Chapter Thirty-seven

When Parrott arrived at Portabello’s in Kennett Square, Herman had already claimed the table. The aromas of lemon, basil, oregano, and garlic gave off a mouth-watering vibe that was all about the food—Italian cuisine.

A cheerful hostess in a black-and-white uniform led Parrott to the occupied table, past a sleek bar, comfortable group seating arrangements, and a baby grand piano. “Enjoy your lunch,” she said, as she motioned to the round table with a mushroom-colored cloth, and Herman set down his menu and rose to greet Parrott.

The men shook hands and sat. “Nice place,” Parrott said, taking in the framed oil paintings on the rust-colored walls, the antique tables and mirrors at both ends of the room. He was glad he had on his best sport jacket and soft leather shoes.

“You’ve never been here before?” Herman straightened the open collar of his shirt and patted his jacket lapels. “When we have a job in the area, I like to come here. Great place to meet with clients. You have to try the grilled mango.”

“I guess I never thought of construction work as taking you to such a dress-up place. No offense.”

Herman laughed, a rumbling, warm sound like brandy poured over ice cream. “I could say the same about police work, right? Maybe you could say we both clean up well.” Herman opened his menu and motioned for Parrott to do the same. “Let’s get our order in, and then we can talk.”

Everything on the menu looked good to Parrott, but the beef stroganoff jumped off the page at him. He also ordered the grilled mango as a starter.

Herman followed with crab cakes and veal madeira. “Do you want an alcoholic drink? The selection here is excellent.”

“Never drink on the job,” Parrott said. “I’ll have the iced tea.”

The waiter repeated the order and scooted off, returning with the drinks and a basket of artisan breads and a mushroom gorgonzola hummus. Parrott dug in.

Herman waited while Parrott loaded his bread-and-butter plate with hummus and a yeast roll. “I’m sure you noticed so many of the dishes have mushrooms in the ingredients. I happen to love locally grown mushrooms. Looks like you do, too.”

“I love them, but Tonya won’t touch a mushroom if her life depends on it. She would definitely not appreciate this place.”

Herman chuckled again. “We won’t bring her here, then. This can be our man-to-man lunch place.” His eyes shone, as if he’d just discovered the last piece to a jigsaw puzzle. “Now, tell me, Ollie, what do you want to talk about?”

Parrott finished his roll and wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Actually, there are two topics—one professional, one personal. But first I should explain that I’m investigating an active case. I can’t answer questions or provide you with confidential information. Mostly, I need to pick your brain, but I can’t let you pick mine, if that makes sense.”

“I get it,” Herman said. “Something about the construction business, you said?”

“Yes.” Parrott took a deep breath. “Are you familiar with the Whitman bank barn that blew up last week?”

“Sure. It was in all the local news outlets. Such a shame.”

“Were you aware that the bank barn had recently been renovated into living space?”

Herman leaned back, placing his elbows on the arm rests behind him and puffing his chest forward. “Y-e-e-s-s. My company actually bid on that job. Didn’t get it, though.”

This was going better than Parrott had expected. “Do you know which company did get the job?”

“Yes. The J.W. Sterling company had it. Old, established company with lots of experience in Brandywine Valley. Nobody was surprised they got the contract.”

At this moment, the waiter arrived with their appetizers. Parrott’s grilled mango was served on a chilled plate, and Herman’s crab cakes were steaming. As the son of Cora Parrott, he paid attention to such things, and his estimation of the restaurant increased.

Herman dug into his first. “These are the best crab cakes I’ve ever eaten, except maybe the ones your mother fixes. I don’t mind sharing.”

“No, thanks. You were right about the mango. Cool and delicious.” Parrott had never tasted cooked mango before. The piquant seasoning blended with the juice of the fruit to yield a perfect sweetness. “Let me continue, if you don’t mind talking and eating at the same time.”

Herman waved his fingers in a “come on” gesture and continued to eat.

