Killerfest by Lawrence de Maria Read Free Book Online

been about him.
    Vendela’s
latest erotic rumination was interrupted by a shout from the bottom of the
stairs.
    “Della, do you
want to see how we braise the rabbit?”
    “I’ll be right
there, Giusi,” Noss called down, as she closed the bank page, which bore a
numbered account under a name other than Vendela Noss. That was the identity
she went by in Italy, and it was on one of several passports she carried.
“Noss” actually was a family name, from her mother’s side. “Vendela,” which
means “unknown” in Old Norse, was just an inside joke.
    She was about
to shut off the computer entirely when she heard the familiar email ping. She
opened her provider and saw the name on the email. It was her agent in
Brussels, the man who eventually convinced her to join his select group of
freelancers. Theirs was more than a professional relationship. They liked and
trusted one another. But as usual, when discussing business on line, Gaetan
Mendelsohn got right to the point.
    Are you
available?
    I was
hoping to take a holiday.
    You are my
first choice, as always. And you know the territory. Recently.
    That meant the
job was in the United States
    Flattered, but
is it that important?
    Same
client.
    Risky,
going back to the well so soon.
    Mendelsohn
sensed her hesitation. He typed:
    We can add
a zero to the end of our regular rate.
    Good Lord!
Noss typed back:
    Can I meet
you on Monday?
    Of course.
We have time. I’ll make a reservation at our favorite restaurant in Waterloo
for 8 PM. Enjoy your weekend.
    Vendela Noss
turned off the laptop and went down the stairs to do just that.

 
    CHAPTER 6 – TOUGH SCHEDULING
     
    “Vendela, you
look more beautiful every time I see you.”
    Mendelsohn
gave Noss a warm hug and kissed her on both cheeks. He always seemed genuinely
thrilled to see her.
    “I never know
how to take a compliment from a gay man,” Noss said, laughing.
    “In the spirit
in which it is given, ma chéri. Beauty is beauty.” He turned to the man
standing next to them. “Isn’t that right, Michel?”
     “It certainly
is, Mr. Mendelsohn,” the maître ‘d replied. He had been waiting patiently as
the couple greeted each other. After all, Gaetan Mendelsohn was a frequent and
valued guest at La Maison du Seigneur, one of Belgium’s premier restaurants on
Chaussée de Tervuren in Waterloo about 11 miles from Brussels. “Madame is
certainly very beautiful. Your regular table is ready. Please follow me.”
    Heads, male
and female, turned to look at Vendela as she glided through the dining room.
Many of the men had the same thought when they saw Gaetan: Lucky devil. A
debonair, sophisticated man of the world and his lovely, exciting younger
mistress. A few who knew his sexual orientation had another thought: What a
waste!
    At their
table, the maître ‘d snapped his fingers and the sommelier appeared. Mendelsohn
ordered the wine and they capered away. Vendela always left the wine decisions
up to him. She’d probably also defer to him when ordering her meal. His taste
was exquisite. Several paintings and other objects d’art from his Brussels
gallery graced her villa in Tuscany. It was he who had found the Fujimoto
painting now in the study in her Tuscan villa.
    They made
small talk until the waiter brought their bottle, a Pascal Jolivet Sancerre.
That meant oysters to start, Noss knew. Gaetan was expert, but somewhat
predictable. Their main course would be some sort of game, with a bottle of
good Bordeaux as an accompaniment. After the corking, sniffing and sipping,
Mendelsohn told the waiter the Sancerre was acceptable.
    “The wine
rigmarole is wasted on a white,” Mendelsohn said as he and Noss clinked
glasses, “but it makes the waiter happy, I think. Sancerre is Sancerre, but it
is the only wine to drink with oysters.” He looked up at the waiter. “A dozen
oysters each. Six Creuses and six Gravettes. To be followed by venison, rare
but not bloody. Fresh vegetables, let the chef choose, and a