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VICTOR AND I were about to exit my parked car and brave the torrential downpour the next evening when his cell rang. He glanced at the number on the screen and shrugged. He didn’t recognize it. After he and the caller exchanged greetings, he said, “I’m not at Jane’s right now. We just got to the pub. Murray’s Pub? You know it?” He listened for a moment, then said, “You’re welcome to join us. We’ll save you a seat.”
“Who was that?” I asked after he ended the call.
“Chloe. She says she has something for me.”
“Sounds mysterious.” I flipped up the hood of my rain jacket and reached for the door handle.
“Wait.” He had the huge, black golf umbrella I’d found in the coat closet after Irene had died and left me the house. It had a curved wooden handle and enough fabric to make a six-man tent. A man’s umbrella. “I’ll come around.”
Be still, my heart. Obediently I waited while Victor circled the car in what had turned into a biblical deluge and opened my door. He held the enormous canopy over us while we made the half-block dash to the pub.
Here, too, he held the door. I could get used to this. I welcomed the pub’s cheery ambience, the aromas of fresh beer and spicy fries, the bluegrass music played at a volume that allowed patrons to converse without shouting, the warm golden light from original antique wall sconces that had started life as gas fixtures long before anyone in the whole dang place had been born. I hung my dripping jacket on the row of hooks by the door.
Victor glanced around approvingly as he deposited the umbrella in the stand by the door. It gave the little automatic umbrellas that were already there inferiority complexes. It’s chilly outside, they whined. Shrinkage. You know.
Despite it being a Friday evening, the pub was less than a third full. Anyone who had a micron of sense had taken one look out the window and hauled out the Scrabble board. The rest of us found ourselves at Murray’s.
I could feel Victor begin to relax as we slid onto barstools, and was glad I’d insisted on dragging him out of the house that night. The funeral had been yesterday. He’d spent all day today on the phone taking care of a variety of personal and business matters.
I’d gone out for a few hours in the middle of the day to start inventorying and photographing all those antique medical devices at my client’s home. When I’d returned with groceries, Victor was where I’d left him, sitting at the breakfast table, filling a legal pad with notes. His phone was on speaker and the conversation was in French.
Unlike my houseguest, I spoke no language other than the one of my birth, despite having gotten decent grades in Spanish for six years. For what it’s worth, I do remember all the important vacation words, the most critical being baño and cerveza. Drink enough Mexican cerveza and you’d darn well better know how to say, Dónde está el baño?
I did catch a few words as Victor wrapped up his conversation with someone named Michel. Bien and merci and oui were easy enough to pick out. Then Michel asked something and Victor said, “Crystal Harbor.” Michel responded with the French version of Say what? Victor smiled at me as he slowly repeated the name of the town, followed by the translation: “Cristal Port.” Then he added, “Long Island.” Ah. A place Michel had heard of. He proceeded to share his encyclopedic knowledge about Long Island—I heard “Billy Joel” and “Gatsby” and “Amityville Horreur”—while Victor made yappy hand gestures for my benefit.
After saying adieu to Michel, he’d helped me throw together a spaghetti dinner. He might not be the world-class chef his brother had been, but he knew his way around a meatball, endearing himself even further to Sexy Beast. Once we’d eaten, I’d been determined to get us out of the house. Victor had spent the entire day working and no doubt intended to spend his evening the same way. While it might be true that work was preferable to wallowing in grief, there was a third option that beat them both out.
Martin was behind the bar when we took our seats, flirting with a trio of pretty young women while he worked the blender for their girlie drinks. Hiring the padre had been a canny move on the part of Maxine Baumgartner, the pub’s owner. The place now attracted far more female customers, whose presence in turn attracted even more male customers.
When I’d met Martin, he’d been bartending in Southampton, an hour’s drive from his mother’s home in working-class Rocky Bay. Yeah, that’s right, he’d lived with his mom back then—temporarily, he’d insisted, and dang if he hadn’t been telling the truth. When he’d started working at Murray’s two months ago, Maxine had rented him the apartment upstairs, which reduced his commute to a lazy stroll down a flight of stairs.
He glanced over and spotted us as he poured the last slushy, neon-colored concoction for the young ladies. He joined us, shook Victor’s hand, and quietly mentioned that Dom was there.
