Chef Maurice and the Wrath of Grapes (Chef Maurice Culinary Mysteries Book 2) (3 page)

“Not at all,” said Resnick smoothly. “My writing is purely my impartial professional opinion. And on the brokerage side, I’m merely a conduit, a facilitator of transactions. Any valuations are completely at the discretion of the client.”

“I see,” said Arthur. He frowned at something in the distance. “If you’ll excuse me one moment, gentlemen, I see that Mr Paloni’s jacket sleeve has just caught fire . . . ”

Chef Maurice watched his friend hurry over to Paloni, who had also just noticed his smouldering appendage and had started leaping around like, well, a man on fire, until Arthur grabbed a nearby vase of flowers and doused him down. Lady Margaret looked up from her book, tut-tutted, then carried on reading.

“So,” said Chef Maurice, searching his mind for a suitable topic of conversation. Resnick was surveying the room with a distinctly bored expression. “What do you think of this weather today?”

Flames danced on the hobs as the kitchen’s back door swung open. Patrick and Alf looked up from behind a giant stockpot.

“Mind if I come in? It’s brass monkeys out there.”

It was PC Lucy Gavistone, the only local police officer to actually live in Beakley (and the most attractive one at that) and Patrick’s not-quite-girlfriend.

They’d been on two dates so far, once to the cinema to see the latest sci-fi blockbuster (Patrick’s choice) and once to a photography exhibition in Cowton entitled ‘From Peaks to Valleys’, which had turned out to be a collection of studies on the nude male form. (PC Lucy had spent most of that evening apologising. “I honestly thought it was going to be about Welsh landscape prints!”)

Today, she was wearing a thick parka over her police uniform and a red-and-white bobble hat, which she now pulled off, shaking out her blond hair.

“Fancy a hot drink?” said Patrick, waving his ladle.

“Mmmm, mulled wine?” PC Lucy stuck her head over the pot and inhaled. “Smells gorgeous.”

“It’s the special Cochon Rouge recipe. Chef wanted us to make up a big batch for tomorrow, but we think he left out a few ingredients when he wrote it down. Something’s not quite right.”

PC Lucy dipped a teaspoon in. “Tastes good to me.”

Patrick shook his head. “I’m thinking it needs a bit more orange zest. Alf, do you mind—”

“Sure, sure, I get the hint,” said Alf, as he headed over to the walk-in fridge. “Give you two a moment of privacy, right? To talk?” He shot Patrick a meaningful look.

“I didn’t—” began PC Lucy with a blush, as the fridge door clicked shut, but Patrick waved a hand.

“Ignore him. He’s just scared of you.”

“Should I be flattered?”

“Probably. Can I get you something to eat?”

“’Fraid not. I’m just going door-to-door at the moment, checking up on everyone. They say it’s going to be the heaviest snowfall we’ve had for decades. You’d better warn your customers to hurry up. Tonight’s not a night for lingering over desserts.”

“We’re pretty quiet at the moment,” said Patrick, glancing up at the empty ticket rail. “Had a few early tables, but I think most people are staying in.”

“Good.” PC Lucy shook a piece of snow off her hat. “Right, I better get on. I’ll try to pop back in later for a drink.” She smiled up at him, and Patrick felt his insides get a little warmer, in a way that definitely had nothing to do with the mulled wine.

“Um, sounds great.”

He was just being silly, he told himself. Or Alf had just been trying to wind him up. But he couldn’t quite dismiss what the commis chef had said the other day, about spotting PC Lucy in Cowton last weekend, strolling around arm-in-arm with a dark-haired man who was definitely not Patrick.

Probably her brother, he’d told himself. Or maybe even her father—though PC Lucy had mentioned her family lived up in Northumbria and rarely ventured further south than York.

“You okay?” said PC Lucy, her blue eyes full of concern.

“What? Oh, yup, all good. Just thinking about the mulled wine. Actually, I wanted to ask you—”

There was a yell and a loud clatter from inside the walk-in. Alf stuck his head out. “Um, I may have put my hand a bit too close to the lobster box . . . ”

PC Lucy looked at her watch. “Right, I better dash. I’ll catch you later?”

Patrick nodded, torn between dealing with a possibly uncomfortable truth or a definitely uncomfortable Alf.

But PC Lucy was already halfway out the door.

Alf it was, then.

Sir William was the type of man who commanded a room’s full attention. Tall and imposing, wearing an impeccably cut evening jacket, his grey beard neatly clipped, he bore down upon Chef Maurice and Arthur with his hands outstretched.

“Maurice! Arthur! Glad you made it out here. Cold as hell’s doorstep out there, isn’t it? Sorry to keep you waiting, just had a few matters to sort out. Have you been introduced to everyone?”

“We have not yet the pleasure,
mon ami
.”

“Well, let’s get started then, shall we? Now that we’re all here.” He strode into the middle of the room to address the young couple, who stood up as he approached them.

“Ariane, Bertie, this is Mr Maurice Manchot and Mr Arthur Wordington-Smythe, you’ve read his restaurant reviews in the
England Observer
, no doubt. Maurice here runs a little restaurant just down the road. Proper French fare, top-notch ingredients, and not a bad wine list too, though I must confess to having a little hand in that . . . ” Sir William gave a chuckle.

