Killer in the Kitchen (11 page)

S
heriff Mort Metzger, the first law-enforcement official at the scene of Gérard Leboeuf's murder, and his deputies were joined the following afternoon by investigators from the Major Crime Units (MCU) of the Attorney General's Homicide Unit, who'd been dispatched overnight to Cabot Cove from Portland. At Jim Shevlin's urging, Mort held an impromptu press conference in the council chambers at town hall. I found out about it from the mayor himself and decided to attend.

Not only had the state investigators responded quickly, but members of the press had, too. Contingents from Augusta and Portland were joined by reporters from Bangor, Boston, and New York, as well as a writer-photographer team from a leading restaurant-industry trade magazine. Evelyn Phillips was there, of course, as were a few employees of Leboeuf's Cabot Cove restaurant. I looked for members of his family, but they weren't present. I was also surprised to see Marcie Fowler seated at the rear of the room. I started in her direction, but she looked as though she wouldn't welcome company; instead I chose a seat next to the reporter from the trade magazine.

“I sure don't like having to get up here and talk to you today about what happened last night,” Mort said after he'd established quiet in the room, “but as you all know, one of our citizens—and
a pretty famous one—died at the restaurant he'd just opened here in town.” He consulted notes in his hand. “The deceased's name is Gérard Leboeuf, and he heads up—or I guess I should say
headed
up—a big restaurant chain in New York and other cities, including the new place he opened here, Leboeuf's French Bistro. This is an ongoing investigation, so there's not a lot I can tell you at this point about how he died, but I can say that we're considering his death a homicide unless the investigation turns up something different. Our ME, Doc Whitson, is on his way back and will be doing an autopsy this evening. He will be assisted by Dr. Seth Hazlitt, who filled in for Doc Whitson last night when the body was discovered.”

“Where is Dr. Hazlitt now?” a reporter asked in a loud voice.

His intrusion flustered Mort for a moment. “He's not here because Doc Whitson will be taking over.”

“But it was this Dr. Hazlitt who first saw the body,” the reporter pressed.

“Was he invited to be here?” another reporter asked.

“Doc Hazlitt has a busy private practice,” Mort said.

“Where can we reach him?” Mort was asked.

Jim Shevlin, who as mayor had opened the press conference and introduced Mort, said, “I'm sure that Dr. Hazlitt will be glad to speak with you at a later date.”

I wasn't sure that the mayor was correct in that promise. Seth's disdain for the media was well-known in town, often to Evelyn Phillips's chagrin, and I wasn't at all surprised that he wasn't present at the press conference.

There were three other people standing with Mort and Jim at the front of the room: a handsome African-American man, a middle-aged woman with sharp features, and a young man
wearing large horn-rimmed glasses who looked professorial. They were all immaculately dressed, and I suspected they were members of law enforcement. It's a look I recognize, although don't ask me to define what that is. It's just there, on their faces and in their body language.

Mort confirmed my suspicion when he introduced them as detectives who'd come to Cabot Cove to aid in the investigation.

“We're told that Mr. Leboeuf was stabbed to death,” a reporter said.

“I'm not at liberty to discuss method of death,” Mort said, “at least not yet.”

“Ah, come on, Sheriff. It's all over town that he was found with a big kitchen knife sticking out of him.”

As he said it, I looked to where Marcie sat with her arms tightly wound about her, as though she were seeking to collapse herself into invisibility.

“What about the bad blood between Leboeuf and the other restaurant owner next door?” The reporter also consulted notes. “Fowler. His name's Bradley Fowler, owner of the Fin and Claw.”

“I don't know anything about bad blood,” Mort said. “Everyone who knew the victim will be interviewed in due course.”

As other reporters called out questions in a noisy chorus, Marcie abandoned her seat and slipped out of the room.

“That's all I have to say at the moment,” Mort said. “We'll post a notice when the next press briefing will take place.”

