“Madame, you’re—”
“Early, I know. But I wanted to speak to Mr. Wright and Mrs. Keitel.”
I breezed past the doorman, strode into the dining room.
The tables were set, complete with name tags. Members of the waitstaff were still bustling around. I didn’t recognize anyone, but why should I? For this event, Solange was staffed by men and women from Robbie Gray’s restaurant, Anatomy. The crew from Solange was on the guest list.
I spied Faye Keitel in the middle of the dining room, speaking with a tall maître d’. She looked stylish in a designer gown that put Madame’s green Valentino suit to shame. Her highlighted blond hair was coifed in an elegant French braid, her makeup perfect. Beside the pair, I saw Anton Wright in black tie. He held a wine bottle at arm’s length while he read the label.
Faye tensed when she noticed my approach. Anton sensed her reaction and set the bottle aside.
“Remember me?” I said.
“Oh, hello,” Faye replied, forcing a smile. She glanced at Anton. “This is Clare Cosi. She’s—”
“The mother of Joy Allegro, the innocent girl you framed for murder.”
The maître d’ did a horrified double take. Faye and Anton didn’t even blink.
“Please excuse us, Matthew,” Faye said.
“Very well,” the maître d’ replied, then disappeared into the busy kitchen.
Anton stood beside Faye, arms folded over his chest. Faye Keitel peered down her nose at me.
“You’ve gotten our attention. Say your piece,” she demanded.
I ignored her, faced Anton Wright. “I know all about that phone call the other night. You planned Tommy Keitel’s murder in Solange’s kitchen. Vincent Buccelli told me all about that conversation—before you murdered him.”
“You’re crazy,” he said unconvincingly. Clearly Anton was rattled. But Faye Keitel regarded me through a gaze like ancient ice.
“Why would Anton kill his golden goose?” she asked.
“Because the goose was about to fly the coop. Tommy was bored and wanted a new challenge.”
I faced Anton again. “Tommy told you he was gone when his contract expired, which messed up your plan to franchise the Solange name, didn’t it? How could you find backers without Tommy’s reputation to peddle?”
Anton sneered. “I already had the investors, because I’d already sold the idea. I’d signed the contracts and taken the money—”
I blinked. “My God, no wonder you were so desperate.”
“I took a bath on those other restaurants,” Anton said. “Solange was a moneymaker, but it didn’t make up for my losses. I needed the cash, so I sold the franchise idea. All Tommy had to do was sign on to the deal, and he’d be a millionaire ten times over—”
“But he wanted nothing to do with your scheme. He wouldn’t even sell you the recipes, would he?”
Anton winced, and I knew I’d struck a nerve.
“What do you want, Ms. Cosi?” Faye asked.
“The same thing Billy Benedetto wanted,” I replied.
When I mentioned the late Mr. Benedetto, even Faye seemed rattled. I took some satisfaction in that.
“Oh, yes. I spoke with Benedetto, too. Before Anton murdered him.”
“What do you
“My daughter is going to cop a plea for Tommy’s murder,” I replied. “She’ll spend six or seven years in prison. When she gets out, you are going to back her restaurant to the tune of six million dollars.”
“Now why would we do that?” Anton asked. “You can’t prove your ridiculous claims.”
“I don’t have to prove anything,” I replied. “All I have to do is talk to Roman Brio. He’d certainly be interested in my tale, interested enough to ask questions, maybe write an exposé. What would happen to your deal then?”
Anton locked eyes with Faye. “With Benedetto gone, I thought we were through with blackmail—”
“Shut up,” Faye said softly.
But Anton wouldn’t. “There’s precious little profit in this as it is. We can’t slice off another piece of the pie. That’s why we got rid of Benedetto—”
“I told you to shut up, Anton.”
“I should have never listened to you, never let you seduce me, talk me into this,” Anton said.
“Excuse me, Anton,” I said. “But you wouldn’t be the first sucker who let his mistress talk him into murdering an inconvenient husband.”
“I didn’t kill Tommy!” Anton replied. “Vinny, yeah, because I had to. And Benedetto because he was costing me money. But it was
Faye howled, and I whirled to face her. She had a steak knife in her hand, lifted from one of the place settings, and she lunged at me!
I managed to deflect the blade with my forearm, which saved my life. It plunged deep into my shoulder instead of my throat.
“Carnegie Hall! Carnegie Hall!” I yelled while I continued to wrestle with the crazed woman.
The police who’d been waiting outside poured into the restaurant. Detective Lippert cuffed Anton Wright. Ray Tatum pulled Faye Keitel off me and disarmed her.
I stumbled backward against a table. I was a little dizzy. My shoulder hurt like a son of a bitch, and I felt something warm flowing down my arm. My knees buckled. Before I hit the floor, Sue Ellen Bass and Detective Soles caught me, one on each arm. They cleared a table and stretched me out on the white cloth. Detective Soles pressed a stack of napkins against my wound to stanch the bleeding.
They were asking me questions, but their voices were whispers. And they both seemed so far away. From my position on the table, I could see Solange’s gargoyles were still up there, on their high perches, but the detectives were closer…and they looked like angels, floating against the restaurant’s sunny yellow walls. I blinked, my vision going fuzzy.
Mike Quinn strode across the room. “We’ve got it all on tape,” he announced, glancing around, looking for me. Then Mike saw me on the table. He saw the blood. “Son of a—”
“Mike?”
“Clare! You’re hurt! My God!” His rugged face loomed over me. He looked scared.
“What’s wrong, Mike? Didn’t we get them?”
“We got them, sweetheart.
“Good…Okay, then I can close my eyes now…finally take a rest…”
“No, Clare! Stay awake! Please, sweetheart!”
Mike’s booming voice began to fade. I saw him shouting at the female detectives. “Keep pressure on that wound, do you hear me? Where are the paramedics? Is the ambulance here? Dammit! Get the paramedics in here!”
“Sorry, Mike. I’m just a little tired…”
Then someone turned off the lights.
Epilogue
“Night, boss,” Esther called, waving at the door of my hospital room. “Take care of that shoulder now. And go easy on the meds.”
“My lady knows of what she speaks. So listen, Clare Cosi, and don’t be weak.”
“Okay, Boris.” I tipped my hat to the hippest Russian rapper in the country—or at least on this floor of the St. Vincent’s Hospital. “I’ll keep it real.”
It was late, close to the end of visiting hours, and Esther and BB Gun were the last to depart. They’d just helped me polish off a sinfully delicious box of Chef Jacques Torres’s handmade chocolates that Janelle Babcock had delivered earlier in the day.
My daughter and ex-husband were back at the Village Blend by now. Madame had gone off to meet her beau
