Chapter 7
I MANAGED TO READ A DOZEN EMAILS AND WOLF DOWN half of the panini sandwich Flora had brought me before Sean poked his head into my office.
“I’m meeting with Franklin in private and he requested that you be there, too. He said that, unlike the rest of his coworkers, you tend to reserve judgment until you have the facts, and he’d like a friend present when he tells me more of Mr. Bruneau’s story. Would you join us now?”
Moved by Franklin’s faith in me, I took a final swig of Cheerwine to wash away the taste of basil, tomato, and mozzarella and stood up. “Of course.”
Franklin was pacing between the window and the file cabinet when we stepped into his office. He paused when Sean and I entered, but after indicating that we should sit in the two chairs facing his desk, he clasped his hands behind his back and continued to walk a straight path from one end of the room to the other.
“Maurice has always had a flair for the dramatic,” he began, his gaze fixed on the carpet as if he were fascinated by its diamond pattern. “He makes over-the-top, passionate, and theatrical declarations all the time. Later, he’ll recant each and every one, claiming that he was caught up in the heat of the moment. I’ve learned not to take them seriously.”
Sean nodded to show that he was listening, but didn’t speak. I’d been present for interviews before and knew that this was intentional. Sean believed that silence was often a useful catalyst. Silence could weigh heavily on a person with a secret to share. It could fill the air with a powerful presence, coaxing an individual into speech. I could see that Franklin was responding to the quiet. It clearly made him uncomfortable for he quickly straightened his bow tie, continued his pacing, and began to talk again.
“I believe this weekend has proved to be quite a challenge for Maurice.” He stopped and turned to Sean. “I’m not making excuses for him because he’s my client, Officer Griffiths. I just wanted you to know that one cannot always take his statements as gospel.”
This time Sean chose not to remain mute. “Could you give an example of something Mr. Bruneau said that pertains to my investigation of Mr. Lang’s murder?”
There it was. He hadn’t danced around his purpose in order to make things easier for Franklin. There was a killer in Inspiration Valley, and Sean needed Franklin to share what he knew without further equivocation.
Franklin cleared his throat. “Yesterday, I heard Maurice tell a few of the other chefs that Joel was nothing without him. But to me, he confessed that he missed Joel terribly—that no one had such a profound understanding of food, love, and beauty as his former partner did. That he’d do anything to win him back.”
“What a sweet thing to say,” I blurted.
“So it would seem,” Franklin answered solemnly. “However, no sooner had those words crossed his lips, then Maurice transformed from the remorseful ex-lover to an angry and envious rival. He declared that if Joel didn’t return to him, begging for forgiveness, that he would see his ex ruined. He’d make sure Joel’s life was reduced to . . .” He couldn’t seem to complete the sentence. Touching his throat, as if the rest of the thought had gotten lodged there, he looked to Sean for help.
Sean leaned forward in his chair and said, “It’s all right, Mr. Stafford. I’m not going to rush out and slap handcuffs on Mr. Bruneau because of what you say. I just need to gather all the information I can to have a clear view of this case. Please. Go on.”
“Maurice said that Joel’s career would go up in flames and his life would be reduced to a pile of ashes,” Franklin said rapidly, as if he couldn’t hold on to the words a second longer.
“When was this comment made?” Sean asked.
“A few minutes before we went into dinner at the Arts Center,” Franklin muttered unhappily. “Bryce and Joel were discussing Joel’s upcoming cookbook release and I think it was too much for Maurice. He just issued those threats in a fit of temper and envy. They were empty threats, I’m sure of it. And he only uttered them to me.”
Considering how Joel had died, I couldn’t share Franklin’s faith in his client, but Sean approached my coworker and put a hand on his arm. “Thank you for being forthright. I promise to question Mr. Bruneau without prejudice.”
