paul, crossing his legs and leaning back against the couch cushions.

“Not funny,” replied Constance.

“I didn’t mean it to be. Come on, folks. It would be the simplest and quickest way to get rid of her.”

“You know, Paul, you add so
much
to our family meetings.” Nathan’s voice dripped sarcasm. “Maybe you should go watch a game show on TV I’m sure we can muddle along without you.”

“I plan to offer Ms. Damontraville a sizable amount of money later today,” Kenny said in a bored tone. “That will no doubt get her attention.”

“You think she’ll back off that easily?” asked Nathan. He walked away from the windows and sat down on the arm of a chair. “I don’t. I think she’s after blood. All our blood.” He held his mother’s eyes.

“I say we forget about her,” said Paul. “Let her do her job. If she finds some dirt, so what? Given the current climate in this country, it will only make Mother more popular, especially if that woman finds actual pictures of you hopping in and out of bed with someone, preferably someone famous.” Eyeing his mother, he added, “I do hope you showed some taste in your choice of paramours.”

“Shut up,” said Arthur. “Your mother deserves more respect than that. She’s worked hard to give you all a good life.”

“Spoken like a true-blue brother,” said Kenny, tapping a cigarette against his gold cigarette case. “But then Arthur’s not a Buckridge either. That seems to be a very strong undercurrent in this room today. My guess is it always has been.”

Paul’s expression sobered. “My father was a fine man. I’m proud to be his son.”

“Don’t burst a blood vessel,” muttered Kenny, flipping his lighter open. “We aren’t the royal family. Lineage is hardly a significant issue.”

Constance felt suddenly weary. She was sick of her life, sick of all the pressure to look and talk and act a certain way. If only she could disappear, live the rest of her days simply, away from the TV cameras and the ever-present media. The problem was she’d made her bed a long time ago, before she’d understood the total immutability of all her actions and decisions. If she checked out now, especially with this gossipmonger snapping at her heels, her children would suffer for all her failures. She couldn’t allow that to happen. She had to protect them, no matter what the cost. She prayed Kenny would be able to buy this Damontraville woman off. If that didn’t work, she’d be forced to use stronger methods. But whatever happened, she was determined to keep her past buried, where it belonged.

Journal Note

Tuesday, 4:30
P.M.

I finally got an E-mail from Pluto early this morning. No specific comments about the transcriptions I’ve sent him, but he encouraged me to keep going. He gave me another lead. He told me about Phillip Rapson, the man who worked for years as the handyman-gardener at the Buckridges’ home and lived above the garage. He also included an address and a phone number for Vashti Wells. I called her and set up an appointment for one o ‘clock this afternoon. Pluto had no idea who the strange visitor to the set of Constance s cooking show was, but he agreed it might be important.

The bulky Mr. Rafferty drove me to Ms. Wells’s house on Lake Minnetonka. After doing a low-key check of the premises, he took a chair by the front door and we got down to business in the living room. I led Ms. Wells to believe that a bodyguard was a precaution I always took due to the sensitivity of my investigations. She seemed amused.

Vashti Wells is now in her late fifties — five years younger than Constance, she pointed out with obvious pleasure. Initially, she had a quiet, almost proper manner. I thought I might have some problems getting her to open up, but as soon as we started talking, my fears faded. She had an edge to her personality — and a frankness — I appreciated. Her parents had emigrated from New Delhi when she was a small child, so she was raised in California. She had no trace of an accent.

Her black hair was streaked with gray and wound tightly into a knot at the back of her neck. Her suit was classic Chanel — probably not new, but she wore it with the air of a woman who’d seen the world and appreciated the best. Still a strikingly beautiful woman, she must have been even more so back in the late Sixties and early Seventies when she and Constance were close. It was immediately clear, however, that there was no love lost between them now. I was curious to learn why their relationship had deteriorated but also glad that it had since she might be more forthcoming, less interested in protecting a friend. She turned out to be a wealth of information, and for some of the questions, I just let her ramble.