Provence - To Die For (28 page)

“I’m pleased to see you, too,” I said. She was looking much healthier than the last time we’d met, still a bit frail from her time in prison, but her color had returned and her hair was washed and shiny. The hotel had given her back her position. She stood behind the desk, her hands resting on the computer keys she’d been tapping before I’d interrupted her. “Have you seen Captain LeClerq today?” I asked.

“Non,”
she said, paling at the mention of his name.

“I’m expecting him,” I said. “I’ll be in the atrium. Would you please let him know where I am?”

I took a seat in the atrium and ordered a pot of tea. It was a chilly day outside, but inside the sun shone through the skylight, and everything touched by its rays was warmed. The atmosphere in the room was sleepy and peaceful—guests lingering over afternoon tea and pastries, belying the violence that had taken place last week only one floor below. There were a few details I wanted to clear up, connections I needed to make, and if I was correct in my suspicions, Captain LeClerq would arrest the killer today.

“Madame, I owe you an apology.” René Bonassé, very red-faced, took the chair opposite mine. “May I?”

“Of course. And yes, you do.”

“There was no excuse for my behavior,” he said, sitting on the edge of his seat. His broad shoulders were hunched and he leaned his forearms on his knees. “I was a madman. You would have been justified in calling the police and having me arrested.”

“I considered it.”

He nodded. “With good reason. I can only tell you I have not slept for two nights. I have been looking everywhere for you. Each time I picture it, I am aghast at my actions. I hope you know I would never have ...” He trailed off, his eyes pleading for understanding.

“I wasn’t sure at the time.”

“I know, I know.” He shook his head. “I behaved horribly, and can only throw myself on your mercy and hope you will forgive me.” He held himself very still, eyes downcast, as if his entire future rested with my decision.”

“I’ll forgive you,” I said lightly, “if you answer some questions.”

He raised his eyes; his lashes were damp. “You may ask anything. Anything at all. My life is open for you.”

“Then I forgive you,” I said.

He sighed and sat up straight.
“Merci milles fois.”
It wasn’t necessary for him to thank me a thousand times, but I didn’t say it. “Please ask me what you like,” he said.

“I’ve been wondering,” I said, “given the feelings you had for Bertrand... for your father ...” He looked away. “Why did you attend his cooking classes?”

He stared off into space before replying. “He had discovered what business I’m in.” His eyes met mine. “He pressured me to visit his restaurant and attend his classes.”

“And what business is that?”

“Investment banking. Venture capital.”

“Was he looking for you to lend him money?”

“In a way.” He ran his hand over his short hair and moved back iri his seat, keeping his posture erect. “He wanted financing to create a new corporation without his partners. He had ambitious plans to open other restaurants, and he didn’t want them holding him back.”

“Holding him back?”

“That’s what he said.”

“His partners told me they wanted to put him on television with his own cooking show,” I said. “It doesn’t sound like they wanted to hold him back. If anything, they wanted to promote him. He might have become famous and made a lot of money. Why did he go to you instead?”

“Poufft!”
he said, sounding annoyed at my lack of comprehension. “Fame without the respect is worthless. You don’t understand the business.”

“Then enlighten me,” I said, thinking René had inherited more than his athletic build from his father. He had a bit of his arrogance as well.

“A master chef does not want to cater to the masses. It is the act of creation that is important, finding the unique combination of ingredients, putting together the perfect dish, the extraordinary meal. For this you need an audience who appreciates the subtleties, connoisseurs, not couch potatoes, as you say in the States. He already had one Michelin star. He was aiming for three. And then”—he clapped his hands—“the world comes to his door.”

“So he asked you to come to Avignon to evaluate his business, and you did?”

He shook his head. “I wouldn’t have come at all. But he was clever. He sent his proposal to my supervisor, suggesting that someone with restaurant experience be sent to appraise his potential. Since a few of my colleagues knew I’d grown up in the business—in my aunt’s restaurant—I was designated.”

“Did your father’s partners know who you were?”

“I didn’t tell them. I doubt if Emil did.”

