Killer in the Kitchen (4 page)

B
y the middle of March, the construction on Brad and Marcie's Fin & Claw restaurant was nearing completion. Marcie had evidently found a way to temper Brad's penchant for changing the plans because, according to Billy Tehar, Brad had backed off and stayed out of the contractor's way as the final finishes were installed.

Evelyn Phillips called me one morning and asked if I'd like to accompany her to see the progress that had been made on the restaurant, which she said was close to opening. “If I remember correctly, you were going to set one of your books in a restaurant. You'll probably notice things I won't. Are you game?”

I readily agreed. I'd felt housebound the past few weeks and was grateful for the chance to get some stimulation and fresh air. Evelyn and her photographer picked me up at ten, and we drove into town and parked in the recently paved lot that would serve the Fin & Claw's customers.

The temporary plywood wall was gone, but the windows
facing the street were lined with brown paper to keep the curious from peeking inside.

“What an incredible difference from the last time I was here,” I commented as we walked through a handsome mahogany door with colorful etched glass panes embedded in it. What had once been a scene of destruction had been transformed into a dazzling space, with a ceiling dotted with recessed lighting, wall sconces spaced close together, a mosaic tiled floor that looked as though it had come from the most expensive restaurants in Italy or France, spacious padded banquettes, and heavy tables surrounded by solid armchairs with upholstered leather seats.

“It's beautiful,” Evelyn said. “Look over there.” She pointed to a mural-size color photograph of Brad on a lobster boat, holding up two live lobsters, like an Olympic competitor raising his gold medals. He was dressed in a tuxedo. On the opposite wall, long picture windows looked out on the Cabot Cove harbor and were angled to capture at least part of an evening sunset.

I agreed with Evelyn—the Fin & Claw would rival any upscale restaurant in appearance—but I silently questioned the choice of décor for a dockside eatery serving lobster and crabs. I suppose I had expected a less formal interior, more like other seafood restaurants I'd enjoyed, in which the tables were bleached wood and patrons could open crabs with a hammer on sheets of newspaper. The original plans that Billy Tehar had shown me appeared to call for that sort of interior. This certainly was a drastic departure from those early sketches. It all spoke to me of an expensive steakhouse—all dark wood and polished brass—undoubtedly reflecting the many times that Brad had changed his mind and raised not only the stakes but the budget.

While Evelyn's photographer snapped shots of various areas
of the room, I drifted to an ornate dais located just inside the front door, where guests would be greeted. Across from it, on the other side of the entrance, was a small bar with four stools and a mirrored backbar. Next to it, stretching from floor to ceiling, was a copper wine rack designed to hold at least two hundred bottles.

As I admired the dais's burled wood and the gleaming brass rail that defined its surface, angry voices were heard from somewhere in the back, where the kitchen was located. Two men were arguing. As I tried to make out what they were saying, the kitchen door swung open and a tall, gaunt man stormed through, followed by Brad Fowler. Immediately behind him was Marcie. The tall man was obviously enraged. His face was red, and his lips were set in a combative slash. He was breathing hard.

“You'll do it my way,” Brad shouted after him, “or you can find another job.”

The man turned and said, “That's fine with me. You don't know squat about running a restaurant, but you're too dumb to know it. I can always work at Leboeuf's place.”

“Brad, please,” Marcie implored, “stop it. Jake was only suggesting a change in the way the workstations be set up. He's been in the restaurant business for a long time and—”

The three of them suddenly realized that we were there, and the heat of their quarrel abated.

“Mrs. Fletcher,” Marcie said, smiling warmly and coming to greet me. She said to Evelyn, “My apologies, Mrs. Phillips. I forgot you were arriving this morning to do a story on how things are shaping up.”

“Looks like you're almost ready to open,” Evelyn said, groping in her shoulder bag for her pen and spiral notebook.

All eyes went to Jake, who stood by the dais. He was so angry that I wouldn't have been surprised to see steam coming out of his ears.

“We can work this out,” Brad said, slapping him on the shoulder and forcing a smile.

