Healthy Place to Die (10 page)

The conversation continued with a spirited discussion of the concept of the Reduit, the theory of fortification that employs one fort inside another in a series of concentric circles. Withdrawal from each territory to the next smaller one continues, and as Karl Wengen pointed out, the willingness to face such sacrifices in land and people was a clear message to a would-be invader.

Breakfast had long since been consumed. The Frenchman who had spoken before said, “More banks than dentists. Isn’t that what they say about Switzerland?”

“I have heard that,” admitted Wengen with a polite smile. “I think it shows what good teeth the Swiss have.”

Most of the other oft-repeated sideswipes at the Swiss came out now that the Alpine ice had been broken. Why had the Swiss refused the vote to women for so long? was the first. Why isn’t English taught in Swiss schools? was another. Then came the point that the Swiss men in the army reserve keep their weapons in their homes at all times. Why doesn’t this cause an increase in gun crime? We debated until the time for the morning session was approaching.

Helmut Helberg came over from an adjoining table. “You remember we talked the other day about improving the supermarket image?”

“Giving customers more information on foods so that they would buy more of them? Yes, I remember.”

“Well, it gave me an idea. Why not make videos of Leighton Vance cooking and show them in the markets? Around the video screen in the market would be racks of the foods he was cooking.”

“Sounds good. Have you talked to him about it?”

“I had an even better idea. Have Mallory and Leighton together, husband and wife cooking. Don’t you think that would be great?”

“Terrific,” I agreed. “Have you talked to him about it?”

Helmut gave me a rueful grimace. “I tried. He cut me off before I was finished. He was strongly opposed to the idea, would not even consider it. Did not want to discuss it.”

“Strange,” I said. “Maybe you should try him again. You might have caught him at a bad time.”

Helmut shook his head. “I do not think so. He is not an easy man to reason with.”

I was puzzling over this as we left when Bradley Thompson fell into step beside me. “This is a healthy and wholesome country sure enough,” he grunted, “but I’ll bet it could get troublesome if it was encouraged.”

I walked over to the lobby afterward. As one of the larger lounges adjoined it, the area was a popular meeting place. As I entered, I noticed a young woman at the registration desk. It seemed an unusual time to check in, I thought.

She was short and trim, energetic in her movements. Her hair was cut short and if allowed to grow, was probably a light corn color. She was probably in her late thirties and dressed in a two-piece travel suit. She had only one piece of luggage, I noticed, and it was a small case. She either traveled light or had left at short notice.

Just as I was about to turn away and go about my business. I heard a name that caused me to stop and edge closer to hear more.

The name was “Kathleen Evans.”

I tried to gather the context. The woman had apparently asked a question using Kathleen Evans’s name, and the receptionist was still shaking her head as part of her answer. The receptionist was not Monique but a different girl. I listened closely, but the rest was just check-in routine.

I watched a bellboy take the woman away in the direction of the chalets, then I approached the receptionist quickly before she could touch the registration computer keyboard.

“You have a message for me, I believe,” I said, trying to sound urgent.

The girl turned to look at the racks behind her, and I quickly nudged the screen so that I could read the name just entered. Janet Hargrave, it said, and I had just enough time to swivel the screen back into position before the girl returned with the bad news that I had no message. I showed surprise and looked appropriately saddened.

I had a sudden idea. I had a little time before the morning session began. I knew there was a library although I had not yet visited it. I headed over there now.

It was a large room, dark paneled and a little gloomy as if the spa accepted that guests would be spending far more time elsewhere. I had recalled reading in the brochure that it was strongly oriented toward food and cooking. There stood a long rack of magazines in several languages, and it was not surprising that most were in English. I sought out
Good Food,
the magazine that published Kathleen Evans’s column. Inside the front cover of the latest issue was Kathleen’s name. I scanned through the names of senior editors, food editors, test-kitchen directors, photo editors, art directors, production coordinators—marveling at how many people it took to put a magazine together. It was almost as impressive as the list of credits that scrolls down the screen at a movie theater and takes almost as long as the movie itself.