“And would you have recommended the investment?”

“I already had. After last week’s class, I went back to my room and made the call.”

“To approve the financing?”

He nodded. “If I hadn’t, I would have wondered all my life if I had turned him down because I hated him, if I had allowed our relationship—or lack of relationship—to rule my decision rather than the true potential of his business. He had contacts all over the world. And he was a brilliant chef. I always knew that, but never wanted to believe it. He could open a restaurant in any city and succeed.”

I thought about René’s aunt and her comment that his mother would have been proud of him. It is a rare person—young or old-who can set aside strong negative feelings and make rational decisions based on logic and facts. He held the promise of becoming a man to admire, a son to merit his mother’s pride, provided he acquired some humility and learned how to channel his emotions so they would never overwhelm him as they had in our encounter on the parapet.

I caught sight of LeClerq across the room and waved to him. René Bonassé stood. “Have I answered to your satisfaction?”

I stood as well. “Yes,” I said. “You’ve been very forthcoming. Thank you.”

“It is I who thank you. I won’t forget your generosity in forgiving me. I don’t deserve it.” He walked away.

“Ah, Madame Fletcher, my apologies for being late,” LeClerq said, shaking my hand. “I hope I have not inconvenienced you.”

“Not at all. Our guest has only just arrived behind you.”

“Madame Poutine?”

“Yes. There she is.”

I pointed with my chin over his shoulder to where Mme Poutine had paused in the entrance, before her eyes found us across the room. Elegant as ever in a black silk suit and peach-colored blouse, she had pulled her platinum hair into a soft twist at the back of her head. Every man and woman in the atrium watched as she strode purposefully toward us, ignoring the stares, her expression deliberately blank, as if to smile or frown might crack the carefully constructed mask of the beautiful woman.

“Captain,” she said, addressing LeClerq. “I am here as you requested, but I’d like to know why this woman is here as well.” To me, she said, “I thought I’d seen the last of you.”

“You were both students in Bertrand’s class,” LeClerq said mildly. “I thought it easiest to question you together.”

“There were other students in the class,” she said. “Where are they?”

“You missed René Bonassé,” I put in helpfully.

She gave me a furious glance.

I noticed that people in the room were still watching her. “Why don’t we go downstairs?” I suggested. “It’s a little more private there.”

LeClerq looked around and nodded. “Yes. Downstairs is better.” He beckoned toward the desk, motioning for Claire to join us. She walked across the atrium to where we were gathered. He extended one hand toward me and put the other under Mme Poutine’s elbow, guiding her toward the elevator. “I have visited with the Thomases,” he told her, “and Mademoiselle Cartright.”

She looked surprised. “Mademoiselle Cartright? Isn’t she in jail?”

“Not at the moment,” he said, ringing for the elevator.

We stopped at the entrance to the medieval dining room, each of us no .doubt envisioning the scene we’d witnessed the afternoon of Bertrand’s death, his body slumped against the archway door to the right, his papers scattered on the floor. Ahead of us, in the school kitchen, Daniel and Guy were preparing for the next day’s classes, piling wood next to the old stove, assembling the requisite pots and pans, and setting out the knives and cutting boards. A stack of empty folders sat next to a pile of recipes and directions on the scrubbed table.

“Bonjour, messieurs,”
LeClerq said, escorting us into the room. Mme Poutine and I took seats on opposite sides of the table. Claire sat next to me, her eyes darting around the room.

The chefs looked at us in surprise. “Would you like us to leave?” Daniel volunteered.

“Non.
In fact, I prefer if you stay,” LeClerq said.

The two men halted their chores and glanced questioningly at each other. Guy shrugged, pulled out a stool, and sat, drawing papers and folders in front of him. “Is it acceptable if I keep working?” he asked.

“Perhaps you can wait a few minutes,” LeClerq answered.

Daniel took another stool, and looked from face to face.

LeClerq closed the door and remained standing. “If you have not heard—and Madame Poutine has not--then I will inform you now that the knife we recovered from Mademoiselle Cartright was not the murder weapon.”

