Camilla T. Crespi - The Breakfast Club Murder (22 page)

“Women ask all sorts of questions where my son is concerned.”

So Margot was right, Lori thought. Jonathan did play the field.

Mrs. Ashe took a few cautious steps into the kitchen. “The flowers are very handsome.”

“Thank you,” Janet said.

“To answer your curiosity, Lori, my husband used to present me with an orchid corsage every Friday evening after he came home from the office. It was his way to celebrate our weekend. My son helps me keep up the pretense. When you two young ladies get older you may discover that you need little subterfuges to make life palatable. And as for Jonathan, he is a wonderful son, and the day he finds a woman with some backbone to her, he will make an even better husband and father. I’ll leave you to your work. I have to take care of the place cards.”

“Now I know why he’s not married,” Janet whispered, after making sure Mrs. Ashe was out of earshot.

“She is a bit formidable,” Lori said, “but I feel for her. She’s trying to hold on to what’s gone and what can be sadder than that?”

“Not knowing what’s around the corner is pretty bad, too,” Janet said, carefully unwrapping a gooey Camembert on one of the many large zucchini leaves Lori had gotten at the vegetable market. The smell of the cheese was delicious and overpowering. The future
was
scary, Lori thought. For the whole world. She swept a finger over the wrapping paper, caught a streak of the cheese, put the finger in her mouth and sucked, feeling instant comfort. One of the first things she had learned as a caterer years ago was not to eat your own food. She must remember that or she’d end up rolling instead of walking.

“At the shop you said you were off the hook with the police,” Janet said. “Do they have another suspect?” She looked up at Lori and tried on a smile. “I mean, it’s great for you. Really, but who do they suspect now?”

“I think Rob’s on top of the list.”

Janet gave what sounded like a nervous giggle. “Rob, of course, who else? The husband is always the first one to be suspected.”

“In this case, the ex-wife took precedence until the police found out about Valerie leaving Rob all that money.”

“Did Valerie have a lot of money? Does the will say how big her estate is?”

“I don’t know, but everyone said she had a lot of money. What makes you think she didn’t?”

“No reason, except that we’re always making assumptions about people that turn out to be wrong. You, of all people, know what that’s like.”

“Yes, I do.” Lori looked straight at Janet. “Hon, is there something you want to talk about?”

Janet’s face clouded over. “No. I just keep thinking that maybe whoever killed Valerie was someone she knew, someone she trusted.”

“Like Rob?”

“Who knows?”

“He may be a louse, but he’s not a killer.”

“Oh,” Janet said, tugging at a zucchini leaf weighted down by a hefty wedge of Roquefort. “Sorry.” The leaf broke. There were no more to replace it. Janet looked crestfallen.

Lori turned off the tap. She’d been washing the cherry tomatoes. “It’s fine,” she said. “Tuck the torn end under the Pont-l’évêque. No one will notice.”

Janet fussed over the cheese plate for what Lori thought was a long time. “That looks great,” Lori said, in an attempt to reassure her.

Janet finally placed the platter on the round glass and steel table at the far end of the kitchen, near the sliding door that led to the terrace where the hors d’oeuvres would be served. “I’m sure Rob didn’t kill Valerie,” she said, walking back to the island, “but would you have ever thought you couldn’t trust him?”

“No,” Lori admitted.

They worked silently after that, scooping out the cherry tomatoes, cutting the bottoms so they would sit up, cooking the bacon in the microwave, crushing it into bits to stuff into the tomatoes at the last minute so the bacon wouldn’t get soggy. They toasted the pita bread, spread the slices with the artichoke spread, artfully laid out the fresh vegetables around the dips on more gold-edged platters. As they worked, Lori wondered if Janet and Seth’s marriage was in trouble.

The doorbell rang just as the peaches were ready to be taken out of the oven. Lori lifted the peaches out and cursed silently. She’d have to answer that. Janet was in the dining room, clearing the entreé plates. Lori was carefully setting the baking pan on the wooden carving board so as not to damage the marble countertop when she heard Jonathan call out, “I’ll get it.” He waved at her as he rushed past the half-open kitchen door that led to the foyer.

