Faye took a deep breath and reminded herself that her name was on the reservation list and that she had the money to pay for their meal. Well, she had a credit card.
She had as much of a right to be at Chez Philippe as anybody in the room, and so did Kali. She just wished that she’d remembered to shave her legs and polish her toenails.
Chapter Twenty-three
The door to Chez Philippe looked like a wrought-iron fence painted gold. He’d never been inside, but he’d looked it up on the Internet and he knew that it was equally opulent inside. He also knew that this was the only way out.
Fancy mirrors lining the restaurant walls served as fake windows. Fancy curtains fostered that illusion, but, in reality, nobody inside the restaurant could see out and nobody outside the restaurant could see in. Chez Philippe’s dining room was constructed like a blind canyon. This was the only door routinely used by the public.
Oh, there were probably exterior doors labeled “Emergency Exit,” because fire marshals held sway everywhere, even over the Peabody. But the odds were small that his quarry would use any door other than the one in front of him.
He liked it that the metalwork adorning Chez Philippe’s main door looked like a fence. He liked it even more that the restaurant’s layout made everyone inside sitting ducks, just like the pampered birds that swam in the restaurant’s fountain and lived in a penthouse that was finer than the homes of literally everyone he knew. The ducks even had a freaking pool. He knew this, because he had ridden the elevator up there and looked.
He knew that there were security cameras on him, because places like this had them everywhere. Good luck identifying him from any video in this brand-new hat, pulled low over his eyes, and this oversized new jacket that he would never wear again. He’d even bought new shoes, a size too big, in case they found footprints beside the grave sized for two where he’d be putting little Kali and her interfering new friend.
He didn’t know where the grave would be yet, and this left him feeling unbalanced. He’d always been so deliberate. Drive to a new town. Scope out a deserted spot. Dig a grave. Find a woman. Put her in that grave and drive away, disposing of the evidence as he passed from little town to little town. What had come over him to kill Frida, someone he knew, and to do it here where he lived?
He had always idealized Ted Bundy, who had used his charm to lure women to their deaths. Bundy could make a woman disappear while walking down a public hallway, and so could he. But Bundy had lost control at the end, rampaging through a sorority house like a man begging to be caught. Was he losing control, too, just like Bundy?
No. He was proceeding logically, as always. Or perhaps he was just pretending he was still in control of his actions, as he planned to charm a woman off the streets of a major city in broad daylight. If Bundy could do it, he could.
Chapter Twenty-four
The maître d’ had the unflappable bearing that comes with working at a superlative restaurant, so he’d answered Faye’s nervous assurances that she had reservations with nothing but “Madame.” Then he had ushered her to a table that was perfectly lovely.
As he led them to their table, Faye forced herself to take the first step into the restaurant’s intimidating dining room. Putting a hand on Kali’s back that said, “I’ve got you,” she moved forward and, in so doing, propelled the child into a space that was terrifyingly ornate. Ceilings of dizzying height were rimmed with gilded molding and supported by gilded columns. Small staircases with golden railings ushered them from level to level. Deep green walls were hung with mirrors and draperies, and marble was everywhere.
Faye was grateful when they reached their table, where they could sit down and hide half of their inappropriate clothing under its richly draped tablecloths.
Chez Philippe’s afternoon tea seemed to be a popular place for well-heeled mothers to take their daughters. Every one of those daughters had a cell phone in hand. Some of them were shooting photos of their food, probably to post on social media so that everyone would know they’d been to Chez Philippe. Some of them were taking selfies, probably for the same reason. And some of them were slumped in their chairs, using their thumbs to scroll or to play games.
Faye slipped her phone under the table and laid it on Kali’s lap, so that it wouldn’t be obvious that the girl didn’t have one. The girl took a selfie of the two of them with a burnished wall sconce in the background.
“You do that well. My selfie skills aren’t the best,” Faye said.
“Sylvia lets me use her phone sometimes.”
They had hardly placed their order when the first tiered tray, silver-toned and shining, landed on their table and Kali said, “Those are the fanciest sandwiches I’ve ever seen. Uncle Laneer has just gotta see these.”
She would have put some in her purse for him, but Faye talked her out of it. “Take a picture.”
“Can’t taste a picture.”
“You can make him some. It’s not hard. I know a good chicken salad recipe.”
Kali examined the morsel from all angles. “I think you’re right. It’s ain’t like it’s hard to cut off the crust and make little triangles.” Then she put the whole triangle in her mouth and reached for another one.
The next course was blueberry scones with marmalade and clotted cream, and Kali approached the crumbly pastries with the same strategy: Admire them, declare that she could make them, and devour