Chef Maurice nodded affably. He and Sir William had their little routine, honed over the years. The latter would turn up every now and then, waxing lyrical about some hitherto unknown grape variety, or an organic producer growing vines on the slope of a volcano or suchlike, that Chef Maurice simply
had
to get onto the wine list. Chef Maurice would smile, express admiration at Sir William’s superb tastes, then continue to order the same wines as he always did—though occasionally he’d slip one or two new additions onto the list just to keep Sir William happy.

“Maurice, Arthur, this is Bertie and Ariane Lafoute, of Chateau—”

“Lafoute, but of course.” Chef Maurice gave a little nod. “I most enjoyed a bottle of your ’82 a few years ago, but I am sad to have not had the chance to try the newer vintages.”

“Not a worry, we’ll be remedying that quite comprehensively this evening, I should think,” said Sir William.

“There will be a few of our older vintages too,” added Ariane Lafoute. She was, head to toe, best described as a classic beauty. Her dark raven hair was pulled back into a shiny chignon, and her sea-green dress draped elegantly over her slim form. A silver diamond bracelet graced one slender wrist and glittered as she held out a hand to Chef Maurice.

“
Enchantée
,” she said.

“Jolly good to meet you both,” said Bertie Lafoute, shaking their hands in turn. He too had the look of a classic, but the classic in this case was the weak-chinned but well-bred Englishman. He wore a grey three-piece suit and grinned the grin of a young man eager to please.

“Bertie’s parents were old family friends,” said Sir William, laying his hand on Bertie’s narrow shoulder. “His father and I, we practically grew up together.”

Bertie nodded. “My father liked to collect wines too. Nothing as serious as Uncle William’s collection, of course.”

“He must have been pleased then, when you married a Lafoute,” said Arthur, smiling at Ariane.

Bertie’s face fell momentarily. “I’m afraid both he and my mother passed away quite a few years back. But yes, I’m sure they’d have loved Ariane.” He put a hand around his wife’s waist, while she smiled coolly up at him.

“You took the
nom de famille
as your surname, then?” said Chef Maurice.

“Rather modern, I know,” said Bertie. “But I always said Burlington was far too near the start of the alphabet, and anyhow, it’s quite nice, sharing the same name.” Clearly, the option of Ariane taking her husband’s name had not been on the cards. Or even in the deck.

“Margaret, do come over and say hallo,” said Sir William, gesturing to his sister-in-law over by the fire.

“How lovely to see you both again,” said Lady Margaret, standing up and drifting over. She turned to Sir William. “Does that mean you’ll finally be joining us? You’ve been hidden away in your study all day, though
quite
what you do in there is a mystery to us all, I’m sure.”

“Yes, Margaret, the festivities are now quite underway. I’m just finishing up the introductions. Gentlemen, you presumably already know Charles—”

“—how could we not—” muttered Arthur under his breath.

“—and finally, let me present Chuck Paloni. He’s representing California tonight, and has brought along some of his vineyard’s top wines, he tells me.”

Paloni, who was still wringing out his sleeve over the fireplace, looked up.

“We’ve met. These fellas gave me a lift up your driveway. You should think about getting a cell tower out here, solve all your problems. Is the main phone line still down?”

“Gilles is looking into it,” said Sir William, frowning, “though I highly doubt anyone will be coming out in this weather to fix it today.”

Paloni looked glum.

At this point, Gilles glided in with a tray of fluted Champagne glasses.

“The ’04 Dom Pérignon,” he murmured, like a benediction.

“
Magnifique
,” said Ariane, holding the glass to her nose, eyes closed.

Bertie clinked his flute against Arthur’s. “Here’s to tonight’s tasting!”

“May the best wine win,” said Resnick.

“Come now, Charles, we all know there’s no such thing as ‘best’ when it comes to wine,” said Sir William, beaming at his guests.

“Bah!” Chef Maurice lifted his glass to the light. “See, the little bubbles, the superb bouquet, the long taste—a good
Champagne
is unrivalled. No one can beat the French,
mes amis
.”

“Except that they did,” Arthur pointed out. He raised his glass to Paloni. “What do you say? Can California do it again tonight?”

“We’ll sure try our best.”

“That’s the spirit!” said Sir William. He placed his glass back down on Gilles’s waiting tray. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll just pop down to the cellar to bring up the last of the wines.”

“I’ll come with you,” said Paloni, hurrying after him. “No cheating, I promise. But I wanted to pick your brains on our latest range of Cabernet . . . ”

Their voices faded as the heavy drawing room doors swung shut.

“More Champagne, sir?” said Gilles, producing a bottle from about his person.

Chef Maurice nodded in approval as the pale gold liquid swirled into his glass.

“Oh, might as well,” said Arthur, proffering his own glass too. “Life’s too short not to drink good wine, eh?”

There was a murmur of agreement from the other guests.

Little did they know that, for one of their party tonight, this would turn out to be altogether too true.

Le Cochon Rouge had started out life as the old village pub, and Chef Maurice had done little to change the decor in the dining room, with its low oak beams, old stone fireplace, and fully functioning bar.

Patrick now stood behind said bar, buffing the wine glasses. At his insistence, Dorothy had already headed home in the now ankle-deep snow.