“Oh,” I said, and “Jeez.” I looked at Victor, who was well aware that Dom was the primary suspect—heck, the only suspect—in his brother’s murder. I slid off the barstool. “Um, maybe we should find another place to unwind.”
“Where is he?” Victor asked.
Martin nodded toward a booth in the far corner. Only then did I recognize the back of Dom’s head. Bonnie noticed us first, gazing past her fiancé with a sober expression.
“There’s a great wine bar the next town over,” I told Victor. “We’ll come here some other—”
But he was already making his way toward Dom. The background music seemed to get louder as conversation ground to a halt throughout the pub. Everyone there knew who Victor was. The family resemblance left little doubt, not to mention a few funeral shots of him that had made it onto the news last night. And they also knew the investigation had targeted my ex. Most of them politely feigned disinterest, while a few gawked outright. All three of Martin’s cuties were furiously thumbing their phones, no doubt tweeting this latest sighting of #SwingsSexyBro.
Reluctantly I followed Victor. Dom had risen at his approach, his expression outwardly neutral to anyone who didn’t know him as well as I did. The Dom I saw was wary and watchful and prepared for things to turn ugly. His fiancée kept her seat as she watched Victor close the distance between them. Casually she unbuttoned her slate-colored jacket, and with a start, I realized why. Cops carry guns, even when off duty if they choose to. Bonnie struck me as the type who would choose to.
Victor stopped in front of Dom and extended his hand. He didn’t smile. “We haven’t met. I’m Victor Dewatre.”
After a moment Dom stiffly shook it. “Dominic Faso. This is my fiancée, Detective Bonnie Hernandez.” Yeah, he said Detective. Can you blame him?
“I would have preferred for Jane to introduce us,” Victor said, shaking her hand, “but this is making her nervous.”
An abrasive female voice rang out. “When did this place turn into a damn church?” It was Maxine, bellowing from behind the bar. The pub’s owner was in her late fifties, with a blond ponytail and a grating smoker’s voice. “Does the sign outside say Saint Murray’s? No? Well then, stop praying for something exciting to happen over there—” Max jerked her head toward our little group “—or I’ll have to shut the place down and join a convent.”
She stared hard at her patrons, eliciting a few self-conscious titters, followed by a gradual resumption of conversation. I caught her eye and mouthed a thank-you.
“Would you, uh, like to join us?” Dom asked, while Bonnie gave him the Death Stare.
“For a moment only,” Victor said. “It’s not my intention to intrude.” He sat next to Bonnie, forcing her to scoot over to make room. Dom did the same for me. He was halfway through a beer, while his fiancée sipped red wine. Nothing but crumbs and an errant tentacle remained of what had once been a pile of crispy fried calamari.
Well. Wasn’t this cozy. What was Victor trying to prove?
As if I weren’t sufficiently uptight, Bonnie’s left hand rested lightly on the tabletop, with that four-karat diamond frantically waving at me and nyah-nyahing and generally making a nuisance of itself. Oh yeah, so mature.
Victor addressed Bonnie, pitching his voice low enough to discourage eavesdroppers. “Detective, I understand you had to remove yourself from my brother’s case due to the—” he gestured toward Dom “—conflict.”
“That’s right.” Bonnie was in her early thirties, with short, stylishly cut dark hair and a mild lingering accent from her native Dominican Republic.
“This Detective Cullen,” he said, “I have little faith in him. I know you’re not free to comment, but from what I can tell, he is a buffoon.”
Bonnie and Dom exchanged a look. It was clear they shared his assessment.
“Is it me,” I asked her, “or is it weird that Cullen has chosen to zero in on the fiancé of a fellow detective? I mean, I can see Dom being, you know, a person of interest and all, but Cullen has obviously made up his mind. Is he even looking seriously at anyone else?”
“Like Mr. Dewatre said, I’m not free to comment on any aspect of the investigation.”
I leaned forward, my voice low and steady and deadly serious. “Do you get that we’re all on the same side here, Bonnie?”
Her eyes cut to the Frenchman sitting next to her. “Are we?”
“Since Victor wants to find out who killed his brother,” I said, “and since you and I both know Dom didn’t do it, then yes, I’d say we’re all on the same side.” Even if Victor didn’t know it yet. In time he would.
