Killer in the Kitchen (7 page)

I
waited while Seth looked in on his patient, consulted with his colleagues, and gave the hospital staff directions. Mort had kindly retrieved Seth's car and had a deputy park it at the hospital. Eventually we drove to my house, where I put up a kettle of water for tea for myself and my exhausted friend.

“Quite a night,” Seth said as he pulled a teacup from my kitchen cabinet.

“So much has happened,” I said, “that I'm having trouble wrapping my brain around it, from the opening of the Fin and Claw, the episode with Leboeuf and his party, and now the situation with Isabel. Will she make it, Seth?”

“We'll know soon enough,” he said as he plopped a tea bag into boiling water. “Dr. Kloss is an expert on treating stroke patients, had plenty of experience at Mass General before settling here.”

“I wonder how things ended up at the restaurant,” I mused, sipping my tea. “I hope that Brad's sous chef and Marcie were able to handle all the orders in the kitchen. More customers were arriving as I left with Mort and Maureen, so things must have gotten especially hard without Brad. The whole evening has been so upsetting.”

“I'm sure they got through it okay, Jessica. Drink your tea. It'll calm you down.”

Seth's assurances about the tea's soothing qualities didn't make them real. After he left I stayed up far past my usual bedtime, the night's events tumbling in my mind like a cement mixer on steroids. What was supposed to be a joyous evening had turned into something far removed from that. Was it John Lennon who said, “Life is what happens while you're making other plans?” I knew that he'd used it as a line in a song he wrote for his son, Sean, but it had appeared earlier than that in a number of places. Its genesis didn't matter. There was solid truth behind it, and this evening proved how accurate it really was.

I slept fitfully until the phone rang at seven the following morning. It was Seth.

“Sorry to start the day with bad news, Jessica,” he said, “but we lost Isabel Fowler. She never recovered consciousness.”

“Oh, Seth. I'm so sorry.”

“Might be a blessing,” he said. “If she'd survived . . . well, our stroke team said it was so severe, it wouldn't have left her with much of a life.”

*   *   *

The rain of the previous night offered a surprise the next morning. It had turned into a wet snow, and there was lots of it. Maine is infamous for April snowstorms. Everyone in town hunkered down, as people in the snowbelt always do, this Maine resident included. I called the man who usually shovels me out but was informed by his wife that he'd taken a job at Gérard Leboeuf's restaurant and wouldn't be available any longer for shoveling duties. Fortunately, a young fellow who lived up the road
knocked on the door to see if I needed help, and I was grateful to pay him to create a pathway from my front door to the road. A food store truck managed to traverse the slippery roads and delivered some groceries that I was running low on. With my cupboard full, I resigned myself to a long day at home.

News of Isabel Fowler's death spread quickly, and I received a number of calls from mutual friends. Mostly they wanted to express their shock at Isabel's untimely demise and to ask if I had any information about funeral arrangements—which I didn't. But some callers who hadn't attended the opening had also heard about what happened at the Fin & Claw and knew that I'd been present. I tried to make light of the event, pass it off as a simple misunderstanding. They seemed to accept that, although others, like Tim Purdy, Richard Koser, and Tobé Wilson, who'd also witnessed it, pressed me on whether I knew anything further about the dustup between Brad Fowler and Gérard Leboeuf. I downplayed it, and they were easily satisfied—or at least said that they were—but Evelyn Phillips of the
Cabot Cove
Gazette
didn't even pretend to be content with my offhand dismissal of the confrontation.

“I was surprised you weren't there,” I told her.

“Marcie Fowler invited me, but I had another engagement. Just my luck to have missed a doozy of a brawl.”

“Oh, Evelyn, it was anything but a brawl, just a few words exchanged between Brad and Gérard Leboeuf.”

She ignored my characterization and said, “On top of that, poor Isabel Fowler fell ill and had to be carried out on a stretcher. You heard, of course, that she died at the hospital.”

“Yes, I did. I'm finding it hard to believe. I've known Isabel for so many years. Cabot Cove won't be the same without her.”

