French Twist Read online

  Then she says, “Question number two. Tell me where we’re going, Moncrief, or I’m walking off this plane.”

  “No need to prepare your parachute, K. Burke. We are going to a city named Louisville, in the state of Kentucky.”

  As I say the word “Kentucky,” the attractive young woman who greeted us as we boarded crouches beside us, rests her hand on mine, and asks if we would like some champagne or coffee. (I hear K. Burke mutter, “Oh, brother.”) Both Burke and I decline the offer of champagne and settle for a perfectly pulled cappuccino. As if the coffee was a magical elixir that filled her with special knowledge, K. Burke suddenly shouts.

  “The Derby!” she says loudly. “Tomorrow is the Kentucky Derby!”

  “Congratulations. You are a detective parfaite,” I say.

  “Since when did you become a horse-racing fan? And please don’t tell me you bought a horse and managed to get him into the Kentucky Derby.”

  “No, although I did think about it. But the dearest friends of my late parents have a horse running tomorrow at Churchill Downs. They have been racing horses ever since I can remember. Madame and Monsieur Savatier, Marguerite and Nicolas. The name of their extraordinary horse is Garçon, although his full name is Vilain Garçon, which means ‘naughty boy.’”

  “So, they named the horse after you,” she laughs.

  “An easy joke, K. Burke. Too easy.”

  “Irresistible,” she says.

  “In any event, the Savatiers have been in Louisville for two months while Garçon was training. For Nicolas and Marguerite the Kentucky Derby has been their dream. They have rented a house, and we will be staying with them. They will meet us when we land.”

  Burke and I each have another cappuccino, and less than an hour later we arrive at Louisville International Airport.

  We exit the plane. At the bottom of the steps waits an elegant old woman wearing an elegant gray suit and a large white hat. Next to her stands an equally elegant-looking man of a similar age. He, too, wears a suit of gray. He also wears an old-fashioned straw boater. They both carry gold-handled canes.

  “Bienvenue, Luc. Bonjour, mon ami bien-aimé.” Welcome, my beloved friend.

  We embrace.

  “Madame et Monsieur Savatier, I wish to present my best friend, Mademoiselle Katherine Burke,” I say. “Miss Burke, Marguerite and Nicolas Savatier.”

  The three of them exchange gentle handshakes. K. Burke says that she has heard wonderful things about them as well as “your great horse, Vilain Garçon.”

  “Merci,” says Madame Savatier. “And I must say this. Since Luc just called you his best friend, that makes you also our best friend.”

  Monsieur Savatier speaks. I immediately recall what a stern and funny old Frenchman he can be.

  “Please, everyone,” he says. “This is all very touching. But we must hurry. In less than a half hour they will be having the final workout of the horses. And no friendship is worth being late for that.”

  Chapter 4

  The first Saturday in May. That’s the date of the Kentucky Derby. May promises sunny weather. But today, May does not make good on that promise. The sky is overcast. The temperatures are in the mid-forties. The only sunshine is the excitement in the noisy, boozy, very colorful crowd. Katherine Burke, the Savatiers, and I are standing outside the super-elite Infield Club. This is where the horse owners and their friends gather. Here most women are dressed as if they are attending a British royal wedding: huge floral print dresses, most of them in bright primary colors; necklaces and brooches and earrings with sparkling diamonds, emeralds, and rubies. The women’s hats are each a crazy story unto themselves—huge affairs that must be pinned and clipped to remain afloat, in colors that perfectly match or clash with the colors of their dresses.

  The men are in morning suits or are dressed in classic-cut blazers—each a different rainbow color. Bright club ties, striped ties, bowties. The whole area has the feeling of happy anxiety and big money. And of course no one is without a smartphone, constantly raised to capture the moment. This has to be the most thoroughly photographed Kentucky Derby in history.

  I give K. Burke two hundred dollars.

  “Bet one hundred on Garçon for me, one hundred on Garçon for yourself,” I tell her.

  “I’m not going to take your money,” she says.

  “But this time you must. To watch the race with a bet riding on it makes it a million times more exciting. But I must prepare you for the worst.”

  She looks surprised.

