French Pressed

Twenty-Two

There he was. Tommy Keitel. Larger than life. Smaller in death.

The big man was dwarfed by his own casket—a huge, expensive affair of heavy metal camouflaged with a veneer of polished cherry wood that appeared to be the same fine grain as Solange’s dining room tables. The handles were brass, the trim gold-plated, and the interior’s lining of warm yellow silk looked as sunny as his restaurant’s walls. It was quite a final resting place; but then why shouldn’t a four-star chef get a four-star send-off?

The mortician had dressed Tommy’s corpse in a dark suit. The terrible wound at the base of his throat was well covered by the starched white color of his dress shirt; and his tie was a beautiful royal blue that came close to matching the arresting blue of his eyes, which were closed now, so I couldn’t exactly check my opinion on the palette match.

“I’m so sorry this happened to you, Tommy,” I murmured, hands clasped together. “May you rest in peace. And I can only hope that wherever you are they’re smart enough to give you a few ingredients and a good-quality range…”

Janelle and I had arrived ten minutes earlier by cab. The evening viewing was crowded, and we’d waited in line to sign the condolence book. We moved to the casket, where she’d said her prayer beside me. Then Janelle went off to find her line cook colleagues, and I stayed near Tommy’s casket, contemplating my strategy for catching his killer.

The funeral home’s viewing room was very large, and jam-packed with people. It was also packed with flower arrangements that spilled out into a second sitting room beyond.

The aroma was cloying, and if Tommy’s spirit was really in that casket, it probably would have bolted upright by now to roar: The long-stemmed lilies can stay, but will you people please burn those damn carnations! I can’t breathe in this stink!

“…it’s a tragedy, I tell you. The art of the restaurant has been lost to the public relations racket. People who just want to make a quick buck…”

I overheard the familiar voice and turned to see a familiar face. The food writer and restaurant critic Roman Brio had entered the viewing salon. Roman was a heavyset man with the round, chubby-cheeked face and intensely luminous eyes of a young Orson Welles. I’d met him a month ago, at the same Beekman Hotel tasting party where I’d first met Tommy Keitel. He was a friend of Breanne Summour’s, owing to his frequent flamboyantly written contributions to Trend magazine among other publications.

“…there’s a term I often use called ‘palate fatigue,’” Roman continued to expound, his basso voice distinct over the buzz of conversations.

Palate fatigue, I repeated to myself. I’d heard the term before, but I wasn’t entirely sure what Roman meant by it. I stepped a little closer to eavesdrop.

“That was the key to Keitel’s greatness,” he continued. “He worked very diligently to see that his customers never experienced an overabundance of taste. It was the reason he put no more than five or six bites on a plate. ‘When there is too much food, the tongue isn’t tasting anymore,’ he once told me. ‘And when the customer isn’t yearning for just one more bite, boredom sets in with the dish.’ Yes, boredom was anathema to Tommy Keitel…”

The last line got to me. Boredom was anathema to Tommy. The words looped in my brain like a Buddhist chant.

Nick had told me the same thing in Brighton Beach, about Tommy getting bored with French cuisine. It seemed Tommy bored easily in his personal life, too. I thought of his affair with Joy, how he’d gotten tired of her in a few months.

In his cheese cave, he’d given me that whole pitch about realizing how “young” Joy was, but on reflection now, in front of his cold, dead form, I wondered if it wasn’t a quirk of his personality to find a reason, any reason, to dump a woman when he got tired of her. He’d described himself to me as a collection of unbridled testosterone—and then started hitting on me to prove it.

Now I began wondering about Tommy’s wife. How did Faye Keitel really feel about her marquee-chef husband?

I turned from Tommy’s casket, scanned the crowded room. I didn’t even know what Faye Keitel looked like. But I’ll bet Roman Brio does. I’ll bet he knows a lot of things about Tommy Keitel…

I approached the acerbic writer. By now, Brio’s audience had dwindled to a single young man with long sideburns and a shaved head.

“…to never again taste Chef Keitel’s tartelettes of rabbit liver on a brunois of young vegetables, or his panko-breaded escargot, deep-fried with parsley and star anise. It’s a tragedy, young man.”

“The king is dead,” I said.

Brio turned to greet me, but his smile faltered a little when he realized who I was.

