Killer in the Kitchen (12 page)

I
knew that probing into the Leboeuf murder would have to be done tactfully, as always. When I become involved in a case—unofficially, of course—I have to be careful not to run the risk of alienating the authorities whose job it is to solve such crimes, especially Mort Metzger, our sheriff and my good friend. Although Mort and I have butted heads on several occasions, I always try to be sensitive to his feelings, and he's been gracious enough in previous cases to acknowledge my contribution to their resolution.

Before leaving the house for dinner at the Fin & Claw, I called my dentist, Ed Filler, and caught him as he was about to close his office for the evening.

“Trouble with that cracked tooth?” he asked.

“No. It's fine.”

“Then you must be calling about Gérard Leboeuf. You've heard, of course?”

“Impossible not to.”

“Well, then, how can I help?”

“I've been spending some time with Sheriff Metzger and the investigators who've come in from out of town, but haven't had the opportunity to get out your way. Since the Leboeufs live next
door, can you look out your window and tell me what it's like at the neighbor's property?”

“No need to look. I've been dealing with it all day. It's chaos, of course. The street has been roped off, and there is a uniformed chap standing sentry duty. I assume he's been hired by the family. It wasn't easy for my patients to get to the office this morning.”

“I can imagine. Have you seen Mrs. Leboeuf or their son?”

“No. Why your interest in them?”

“I'm like everyone else in town, Ed. How often do we have a celebrity murdered here?”

He laughed. “Let's hope we never have another. By the way, I expect to see you again shortly; you're due for a cleaning.”

“I haven't received your postcard reminding me.”

“You will soon. Elaine just sent them out. Make sure you call for an appointment when you get yours.”

“Yes, sir.”

I had debated asking Seth to accompany me to the Fin & Claw that night but decided against it. I wanted to be free to speak with Marcie without worrying that I was abandoning Seth at the table or making him feel that I was using him as a cover for my investigation, which would have been the truth. Besides, when there was only myself to be concerned with, I could come and go as I pleased and perhaps learn a little more.

Before leaving for the restaurant, I watched the news on a Portland TV channel. The Leboeuf murder was the lead story. Mort Metzger was interviewed, although he didn't say anything more than he had at the press conference. What was surprising was that Eva Leboeuf agreed to an interview. It lasted only thirty seconds, during which she said that the brutal murder of her
husband was a terrible tragedy for the family, and that she and their son, Wylie, were urging the authorities to act swiftly and bring the murderer to justice. She handled herself the way you'd expect from a former top fashion model and businesswoman: poised, her voice well modulated, and just a hint of tears. Wylie wasn't with her, presumably not emotionally up to the task.

When I arrived at the Fin & Claw, I took note of the almost empty parking lot. Next door, diners were lining up to get into Leboeuf's French Bistro. While Marcie may have guessed correctly that people would flock to Leboeuf's restaurant in a macabre celebration of his newfound celebrity as the victim of a brutal murder, her expectation that they would also come to the Fowlers' restaurant to ogle the man who'd become the prime suspect was clearly wrong. Of course Brad hadn't been officially designated as a top-rung suspect, but based upon my conversations with Detective Mason, I silently agreed with Marcie that Brad was their number-one target. I winced as I thought of him being interrogated by the police. Had he cooperated? Had he kept his temper in check? Had he been released? Was he back at the restaurant, or would they hold him overnight for further questioning? I'd find out soon enough.

As the line entering Leboeuf's place moved forward, I was surprised to see detectives Mason and Lucas. What they might come away with while sitting at a table was pure conjecture, but who was I to question the actions of seasoned homicide investigators? Maybe they simply needed to eat and figured a visit to the bistro was in order. That they chose to dine where the murder had taken place might also justify putting their pricy dinners on the expense account. I, on the other hand, had no
expense account, but I never planned on ordering an elaborate meal anyway.

When I walked into the Fin & Claw, Marcie wasn't at the dais to welcome customers, nor was anyone else. Only three tables were occupied in a room that could easily accommodate ten times that number. A tuxedoed waiter, a familiar face to me, approached from the kitchen. “Ah, Mrs. Fletcher, it is so good to see you.”

