Deadly Rich Read Online Free

Oona snapped her fingers.
    Their waiter approached the table. “Yes, ma’am?”
    “This dip is rancid,” Oona said.
    Leigh had not seen Oona so much as taste the dip. It came in a hand-painted little Provencal terra-cotta pot and there did not appear to be even a ripple disturbing its smooth surface.
    “You know we flavor it with Pernod,” the waiter said.
    “Young man, I’ve been coming to this restaurant since it opened—of course I know you flavor the dip with Pernod. The Pernod is not the problem, the rancid crème fraîche is the problem. Please take this dip back to the kitchen and bring us a fresh bowl.”
    The waiter took the pot of dip and gave a slight bow of the head.
    “Really,” Oona said, “this city is getting impossible.”
    Leigh was thinking, sadly, how alcohol could twist a person, how it had twisted her once upon a time, and how it was twisting Oona now. For almost two years something inside Oona seemed to have been losing its resilience, like a spring stretched too far: little things had begun getting on her nerves, she had begun taking them as personal affronts—and now she had begun imagining affronts as well.
    “You have to fight for everything in this town,” Oona was saying. “Just the other day I was at Bergdorf’s and—” The flow of her words broke off. She was staring across the room. Her eyes were wide and her face had a stunned look. “I don’t believe it. Oh, my God, I do not believe this !”
    “What’s that, darling?” Tori said.
    “He’s back there in the kitchen slicing endive.”
    “Who’s back where?”
    “What’s his name—you remember—Jim Delancey.”
    Leigh felt a queasy sense of unreality. She realized her hands were cold and at the same time beginning to perspire.
    The smile had dropped off Tori’s face. “Oona—please.”
    “Don’t Oona, please me—I’m talking about the man who killed Nita.”
    “We know who Jim Delancey is,” Leigh said quietly.
    “Well, he’s in that kitchen tossing salads.”
    “That’s not possible,” Tori said.
    “Just look through that door the next time it swings open. He’s standing there in plain view.”
    Leigh turned her gaze by slow degrees. The room with its carved mahogany bar and close-packed tables seemed to narrow, pulsing with each beat of her heart. Now she could see the kitchen door.
    The noise of a siren howled down the street outside.
    The door swung open and their waiter stepped through. Behind him Leigh could see a Korean and a black man in chef’s hats, mincing vegetables at a butcher-block counter.
    She let her breath out. Of all possible delusions, she wondered, why had Oona had to imagine Nita’s killer in the kitchen?
    The waiter set a fresh pot of Pernod dip on their table.
    “I will not eat this food.” The sound of Oona’s voice carried through the entire room. “Get the manager over here.”
    Leigh realized it was going to get worse. She lowered her eyes. She felt shrunken.
    There was a silence behind her head. The other patrons in the restaurant had stopped talking. She could feel them with her skin, sitting there utterly quiet, not speaking, not clinking a fork.
    A man in a dark tailored suit came rapidly across the room. “ Bonjour , mesdames , how may I help you?”
    “Are you the manager?” Oona said. “I’ve never seen you here before.”
    “The manager is not here today, ma’am. I’m the assistant manager. Could I help you?”
    A tilt came into Oona’s jaw and her face tightened. “Yes, you could. What is your name?”
    “My name is Matthieu.”
    Oona foraged in her Gucci purse and pulled out an expired Percodan prescription and began writing on the back of it. “All right, Matthieu. First of all you could explain to me what a convicted murderer is doing in your kitchen slicing endive.”
    “I’m sorry, ma’am, but there must be some mistake.”
    “There sure is and I’m not the one making it.”
    “Oona. Please.” Tori gathered up her purse. “We have