Good,
Lori thought, and turned to see Janet come through the swinging door to the dining room with a tray of dirty dishes. They started stacking the plates next to the sink.

“You’re a success,” Janet said in a tired voice. “They practically licked the plates clean.”

“Couldn’t have done it without you.” Lori raised her hand. Janet gave her a limp high five and a limper smile. Lori hoped that Janet would open up later, tell her what was going on. Now it was time to top the peaches with a scoop of vanilla ice cream. Decaf coffee was percolating in the urn. One silver tray held a doily covered with chocolate lace cookies. Another was filled with dark and white chocolate truffles. Lori felt herself relax. The evening was coming to a successful end.

“How are you, my dear?” Mrs. Ashe’s voice slipped through the opening in the kitchen door. She was talking to the late arrival. “I have missed seeing your handsome face.” The warmth in Mrs. Ashe’s voice made Lori listen.

“I am so happy to see you,” Mrs. Ashe said. There was a moment of silence and Lori imagined them hugging. Then Mrs. Ashe said, “It’s so sad about Christopher. How difficult it must be. Only a year has gone by, hasn’t it? My Edward died three years ago and I still miss him terribly. How are you getting on?”

“Better,” Lori heard the man answer, followed by footsteps, then silence. They must have gone into the dining room. She had to finish with the peaches, top them with crushed pistachio nuts. The green looked pretty against the creamy white of the ice cream and the orange of the peach. Should she get another dessert plate ready? Thankfully she had roasted an extra peach. “Janet, please check if the new arrival wants dessert, or dinner for that matter.”

“Will do.” Janet picked up the platter of roasted peaches and ice cream and swung the door open with her hip. Lori heard glasses clinking. Jonathan was serving more champagne with dessert. A few soft “happy birthdays” came though the door. Mrs. Ashe had made it clear she didn’t want anyone bursting into song.

Janet came back and picked up the two silver trays of cookies and truffles. “He says peaches make his mouth pucker up, but he’d love the ice cream.”

“Coming up.” She scouted around for a small bowl. The Duke of Gloucester service—Mrs. Ashe’s wedding service, she’d been told—was stashed in the stainless steel and frosted glass sideboard in the dining room and Lori wasn’t about to go in there to rummage around while Mrs. Ashe’s guests were toasting her. In the last kitchen cabinet, made of a burled wood stained pearl gray—Jonathan was taking this Ashe-gray thing too far—she found a cornflower blue cereal bowl and matching plate. Sweet and colorful. Lori loved it.

“Mrs. Corvino!”

Lori turned around. The man was standing in front of the swinging door, a white napkin edged in lace in one hand. “What a surprise and a pleasure.”

She stared at him. He was tall, wearing khaki pants that needed pressing, heavy Timberlands on his feet, a blue button-down shirt with no tie and a wool tweed jacket he must have been broiling in. His face was craggy, with sharp cheekbones, topped by gray-blond hair with a strand straggling down his forehead. Intense blue eyes stared back at her. She had seen this man before, but couldn’t, in this moment of surprise, place him.

He came forward, hand outstretched. The napkin fell to the floor. “Alec Winters. I owe you a dinner and a dress.”

“Oh, heavens.” Lori wiped her hand on her apron, held it out, and shook his. “I’m sorry, it’s been a busy night.” She felt foolish for not having recognized him. Hadn’t he worn glasses?

“I’m out of context. White Plains is very far from Rome. And laser surgery has fixed my eyesight. No more glasses.” He smiled.

Lori thought he looked kind and immediately realized that was what she had remembered about him in Rome, when, in her room in the modest
pensione,
she looked back on their awful meeting. Kind and sad. Or was she imagining the sadness because she knew that Christopher had died? Had Christopher been his partner?

“How did you know I was here?” From the corner of her eye, she saw Janet slip through the door to the foyer.

“Mrs. Ashe was singing your praises and handed me your card, in case I ever gave a dinner party again.”

“That’s sweet of her.” Why was she embarrassed? She’d worked hard on this dinner; she deserved the praise. Or was this man with his intense gaze and the warmest smile the reason? Oh God! She remembered the flowers. Her note.

