Nathan smiled as the crowd clapped.

  “And Chef Paul Buckridge.”

  He moved closer to his mother and gave a polite nod.

  “My daughter, Emily,” continued Constance, putting her arm around the younger woman’s waist.

  With her long, straight blond hair and large, soft eyes, Bram found her very attractive. He wondered if Constance had resembled her daughter in her youth.

  “By the way, Emily did all the photography for the latest book, Cuisine America”

  Again, applause burst from every corner of the room.

  “Next, I’d like to introduce my son-in-law, Kenneth Merlin. Kenneth is our senior legal counsel.”

  More applause as a thin man in a dark suit stood in the back.

  “And since we have a local luminary here with us today, I’d like to introduce you all to Sophie Greenway, who has just taken over the restaurant-critic position at the Minneapolis Times Register. Sophie is an old friend of the family’s.”

  Sophie waved as everyone clapped.

  “There’s one last person I need to include in my introduction.” Constance stepped over to a small, professorial-looking white-haired man standing at the front of the crowd. Slipping her arm through his, she continued. “This is my brother, the eminent clinical psychologist, Dr. Arthur Jadek. Since his retirement four years ago, he’s become my right arm. I don’t know what I’d do without him.”

  The man smiled somewhat shyly as people applauded. Bram thought he looked ill at ease and wondered if perhaps he didn’t much care for the spotlight.

  “And now I’ll be happy to sign your books.” Constance kissed Arthur on the cheek, then sat down behind the table. In an instant, the knot in the room formed itself into a line.

  “She’s going to be here for hours,” said Lela disgustedly, folding her arms over her chest.

  “You better squeeze in somewhere if you want her signature,” said Bram.

  “Oh, I’m not interested in that.”

  “Then why are we here?”

  She shrugged. “I’m fascinated by celebrity?”

  That couldn’t be her entire reason, thought Bram, but he didn’t have the interest to pursue it.

  “Do you want to go talk to your wife?”

  “I would, but she’s gone,” he said, feeling miffed. As soon as Constance Buckridge had begun signing, Nathan and Sophie had exited through the back door.

  “Are you sure?” Lela stood on her tiptoes to look around. “I saw her leave.”

  “Do you want to get back to the hotel?”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, Ms. Dexter, but I thought we had a date for a cup of coffee.”

  “A date?”

  “As in an appointment. A social engagement.”

  “You’re sure your wife won’t mind?” She was trying to match his light tone, but her words stung. Something about the look in Nathan Buckridge’s eyes told Bram he wasn’t just an old friend. “As a matter of fact” — he checked his watch — “it’s almost happy hour in our fair town. I don’t suppose you like hot New Orleans jazz?”

  “You have to ask?”

  “Then I know just the place for a couple of cool draft beers. What do you say?”

  “Lead the way.”

  7

  Several hours later Sophie surveyed the Belmont’s dark interior looking for Harry Hongisto. For a Saturday night, the dinner crowd was pretty thin. Okay, so it was just after six, but in a town noted for early dining, it didn’t bode well. Sophie had been wanting to talk to Harry all day and finally decided that having a face-to-face conversation with him was better than doing it over the phone.

  She and Nathan had returned to the hotel immediately after leaving Kitchen Central. In die car on die way back, she’d tried to keep the conversation neutral and impersonal. She told him about Harry Hongisto’s restaurant and the bad reviews he’d received from the former restaurant critic at the Times Register. Nathan seemed sympathetic, asking her how much power the reviewers had in this town. In New York, he said, a bad review could sink a restaurant. Did she think that was the case here?

  She described the slow decline of the Belmont during the past few years, adding that she felt the two reviews had really hurt business. In the end, if Harry had to shut down, it would be hard to say whether the reviews themselves had pushed the restaurant over the edge. Nathan asked a couple more questions: Where is it located? What sort of food does it serve? But before she knew it, he’d brought the subject back to their past again.

