“You’ve certainly got a nerve,” marveled Lea Sherwood.
Keith Whitten laughed as if she’d paid him a compliment and attempted to kiss her on the cheek.
Lea sidestepped Keith adroitly and looked him in the eye. He was the last man she wanted to see in her restaurant that night, but she had to seat him. She had no choice. Both the law and her pocketbook dictated that she serve all paying guests.
Keith unbuttoned his jacket and brushed a speck of lint from the lapel of his double-breasted Italian suit. In the past year he had brazenly embraced the role of Silicon Valley CEO. His once unruly fair hair was now fastidiously trimmed, and his innate enthusiasm was muted, tinged with a self-conscious patina of sophistication. Keith’s thin lips curled into a slight smile. Earlier that day he had achieved a coup—the takeover of Decision Ace, Inc. Apparently he had come to gloat.
Lea led Keith and the two men who accompanied him to an alcove table by a window. Outside, the cobblestones of San Francisco’s old Barbary Coast glistened in the early June fog.
She took their drink order, dropped it off at the bar, and made her way to the kitchen.
Sydney Toth, Lea’s no-nonsense sous-chef, accosted her as soon as she entered. “One of the servers said Keith Whitten is here.”
“He is indeed,” Lea said.
Sydney grimaced and with a linen towel hastily blotted flecks of sauce defacing the otherwise pristine rims of two gold, white, and crimson dinner plates. “For Table 8,” she said.
Lea, who was short two servers that night, took the plates and maneuvered through the crowded kitchen. An oven door slammed as one of the cooks retrieved a leek tart. Veal scallops sizzled on a burner, and the aroma of mussel bisque vied with the woodsy incense of roasted chanterelles. Lea glanced at her six young line cooks in their starched white jackets and black-and-white, hounds-tooth checked pants. They spun intently between the stainless steel work counters and the long gas range against the wall, jostling one another as they jiggled sauté pans over spurting blue flames. Sydney, ever alert, paced before the overlooking counter, shouting an occasional question and monitoring the progress of each dish.
Back in the dining room, Lea presented the plates with a flourish to Justine and Peter Brill, self-proclaimed foodies and two of her best customers.
Justine brushed back a lock of her honey-blond hair and took a bite of grilled sea bass with red pepper mousse, yellow tomatoes, and arugula. “Oh, Lea, this is scrumptious!” Justine exclaimed.
Peter smoothed his graying moustache with his forefinger and grunted his satisfaction as he speared a second forkful of fresh Indiana Culver Duck.
“There’s just one thing we’ve been wondering, Lea,” Justine said.
“What’s that?” Lea asked. She smiled broadly, pleased to see them enjoying their dinners.
“We’ve been admiring your new painting.” Justine gestured at an abstract canvas done in bold strokes of scarlet and black. “But whatever is it supposed to be?”
“It’s called My Inamorata, and it’s by Sejei Hirai, the Japanese artist who lives on a houseboat in Sausalito,” Lea said with a mischievous air. “Actually, I use it as a kind of Rorschach test of my customers. Tell me what it suggests to you.”
Justine pursed her lips. “I’d say it does remind me of love.”
Peter sniggered. “It reminds me of madness.”
Lea burst out laughing. “Well, some say there’s a fine line between the two!” With that, she left the couple to their dinners.
When she returned to Keith’s table with champagne flutes and the reserve Blanc de Blancs the men had ordered, Keith introduced her to his companions. Both were executives of Whitten Systems Corp., Keith’s software firm.
“Lea’s an old friend,” Keith said as he appraised the dining room, with its soaring ceiling and eclectic crowd. “She’s done a great job here with Panache. It’s my favorite San Francisco restaurant,” he said proprietarily.
“Mine too,” Lea thought. She popped the cork.
As she poured the wine, the boyish-faced man who’d been introduced as Randy Derrough spoke up. “Congratulations, Keith,” he said. “I’ve got to confess—I was skeptical when you began making overtures to Decision Ace. And after they gagged at your initial offer, I never thought you’d pull off a merger. Now I see that this could be the first in a string of acquisitions for us.”
“There’s just one thing I don’t understand,” said Marshall Schroth, a well-built man with a receding hairline. He and Randy were seated across from Keith. “The takeover went through smoothly—so why did you call an emergency board meeting for tomorrow morning? No one’s been able to tell me. Why all the secrecy?”
Keith stiffened. “How did you hear about it?”
Lea placed a standing silver ice bucket near Keith’s elbow and nestled the remaining wine in a cocoon of ice. She turned from the table and began to walk through the dining room, pausing here and there to exchange pleasantries with her diners.
As she skirted Table 23, she noticed that Marvis Choate, a regular patron, had hardly touched her food. Lea stopped and laid a hand on the elderly woman’s shoulder. “Is something wrong?”
