Through The Grinder

The Genius followed — from a discrete distance — as the redhead started her long walk to the SoHo art gallery where she worked. Most likely she made this walk daily, weather permitting. Rain or snow might drive her into a cab. But today she was on foot — likely ready to appreciate any male attention she might attract in that trampy outfit.

Yes, the weather was perfect at the moment. Still clear. Unfortunately, precipitation was predicted sometime in the next week, a chance of icy rain or even snow. If it drove Sahara into a cab, that could be a problem. An umbrella, too, might become a weapon, and the Genius couldn’t risk that.

On her walk to work, Sahara crossed busy boulevards like the Avenue of the Americas and Houston. And she strolled along twisting, narrow Village streets lined with parked cars — a perfect place to await the coming of a distracted, fast-moving driver.

Why, there were so many opportunities for an accident.

It would be a challenge, but the Genius was up for it. One simply had to think creatively. Murder was an art, like any other.

No one knew that better than Sahara McNeil…

“You’re not fanatical about your cholesterol level, are you?” I asked as I approached Bruce Bowman with two glasses of Campari and soda.

Better to discover his position on butter now, I thought, than be forced to switch gravy recipes midway.

“Cholesterol and I are old friends,” Bruce replied, crouched in front of my living room’s hearth. He’d offered to start a fire and had done an admirable job. The flames were just starting to crackle, the heat filling the chilly room. “There are far worse ways to go than eating yourself to death.”

Great, I thought, ready to press on with my original cholesterol-friendly, butter- happy menu.

It was early Sunday evening, the day after Cappuccino Connection night, and, true to his word, Bruce had called me around noon, telling me he’d made us dinner reservations at Babbo — a truly marvelous Washington Square gourmet restaurant, co-owned by celebrated chef Mario Batali, for which getting last-minute reservations was a trick of David Copperfield–level magic.

Unfortunately, Tucker was off for the next few days, tending to his nose (bruised but not broken, thank goodness), and I was worried about leaving the Blend solely in the hands of my part-timers for long. I had yet to promote or hire a second assistant manager, so I suggested instead that Bruce come to my place — that way, I’d literally be two floors away should any crisis come up downstairs. And with Joy agreeing to surreptitiously baby-sit the staff, I knew if they didn’t call me, she would.

“Really, Clare,” Bruce said, rising back up to his full six-foot height. “It’s very nice of you to go to all this trouble.”

“What trouble?” I said, handing him the Campari and soda. “This is strictly a meat and potatoes meal.”

Bruce shook his head. “Women don’t cook for me. Not New York women. Not ever. Especially not after I’ve asked them out to an outrageously expensive restaurant.”

I shrugged. “I like to cook.”

It was also a delight to show off Madame’s duplex to someone who actually appreciated it as much as I did — the antiques, the paintings, the furnishings were all of the finest quality, as was the restoration of the hearth and windows, and Bruce Bowman noticed immediately.

My ex-husband had always been blasé about such things, partly I think it was because he’d grown up with them, and partly because he saw it all as part of his “mother’s thing.”

“I’ve seen this somewhere before,” Bruce said, gently pulling a lyre-backed chair away from the wall and giving it the once over with a sophisticated eye. “I have a book on church restoration with a picture of this very chair.”

“Not that chair,” I replied. “Probably one of its cousins. That’s one of only thirty or so still in existence. It was fashioned for — ”

“Saint Luke in the Field! I know,” said Bruce. “A colleague of mine is working on a restoration project for them. He’d love to see this.”

The living room was comfortable — especially with the hearth’s rising flames dispelling the brunt of the autumn chill — but we were never going to have dinner unless I got started.

“Follow me to the kitchen,” I said as I led him through the swinging door.

“Oh, very nice,” said Bruce.

I wondered what caught his eye: the brass fixtures, the granite sink, the woodwork, the restaurant quality appliances.

“You actually have three Griswold skillets?”

I smiled at the three cast-iron pans hanging over the counter.

“Actually we have five Griswolds. The other two we use for cooking, not decorations.”

“Tiffany lamps, Persian prayer rugs, a Chippendale dining room, that lyre-backed chair…I can see why you love this place. It’s a real treasure.”

“A cozy treasure,” I said as I hung a white apron around my neck to protect my cream-colored cashmere blend sweater, and tied the strings around the waist of my pressed black slacks. I lifted my arm, straining to bring down a hanging copper-bottomed pot.

“Here, let me reach that,” said Bruce. He smiled at me as he easily stretched his long arm high and pulled down the cooking pot.

“Thanks. That’s one of the drawbacks of being five-two.”

“No problem. It does my ego good to come in handy.”

I laughed. It actually felt a little strange to have a man in my kitchen. Well, strange to have a man other than my ex-husband.

Matteo and I were occasionally forced to share this kitchen during his mercifully infrequent layovers in New York, but the relationship wasn’t one I’d call cordial. Even when we were married and generally getting along, the kitchen was never a place where we felt comfortable together — it was more like a cramped ship with two captains constantly arguing over navigation.

“What can I do next, Clare?” Bruce asked. He draped his camel hair blazer over a chair and rolled up his sleeves.

“Well…” I blinked, trying not to openly admire the nicely muscled forearms. “Um…how about uncorking that amazing wine you brought?”

“Sure, but it’s nothing.”

Nothing to a millionaire, maybe, but a 1995 La Romanée-Conti wasn’t something I saw everyday. “You’re kidding, right?” I told him. “The last time I saw a Grand Cru Burgundy, it was at a function of Madame’s and royalty was present.”

Bruce laughed as he turned the corkscrew at the small kitchen table, the muscles of his forearm flexing very nicely indeed. “I have a case at home.”

“Oh, well,” I said, working at the sink, “if you have a case, then one bottle of a wildly extravagant wine is nothing…sure!”

He laughed again. “Give me a wine glass.”

I did, and he poured out a small amount.

“Taste,” he commanded, holding the glass out to me.

I did and nearly swooned. “Whoa, that’s good wine.”

“It’s an Echezeaux. There’s layer after layer of complexity. Close your eyes and take another sip.”

I did.

“Tell me what you taste.”

“Blackberries?”

“Yes,” he said. “What else?”

“Violets…and there’s an oakiness…and something else…ohmygod…coffee!”

“Yes.”

“It’s really amazing, Bruce.”

“I’m glad you like it.” He came up behind me at the sink. “Okay, the wine’s uncorked — and tasted. Now