  Sophie had grown increasingly ill at ease in his company, especially after he made it clear that he’d never gotten over her. As a way of ending their afternoon together, she’d agreed to meet him for lunch on Monday. He was so insistent, and in her heart she had to admit that she was just a little bit flattered. Still, she made sure he knew that she was very much in love with her husband and that all they could ever hope to be now was friends. Nathan said he understood, and that, for their lunch, he had something special in mind. She didn’t exactly know what to make of his enthusiasm, but they’d parted by the elevators on a friendly note, Sophie heading up to her apartment in the north wing, Nathan returning to his suite in the south.

  Relieved to finally be away from him, Sophie sailed into her front foyer, hoping to debrief with Bram. For years he’d pushed his pet theory about old flames: Old boyfriends — and girlfriends — never die. They always pop up again sooner or later, sometimes with expectations, sometimes just out of curiosity. Sophie thought he’d be happy to hear another story that proved his theory. Unfortunately, he wasn’t back yet. His golf game couldn’t have lasted this long, but since she knew he had to prepare for next week’s shows, she figured he was off doing research.

  Normally, if either of them had to be somewhere other than home in the evening, they would call or leave a note. This morning, however, before she’d left for her meeting at the paper, they’d made plans to drive to the Mall of America for an eight o’clock movie, so she knew he’d be back by seven at the latest. Since she had some time to spare, she grabbed her purse and returned to the lobby. Next stop, the Belmont

  Sophie found Harry in the bar. He was seated at die counter, head in his hands, staring morosely into a glass of Scotch. She knew it was Scotch because the bottle was right next to him.

  Slipping onto a stool, she could see that he was completely lost in thought.

  “Harry?” she said softly, touching his arm.

  When he looked over at her, it took him a moment to focus. “Sophie,” he said finally. “What are you doing here?” His voice was gravelly even on good days, but tonight it was mixed with alcohol and aimless despair. His eyes were bloodshot, and the black bow tie he always knotted perfectly was untied and hanging down limply over his tux jacket.

  “I was hoping we could talk for a few minutes.”

  He picked up his glass, gesturing to the empty room. ‘Talk away. I’ve got nothing but time. My usual audience seems to have failed me.”

  She knew he wasn’t in the best shape, but she’d come to warn him that he was in potentially serious trouble. She had to make him listen.

  “You look pretty as a picture tonight, Sophie Tahtinen. Your father would be so proud.”

  He’d used her maiden name. Not a good sign.

  “Harry, listen. I didn’t tell you this last night because I thought it would upset you, but you’re going to find out sooner or later.” She paused, screwing up her courage. “I’m taking over George Gildemeister’s job at the Times Register. I’m the new restaurant critic.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “You?” was all he could squeak out. “You know I’ve done guest reviews for the paper for years.”

  “But to become George Gildemeister.”

  “No, no, Harry. I’m not becoming him, I’m just taking his job.”

  He gave the traditional Finnish sigh of resignation. “Hoi, hoi.” After shaking his head a few more times, he said, “This is a sad, sad day, Sophie. It’s such a loathsome profession you’ve chosen. Your father — maybe I should tell him. Break the news to him gently.” He was about to pour himself more Scotch when Sophie grabbed the bottle out of his hand.

  “Hey.”

  “I’ll give it back to you in a minute. Right now you’ve got to concentrate. Can you do that?”

  He glowered but grunted affirmatively.

  “Good, because this is important. When I was at the paper this morning, Gildemeister received a letter from you.”

  His glower turned to a grin. “I know. I hand-delivered it. Made sure they took it right up to his office.”

  At least that was good news. The U.S. mail hadn’t been involved. “You threatened him, Harry.”

  “Huh?” He passed a hand over his face.

  “You said a guy like him didn’t deserve to live.”

  A vague smile returned. “I worked on that letter all night last night. It was my pi&ce de resistance.”

  He murdered the French pronunciation, but Sophie got the point. ‘The letter’s been turned over to the police. Yale McGraw, the managing editor, took your words seriously.”

  “He should! That Gildemeister is a menace. He’s singlehandedly responsible for ruining my business!”