“Oh, I don’t know, my dear,” Marvis said apologetically. “I ordered the chicken with tarragon cream because I enjoyed a dish by that name last year in Talloires. This is interesting, but it doesn’t taste the same.”
Lea whisked the plate away and promised to bring a substitute.
As she headed for the kitchen, Lea sighed. There were as many interpretations of each classic recipe as there were chefs. And Lea had won raves for this particular dish. But the customer was always right. Especially in San Francisco, where dining out was a religious experience. The city led the nation in restaurants per capita, the markets catered to exotic foodie trends, and the media raptly chronicled the peregrinations of celebrity chefs.
San Francisco was, however, the riskiest dining market in the country. Of the city’s 3,000 restaurants, a third failed in their first year. Two out of three didn’t make it to the end of their second. Competition was brutal, and only the nimble and well-capitalized survived.
Nevertheless, Lea had opened Panache five months ago, and so far, the critics had been kind. Lea smiled as she walked past a framed copy of Bon Vivant’s review, which she’d hung in the hallway leading to the kitchen. She knew one passage by heart: “The ebullient Lea Sherwood, veteran of three-star kitchens in the south of France and Brussels, has created a stylish oasis of civilized dining in the financial center of San Francisco. The modern space is stunning, and Sherwood’s luscious plates have nuance and verve. Each night she creates smart, contemporary classics of California-French cuisine. This 33-year-old chef-owner has a bright future ahead of her!”
The accompanying photograph showed Lea celebrating with her staff on opening night. She glanced now at her image: playful hazel eyes under strong brows, her oval face framed by auburn, shoulder-length hair and her slender figure sheathed in the gold silk dress she often wore to greet dinner guests.
So she had passed a milestone—reviews and word of mouth had built an initial clientele—but ultimate survival was far from certain. San Francisco diners were notoriously fickle in their allegiance.
As Lea re-entered the kitchen, Sydney called out. “Where is that Robert? His order for Table 31 is ready.”
“He’s busy with a party of six,” Lea said. “Give it to me. I can take it.” Instantly, she realized with a pang that the table was Keith Whitten’s.
Sydney arranged three plates on a tray, which she thrust at Lea.
Keith was boasting about his prowess as a CEO when Lea got to his table, and again she marveled at his behavior. She’d never seen him so feisty and voluble. Either his success—or the Blanc de Blancs—had gone to his head.
Lea served the men and handed her tray off to Robert.
As she strolled through the dining room, Lea tuned into the buzz—an almost palpable energy that animated the room. Snatches of conversation came her way:
— “Kristin doesn’t begin to understand why I’m dissatisfied. She says I’m successful because I’m an attorney. But hell, everybody I know is an attorney.”
— “My English teacher once said there are three classes of people. Those who talk about other people, those who talk about things, and those who talk about ideas. I’ve always remembered that.”
— “I had to laugh when I finally saw the Rosetta stone. Human nature hasn’t changed in 2000 years. It’s a decree from Ptolemy V granting economic favors to the temple priests. In return for their political support!”
At Table 14, Lea stopped to help Robert extract the corks from three consecutive vintages of Caymus Cabernet. Robert, an acting student with leading man good looks, brought a theatrical air to Panache and was popular with guests. He and Lea gently decanted the shimmering mauve liquid and poured it into flights for a vertical tasting.
The host of the table, an avuncular man sporting an olive green silk cravat, beamed with bonhomie and raised his glass. “If I may quote Alexandre Dumas: ‘Wine is the intellectual part of a meal.’ ”
Suddenly Lea was startled by a commotion and whirled to see Keith, torso contorted, slumped over the table. He was gasping for air and trying to loosen his tie. In an instant his entire body was racked by a spasm.
“He’s having a seizure. Call a doctor!” someone cried.
Lea dashed to the phone and dialed 911. An almost tangible anxiety rippled through the dining room.
Keith’s eyelids were fluttering and he appeared barely conscious when paramedics burst through the front door six minutes later. Lea averted her gaze as Keith was hoisted onto a stretcher. Marshall Schroth and Randy Derrough shrank back into their chairs.
“He was fine when we came in,” Randy asserted, apropos of nothing. “It must have been something he ate.”
A stunned silence prevailed as the medics wended their way through the dining room, past the peach and ecru walls, the custom-designed table lamps, the multimedia artwork, and the outré art glass. Finally Keith was conveyed a cross the intricate black, white, and coral mosaic-tile walkway that snaked through the foyer.
As the stretcher cleared the front door, the room erupted. Lea nervously caught shrill snippets of conversation. Apparently word was circulating about who Keith was.
Lea’s distress deepened as the evening dragged on, and her sensitive to her mood, grew fretful and tense. Sydney, who virtually never made an error, sent four meat plates to a vegetarian table. Robert spilled coffee on the lap of a bank vice president, and Ernesto, the good-natured dishwasher, dropped a rack of cordial glasses and brandy snifters. Lea thought the night would never end.
