Deadly Intent (45 page)

She, John, Claudia, Rose and Brady sat on Abbie’s patio, the remains of Irene’s strawberry cheesecake on the table in front of them. Her mother had stopped by earlier to deliver it in person, but hadn’t wanted to stay. Abbie hadn’t pressed her, knowing she felt uncomfortable when surrounded by too many people. But at the door, Irene had surprised her by whispering in her ear, ‘ ‘I like that Detective Ryan very much. He’s everything Claudia said he was.”

Rose’s voice pulled Abbie out of her reverie. She was talking to John. “What happens now? With the professor, I mean.”

“It all depends on how Tina makes out in England.”

Brady helped himself to another cup of coffee. “Will she be talking to Gilroy’s ex-wife?”

“And Peter Brice, the boy—a man, now—who made that initial accusation against the professor sixteen years

ago. The idea is to make Gilroy crack. Hopefully that will do it.”

“But if you have enough to charge him,” Claudia said, “shouldn’t you have enough to convict him? With or without his confession?”

“I wish we did. Unfortunately, the evidence against him is all circumstantial. We can prosecute, and still present a strong case, but whether or not we’ll get a conviction is debatable. We’re hoping that when the truth about what happened in England comes out, Gilroy will agree to plead guilty in exchange for a lighter sentence—life imprisonment instead of the death penalty—and save the county the expense of a trial.”

“What about that cute guy? Tony Garcia?” Claudia assumed an innocent look. “Any chance they’ll let him go?”

Brady roared with laughter. “Oh, no, here comes groom number four! The Runaway Bride strikes again!”

She slapped his arm. “Shut up, Brady.”

“Actually,” John said, “Tony appears to be a good guy who tried to get his brother to turn himself in and failed. He was wrong to protect a man he knew had committed murder, but they’ll probably go easy on him, as they will on Enrique.”

He looked at Abbie, who had remained silent during the exchange. “You haven’t said much. Everything all right?”

Abbie gazed down at her sling and flexed her fingers, just to make sure they were working as they should. “I was thinking about Liz. I still can’t believe how I allowed myself to be so completely fooled by her. Or how she could have planned such a horrible fate for a little boy who only wanted to love her.”

“We’ll never really know what was in that head of hers, but it’s not unusual for someone who has suffered a severe loss to want revenge on the people he or she believes

caused that loss. In Liz’s case, her hatred for you and your mother had lain dormant for many years. It might never have resurfaced if Ian hadn’t shown up and convinced her of Irene’s guilt.”

“But at the cemetery, when I told her my mother wasn’t responsible, I felt as though she believed me.”

“Whether she did or not doesn’t matter. She still blamed Irene for saving you first. In her mind, that’s what caused her to lose her baby, then Glen, and to become sterile and eventually lose Jude as well.”

Abbie thought of that last conversation with Liz, and the woman’s conviction that what she had done in the name of justice and revenge was warranted. “She killed two people,” she mused. “And each time, she went on with her life as if nothing had happened.”

“She was a sick woman, Abbie.”

“And I made it so easy for her, calling her, practically begging her to become a part of our lives.”

“If you hadn’t sought her out, she would have sought you. After Ian approached her, she had it all planned.”

Rose reached over to take her hand. “Don’t think about it anymore, hon, okay? Just be glad you and Ben are safe and s—“

They were interrupted by the frantic, repeated sound of the doorbell. “Abbie!” a voice shouted. “It’s me, Sean. Open up, quick!”

Abbie’s heart sank as she ran to the door ahead of the others, wondering what catastrophe was hurtling toward her now.

Sean stood on the front porch, his face red. In his hand was a single sheet of paper. “I left my tennis racket at the restaurant yesterday and had to go back to get it. When I walked into the utility room, this was just coming through

the fax.” Beaming, he handed Abbie the sheet of paper. “It’s from Archibald Gunther.”

“The review?” Brady’s arm shot forward and snatched the paper from Sean’s hand. “Oh my God,” he said as his eyes coursed over the page. “Jesus Almighty!”

“Is it good?” Abbie’s heart began to pound. “How good? Darn it, Brady, read it!”

Brady cleared his throat, held the paper at arm’s length as if preparing to read the Declaration of Independence, and began:

“Much hype had been raised in recent weeks about Campagne and its owner, Chef Abbie DiAngelo. We knew she had trained in France, that she had made quite a name for herself as a caterer, and oh, yes, she did win the Bocuse d’Or, last month, a prize bestowed on only the very best and that no American had ever won before, let alone an American woman.

Curious to see if all that fuss was justified, I broke my cardinal rule of never listening to rumors, and made the trek to Princeton, New Jersey, on a balmy Monday evening.

If you are tired, as I am, of French-theme restaurants with Edith Piaf ballads in the background, Belle Epoque posters on the walls and phony French accents, then you’ll find Campagne refreshingly different.

With its clever blend of colorful tablecloths, understated china, inexpensive glassware and impeccable service, Campagne has created a warm country atmosphere that is comfortable, pleasant to the eye and totally relaxing.

I began my meal with a humble soupe au pistou, which was one of the best I’ve ever had, although the

vegetables could have been cut a shade smaller. The pesto, which can often be overwhelming, was the perfect combination of basil, garlic, pine nuts and olive oil, all pounded to a smooth consistency and lightly blended into the soup.