  “Garçon has little chance of winning. The oddsmakers have his chances at forty to one.”

  “I don’t care,” she says, in the true spirit of the Derby. “He’s our horse.” And she is off to the betting window. She’s become a real racing fan.

  K. Burke clutches our tickets tightly. She is dressed more casually than most of the women in the infield, but she looks enchanting. Marguerite Savatier has given Burke a piece of Garçon’s silks—a red, white, and yellow swatch of cloth. Burke has tied it around her waist as a belt. She looks terrific in a simple white billowing cotton dress. And if anyone present thinks Burke is out of her social element, all they need do is glance at the huge emerald necklace, the gift that I gave her this past Christmas in Paris.

  Then it is time for the race.

  Grooms snap lead shanks onto their horses and escort them out of their stalls. Then comes the traditional parade. The horses are conducted past the clubhouse turn, then under the twin spires of Churchill Downs. Finally, the horses are brought into the paddock to be saddled.

  Nicolas and Marguerite Savatier speak to Garçon’s jockey and trainers. They save their most important words for…who else? Garçon. Both Savatiers stroke the horse’s nose. Marguerite touches his cheek. Then they move away.

  Now comes the moment that most people, myself among them, find the most touching. It begins with a simple, sad piece of music. A college band begins playing a very old Stephen Foster song. Everyone at the Derby sings along, right down to the heartbreaking final verse:

  Weep no more my lady.

  Oh! Weep no more today.

  We will sing one song

  For my old Kentucky home.

  For the old Kentucky home, far away.

  And the race begins.

  For me there is no sporting event that does not excite me when I am watching in person. Boxing. Basketball. Tennis. Hockey. But nothing compares to horse-racing. And nothing in horse-racing compares to the Kentucky Derby.

  It is even more incredible to be watching the race with owners of one of the racehorses. It is almost as exciting watching K. Burke transform from a no-nonsense NYPD detective into a crazed racing fan. She clenches her fingers into fists. She screams the word “Garçon” over and over, literally without stopping for breath.

  And the race itself?

  If I could have “fixed” the race, I am ashamed to say, I would have taken all of my father’s inheritance and done so. Nothing would please me more than to see my elderly frail friends, Marguerite and Nicolas, break down in tears as Vilain Garçon crossed first at the finish line. Nothing would please me more than to see my best friend in her white cotton dress jump for joy, her emerald necklace flapping up and down. Yes, it would have been worth my fortune to see that happen.

  As it turns out, I did not have to spend a penny.

  The voice on the loudspeaker, above the cheering, came out shouting, with a perfect Southern accent, “And the winner, by half a length, is VILL-EN GAR-ÇON!”

  Chapter 5

  The best thing about being the governor of Kentucky must be hosting the Winner’s Party for the Kentucky Derby.

  We watch the giant wreath of roses being placed upon Garçon. Then we head to the Kentucky Derby Museum for the Winner’s Party. K. Burke and I are sort of maid of honor and best man at a royal wedding. We get to enter with the bride and groom, Marguerite and Nicolas. Shouts. Cheers. Music.

  “I bet that most of the people here think that we’re t
he son and daughter of the Savatiers,” K. Burke says.

  “Or the son and daughter-in-law,” I say. Burke acts as if she did not hear what I just said.

  Armand Joscoe, the tough little French jockey who is hugely responsible for Garçon’s victory, is carried around the room on a chair, like a bride at a Jewish wedding.

  “He’s adorable,” says K. Burke.

  “When I was a lad everyone called him Petit Nez, Little Nose. He has been with the Savatiers forever. This win is a wonderful day for him.”

  “No more Petit Nez for him,” says Burke. I now look at the commotion around the Savatiers.

  The charming old couple is, as always, composed and courteous as they field the questions from society magazines, racing magazines, newspaper and TV reporters from all over the world, and gossip blogs. Marguerite’s gentle voice is barely audible among the thousands of clicks from the cameras and cell phones. It is their show. Burke and I stand many feet away from the stars.

  “Have you tasted the mint julep?” I ask K. Burke.

