Slice and Dice (36 page)

“Is that bad?”

“It’s stifling! Dad may have been packing away the food, but he was literally starving to death. Eventually, all he had were his pies and cakes. Do you know how that made me feel? I needed him. Paul needed him. But all he wanted was
her.”

“You really hate your mother, don’t you?”

“Yes! I thought I’d put the anger behind me, but this trip’s brought it all back in living color.”

“I’m sorry you came. I never should have suggested it. I just thought… I mean, I wanted to see where you were born, where you grew up. I hoped it would bring us closer together. Believe it or not, I do love you, Emily.”

“You mean you love my mother’s money.”

“Sure!” he shouted. “So what if I do? But is it so impossible to believe I care about you, too? About our children and what we could give them if we only hang in there? I’m not like your brothers. I’m not a driven jock like Paul, and I’m certainly not handsome and noble like Nathan. I’m just an average guy — albeit an exceedingly smart lawyer — who played some angles once and won. Along the way I happened to fall in love with the fairy princess, the one I was planning to swindle.”

“‘The Fairy Princess and the Swindler’. Refresh my memory. Was that by Hans Christian Andersen or Tom Wolfe?”

“I’m not the Prince Charming type, right?”

“You said it. I didn’t.”

“You know, Emily, sometimes you remind me of your mother. You accuse her of being an ice queen. The next time you speak to your mirror, take a good look at yourself.”

There was silence inside the suite. Sophie leaned her head closer to the door.

After a few seconds, Kenny said, “I just wish I knew who slipped that interview under our door. I suppose it was Damontraville.”

Again no response.

Finally, Kenny called, “Get back in here. We’re not finished”

“I am!” came Emily’s muted shout.

Sophie assumed that she’d left.the room. It might not be good form to eavesdrop on other people’s conversations, but in this case Sophie couldn’t help herself. She’d been there during the last two years before Wayne died. She’d eaten at their table, laughed at their jokes. And all the while she’d had absolutely no idea that these emotional undercurrents even existed.

After another full minute of silence, Sophie decided to knock. If the argument wasn’t over, they could resume it after she left.

Kenny answered the door. Removing a cigarette from his mouth, he said “Sophie, hi.”

“Morning. I was hoping to talk to Emily for a few minutes.”

He glanced over his shoulder. “She’s in the bedroom packing. I’m sure she’d love some company. She’s clearly tired of mine.” He stepped back, taking another drag on the cigarette, then stubbed it out in an ashtray. “Actually, I was just on my way out, so you ladies can gab to your hearts’ content.”

“Don’t leave on my account.”

“I wouldn’t. Constance has a book signing in St. Cloud this afternoon and I’m driving her up.”

“You’ve got a beautiful day.”

“Lucky us,” he said, feeling in his pocket for his car keys. “Emily,” he called, “you’ve got a guest. Try not to draw blood. She’s just an innocent bystander.” Nodding to Sophie, he closed the door on his way out.

Emily emerged from the bedroom folding a sweater. “Hey, what a nice surprise.”

Sophie tried not to stare. Since the last time she’d seen Emily, her long golden hair had been transformed into a jumble of different-colored dreadlocks. Orange. Purple. Red. Green. She’d wound a wide paisley scarf around her head and the dreadlocks exploded out the back. “What did you do to your hair?”

She touched one of the braids. “I got bored. Do you like it?”

“It’s… dramatic.”

“Yeah. I needed a new look. My kids won’t even recognize me.”

“Did you go to a salon?”

“There’s a fabulous one just up the street. I mean, when Mom’s off doing one of her interviews, what am I supposed to do? I’m not that interested in photographing downtown St. Paul. Kenny’s always busy with tour details. Paul’s been nothing but a grump. And Nathan’s never around. Anyway,” she said, sitting down in the living room and motioning for Sophie to do the same. “What can I do for you?”

“I was hoping to get some information.”

“About what?”

Sophie perched on the arm of a club chair. “I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but I have a twenty-two-year-old son.”

“Yeah, Nathan mentioned him. Rudy, right?”

“That’s right. He just graduated from the University of Minnesota. During his senior year, he had a part-time job in our hotel kitchen and discovered that he really likes working with food. I thought I should ask one of you about the Buckridge Culinary Academy.”

“Paul could give you much more information.”

“I knocked on his door,” she lied. “Nobody’s home.”

Tapping a finger against her cheek, Emily said, “Oh, that’s right. He did say he had some business out of the hotel today.”

“I’d just like to get a general feel for the place.”

“Well, hmm. What can I tell you?” She thought for a moment. “It’s on the semester system. One fall and one spring, and then a shorter summer session. Oh, and it’s expensive.”

“I assumed as much.”

“But it’s worth it. The grounds are beautiful. And the facilities are state-of-the-art.”

“How many new students do you accept each year?”

“Around twenty-five. Rudy would have to go through a fairly rigorous selection process.”

“So you don’t just take anybody who walks in the door and hands you a check.”

“Hardly. Paul says that to become a chef, even to go through chef’s training, a person has to be really committed. I don’t get it myself. That’s why you should talk to him. I mean, they work those poor idiots like they’re on some sort of prison ship. While you’re at the academy you eat, breathe, and sleep food. It would drive me crazy. But the students — the ones who don’t wash out — seem to love it. Rudy would live in New Haven and commute to the campus. There aren’t any dorms.”

“Why’s that?”

“If a student doesn’t make it to class in bad weather — a blizzard, a monsoon, a killer tornado — he’s not going to make it to his restaurant after he graduates, and that’s unthinkable. Chefs
get
there, according to Paul. They’re passionate about their work. And that’s what we train, the men and women who will be die future leaders in the culinary community. We aren’t interested in training food-service workers. That’s for someone else to do, like vo-techs.”