“I didn't realize you knew her so well. I'm sorry for your loss, Jessica.”

“Thank you. I do feel like I've lost a good friend. We were together over Thanksgiving when she shared the news that Brad and Marcie were opening a restaurant. And last night she was in such good spirits and proud of what they had accomplished.”

“What do you think will happen to the restaurant?” Evelyn asked.

“Happen to it? What do you mean?”

“You saw the menu, Jessica. Isabel's photo is there and a list of all her recipes. Now that she's gone, I—”

“I assume that Brad and Marcie will forge ahead, Evelyn. They have a lot invested in this business. Not only because it's the right thing to do, but because it's a way to honor Isabel's memory.”

“That's what Brad says.”

I paused. “You've spoken to Brad?”

“No. I called the house to issue my condolences and got Marcie. Strong lady, that one, even in the face of a family calamity. Naturally she was very upset.”

“Naturally.”

“Brad wasn't there. He was at the funeral home, making arrangements for his mother's wake. I asked Marcie about plans for the restaurant.”

“And what did she say?”

“She wanted to close it down tonight as a tribute to Isabel, but Brad wouldn't hear of it. They evidently have a slew of reservations, and he doesn't want to lose the business, especially since they must be deep in debt.”

“I can understand that. Closing temporarily, while a nice gesture, isn't what Isabel would have wanted.”

“I suppose you're right, Jessica. Now, about the fight between Brad Fowler and Gérard Leboeuf. I'm told that the Leboeuf party was asked to leave in the middle of their dinners.”

I glanced at my watch. It was time to end the conversation. I understood Evelyn's need as a newspaper editor to find out everything she could about what was going on in town, but I didn't want to be put in the position of analyzing for her what had occurred between other people. It would be thirdhand hearsay, and I wasn't about to sensationalize an unfortunate confrontation between a pair of excitable restaurateurs. “You'll have to ask Brad and Leboeuf,” I said.

“But you were there, Jessica.”

“Yes, I was, eating my dinner—the food was excellent—and not really paying attention to them. You'll have to excuse me, Evelyn, but I really have to run.”

“Run
where
? With all this snow?”

“Lots to do around the house.”

“I'm just asking you on background, Jessica. I won't quote what you say.”

“You're a good reporter, Evelyn. You don't need me.”

I heard a big sigh on the line. “Okay, but I may call you again later.”

After spending the better part of the day housebound and on the phone, I decided to venture out with the help of my friendly taxi company, whose owners had the good sense to include four-wheel-drive vehicles in their small fleet. The driver dropped me off in front of Charles Department Store, where I sipped the
latest coffee blend they were providing their customers and perused their assortment of winter boots on sale.

“That must have been quite a tussle at Brad Fowler's restaurant last night,” the clerk, who'd been working at the store for a long time, said as she rang up my purchase.

“How did you hear about that?”

“That's all everyone is talking about today,” she said. “I had a customer who was seated near to Gérard Leboeuf and his party. She said that he was pretty obnoxious.”

I didn't respond.

“It's too awful about Isabel Fowler, isn't it?” she said. “Dr. Hazlitt's nurse was in earlier and told me. Nice lady. Must have come as a shock to everyone. One minute she's enjoying her son's restaurant opening, and the next minute she's dead.”

“A terrible tragedy,” I said.

“What do you think is going to happen with the Fowlers' restaurant, Mrs. Fletcher?”

“I hope it will be a huge success.”

“It won't be, according to Mr. Leboeuf.”

“Oh?”

“He came in to buy a strainer. For his new kitchen, he said, but I think he just wanted to be seen around town.”

“And what did he say?”

“When I asked him if Brad and Marcie's restaurant would make it tough for him to open his new place, he laughed and said something like, ‘I never have a problem with amateurs. I give them a month before they fold.'”

“Not an especially generous comment,” I said. “Most important is that he be proved wrong, which I'm sure will be the case.”

“Of course, I hope so, too. Well, enjoy your new boots, Jessica.”

“I'm sure I will. Thanks for your help.”