“Clare Cosi. My, my. This is certainly awkward. Here I am speaking to the mother of the presumed murderess in this drama, yet I’m oddly delighted to see you.”

“I’m flattered.”

“My motives are not entirely unselfish. I’d planned to look you up, and quite soon. I want that book deal, you see.”

“What book deal?”

“Why, the inside scoop on the culinary crime of the century, of course.”

The young man had wandered away. I had Brio to myself now. I took his arm and led him to a quiet corner. “Wouldn’t you rather get the exclusive on how the culinary crime of the century was solved?”

Brio crooked his elbow and hugged his neck. “Now that’s intriguing. You’re saying the police have got it all wrong?”

“I’m saying my daughter is innocent, and I’m going to prove it.”

His face brightened. “Didn’t I hear about you and that dustup after the UN fellow ‘fell’ from the Beekman’s balcony? And before that, wasn’t there a scandal involving David Mintzer’s new Hamptons eatery?”

“Not me,” I said.

“Ah, well, not all news makes the papers, apparently. Yet word does get around.”

“A little information, please,” I said. “Faye Keitel is where?”

Brio extended his little finger. “Over there, beside Anton Wright.”

I followed his pinkie to a strikingly good-looking fortysomething woman in a black designer dress. Her upswept hair was a shimmering blond with golden highlights that reminded me of the color scheme at Tommy’s restaurant.

“Tell me about her.”

“They met during Tommy’s Italian phase. She was a talented young line cook. They married, and when he became completely bored with Italian fare, Tommy swept her off to France, where he studied and she had babies. It was all very romantic, or so they told me when I interviewed them.”

“Recently?”

Roman shook his head. “This was five years ago, right after Solange opened. They were living in Brooklyn Heights. I went over for a breakfast tête-à-tête. Tommy and Faye were there. I believe a child was present—I recall some irritating noise. Tommy served three homemade jams, freshly baked almond croissants, chilled ewe’s-milk yogurt, and prunes infused with tea—”

“You were talking about Faye?” And I thought I was food-obsessed.

“Oh, yes. Faye…She was Tommy’s roast chef, and a talented one, but their love was more important than her career, so she gave it up for him. They were still madly in love during those Brooklyn days. At least that was the story they told me.”

“And now?”

“Tommy made his fortune, bought a big, beautiful home in Oyster Bay. Faye lives there now, seldom comes into the city. And Tommy? Well, look around. It’s packed in here, elbow to elbow, but if they’d had his funeral on Long Island, no one would have come. Tommy’s life was here.”

“And Tommy’s womanizing? How did Faye feel about that?”

“You might ask her yourself.”

I smiled, but it probably looked more like the smirk it was. “Only if you introduce me.”

He took my arm and we crossed the salon. As we approached Faye, I heard the sound of a grown man crying. I turned to find Henry Tso being helped out of the room by Yves Blanchard and another one of Solange’s line cooks.

“Chef Keitel was like a father to me,” Henry sobbed. “I learned so much from him. I…I can’t believe he’s gone…”

Oh, my God. The sauté chef’s losing it…

“Faye?” Roman called.

The woman turned, smiled graciously. “So nice of you to come, Roman.”

“Sorry for your loss, my dear.”

“Too kind,” she said. “You’re too kind to come at this sad time.”

Her response is syncopated, I realized, suddenly flashing on a BB Gun rap lyric. Faye Keitel had memorized her grief response so that she could recite it on autopilot a thousand times in a row.

“This is Clare Cosi,” Roman said. “Clare is the mother of Joy Allegro.”

Ack. It was true, of course; but, given the circumstances, it wasn’t the introduction I would have chosen!

To Mrs. Keitel’s credit, she remained stoic and unflappable. She stepped forward and actually put her arms around me in a semblance of a hug.

“I’m sorry,” she told me. “Sorry for what Tommy drove your daughter to do. Joy is so young and naive. Tommy’s done this sort of thing before.”

“That must have been hard on you,” I said.

She shrugged. “He’s been sued for sexual harassment a number of times. Stalked once, too, by some poor, deluded young woman who’s probably locked up in Creedmoor now.”

Faye frowned. “I don’t want this to sound like it probably sounds. Tommy was a wonderful man in so many ways. You learn to put up with the bad things, because there was so much good in him.”

