I recognized Jennie Adler, the woman who did a favor for Margot. When the rush settled down enough for Jennie to maintain things, Brenda stood in front of the swinging doors to the kitchen, surveying the crowd while wiping her hands on her apron. When her gaze came my way, I smiled and waved. She glanced over her shoulder, laughed, made a goofy expression, then walked over.
“Hey! Jules, right? The detective who came in the other morning?”
“Private investigator. I see you’re busy, but can you spare a few minutes?”
“Sure, Jennie’s got it under control.”
“Jennie’s what’s called a strawberry blonde, right?”
Brenda laughed. “Yes, that’s definitely strawberry blond.”
“Why are her lips pink?”
“Because that’s the lipstick strawberry blondes wear—
duh
!”
“Of course! Anyway, you mentioned that Doug wanted to learn about wine. That you taught him about wine?”
“Well, yeah. French wine is my specialty. Why?”
“How about Margot? Did you talk about wine with Margot?”
Brenda thought about it. “I don’t remember that. She would just come in and order a glass and we would chat.”
Jennie appeared with a white bowl and two spoons. “Thank you, sweetheart,” Brenda said. Jennie smiled at me and left. “You look worried,” Brenda said and spooned out a heaping portion of custard.
“Did it strike you as odd that Doug Daley would come here to learn about wine, considering his wife is a wine collector?”
Brenda looked as if she might spit the custard back at me. She swallowed hard. “Who’s a collector—Margot?”
“Yeah, Margot. What exactly did you two talk about?”
“I don’t know, small talk. The challenge of running a business. Men. Maybe a little about our backgrounds—where we grew up. That kind of stuff. As for wine, Margot would just order a glass from the list. She never mentioned being a collector.”
“I wonder why she wouldn’t mention it?”
Brenda shook her head. “Good question. Maybe she wasn’t crazy about my wine selection and didn’t want to sound like a snob. I mean, it wasn’t like we were
great
friends or anything. We got along but in the very limited context of hanging out for a while after hours.”
“Yet you warned her that I was on my way over to her house.”
Brenda’s eyes widened. “I never did that! Why did you say that?”
“That’s what Margot told me.”
“Well, she’s lying! Why would I do that? Where she lives isn’t privileged information. Everyone who worked at the pub knew where she and Doug lived.”
Consecutive spoonfuls disappeared into Brenda’s mouth. She ordered me to pick up my spoon and use it. The irritation in her voice gave her a confident demeanor, like she was a different person. I liked this person.
“That bitch!” Brenda said. “Why would she say that?”
“Sorry for this—but she also said you gave her the business card I left here.”
Brenda fumed as she finished off the custard. “I’m going over there—”
“No! Don’t do anything—as a favor to me. Pretend we didn’t have this conversation. I’m not sure what she’s up to, but it’s better if she thinks her plan is working.”
“You’re looking for that girl Tanya, right? Can you at least tell me if Margot has something to do with that?”
Brenda’s stare almost elicited a summary of events since our last meeting. I stopped myself in time to keep the focus on Margot. “She’s convinced Doug killed Tanya and then himself. The car wreck was no accident.”
Maybe too much information at once. Brenda looked wounded. “That can’t be. I don’t believe it. Doug a murderer? Was he having an affair with that—that kid?”
“That’s one theory.”
“Some kind of obsession-murder thing?”
“Why wouldn’t Margot have taught her husband about wines? I doubt very much that Doug did not know Margot had a wine collection—his own wife?”
We silently considered my question until Jennie ran over to point out the line of customers reaching almost to the door. Brenda transformed back into the affable host, radiating the kind of happiness reserved for the long-suffering artist finally finding her audience. I wondered how long she had toiled as just another nameless entity among the multitudes seeking recognition in the culinary arts. Could Brenda’s current foodie devotees know where she had been before she arrived? Timing was the key, I thought, then it hit me.
Chapter 17
“Oh, that’s right,” Amy said over the phone. “I wrote my number on one of your business cards. How flattering that you should call me.”
“That obituary you showed me on Margot Daley’s father. What was the date?”
“Where are you? Is that Piaf singing in the background?”
“I’m at a café. Could you find the date for me, please?”
