Page 19 of The Devil She Knows
Wearing the same nondescript white uniform as the rest of the waitstaff, only with the addition of a pink bow tie in place of the traditional black, Daphne brandished a tray of colorful canapés and beamed. “Might I interest you in adelightful port-and-pomegranate-glazed venison bonbon with aerated malted potato and a matsutake mushroom reduction served atop a green pea and wasabi blini?”
Sam turned to Coco, but she had already melted into the crowd.
She looked over both shoulders before taking a step closerto Daphne, dropping her voice to a harsh whisper. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Offering you a venison bonbon.” Daphne shoved the tray in Sam’s face. “They’re sinfully delicious,” she singsonged to the tune of the Lucky Charms jingle.
“I don’t want your damn potato foam meatball.” Sam batted the tray away. “Tell me what you’re doing here. And while you’re at it, tell me wherehereis. And if you happen to know where the bakery is, you can tell me that, too.”
“There’s no need to take that tone with me, miss.” Daphne jutted her lower lip out in an exaggerated pout and shook her head slowly from side to side. “I’m only a cater waiter.”
She narrowed her eyes. “And I’m a monkey’s uncle.” She grabbed Daphne by the wrist and dragged her toward the fringes of the room, bullying her around the closest corner. “Talk.”
Daphne craned her head, caught between Sam’s body and the balustrade at her back, and smirked. “Fraternizing with party guests is strictly prohibited.” She dropped a hand, fingers flirting with the bedazzled broach keeping Sam’s blazer pinned. “But I won’t tell if you don’t.”
Hell would have to freeze over first. “I’m serious.”
Somewhere in this building, this very room maybe, Hannah was looking for her, for herfiancée. Sam didn’t want to keep her waiting longer than necessary.
“You really ought to lighten up, Samantha. Imagine how tragic it would be to have everything you ever wanted only to keel over of a heart attack before you turn thirty.” Daphne sighed and set the tray of canapés down on the flat top of anearby abstract-looking statue missing its head. “You’re at the grand opening of Crème de la Crème in Midtown, okay?”
“Crème de la Crème,” she repeated slowly, rolling the name around in her mouth.Crème de la Crème.It didn’t ring any bells. “And that is …?”
“A brand-new food hall specializing in luxury ingredients and rare, hard-to-find food items from around the world,” Daphne recited, as if reading from a note card. “Founded by former head chef of Glut Coco Duquette in partnership with Bacchus Hospitality Group. Crème de la Crème’s mission is to offer customers the highest quality of ingredients and provide all shoppers with an incomparable gastronomic experience.”
Thiswas a food hall? And it belonged toCoco? Those comments about builders and wanting the place to look like le Palais Garnier suddenly made sense.
“And you’re here instead of, oh I don’t know, brainstorming new and colorful ways to torment Hell’s denizens because …?”
“Everybody who’s anybody is here tonight, Sam. And since, technically, I am the architect behind all of this”—Daphne gestured to the room at large—“I have a vested interest. I’m like a … secret silent partner. Or—ooh, I’m like an angel investor.”
Sam’s lips twitched. It wasn’t … Okay, it wasn’t …notfunny, but she refused to give Daphne the satisfaction of knowing Sam thought so. “And the reasonI’mhere celebrating Coco Duquette’s triumph over the New York City food scene is—”
“Sam!”
Great. Sam bit back a groan. Whatnow?
“No rest for the wicked, huh?” Daphne smirked as she shouldered the tray of canapés. “Toodle-oo, Sam.”
“Hold on.” Daphne couldn’t leave. Not until Sam knew what she was doing here. “I still don’t know what I’m—”
“Sam! Sam!”
She spun on her heel. “Damn it, what’s the—Melissa?”
Glut’s kitchen manager was a portly woman in her late forties with kind, dark eyes and cheeks like crabapples, even ruddier now that she was hotfooting it toward Sam like her drawers were on fire.
“Crocodile.” She skidded to a stop, a hairsbreadth from plowing Sam over. Her brow was beaded with sweat, copperpenny curls escaping from the turnip-like topknot fixed at the crown of her head. “The crocodile is headed to the—the—” She doubled over, gasping for breath. “Swamp.”
Sam put her hands on Melissa’s shoulders and frowned. “Slow down. Breathe. You’re not making any sense.”
“Time,” Melissa wheezed, shaking her head. “No time to breathe.” She grabbed Sam’s wrist. “We have to go. Now.”
Sam planted her feet, refusing to budge when Melissa tried to drag her off to God only knew where. “Will you please just—Jesus!” She stumbled forward with a yelp, no match for Melissa’s might. No surprise, considering she’d once watched the woman break a watermelon open barehanded.
“Now, Sam.”
In a last-ditch effort to avoid getting dragged into a mess that, for once, was not of her making, Sam looked over her shoulder in hopes that maybe Daphne could tell her what—Gone. Of course she was. Sam scoffed. Go figure.
