For Better or Hearse (8 page)

“Coy does not become you, Annabelle.” Richard stepped out of his convertible after parking next to us in the Georgetown lot. We'd taken separate cars to the restaurant so we wouldn't have to drive Richard back to Capitol Hill after dinner. It was early enough that we'd found space in the tiny public lot next to Mie N Yu.

“I'm not being coy. I just want to wait until we're sitting in the restaurant to tell you. Someone could overhear us on the street.”

“Who?” Richard looked around us. “A homeless person or a Hari Krishna?”

“Less talking, more walking.” Kate passed us and strode down the sidewalk toward the brick red and gold facade of the restaurant with sheer yellow curtains fluttering in the doorway. “I'm dying for a martini.”

“You shameless hussy.”

I recognized Fern's voice immediately. Or maybe it was his vocabulary I recognized. Who else called peo
ple hussies to their face? I turned to find him standing behind us wearing a long black Nehru jacket with an ornate silver cross hanging down the front. If I didn't know better, I'd have pegged him for a priest. Although the slicked back ponytail and giant rings on his fingers were a bit of a giveaway.

Kate spun around with a smirk on her face. “Look who's talking.”

“I am a man of the cloth.” He looked wounded, then grinned at us. “You wouldn't believe how nice people are to you when you're a priest.”

Richard shook his head. “You do know you're not really a priest, right?”

“I'm a hairdresser. It's close enough,” Fern explained. “I take confessions exactly like they do.”

Richard frowned. “But priests don't spread the stories they hear all over town.”

“A technicality, I'm sure.” Fern dismissed Richard with a wave of his hands. “What I want to know is why you're tying one on at five-thirty? Isn't it a little early?”

“Not after the meeting we just had.” Kate sighed. “A nightmare bride.”

Fern's face lit up. “Worse than the one who had me put three tiaras in her weave? Do tell.”

I looked at Richard, who shrugged his shoulders, and then I turned to Fern. “Would you like to join us for dinner?”

“Only if I wouldn't be imposing,” Fern said as he linked arms with Kate and led the way into Mie N Yu without a backward glance.

As I followed them through the opening in the restaurant doorway's sheer curtains, my eyes took a few seconds to adjust to the low lighting inside. Mie N
Yu had been designed around the travels of Marco Polo, so there were tons of low tables surrounded by luxurious cushions, tables perched high in cages, and red fabric cascading from the ceiling. Kind of an East meets West meets Kama Sutra. It was also a place where the pretty people of Georgetown came out to play.

After a delay appropriate for one of the city's hot spots, an aloof hostess led us to a table nestled on the landing between the first and second floors and draped with white netting. The table jutted out over the first floor and had carved wooden sides to keep people from falling over. This was the perfect place for talking without being overheard since there were no other tables near us. Kate and Fern began studying the martini menu immediately.

“Well, are you going to tell us now?” Richard tapped his fingers on the round wooden table.

I waited until the hostess had descended the stairs again. “I overheard someone talking to Henri's killer. They were on the phone.” I hesitated to implicate Richard's chef. Knowing Richard, he wouldn't take it well.

Kate pulled her eyes away from the long list of martinis. “How could you know that Henri's killer was on the other end?”

“Because they were talking about icing careers,” I said patiently. “The person on my end thanked the other person for getting rid of someone they both hated.”

“Enough already,” Richard said with a sigh. “Who did you overhear?”

I cringed, knowing Richard wouldn't like this one bit. “Marcello. He was on the phone back at your office.”

“You can't know that he was talking about Henri,” Richard sputtered. “Talk about putting words in his mouth. Just because he has a past with the victim doesn't mean he's on a murder phone tree.”

“It may not sound convincing, but you should have heard him,” I cried. “He sounded very secretive and sinister.”

“I don't think you can prosecute someone for murder because they sound creepy on the phone.” Kate looked as skeptical as Richard.

Fern waved a cute waiter over to take the drink order. “Two French martinis and…Annie, what are you drinking?”

“A Coke.” I turned to Richard. “You said that Marcello was with you at the time of the murder, right?”

