Killer in the Kitchen (10 page)

“Must have cost Leboeuf a fortune, picking up the tab for everyone,” Tim Purdy said as he held her coat for his date.

“Chump change for him,” Levon Walsh, a local attorney, chimed in.

Walsh's wife, Dora, said, “His wife used to be a model. She's beautiful, but she always looks as if she's posing for the camera.”

Mort and Maureen Metzger also stopped to greet us on their way out.

“What's this I hear about Leboeuf's son bein' in some sort of trouble?” Seth asked Mort in his usual direct way.

The sheriff shook his head.

Seth got the message and didn't pursue it.

The evening had continued much later than I'd expected, extending well past my usual bedtime. But I was wide-awake. The lilting music was infectious, the conversation with so many friends stimulating, and the handsome surroundings created an atmosphere that I was reluctant to leave. But as the crowd dwindled, I noticed that Seth had sat in his chair again and was fighting to stay awake. Chances were that he'd have a waiting room full of patients first thing in the morning, and I decided it would be selfish to stay longer.

“Time to go home,” I told him, jolting him awake.

Seth went to retrieve his car, instructing me to wait inside. “No use both of us shivering in the cold.”

I looked through the window that flanked the front door. The valet-parking attendants were busy fetching cars for the many people leaving at the same time. I caught sight of Brad Fowler standing at the edge of his parking lot, the yellow light from a streetlamp casting an eerie glow on his face.
Oh, dear,
I thought.
Don't be discouraged. There will be plenty of business for both you and Leboeuf.

By the time the parking attendant delivered Seth's car to the door, Brad was gone. A young man held the door for me, and I slid into the front passenger seat. As I buckled my seat belt, I looked across the pier to where Wylie Leboeuf stood at a railing,
the red ember of his cigarette acting like a beacon directing attention to him.

“That's the Leboeufs' son,” I told Seth as he settled in the driver's seat.

“I didn't see him inside. Wonder what he thinks of the evening,” Seth muttered.

“I hope he's proud of what his father has accomplished,” I said.

“You always look on the bright side,” my curmudgeonly friend complained.

I smiled. “Someone has to.”

As we pulled away, I took a look back at Wylie Leboeuf, who tossed his cigarette butt over the rail into the sea and walked in the direction of the rear of his father's restaurant complex, where a door led into the kitchen.

“Enjoy the evening?” Seth asked.

“Yes, very much.” I held up my little shopping bag. “Everything was carried off well—don't you think?”

“Nothing to complain about. The food and service were good.”

“Do you think Leboeuf's restaurant and Brad and Marcie's place will be able to coexist?” I asked.

Seth shrugged. “That remains to be seen, doesn't it?” he said with his characteristic bluntness.

As much as I'd been offended by Leboeuf's behavior at the Fin & Claw's opening night, I had to admit that
his
opening night had been a delightful evening. I suppose the fact that he'd picked up the tab for everyone and had given all of us gift bags added to the celebratory spirit that permeated the restaurant, but along with that generosity, everything had been handled
with class and professionalism. And, of course, the food had been excellent. Seth, who can find fault with half the dishes served to him in restaurants, had nothing but praise for his meal, and I mirrored his approval.

I quickly fell asleep that night, my concerns about Brad and Marcie Fowler getting lost in my pleasant reverie. Nor were they on my mind when the telephone on my nightstand rang, a jarring way to awaken from a deep sleep. I looked at the clock radio: six o'clock.

“Hello?”

“Jessica?”

I don't know who else you might have expected,
I thought through the sleep that was still fogging my mind.

“Yes?”

“It's Seth.”

I sat up in bed and blinked furiously to snap my eyes and brain into functionality.

“Did I wake you?”

“Of course, Seth, but that's all right. Is something wrong?”

“I'd say so. Gérard Leboeuf is dead.”

“S
ay that again.”

“Gérard Leboeuf has been murdered. Doc Whitson, the medical examiner, is out of town; they called me.”

“Oh, my goodness,” I said, hardly a comment with the gravitas to do the message justice. “Where? When? How did it happen?”

“In the kitchen of his new place. Sometime around three a.m., somebody stabbed him with a big knife.”

“Good heavens! Are there any suspects? Do the police know who did it?”

“Not yet. None that I'm aware of, Jessica. Just thought you'd want to know before you start your day.”

Some way to start a day
.

“I wonder if this has anything to do with what Matt told me.”

“Matt who?”

“My agent, Matt Miller. He said that federal authorities were looking into Leboeuf's business practices to see whether he'd been laundering money for the mob.”