At 11:30 Lea gratefully bolted the front door and collapsed into a seat in the foyer. She’d been on her feet since dawn, walking the equivalent of at least eight miles. Tonight, if she were lucky, she might be able to stretch her usual five and a half hours of sleep into six.
Insistent knocks on the front door brought her abruptly to her feet. Lea peered out the plate-glass window onto fog-shrouded Jackson Street and saw two middle-aged men in sport coats and slacks. One of them flashed a metal badge.
Startled, Lea went to the door and eased it open.
“Miss Sherwood?” inquired the taller man, who wore a bow tie. He extended an identification card. Lea glanced at it and barely caught his name—Dante Talifano—and the fact that he was an inspector for the SFPD. Talifano then introduced his companion, a stout Japanese-American man, as Inspector George Fukuhara.
“What can I do for you?” Lea asked.
“We’d like to talk to you about Keith Whitten. We understand he had dinner here tonight.”
Lea shifted uneasily and opened the door wider to admit them. She led the way to seats in the dining room as the servers cleared tables and pretended that nothing was happening.
“How is Keith?” Lea asked, her heart thudding. He had been on her mind all night.
The two men exchanged a pregnant glance. “He died almost two hours ago,” Talifano said.
Lea gasped, then shuddered. The notion of Keith dying seemed utterly improbable. “How did it happen?” she stammered.
“We don’t have the particulars yet, but indications are that it may not have been a natural death,” Talifano replied. “We’ll do an autopsy in the morning.”
Fukuhara regarded her stonily.
“Now, Miss Sherwood,” Talifano continued. “Tell us everything that occurred from the time Mr. Whitten arrived. His companions are adamant that he was fine before they got here.”
Lea complied, struggling to control the tremor in her voice.
“And you personally served their dinner? Isn’t that unusual?”
She explained that she’d been shorthanded that night.
The two homicide inspectors exchanged another glance.
“We understand that you and Mr. Whitten were once good friends,” Talifano stated.
“Ah, we did go out for a few months last year.” As she often had, Lea berated herself for not having been a better judge of character when she had met Keith. If only she’d been more observant.
“And yet you are now seeing a Mr. Paul Boyd. We’re told that Mr. Boyd’s software company has just been acquired by Mr. Whitten’s. Apparently the takeover was acrimonious.”
Lea thought back over recent months. Just as she and Paul had grown close, Keith had launched his drive to buy Paul’s firm. The pain and frustration she’d felt, unable to help as Paul fought desperately to save his company, swept over her again now.
She tried to explain to Talifano that Paul had not wanted to sell his start-up but had been outvoted by his venture capital partners, who held the majority of the stock. “It wasn’t a hostile takeover in the strictest sense,” she said. She neglected to mention that by all accounts, prior to the buyout, Keith had developed a personal vendetta against Paul, and that she felt responsible.
Talifano referred to his notepad. “We’re told that Mr. Whitten’s firm specializes in general business applications software—accounting and cost-control systems, inventory management—that type of thing.” He glanced up at Lea.
“And Mr. Boyd, we’re told, has developed a decision-support software package that’s catching on. Apparently it’s a sophisticated product that helps companies automate certain aspects of management decision making.”
Lea nodded slowly. It felt bizarre to hear him discuss Paul’s firm under these circumstances.
“So, Mr. Boyd didn’t want to sell his company. Particularly to Keith Whitten.” Talifano stated it as fact. “Under the circumstances, it’s only natural that you’d resent Mr. Whitten. Who could blame you?”
Lea stifled a sudden impulse to laugh, and she flushed at her near loss of control. Just relax, she told herself as she struggled to stay calm.
“Is that a rhetorical question?” she asked.
Fukuhara coughed as though something had caught in his throat. His eyes darted to Talifano, who continued on, unperturbed. “When did Mr. Whitten make his reservation for tonight?”
“He didn’t,” Lea said. “I had no idea he was coming.”
She was met by silence and wondered if this was a ploy to increase her discomfort and induce her to say something incriminating.
Talifano held her gaze, assessing her. “Do you mind if we question your staff, Miss Sherwood?”
“Of course not. Speak to anyone you wish.”
As the cooks and dishwashers awaited their turn in the kitchen, Talifano and Fukuhara began with the servers. One by one they were summoned: Dominique, a coltish young Australian who hoped to become a professional cello player; Stephen, a physics major putting himself through college who worked at soup kitchens on weekends; Josh, a rakish writer who had a way with the ladies; Pierce, an affable Brit, who, in the European style, planned a career as a server; and finally, Robert.
Lea retreated to a far corner of the dining room and curled up in a chair, crossing her arms tightly against her chest. A curious ache welled up, and her mind raced. She strained to remember every word and nuance of Keith’s conversation that night. But as her staff trickled out and 2:00 A.M. approached, she was stymied by one inescapable question. Why would anyone want to kill Keith Whitten, aging whiz kid and Silicon Valley CEO?