Page 17 of Caper Crush
He harrumphs. “I’m not going to blow our cover. I still think we’re going about this the wrong way. We should talk to her last if we think she’s the most likely suspect.”
He’s cute when he acts all stuffy.
“After the police have questioned them and they’re not going to talk?” I ask. We cut across Eighty-Fourth Street toward West End Avenue. A school sits on one side of the tree-lined street; kids shout from the playgrounds and basketball courts on both sides. Pink and red impatiens dot one shady planter while begonias strut in another. The bare tree branches are like spiderwebs obscuring the buildings behind them.
At the red light on Amsterdam Avenue, trucks roar by. The cheerful, blue-and-yellow signage of West Side Kids beckons across the street. Next to us is a check-cashing place.Does Kimberly make enough money with her business?
“And this isn’t going to be a police priority,” I say, hands on hips.
“You have a point there,” he says.
Several people seated on the green, iron benches soak up the sun while eating lunch out of paper bags in the median mall that separates the uptown and downtown traffic of Broadway. Movie posters at the corner cinema announce some caper movie.No, thanks.I’m living one.
“Why did you and Rex break up?” he asks.
I sigh. “We’re better as friends. Ultimately, we’re two needy artists, and we just didn’t work out.” I realized this when Rex didn’t show up for my art show hosted by my friend Audrey at her apartment. He called me late that night to say he’d forgotten; he’d been caught up in a creatively inspired moment. As an artist, I understood. I’d done the same when in the middle of a painting. And the song he wrote that night, “Mirex,” is one of our fans’ favorites. But instead of enjoying my art opening, I’d spent a good portion of the night wondering where he was, worried that he’d been hurt when he didn’t answer his phone. He had turned it off so he could concentrate. As a girlfriend, I wanted him to be there for me.
Kimberly’s Renaissance Revival apartment building sits in the middle of the block on West End Avenue.
He grabs my arm. “So let’s ask about her business and how she hires her employees, right? We’re agreed we’re not going to address the actual case.”
I nod. “Unless it seems like an opportune moment.”
“I have a feeling we defineopportune momentdifferently.”
The doorman announces us, and we take the elevator up to Kimberly’s apartment. She’s waiting at the door. She’s small, with short, brown hair, brown eyes, and a pink apron tied around her waist.
“Come in, come in,” Kimberly says. “I’m so glad this worked out.”
The front door of Kimberly’s apartment leads straight into the living room. A small, round table sits on one side, a couch and a TV on the other side. On the sideboard, there’s a clear, plastic box of crayons and a stack of coloring books, plus a stack of board games. We walk into the kitchen.
“Oh wow, your kitchen is amazing,” I say. “This is huge for a New York apartment.”
“I knocked down the original wall and converted the dining room to be part of the kitchen,” she says.
We sit at a rectangular table by the windows. The different smells of basil, melted cheese, rosemary, and dumplings fried in oil waft over from the two trays of appetizers already on the table. My stomach growls.
“So this is a general selection I’d prepared for the prior client who couldn’t come,” Kimberly says. “We use organic ingredients only. I shop and cook the day of the party.”
We eat several appetizers she prepared for the no-show client. They are delicious. But then, I knew they would be. I’ve been eating her food for years at Uncle Tony’s parties.
“Mmm … these are scrumptious,” I say, my mouth full. I never had lunch. As a starving artist, maybe this should be my approach in the future for getting free meals.
She gives us a binder with various menu options and clippings of reviews. As we flip through the binder, I ask her about her specialties and how much advance notice she needs. She usually needs a month’s notice, but she occasionally has cancellations so it’s always worth checking.
“This is lucky. I just created this new recipe,” Kimberly says. “Can I try it out on you? It’s not final yet. I made two different variations, and I’m not sure which one is better.” She bustles over to the far counter and pulls two trays out of the oven. She scoops off quiches and lines them up on plates. “What do you think?”
She hands us each a plate marked with A and B. William and I sample both. We pick B as light and flaky, tasting of mushrooms, eggs, and eggplant with herbes de Provence. Yummy.
“You look familiar.” She studies me closely. My chest tightens at the thought she might recognize me. William’s ability to see through my disguise has shaken my confidence. She’s not going to agree to cater a party if she knows we’re related to Tony and Takashi—especially once she finds out that she’s a suspect in an art heist.
“Both are delicious.” William gives her this amazing smile, and she melts. Apparently, we’ve got a secret weapon with his killer smile. It changes his whole face, like the sunshine peeking from behind clouds to warm you on a rainy day.
“How big is your company?” I ask.
“Three employees. Me, my sister, and a pastry chef.”
“And you’ve been together for a long time?” I ask.