Franklin was obviously relieved by Sean’s gentleness. Thanking him, he locked eyes with me. “I meant what I said earlier about Klara Patrick. I know you’ve long been a fan of hers, Lila, but she’s more likely to act on her insecurities and jealousy than Maurice. Have you noticed the cracks in her fa?ade? Most unsettling.”
“I have to admit that she isn’t exactly the person I thought she was,” I admitted with genuine regret. “It was na?ve of me to assume that she’d be as warm and charming as she is on television. As Bentley said, these folks are TV personalities. The key word is ‘personalities.’ Klara can be delightful, but I’ve also seen her being cruel, petty, and envious. Does that make her a murder suspect? I don’t know. After all, she has an alibi. You heard what Flora said about Klara and Bryce St. John.”
Franklin drew his brows together in thought. “I did, yes, but Officer Griffiths mentioned a rather significant window of time in which a determined person could easily slip into the Arts Center kitchen and place a few cans of cooking spray in the oven.” He held out his hands in an expression of helplessness. “Believe me, I don’t want to point the finger at any of our clients, but Klara did goad Joel during our group dinner. It was as if she deliberately planted seeds of doubt regarding his menu. Those seeds grew with such swiftness that Joel felt compelled to practice his dishes before heading back to his hotel.”
“We’re just exchanging theories,” I complained to Sean. “There’s no evidence against either chef, right? All we have is proof that neither Maurice nor Klara were saints.”
“I need to speak with both chefs,” Sean said. “In my experience, envy and anger are two emotions that can slowly consume a person, overpowering their goodness and their ability to think clearly until eventually, they do something rash. I’m hoping to peek behind both Mr. Bruneau’s and Ms. Patrick’s masks, and the sooner the better. Thank you, Mr. Stafford.” Sean shook Franklin’s hand and then gestured for me to follow him out of my coworker’s office. I took a moment to give Franklin’s arm a comforting squeeze before leaving, and he managed a small smile of gratitude.
In the corridor, Sean stopped and, after glancing up and down the hall to make sure we were alone, tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “What are you thinking?”
“Of a John Updike quote, actually. He said, ‘Celebrity is a mask that eats into the face.’”
Sean grimaced. “Sounds like Phantom of the Opera.”
I nodded. “Franklin was right. There’s something ugly inside Klara. When Flora revealed that Klara is conducting an affair right under her husband’s nose, I realized that she might be one of those people who believe that they don’t have to play by societal rules. Klara might consider herself above such conventions. Or the law.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Sean said. “And I would like you to be present when I question her. Act like you’re on her side. Give her the impression you’re there to defend her sterling reputation, and if you can, convince her to speak freely to me. I want her to feel comfortable and confident. No matter what she says, her body language will give her away if she’s lying.” His hand dropped from my hair to my shoulder. “Should I remind you that Klara Patrick is a client of this agency? Your boss may not approve of your helping me.”
“That’s too bad for her,” I declared firmly. “A man’s been killed. If Klara or any of our other clients is guilty, then I don’t care how much money they’ve made the agency or how famous they are. Joel deserves justice, and I intend to see that he gets it.”
Sean gazed at me, pride shining from his blue eyes. There was a trace of amusement there, too. “You are so beautiful when you’re on a case, Detective Wilkins.”
My cheeks grew warm. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound like some kind of B-movie action hero. Are we going to talk to Klara at the station or someplace more relaxed?”
“According to the itinerary Vicky gave me, Ms. Patrick was scheduled to have a late lunch with her staff before this afternoon’s panel. If we’re lucky, she’ll be lingering at a patio table at the James Joyce.”
Pausing to grab my purse from my office, I glanced at him in surprise. “How do you know she’s dining alfresco?”
Sean smiled. “Because Vicky has been receiving updates on Klara’s whereabouts from Annie all day and has been passing those on to me per my request. Your office manager is a marvel. I could use her at the station.”
“Don’t even think of trying to steal Vicky away from us,” I warned. “If it weren’t for her, I’d be spending all my evenings here reading query letters instead of curling up on the sofa with you.”