I could almost hear the internal debate being waged behind Bonnie’s green eyes. Finally, with a look of mild disgust, she said, “What I can tell you is that Cullen’s always had a problem with me, because I’ve always had a problem with him. I’ve made no secret of the fact that the guy has no business wearing a gold shield.”
“There’s a good-old-boy thing going on here,” Dom said. “He’s pals with Chief Larsen. The department’s stuck with him.”
“I hate to think that my brother’s killer might remain free due to police incompetence,” Victor said. “I’ll do whatever is required to keep that from happening.”
“Mr. Dewatre—” Bonnie said.
“Call me Victor,” he said. “Please.”
“Victor, I sympathize with your frustration, but I must warn you not to take the law into—”
“Yes, yes,” he said impatiently, “I know you must say this, but tell me. What would you do? If it were your brother. What would you do?”
She took a deep breath and sagged a little as she released it. “I’d try to see what I could find out. Legally,” she added. “Without stepping on the detective’s toes. And keeping him in the loop.”
Dom addressed Victor. “It sounds to me like you’re not convinced Cullen’s on the right track.”
“If you’re asking whether I think you’re guilty,” Victor said, looking straight at him, “my honest answer is, I don’t know. As for Cullen, I think if he somehow stumbled onto the right track, he would likely stumble right off it.”
No one spoke for several moments while I envisioned a particularly hazardous minefield stretching between us, just waiting for someone to jump in and blow this civilized conversation to bits. No one, for example, brought up why Cullen had homed in on Dom as a suspect. Answer: because he’d beaten the snot out of Victor’s brother, the murder victim. And why had Dom done that? Because he’d thought Swing was sexing up his teenage daughter. For all I knew, he believed it still. These were issues none of us appeared eager to explore at this juncture.
“Well, here’s something to get you started,” Dom told him. “The killer wears size thirteen shoes.”
“But isn’t that—” I cut myself off.
“My size?” he said. “Yes, unfortunately. Cullen made off with all my sneakers for testing. They’re the right size, but none of them match. Wrong treads or whatever. Of course, he’s claiming I threw away the shoes I wore that day.” To Victor he explained, “Whoever committed the murder apparently left footprints.”
“It’s true,” Victor said. “I saw.”
I looked at him sharply. “What do you mean you saw? When could you have seen?”
“Cullen finally released the crime scene,” he said. “He brought the restaurant keys over this afternoon when you were out. It was a good walk. I needed the exercise.” Dewatre was about two miles from my house.
“Oh, Victor, that must have been...” I shook my head. “Why didn’t you wait for me? I would have gone with you.”
“You’ve been through enough,” he said. “You found him.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about this earlier?”
“I knew you would be upset. I wasn’t going to mention it, but now we’re talking about the shoes and...” He shrugged.
“You stubborn... Frenchman!” I accused.
He rewarded that with a little smile, quickly squelched. He gave a sad shake of his head. “Pierre loved that kitchen. Now... now I feel like bulldozing the place.”
It had been four days. I thought about the blood. I thought about the meat and other cooking ingredients that had been left out on the counter, certain the cops would not have bothered disposing of it. Four warm days with the place all closed up.
“I’ll bring someone in to clean it up,” I said.
He frowned. “Who would do a job like that?”
“There are professionals who do this for a living, believe it or not. Crime scenes, suicides... you know. They come in with hazmat suits and special equipment. There’s a very good company. I know the owner. I’ll call him tomorrow.”
Lie. I’d call Denny Pinheiro from the privacy of my bedroom as soon as I got home. In his business, prospective customers were assured of getting someone on the phone twenty-four seven. Plus I was a valued client, thanks to my unusual line of work, so I had Denny’s personal cell on speed dial. I had little doubt he’d meet me at Dewatre the next morning. Victor, however, did not need to know that. I planned to quietly swipe the keys Cullen had just given him and run out in the a.m. to do “a little shopping.”
Yeah, I’m a big fat liar, so sue me. Swing’s brother had already viewed the grisly aftermath of his murder. He didn’t need to experience it again.
An awkward silence ensued, which Bonnie finally broke with, “I wonder what size shoes Romulus Tooley wears.”
“I’ll ask Ben to find out,” Victor said.
