Killer in the Kitchen (5 page)

My negative reverie was interrupted by a phone call from the man in question.

“Jessica, it's Gérard Leboeuf.”

“Oh, hello, Gérard. Your timing is impeccable. I was just thinking about you.”

“Always pleased to capture a writer's imagination.”

“I understand that you're getting close to opening your restaurant.”

“Just a matter of weeks. I've commissioned original art from two French artists, but you know how artists are, fiercely independent and oblivious to the business end of things. I assume you are still turning out great mystery novels.”

“I don't know about great, but yes, I am still writing.”

“Hopefully your next victim won't be found in my restaurant.”

“Never! I took your warning at the press conference seriously.”

“I was joking, of course.”

“As am I.”

He hesitated a moment before forging ahead. “Splendid. I was wondering whether you would like to be my guest at the opening of our little competitor down the street, this Fin and Claw.”

The way he put it rang to me of arrogance, a dismissal of Brad and Marcie and all they'd worked so hard to achieve, but I didn't comment.

“I appreciate the invitation, Gérard, but I've already made plans to go with a friend.”

“Oh. My loss. I'm putting together a party and hoped to include you. Eva, my wife, and our son, Wylie, will be there, along with some of my business associates. Have you seen this new place yet?”

“As a matter of fact, I was there earlier today. It's very handsome.”

“So I understand. I'm told that you're acquainted with the owners.”

“Brad and Marcie Fowler. Yes, I know them. Brad's mother, Isabel, is a friend of mine.”

“Oh, yes, the mother. I hear that she supplied some of the recipes. Isn't that sweet?”

I didn't reply and he hurried on. “Young people get seduced by all the TV shows about running a restaurant.” He laughed. “Those of us in the industry know that's not even half of the story, but I suppose we should always help the little people, welcome them into the business.” Another laugh. “Even mom-and-pop operations.”

I ignored the snide comment and thanked him for calling, hoping to end the conversation.

“Before you go,” he said, “I have a question.”

“Which is?”

“Do you think this young couple, the Fowlers, might be interested in being bought out?”

I wasn't sure how to respond. Did his question indicate that
he
was concerned with the competition Brad and Marcie could give his restaurant? If so, that was a real surprise. After all, Gérard Leboeuf was a major force in the nation's restaurant business. Why would he be worried about Brad and Marcie's initial foray into it?

“I rather doubt it,” I said. “Having the Fin and Claw represents a lifelong goal for Brad Fowler.”

“Running a restaurant is a tough business, Jessica.”

“I imagine they're aware of that,” I said.

“I'd hate to see them strike out their first time at bat.”

“That's very kind of you.”

He chuckled. “I'm never kind.”

I thanked him for calling, and for the invitation. “I'll see you at the Fowlers' opening night.”

Hearing from him had come out of the blue, and I pondered what he really wanted to know while I got busy running a vacuum over my living and dining room carpets. I'd half completed the chore when the phone rang again. It was my agent, Matt Miller, calling from New York.

“Interrupting your creative endeavors, Jessica?”

“If you consider vacuuming a creative endeavor, yes.”

“As they say, cleanliness is next to godliness.”

“In that case I'm very saintly today. What prompts your call?”

“I wondered if you'd heard the latest rumor about Gérard Leboeuf.”

“Funny you should ask,” I said. “I just got off the phone with your culinary client.”

“He didn't ask you to ghost one of his cookbooks, did he? They actually sell quite well.”

“Not this time. Were you thinking I wanted to branch out?”

“Heaven forbid! I'm sure that my esteemed client didn't mention that he is having a little run-in with the authorities.”

“Why? What has he done?”

“This is not for public consumption, at least not yet, Jessica,
but there's a rumor around that Leboeuf is in the pocket of organized crime, that they finance his operations and use his restaurant empire to launder money.”

“My goodness,” I said. “Those are serious accusations.”

“And totally unproven, I might add. Just thought you'd be interested in some gossip about your neighbor.”

“Do you think there's any truth to those charges?” I asked.

“You know as much as I do. Of course, bad publicity can sell books as well as good publicity.”

“Even cookbooks?”

“It's all name recognition, Jessica. People will remember the name but not always what they heard about it. Speaking of names, your publisher, Vaughan Buckley, ran some ideas by me, and I promised to fill you in.”