“Well, aren't
you
full of surprises, Jessica.”

“I forgot about it until this minute.”

“Any more tidbits that you've
forgotten
to tell me?”

“I don't think so. What about you? Any ‘tidbits' you haven't told me?”

“Only that I imagine I'll be asked to do a formal autopsy later today. I suspect he had a lacerated spleen and bled out. But you never know until you look into these things. Mort hasn't released the body yet. Not sure what he's waiting for, but I can give you more information later. Right now I'm thinking there's no question what killed him, and it wasn't a heart attack.”

“What about his family?”

“What about them?”

“Have you spoken with any of them?”

“Not my job. I'm just the substitute ME.”

“Who discovered the body?”

“You sound like a detective.”

“Sorry. Natural instinct.”

“The chef—Chang, isn't it?—found Leboeuf and called the police. Mort was still there when I left.” He yawned. “Got to ring off, Jessica. I'm going to have patients backed up here at the office, and I need a little shut-eye before I greet them or I won't remember my own name, much less theirs.”

I clicked off the phone, swung my legs off the bed, and drew a deep breath. What Seth had said seemed impossible. Less than twelve hours ago Leboeuf was shaking hands, smiling, and basking in the glory of his opening-night festivities. What could have caused the night to end in such a shocking, brutal way?

I showered, dressed, and made myself toast with raspberry jam and coffee. The phone started ringing again; I let the answering machine take the calls, although I could hear the callers' voices. Maureen Metzger was one of them, followed by Evelyn Phillips of the
Gazette
, Mayor Jim Shevlin, and three other
friends, all asking whether I'd heard about Leboeuf's murder. I decided to return Maureen's call first.

“I can't believe it,” were her first words.

“I know what you mean,” I said. “I talked to Seth Hazlitt. Dr. Whitson is out of town.”

“Mort told me. He was rousted out of bed at three this morning. He's still at the restaurant. Too bad about Leboeuf. He was such a wonderful cook. I was hoping he would give some classes here. You know I've never dared to try any of his recipes. They're so complicated. I saw him make that famous fish soup on TV, on
Kitchen Wars
. What's it called?”

“Bouillabaisse?”

“That's it. And . . .”

“Have any suspects been identified?” I asked, hoping to divert Maureen before she launched into a discussion of her cooking shows.

“Not that I know of. Of course, there's talk. Oops! Mort's just coming through the door. Don't want him to hear me discussing his case. Talk to you later. Bye.”

After returning other calls, I retreated to my home office, sat in my leather swivel chair, and attempted to put my thoughts in order. The information that I'd received from Seth, and the reactions to the news by a half-dozen other people, had settled in on me.

Gérard Leboeuf's murder would impact Cabot Cove as though a hurricane had come ashore, turning this otherwise peaceful seaside town upside down. Because Leboeuf was an internationally known celebrity, if he died of anything other than natural causes—which appeared to be the case—the investigation would involve many more authorities besides Mort
Metzger and his perpetually understaffed sheriff's department. Everyone who had had any contact with the victim—which certainly included me—would be questioned. The media would descend on us, generating myriad theories and rumors, and fingers would be pointed.

I looked up at the gift bag from the opening, which I'd left on a shelf and absently began jotting down notes on a lined yellow legal pad. What did I remember from the previous night? That expanded into observations about every time I'd had as much as a conversation with Gérard Leboeuf. Before I knew it—and despite the ringing telephone that never seemed to stop—I ended up with almost a dozen pages chronicling my recollections of the famous chef, going back to when I'd first interviewed him in New York for a novel I never finished.

*   *   *

Leboeuf's offices were located in the Flatiron District of the city. The reception area was handsomely decorated with expensive pieces of furniture, white carpeting into which I sank as I crossed the room, and colorful abstract art on the walls. Photos from Leboeuf's television show and guest appearances on the Cooking Channel lined the walls. A stunning brunette sitting behind a large desk gave me a warm smile as I approached.

“I'm Jessica Fletcher,” I said. “My agent, Matt Miller, arranged for me to meet with Mr. Leboeuf this morning.”

“Of course, Mrs. Fletcher,” she said with a charming French accent. “Monsieur Leboeuf is expecting you.”

A minute later I was face-to-face with the famous chef himself. “Please sit down,” he said, indicating a pair of armchairs upholstered in a rich red and gold fabric. Despite his French
name, there was no trace of an accent, which didn't surprise me. I knew from having done research on him before our meeting that he'd been born in St. Louis to American parents who originally came from French stock, which accounted for the name.

