Slice and Dice (8 page)

Nathan smiled as the crowd clapped.

“And Chef Paul Buckridge.”

He moved closer to his mother and gave a polite nod.

“My daughter, Emily,” continued Constance, putting her arm around the younger woman’s waist.

With her long, straight blond hair and large, soft eyes, Bram found her very attractive. He wondered if Constance had resembled her daughter in her youth.

“By the way, Emily did all the photography for the latest book,
Cuisine America”

Again, applause burst from every corner of the room.

“Next, I’d like to introduce my son-in-law, Kenneth Merlin. Kenneth is our senior legal counsel.”

More applause as a thin man in a dark suit stood in the back.

“And since we have a local luminary here with us today, I’d like to introduce you all to Sophie Greenway, who has just taken over the restaurant-critic position at the
Minneapolis Times Register.
Sophie is an old friend of the family’s.”

Sophie waved as everyone clapped.

“There’s one last person I need to include in my introduction.” Constance stepped over to a small, professorial-looking white-haired man standing at the front of the crowd. Slipping her arm through his, she continued. “This is my brother, the eminent clinical psychologist, Dr. Arthur Jadek. Since his retirement four years ago, he’s become my right arm. I don’t know what I’d do without him.”

The man smiled somewhat shyly as people applauded. Bram thought he looked ill at ease and wondered if perhaps he didn’t much care for the spotlight.

“And now I’ll be happy to sign your books.” Constance kissed Arthur on the cheek, then sat down behind the table. In an instant, the knot in the room formed itself into a line.

“She’s going to be here for hours,” said Lela disgustedly, folding her arms over her chest.

“You better squeeze in somewhere if you want her signature,” said Bram.

“Oh, I’m not interested in that.”

“Then why are we here?”

She shrugged. “I’m fascinated by celebrity?”

That couldn’t be her entire reason, thought Bram, but he didn’t have the interest to pursue it.

“Do you want to go talk to your wife?”

“I would, but she’s gone,” he said, feeling miffed. As soon as Constance Buckridge had begun signing, Nathan and Sophie had exited through the back door.

“Are you sure?” Lela stood on her tiptoes to look around. “I saw her leave.”

“Do you want to get back to the hotel?”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, Ms. Dexter, but I thought we had a date for a cup of coffee.”

“A date?”

“As in an appointment. A social engagement.”

“You’re sure your wife won’t mind?” She was trying to match his light tone, but her words stung. Something about the look in Nathan Buckridge’s eyes told Bram he wasn’t just an old friend. “As a matter of fact” — he checked his watch — “it’s almost happy hour in our fair town. I don’t suppose you like hot New Orleans jazz?”

“You have to ask?”

“Then I know just the place for a couple of cool draft beers. What do you say?”

“Lead the way.”

Several hours later Sophie surveyed the Belmont’s dark interior looking for Harry Hongisto. For a Saturday night, the dinner crowd was pretty thin. Okay, so it was just after six, but in a town noted for early dining, it didn’t bode well. Sophie had been wanting to talk to Harry all day and finally decided that having a face-to-face conversation with him was better
than
doing it over the phone.

She and Nathan had returned to the hotel immediately after leaving Kitchen Central. In die car on die way back, she’d tried to keep the conversation neutral and impersonal. She told him about Harry Hongisto’s restaurant and the bad reviews he’d received from the former restaurant critic at the
Times Register.
Nathan seemed sympathetic, asking her how much power the reviewers had in this town. In New York, he said, a bad review could sink a restaurant. Did she think that was the case here?

She described the slow decline of the Belmont during the past few years, adding that she felt the two reviews had really hurt business. In the end, if Harry had to shut down, it would be hard to say whether the reviews themselves had pushed the restaurant over the edge. Nathan asked a couple more questions: Where is it located? What sort of food does it serve? But before she knew it, he’d brought the subject back to their past again.

Sophie had grown increasingly ill at ease in his company, especially after he made it clear that he’d never gotten over her. As a way of ending their afternoon together, she’d agreed to meet him for lunch on Monday. He was so insistent, and in her heart she had to admit that she was just a little bit flattered. Still, she made sure he knew that she was very much in love with her husband and that all they could ever hope to be now was friends. Nathan said he understood, and that, for their lunch, he had something special in mind. She didn’t exactly know what to make of his enthusiasm, but they’d parted by the elevators on a friendly note, Sophie heading up to her apartment in the north wing, Nathan returning to his suite in the south.

Relieved to finally be away from him, Sophie sailed into her front foyer, hoping to debrief with Bram. For years he’d pushed his pet theory about old flames: Old boyfriends — and girlfriends — never die. They always pop up again sooner or later, sometimes with expectations, sometimes just out of curiosity. Sophie thought he’d be happy to hear another story that proved his theory. Unfortunately, he wasn’t back yet. His golf game couldn’t have lasted this long, but since she knew he had to prepare for next week’s shows, she figured he was off doing research.

Normally, if either of them had to be somewhere other than home in the evening, they would call or leave a note. This morning, however, before she’d left for her meeting at the paper, they’d made plans to drive to the Mall of America for an eight o’clock movie, so she knew he’d be back by seven at the latest. Since she had some time to spare, she grabbed her purse and returned to the lobby. Next stop, the Belmont

Sophie found Harry in the bar. He was seated at die counter, head in his hands, staring morosely into a glass of Scotch. She knew it was Scotch because the bottle was right next to him.

Slipping onto a stool, she could see that he was completely lost in thought.

“Harry?” she said softly, touching his arm.

