Roux the Day (29 page)
He shook his head firmly. “No way. I like it here. It’s a cockamamy city in a lot of ways but I like it.”
We shook hands as a nearby phone rang and a voice called for him.
On the way back to the Hotel Monteleone, I stopped at Eric Van Linn’s office. He had my check ready and even offered me a cup of coffee although he expressed regret that they had no chicory-containing product in the building.
“Ambrose Belvedere tells me he is very satisfied with the outcome,” he said, regarding me across his shiny-topped desk.
“He told you that he invited me to visit him at the Belvedere mansion?”
“Yes. I am sure you can understand why he wished to remain as our unidentified client earlier—”
“Of course,” I said. I could afford to be magnanimous.
He seemed to be hesitating over what to say next. It appeared to be an unusual circumstance for him; he was rarely at a loss. He got it together and went on in his suave manner.
“I must tell you, I suggested to Ambrose that disbursing your check to you should be contingent upon your signing a release form.”
“Release?”
“You became privy to a number of matters that are confidential to the Belvedere family. The family’s reputation and even possibly Ambrose’s intentions of reopening the Belvedere restaurant could be affected if some of these reached the media.”
An array of angry responses flashed before my eyes but I didn’t have the check yet so I simply said, “Ambrose didn’t say anything of this so I presume he is content that he can rely on my discretion.”
Van Linn nodded, slid the check across the desk and we parted on remarkably amicable terms, considering that one of us was a lawyer.
The checkout procedure from hotels has long been one of the more infuriating and frustrating activities in the whole travel experience, but at the same time it has been one process that has benefited enormously from computerization. I had completed the necessary details and was heading for a taxi when a voice called to me across the lobby and a blonde in yellow and black approached.
“Hello, Elsa,” I greeted her, “you just caught me in time. I’m heading for the airport.”
“So it’s all over.”
“Yes, I suppose you want to do a wrap-up program,” I said.
“Not really.” Her blonde hair danced as she shook her head. “We have a new revelation in the city council—a big splash. The Belvedere business is old hat—yesterday’s news already.”
“Ah, how quickly we forget,” I sympathized. “It must be hard for you to keep up with the fickle public’s appetite for news.”
She looked at me, not sure if I was being sarcastic and decided I wasn’t. “I’m not happy with it,” she confided. “I was hoping to get you and Ambrose Belvedere on the program but he declined and this city council rumpus blew up instead.”
“Good luck with it,” I said heartily.
“I might pursue the Belvedere story at a later date,” she said, but I knew that once it had faded from the forefront of public interest, that was very unlikely.
“Okay, give me a call if I can make any contribution,” I said. I was pretty safe making that offer, I thought.
“Just for the record …” she said, and I waited.
“A number of loose ends dangle—”
“I’ve found that’s usually the case,” I told her. “It’s seldom a perfect wrap-up. For instance, you mentioned St. Cynthia’s.”
She nodded.
“You knew that the chefs of the Belvedere family had all ended their days there.”
“Yes. It’s a mental home, terminal.”
“Was it going to feature in one of your programs?”
As I asked the question, I waited for her to confirm the connection with absinthe. Surely that was an irresistible angle for a journalist?
She shrugged. Had I misjudged her? Did she have some scruples that I hadn’t noticed? Did she have some compassion for the family reputation after all?
“Marguerite and her husband are under arrest—did you know that?” she asked, and I supposed I would never know the answer to my mental questions.
“I haven’t caught any recent local news—”
“Could that have anything to do with the Belvedere book?”
“The case seems to have slid out of the current frame of interest,” I said. “Still, with forged copies floating around, I suppose it would.”
“You think there ever was a genuine copy?”
“I strongly doubt that such a thing exists,” I said, and waited to see if the switch in tenses slipped past her. It did.
She tried another tack. “You were hired to buy the book, weren’t you? That’s why you came to New Orleans.”
“Yes, I was.”
“Your principal must be dissatisfied that you failed.”
“You can’t win them all,” I said, wondering when my supply of clichés would run out.
“I suppose not. Well, I’ll let you go; you must be anxious to get home.”
“It’s been an enjoyable visit. This is a great town. Next time, I’ll have to stay longer.”
The bellboy approached. “Your limo to the airport is here, sir.”
Elsa looked as if she had more questions, but she probably realized that the flow of answers was drying up.
“Got more cases at home to take care of?” she asked.
“I have a trip on the Danube Express coming up. I have to review their menus.”
“Sounds like fun. You can’t get into trouble doing that.”
We exchanged friendly farewell kisses, and, as I entered the limo, I wondered if they might have developed into more. But then I was winding through the narrow streets—New Orleans was displaying her colorful mishmash of African and European cultures, and I was glimpsing all the restaurants that I would have liked to have tried and picturing all the meals that I had missed. …
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
copyright © 2002 by Peter King
cover design by Connie Gabbert
ISBN: 978-1-4532-7729-4 (ePub)
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