As we passed Vicky on the way to the stairs, Sean saluted her. “Novel Idea has a real treasure in you, Ms. Crump.”
Her face radiating pleasure, Vicky tugged on her cardigan and sat up straighter in her chair. Her posture was already so perfect that I couldn’t imagine she could improve it, but she raised her chin and squared her shoulders. “Might I quote you the next time I ask Ms. Burlington-Duke for a raise, Officer Griffiths?”
The sound of Sean’s laughter echoed in the stairwell.
Once we’d reached the first floor and crossed through the lobby, I whispered, “That might be the first joke I’ve heard her make since she started working at the agency.”
Opening the front door for me, Sean winked. “I’m not sure it was meant to be a joke. I do believe Ms. Burlington-Duke has met her match.”
? ? ?
WE RUSHED FROM Novel Idea to the James Joyce, but we needn’t have worried for we found Klara and her entourage settled at a table in the far corner of the patio. They were talking and sipping glasses of iced tea flavored with sprigs of mint and clearly enjoying their surroundings. How could they not? There were spring flowers everywhere. Clusters of regal irises towered over red and yellow tulips, and pink phlox spread across every inch of the garden beds bordering the flagstone patio. Hyacinths perfumed the air while songbirds hopped between the branches of a dogwood tree and the breeze rippled the tree’s white flower petals until they resembled the sails of tiny boats. The scene was so peaceful that I was sorry we had to spoil it.
“Good afternoon,” Sean said casually and waved his arm around the patio. “It’s such a nice day that Ms. Wilkins and I thought we’d have a cup of coffee before the chef and author panel. Ms. Patrick, we’d like for you to join us.”
Klara was too self-absorbed to recognize that while Sean was being cordial, his invitation was not a request. “Thank you, but no, I’ve had too much caffeine already.” She gave him a dismissive smile and dabbed her lips with her napkin.
I put my hand on Sean’s arm for a fraction of a second, signaling that I’d find a way to get Klara alone. “I really have to talk with you, Klara. We need to review a few things before the panel, and I’d like to ask you a particular favor regarding Bryce St. John.”
Her composure never faltering, Klara gave me a measuring look. She must have seen the message I was trying to convey with my eyes, for she leaned over and whispered in Ryan’s ear. He grinned, kissed her on the cheek, and scraped his chair back. “Dennis, Annie, let’s take a stroll. Klara tells me there’s a wonderful ice cream parlor called the Snow Queen a few blocks away. I know we just ate, but I’d love to finish off our meal with two scoops of rocky road.”
“So not subtle,” Dennis grumbled to Klara. “If you wanted us to leave, you could just tell us to go.”
Annie looped her arm through his and tugged him out of his seat. “Come on, Dennis. It’s too beautiful outside to be grumpy,” she said, her face shining with anticipation. “Besides, I never say no to cookie dough in a waffle cone.”
I smiled at her gratefully, thinking how pretty she looked in a floral blouse and rose-colored skirt. Yesterday, she’d been so quiet and unobtrusive that it was almost possible to forget she was there, but now I could see how she constantly worked to keep everyone happy. Being Klara’s assistant couldn’t be easy. As I watched her walk away, I wondered if Annie was aware of her employer’s extramarital activities.
The waitress appeared shortly after Ryan, Annie, and Dennis left. Sean ordered two iced coffees and then inhaled deeply, as if he had all the time in the world to sit back and enjoy a lazy Saturday afternoon. “Did you have a nice lunch?” he asked Klara.
“It was fair,” Klara said with a shrug. “I had a lackluster corned beef sandwich, but what can I expect of an Irish pub in a small town in the middle of North Carolina?”
I bristled. This was a far cry from the praises Klara had rained down on Inspiration Valley when I’d first met her at Big Ed’s.
“Yes, it must be difficult to have to travel all the time, to meet with fans, and to stay in hotels.” Sean’s tone was sympathetic. “Exhausting, I’d imagine. But you make it look easy.”