After chatting about marketing plans for my latest novel—and not raising the subject of Gérard Leboeuf again—we ended the call. But although we ceased talking about him, the famous chef and restaurateur occupied my thinking for a while. Could it be possible that Leboeuf was using his string of restaurants for illegal activities? That the authorities were investigating didn't mean that Leboeuf had done anything wrong. People are innocent until proved guilty, a tenet of our democracy that I've always embraced. Then, too, successful businesses often inspire jealousy and on occasion false accusations. Unfortunately, when people are accused of something that turns out to be unfounded, it's too late to take the charges back. The damage to their reputation has already been done. But I didn't ponder it. The whir of the vacuum not only removed dust from my carpets; it also vacuumed out my thoughts, at least for the moment.

T
he grand opening of the Fin & Claw took place on a windswept, chilly, rainy evening, as Mother Nature lent an untimely contribution to the festivities. Brad had hired two local teenagers to wield large green and white golf umbrellas with the restaurant's name emblazoned on them to escort patrons from the parking lot. Others had to park a distance away and held on to their umbrellas and hats as they made their way to the entrance. Gérard Leboeuf's empty parking lot had been roped off to prevent any Fin & Claw customers from using it, which disappointed me. It would have been a good time for Leboeuf to extend a hand of friendship, but maybe I was being too much of a Pollyanna. As he'd stressed to me during our recent phone call as well as during my interview with him years ago, the restaurant business was just that,
a business
. Still, allowing patrons to park in his close-by empty lot would have been a nice gesture.

Inside the Fin & Claw, there was an atmosphere of excitement. Marcie had arranged for giant spotlights to highlight their
location, and even though they also illuminated the low-hanging clouds, they brought Hollywood-style attention to the opening, at the time a unique experience for Cabot Covers. I wondered had the weather cooperated whether a red carpet would have been laid down outside for customers to pose upon. Marcie looked absolutely lovely in a stunning teal sheath that she'd bought for the occasion. She stood at the dais, welcoming their guests for the evening, a dazzling smile on her pretty face. I'd heard from Loretta Spiegel at the beauty salon that Marcie had spent a considerable portion of the afternoon there for a hair and cosmetics makeover. Although she seemed very much on top of things, I sensed her nervousness as she checked off my reservation and led Seth and me to our table, from where we could take in the entire dining room. Almost every table was occupied. A large round one next to us with ten place settings was vacant. I assumed it was for Gérard Leboeuf and his party, and I hoped that he wouldn't commit the cardinal sin of not honoring his reservation.

Seth and I knew most of the other diners in the room. Mayor Jim Shevlin and his wife, Susan, the town's leading travel agent, were with another couple, Cabot Cove's unofficial historian, Tim Purdy, and his date for the evening. At the next table were Jack and Tobé Wilson, whose animal hospital had treated half the dogs, cats, and horses in town, and untold wild critters brought to them in need of medical assistance. Their dinner companions were Sheriff Metzger and his wife, Maureen.

Billy Tehar came in with his girlfriend and stopped near our table, turning in a slow circle to admire the room. He gave Seth and me a wink. “I have to say, for all the trouble he gave me building this place, the final result looks spectacular. Brad had a
vision I wasn't seeing. Don't tell him I said so, but I guess he was right.” He chuckled as he escorted his companion to the table where Marcie stood waiting for them.

I looked for Isabel Fowler but didn't see her right away. Surely she wouldn't miss this auspicious evening in her son and daughter-in-law's life. I was about to ask someone when she came through the kitchen door. Like Marcie, she'd dressed up for the occasion, and wore a broad smile to go with her red silk dress. I had the feeling that she wasn't accustomed to the high heels she wore, because she teetered a bit, but she managed to skirt tables, greeting guests before she arrived at ours.

“Jessica, Seth, how wonderful to see you.”

“You look stunning, Isabel,” I said.

“Had to look my best for the opening,” she said, tilting her head to the side with a flirtatious grin.

“Feeling tip-top?” Seth asked.

“Yes, I—” Her face clouded over and she gripped the back of a chair, as though needing support. But her smile quickly returned and she straightened. “Feeling just fine, thanks to you, Dr. Hazlitt.”

“That's what I like to hear,” Seth said, “but don't overdo it.”

“I'd better see if I can help my daughter-in-law,” Isabel said. “Enjoy your evening.”

We watched her take unsure steps in the direction of the dais where Marcie was welcoming customers. I glanced at Seth, whose expression could only be construed as concerned.