The second course was a warm lentil salad with magret de canard—thin, rare, crisp-edged slices of duck breast—served on a mound of tender frisee. There couldn’t have been a better prelude for the main course, a fall-off-the-bone veal shank, slow-cooked to perfection and fragrant with thyme. This Normand version—new to me—included hard cider, a touch of cream and egg yolk to thicken the sauce.

The steamed asparagus that accompanied the meat tasted as if they had been picked from a local farm that very day, and the potatoes au gratin were crisp and golden brown on the outside, creamy and delicately laced with nutmeg on the inside.

The many other delectable items on the menu made me wish I had ordered more. Alas. I only had room for a light, savory dessert of red ripe roasted figs and creme fraiche, the memory of which still brings a smile to my face.

To my earlier question, is Chef DiAngelo worth all the fuss, my answer is a resounding yes. What now remains to be seen is if this level of excellence can be maintained over the next twenty or thirty years.”

Brady lowered his arm just as Abbie let out a whoop of victory. “I’ll never say a nasty word about that man ever again,” she vowed, hugging Brady. “From now on he is a god.”

“Personally,” Brady said with a straight face, “I always knew the man had good taste.”

“Liar. You hated him as much as the rest of us did.”

“What was that remark about the vegetables?” Claudia wanted to know.

The happy chatter stopped as two pairs of eyes turned toward John. “You,” Abbie said, pointing a finger. “You are the one who chopped the vegetables.”

John put up his arms in mock self-defense. “Now just a minute. You were all pretty damn happy to have me pitch in, if I recall. For the better part of an hour, I tolerated your temper tantrums, your barking orders and your fits of depression. And this is what I get for my efforts?”

“Okay, okay,” Brady said. “We’ll let you off the hook—this time.”

Eager to celebrate, Abbie brought out a bottle of Dom Perignon and the next hour was spent discussing the glowing review, what it meant for the restaurant and the best way to use it.

Later, when everyone had left, John pulled Abbie into a corner of the kitchen and took her in his arms. “Alone at last.” He glanced outside where the boys were playing catch in the field beyond the pool. Satisfied they weren’t paying attention to them, he kissed her. It was a long, burning kiss Abbie returned with all the passion a one-armed woman could muster.

“Well,” she said when he finally let her go. “I was wondering when you’d get around to doing that.”

“I would have done it sooner, but I have this thing about kissing women in front of an audience.”

“In that case, why don’t you do it again?” She coiled her good arm around his neck. “To make up for lost time.”

When they finally parted, John walked over to the chair where he had draped his jacket and took out a flat, brightly wrapped package from the seat. “I got you something.”

She beamed. “A present? What’s the occasion?”

“Your safe return. And I never did get a chance to thank you properly.”

She was already untying the ribbon, tearing the pretty paper. “Thank me for what?”

“For inspiring me. Without your little pep talk, I would still be wishing I had Jordan with me. Now that wish has become a reality and I owe it all to you. You made me realize that anything is possible, if you want it badly enough.”

“I’m glad everything worked out so well for you and Jordan, but you certainly didn’t have to...” She opened the box. “Oh.”

Inside the box was a five-by-seven card with a logo at the top she recognized immediately. It belonged to l’Auberge du Midi in Avignon, France. A reservation for dinner for two had been made in John’s name.

Abbie looked up, absolutely stunned. “L’Auberge du Midi is where I spent my apprenticeship.”

“I know. You told me all about it the day Jordan and I were here. I also remember you saying how much you’d like to go back there someday. Well, lady, the day has come.”

Choked up with emotion, Abbie pulled out the card with the confirmed reservation written in her former boss’s familiar handwriting. It was the sweetest thing anyone had ever done for her, and it touched her deeply.

“Francois called a couple of days ago, after he found out what happened,” she said when she could trust her voice again. “He never mentioned this.”

“I asked him not to.”

She let out a bewildered laugh. “You talked to Francois? Who doesn’t speak a word of English? Wait, don’t tell me. You speak French.”

He brought his thumb and index finger together. “Un

peu. Enough so Francois understood what I wanted. He’s thrilled by the way. He can’t wait to show you to his customers, some of whom remember you.”

“You’re full of surprises, aren’t you, Detective Ryan?”

“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet, Chef DiAngelo.”

“How did you know where to find Francois?”

“Brady helped.”

She laughed. “Brady the conspirator. Why am I not surprised?”

“By the way, I’ve already talked to Percy. He said he’d be delighted to have Ben stay with him and Jordan for a few days, if that’s all right with you. I would have taken the boys with us, but...” He pulled her to him again. “I wanted this to be a special time for us.”

The thought of being in that magical part of the world, with this very special man, prompted her next question. “When do we leave?”

“July 12. That should give us enough time to talk to Ben and Jordan about us, get them used to the idea of you and me together.”

You and me together. She liked the sound of that.

“And as you see,” he added, sounding very proud of himself, “I made the dinner reservation for July 14--Bastille Day. Francois said there would be lots of fireworks at the inn.”

“I love fireworks.”

“I know that, too.” Very gently, he backed her against the wall and kissed her again, murmuring against her lips, “Who knows? We might even make some fireworks of our own.”