I found her. Janet Hargrave. She was the executive editor of
Good Food
magazine.

L
EIGHTON VANCE WAS THE
lead for the morning’s culinary entertainment.

“This demonstration is by the special request of a number of people,” he began. “The soufflé is by far the most feared dish in the kitchen. There is a popular belief that only a chef can make a perfect soufflé, but that is quite wrong. If you follow some simple steps, anyone can do it.”

The room was full once more, and everyone was paying rapt attention. “The oven has been preheated to four hundred degrees Fahrenheit. These ramekins have been buttered twice and coated with sugar. This is one of the secrets—it ensures that the soufflé mixture will rise without sticking to the sides. I’m now taking some butter and mixing in flour in this pan. This is the roux. Continuing to whisk, I am adding a little milk. I am doing this until the mixture is thick.” When he had the consistency right, he poured it into a bowl.

“We’ll let that cool, and meanwhile I’m taking egg yolks and whisking with a little vanilla flavoring, some oil, and now I’m whisking in the roux and …” He poured in a generous amount of Grand Marnier.

“In this electric mixer bowl, I’m putting in egg whites. This is a critical part but not one to be afraid of. The whites must hold a firm peak. One trick that chefs use is to do this in a copper bowl—it stabilizes the temperature. Be careful not to overheat, or you will see the whites begin to separate.” He held out the bowl. He poured in sugar, a little at a time and again beat to stiff peaks. He whisked about a quarter of this into the yolk mixture, then gently folded in the remainder.

“If there are secrets to the soufflé, this folding is one of them. Use a rubber spatula only and keep a rolling motion like this.”

He spooned the batter into the ramekins. “Be sure to fill almost to the top. Put the ramekins in a large baking pan of water. Bake for twenty minutes. Disregard those who tell you that drafts don’t matter. They do. Resist the temptation and don’t open the oven door until the baking is finished.”

When the oven door had closed, he said, “There’ll be enough for everyone to taste, but in the meantime I’m sure you have questions.”

First, though, a round of applause rang out for such a concise and practical demonstration. It had been a fine combination of explanation, encouragement, and some chef’s tips. Between questions, Leighton reminded us that a soufflé is somewhere between a party piece, a confection, and a savory. The soufflé is extremely versatile. It can be made with cheese, fish, chicken, eggplant, lobster, shrimp, game, or fruits such as pears, lemons, strawberries, and cherries.

Comments, arguments, and questions were still flying when the soufflés came out of the oven. “The soufflé should be browned …” Leighton held out the pan, and there were nods and murmurs of approval of the color. “It should be puffed and set around the edges but still wobbly in the middle.” He shook the pan very gently and the audience applauded as if it were amateur hour for hula dancers. As the ramekins were passed around, the room grew rapidly quieter. Applause was universal, and Leighton basked in it.

I made my way to the dining room early. Very early; no one else was there for lunch yet, not even the staff as the tables were already set. I examined the diagram of table settings, then carefully made a couple of changes.

As a result, when Janet Hargrave arrived at the table and took her place, she found herself sitting next to me. I smiled pleasantly, but before I could speak she said accusingly, “You’re not Carver Armitage!”

“I am not,” I agreed, and explained who I was.

She appeared perplexed. “But you look like him,” she insisted. I had to think about that. Hair roughly the same color, approximately the same build and weight, about the same height …

“You may be right,” I admitted. “We do look somewhat alike. I’d never even thought of that. Still, I’m not him.” I explained why I was here in his place.

“Hospital? Operation?” For a moment I thought she was going to start a medical debate and I wondered why.

“Do you know Carver?” I asked.

“We have met,” she said briefly.

Before she could take me down any more sidetracks, I took the initiative.

“I know you’re Janet Hargrave,” I said. “It says so on the seating plan.”

“Looks like it’s been changed.” She was one of those perceptive women.

“They have to make changes when new guests arrive—unexpectedly,” I added, and waited for her to contradict that. She didn’t and thus confirmed what I was already suspecting—that she had decided on this trip at short notice. Which gave me the opportunity to say, “One of your star writers was here.”

