Killer in the Kitchen (8 page)

I didn't want to get into that sort of discussion but wasn't sure how to smoothly transition to something else. “Now is not the time to talk about him,” I finally said. “I'm just glad that your mom was around long enough to see her picture and recipes in the menu.”

“He insulted her,” Brad said flatly. “She was shaking when she came into the kitchen after she talked to him.” Tears filled his eyes. “She was so upset. That's probably what caused her stroke. As far as I'm concerned, he's responsible for my mother's death.”

I looked beyond him and saw Marcie talking with a small group of visitors.

“I think Marcie wants you, Brad.”

“She does?” He looked back, took a deep breath, and let it out. “Okay. Thanks for being here, Mrs. Fletcher. Mom would have been pleased that you came.”

I was disappointed at how our conversation had ended. The resentment Brad harbored toward Gérard Leboeuf was not going to go away, and I was afraid it would have ramifications as time progressed. We were going to have two new restaurants competing with each other, and that could have been positive for Cabot Cove. But negative feelings were running deep in both men. Combine Brad's rage with Leboeuf's arrogance and I could see only further unpleasantness down the road.

“J
essica, I have a favor to ask.” Maureen's voice sounded urgent.

“Of course, Maureen. Is something wrong?”

“Oh, gee, I hope not.”

Mort's redheaded wife was prone to theatrics, but now she had me thoroughly confused. “Well, what can I do for you?”

“I sent a sample in with Mort this morning, and before I send it over, I just wanted you to tell me if it's okay.”

“You sent a sample of what with Mort? And you're sending something over where? And what am I supposed to tell you is okay?”

“Really, Jessica. I thought you'd understand. Didn't you hear what I said?”

“Why don't you slow down and start over, Maureen. I'm listening.”

“Okay. I gave Mort two of my pies to bring into the stationhouse. He's supposed to drop one off with Marcie Fowler. She said she'd buy pies from me, but only if I used Isabel's recipe, which I did. I made two pies using fresh strawberries; they're exactly the same.”

“All right. Now I think I see. And the favor you're requesting?
Did you want me to taste one of the pies before he brings the other one to Marcie?”

“Yes,” she said on a long sigh. “My reputation is at stake here, Jessica. If Marcie refuses to accept my pie, I'll never be able to hold my head up in this town again.”

“I don't think Marcie would spread nasty rumors about your pie, but I'm not certain my skills as a pastry taster are enough to get you hired.”

“Well, even if I don't get hired, if you taste one of the pies and say it's okay, then whether she accepts the other one or not, at least I'll know I made it right.”

We agreed that I would stop in at the sheriff's office and offer my considered opinion on the quality of his wife's strawberry pie. Maureen said she'd call ahead so Mort would expect me. Unfortunately, pie was the last thing on Mort's mind when I pushed through the door that morning.

“I understand your concern, Mr. Souzy, but we have procedures we have to follow, just like everyone else,” he was telling a gentleman in a navy blue pinstripe suit.

“Don't give me your ‘procedures' routine, Sheriff. You know as well as I that an immediate arraignment is not only acceptable under the law, but preferable. I have a note here from Judge Hastings that says he'll open his court for the boy if you'll have your deputies bring him over. We can even do a video arraignment if you don't have anyone available. You have the equipment, I assume?”

“We don't do video arraignments as a matter of course.” Mort ran his fingers through his hair. “There's a long list of conditions that have to be met before that takes place.”

“Look, I want this boy out of jail, and I want him out now.
Give me a copy of the complaint and do whatever you have to do to make it happen!”

Music from the original
Dragnet
television program sounded from Mr. Souzy's pocket. He pulled out his phone and barked into it, “Hold on!” He aimed a raised eyebrow at Mort. “I have to take this call. When I get back, I want Wylie ready to go to court.” He marched out of the station, yelling into his phone. “What? Speak up. I can't hear you.”

Mort let out a big sigh and sank into his chair. He cocked his head at me.

“Was that Millard Souzy?” I asked. Souzy was a criminal defense lawyer with myriad connections in Maine's legal and legislative worlds, including close ties with some of the area's judges.

“The very same.”

“And is the Wylie he's talking about Gérard Leboeuf's son?”

Mort nodded. “But you didn't hear it from me.”

I took one of the chairs across from his desk. “What was he arrested for?”