  Sophie could have argued the point, but now wasn’t the time. “Harry, the police are probably going to want to talk to you.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he said, downing the last of his drink. “They were already here. I was out. I guess I’m supposed to call some sergeant ASAP.”

  “Did you?”

  “If they want to talk to me, they can come back. I’m not hiding from anyone. I’m a businessman and I’ve got rights.”

  “Harry, this is serious!”

  “It’s a crock of you-know-what. I’m not gonna hurt that bastard, though I have dreamed of stuffing him in our convection oven and cranking the heat up to broil. Sophie, don’t look so shocked. I just wanted to blow off some steam.”

  “The police don’t know that.” The problem was, if she encouraged him to call the officer back now, in his present state, who knew what he’d say?

  “Don’t worry, pikku Sophia. I’ve got everything under control. As a matter of fact, before long I’m going to be a very rich man.”

  He was slurring his words, mixing Finnish with English, so she wasn’t sure she’d heard him right. “You’re going to be rich?”

  He glanced at her sideways. “I’ve got options. Plans. I always land on my feet. Gildemeister may hate my guts, but this is one guy who’s got tons of sisu.”

  Another Finnish word meaning determination. Not that knowing the definition helped her understand what he meant.

  He yanked the bottle away from her and poured himself another drink. “There’s more than one way to skin a cat — in this case, a Gildemeister.” His laugh was more of a cackle.

  “Harry, you need to be careful. You’ve got to stay away from George Gildemeister. Promise me you won’t go near him.”

  “Hell, sure. You’re so pretty tonight I’d promise you anything.”

  He might be old and drunk, but he still knew how to flirt He was laughing so hard now that he spilled half the Scotch lifting the glass to his mouth.

  “I think someone should take you home.”

  “Nah, I gotta stay here until it’s finished.”

  She was losing her patience. “Until what’s finished?”

  “My business,” he grunted, turning morose again.

  For a moment she thought he might be planning to do something drastic, like burn the building down.

  Setting his glass on the counter, he added, “You shouldn’t be sitting here talking to an old man. Go home to that hand some husband of yours. Thank the good Lord every day that you’ve got him, pikku Sophia. I’d give anything to have my Lempi back with me.”

  “Are you sure you’re going to be okay?”

  “Fine.” He waved her away.

  He was a sad man, in a sad situation, but she’d done what she’d come to do. And he was right, she had to get home now. She hoped Bram would be waiting.

  Journal Note

  Saturday, 11 P.M.

  While it s still fresh in my mind, I want to type up my taped interview with Oscar Boland. But first a few general comments: We met at the Lyme House, a restaurant on Lake Harriet in south Minneapolis. It was his choice. The dining room looked inviting, but he wanted to sit in the downstairs pub. Apparently, he goes there quite often. It was too noisy for my taste, but we found a back worn that was less congested than the main one, and I set up the tape recorder between us.

  Boland looked like a retired marine. Gray crew cut. Ramrod-straight posture. An expression that was pure concrete. Initially, I felt his suspicion quite keenly. He made it clear that heti been a friend to all the Buckridges and wasn’t going to participate in any character assassinations. I knew it wasn’t going to be easy getting the information I wanted. If nothing else, I hoped Boland would provide me with a framework on which to place the rest of my research. In actuality, he gave me much more than that. I now feel I’ve narrowed down the areas that will yield the most potent results.

  Boland started the discussion by asking me about my background. I knew he wanted to check me out, make sure I was on the level about being a published author and biographer. I told him Id been writing since I was twenty-three. Seven biographies to date, all still in print. I mentioned that I had earned a great deal of money during the lastfifteen years but that I did the work because I loved it.

  He wanted more. I told him that as a child growing up in a large southern household, I tripped over lots of nasty secrets. I spent a great part of my youth trying to untie the Gordian knot that was my family. It turned out to be good practice for my future profession. I explained that I despised secrets and that I didn’t believe in heroes. Heroes were unreal, deeply dangerous constructs, mainly because they allowed us a false concept of what it was to be human. I don’t know whether he understood any of what I said, but he sat politely and listened.