  “I’m an Irish girl. I prefer my whiskey straight up,” she says. “I just don’t understand the combination of mint and bourbon.”

  As if on cue a waiter passes by with a tray of chilled mint juleps. I take two from the waiter and hand one to K. Burke.

  “As a good guest and adventurer you must try the local drink,” I say.

  Reluctantly she says, “Okay.” We both hold our drinks in the air.

  “To Garçon and his owners,” I say.

  “To you, Moncrief, with a big thank you for this trip,” Burke says.

  “My pleasure, partner,” I say. We clink. We sip. She speaks.

  “Hmmm. I think I may have been wrong about bourbon and mint leaves. I could easily get used to this concoction,” she says.

  I frown and say, “Not me. A white Bordeaux will always be my drink.”

  “Over there,” Burke says, pointing to a nearby waiter with a tray of good-looking hors d’oeuvres. Then she adds, “What do you think those things are?”

  “Hush puppies with country ham,” I say.

  “I didn’t know you were such an expert on Kentucky food,” Burke says. “You’re just full of surprises, Moncrief.”

  We are poised to grab a few bites from the hors d’oeuvres tray when the orchestra suddenly lets go with a musical fanfare. A commotion seems to be taking place in the area where the Savatiers are being interviewed and photographed. Always on the job, Burke shoots me a look and heads toward our friends.

  As we push our way through the crowd, a spotlight hits the older couple. A gigantic arrangement of red roses is being carried in. It’s even larger than the garland of roses that was draped on Garçon. The floral arrangement is so large that it takes four men to carry it. They place it in front of the Savatiers. Marguerite and Nicolas’s heads disappear behind the huge red rose arrangement.

  One of the unidentified four men holds a mic. It clicks on with a screeching noise.

  “Five hundred American Beauty roses for one wonderful French woman,” he says. His accent is tough, New York–ish.

  Both Savatiers seem confused. The two Derby officials with the Savatiers also seem confused. The four men walk away quickly.

  “Was that some official part of the winner’s ceremony?” Burke asks.

  I shrug my shoulders. “So much of what you Americans do is a little bit crazy. Let’s go find the waiter with the hors d’oeuvres.”

  In the next hour Burke and I set some kind of record for “Most Hors d’Oeuvres and Canapés Consumed at Churchill Downs.” We set a similar record for “Most Mint Juleps Consumed at Churchill Downs.”

  We are drunk enough to have trouble forming words when we kiss the Savatiers farewell. Our thanks are heartfelt and garbled. Fortunately, the Savatiers’ chauffeur drives us to the airport. Moments later we are aloft. On our way back to New York. On our way back to the murders of the three beautiful young women.

  I try to do some mental theorizing about the case. But I am tired, and my brain is muddled, and K. Burke’s head is resting on my shoulder.

  Chapter 6

  Katherine Mary Burke unlocks the three dead bolts that will allow her to enter her apartment. After the door is finally opened, she surveys the one-room apartment on East 90th Street where she has lived for the past five years.

  All those keys and locks to keep this little place safe. Is this cramped little studio even worth protecting? she thinks. The dark-green sofa, dotted with stains. It’s the sofa that her cousin Maddy was going to throw out. The two needlepoint pillows that a friend made. The first one says, THERE’S NO PLACE LIKE HOME. The second one says, YOU CALL THIS PLACE HOME?

  When she first rented the apartment it seemed spacious and bright. That was before she set up the fake-pine IKEA coffee table with the wobbly fourth leg. That’s before she made the decision to keep the Murphy bed permanently opened and unmade. That’s before the club chair from the Salvation Army became the de facto storage unit for her pile of shirts, jeans, slacks, and tights, plus an occasional shoe, boot, or sneaker.

  Yet Burke came to love the place. It was simple. It was sweet. Most of all, it was hers. Okay, her best friend Moncrief may live in a loft big enough to host a basketball game, but life has a way of evening out sorrow and joy. She would never trade her simple life for Luc’s wealthy world, a world scarred by death and tragedy. Sometimes she wonders how he gets through the day without crying.