I could see Klara instantly warm to Sean. “This life can be a challenge, but if you don’t take advantage of every opportunity, someone else is waiting in the wings to replace you.”
The waitress returned with our iced coffees, and Sean became very preoccupied with stirring sugar into his. “That’s a lot of pressure—a subject I’m all too familiar with. In your opinion, how did Mr. Lang handle the demands of such an intense career?”
“Not well, obviously,” Klara answered, her voice smug. “I only mentioned a few problem areas with his famous-lovers menu and the next second, he rushes off to the kitchen to practice it. People critique my food on a daily basis, but I don’t let the criticism affect my behavior. I’m a professional.”
“And how would you describe your relationship with Mr. Lang?” Sean continued and Klara shot a brief, quizzical glance at me. I knew that I’d better join the conversation soon or she was likely to become tight-lipped and peevish. However, Klara needed to answer the question so I just gave her an encouraging nod.
Klara took a sip of tea. “I thought he was a creative chef, but wasn’t cut out for television or public appearances. Far too sensitive, if you ask me.” She held out a finger. “And before you ask, I’ll tell you that Joel and I didn’t know each other on a deep, intimate level. True, I was irritated that his cookbook was releasing on the same day as mine, but he had no control over that. I’d hardly blow him to smithereens over a publication date.”
“Would you be upset if he planned to go public regarding your affair with Bryce St. John?” Sean let the question hang in the air and then he gave me a nearly imperceptible nod. It was my turn to intervene.
I put my hand over Klara’s. “You were seen with Bryce at Bertram’s Hotel,” I told her softly, my eyes full of concern. “Did Joel know? Did he try to blackmail you perhaps?”
Recovering quickly from her shock, Klara pulled away from my touch and wadded her napkin into a tight ball. “No, and even if he had, I wouldn’t have paid him. Frankly, I don’t care who saw me with Bryce. I’m sick of sneaking around.” She seemed pleased to admit this aloud. “Besides, Joel was too honorable to mention my affair. He might have been a talentless, insecure pansy, but he wasn’t a gossip.”
I don’t know what shocked me more: Klara’s derogatory comments about Joel or her absence of shame about cheating on her husband. I couldn’t help but look at Sean to see his response to Klara’s statement, but his gaze was fixed on the duplicitous chef.
“Wait a minute,” Klara said, and I turned back to her. She frowned at me and then her eyes narrowed. “You’re trying to trap me into saying something incriminating, aren’t you?” I opened my mouth to protest but she held up her hand, palm out. “Please, I’ve seen enough cop shows to know how it goes. I had nothing—nothing—to do with Joel’s death.” Scraping back her chair, she grabbed her purse and stood up.
“Ms. Patrick,” Sean interjected in a calm but commanding voice. “Please.” He gestured toward her, indicating that she remain at the table. “We are not accusing you. Or anyone, for that matter. I am merely gathering information so I can get to the bottom of Mr. Lang’s murder. I am sure you want that as much as I do.”
She slowly lowered herself to her seat. I didn’t know what I could say that would undo the damage I’d done during the conversation, but felt I should try to make amends.
“I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression, Klara. I didn’t mean anything. I was just trying to be sensitive to your . . . relationship with Bryce.” I held out my hand in an offer to shake. “Will you accept my apology?”
She stared at me for less than a second, but it was long enough for me to understand that she was reassessing my motives. Then she nodded and clasped my fingers, almost immediately letting go again. “It’s ridiculous to think that I would have set that explosion,” she said. “If I were ever going to murder someone, I certainly wouldn’t do it by blowing up a kitchen.” Placing her hands over her heart in a dramatic gesture, she cried, “All that beautiful equipment!” She shook her head vigorously. “If you want my opinion, you should look more closely at Maurice. He had some serious issues with Joel, although I wouldn’t think he’d have the guts to do something as drastic as murder him. Or maybe Leslie Sterling. That woman is extremely competitive and vindictive. I could tell you stories about how she’s denigrated other chefs—including Joel—that would make your toes curl. Have you interviewed her yet?”