She did not ask who, and it became clear why when she said, “I understand that Kathleen has left.”

“Oh?” I said, playing innocent. “Gone back to write up her experiences at the spa? The conference is still on. I thought she had booked for the full week.”

Our table was filling up now, and Janet busied herself with introductions—it no doubt gave her an excuse to ignore my comments. When we were resettled and all consulting menus, she asked casually, “You knew Kathleen?”

“I have read her column a number of times, but I had never met her until this occasion.”

“Did she think you were Carver Armitage too?”

“When we first met, Kathleen told me I was not Carver Armitage. She was right.”

“You mean, she thought at first that you were,” she said, her tone of voice suggesting that the fact made her own inquisition of me on that subject perfectly understandable.

“She had some problems accepting that Carver was in hospital too,” I said, moving on.

She nodded as if to agree how easy that was. “Which leads me to wonder why it’s such a big deal,” I went on pleasantly. “Carver was scheduled to come here, couldn’t, and I replaced him.” I thought it to be an admirably succinct summary, but she did not pursue the issue.

Instead, she said, “You talked to Kathleen, I take it?” She meant it to sound like a casual comment, but she was not the casual statement type. She gave the impression that she was more used to telling art editors she didn’t like their art and photo editors how poor their photos were, and complaining that production editors didn’t produce.

“Oh, yes,” I said with a little emphasis and let the words dangle there. She waited for me to go on, but I chose the moment to place my order for an asparagus flan. She looked at me expectantly when the maître d’ had moved on, and I smiled back.

She was clearly figuring out how to ask me what Kathleen and I had talked about, but any tact she might have possessed had been eroded by years of executive editing. “Did she tell you she was leaving?” she asked finally.

I was caught in a dilemma. If I told her about my suspicions that Kathleen had been killed and her body removed, Janet would want to know why I hadn’t informed the police. If I didn’t tell her, I would be obstructing any efforts to determine the truth. I did the normal, human thing. I compromised.

“We had a date in the Seaweed Forest. She was there, but when I looked for her she was gone. Next morning, I was told she had checked out.”

“Seaweed Forest?”

I explained. She said nothing but was snappy at the maître d’ when he came around to her side and she hadn’t made a decision. He was an expert at herding clients in the direction of a choice and she ordered
soupe au pistou
with mussels.

“She left word where she was going?” she asked.

“Paris apparently, but that’s a hub for scores of destinations. Look, you’re her editor. Doesn’t she keep you informed?”

She played with a fork. “You know who I am?”

“Of course. Nearly everyone in the food business does.” It was time to replace the vinegar with a little honey, I thought.

She didn’t beam with pleasure, but the compliment slowed her down. When she continued the conversation, her tone was less belligerent. “It’s very important I find her.”

“A hot new assignment?” I probed.

She pursed her lips. “I can’t discuss our publishing policies.

I took that as a no. “Well,” I said, “wherever she was going when she left here, she’s arrived by now. She’s probably back in the office, pounding the keyboard.”

She didn’t reply, but I had a strong suspicion that she knew that Kathleen was not back in the office. So where was she and why the mystery?

I had a chilly feeling that she was dead. If so, what was Janet’s part in all this? She couldn’t know of Kathleen’s death … could she? Or was Janet here for some other reason?

I ate my asparagus flan and followed with salmon cakes, Szechuan style with a mild curry sauce. Fish was brain food, and if my brain ever needed stimulation, it was now. In fact, it needed a good hard kick in the left lobe.

I
STROLLED IN THE
direction of the lake by way of some gentle exercise after the meal. The wooden structure that formed the entrance to the Glacier Caverns basked orange in the dying sun. I recalled the glacier on the Jungfrau with massive chambers as big as auditoriums deep inside its Pleistocene interior. I encountered Axel Vorstahl, who had the same intention of exercise. His fair hair ruffled slightly in the breeze, and his good-humored face broke into a smile.