I heard her fumbling through papers. “The date was printed. A top-notch investigator would’ve noted it.”
“Yes, I have much to learn.”
She mumbled something and then announced a date from the previous September. I hung up before she could ask any questions.
The condition of Margot and Doug Daley’s relationship suddenly surfaced as a crucial detail. Margot said she had no knowledge of the alleged affair between Doug and Tanya until he shut down the pub and ran off with her. Initially, I took this comment to mean their marriage had been a going concern up until Doug’s sudden departure. But what if that wasn’t the case? What if, like many couples, they had drifted apart in every aspect, despite living together under the guise of marriage? Two months before Doug left, Margot’s father had died. Included in her inheritance was his wine collection. What if Margot had recognized the value of the collection but knew deep down that her marriage was not thriving and was, instead, headed toward divorce? Would she have informed Doug of her newly acquired bottled wealth? In the meantime, Doug discovered on his own that his father-in-law’s collection represented an investment valued much higher than a connoisseur’s love of fine wine.
And then there was the matter of Margot implicating Brenda in two lies. If not Brenda, who warned Margot that I was on the way over? From whose business card had she gotten my number? She could have said she looked it up in the phone book. I retraced my steps from Eddie walking into Mocha Mouse and quickly found my answer across the street at the Auvergnat Vin Bar, where I distinctly remembered placing my card on the bar before bowing to the master of grapes.
—
The black Porsche’s VINMSTR license plate proclaimed the sommelier was in residence. Art Deco wall sconces and candlelit tables had transformed the rustic décor I remembered from my daytime visit into French country elegance. Bottles backlit with a luminous glow added a touch of chic. Most of the tables were occupied by couples talking quietly over wine and finger sandwiches.
Around the oblong bar, a mix of men and women sat waiting to meet someone or pretending to look that way. I observed two guests appearing to have no interest in each other, and sat between them. The bartender greeted me with a menu and introduced himself as Bruce. Standing in his shadow, I recognized Ted Goldberg, the skinny redheaded kid who worked with Tanya, dressed the same as Bruce in a white shirt and black bow tie. Ted avoided eye contact while Bruce claimed he’d be delighted to answer any questions, then walked away before I could respond. For several minutes I feigned interest in the wine list. The designated regions of France and Italy brought to mind their association with the Second World War instead of grape characteristics.
As I pondered the Allied breakout from Anzio, Bruce interrupted with “Any questions?”
“Is the boss around?”
Bruce cocked his head slightly. “Is something wrong?”
Ted glanced my way. He was holding a list from which he chose bottles to be stood upright in a designated area under the bar.
“Not at all. I just want to chat.”
“Well, there is more than one owner.” He didn’t elaborate.
“The guy who wears a silver saucer around his neck and a cluster of grapes on his black jacket.”
Bruce nodded. “Yes. That would be Jeremy Godello, the sommelier. Uh, can I tell him who you are?”
I handed him one of my cards. He read it, gave me the evil eye, then spoke quietly to a young woman server who took the card and disappeared into the kitchen.
“This must be a lot better than working in the kitchen,” I said to Ted. He smiled, nodded quickly, then returned to his list. A minute later, the woman server tapped me on the shoulder.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Godello is too busy to talk right now.”
“Well, thank you very much for trying,” I said and, after getting Bruce’s attention, tossed a ten-dollar bill on the bar.
“Oh, that’s not necessary,” Bruce said, but I insisted and continued toward the entrance, stopping behind a tall cabinet used to store antique wine paraphernalia. I waited long enough for my presence to have been all but forgotten, then walked directly into the kitchen. The crew glanced at me with no particular interest. A second set of swinging doors on the opposite side of the kitchen enticed me. I pushed through to find myself in a short hallway leading to an open door where Jeremy, the sommelier, sat in a steno chair hunched over a desk, crunching numbers on a calculator. Close to Jeremy’s right arm, a corked bottle stood next to an almost empty wineglass.
“Are you the som-elly-er?”
“Oh, my god!”
“What’s a wine equity trust?”
“You’re not supposed to be back here!”
“I just want to talk—”
“I don’t have time to talk.”
“I heard you lost my card—gave it away—and I wanted to make sure you got the new one.”