His name was Fritz Boering, known around town as “Fritzi.” He'd been a waiter for years at the famed Sardi's in New York City before retiring to Maine with his wife, and I remembered him from his days and nights serving New York's theater-loving crowds when I lived in Manhattan. I'd also seen him around Cabot Cove and was surprised that he was waiting tables at the Fin & Claw. He hadn't been there on opening night.

“I didn't realize that you were working here,” I said.

He grinned. “Retirement is boring for someone used to plenty of action. I heard that the Fowlers were looking for a waiter with experience and decided,
Why not?
Helping my wife in the garden isn't my thing. Besides, my pension from the waiter's union doesn't go very far. It's my first night on the job. The staff here is young, and the Fowlers wanted a seasoned veteran to help train them. You'd like a table?”

“Eventually,” I said, “but I was hoping to talk to Mrs. Fowler before being seated.”

“Marcie—Mrs. Fowler—isn't here,” he said. “She's—”

“She's not ill, is she?”

“No, just busy with other things. She'll be in later. Would you like to take your table and wait for her, or would you prefer the bar?”

“The table will be fine.”

“Has Mr. Fowler been in?” I asked after I'd been seated.

“He was, but he—well, he had to leave.”

I knew, of course, that he'd left in the company of sheriff's deputies.

“You heard about what happened next door,” he said.

“Yes. Quite a shock.”

He looked around before leaning closer and saying, “I wouldn't be surprised if it was the wife.”

My startled expression mirrored my reaction. “Mr. Leboeuf's wife? Why?”

His bushy eyebrows went up and down. “You write murder mysteries, Mrs. Fletcher. As they say—and I read a lot of mysteries—when you're looking for a murderer,
cherchez la femme.
Always look first for the woman.”

“Ah. I must admit that I've heard that advice before, but I don't necessarily follow it in my novels, and I don't know that it has any relevance in real-life crime.”

He shrugged. “Just trying to be helpful.”

“Have you told the police about your theory?” I asked, thinking that I'd find the conversation amusing were it not for the grim subject matter.

“They would never listen to me. But I've heard from many sources that the Leboeuf family fought all the time. There was always lots of scuttlebutt about it back in New York. The staff at Sardi's would gossip about how indiscreet Leboeuf was. Quite the ladies' man, as I understand it, which is not destined to please a wife.”

“Many couples argue and most don't end up killing each other.”

“Oh, of course. I know that. But everybody in town has an opinion about who did it.” Again leaning closer, he added, “People are also talking about Brad Fowler. There was no love lost between him and Leboeuf.”

“I hope you're not suggesting that—?”

“That he did such a thing? No, no, of course not. Brad is a wonderful young man, and I feel privileged to be working for him. But people who were at the opening here saw the argument they had, and—well, he is known for having a short temper.”

“A short temper doesn't always accompany a violent personality,” I said, feeling my own temper begin to rise. “Do you mind if I offer you some advice, Fritzi?”

“Please do.”

“You keep saying that ‘people' are talking about who killed Mr. Leboeuf and that Brad and he didn't get along. But this kind of loose talk could damage an innocent man's reputation.”

“Well, I'm only repeating what I heard.”

“That's just it. Nothing can be gained by idle speculation. If I were you, I'd let the authorities do their job. In my experience, they're usually pretty well-informed.”

“You're right, Mrs. Fletcher.” He smiled. “I suppose I just miss all the juicy stories that were always floating around at Sardi's about the celebrities who came there, some almost every night. Those were wonderful days. Can I get you a drink?”

“A glass of Chablis, please.”

I browsed the menu he'd left on the table, and a wave of sadness came over me when I saw Isabel Fowler's lovely face peering up from the page devoted to her recipes. She would have been appalled at what had transpired since Brad and Marcie's opening night, when she'd proudly pranced around the room in
her brand-new high heels, greeting customers, her pride in what her son and daughter-in-law had accomplished embedded in her smile.