Despite her earnest tone, I could easily see that Faye was not at all broken up about her husband’s death. I could understand her emotions because of my own experiences with Matt. After all the things that Tommy had put her through—the infidelities, the petty social humiliations that resulted from them—any love she may have had for the man had withered and died. Now that Tommy was dead, I doubted she felt anything more than relief.

Anton Wright approached and touched Faye’s arm. “The deputy mayor is here. He’d like to express his condolences.”

“Excuse me,” she said, resting her hand on my arm. “Please, if there’s anything I can do.”

I nodded, and Anton led her away.

Brio had drifted off, observing us from a distance, no doubt. Now he was speaking with Robbie Gray. Across the room, I spied Janelle Babcock standing with Napoleon Dornier. I could see the displeasure on the man’s face as I approached.

“Can you believe Henry Tso?” Janelle whispered. “Before tonight, the only two emotions he ever displayed were arrogance and anger.”

I smiled. Dornier looked away.

Janelle sensed the tension. “Excuse me,” she said.

Dornier moved to leave. “I have to go, too.”

“Stay,” I insisted. “I’d like to speak with you.”

Dornier finally met my gaze. “We have nothing to talk about, Ms. Cosi—”

“I know you were Tommy’s friend. But you also have to know that Joy is innocent.”

Dornier frowned behind his amber glasses. “That’s not what the police think. They interviewed me about the murder. I told them all about Joy’s relationship with Tommy.”

“You knew?” I said.

“Everyone did. There are no secrets in a place like Solange. Of course your daughter killed Tommy. Who else would do it?”

“Hold on there a minute, Nappy.”

The man winced, taken aback by my brazen use of his nickname. Good, I thought, because I wanted him off balance.

“I can think of at least one other suspect,” I told him. “Do you remember that black envelope Tommy received the day he was murdered? The letter he told you to burn, like the others? Don’t you think that’s a little suspicious? Did you mention those letters to Detectives Lippert and Tatum?”

Dornier looked away, adjusted his glasses. “Lippert and Tatum were only interested in what I had to say about your daughter and her relationship with Tommy.”

“So you didn’t even mention the letters, did you? Tell me what you know,” I said. “Please. You know Joy. You know she has a good heart. She genuinely cared for Tommy. She admired and respected him. Now she’s facing prison for a murder I can assure you she did not commit.”

“You’re her mother. Of course you think—”

“If it’s possible that someone else did this, at least tell me who it might be.”

Dornier shifted on his feet and sighed. “The man behind those letters is Billy Benedetto. He’s the beverage manager at a club called Flux—”

“The place on Fourth Avenue. The club that used to be a church, like the old Limelight?”

Dornier nodded. “For months now, that man has been sending letters, demanding money from Tommy. I don’t know why. The chef would never discuss it. The letters would come, all of them in those black envelopes, and Tommy would tell me to burn them. It got to the point where it was routine.”

“Routine? How many have there been?”

“Over twenty. Two a month, since January—”

“Like an overdue bill notice.”

“Exactly.”

“So what did Tommy owe this man?”

“If you want to know that, ask Benedetto yourself,” Dornier replied. “Tommy would never discuss it, so I have no idea.”

Despite Dornier’s surly tone, I thanked him, and we parted. Then I found Janelle, said good-bye, and headed for the door.

On the way, I noticed Faye Keitel and Anton Wright standing together in an alcove. Their heads were together, and they were whispering. Anton nodded and touched Faye’s hand. It was a comforting touch, but then it appeared to change. His fingers ran up and down her bare arm in a gesture that looked more like an intimate caress. It didn’t last long. Had I misjudged it?

I wondered if there was something sparking now between them…or if something had sparked long ago, before Tommy’s death. The two didn’t stay together long, and there wasn’t much else to see, so I moved along.

My best lead now was this man named Billy Benedetto, and that’s who I was going to see. I checked my watch. It was too early in the evening for a dance club to be open, so I’d have to cool my heels for an hour or two. Then I’d head to Club Flux and ask to speak with the beverage manager. What would I say next? I wasn’t sure, but as I stepped onto the frigid uptown sidewalk, a chilling thought occurred to me. If Benedetto believed that Keitel owed him, maybe the debt had just been collected.