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about—”
“The business card I gave you a few days ago. Margot Daley said you gave it to her.”
Jeremy’s face exuded fear. I thought he would burst into tears. “You want me to call the police?”
“Why did you warn Margot I was on the way over from Brenda’s café?”
“She—she’s a friend of mine. I saw a strange man walk into her building so I called her.”
Holy cow, this guy was easy. I walked into the office and sat on the small vinyl couch opposite his desk.
“I don’t know anything about that missing girl,” he said. “I told you that.”
“Yeah, I remember. And I’m flattered you remembered why I had originally stopped by. But you’ve got to be wondering how I came to know Margot. Right?”
Jeremy rotated his chair around to face me. “Obviously, Brenda told you about her.”
“And why do you think I needed to know about Margot?”
“What do you want from me? I’m just trying to run my business. And—and you just walk in here acting as if I’m some kind of criminal….”
His attempt at victimhood contained both pathetic and comical elements. Judging by his stilted hand gestures, he may have had acting lessons. I let him ramble on about how hard he’d worked to attain his station in life.
When he finished I said, “Why did you feel it was necessary to warn Margot I was coming over?”
Jeremy jumped up from the chair. “What is it with you? I don’t know anything about the goddamn missing woman!”
“Are you really that arrogant or just that stupid? What are you hiding?”
Jeremy held up his cellphone as if threatening me. “I’m calling the cops.”
I held up my hands. “Don’t shoot! Just hear the big picture—so maybe you’ll understand where I’m coming from. And then you can call the cops.”
Jeremy surprised me by obediently sitting back down. “All I did was tell Margot you were on the way over.”
“Tanya Maggio worked for Margot’s husband. They left town together. Now Doug Daley’s dead, she’s missing. Little things like warning people are interesting to investigators. The babe-in-the-woods monologue was you shouting that you knew more than you wanted to tell me. And now there’s all this valuable wine missing. You are a wine expert who owns a wine bar. You are friends with Margot, the woman you warned I was coming to visit.”
“That’s all circumstantial—”
“You’re doing it again!” This guy was a gift. “You open your mouth, you tell me you know something.”
“Bullshit. You’re trying to get me to incriminate myself.”
I laughed. “You’re doing a brilliant job of it without my help.”
“Fuck you.” Jeremy started dialing.
I watched him tell the dispatcher he owned the Auvergnat Vin Bar and that a man was refusing to leave his establishment.
“Make sure you tell them how hard you worked to get where you are today,” I said and walked out.
Chapter 18
Pressure points poked my torso before morphing into a ten-pound weight distributed across my chest. My eyes opened to puffy white whisker pads bordering a black nose. Punim leaped down from my bed and ran to her food bowl—as was her custom.
I sat up, noted the blue sky outside my window, pondered my investigation’s latest spin—some kind of bond between Margot Daley and Jeremy Godello—then reexamined the vagaries pulling me along the unknown route of my case: a missing girl, stolen wine, a cagey client named Eddie Byrne, and Spike’s face before I got KO’d. Subtle mannerisms imprinted on your brain for a reason. Spike’s smug expression gave something away, but what? Flagrant amateurism, I thought. A sweet boy robbing his way through college. What of Margot’s anger at the suggestion Spike was in on the scam? Phony outrage? Maybe the kid was playing her. Maybe they were both playing me.
Punim ate a turkey heart. I called Margot. “It’s Jules Landau.”
“Yes?”
Dead air. “Yes? Yesterday, you hugged and kissed me. Today it’s ‘Yes?’ ”
“I didn’t mean it that way. You took me by surprise. How are you?”
“Tell me again about your relationship with the sweet college boy, Spike.”
“He’s a kid we met in Evanston. He ran errands for us, helped with small projects around the house. Eventually, he worked at the bar as Doug’s assistant.”
“He became a pal to Doug and Margot?”
Even over electromagnetic energy waves, her approaching irritation was practically tangible. I braced myself. “It’s really condescending to speak to someone in the third person,” Margot said, scarcely able to control her anger. “Yes, we enjoyed having him around. Doug and I never had children, after all, and we got to know him very well. Raised by a single mother, he barely knew his father—”