“Campari and soda for me.” Richard flipped open the laminated menu and nodded. “He was the chef at our wedding at Dumbarton House.”

“Give us a few more minutes to look at the menus,” Fern said quietly to the waiter.

“Of course, Father.” The young man gave a bow of the head as he left the table.

Richard gave Fern a look. “You're out of your mind.”

“What?” Fern gave an innocent shrug. “Did I say I was a priest?”

“What if he didn't kill Henri, but had someone do the dirty work for him?” I asked, trying to steer the conversation back to the murder. “I'll bet he knows all the chefs in town.”

Richard shook his head. “Why would someone commit murder for him? That seems like a pretty big favor to ask. Don't forget that Marcello was out of the industry for a while. I don't know how much he would have stayed in touch with his old colleagues.”

I swiveled around on my cushioned chair. “What do you mean he was out of the industry? I thought you hired him after he left the hotel side.”

“Henri didn't only get him fired,” Richard explained. “Marcello was blackballed for years. No one would hire him. He went into a tailspin. His wife left him. He lost custody of his daughter. He basically lost everything before I took a chance on him. It was the best hiring decision I ever made, of course. The man is a culinary genius.”

I swallowed hard. “That's an awful story. I had no idea.” I almost didn't blame Marcello if he wanted to kill Henri. I didn't want Georgia to take the fall for it, though.

“It had to be someone on the inside to get to Henri without being noticed.” Richard snapped his menu shut. “Marcello doesn't have the friends in the hotel world that he used to. I doubt he could have done it even if he wanted to.”

“That makes perfect sense,” Kate said as our drinks arrived. She balanced her martini gingerly as she took a sip from the flared edge. “So many people in the hotel hated Henri that it seems silly to consider suspects who would have had to come from the outside without being noticed. I think people at the Fairmont would have noticed someone as big as Marcello poking around and trying to get someone to commit murder for him.”

“Maybe I should tell the police what I overheard just to be on the safe side. Even if Marcello is innocent, he might be able to lead them to the killer because he knows so many cooks who hated Henri.”

Kate lowered her drink to the table. “It's true that birds of a feather flock to leather.”

Fern giggled. “My kind of birds.”

Richard rolled his eyes. “This is ridiculous. You're going to tell the police that you overheard my head chef talking to an unknown person about something that may or may not be connected to a murder? Are you trying to ruin me? And are you sure you don't have an ulterior motive?”

“I don't know what you mean,” I said dismissing his accusation.

“I do.” Kate waved her hand in the air. “You mean Reese?”

Fern's eyes bounced back between Kate and Richard. “Who's Reese?”

“A cute detective that Annie had a crush on a while back,” Kate said.

Fern bounced up and down on his chair. “I remember him. He was more than cute.”

“I didn't have a crush on him,” I protested. “We were strictly professional.”

“I know,” Kate groaned. “Such a disappointment. Leatrice had practically picked out the wedding invitations.”

“Didn't he have dark hair and nice arms?” Fern raised an eyebrow.

Kate looked surprised. “Good memory. I'm impressed.”

Fern pointed to the room below us. “Isn't that him over there?”

We all followed Fern's gaze to a table across the room. Sure enough, Reese was sitting at a low table leaning up against some beaded cushions. He wore a black knit shirt that pulled tight across his chest and showed off his tan arms. My pulse quickened until I looked across from him, then my body went cold.

If she was a day over twenty-one, I'd have been shocked. Her long hair had been streaked blond, and she wore too much makeup and not nearly enough skirt.

“Maybe she's his sister.” Kate turned back around with a stricken look on her face.

“I hope not.” Fern hadn't taken his eyes off the couple. “I don't think it's appropriate to touch your sister on the leg like that. Even here.”

“I never thought he was good enough for you, anyway.” Richard made a face. “If those are the type of bimbos he likes, then good riddance. You need someone with more sophistication and polish.”

“I wouldn't tell Richard about your date with Ian, then,” Kate whispered to me behind her hand.

“Can you believe that outfit?” Fern shuddered. “Who would wear a skirt that short?”