“Possession of CDS—controlled dangerous substances—with intent to sell. We got a tip about him dealing, and when my men went to question him, he had enough marijuana and cocaine on his person to set up shop on the worst blocks of Alphabet City. I'd like to know who his supplier is, and it better not be anyone in town.” He picked up his phone and dialed a number. “Chip, bring in the Leboeuf boy. You're going to take one of the cruisers and deliver him to Judge Hastings's court. Yeah, I know he plays golf on Tuesdays, but he's holding off to accommodate our celebrity boarder.”

The sound of angry voices reached us from outside. Gérard
Leboeuf stormed into the station house followed by a ruffled Millard Souzy.

“Where is he?” Leboeuf shouted at Mort.

“At the moment, he's in cell C, Mr. Leboeuf. One of my deputies is just bringing him here.”

“What have you got him on?”

“Possession with intent to sell.”

“Is that all?”

“It's more than enough to arrest him. He was carrying twenty packets of what we believe to be cocaine. More than fourteen grams makes it a felony. If any of those packets turns out to be heroin—”

Leboeuf cut him off with, “Spare me the details.”

“Gérard, would you let me handle this, please?” Souzy said.

“You said you'd have him out in an hour, and he's still here.”

“Like it or not, there are procedures to follow.”

I saw Mort rub his jaw and was sure he was covering a smile.

The door leading to the jail cells swung open, and Chip led in a scruffy-looking Wylie. He didn't have enough of a beard to affect the stubble look so popular these days, but his hair was greasy, and he was wearing what I'd come to think of as the standard teenage uniform: ripped blue jeans and a puffy black ski jacket. When he caught sight of his father, he smirked.

“Get that nasty smile off your face,” Leboeuf snarled, striding across the room. He stopped in front of his son and slapped him across the face.

Both Chip and Mort jumped to pull Leboeuf away. “I'll have none of that,” Mort said, “or you'll end up occupying the cell we just took him out of.” Mort glared at Souzy. “Get him out of here
now. And there better not be any more violence at the courthouse.”

Souzy tugged a furious Leboeuf toward the door. “Come on, Gérard. This is not the time or the place.”

Wylie held a palm to his red cheek and sniffled. “Hey, he's not allowed to do that, is he? Don't I have any rights here? Why don't you arrest him?”

“I'll talk to you about rights, you mewling, cowardly spawn of Satan.”

“You're talking about yourself, you know,” Wylie yelled. “I'm your spawn. That makes you Satan.” He forced a laugh, but it sounded as if he was closer to tears.

Leboeuf seemed to notice me for the first time. “You!” He pointed at me. “I'd better not see any of this in the newspaper,” he said.

“You're in no danger from me, Mr. Leboeuf. I'm not a reporter.”

“That's okay. That's okay,” Wylie said. “Tell everybody. Tell them the son of the great Chef Leboeuf is a criminal just like his dad.”

“Wylie!” Leboeuf roared, but Souzy pushed him out the door.

Mort shook his head and looked at Chip. “I'll get someone to bring my cruiser around to the side entrance, and when you get to the court, don't let his father anywhere near him. I'll alert Judge Hastings.”

While Mort made arrangements to transport Wylie to the courthouse, I pondered what had just taken place. In my estimation, Leboeuf's son was a little old to be exhibiting signs of teenage rebellion, but that appeared to be the case. If he was using
drugs—and worse, selling them—as a way to gain his father's attention, he couldn't be pleased with the results. Then again, if he was trying to punish his father for whatever reason, he'd certainly found the ideal line of attack.

Once the prisoner was taken out, Mort offered me a cup of coffee, which I declined. He poured a large mug for himself and sank down at his desk. “I never asked why you came in, Mrs. F. And then all this craziness took place.”

“I don't suppose you want to talk about strawberry pies at this juncture, do you?”

Mort slapped his forehead and groaned. “Maureen's pies! Oh, no. I left them in the trunk of the cruiser. And now I just sent them over to the courthouse with the kid.”

*   *   *

Leboeuf's Saturday-night grand opening was only a few days away. On the Thursday preceding it, I attended a morning meeting of the Cabot Cove Historical Society chaired by Tim Purdy. As the town grew, it had become increasingly difficult to keep progress from infringing upon our historic past. Tim and his crew of volunteers did a splendid job of fighting to preserve that past, and I was an enthusiastic member of the committee.

Evelyn Phillips attended the meeting, as she usually did, to report in her newspaper on its activities, and I sat next to her as the tall, erudite Tim ran down his ambitious agenda for the upcoming months. It was during a break for coffee and doughnuts that Evelyn took me aside.