“Something wrong?” I asked.

“Nothin' I can talk about, but I am looking forward to a good dinner.”

Our waiter was a familiar face—the son of a friend—who'd
been waiting tables in another restaurant the last time I saw him. He took our drink order, white wine for me and a “perfect Manhattan” for Seth.

The waiter looked confused. “Perfect?”

“Ayuh,” Seth said, “a touch of both sweet and dry vermouth. Tell the bartender to make it with rye, not bourbon, and not to forget the dash of bitters.”

He dutifully noted Seth's details and walked away, a puzzled expression on his face.

“Seems to me a waiter should know what a perfect Manhattan is,” Seth said, opening his napkin and laying it across his lap.

“He's young,” I said. “He'll learn.”

“I know that, but it's no excuse for Brad Fowler not to have trained him.” He looked in the direction of the bar, where the bartender was busy mixing drinks and uncorking wine bottles. “That bartender looks young, too,” Seth said. “Probably has to consult a book to see how a perfect Manhattan is made. But I'll bet he knows what Jell-O shots are.”

“What are they?”

“Dreadful things young people make themselves sick on.”

Once Seth fixates on something, he won't let go until another topic takes its place, so I was about to change the subject when Gérard Leboeuf arrived with his entourage and was led to the large table next to ours. His wife, Eva, and their son, Wylie, were with him, along with the man who'd been introduced at the press conference as the manager of Leboeuf's new restaurants, Walter Chang, though he had substituted a suit and tie for his chef's whites. I also recognized two other young men who'd attended the press conference with Leboeuf. They were sullen, unsmiling fellows whose duties had not been explained.

Leboeuf stopped at our table to greet Seth and me, and Eva wiggled her fingers to acknowledge us.

“You look radiant this evening, Jessica,” Leboeuf said, taking my hand after I introduced him to Seth.

“Thank you.”

“And you, Doctor? I trust all is well in the world of medicine.”

“Things are just fine, Mr. Leboeuf. I see you don't have your dog with you this evening. I've had several patients ask me if you had trouble with your eyesight.”

Leboeuf laughed heartily. “My vision is perfect, Doctor. No, Max is home guarding the compound. He's the best alarm system there is, although I also have one of those electronic ones.” He looked around the dining room, his smile morphing into a smirk. “Not bad for a novice decorator, but why they used that shade of blue on the walls is beyond me. Not good for the digestion, but of course they wouldn't know that, would they?”

I didn't challenge him. The pale blue color of the walls was pleasant, although I had to admit it didn't flatter Isabel's complexion. She was looking a bit wan as she orbited the room.

Leboeuf's party of six was not the ten the table had been set for, and I wondered if he'd bothered to update his reservation. After another minute of aimless chitchat, he joined his companions.

“Full of himself, isn't he?” Seth muttered in my ear.

When I didn't respond, Seth said, “Jessica?”

“Oh, I'm sorry, Seth. My attention was elsewhere. Excuse me. I just want to ask Marcie Fowler a question.”

I went to the dais, where Marcie was greeting a couple who didn't have reservations. When she returned after finding them
a small table next to the kitchen door, I asked, “Is Brad's mother all right? She looks lovely, but she seems a little, well, shaky.”

Marcie's gaze roamed the room until it settled on Isabel. “She hasn't been feeling well, Mrs. Fletcher, hasn't for days. Brad and I tried to convince her to stay home this evening, but she wouldn't hear of it. There was no way that she'd miss the opening.” She looked at me and smiled. “It's because of her that we're even here. Of course, if I can just convince her to ditch those high heels, she'll be a lot steadier on her feet.”

“That must be it,” I said. “I was just concerned, that's all. She looks beautiful. As do you. You both look terrific.”

“Marcie Fowler says that Isabel hasn't been feeling well,” I told Seth when I rejoined him.

“Ayuh. She's supposed to see me tomorrow. I hope she keeps her appointment. The lady has some problems that need addressing. Not sure she should be prancing around in those stilettos.”

“They aren't stilettos,” I corrected, “just higher heels than I think she's used to.”

“Tell that to a podiatrist.”

I knew better than to press for further details about Isabel's state of health. Seth Hazlitt was a stickler about respecting the sacred rules of doctor-patient confidentiality.