“Hey,” Kate cried. “I own that skirt.”

Fern patted her on the hand. “And I'm sure on you it looks lovely, but right now we're trashing Annabelle's competition.”

“Thanks, guys.” I steadied my voice. “I'm telling you, though. I don't have a thing for Detective Reese.”

Richard was right. If these were the type of women Reese liked, then I could forget about him. I could never compete with Miss Legs. Girls like that didn't work sixty hour weeks and run around setting up weddings for twelve hours at a time. I reached over, took Kate's martini out of her hand and took a long drink.

“Are you still overcome with the urge to tell the police what you heard Marcello saying?” Richard asked after I returned the glass to a startled Kate.

“Let Reese figure it out on his own if he's such a great detective. He doesn't want our help, anyway.” I
beckoned the waiter over so I could order a martini of my own. “I'm trying to clear Georgia. The police are on their own.”

After I'd ordered a French martini, Fern pulled the waiter down by the sleeve. “Give it wings, my son.”

“I've been waiting up for you, dearie.” Leatrice stuck her head out of her first-floor apartment as I started up the stairs. “Do you want to watch an episode of
Perry Mason
with me? I found a channel that plays them late at night.”

Just when I thought my social life couldn't get worse.

“I'm pretty tired, Leatrice. Kate and I were running around all day. Maybe some other time.”

Leatrice pulled her door closed and followed me up the staircase. She wore a black apron that looked like the front of a tuxedo jacket complete with bow tie and ruffled shirt. It gave a whole new meaning to the phrase “black tie optional.” “I heard that they arrested someone for the chef's murder.”

I paused at the first landing and leaned against the metal banister. “Was it in the paper already?”

Leatrice shrugged. “I don't read the paper. Too much politics for my taste. I heard it on the scanner.”

“Right.” How could I forget her scanner? I eyed her apron and tried to change the subject. “So, doing some cooking?”

“Cooking?” She cocked an eyebrow at me and shook her head.

Silly me. I should have known better than to assume anything about Leatrice's choice of wardrobe. I should have been grateful she had clothes on underneath the apron. “Never mind.”

“Do you know the girl they arrested?” Leatrice hurried up behind me as I took the stairs two at a time.

“She's a friend of mine and she didn't do it.” I reached my doorway a bit out of breath and paused before I put the key in the lock. I thought for a second about how I could go inside without letting Leatrice in, then realized it would be impossible and opened the door anyway.

Leatrice led the way into my living room, bouncing on her toes. It was almost scary how excited she got about crime investigation. “They arrested the wrong person?”

“Definitely.” I kicked off my low black pumps and dropped my purse on the floor beside the couch. “Someone framed her for the murder.”

“How do you know?” Leatrice's eyes grew wide as she sunk into the overstuffed armchair.

“Georgia isn't a killer,” I said firmly. “There are lots of other people who had motive to kill the chef, as well. Better motives.”

“Like who?”

“Richard's head chef, Marcello, for one.” I moved a pile of papers on the couch so I could sit. “Henri ruined his life by blackballing him from the industry over ten years ago.”

Leatrice edged forward in the chair so her feet touched the floor. “That's a long time to plan revenge.”

“He's Italian,” I explained. “From what I hear, any of the chefs who worked with Henri had strong motive to kill him.”

“And you think one of them committed murder and framed your friend for it?”

“That's where I get a little fuzzy,” I admitted. “The chefs have the strongest motives, but I don't know why they would want to frame Georgia. The people who would want to get Georgia out of the way—like the hotel's general manager—don't have much of a motive for killing Henri.”

“That does present a problem, dear.” Leatrice furrowed her brow in concentration. “It's a shame we don't have pictures of the event to search through for possible clues.”

“The photographers had barely arrived at the hotel by the time we found the body,” I said, then snapped my fingers and began looking around the room. “But the videographer got there early and shot footage of the courtyard.”

“Was that where you found the body?” Leatrice stood up and started looking with me.