“Just don't treat me like some damn amateur,” Jake said before leaving through the front door.

“A little misunderstanding with my sous chef,” Brad said. “So, what do you think?” He took in the restaurant's interior with a sweep of his hand.

“It's beautiful,” Evelyn said. “Very elegant.”

“Mrs. Fletcher?” he said. “Your take on what we've accomplished?”

“It's ah—yes, it is elegant. Very elegant.”

Brad raised his hand. “That's just the start. Can you wait a minute? I want you to taste something.” He hurried into the kitchen and returned a moment later with a saucepan and three spoons. “Please, try this.” He dipped a spoon into the sauce and gave it to Evelyn, his eyes expectant.

Evelyn tucked her pen behind her ear, took the spoon, and sipped at the sauce. “Oh, my, that's really delicious. What is it?”

“Mrs. Fletcher, would you like to try it?” He dipped another spoon into his pan and held it out for me. He did the same for his wife and gave her a big grin.

“Wonderful, Brad,” I said. “Is this on the menu?”

“It will be. I'm working on perfecting it right now. It requires just the right balance of butter, lobster sauce, a special liqueur, and a pinch of saffron.”

“Tastes pretty perfect to me,” Evelyn said, handing Marcie her spoon and retrieving her pen from behind her ear.

“It's based on one of my mother's recipes, but I've added a few other elements.”

Marcie rolled her eyes. “Easy on the saffron. I had a devil of a time finding a good supply.”

“When's the official opening date?” Evelyn asked, her pen poised over her notepad.

“A week from today,” Marcie replied. “I'm delivering a full-page ad to you this afternoon.”

“That's great,” said Evelyn. “Have you had many reservations yet?”

Brad and Marcie looked at each other.

“The ad will bring people in,” Evelyn said.

“We have reservations.” Brad's tone implied he wasn't pleased.

“Gérard Leboeuf is coming with a party of ten,” Marcie explained.

“That's wonderful,” I said.

Brad grimaced. “Call me suspicious—this is not for publication, Mrs. Phillips—but why does Leboeuf want to come here?”

“To see what his competition is offering,” Evelyn provided. “You might want to consider doing the same.”

“He's grandstanding,” Brad said.

“But he'll be a paying customer,” I said, giving Marcie my spoon. “I'm sure that he'll be very impressed with what you and Marcie have accomplished. Put me down for a table for two on opening night. I'll bring a guest.”

“Who'll be your guest?” Evelyn asked.

“I'll see if Seth wants to join me,” I replied. “He mentioned
that he wanted to be here on opening night but has probably been too busy to make arrangements.”

We turned as the door opened and Sheriff Mort Metzger came in.

“What brings you here, Mort?” I asked.

“Hello, Sheriff,” Brad said. “I hope you're not here on official business. All our permits are up-to-date, and the city has given us the go-ahead.”

“Just checking out how things are going,” Mort said. “Looks like a pretty fancy place, Brad. Hope your
prices
aren't too fancy.”

“We'll be in line with what other fine-dining establishments charge,” was Brad's reply.

I silently hoped our young restaurateur hadn't exceeded his ego boundaries. The elaborate décor of the Fin & Claw and the expensive ingredients in this planned dish suggested that its menu would come with a big tab.

“You given any more thought about featuring Maureen's pies on the menu?”

“No, Sheriff. I've been so busy. . . .”

“I was going to call your wife this afternoon to discuss it,” Marcie quickly added. “If we do the sort of business we hope to, it would mean your Maureen making a lot of pies.”

“That's no problem,” Mort said. “She can turn 'em out by the dozens.”

“Then I'll be in touch.”

“She'll appreciate that,” Mort said, and left.

“Speaking of menus,” I said, “have you come up with yours?”

Marcie went behind the dais, emerged holding a thick leather-bound book, and handed it to me.

“It is certainly impressive-looking,” I said as I opened the
binding and read. “Oh, look,” I said, handing it to Evelyn. “Isabel Fowler has a special page featuring her recipes.”

“She must be thrilled,” Evelyn said.