“Ben Ralston?” I asked. “The private investigator?”
Victor nodded. “I phoned him today. You mentioned that he’s done work for you. He’s competent, yes?”
“He’s very competent. What exactly did you ask him to do?”
“To find out where Tooley was on Monday morning when Pierre was stabbed to death.”
“I wonder if Cullen even did that much,” I said.
“Well, we can eliminate fifty percent of the population,” Bonnie said. “The killer was almost certainly male. I don’t know any woman who could wear a men’s size thirteen.”
“How long until you have to go back home?” Dom asked Victor. “I mean, I assume your employer offered a few days’ bereavement leave, but I’m just wondering how you’ll manage to look into your brother’s murder from... is it Paris?”
Victor nodded. “My architectural firm is located on the Champs-Élysées, but we do a lot of work for U.S. companies, so we have several branches over here as well. One of them is in Manhattan, down in SoHo. I told my boss I wanted to work out of the SoHo office for, well, I’m not sure how long, with flexible hours, and he has graciously agreed.”
“That’s quite a concession,” Bonnie said. “They must be eager to keep you happy.”
Victor shrugged. “I’m good at what I do. Also I’ve brought the firm a couple of valuable clients. It’s not just the investigation keeping me here. I need to sell Pierre’s house and the restaurant, settle his affairs.”
I said, “Well, you know you’re welcome to stay at my place for the duration. The truth is, I enjoy the company.” I felt Dom stiffen slightly.
“You’ve been exceedingly generous, Jane,” Victor said, “and I thank you for it, but I couldn’t continue to impose—”
“We have a deal,” I reminded him. “No hotels, remember? You’re hurting my feelings, Victor. I feel a big, juicy cry coming on.”
He shook his head, grinning. “You are impossible.”
“So you’ve been staying at Janey’s all week?” Dom sounded casual. Too casual. Bonnie thought so, too, judging by the flat stare she gave him.
“That’s right,” Victor said. “Jane is my guardian angel. I don’t know what I would have done without her these past few days.”
“Yeah, she’s... That’s great,” Dom said, “that you have someplace local to stay and all. What about Swing’s house? I’d have thought you’d want to stay there.”
“At first the police wouldn’t let me near it. And now...” Victor hesitated. “I know I need to go there and begin sorting through his things. To be honest, I’m not looking forward to it.”
“Well, listen,” Dom said, “if you get tired of the scenery over at Jane’s, you can always bunk at my place. Plenty of room—”
“Dom,” Bonnie interrupted, “that’s probably not a good idea, considering.”
He looked blank for a moment. Considering...? Oh! Considering the fact he was still the police department’s sole suspect in the murder of Victor’s brother.
And okay, yeah, I’ll admit it. I dig the fact that I can still inspire jealousy in my ex after all these years. Hey, I’ll take what I can get.
Something in Victor’s smile told me the subtext wasn’t lost on him either. “It’s no problem. I appreciate the offer. Congratulations to the two of you, by the way.”
Dom looked at me, confused.
I said, “I think he means you and Bonnie.”
“Your engagement,” Victor said.
“Oh!” Dom said. “Yes, of course. Thanks.”
Victor asked when they were planning to tie the knot. Dom responded with a dismissive “No rush,” which naturally made a big hit with his fiancée. If I were Dom, I’d be thinking hard about the fact that his significant other carried a loaded weapon.
As we made our way back to our barstools, Victor whispered, “You and Dom have been divorced for many years, yes?”
“Yes, but...” My sigh was the kind normally associated with the word eloquent.
“You two are not done with each other,” he pronounced.
“What makes you say that?”
He shrugged. “I’m French. I know these things.”
I made a rude noise and smacked his arm, and he snickered.
We resumed our seats. A cognac snifter awaited me. I knew what the golden liquid was even before I lifted the glass and sniffed. I smiled. My favorite añejo tequila.
From behind the bar, Martin winked. “I know what you like.” He turned to my companion. “What’ll you have, Victor?”
“Guinness. A proper pub drink.”
“The man has good taste.” He grabbed a glass and started working one of the beer taps.
Was it my imagination or had the padre’s words been directed at Victor? I know what she likes. Or had that business with Dom messed with my head and was I reading coded messages in the most innocent of statements?
