I stepped forward and peered into the gift box. Nestled inside a blizzard of packing peanuts was a brand-new, stainless steel meat cleaver with a great big bow attached to its polished wooden handle. Like the wrapping paper, the bow’s color was not bridal white but funereal black.
The sight of it alone chilled my blood. “Who gave you this?” I asked Breanne sharply.
Her blue eyes squinted at the gift card. “It’s from Neville Perry. ‘A special gift to express my feelings for the bride.’ Signed, Neville. Oh, and he includes his ridiculous Prodigal Chef Web site address.”
Bree rolled her eyes and tossed the card into the garbage.
“Don’t do that!” I fished it out. “The gift is a threat. The card is evidence.”
“It’s a joke,” Breanne said. “And not a very clever one.”
I stepped up to her desk. “Let me use your computer.”
“No, Clare. I’m sorry, but I don’t have time to indulge you with this.” She checked her watch. “I have a call to make and e-mails to return. If you really need a computer, use Terri’s. She’s doing some research for me, so she’ll be away from her desk for a little while.”
“Fine.”
I left Breanne’s office and went straight to Terri’s cherry wood desk, sat down, and examined the computer screen to find an icon that would bring up her link to the Internet. Roman trailed behind me, looking over my shoulder.
“Roman, tell me something. You must have met Neville Perry once or twice, right?”
“I know him quite well, actually.”
“You do? How does he strike you?”
“He’s a fairly eccentric individual, actually.”
“Eccentric? Or crazy? Could he be dangerous?”
A woman laughed. I turned to find Monica Purcell standing there watching us in her thigh-high boots, arms folded. “Neville Perry’s not dangerous, for heaven’s sake. He’s hilarious. I read his blog all the time.”
“Really?” I said. “He’s got a real hate on for your boss. That doesn’t bother you?”
Monica shrugged. “I just read his site for the restaurant and bar reviews.”
I glanced back at Roman. “Does Perry strike you as the kind of person who could do physical harm to someone?”
“That I couldn’t tell you,” Roman said. “But if you’re curious, you can meet him tonight and judge for yourself.”
“Tonight? Really? Where? When?”
“I’ve been invited to dinner at an underground restaurant in Flushing, Queens. Neville is going to be there, too. He’s mentioned it in his blog posts already. You’re welcome to accompany me, Clare.”
“Underground restaurant?” Monica said. “I’ve heard of those but I’ve never been to one.”
“It’s quite clandestine, because it’s also quite illegal,” Roman said. “At eight thirty this evening, I’m to stand in front of the Friends Meeting House on Northern Boulevard. A man will approach me and take me to the secret location. Doesn’t it sound intriguing?”
Monica shuddered. “It sounds weird. Plus it’s in Queens. Ugh.”
“Neville Perry will be there?” I pressed. “You’re sure?”
Roman nodded. “I’ll introduce you. Then you can ask the chef any questions you like.”
“All right, Roman. You’ve got a date.”
“You two have fun,” Monica said, shaking her head. “I’d rather go clubbing.”
“Well, before you go, Monica, I’d like to ask you a few questions.” I stood up to confront her.
“Who are you, anyway? I mean, you work for Fen, right? I saw you at the boutique.”
“My name’s Clare Cosi. I’m a friend of Breanne’s. I’m helping her with the wedding.”
“I see,” Monica said, stifling a yawn.
“And I was wondering if you had an opinion on something that happened at Fen’s.”
“What’s that?”
“Breanne’s fitting was sabotaged.”
Monica folded her arms. “What do you mean sabotaged?”
“I mean someone sent an e-mail from Breanne’s mailbox, telling the boutique manager to have her gown altered a certain way. Do you know about that?”
“Why would I?”
“It’s just that Terri told me you used to be Breanne’s assistant. I thought maybe you’d have an idea who would have access to her passwords.”
Monica glanced around, stepped closer, and lowered her voice. “If you ask me, Terri’s the one who probably did it.”
“Really?”
“She’s slippery, that girl. She’ll tell you one thing to your face then turn around and undermine you in a meeting. She got an editor fired over it, you know, and she’s royally pissed she didn’t get the woman’s job. She’s also angry it’s taken her four long years to get promoted when she knows I did it in two. So I’d be careful believing what that little waif tells you.”
A moment later, the door to Breanne’s office swung open. The editor-in-chief strode out,