  After I gave him a copy of my last book — a biography of Gore Vidal — and he checked out my photo on the back cover, he seemed impressed. I told him he could keep the book so he asked me to sign it. I wrote: “To my friend Oscar Boland. Thanks for the highly informative interview. Best wishes, Marie Damontraville.” I thought the “highly informative interview “part might spur some cooperation. His reaction was far more positive than I could have imagined. There was a sudden sea change in his demeanor. He seemed both flustered andflattered — well, as flustered andflattered as an ex-marine type with a stone face can get. We ordered drinks, I turned on the recorder, and we were off.

  INTERVIEW: OSCAR BOLAND, THE LYME HOUSE, MINNEAPOLIS, MAY 8

  M: How did you first meet Wayne Buckridge?

  Boland: I never talked about this to anyone before, but I guess it’s okay to tell you. I mean, you want the truth, right? That’s what you ‘re telling me is important, and I agree that it is. I just don’t want to hurt anybody. I want to make that perfectly clear up front. Okay, so I’ve been thinking about all this since you called, trying to get it straight in my mind. It must have been about 52, the year before Wayne married Pepper. He was probably thirty-four or so. I was twenty-two. I’d taken my parents ‘speedboat out on the lake one afternoon. What lake? Oh, Minnetonka, where we had a summer home. It was a beautiful day, so I thought I’d just stop somewhere out in the middle and catch some sun. It was a weekday, pretty quiet on the water. I cruised around for a while, looking for just the right spot, when I spied this guy in a rowboat. He was standing up, holding what looked like a gun. I watched him for a few seconds. He was just staring at the waves. Before I realized what was happening, he pointed the thing at his head, I heard a blast, and he fell headfirst into the water. I throttled up and shot across the water, then cut the motor and dove in. I was a pretty strong swimmer in those days. I found him all right. About twenty feet down and sinking fast. The bullet had barely grazed his temple, but he was out cold, probably from shock He would have drowned for sure if I hadn’t come along.

  M: It was a suicide attempt?

  Boland: He never actually admitted it, but yeah, I think so. From what I could piece together later, I figured it had something to do with the war. WW II. He spent most of his tour in France. It changed him, he always said that. I remember him telling me once that he’d gone into the army an innocent young boy and come out a corrupt old man. Between you and me, I don’t think Wayne Buckridge liked himself very much after the war. But as far as I know, he never tried to hurt himself again. He’d been drinking that day. And he’d lost his job the week before. A man can only take so much.

  M: When did he meet his wife?

  Boland: You mean hisfirst wife, Pepper? I’d known her since I was a kid. Her real name is Leona, but no one ever called her that. Pepper justfit her personality better. Her parents had a beautiful summer home just down the road. By the time I introduced her to Wayne, he and I had become great pals. I don’t know why. We were total strangers before the accident happened, but for some reason it sort ofdrew us together. Life can be strange like that. Hell, the guy didn’t have many friends, and he needed someone to talk to. You know — about life, the crap that happens, how to deal with stuff. Wayne’s family was all gone, except for an unmarried aunt he rarely saw. I had a big family. We alljust sort of adopted him — well, mainly me, I guess, but my mom and dad were happy to have him around. He was a swell guy. Husky. Good-looking. Athletic. Great personality. But he had this dark side to him. Id seen it, though I doubt very many other people had. Back in the early days, he was always the life of the party. You d never know he had a care in the world. But I knew. He hated what had happened in France, all the men he d had to kill. He thought of it as murder, kids murdering kids. I suppose that’s why he drank too much sometimes. I even saw him cry once. Funny, it way the night before he married Pepper.

  M: What was he crying about?

  Boland: Beats the hell out of me. He should have been on top of the world. I know he loved her, so that wasn’t it. I think though, deep down inside, he thought she was too good for him. I mean, he really got lucky when he met Pepper Skeffington. Not only did he get himself a rich young wife but his future career as well. His father-in-law thought the sun rose and set on him. As soon as the happy couple got back from their honeymoon, Skeffington started grooming Wayne to take over the company — when he was gone, of course. Which was many years later.