Of course, it was possible I wasn’t imagining a darn thing and that I should have started playing house with a French hottie years ago. It certainly had a way of making the men in my life sit up and take notice.
Martin returned with Victor’s ale and we clinked glasses.
“Cheers.”
“Santé.”
I took a sip. “I’m impressed by the way you handled yourself over there, Victor. You displayed admirable aplomb. How do you say that in French?”
“Aplomb. But really, what’s the sense in passing judgment at this point when we have so few facts? Dom might be a very bad man, that is possible. Or he might be a good man caught in a very bad situation.”
“Well, you know what I think,” I said.
“You believe Dom is innocent. Setting aside your history with him, let me say I believe you to be a good judge of character. I can tell this already. Perhaps it’s because of your work, the different types of people you interact with.”
“Most of whom no longer have a pulse.”
“You know what I mean,” he said. “Your clients are the ones who are left behind, those who are devastated, and bitter, and remorseful. You see people at their worst.”
“I see people at their best too. I see people summon strength and goodness when no one, including themselves, thought they had it in them. Anyway, thank you for the compliment.” I studied my snifter, took another sip. “You know, if Dom were guilty, he probably wouldn’t have shared the fact that he and the killer wear the same size shoe.”
“And if Bonnie thought her fiancé might be guilty,” Victor said, “she would not have encouraged me to see what I could dig up on my own.”
“Don’t kid yourself,” I said. “If Detective Hernandez suspected her fiancé was a murderer, he would not get a pass, believe you me. Conflict of interest or no, she’d get to the bottom of it. She might not be my favorite person, but she’s a dedicated cop.”
Victor looked past me, hand raised in a wave. I followed his gaze to the entrance, where Chloe Sleeper stood folding her little umbrella and scanning the room. She spied us and smiled. Two guys at a nearby table tracked her progress as she joined us. Not surprising really. She was young and attractive, even rain-damp and wearing jeans and a pink fleece jacket.
Victor rose and they pecked cheeks. When he continued on to her other cheek, the old Gallic two-step, she responded with a surprised “Oh!” and a self-conscious giggle.
She looked around. “There are some tables free. That might be more comfortable.” And more private, which I realized was her primary concern when she pointed to the most out-of-the-way booth, away from curious ears. Before moving from the bar, she asked Martin for one of the IPAs the pub offered on draft, then did a classic double-take.
“Aren’t you...?” she asked. “Weren’t you at the funeral yesterday? Working security?”
He grinned. “I’m a man of many talents. Ask Jane.”
Okay, that was not my imagination, right? I mean, this guy was as subtle as Pepé Le Pew. I doubt the padre was referring to his talent for lock-picking, which I’d seen him do. Or his talent for winning a poker tournament, which I’d seen him do. Or his talent for talking dirty to a corpse, which I’d also seen him do.
Oh, don’t start! It was a paid assignment. Sheesh.
Once we’d settled into the booth, Victor and me on one side, Chloe on the other, she dispensed with the Some rain huh? chitchat, instead reaching into her jacket pocket and producing a small plastic bag. Inside was a folded tissue. She withdrew the tissue and unfolded it, revealing a ring.
It was clearly an antique, judging by the fussy Art Deco setting, which appeared to be platinum. The rectangular diamond, perhaps half the size of Bonnie’s showy boulder, was flanked by smaller diamonds and two good-sized sapphires.
Victor breathed something in French and lifted the ring, turning it to view all sides. “This is my great-grandmother’s engagement ring.”
Chloe nodded, with a sad smile.
“When our parents died,” he said, “Pierre and I divided everything of value, including Maman’s jewelry. He got this.”
Chloe’s eyes were moist. “He gave it to me two months ago. July Fourth. We went to this huge fireworks display out east. Swing threw together this whole gourmet picnic, complete with candles, champagne, even a white tablecloth. And then during the big crescendo he brought out this ring and—” Her voice cracked. “It was... magical.”
“You two were going to be married,” Victor said.
She nodded again, too overcome to speak.
“I had no idea,” he said. “I didn’t even know he had someone special.”
“No one knew,” she said. “About some things, Swing was very private. He planned to surprise you the next time you visited.”
“This is typical Pierre.” He wore a gentle half smile.