Fritzi delivered my wine, and I'd just taken a sip when the front door opened and the Fin & Claw proprietor came through. Brad saw me, hesitated as though debating whether to come to my table, decided to, and dropped onto a chair across from me.

“It's good to see you,” I said.

“I've been through some grilling by those clowns from out of town.”

I let his characterization of the visiting detectives go and said, “It's only natural that they want to talk to everyone who—”

“Everyone who had a reason to kill Leboeuf?” he said, nervously wringing his hands.

“Not only a motive,” I said, “but who was in the vicinity when he was killed. I realize that it's painful to go through a police interrogation, but I'm glad to see that you've survived it.”

“That's what I did, Mrs. Fletcher, survived it.” He let out a breath with a whoosh. “And I'm sure they're not through with me.” He glanced sadly around the restaurant. “I guess nobody wants to eat dinner at a place owned by a suspected murderer.”

I instinctively placed my hand on his.

“Brad,” I said, “you and Marcie have been under a significant strain lately, opening the restaurant, your mother dying so unexpectedly, and now Leboeuf's murder and the police asking you about it. You have to keep a level head about you. I know that's cheap advice, but you must do it for Marcie's sake and to make a success of the Fin and Claw.”

“In other words, I'd better keep my temper under control.”

“It would be a good place to start—don't you think?”

He took in the empty tables again and shook his head. “One of the detectives, the woman, said that they'd interviewed you and that you told them about my fight with Leboeuf.”

“That isn't exactly true, Brad. They were well aware of the altercation before they ever talked to me. I simply confirmed that I had witnessed an argument, which is the truth.”

“But you think I killed him, don't you?”

“I don't,” I said. “But you've made it easy for a spotlight to be shone in your direction, and you need to understand why.”

“Just because a guy gets hot once in a while doesn't mean he would kill anyone.”

“True. However, you can understand why some people might be suspicious, Brad.”

“I'm not a criminal, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“I didn't say you were, but it's natural that the police will want to know where you were the night Leboeuf was killed. I'm curious, too. Where were you?”

“I wasn't in the bistro kitchen. I can tell you that,” he said, rearing back. “What gives you the right to demand answers?”

“I'm not demanding anything. I'm just asking. I don't know who murdered Gérard Leboeuf. Do you?”

“No idea.”

“Well, then, we're in the same boat.”

“And I don't care.”

“I'm sorry to hear that. However, unlike you, I do care, and I hope that Leboeuf's killer is identified and brought to justice—whoever that might be.”

“I didn't mean that,” he said, shaking his head. “Sometimes I just can't keep my big mouth shut.” He stood and said, “Thanks
for patronizing the Fin and Claw, Mrs. Fletcher. Looks like you didn't have any problem getting a reservation.”

As he started to walk away, I asked, “Will Marcie be coming in this evening?”

He looked around as if just realizing that his wife was not there. “I have no idea. I hope so.”

I ordered a bowl of Isabel Fowler's clam chowder for starters and was pleased to see other customers trickling in, greeted at the door by Fritzi. I'd almost finished my soup when Marcie arrived. She came directly to my table.

“Thanks so much for being here, Mrs. Fletcher. It's nice to know we have some loyal friends.”

I didn't point out that my presence had nothing to do with loyalty. Instead I told her I'd just spoken with Brad.

She took the same chair her husband had recently occupied. “He said the investigators were mean when they questioned him.”

“I don't know about ‘mean,'” I said, “but I'm sure they were direct. That's their job. They have a murder to solve. Marcie, I realize that I don't have any official reason to talk with you about the night Leboeuf was killed, but I am curious where you and Brad were when it happened.”

She stared at me blankly.

“I ask because sometimes things get out of hand when someone is suspected of having committed a serious crime. There's little doubt that the authorities are especially interested in Brad because of the angry exchange between him and Leboeuf. Sometimes—and I'm not being disparaging of the authorities—sometimes law-enforcement people focus in too quickly on a
prime suspect. They jump to conclusions, and innocent people can become ensnared by their drive to wrap up a case.”