When he looked over at her, it took him a moment to focus. “Sophie,” he said finally. “What are you doing here?” His voice was gravelly even on good days, but tonight it was mixed with alcohol and aimless despair. His eyes were bloodshot, and the black bow tie he always knotted perfectly was untied and hanging down limply over his tux jacket.

“I was hoping we could talk for a few minutes.”

He picked up his glass, gesturing to the empty room. ‘Talk away. I’ve got nothing but time. My usual audience seems to have failed me.”

She knew he wasn’t in the best shape, but she’d come to warn him that he was in potentially serious trouble. She had to make him listen.

“You look pretty as a picture tonight, Sophie Tahtinen. Your father would be so proud.”

He’d used her maiden name. Not a good sign.

“Harry, listen. I didn’t tell you this last night because I thought it would upset you, but you’re going to find out sooner or later.” She paused, screwing up her courage. “I’m taking over George Gildemeister’s job at the
Times Register.
I’m the new restaurant critic.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You?” was all he could squeak out. “You know I’ve done guest reviews for the paper for years.”

“But to
become
George Gildemeister.”

“No, no, Harry. I’m not becoming him, I’m just taking his job.”

He gave the traditional Finnish sigh of resignation. “Hoi, hoi.” After shaking his head a few more times, he said, “This is a sad, sad day, Sophie. It’s such a loathsome profession you’ve chosen. Your father — maybe I should tell him. Break the news to him gently.” He was about to pour himself more Scotch when Sophie grabbed the bottle out of his hand.

“Hey.”

“I’ll give it back to you in a minute. Right now you’ve got to concentrate. Can you do that?”

He glowered but grunted affirmatively.

“Good, because this is important. When I was at the paper this morning, Gildemeister received a letter from you.”

His glower turned to a grin. “I know. I hand-delivered it. Made sure they took it right up to his office.”

At least that was good news. The U.S. mail hadn’t been involved. “You threatened him, Harry.”

“Huh?” He passed a hand over his face.

“You said a guy like him didn’t deserve to live.”

A vague smile returned. “I worked on that letter all night last night. It was my pi&ce de resistance.”

He murdered the French pronunciation, but Sophie got the point. ‘The letter’s been turned over to the police. Yale McGraw, the managing editor, took your words seriously.”

“He should! That Gildemeister is a menace. He’s singlehandedly responsible for ruining my business!”

Sophie could have argued the point, but now wasn’t the time. “Harry, the police are probably going to want to talk to you.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he said, downing the last of his drink. “They were already here. I was out. I guess I’m supposed to call some sergeant ASAP.”

“Did you?”

“If they want to talk to me, they can come back. I’m not hiding from anyone. I’m a businessman and I’ve got rights.”

“Harry, this is serious!”

“It’s a crock of you-know-what. I’m not gonna hurt that bastard, though I have dreamed of stuffing him in our convection oven and cranking the heat up to broil. Sophie, don’t look so shocked. I just wanted to blow off some steam.”

“The police don’t know that.” The problem was, if she encouraged him to call the officer back now, in his present state, who knew what he’d say?

“Don’t worry,
pikku
Sophia. I’ve got everything under control. As a matter of fact, before long I’m going to be a very rich man.”

He was slurring his words, mixing Finnish with English, so she wasn’t sure she’d heard him right. “You’re going to be rich?”

He glanced at her sideways. “I’ve got options. Plans. I always land on my feet. Gildemeister may hate my guts, but this is one guy who’s got tons of
sisu.”

Another Finnish word meaning determination. Not that knowing the definition helped her understand what he meant.

He yanked the bottle away from her and poured himself another drink. “There’s more than one way to skin a cat — in this case, a Gildemeister.” His laugh was more of a cackle.

“Harry, you need to be careful. You’ve got to stay away from George Gildemeister. Promise me you won’t go near him.”

“Hell, sure. You’re so pretty tonight I’d promise you anything.”

He might be old and drunk, but he still knew how to flirt He was laughing so hard now that he spilled half the Scotch lifting the glass to his mouth.

“I think someone should take you home.”

“Nah, I gotta stay here until it’s finished.”

She was losing her patience. “Until what’s finished?”

“My business,” he grunted, turning morose again.

For a moment she thought he might be planning to do something drastic, like burn the building down.

Setting his glass on the counter, he added, “You shouldn’t be sitting here talking to an old man. Go home to that hand some husband of yours. Thank the good Lord every day that you’ve got him,
pikku
Sophia. I’d give anything to have my Lempi back with me.”

“Are you sure you’re going to be okay?”

“Fine.” He waved her away.

He was a sad man, in a sad situation, but she’d done what she’d come to do. And he was right, she had to get home now. She hoped Bram would be waiting.

Journal Note

Saturday, 11
P.M.

While it s still fresh in my mind, I want to type up my taped interview with Oscar Boland. But first a few general comments: We met at the Lyme House, a restaurant on Lake Harriet in south Minneapolis. It was his choice. The dining room looked inviting, but he wanted to sit in the downstairs pub. Apparently, he goes there quite often. It was too noisy for my taste, but we found a back worn that was less congested than the main one, and I set up the tape recorder between us.

Boland looked like a retired marine. Gray crew cut. Ramrod-straight posture. An expression that was pure concrete. Initially, I felt his suspicion quite keenly. He made it clear that heti been a friend to all the Buckridges and wasn’t going to participate in any character assassinations. I knew it wasn’t going to be easy getting the information I wanted. If nothing else, I hoped Boland would provide me with a framework on which to place the rest of my research. In actuality, he gave me much more than that. I now feel I’ve narrowed down the areas that will yield the most potent results.