“Plus there was his public image, the playboy chef,” Chloe said. “He was trying to get that Food Network show, and he figured he had a better chance if he kept the bad-boy persona going awhile longer.”
I nodded politely, but even Chloe had to know that the playboy reputation hadn’t been undeserved. Just yesterday she’d sat in the ballroom of the Crystal Harbor Country Club and listened as more than one tipsy female grabbed the mic and shared far too many details of recent intimate encounters with the dead chef. Sure, maybe they were trying to outdo one another, but I didn’t believe it was all lies and exaggerations.
And then there were the rumors that had swirled around Swing the whole time I’d known him, as recently as the day before his death. That last one had involved a well-known female food writer who’d been on the judging panel of his latest competitive TV cooking bout. Even discounting the rumor mill, we’d all seen pictures of Swing on those entertainment-news programs cozying up to this or that dewy starlet.
Is that still a word? Starlet? I can’t help picturing Jean Harlow.
Okay, if nothing else, I know for a fact that just last week he tried to seduce my friend Maia Armstrong, the caterer. Yes, the same Maia who’d provided the vittles for his funeral reception a few days later. Maia is levelheaded, ego-free, and honest. If she says Swing tried to get into her pants, then you can take that, as the saying goes, to the bank.
Did Chloe really believe her fiancé was putting on an act for the sake of his playboy image? Could she be that much in denial?
“Thank you, Chloe.” Victor reached across the table and squeezed her hand. They were both misty-eyed. “You didn’t have to return the ring. That was... It means a lot to me.”
“It’s a family heirloom,” she said. “It doesn’t belong to me anymore, not really. Not without Swing—” She broke off, her hand covering her mouth as she struggled for control.
I was reminded of another family heirloom I’d encountered last spring, a gaudy, gem-encrusted brooch in the shape of a mermaid which Irene McAuliffe had hired me to liberate from the corpse of her former best friend during said bestie’s wake. Don’t judge me, it was complicated! That theft hadn’t gone quite as planned, but in the end that heirloom, too, had ended up where it belonged.
Chloe cleared her throat and collected herself. “I’d appreciate it if you kept this to yourselves, about me and Swing. At this point it would just be... well, that kind of attention would make me uncomfortable. You’re the only ones who know besides Detective Cullen.”
“I understand,” I said. “It’s nobody else’s business.”
Victor nodded in agreement.
Considering how private Chloe and Swing had kept their engagement, I assumed she’d never had the opportunity to show off that beautiful ring in public, never had the pleasure of accepting congratulatory hugs and well-wishes. The thought made me sad.
I was mentally groping for a conversational topic that didn’t involve dead fiancés and their fake (yeah, right) bad-boy reputations when I remembered something I’d been meaning to ask Victor about. “So. I didn’t know you’re a smoker.”
“Me? No,” he said.
“Don’t tell me no. I saw you smoking outside the country club yesterday.”
“Ah, that. I quit years ago, but when I’m upset, sometimes I...” He searched for the word. “I relapse. I bummed a smoke from one of the busboys.”
“Well, I guess you’re allowed. That business with Lee Romano was certainly upsetting.” I regretted the words the instant I said them, recalling that Lee was now Chloe’s client.
“I’m so sorry about all that,” Chloe said. “I didn’t think Lee would, I don’t know, gloat like that.”
Victor said, “You have no control over what other people do.”
“No, but...” She groaned. “I didn’t want you to find out that way. That I’m her agent and all.”
“You’re entitled to represent whoever—”
“Yeah, I know.” Chloe raised a palm to stop his polite disclaimer. “But it still felt crappy to hear her go on like that at the worst possible time.” She trailed a finger through the condensation on her beer glass. “I keep telling myself Swing wouldn’t have wanted me to sit around and let my business languish after he was gone.”
I didn’t glance at Victor, but I suspected his thoughts mirrored mine. There are plenty of ways to keep your business from languishing that don’t involve signing your dead fiancé’s estranged partner as a client before he’s even in the ground.
She added, “I know for a fact he would have wanted me to take care of myself.”
Since she seemed to need approval, Victor and I made the appropriate noises.
I asked, “How did Lee and Swing end up as partners in that Manhattan restaurant? Hummingbird.”
“Oh, this is going back, what, fifteen years?” Chloe turned to Victor.