  And what the hell, right now Burke is feeling rich, too. The $4,000 she won on Garçon is the biggest single amount she has had since…since…well, since ever. She could pay her Time Warner Cable bill, she could buy a really cool first communion gift for her niece Emma Rose, she could bank some of it so that when Christmas came she could buy Moncrief something a bit fancier than a fake Cross pen and pencil set (which he did, however, keep on his desk and actually use).

  Burke drops her luggage on the floor. Then she plugs in her laptop and her smartphone for recharging.

  She unpins her hair and removes her bright silk belt. The juleps are catching up with her.

  One last look at her e-mail. It has been a few hours since she checked it. There might be important info on the three murder cases that she and Moncrief are jumping on top of tomorrow.

  Nothing urgent. Some new files about the victims’ cell phones, no important DNA material from any of the crime scenes, a few useless pieces from the gossip sites TMZ and Dlisted about the alleged affair between Tessa Fulbright’s husband and a twenty-year-old Yankees farm-team player. Hmm. He’s in the closet? Interesting but probably irrelevant.

  Finally, there is an e-mail from Mike Delaney. Mike is part-owner and weekend bartender at a place called, what else? Delaney’s. Mike isn’t the sharpest guy Burke has ever met, but…Mike is sort of like her apartment. Mike is simple. He’s sweet. And she knows she could have him for the asking.

  She falls backward on the bed. Her head hurts. Her feet hurt. But she is full of happy memories of the Derby, the roses, the party, the juleps…and a friend like Moncrief.

  Friend. The word “friend” seems to stick uneasily in her mind. What do you call a male friend who’s rich and handsome and funny, and when you accidentally-on-purpose fall asleep on his shoulder you feel warm and comfortable?

  “I guess you just call it…a Moncrief,” she thinks.

  Then she falls asleep.

  Chapter 7

  “All right, I have it entirely figured out,” I say as K. Burke, wearing “I’ve-got-a-hangover” sunglasses, walks into the precinct.

  “Can it wait five minutes until I put a little coffee in my engine?”

  “K. Burke, it is ten o’clock Sunday morning. We agreed to meet at 9 a.m.? I assume you were not at church,” I say.

  “Moncrief, already you’re making me crazy, so I’m going to give you my mother’s two favorite words of warning,” Burke says. “Two simple words.”

  “Please, nothing obscene,” I say.

  “Obscene? My m
other? No way. Here are the two words.” Then she shouts: “Don’t start!”

  I am stunned for a moment, but just for a moment.

  “But why would I not start?” I ask. Then I launch into my analysis.

  “There was no cause of death determined in the postmortem on the first two victims, but you have no doubt read the autopsy report from the medical examiner concerning Ms. Tessa Fulbright, the dead woman in Bergdorf?”

  “No, I have not, but I’m sure you’ll tell me what I need to know,” says Burke.

  “With pleasure. As we noted, there was no physical abuse, no bruising, no fractures. Beyond that there were no unusual substances in her blood…”

  “Unusual? You mean like poison?” Burke says.

  “Correct. Unless, like me, you consider a small amount of instant oatmeal and trace amounts of pomegranate juice to be poison.”

  “That’s it?” Burke asks. I can tell by the wrinkled forehead and the speed with which she gulps her coffee that she’s listening hard.

  “Yes, that’s it for the examination, but that’s not the end of the information I have found. I called Tessa Fulbright’s pharmacy this morning and received some interesting information.”

  “How’d you know what drugstore to call? From her husband?”

  “No. But I figured it out easily. We knew she bought her wardrobe at Bergdorf’s. So I correctly assumed that she bought her medicines at C.O. Bigelow, the most glamorous pharmacy in Manhattan. Tessa Fulbright did not seem like the kind of woman who would wait on line at Duane Reade.”

  “So what did you find out?”

  “Not much. Not really much at all. She was due for a refill on Nembutal, which as you know is…”

  It’s K. Burke’s turn to show off a bit.

  “It’s a pretty popular antidepressant, a pentobarbital pill-pop. You’d have to swallow an awful lot to kill yourself. Marilyn Monroe left town on it. Anyway, if it wasn’t showing up in Fulbright’s autopsy, I’d rule it out.”