“Why don’t you enlighten us?” Sean encouraged her.
Klara sat back in her chair, tapping her nails on the table while she considered. As she was about to speak, Ryan reappeared behind her chair. His shadow fell across the table, blocking the sun. “Here she is,” Ryan said, putting his hands on her shoulders and kissing the top of her head. “Sweetheart, look who I bumped into at the Arts Center.”
As Sean and I got to our feet, a young man and woman stepped out from behind Ryan. They were clearly twins, and obviously Ryan’s children, as they both had his tall physique, dark hair, and square chin.
“Darling.” Klara rose to peck Ryan on the cheek. Her transformation was astonishing. She was once again the loving wife, as if she hadn’t declared to us a few minutes ago that she was glad her affair with Bryce was in the open. She reached out her arms to embrace the twins. “Carter. Carrie. How was the train ride?”
They stepped back, obviously trying to avoid contact with her, and neither of them responded to her question. Ryan directed his attention to Sean and me. “Ms. Wilkins, Officer Griffiths, these are my kids, Carter and Carrie.”
The young man stepped forward. “Pleased to meet you, sir.” He shook hands with Sean and nodded his head at me. “Ma’am.”
Carrie just raised her hand in a little wave hello.
“Wow, you guys look just like your dad,” I said. Ryan beamed, and Carrie rolled her eyes. I had to smile. Her reaction was so much like Trey’s would have been. “I bet people tell you that all the time, don’t they?” I added. “I have a son close to your age. Are you in college?”
Carrie nodded. “I’m a senior at NYU.”
“And Carter has just been accepted into law school,” Ryan boasted. “My kids have done me proud.”
“Yes, aren’t they wonderful!” Klara gushed.
“You must be proud of your parents, too,” I said to Carrie and Carter. “Considering all they’ve accomplished in the culinary world. I’m Lila Wilkins, the coordinator for the Books and Cooks festival. Your mother’s been taking the town by storm.”
“She’s not our mother,” Carrie corrected indignantly.
Ryan leaned toward his daughter. “Carrie, watch your manners,” he whispered.
“Dad married Klara after we were already grown,” Carter explained in a gentler tone. And though he gave me a little smile, I didn’t miss the fleeting glance of disgust he directed toward his stepmother.
“You were only thirteen!” Klara exclaimed. “That’s hardly grown.”
Carrie’s face flushed. “And you were hardly a mother. All you cared about was your precious career. We might as well have been invisible.”
“Invisible?” Klara seemed unfazed by Carrie’s insults. “You were impossible little hooligans who’d been allowed to run wild for far too long. I could have been a whole lot worse.”
“Klara, let’s not get into that here. Those times are in the past.” Ryan was making an obvious attempt to keep his voice even. “And this is not the place.”
Carrie pointed her finger at her stepmother. “The famous chef Klara. You only married my father because you needed his culinary skills.”
Carter snorted. “Guess that’s better than marrying him for his money.”
“Kids, knock it off.” Ryan’s tone had a dangerous edge to it that I hadn’t heard before.
“Sorry, Dad.” Carter spoke the words, but his eyes didn’t reflect an ounce of genuine regret. “I’m going inside to use the restroom.”
Carrie grabbed Carter’s sleeve. “Wait up. I’ll come with you.”
When the twins had gone into the pub, Ryan turned to Sean and me and shrugged. “Families,” he said, shaking his head. “Sorry about that, but kids will be kids, no matter how old they get. You’d think since mine are in their twenties, they’d act more mature . . .” He trailed off and entwined his fingers with Klara’s. “You okay, hon?”
“Of course.” She pulled her hand back. “I’m fine.”
I glanced at Sean. The Patrick family dynamics had added another element of disquiet to this relaxed setting.