“Eleven,” he said. “Pierre spent his first few years in New York working in various kitchens, learning the ropes and making connections. He wanted his own restaurant, but he didn’t have the capital.”
“He did have the talent, though,” she said.
“Talent wasn’t the only thing Lee was looking for in a partner,” he said, “or even the most important thing.”
“What?” I said. “You already told me they weren’t a couple.”
Chloe said, “That doesn’t mean she didn’t appreciate his killer looks and lively personality. To say nothing of the sexy accent, that whole French thing.”
I looked at Victor for his take on that last part.
“What can I tell you?” he deadpanned. “It’s a burden.”
“Okay, I think I’m getting it,” I said. “Having a partner like Swing would bring attention to Hummingbird, enhance its visibility.”
“Lee had been a renowned chef for many years at that point,” he said. “She owned a successful midtown Manhattan restaurant. But she had bigger plans for it.”
“So she brought Swing on board to help those plans along,” I said.
“She made him a partner,” he said, “under very favorable terms. Favorable to him, that is, although I don’t know the details.”
“So he got his restaurant,” I said. “And in return, Hummingbird reaped the benefit of all that raw sex appeal and joie de vivre. Sounds like everyone came out ahead.”
“Lee would disagree,” Chloe said. “To hear her tell it, Swing spent the next eight years absorbing everything she had to teach him, about both cooking and the industry, while he established himself as a major player. Then... and this is her version of events, not mine.”
“Understood,” I said.
Victor finished for her. “Then he left Hummingbird and opened Dewatre.”
“She puts it differently,” Chloe said. “He ‘abandoned’ Hummingbird. ‘Gutted’ it. Destroyed everything she’d spent her entire career working for.”
“Well, that’s just Lee being bitter.” My gaze bounced between the two of them. “Right?”
Victor looked uncomfortable. “She had to buy out Pierre when he left. By then he possessed substantial equity in the business. Hummingbird closed its doors a few months later.”
“Lee was off the scope after that,” Chloe said. “Now we know why.”
She’d been busy remaking herself for the small screen.
“Let’s face it,” she continued, “she wasn’t wrong when she said it’s no longer about talent. Nowadays you have to be telegenic, glamorous even, to make it on TV.”
“Well, all those nips and tucks apparently paid off,” I said, recalling Lee’s boasts the day before. “She’s close to getting her own show.”
“Maybe.” Now it was Chloe’s turn to look uncomfortable. “Negotiations have kind of... hit a rough patch.”
“Well, even if that one falls through,” I said, “there are other opportunities, right? I mean, the Food Network’s important, but they’re not the only game in town.”
“Lee’s pinned all her hopes on that one show,” she said.
“Pierre’s show.” Victor’s expression was stony. “The one they offered him right before he died.”
Chloe nodded miserably. “She has blinders on. I’ve been trying to get her interested in starting at the bottom, like Swing did. Working the local media, doing talk-show gigs, gradually building a fan base.”
“Let me guess,” he said. “Lee Romano isn’t interested in working her way up. It’s her own show or nothing.”
“That’s kind of where we’re at,” she said. “She feels the world owes her.”
“Well, that show they offered Swing,” I said, “it wasn’t even up for grabs until... while he was still alive. So how can she be so fixated on it?”
“She wasn’t ready for any media appearances until very recently,” Chloe said. “I mean, you know, with the surgeries and all. Like she said yesterday, the timing for this show is perfect. Sorry,” she murmured to Victor.
He took a long swig of his Guinness. “So why is the network balking?”
“Well, you know, it’s very competitive...” Chloe started.
“It’s because she’s difficult, yes?” he said. “They don’t want to work with her.”
She looked like she wanted to deny it, but what would be the point? Victor had known his brother’s former business partner for years. Finally she said, “I tried to set her up with a professional image consultant, one who specializes in communications skills and dealing with the media. She refused to even consider it. But I don’t have to tell you, her personality can come across as, well, abrasive. Even more so on the small screen.”
“So she makes this huge investment in her body,” I said, “transforms herself top to bottom, but when it comes to her attitude problem, what, she’s in denial?”
“‘What attitude problem?’” Chloe said, mimicking Lee. “As far as she’s concerned, it’s the rest of the world that has the problem.”