“No, but the courtyard is right outside the room where the chef was killed, and the walls to that room are all glass.” My voice quivered as I dug my hand behind the couch cushions. “The videographer could have shot something in the background without even knowing.”

“This is so exciting.” Leatrice lifted the chair cushion and peered underneath. “What are we looking for?”

“The phone.” I recovered it from under a blue fleece
throw at the end of the couch. “I'm going to call the videographer and see if we can look at her footage. I just hope she isn't in a chatty mood today.”

Leatrice hurried over and stood next to me while I dialed my favorite videographer's number by heart. Usually I loved gabbing with Joni about the latest industry gossip because she somehow knew the dirt on everyone, but today I didn't have time for chitchat. The phone rang a few times before a soft woman's voice answered. She sounded a little more like a phone sex operator than a videographer.

“This is Joni, how can I help—”

“Hey, it's Annabelle.” I cut her off. “Sorry to be so rushed, but do you have the footage from Saturday's wedding?”

Joni's voice switched from professional to relieved. “Hi, Annabelle. I'm glad it's you. I wanted to ask you what you think I should do with this video. I have great dressing and ceremony coverage, but after that it's all mostly mayhem. I do have a pretty good shot of everyone stampeding for the front door when the bride ran out into the courtyard in hysterics, but I don't think she's going to want that on her wedding video.”

I cringed, remembering the chaos the bride had created once she came to and saw the dead chef and shattered ice sculpture. We hadn't been able to stop her from running into her cocktail party screaming bloody murder, and it hadn't helped matters that she had an enormous bruise on her cheek from where Fern had dropped her. No amount of editing could make that look pretty.

Joni continued, “I tried to do the last part in slow motion and put some romantic music in the background but it looks like a chase scene in a horror movie.”

I groaned. “That bad?”

“Yep. It's going to take some major work to make this look halfway presentable. You don't think they're in a rush for this, do you?”

“No,” I reassured her. “I don't think the video is their major concern right now.” I doubted the bride would be eager to relive her wedding anytime soon since I'd heard that she'd gone to a holistic healing spa “for her nerves” in lieu of taking a honeymoon.

“I wish they'd gotten the short version instead of the long. I can make anything look great in a highlight reel. Maybe they'd agree to the short version, considering what happened.”

“You haven't cut any footage yet, have you?” I held my breath for the answer.

“No way. I always keep the raw footage.”

I let out a sigh of relief. Thank God she was as paranoid as me about keeping things.

“You never know what you might need later,” Joni added. “I've had clients ask me to re-edit their video a year later because their grandmother died and they want more footage of her in the video. Or they want me to take out someone they aren't speaking to anymore. I even had one bride ask me to redo the entire video without the groom after they got divorced. Then there was the time that—”

“I need to ask you a huge favor, Joni.” I knew this would be a hard sell. “I need to see the raw footage of the wedding.”

She hesitated. “You know I don't like anyone to see the raw footage. It's like guests walking into the ballroom during setup. It ruins the magic of the finished product.”

“You know I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important,” I pleaded as Leatrice tugged on my sleeve.

“Tell her why we need it,” Leatrice whispered.

“I only gave the raw footage to a bride once, and that was because it was a nudist wedding. I couldn't bear the thought of having to look at all those middle-aged naked people again.”

“You shot a nudist wedding?” I forgot all about the murder for a moment. “Did you have to work in the nude?”

“Of course not,” Joni gasped. “It was years ago, when I first started out in the business. I wouldn't take a nude wedding now.”

I had no idea there was even a market for nudist weddings in D.C. I wondered what the proper wording on the invitation would be. Would Crane's even engrave the words “Clothing optional” in the bottom corner? Somehow I doubted it.

Leatrice poked me in the arm. “Well?”

“It's really important that I see the footage before it's edited,” I begged. “I promise to return it to you as soon as I look at it.”

“What are you looking for?”

If I really wanted her to show me the video, I'd need to tell her. “I think you might have recorded something through the glass walls of the Colonnade without knowing it.”

“Really?” Joni sounded interested. “Like what?”

I exchanged a hopeful look with Leatrice. “Like the murder.”