“I appreciate you giving me some time this morning,” I said.

“I don't have a lot of it. I have another engagement.”

“I'll try to be brief.” I flipped to an empty page in my notebook and jotted down the date.

Leboeuf squinted at me. “Where are you from?”

“I live in a small town in Maine. You probably haven't heard of it. It's called Cabot Cove.”

“I'm familiar with Cabot Cove.”

“You are?”

“My wife and I have been looking at waterfront property in that area.”

“Really? We'd be neighbors.”

“Nothing definite,” he said.

His receptionist entered the room carrying a tray on which coffee cups, spoons, a small, delicate sugar bowl, and a carafe sat. She placed it on Leboeuf's desk and, to my surprise, used a wooden tongue depressor to perfectly level the sugar in its bowl. I managed to suppress a smile; Leboeuf was obviously a man who liked things neat and precise.

His overall bearing was as carefully put together as the sugar in the bowl. He wasn't tall—we looked each other eye to eye—but he had the type of frame on which his obviously expensive clothing draped nicely. I wouldn't describe him as particularly handsome. He had a certain pugnacious look to him, his lips a little too large for his thin face and a nose that appeared to have been broken at one point in his life. What most struck me was
that he carried himself the way self-assured, successful men usually do, on top of the world and not reticent to broadcast it.

Once our coffee was poured, he asked what sort of information I was looking for to use in my novel.

I explained the loose plot that I'd concocted and that I was hoping the research would help me further develop the story. I left out the details so as not to try Leboeuf's patience, which seemed in short supply. He listened impassively, saying nothing but occasionally nodding.

“That's it,” I said when I'd finished my capsule explanation of the book.

“I hope you're not about to make me a murderer in this book,” he said, not smiling.

“I can promise you I won't,” I said. “What I'm hoping you'll do for me is take me backstage to give me the feel, the atmosphere, what goes on in a real restaurant.”

“Backstage at a restaurant isn't a pretty place,” he said.

“Certainly hectic.”

“Have you ever been in a busy commercial kitchen?”

“A few times. I have friends who own restaurants.”

“Then why are you wasting my time? Why don't you get the information you need from your friends?”

“I certainly could,” I said, wondering whether he was about to blow me off, “but since I'm in the city, Matt Miller encouraged me to see you. If you'd rather not talk today—”

He waved my comment away. “No,” he said. “I've already set aside the time. Besides, Matt's a good agent.”

“One of the best.”

“You want to spend a day or two in one of my restaurants?”

“If that wouldn't be too much trouble. I'd also like to gain
some insight into the business end, how restaurants are financed, the relationship with suppliers, choosing the menu, the nitty-gritty of being a restaurateur.”

“I assume you'll credit me in the finished book.”

His premature concern over credit brought me up short.

“Certainly,” I said. “I always acknowledge those who've helped with my research.”

“All right,” he said. “I'll have the manager of my midtown restaurant show you around. I have a half hour before I'm due at a meeting. Fire your questions at me about what you call the nitty-gritty.”

That half hour extended into almost an hour. The chef seemed happy to talk about himself and his rise to fame, although he didn't provide much factual information about running a restaurant. I would have to get those details from the manager of his midtown restaurant. When we said good-bye, I met up with Matt Miller for lunch.

“How did it go with Gérard?” Matt asked.

“Fine. I learned all about his career, but I'm not certain that I can use any of it in the novel. However, I have an appointment with one of his managers, and that should prove helpful.”

“What did you think of Leboeuf personally?”

“He was pleasant enough, certainly sure of himself.”

“That's an understatement, Jessica.” Matt laughed. “His ego is the size of an aircraft carrier.”

“Well, I didn't want to be so blunt. He may become a neighbor.”

“Oh?”

“He said that he and his wife are looking at waterfront property in Cabot Cove.”

Matt leaned back in his chair and gazed up at the ceiling. “I envy them that. I wouldn't mind having a summer place in Cabot Cove.”

“We have more summer residents every year.”

“Maybe Gérard will open a restaurant there.”

“That would be interesting,” I said, and turned my attention to the menu.

*   *   *

Little did I know at that juncture that when the dust settled and Leboeuf's murderer had been brought to justice, I would be sitting down, surrounded by piles of research materials, to finish the novel I had set aside two years earlier. Only this time the story would be about two competing chefs—and the title
Murder Flambéed
would become
Killer in the
Kitchen
.