worked for years to cultivate the image.”
“What image?”
“Snark bitch extraordinaire, of course!”
Esther took off for the coffee bar; I crossed our wood-plank floor and dropped into an overstuffed armchair near the hearth. I stared at the flames for a few minutes, then Esther brought over my espresso.
I sipped it slowly, letting my mind have time to absorb the caffeine slowly, calmly, reasonably. In the end, I knew Esther was right. I needed to decompress.
When I heard my cell go off, I fished inside my handbag for it and was surprised at how stuffed the thing was. Then I realized it was still packed with the papers I’d snatched from the kitchen in Brigitte Rouille’s Washington Heights apartment.
The phone was Matt again. He was at his mother’s apartment, updating her on Joy’s arrest and the lawyers’ opinions. The latest legal word was that the district attorney’s office would probably be throwing the book at Joy—second-degree murder, two counts—in hopes of getting her to plead down to manslaughter.
“But she didn’t kill Tommy or Vinny. Why should she admit it to get a reduced sentence for something she shouldn’t have been charged with in the first place?!”
My voice had gotten a little loud. A few customers glanced curiously in my direction. I slumped down in my chair.
“Clare, I’m not suggesting our daughter cop a plea. I’m just telling you the lawyers are discussing this as an option.”
“I know, Matt. You’re right. I’m sorry I bit your head off.” I massaged the bridge of my nose.
“It’s okay, Clare. I know you’re stressed, worrying about her. I am, too. How did you make out today? Did you get any closer to finding Keitel’s killer?”
“I hit a dead end…” I could hear the exhaustion in my voice, the disappointment, the dread. “But I’m not giving up. I’m not…”
Matt must have heard the shakiness of my own conviction because his voice suddenly sounded stronger. “Of course you’re not giving up. You never gave up on me, did you? You saw me through my rehab. And you were always there for Joy, year in and year out; day in and day out; through the hard times and dull times—unlike yours truly…Clare, all I’m trying to say is…I know you; I know the stuff you’re made of; and I know you won’t give up…”
As Matt’s voice trailed off on the digital line, I sat speechless for almost a full minute.
“Thank you, Matt,” I finally replied. “I mean it.”
“I’ll see you later, okay?”
“Okay.”
As soon as I hung up, I moved myself, my espresso, and my bag stuffed with Brigitte’s papers to an empty café table. With renewed determination, I pulled out the thick wad of wrinkled and dog-eared pages and spread them across the coral-colored marble surface.
Most of the papers were months and even years old—things that should have been tossed—shopping lists, directions, reminders to do this or that chore.
There were recipes here, too, some clipped from magazines, but most handwritten in a flowing, delicate hand. Some were simple fare: a peasant omelet, baby peas à le française, a sole normande.
Others were detailed instructions for preparing more complex dishes and even entire courses. I found a three-page recipe for pâté en croute featuring woodcock, foie gras, and truffles. A lengthy description of how to prepare ballottine d’agneau, stuffed and braised shoulder of lamb. Even instructions for a roasted pig stuffed with boudin noir and boudin blanc, black blood and white veal sausages.
I discovered several newspaper and magazine clippings in the mix—not about Solange, or even food. The articles were all about the New York art scene.
One recent clipping was a page from Time Out, advertising a Chelsea gallery exhibit of three new artists, one of them Tobin De Longe. Another clipping from a local paper featured a scathing review of the same show, singling out Brigitte Rouille’s boyfriend for special scorn. Other clippings mentioned De Longe’s artwork. The notices were either neutral or negative.
Finally I found a couple of pages covered with names, phone numbers, and addresses, written at different times with whatever ballpoint, felt-tip, or pencil was within reach at the time. As I scanned the pages, one name jumped out at me. It was written in bold felt-tip and underlined twice:
Nick
“Nick?” I whispered. The address under the name was on Brighton Beach Avenue. I closed my eyes, remembering the shady-looking guy to whom Tommy Keitel had introduced me on the night that Vinny was murdered. Nick from Brighton Beach, Tommy had called him. This had to be the