Neither chef said anything. Daniel’s eyes were on LeClerq. Guy focused on the papers in front of him; his fingers played with a corner of a recipe sheet.

“What has this to do with me?” Mme Poutine demanded.

“Patience, madame,” LeClerq said. “We will come to this.” He addressed the two chefs: “Messieurs, we know what knife we look for, one that was made patticularly for Monsieur Bertrand many years ago. Have you seen this knife?”

“You took every knife in my kitchen,” Daniel said. “If you didn’t find it, how should I?”

“Guy,” I said, “when you were cleaning up after our class, what did you do with the knives Chef Bertrand used?”

Guy cleared his throat and looked at me. “Madame, I don’t pay attention to each knife and fork. I only gather up all the dishes and utensils that are soiled and take them to the kitchen to be washed.”

“This is ridiculous,” Mme Poutine huffed. “Why am I here?”

“I am coming to this now,” LeClerq said. “There were many papers on the floor around the body. Hmm? However, the deceased himself was holding a letter when he was killed.” LeClerq paused, eyeing his captive audience, and held up the letter. ”Does the name P. Franc mean anything to you?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Madame Poutine snapped. “Of course it does. I’m Paulette Franc. My husband and I were Emil’s silent partners.”

Claire looked up in surprise.

“This was a very angry letter, madame,” LeClerq said to Mme Poutine. “You were threatening him with law-suits for backing out of his agreement with you.” ,

“We stood to lose a lot of money,” she said. “We had worked for months to arrange for a television show for him, and then he tells us he has investors in Paris and doesn’t need us anymore. Going to Paris was our idea in the first place. All the years working together meant nothing, the sacrifices we made for him, the—”

“A motive for murder, perhaps,” LeClerq said, one eyebrow raised.

She dismissed him with a flip of her hand and an expression usually reserved for slow learners.

“How silent were you as partners?” I asked her.

“What do you mean?”

“Surely,” I explained, “there were others who knew of your partnership with Emil.”

“I suppose,” she said absently, as though it didn’t matter.

“Who?” I asked bluntly.

“This is no concern of yours,” she said.

“If a murder hadn’t occurred, I would agree with you,” I said. “But unfortunately, one was committed. Who else knew that you and Emil Bertrand were partners?” I repeated. Before she could respond, I added, “More important, who else knew that he was planning to abandon you and your husband for new partners?”

She started to say something, but kept her silence.

“I did,” Daniel said.

“You knew Emil was going to Paris without Madame Poutine’s backing?” I said.

“Because you were going with him?” I asked.

Daniel hesitated, cast a furtive glance at Mme Poutine, and said in a barely audible voice,
“Oui.”

Mme Poutine’s nostrils flared, and her dark eyes bored into Daniel. “You would betray me, too?” she demanded. “We were going to make your career, put you in the big-time.”

He said nothing.

While the animosity between Mme Poutine and Daniel was compelling, my attention during the exchange was on Guy, who demonstrated no visible response to Daniel’s reluctant admission. He stared at Claire, his fingers continuing to fiddle with the comers of the folders in front of him.

I looked to Daniel and said, “Since you were included in Emil’s plans, Daniel, you must know that his backing was going to come from his son, René Bonassé.”

“I think I have said enough,” Daniel muttered.

“What about you, Guy?” I asked the tall, angular chef seated to my left. “It’s evident to me that none of this comes as a surprise to you.”

“I knew ... I knew very little, only that Emil expected his son to arrange the financing for his plans.”

“And that he intended to take Daniel with him?”

He shook his head.

“You did know!” Daniel said in a strong, challenging voice. “You confronted me about it, Guy. On the day Emil was killed.” He turned to LeClerq. “He knew Emil had chosen me to go with him to Paris. Guy screamed at me; he even scared me a little. He ... he picked up a pair of scissors; I was afraid he would attack me.”

“And that would have been before or during your lunch date at Héllas?” I asked.

Daniel glared at me, but didn’t answer.