Indulgence in Death (In Death #31)(78)

He cleaned his area, washed the greens, vegetables, and herbs for the salad, then set that to chill. This he would lightly toss with a tarragon dressing while his client and the fortunate husband dined on the main course. Pleased with the scents perfuming the air, he basted the chicken with sauce—the recipe a secret guarded as fiercely as the Crown Jewels—added the pretty little vegetables.

Only then did he step out into the walled garden where, according to the client’s wishes, the meal would be served. Again he approved. Lush roses, big-headed hydrangeas, arching trees, starry lilies rose and spread and speared around the paved courtyard. The night held clear and warm, and he would see that dozens of candles were arranged and lit to add the sparkle of romance.

He checked the time. The servers would be arriving any moment, but in the meanwhile he would call the droid, have it set out the table, show him the selection of linens and dinnerware.

He took out one of his herbal cigarettes to smoke while he set the scene.

The table just there, little tealights glittering in clear holders. Roses from the garden in a shallow bowl. More candles ringing the courtyard—all white. He would send one of the servers out to get more if there weren’t enough on hand.

Ah, there, nasturtium. He’d toss some of the flowers with the salad for color and interest.

Crystal stemware, mais oui.

The sounds of the city, of traffic crept over the garden walls, but he would mask that with music. The droid would have to show him where the system was kept so he could make the appropriate selections.

He turned a circle, stopped when he saw a man step out of the lights of the kitchen into the shadows of the garden.

“Ah, you are arrived. There is much work to be . . .” He stopped, eyebrows lifting when he recognized the man.

“Monsieur, you I was not expecting.”

“Good evening, Delaflote. I apologize for the subterfuge. I didn’t want it known I was your client tonight.”

“Ah, so, you wish to be incognito, oui?” Smiling a knowing smile, Delaflote tapped the side of his nose. “To have your rendezvous with a lady, what would it be, on the q.t. You can trust Delaflote. I am nothing if not discreet. But we are not complete. You must give me time to create the ambience as well as the meal.”

“I’m sure the meal would be extraordinary. It already smells wonderful.”

“Bien sûr.” Delaflote made a slight bow.

“And you came alone? No assistants?”

“Everything is prepared only by my hands, as requested.”

“Perfect. Would you mind standing just over there a bit? I want to check something.”

With a Gallic shrug he’d perfected over the years, Delaflote moved a few steps to the right.

“Yes, just there. One moment.” He backed into the kitchen, retrieved the weapon he’d leaned against the wall. “It does smell exceptional,” he said as he stepped back out. “It’s a pity.”

“What is this?” Delaflote frowned at the weapon.

“It’s my round.” And he pulled the trigger.

The barb went through the heart as if the organ had been ringed like a target. With its keen, merciless edge, it continued out the back to dig into the trunk of an ornamental cherry tree.

Moriarity studied the chef, pinned there, legs and arms twitching as body and brain died. He stepped closer to take the short recording as proof he’d completed the round.

With the ease of a man who knew all was in place, he walked back inside, replaced the weapon in its case. He opened the oven for a moment, breathed in the rich aroma before shutting it off.

“It really is a pity.”

So as not to waste the entire business, he rebagged the wine, found the champagne Delaflote had chilling. He took one last glance around to be sure all was as it should be, and satisfied, walked back through the house and out the front. The droid he’d programmed for the event waited in a black, four-door sedan.

He checked the time, smiled.

The entire business had taken hardly more than twenty minutes.

He didn’t speak to the droid; it already had instructions. As programmed it pulled into Dudley’s garage.

“Put these in Mr. Dudley’s private quarters,” he ordered, “then return the car. After you return to base, shut down for the night.”

In the garage, Moriarity retrieved the martini he’d left on a bench less than thirty minutes before, then slipped out the side door. He strolled toward the house, circled, and joined the loud, crowded party already in progress.

“Kiki.” He chose a woman at random, slipping an arm around her waist. “I was just telling Zoe how wonderful you look tonight, and had to track you down to tell you myself.”

“Oh, you darling.”

“Tell me, is it true what I heard when I was inside a few minutes ago? About Larson and Kit?”

“What did you hear?” She looked up at him, all eyes. “Obviously I’m not mingling enough if I’m not getting the gossip.”

“Let’s both get another drink, then I’ll tell you all.”

As he walked with her, his gaze met Dudley’s through the sea of people. When he inclined his head in a faint nod, they both smiled.

Eve rubbed a hand on the back of her neck to ease the crick.

“People go missing, or end up dead. That’s why we have cops, but . . .”