“If you know, and you always do, why do you ask?”
As usual Naomi ignores my wisecracks. “Issue him an invitation. I’m curious to see what the Invisible Man looks like.”
I bow and scrape.
Chapter Fifteen
Yves Cuilleron Condrieu, Les Chaillets 2000 Fresh Beet Carpaccio with Shivered Scallions Shrimp amp; Shiitake Sausage Broiled Swordfish with Potato Dauphin Puree Honeyed Heart of Endive Salad Vanilla Ice Cream with Ginger Sauce
Teddy, having scanned a folded menu card, sidles up to me and whispers, “‘Beet’ carpaccio? ‘Shivered’ scallions? Are those typos or what?”
I smile and shake my head. “It’s Beasley having fun. But I’m impressed that you even know that carpaccio is usually beef.”
“I know a lot of weird stuff.”
“Indeed. And very useful it proves to be, too.”
This will be our first formal evening meal of the case, therefore a “working dinner” and as is Naomi’s habit- she and our supremely gifted chef always consult over the selections-the food will be light but interesting. Hence the playful but undoubtedly delicious opening course; shivered scallions indeed.
Case dinners are usually seated at 7:00 p.m., to allow plenty of time for informed discussion between courses, and this evening’s meal is no exception. The formal dining room is exactly large enough to accommodate a table for eight, a couple of narrow but highly functional sideboards and a pair of simple but elegant Waterford crystal chandeliers gifted to the residence by a satisfied client. There are three high-set windows that have a view of the sky in the winter months, or a heavily leafed beech tree in season, but which ensure street-view privacy when guests are seated at the table. Near the sideboards, an ancient but still functional dumbwaiter brings goodies up from Mrs. Beasley’s kitchen. On the northern wall hang stunning reproductions of Naomi’s three favorite Sargent watercolors. Stunning not just because of their subject matter-sunlight on dappled walls-but because they look good and true enough to be the originals, although Naomi swears they’re not, the Benefactor’s generosity notwithstanding.
First to arrive is Jack Delancey, accompanied by his special guest, the operative he sometimes refers to as the Invisible Man. Otherwise known as Mr. Milton Bean. Not invisible this evening, but carefully presented in Brooks Brothers gray slacks and a blue blazer with four brass buttons on each sleeve. Purchased for the occasion under Jack’s expert tutelage, if I’m not mistaken. Like bringing a date home to Mother, they both want to make a good impression.
Last in house, our land shark lawyer Dane Porter, who, from the slightly damp look of her scruffed pixie hairdo, barely had time to shower and change after her much delayed flight from Washington.
When we’re all assembled, Naomi appears, regal in a dark crimson silk blouse and ankle-length black silk skirt. Leading us into the formal dining room, where two bottles of the excellent condrieu have already been decanted, she pours generously. When we all have glasses in hand, she proposes a toast:
“To the son of Joseph Keener. May he be recovered alive and well.”
We sip dutifully-oh my God, the wine is fabulous-but boss lady isn’t done raising her glass.
“To Randall Shane,” she intones, with a glance at Jack. “May his innocence be proved, if true, and may he be returned to his exemplary life.”
Another careful sip. Mustn’t rush a condrieu of this quality. Speaking as one who, prior to my association with Naomi Nantz, thought Trader Joe’s wine selection was the height of sophistication, I don’t have anything against Charles Shaw, but really, you can’t keep a girl swilling Two Buck Chuck once she’s tasted the best of Paree. Or Sonoma Valley, for that matter. In matters of the vine I remain a neophyte, easily dazzled, but can’t help noticing that the Invisible Man’s eyes have gotten very round and large.
“Wow,” he says.
“Mr. Bean, welcome.”
The bland gentleman dips his unremarkable head. “Honored, ma’am.”
“‘Ma’am’ is the queen of England. My name is Naomi, and you’re welcome to use it.”
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to offend. The wine is… I’ve never had anything quite like it. Amazingly, uh, amazing.”
“Great vineyard, great vintage, perfect temperature,” Naomi purrs. “Now, as to our protocol for case dinners. You’re among trusted colleagues who will be sharing privileged information and you are expected to participate, withholding not even the smallest detail. That’s how we do it around here. So please keep that in mind as you enjoy our hospitality. I will call upon you in turn.”
A small rodent might assume an expression something like Mr. Bean’s, having discovered his cheese-seeking paw firmly pinned in a trap. He shoots Jack a look that says “help me, please” and is studiously ignored. Having begged for an invitation, the no-longer-invisible man is on his own and will have to suffer the consequences.
“Alice? You go first. Bring us up to speed on Professor Keener’s neighborhood.”
My description of the encounter with Toni Jo Nadeau concludes as the first course is being served. Paper-thin golden beets garnished with capers, minced chives and the mouth-intriguing “shivered” scallions. Which according to Beasley are briefly soaked in ice-cold seawater before being tossed into hot olive oil. Imagine if popcorn was tiny little onions, only way, way better.
“Keyboard kid?” Jack says, probing the details of my report. “That was the phrase?”
“That’s how Mrs. Nadeau remembers it.”
“And the mother impressed her as being native-born Chinese?”
“Mrs. Nadeau said she spoke very little English, wore what she described as ‘those formal Chinese dresses.’ The silk kind with embroidered patterns. Quite old-fashioned, really. Most of the Chinese-American women I see around town wear designer jeans.”
“The supposition being, someone from Hong Kong or mainland China.”
“That was her impression, yes.”
Jack puts down his salad fork, rubs his hand on his jaw. “I don’t get it. The guy has a baby out of wedlock, so what? Why the big secret? In this day and age? Unless it has to do with the mother.”
“Go on,” Naomi says.
“I’m just riffing here, but what if the big secret is that she was already married to someone else? The professor has a torrid affair with a married woman, she gets pregnant and lets her husband think the kid is his. Along those lines. Wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened.”
“Or the ten millionth,” Dane adds knowingly.
Naomi says, “It’s a theory, based entirely on supposition, but interesting nonetheless. Are you thinking this could be the spouse of a colleague? A visiting professor?”
“That, or maybe a diplomat’s wife…” Jack says. “Stationed at the Boston consulate maybe? That might explain the traditional dress.”
Naomi shakes her head. “There are Chinese consulates in New York, Washington, Chicago, Los Angeles, San Francisco and Houston, but not Boston.”
Jack grins. “Off the top of your head?”
“Just something I know.”
“Okay, so maybe she takes the Amtrak up from New York. Maybe not. I’m not married to the idea she’s a diplomat’s wife-pun
“One of the tongs?” Teddy suggests, his voice barely audible.