A call to the taxi company brought the same driver who'd delivered me downtown, and I was ensconced in my study a half hour later with a steaming cup of tea on my desk and a pile of correspondence I'd retrieved from my mailbox. In a velvety cream-colored envelope was an invitation from Gérard Leboeuf to be his guest at the grand opening of his new restaurant the following weekend.

I debated whether to accept. I'd developed a sour taste in my mouth about Gérard Leboeuf. He was a self-centered man to begin with, and his behavior at the Fin & Claw had been atrocious. Every time I thought about it, I got angry on behalf of the Fowlers. My heart went out to Marcie and Brad. It's difficult enough to go into debt to launch a new business, with all the stress that it involves, but then to lose the one person who shared their commitment to the dream both emotionally and financially must be unbearable. That was a lot for a young couple to face without having someone make a show of trashing their efforts in public. Tapping the envelope on my desk, I decided to call Seth to see if he, too, had received the invitation.

“Ayuh,” he said. “Arrived in today's mail.”

“Are you planning to go?”

“Been thinkin' about it. You?”

“I've been—thinking about it.”

“I talked to a new patient of mine who works in Leboeuf's kitchen. He says that Leboeuf is picking up the tab for everyone on opening night.”

“No such thing as a free meal, Seth,” I reminded him.

“Not always true, Jessica. Sampling what comes out of his kitchen doesn't carry with it an obligation to like the man. Hopefully, his opening night won't end up the way the Fowlers' did. I think we should accept Mr. Leboeuf's hospitality. It's not as though he doesn't have the money to put on a spread. Besides, I happen to like French food, especially onion soup prepared the right way, and steak frites.”

Seth's reasoning didn't surprise me. He's the ultimate pragmatist, although he can project an ornery side if someone rubs him the wrong way.

“You'll be my date for the evening?” he asked, a hint of mirth in his voice. “I know that your Inspector Sutherland isn't here to escort you, but I'll do my best to fill in for him.”

The sentiment behind his comment wasn't lost on me. My friend George Sutherland was a senior investigator for Scotland Yard in London, and we'd struck up a “relationship” after first meeting years ago. Seth was well aware of the fondness that had developed between George and me, and enjoyed teasing me about it from time to time. Close friends speculated that Seth might be jealous of the handsome, dashing Scotland Yard inspector, which I always dismissed. If anything, I considered Seth to be a good friend and adviser of sorts, not a potential paramour. The truth was that as much as I adored George Sutherland, I wasn't looking for a romantic relationship with anyone.

So Seth and I accepted the invitation to be Gérard Leboeuf's guests at the opening of his French bistro, and I hoped that Brad and Marcie Fowler wouldn't view it as an act of disloyalty.

The week leading up to Leboeuf's grand opening was eventful and sad. I attended Isabel Fowler's funeral with a large number of men and women who knew and loved her, and the eulogy
given by her son, Brad, emptied everyone's tear ducts. Isabel had been on view in her casket at the funeral home prior to the church service, and a succession of mourners passed to issue their final good-byes. Quite a few people spoke—Isabel had many friends in Cabot Cove—and it was a lovely tribute to a lovely woman who had been a valued member of our community. At one point I found myself talking with Brad, who'd retreated to a secluded corner of the large room.

“Mom looks beautiful, doesn't she?” he said.

“She was always a beautiful woman, Brad. I feel privileged to have been her friend. How are you and Marcie holding up?”

“We're all right. Thank goodness for the restaurant. It was Mom's dream for us, and now we get to carry on her dream. I'm glad we've been real busy, because it leaves less time to feel sorry for ourselves.”

“I understand the Fin and Claw is doing splendidly,” I said.

“I don't know about splendid, but yeah, business is good. Did you see the review Ms. Phillips gave us in the
Gazette
?”

“I certainly did,” I said, smiling. “And well deserved.”

“I'm sorry about the way things turned out on opening night when you and Dr. Hazlitt were there.”

“It couldn't be helped, Brad. Besides, it certainly wasn't your fault.”

“It was that nasty b—” He paused. “That louse, Leboeuf,” he said, venom in his voice.