Sean clapped Ryan on the back in a show of solidarity. “Consider the incident forgotten. Children can be difficult at any age.” He nudged me. “Can’t they, Ms. Wilkins?”
I nodded, remembering the challenging time I’d had with Trey at the end of his senior year in high school. “Even when their parents would like to believe they’re perfect.” I smiled.
“Ms. Patrick.” Sean indicated the chairs. “Let’s continue our conversation. You were about to enlighten me about Ms. Sterling.”
Ryan put his hand on Klara’s arm. “I apologize, Officer Griffiths, but Klara has a panel to get to. Can she do this later?”
I checked my watch. “Ryan’s right. Klara and I both need to go, but we can meet again after the panel.”
Sean didn’t have a chance to respond for Carter and Carrie reappeared at the entrance to the patio section, arguing heatedly. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but I could see by their furrowed brows, abrupt gestures, and hostile glares that they weren’t having a friendly conversation.
“What now?” Ryan ran a hand through his hair.
“Do something with them,” Klara demanded, putting on her sunglasses. “They’re going to make a scene. What if members of the press are here?”
Ryan hurried forward and Klara, Sean, and I followed. After all, there was only one exit through the pub and I was in a rush to get to the panel on time, too.
“I’m not moving until I tell the cop what I have to say,” Carrie told her brother as she crossed her arms over her chest. I could tell by the defiant jut of her chin that she meant what she said.
Carter threw out his hands in a show of defeat and Ryan glanced at his children in confusion. “What are you talking about, Carrie?”
“We heard about what happened to Joel Lang. There was a reporter on our train and he told us everything. Even how the poor guy died.” Her eyes flashing with anger, she gave Klara a withering stare. “I bet you did it. I bet you’d do anything to keep the truth from getting out.”
I turned to see Klara’s reaction to this incriminating statement and noticed that Sean was studying her intently as well. The skin of her face had gone pale, but I couldn’t see her eyes beneath her sunglasses. She was gripping her cell phone so tightly that her knuckles were white and her chest seemed to be rising and falling more rapidly. But most of these physical tells only lasted a few seconds. Klara quickly recovered her poise and laughed derisively. “What drama are you stirring up now, Carrie?” she asked in a cool, haughty voice. “You’re always searching for your father’s attention in such juvenile ways.”
I couldn’t tear my gaze away from Klara’s hand. She’d yet to release her iron clasp on her cell phone. No matter what she said, Klara Patrick was furious. Or scared. Or both.
Carrie smiled smugly while Carter stood behind her, looking pained. “I’m talking about your affair with Bryce St. John. Carter and I know all about it, and we came to tell Daddy so he could get rid of you once and for all.”
Klara began to protest but Carrie cut her off. Addressing Sean, she said, “Klara was always badmouthing this Joel Lang guy. You should find out if he was about to spill the beans like I just did. My precious stepmother would have had to shut him up. She’s nothing without my dad and she knows it. And he doesn’t know about her fling. Not until now.” She pointed at Klara, her expression one of raw hatred. “Take her in for questioning, Officer Griffiths. Hopefully, there’s a reporter nearby who can snap a picture of the famous Chef Klara being led away in shame.” She shifted her focus back to her stepmother. “There’s no such thing as bad press, right, Klara? You’ll probably sell out of cookbooks. People love it when a celebrity takes a fall.”
Ryan looked from Carrie to Klara, clearly too stunned to speak. When he finally found his tongue, his words came out as a sorrowful rasp. “Is it true, Klara? Is this true?”
The pain in his voice was terrible to hear. He had spoken softly, almost tenderly, and I wished he could be spared from the hurtful truth, but it wasn’t my place to intervene. This was between Ryan and his wife.
But Klara ignored him completely. With a little toss of her head she said, “I have a panel to attend,” and pushed past Carrie and Carter. She disappeared into the pub, leaving the rest of us standing in shocked silence. And in that moment, the flower-scented patio lost its charm. No amount of birdsong or sunlight could erase the shadow that had just fallen over us.