leaving the station, Olivia found she didn’t feel like going home. She was restless, but most of Oyster Bay’s businesses were closed on Sunday, so there was little to do but attend church services or go out to eat. Olivia didn’t want to do either, so she decided to stop by her restaurant and busy herself with mindless paperwork.
The Boot Top Bistro had recently added a Sunday brunch to its list of offerings and the churchgoers were streaming into the restaurant as Olivia and Haviland pulled into the parking lot. Plump matrons in pastel skirt suits led their pressed and polished families like clucking hens gathering chicks to the feed pile. Glowering teenagers, pained over being separated from cell phones, iPods, and handheld video games, trailed after the rest of their kin as though hoping to appear unrelated to those who caused them such acute embarrassment merely by existing.
Normally, the sight of so many patrons filing into The Boot Top would have put Olivia in an agreeable mood, but she felt completely out of sorts. It wasn’t only Camden’s tragic death that bothered her, but the feelings of powerlessness that accompanied his murder.
Bursting into the kitchen through the back door, Olivia was greeted by her staff, but she merely waved them off and headed for her office, a tiny, windowless room next to the dry goods pantry. Michel followed her, Haviland right on the chef’s heels, clearly hoping to receive a savory treat.
“I do have something for you, my friend. Une moment.” Michel smiled at the poodle but wouldn’t pet him while he was in the midst of food preparation. “Olivia, I heard what happened to your writer friend.” Michel worriedly studied his employer. “Are you sure you want to be here? Georges has things well under control.”
Georges served as both maître d’ and general manager.
“Last time I checked, this was my restaurant and I could come and go as I pleased!” Olivia snapped and then immediately relented. “My apologies, Michel. I shouldn’t be directing my ire at you. I simply cannot stand to sit around, idle, and hope for things to turn out as they ought.”
Michel nodded. Another type A personality, he understood her need to take action. “The police don’t know your friend, do they? He’s an outsider?”
“Camden? He was a gossip columnist from Los Angeles.” She pictured Camden’s silk shirts and flawlessly creased trousers. “Though I’m sure most of them noticed him. He was rather flamboyant for our conservative little town.” Absently, Olivia pressed several pencils into an automatic sharpener and then, satisfied with their sharpness, lined them up neatly on her desk calendar. “But I see what you’re saying—that it would be easier to find his killer if we really knew Camden Ford. Unfortunately, I consider myself his most recent acquaintance, so I need to squeeze as much information as I can out of the person who knew him best.”
Michel looked intrigued. “Who would that be? His mother?”
“His lover. I’m picking him up at the Raleigh-Durham airport early this evening,” Olivia answered and then grinned slyly as an idea struck. “Michel, darling, how would you like to assign one of your assistants a small task? As a personal favor to me?”
Bowing from the waist, Michel said, “Anything for you. You need only ask.”
“I’d like a picnic dinner of sorts. A basket brimming with the type of delicacies to loosen the tongue of a stranger.” She looked up at the chef in appeal. “Can you make it fancy yet comforting?”
Her unusual request seemed to please Michel to no end. He stood a fraction taller and straightened his pristine, white hat. “I’ll see to it myself. Robbie and Jeremy are perfectly capable of making omelets Florentine and crab Benedict. This requires a delicate hand.” He displayed the briefest of sulks. “I know these brunches are profitable, but they’re rather unadventurous for someone of my talents.”
Olivia
The Boot Top Bistro had recently added a Sunday brunch to its list of offerings and the churchgoers were streaming into the restaurant as Olivia and Haviland pulled into the parking lot. Plump matrons in pastel skirt suits led their pressed and polished families like clucking hens gathering chicks to the feed pile. Glowering teenagers, pained over being separated from cell phones, iPods, and handheld video games, trailed after the rest of their kin as though hoping to appear unrelated to those who caused them such acute embarrassment merely by existing.
Normally, the sight of so many patrons filing into The Boot Top would have put Olivia in an agreeable mood, but she felt completely out of sorts. It wasn’t only Camden’s tragic death that bothered her, but the feelings of powerlessness that accompanied his murder.
Bursting into the kitchen through the back door, Olivia was greeted by her staff, but she merely waved them off and headed for her office, a tiny, windowless room next to the dry goods pantry. Michel followed her, Haviland right on the chef’s heels, clearly hoping to receive a savory treat.
“I do have something for you, my friend. Une moment.” Michel smiled at the poodle but wouldn’t pet him while he was in the midst of food preparation. “Olivia, I heard what happened to your writer friend.” Michel worriedly studied his employer. “Are you sure you want to be here? Georges has things well under control.”
Georges served as both maître d’ and general manager.
“Last time I checked, this was my restaurant and I could come and go as I pleased!” Olivia snapped and then immediately relented. “My apologies, Michel. I shouldn’t be directing my ire at you. I simply cannot stand to sit around, idle, and hope for things to turn out as they ought.”
Michel nodded. Another type A personality, he understood her need to take action. “The police don’t know your friend, do they? He’s an outsider?”
“Camden? He was a gossip columnist from Los Angeles.” She pictured Camden’s silk shirts and flawlessly creased trousers. “Though I’m sure most of them noticed him. He was rather flamboyant for our conservative little town.” Absently, Olivia pressed several pencils into an automatic sharpener and then, satisfied with their sharpness, lined them up neatly on her desk calendar. “But I see what you’re saying—that it would be easier to find his killer if we really knew Camden Ford. Unfortunately, I consider myself his most recent acquaintance, so I need to squeeze as much information as I can out of the person who knew him best.”
Michel looked intrigued. “Who would that be? His mother?”
“His lover. I’m picking him up at the Raleigh-Durham airport early this evening,” Olivia answered and then grinned slyly as an idea struck. “Michel, darling, how would you like to assign one of your assistants a small task? As a personal favor to me?”
Bowing from the waist, Michel said, “Anything for you. You need only ask.”
“I’d like a picnic dinner of sorts. A basket brimming with the type of delicacies to loosen the tongue of a stranger.” She looked up at the chef in appeal. “Can you make it fancy yet comforting?”
Her unusual request seemed to please Michel to no end. He stood a fraction taller and straightened his pristine, white hat. “I’ll see to it myself. Robbie and Jeremy are perfectly capable of making omelets Florentine and crab Benedict. This requires a delicate hand.” He displayed the briefest of sulks. “I know these brunches are profitable, but they’re rather unadventurous for someone of my talents.”
Olivia
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