“Are you familiar with a large construction company in Raleigh, North Carolina named Anderson & Sons?”

Nodding, Herman set down his fork. “I’ve heard of ’em, sure. Another one of those big-name companies who’ve been in business for generations. Those guys don’t have to hustle business like the rest of us. People seek them out to do their projects. Not that I’m complaining.”

Parrott’s thoughts flew to the body of Tucker Anderson, III. No wonder someone would sue him for palimony. He was evidently part of a well-to-do family. A catch for Tammie Caballero, whether she realized it or not. “Are you aware of any link between J.W. Sterling and Anderson & Sons?”

Herman’s eyebrows shot up. “You mean, like a son from one married a daughter from the other? Nah, I wouldn’t know about anything like that. But that shouldn’t be too hard to find out. Typically, construction companies don’t pair up on jobs or anything.”

Parrott finished his mango and washed it down with tea. “Well, how likely would it be that someone from Anderson & Sons would be in charge of the crew on a project of J.W. Sterling’s?”

“Hmm, that question gets my curiosity up, but I won’t ask. That would be pretty unusual. Sounds like someone with a lot of influence did a big favor—”

“—Sorry to interrupt. How were your appetizers?” The waiter appeared with a busboy, who cleared the plates and refilled the drinks. Immediately, the waiter served piping hot platters of stroganoff and veal.

“Really delicious,” Herman said, rubbing his hands together in anticipation of the next course. “Excellent service, as always, too.”

Parrott took a bite of his beef stroganoff. “This is stupendous.”

Laughing, Herman said, “That’s the exact word your mother used to describe the stroganoff when we were here last.”

“I wondered if Ma had ever been here. Much as she loves mushrooms, I’ll bet this is one of her favorite spots.”

“We’ve been here about a half dozen times.”

Herman returned to his veal with gusto, and Parrott did the same with his beef. Once both dishes had been mostly consumed, Herman sat back and took a deep breath. “Great meal. Can’t eat another bite. Any more to talk about? You mentioned something personal.”

Parrott scooted his chair back a few inches. A twinge of guilt shot through him as he approached this topic. He was about to be less than honest with his mother’s companion. “Yeah. The other night, you mentioned investing with the financial planner, Brock Thornton. Can you tell me some more about him? I’m curious how he can offer a twenty percent return on investment.”

A smile crinkled the older man’s eyes. “I think a lot of people would like to know Thornton’s secret. I once heard him say it’s all about volume, and maybe that’s why he only takes on clients with deep pockets.”

“Well, I’m interested, but I want to be cautious. How did you meet him?”

Herman looked at the table, as if he were trying to remember. “Thornton and his wife moved here from out-of-state, maybe six or years ago. I did a project in Brandywine for a couple named Baker. Pretty sure they’re the ones who introduced me.”

Weird prickles ran up Parrott’s arms and behind his neck. “Stan and Andrea Baker?”

“Yeah. You know them?”

“Small world, especially here in Brandywine. I met them on a case a couple of years ago.” Parrott didn’t say how Andrea’s work as a true crime writer had helped him. “Do they invest with him?”

“I don’t know. One of Thornton’s selling points is that he never divulges who his clients are. Somehow that appeals to the high-roller mentality around here.”

The waiter appeared at the table asking if either gentleman would like dessert. Parrott shook his head, and Herman said, “No, just the check.”

Parrott took out his wallet, and Herman brushed his arm. “My treat this time. I hope we can do this again soon.”

The guilty twinge reappeared, but Parrott decided it would be better to say thank you, rather than to start an argument. “Are you serious about getting together a little investment group with this guy, Thornton?”

“Of course. Why shouldn’t we get in on the hottest financial action in town? Just say the word, and I’ll see if we can set up a meeting.”

Parrott hated having to deceive Herman in order to find out more about Brock Thornton, but sometimes his job required him to forge a path through a thorny thicket. “Okay, I’m interested.” And who knew? If this guy was the real deal, maybe he and Tonya would invest with this guy.