“Yeah, she likes it,” said Brad, smiling genuinely for the first time.

“How is your mom?” I asked.

He rocked his head. “Okay some days, not so good others. Doc Hazlitt is taking good care of her.”

The front door swung open behind us, and this time a half-dozen young people filed in. There were
ooh
s and
aah
s and whistles of appreciation.

“Please excuse us, ladies,” Brad said to me and Evelyn. “We have our first staff training today.”

Evelyn asked to take away the menu, to which Marcie readily agreed, and we said good-bye and exited to the pier.

“Must have cost them a pretty penny,” Evelyn commented. “Did you notice the prices? I'll have to sell one of my cats to afford it.”

“They are steep,” I agreed.

“Anything strike you that I might not have picked up on?”

“I think it's nice that Gérard Leboeuf is bringing a party to the opening. Very courteous and not something you see all the time, I imagine. Have you heard when he'll be opening
his
new place?”

“He told me that he's a few weeks behind,” Evelyn said, “something to do with a delay in original French art coming from Paris. I think they've scheduled the opening for three weeks from now.”

“Lots of culinary excitement in town,” I commented.

“That's what Cabot Cove needs, Jessica, some excitement. If
they bring in more tourists, everyone in town will benefit. See you at the opening.”

I called Seth Hazlitt when I returned home. He said that he would be delighted to share a table with me on opening night of the Fin & Claw. “How's the place looking?” he asked.

I told him of my reaction to the décor and mentioned the lofty prices on the menu.

“Sorry to hear that,” he said. “Don't know if we have that many high rollers in Cabot Cove. Most folks around here don't like to pay a lot for a meal.”

“They're young and in business for the first time. They'll have to make adjustments as they go along.”

“Not our concern, of course, but I hope they can hang on long enough to learn the lesson. Thank you for making the reservation. I'm lookin' forward to it.”

Seth was right, of course. How Brad and Marcie Fowler elected to price the dishes on their menu wasn't our concern, at least not in a literal sense. But I couldn't help wondering whether they were in over their heads. It's been my experience that people will pay for an expensive dinner to audition a new restaurant, but if it makes too much of an impact on their wallets, they won't return for another visit.

I thought about the contentious conversation between the sous chef and Brad that Evelyn and I had witnessed. Jake had accused Brad of not knowing anything about running a restaurant. Maybe he was right. Had Brad and Marcie consulted someone with expertise in restaurant management before forging ahead with the Fin & Claw? I didn't know.

When I'd interviewed Gérard Leboeuf years earlier for the novel I was writing, he'd commented, “The restaurant business
is like being in show business, only it isn't. The problem is that too many people think it's a glamorous business. It's not. It's hard work, long hours, and tracking every penny. You'd better know what you're doing or you'll join all those people who've lost their life savings.”

At the time I'd simply accepted what he said and used that analysis of the business in the novel. But now it had taken on greater meaning for me. Isabel Fowler had remortgaged her home and had taken a personal loan from the bank to help her son and his wife fulfill a dream. Brad and Marcie had scrimped and saved every penny they could to make that dream a reality. They'd both taken some courses, I knew, but was that enough? Had they barged ahead without the benefit of the advice from someone who knew how the restaurant business worked? Had they neglected to do all the prep work to learn how a successful establishment needed to be operated? All signs seemed to point in that direction.

Of course, their problems were compounded by the unexpected arrival of Gérard Leboeuf and his grandiose plan to open a restaurant a stone's throw from the Fin & Claw. He was a seasoned pro with an impressive track record of opening and running multiple restaurants around the country, and had plenty of financing to carry him through until a new place began earning back its investment. As I was thinking about this, I wondered whether Leboeuf saw the Fin & Claw as a competitor, or if he considered it nothing more than an ill-fated, amateurish foray into his business, one that would fail as so many others had. If he viewed it as a legitimate competitor, would he pull out all the stops to destroy it? That was his reputation. Journalists had
written of how he'd been known to crush rivals, regardless of the personal hurt it inflicted on those who'd lost a life's dream.