Клео Коул - French Pressed

“The police say no. They checked his kit and said all his knives were in it. I can tell you that the knife that killed Vinny had a silver handle—”

“Then it’s not Vinny’s, for sure,” Joy said. “Vinny liked the feel of German-made knives because they have a curved edge for economy of motion. He used Henckels, and they all have wooden handles. My Shun’s like that, too.”

I searched my own memory. Though most of the blade was embedded inside that poor kid’s corpse, I saw enough of it to know the sharpened edge was flat, not curved. I asked Joy about it.

“If it’s flat, then it’s a French-made knife,” she said, “like the ones at Solange. Tommy had those knives made special in Thiers; that’s the knife-making center of France. They all have flat edges and silver handles, like the one Brigitte almost used on me last—” Joy froze. “You don’t think Brigitte really did it, do you?”

“It’s possible,” I said. “You know I’ve already given the woman’s name to Lieutenant Salinas.”

Joy nodded. “I gave him Brigitte’s name, too, Mom. And that’s what I’m afraid of.”

Matt spoke up. “What do you mean, muffin? What are you afraid of?”

“Dad, if Brigitte is guilty, and the police don’t nail her, she’ll know I accused her—and then there’ll be real hell to pay in Tommy’s kitchen.”

I glanced unhappily at Matt. He was scowling.

“Joy,” he said firmly, “I want you to quit.”

“Quit?!” Joy violently shook her head. “No way! My internship’s going well—and it’s not because Tommy’s given me a break or two. I’ve worked my butt off in that kitchen!” Joy’s face reddened with fury as she loomed over her seated father. “I was at the top of my class in school! That’s how I got the chance to work for Tommy in the first place, and I’m holding my own with that professional staff! If I quit, I’ll fail. And I won’t fail! I’ve come too far. I’ve worked too hard. Quitting is not an option, do you understand?”

Matt’s eyes had gone wide; his mouth was gaping. He’d obviously never seen this ferocious side of his daughter. Well, I had. And, frankly, I was proud of Joy. Without that fighting spirit, she’d never survive in the backbreaking, unforgiving, male-dominated world of the culinary arts.

I stood up, put my arm around my girl. “We understand, Joy. We do. Tell you what, why don’t you let me and your dad clean up those dishes, okay? You go upstairs and take a nice, long bath.” I led her into the living room. “I’ve got some really nice scented oils up there, vanilla and jasmine…”

Joy took a breath, let it out. “Okay, Mom.”

When she was finally out of earshot, I went back to the kitchen and faced Matt. “Our daughter doesn’t have to quit. I’m going to deal with Tommy’s cutthroat kitchen personally.”

Matt folded his arms. “And how are you going to do that?”

“Well, first I’m going to call up Solange’s maître d’ and tell him his coffee sucks.”

“Excuse me?”

I explained to Matt my idea. Actually, it was Mike Quinn’s idea, but my ex didn’t need to know that. “I’ll pitch a contract to improve Solange’s coffee service. It’s a way for me to get into Keitel’s kitchen and figure out what’s going on.”

“How are you going to pull that off, Clare?”

“Easy. I did it already for David Mintzer in the Hamptons. The restaurant should go for it. They won’t need to buy any equipment, because we have dozens of French presses stored in our basement for catering already. I can consign a portion of them to Solange for the time being. And I have more than enough roasted beans on hand to sell them for their dinner service. Tucker and Dante wanted more hours this month because they need the money, so they can take over my shifts.”

Matt sighed. “I can’t see how you’re going to convince Tommy Keitel to hire you. The man doesn’t drink coffee. I don’t think he even likes coffee.”

“That’s the beauty of it. I don’t have to convince Tommy. The man I’m going to pitch is Napoleon Dornier, the restaurant’s maître d’. He’s in charge of the front of the house. And the front takes care of the wine and beverages.”

“What about Joy?” Matt asked. “How’s she going to feel about your doing this? She might freak, accuse you of horning in on her territory.”

I frowned, hoping my daughter was more understanding than that. “She was happy to have my help last night.”

“True, and she might be happy to have you around the kitchen now that things are dicey. But still…” Matt shook his head. “Let’s keep it from her until you’re sure you can even get a contract with the restaurant. Then we can both tell her together. It’ll sound more like a business venture for the Village Blend, rather than, you know…”

“Another way for me to spy on her?”

“You’re not spying on her,” Matt gallantly pointed out. “You’re spying on everyone around her. That’s a very important distinction.”

“Thanks, Matt. I mean it.” It was a big leap for him, considering his jaundiced view of my previous forays into amateur detective work.

He nodded, rubbed his eyes. “I guess even if Joy quit her internship this morning, she’d still be a suspect on Lieutenant Salinas’s list, right?”

“Right. I have to find out how that knife got into Vinny’s neck. And to do that, I’ve got to get into Tommy Keitel’s kitchen.”

“Okay, fine, get into his kitchen,” said Matt, rising from the table. “But after hearing Joy’s little tale of falling for Keitel, I think I’ve got the man’s number.”

“What do you mean?”

“When it comes to this snooping stuff, Clare, I may not be as good as you. But as a man, I can give you one good piece of advice.”

“What’s that?”

“Stay the hell out of Tommy Keitel’s cheese cave.”

“Mooooom!”

I left the kitchen to find Joy standing at the top of the stairs. She was wrapped in a towel.

“What is it, honey?” I called. “Can’t you find the scented oils?”

“No!” she called back. “I mean, yes, I found them. I was calling you because I heard your cell phone go off—twice. Whoever’s trying to reach you, it might be important.”

“Thanks, honey!”

I bolted up the steps and grabbed my handbag off the hall table. As Joy returned to the bathroom, I ducked into the master bedroom and shut the door. My phone listed three missed calls in the last thirty minutes, all of them from Detective Mike Quinn.

Mike.

Just seeing the man’s name on my cell’s tiny screen did something to my central nervous system. I couldn’t wait to talk with him, tell him everything that had happened last night, ask him for his help and advice and support.

I was about to hit my speed dial when I saw he’d left a message. I punched the buttons and listened, eager to hear something sweet and sexy.

“Clare, it’s me, Mike…”

By now, my body’s reaction to the deep, gravelly timbre of Mike’s cop voice was Pavlovian. Like a love-struck teen, a shiver went through me. I could practically feel his arms around me again. His mouth on mine—

“I can’t imagine why you’re not picking up…Actually, with Allegro in the apartment, I can, which is what’s eating me. So, uh, look …” There was a pause, followed by an audible exhale. “I’m going to be blunt with you, Clare. I don’t think things are going in a direction I like with us, and…I’m sorry, but I need to have a talk with you. Don’t call me back when you get this. I’m going on duty, and I’ll see you later anyway. I’ll drop by the Blend this afternoon.”