“You've heard, of course,” she said, “about the Leboeuf boy.”

“You shouldn't assume that I hear every rumor the moment it's launched,” I said.

“Well, this isn't a rumor. He was arrested for drug possession.”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” I said, deciding not to admit I was already privy to the particulars.

“His father hired Millard Souzy to defend him. Souzy arranged for an arraignment, and the boy was released on bail,” Evelyn further explained.

“Is he charged with selling drugs, or using them?”

“From the information I've gotten, he had enough with him to be charged with intent to sell, but I don't know whether he was charged with that. I'll have to go back and ask Mort; he didn't specify.”

“I didn't know he made a public statement.”

“Don't look so surprised, Jessica. Unlike our previous sheriff, Mort believes in transparency where the press is concerned. The public has a right to know.”

“I'm well aware of that,” I said, masking my annoyance at being lectured on civics.

She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial level. “I'm told that the boy had similar problems in New York.”

“From good sources, I'm sure.”

“Of course. I wouldn't put any faith in it if my sources weren't credible.”

Now we were equally irritated with each other.

While I recognized that Evelyn Phillips was a dedicated and experienced newspaperwoman who was tenacious in bringing news of Cabot Cove to its citizens, she and I didn't always agree. She'd worked on big-city papers before settling in our town and had transformed the
Gazette
from a sloppily written and edited vehicle for press releases and publicity hounds eager to get their
pictures on the front page into a paper with thorough coverage of Cabot Cove and its environs, and with integrity in its reporting. That kind of thoroughness, however, could approach impinging on people's privacy, on occasion mine. This wasn't the first time that Evelyn had gotten my hackles up, nor would it be the last. But my respect for her tempered my moments of pique.

“I'm sorry that Wylie is in this sort of trouble,” I said. “It must be especially difficult to be a child of two well-known people and have a spotlight shone on you whenever you behave badly.”

“Being charged with a crime is more than misbehavior, Jessica.”

“I agree, Evelyn. I was speaking in generalities. By the way, will you be at Leboeuf's opening Saturday night?” I asked, hoping the change in topic would smooth the waters between us.

“I wouldn't miss it. You?”

“Seth and I will be there,” I said. “We're hoping it will be more peaceful than the Fin and Claw's grand opening.”

Evelyn's laugh was ironic. “It'll make for a better story if it isn't. See you there, Jessica.”

With the Fin & Claw in mind, I decided to drop in for lunch after the meeting. Marcie Fowler had taken an ad in the
Gazette
announcing their daily specials, which included Isabel Fowler's prize-winning chowder recipe. Although the snow had melted, the temperature outside was still nippy—the perfect chowder weather. The restaurant was half-empty when I arrived, and Marcie led me to a table. Although she flashed a smile, I could see signs of strain on her face.

“How are things?” I asked after I'd been seated and told her that I'd been enticed by Isabel's clam chowder recipe.

“Things are—well, to be honest, things aren't going all that well.”

“I imagine it takes time to build up a crowd at lunchtime.”

“It isn't that,” she said, hesitating.

“Anything I can do to help?”

She drew a breath before leaning forward and whispering, “The inspector for the Maine Center for Disease Control and Prevention inspected us yesterday for sanitary violations.”

“And?”

“And we failed on more than one count.”

“Oh, my goodness. I'm sorry to hear that,” I said. “Were they serious violations?”

“Any health violation for a restaurant is serious,” she said. “The thing is, we've been meticulous about keeping the kitchen clean. I just don't know how . . .” Marcie spotted two customers coming through the front door and excused herself, leaving me to ponder what I'd just heard.

That Brad and Marcie Fowler would allow an unhealthy situation to exist in their restaurant was a surprise to me, and apparently to them. I suppose that it was possible they'd overlooked a regulation in dealing with the Fin & Claw's hectic opening and the events that followed.

“Tell me more about the inspection, Marcie,” I said in a low voice after she had returned to my table.

“I'm sick over it. It'll be around town before the day is out.” She looked around the restaurant. “Maybe it already is.”

“How serious
were
the violations?” I asked.

She looked to the front of the restaurant, saw that no new customers were arriving, and took the chair across from me. “That miserable man Harold Greene came in here unannounced,
flashed his stupid badge, and said he was here to inspect the premises. Brad told him he should have made an appointment, but Greene ignored that.”