“Your flowers were the most beautiful ones I’ve ever received,” Lori said, hearing her voice go gushy with overkill. She swallowed and said simply, “Thank you.”

“I still owe you.”

“No, you don’t. I wrote you a thank-you note, but I forgot to mail it.” She could see it in her mind, sitting on the hallway table next to the enamel key tray.

Alec nodded. “Mrs. Ashe told me you’ve been through a lot lately. In fact, when I joined the guests just now, you were the talk of the table, but everyone thinks you’re too good a cook to be guilty.” He smiled again.

“Suspicions have shifted, but thanks for the tip,” she said, playing along. “If worse comes to worst, I’ll cook for the jury.” What a nice face he had. She changed her tone. “You’ve been through a lot, too.”

He cocked his head, looking puzzled.

“I’m sorry. I overheard Mrs. Ashe in the foyer when you came.”

His jaw tightened. She barely knew him. She shouldn’t have brought it up.

“Yes, Chris,” he said. “I think the ice cream is melting.”

Lori turned to look at the blue bowl on the counter. “Oh God, I’m sorry.” The ice cream was now syrup. “That was the last of it. Would you like some veal
tonnato
instead?” She wasn’t making any sense. Where was Janet when she needed her?

He didn’t crack a smile. “I’d prefer gnocchi,” he said.

Before Lori could answer, not that she knew what to say, Jonathan stuck his head through the swinging door. “My mother is getting jealous.”

“Of course,” Alec said with a quick bow of his head. “Sorry.” He walked to the counter and picked up the bowl of melted ice cream. “Just the way I like it,” he said and walked back into the dining room. Lori wasn’t sure, but she thought he’d winked at her.

Jonathan waited for the door to swing shut. “Everything was fabulous. I’m taking you out to dinner tomorrow night to celebrate,” he said. “Jeffrey’s.” Margot’s favorite eatery, the most expensive restaurant in Hawthorne Park.

“I think you should ask me first before telling me.” She was wondering why Alec Winters had flustered her.

Jonathan got on one knee. “Ms. Corvino, will you do me the honor—”

“Stop that.” He’d made her laugh. “Yes, but not Jeffrey’s. Someplace more relaxed, less noisy.”

“I know just the place.” Jonathan jumped up and swept his knee clean. “I’ll pick you up at eight.”

In bed that night, Lori replayed the scene in the restaurant her last night in Rome. When Alec spilled the gnocchi and then the wine on her lap, he had been so apologetic, and she’d lashed out in anger. She was ashamed of that now. That’s why his presence in Jonathan’s kitchen had flustered her. She was the one who needed to apologize.

Ellie, dressed in dark red spandex slacks and an orangey red ruffled top, was on her knees, wiping clean the red plastic tulips that she kept in a metal vase at the foot of her husband’s grave. It was ten o’clock Sunday morning, and Lori and Ellie were in the Catholic section of the Hawthorne Park cemetery, under an elder tree. The sky was a thick cap of gray. The weatherman had predicted rain for the next three days. In contrast to the surrounding elaborate graves, Papa’s burial site was marked by a simple granite headstone laid flat on the ground. Ellie had originally dreamed of a small, expensive, red marble pedestal covered in carved garlands of flowers on which an angel wept, but, not knowing what the future had in store for her and Lori, her practical side had won out, and with the passing years she had grown to be proud of the grave’s simplicity. She’d decided it was elegant. The headstone read:

ROCCO CORVINO
August 9, 1943–May 15, 1981
He did his best

“It’s a waste,” Ellie said when Lori stooped down to add the vase of sunflowers she had brought. “Real flowers just rot and Papa doesn’t need dead flowers to remind him how he ended up. Plastic lasts forever. Besides, you’re not going to be here next Sunday to throw out your flowers. And he never did like yellow. Red was his color.” She heaved herself up.

“Sunflowers are cheerful,” Lori protested, reaching out to steady her mother. Even at the funeral Ellie had not wanted real flowers. She said their fragility depressed her. Today Lori had picked sunflowers because they looked strong, and perhaps lasted longer. “I might be here next week to clean up.”