When our drinks were served, we clinked glasses and perused the menu. My mind wandered to what my agent, Matt Miller, had said about Gérard Leboeuf being investigated, but that thought was interrupted when Brad came from the kitchen to see how things were progressing in the dining room. I waved, but he ignored me and disappeared back through the swinging
doors. My brief glance told me that he was a young man with a weight on his shoulders.

A party atmosphere had developed in the room, people leaving their tables to chat with friends at other tables, their conversations overriding the smooth Frank Sinatra recordings that came through the restaurant's sound system. At the same time a certain tension had developed when it came to the staff. The waiters seemed to circle the room aimlessly, going empty-handed as they paced back and forth and went in and out of the kitchen. I heard one couple who'd arrived early complain at how long it was taking for their dinners to be served. I mentioned it to Seth.

“It does seem that way,” he said, “but you know as well as I do that a new restaurant needs time to get its act together. Always best to give it a few weeks to work out the kinks.”

Seth was right, of course. Restaurant reviewers usually afford a new place a shakedown phase before judging the food and service.

The hefty menu contained many pages. “Feels like a novella,” Seth commented. Two pages were devoted to dishes created by Isabel Fowler. Her picture appeared along with the items, and Brad had included a tribute to his mom:
My mother, Isabel Fowler, is the best cook in the world. These dishes were created by her, and I invite you to enjoy them as much as I have over the years. Because we live in Maine, the lobster capital of the world, my mom has spent a lifetime researching and creating different recipes to go with lobster. Of course, if you like yours plain—steamed, boiled, baked, stuffed, or cold—no matter what your preference, you'll find what you're looking for at the Fin & Claw. Enjoy!

“Isabel must be thrilled,” I commented as I continued to thumb through the pages. The list of lobster dishes from Isabel's recipe book was extensive. Apart from basic entrées that you would expect in a seafood restaurant, there was lobster with Asian vegetables; braised lobster with black truffle risotto cake and crème fraîche; Brazilian-style lobster with sea scallops; quesadilla with grilled lobster; and even a Cuban dish, “Mango Tango” lobster with mojo Cubaneau sauce.

“It all looks yummy,” I said. “Does anything appeal to you?”

“None of these fancy ones,” he replied, as I'd expected he would. “This menu is a little overwhelming,” Seth said under his breath. “Too many dishes. You can't do justice to that many. Besides, lobster is best boiled or steamed, with melted butter.”

I agreed that the menu was ambitious. In addition to the pages devoted to lobster, there were other seafood entrées, meat dishes, and a strange pairing, at least for me: lobster with butternut squash. How could Brad and his kitchen crew possibly deal with so many choices? But I'd often felt that way in the local diner outside town, where the menu also went on for pages, and they managed to keep their customers satisfied. I was eager to give Brad's kitchen the benefit of the doubt.

Leboeuf's party, however, was not so generous. They mocked the extensive menu and were loud in voicing it. There was a hearty laugh as Leboeuf proclaimed loudly, “Look at this! Black truffle cake and crème fraîche. How to ruin a lobster in one easy lesson.”

“What do you expect from a housewife playing around in her kitchen?” the chef, Chang, added, which elicited more guffaws.

I looked for Isabel to see if she'd overheard Chang's nasty remark, but she was far enough away not to be privy to it.

Their snide comments continued as they ordered their meals, and I became increasingly uneasy. Leboeuf may not have liked what he saw on the menu or what he was served, but common courtesy should have precluded voicing his harsh opinions for all to hear. Although Seth said little, I sensed that he shared the discomfort I was feeling at that moment. What had begun as a festive opening of Brad and Marcie's restaurant was rapidly deteriorating into a negative atmosphere, compliments of Gérard Leboeuf and his arrogant party. I kept glancing at their table in expectation of the next cutting remark. Leboeuf's wife, Eva, looked bored, as though she would gladly pay anything to be somewhere else. Her son, Wylie, shared his mother's ennui, conveying his disinterest in what was going on around him by staring into his cell phone. I was sure that it was galling to have his father's celebrity status thrust him into the spotlight. A popular tabloid magazine had once reported that Wylie had had a serious drug problem when in his teens and had spent time in an expensive rehab center. Was it true? I trust little that appears in such publications, although there had been major stories broken by their editors from time to time. Regardless, it must have been difficult for the young man to find himself a focus of media attention. When most teenagers make their mistakes—and hopefully learn from them—it's out of the glare of the public eye. Perhaps that was why he had cultivated a rigid expression, devoid of emotion.