Page 20 of So Bleak

As close to authentic coq au vin as dub step is to opera.

I had the lamb. At least I think I did. Who the hell could tell with all the repulsive crap covering it?

The chef is way ahead of his time. He should go back to it. He needs to find a way to return to the 1960s when the height of gourmet was a Jello mold. Then, he might legitimately receive praise. Just a little, of course. Very little.

People didn’t understand fine dining. Perhaps they never had. Nobody cared about food unless there was outrage.

“Maraschinos,” the killer said softly. “They were sour cherries from Croatia. Everyone loved them. But all of the processing…" The killer chuckled. "Well, it doesn't matter, does it? Today, they're not even marasca cherries. They’re normal cherries that you can find in any fruit stand. People have no palates these days.”

The killer grinned at the ingredients of the poison. “They see something pretty and never think about how it could kill them.”

The killer looked once more at the clippings and sighed. People were callous. People were careless. Only when it was too late did they realize what should have been obvious from the beginning.

That was the weakness the killer took advantage of. The mistake that once known couldn’t be rectified.

The killer took a deep, cleansing breath and returned to work. Just a little, the tiniest fraction of a gram. But it was enough to right so many wrongs.

CHAPTER NINE

Discovering a professional connection between the two critics turned out to be more difficult than the two agents anticipated. Harold and Eleanor reviewed different restaurants. Eleanor preferred the ultra-fine-dining establishments, those with Michelin stars, places dignitaries dined. Harold reviewed a more eclectic mix of restaurants. He still preferred more traditional, established eateries to trendy, avant-garde places, but awards weren’t important to him. He’d only reviewed five Michelin-star winners in his entire career. Three of those were restaurants Eleanor had also reviewed, and both reviewers had only glowing things to say about them.

The personal connection also yielded little they could use. By all accounts, the two had never interacted. Harold in general preferred to be nearly anonymous. He had no personal social media accounts, and his professional accounts held no pictures that contained his face and very few that contained any part of him at all. He never interacted with other food critics, chefs or food writers. He worked in the shadows.

“Not far enough in the shadows,” she muttered.

“What’s that?” Michael asked.

“Nothing. I’m giving up for the night. I have an address for Eleanor Crestwood’s sister in Camden. If you don’t come up with anything better, I say we talk to her tomorrow.”

“Good with me,” he replied. “I’ve cross-referenced every single restaurant they’ve both reviewed. Only the three connections and they both loved all three.”

“Maybe the killer’s a masochist who’s pissed that they won’t insult him?” she offered glumly.

“Ha. Well, we’re both trying to stay positive, so let’s not let ourselves down by assuming the worst just yet. We’ll talk to the sister tomorrow and go from there.”

“Fair enough. Good night, Michael.”

“Yep.”

Michael collapsed on the couch and was instantly asleep. Faith looked at him for a moment, and an odd swirl of emotions coursed through her.

She and Michael had dated for roughly a year. Their relationship had ended over three years ago, over a year before she had met David, just before her encounter with Jethro Trammell. The split was amicable, both of them realizing they worked much better as friends than lovers. Especially now that Michael was married to Ellie and Faith was preparing to move in with David, she rarely thought about their relationship.

Still, for a brief but intense moment, Faith was sure that the two of them would end up together for the long haul. Michael was the first man she had ever truly loved, and while she could honestly say her love for him now was no more than friendship and camaraderie, there were moments, like this one, when the ghosts of her old feelings came back to haunt her.

She headed to her bedroom, moving quietly so as not to wake Michael or Turk. As she changed for bed, she thought about how little a person ever truly knew. Three years ago, she knew she would marry Michael. Now, even when she tried, she could only drum up a memory of the love she'd once had for him.

She knew she would marry David. Not now, and probably not even soon, but eventually, she knew she would be Mrs. Faith Friedman.

But what if that was true? What if, five years from now, she knew that she and David never had a chance? What if, twenty years from now, she knew that she was never going to find her true love, and it wasn't worth trying anymore?

She got into bed and tried to push those thoughts from her mind, but staring up at the ceiling and realizing that the day was rapidly approaching when she would sleep in a different bed in a different house with a different man sharing that house brought to mind the fragility of the future.

She wasn't interested in dwelling on her personal life right now, so she applied that focus to the case. The victims knew that they were going to enjoy a meal, then share their thoughts on that meal for their readers to see. They knew they were going to do this many times for many more years before they were tired enough they no longer wished to work. They knew that when that day came, they were going to retire and enjoy their golden years in comfort and peace.

And in the last minute of their lives, they knew that all of that—all of their plans, all of their dreams, all of their assumptions—was a lie. They knew that none of it meant anything more than a ghost of a memory.

They knew that they were going to die.

---