“Does Constance do much lecturing?”

Emily placed the folded sweater on the coffee table. “Maybe once or twice a year. Nathan does special demos every now and then. He’s a wonderful teacher. When it comes to food, he’s got this amazingly creative mind. He’s probably more talented than anyone else in the family. I don’t count, by the way. I think the stork delivered me to the wrong address. Give me a cheese and pickle sandwich and some carrot sticks and I’m in heaven.”

Sophie laughed. “Yeah, you were never much of a foodie. But, tell me now, is Paul in charge of the school, day to day?”

“That’s right. He’s got this amazing office on the top floor of the administration building. Pretty snazzy digs for my grubby brother. But then I guess he’s not so grubby anymore.”

“How about Nathan?”

“He’s not there enough to need his own office.”

“And your mother?”

“Oh, sure, she has one, but it’s just because of who she is. She’s not around much either. Usually, if Nathan or Kenny — or even if I — need a place to work when we’re there, that’s the office we all use.”

“Then if I wanted to send a note to Nathan at the academy, I’d send it to that office?”

“A love note?”

“None of your business, Emily.”

She grinned. “It’s room 404, Buckridge Culinary Academy, New Haven, Connecticut. You’ll have to get the zip from someone else. Oh, and if you’d like to fax him, Mom’s office has its own private number. I know Kenny uses it all the time for academy business. It came in pretty handy for me, too, when I was working on Mom’s new cookbook.”

Sophie held up her hand. “Faxes are too public.”

‘Too public for what?” Another grin.

Sophie was thrilled. She’d easily found the information she’d come looking for.The hard part would be figuring out who’d used the fax in Constance’s office to send a message to George Gildemeister.

Noticing that one of Kenny’s cigarettes was still burning in the ashtray, Emily got up and crushed it out. “God, I hate those things.”

“I thought you smoked.”

“I do, but those things stink.” She scrunched up her nose in distaste. “I like good old-fashioned menthol weeds. Nathan prefers Marlboros. God, you’d think he was a marine or something. And before Paul quit, he’d smoke anything that didn’t crawl away fast enough. Sticks. Pencils. Chalk. An occasional asparagus spear.”

“It’s wonderful that he was able to stop.”

“Well, he’s stopping. Mom thinks he’s got a will of iron, but I’ve seen him fall off the wagon a few times when he thought nobody was watching. We’re all supposed to be smoke free by the end of die year. Like that’s going to happen. You’d have to saw off Arthur’s hands to get him to quit. It’s the family curse.”

“I guess we’re all cursed with something.”

“God, look at the time,” said Emily. “I’ve got a lunch date in less than an hour and look at me. I’ve got to shower and dress.”

“And that’s my cue to leave.” Sophie got up off the arm of the chair.

“Maybe you’ll be coming out to New Haven to visit Nathan one of these days,” said Emily, walking her to the door.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, I’ll keep my fingers crossed. Not that I envy you getting involved with the Buckridges again. What is it they say? This isn’t a family; it’s a life sentence.”

Sophie smiled. So did Emily. But they both knew she wasn’t joking.

Journal Note

Friday afternoon

As I type, I’m sitting in my car on Penn Avenue in south Minneapolis.

A major surprise in my E-mail this morning. A note from Pluto. It seems he’s figured out that I’m no longer staying at the Maxfield. That means, of course, that he’s been watching my room. Not that I didn’t assume it already.

But that wasn’t the surprise. He said he wanted to meet with me in person. I thought I might get a rise out of him after I sent off the Laurie Lippert interview yesterday, but I never expected this. I almost couldn’t believe it. And then, when I realized he was serious, I had to think about it long and hard before I responded. I was simply too curious not to go, but I also thought it might be a trick of some kind, or at the very least I knew some risk was involved. I needed to minimize my vulnerability. That meant the place where we agreed to meet had to be public, with lots of people around.

It didn’t seem logical tome that Pluto was the same person who’d threatened my life — and taken Rafferty’s — but the fact that he was connected in some way with the Buckridge family gave me pause. He still refused to identify himself I assumed his reticence was based on his own fears, whatever that might mean. He suggested a park near downtown Minneapolis, one that’s very open and always has lots of people in it. He said he knew what I looked like and he’d find me. I suppose we could have used Rice Park in St. Paul, but it s too close to the Maxfield. Someone might have spotted us. So I replied to his E-mail and agreed to his terms. We’d rendezvous at Loring Park at noon. Turns out it wasn’t far from where I stayed last night.

As soon as I sent off my answer, I got to wondering. Which Buckridge would I finally meetface-to-face? Who hated Constance enough to want to see her reputation trashed in what would undoubtedly become a
New York Times
bestseller? I went through all the names. Paul. Nathan. Emily. Arthur. Kenneth.

Actually, last night, I even began to toy with the idea that Constance herself was Pluto. It would certainly appeal to her more Machiavellian instincts.

What if, in a sense, Constance had hired me — without paying a dime — to make sure her past was buried so deep that no one would ever find the truth, no matter how hard they tried? Taking that theory a stepfurther, if I continue to pass information on to Pluto, I might be ensuring that
Slice and Dice
will never be published. Before it went to press, I’m sure my sources would have all been bought off, threatened, or even worse. And so, as of last night, I’d made the decision to cut Pluto out of the loop. He’d been as helpful as he was probably ever going to be, and I had to put the book first.

And then I got the E-mail this morning, which was a total curveball. By now, Pluto probably knows me pretty well. And that means he knew I couldn’t turn down the opportunity to meet my “Deep Throat “face-to-face.