There were disgruntled comments from the reporters about how useless the press conference had been. “He said nothing,” one growled to a colleague. “A waste of time,” said another.

“Have you talked to this Fowler guy?” someone asked.

“That's what I intend to do next,” was the reply.

“I talked to one of the kitchen help an hour ago.”

“What'd he say?”

“Not much. He says that while he and others in the kitchen cleaned up at the end of the night, Leboeuf was still there,” he said, “having a drink at the bar with his wife and his manager, Chang. Why don't you do some reporting of your own?”

“I've been working another angle. This guy Fowler's mother died in his restaurant on
his
opening night. That famous murder-mystery writer Jessica Fletcher lives here and was close with Fowler and his mother. Anyone talk to her yet?”

“Not yet, but I have her number.”

One of the reporters turned to me. “Who are you representing?” she asked.

“Representing?” I replied, relieved that she hadn't read my books and didn't recognize me from my photo on the dust jackets. “No one. Just a curious citizen.” I left quickly, hoping no other reporter would connect my face to my name.

Outside town hall, I looked for Marcie but didn't see her. I wanted to talk to Mort and Seth but knew it wasn't the time to contact either of them. But then Mort suddenly came through the door accompanied by one of the investigators.

“Mrs. F., got a minute?” Mort said.

“Yes, of course.”

“Mrs. F., this is Detective Clifford Mason.”

We shook hands.

“Detective Mason would like a few words with you,” Mort said.

“Certainly.”

“Buy you a cup of coffee?” Mason asked in a deep, gravelly voice.

“That sounds appealing,” I said.

“Not you, Sheriff. You're not as pretty as she is.”

Mort rolled his eyes. “I'll be in touch later,” he said as he retreated back into the building.

I suggested to Detective Mason that we try a small coffee shop on the corner that had recently opened. The last thing I wanted to do was to walk into Mara's Luncheonette with a detective; it would be all over town in fifteen minutes, and I'd be peppered with more questions than were already being thrown at me. We ordered small lattes and took a table by the window. Thankfully, we were the only customers in the shop.

“I appreciate you taking time for me, Mrs. Fletcher,” Mason said as he poured sugar into his cup.

“I don't mind at all, Detective, although I don't know how helpful I can be.”

His smile was meant to assure. “Let me be the judge of that,” he said thoughtfully while stirring. “Although I've just gotten here, I have been informed that you knew the victim quite well.”

I shook my head. “I knew him, yes, but we certainly weren't close friends.”

“But your acquaintance with him goes back to New York, what, three, four years ago?”

“True.” I explained my interview with Leboeuf for the novel I'd been writing at the time.

“Mind if I refer to some notes?” he asked.

“By all means.”

He pulled a small sheet of paper from his jacket pocket, placed a pair of half-glasses on his nose, and scanned what was on the paper. “You were Mr. Leboeuf's guest at his restaurant opening,” he said flatly.

I laughed. “Along with half the town. Mr. Leboeuf generously picked up the tab for
everyone
at his opening night.”

“And you were also at the opening of his competitor, the Fin and Claw.”

“That's correct. Again, many in town attended both restaurant openings.”

“At the first opening, that's when the owner of that restaurant, the Fin and Claw, got into an argument with Mr. Leboeuf? Is that correct?”

I was impressed at how much the detective had learned in the short time he'd been in town.

“That's right,” I said.

“I understand that during this argument, Mr. Fowler—Bradley Fowler, the owner of the Fin and Claw—threatened Mr. Leboeuf.”

“Did he?” I said. I tried to put my brain in reverse and go back to that opening night at the Fin & Claw. “Yes,” I said once my memory had snapped into focus. “Brad Fowler did say something about—I'm not sure I remember exactly what he said—but he did say something to the effect that he would ‘punch his lights out.' Yes, I think those were the words he used.”

Mason smiled. “I haven't heard that expression in a while.”

“And it's just that, an expression, Detective Mason. That's all. Brad was upset that the Leboeuf table was making disparaging remarks about the food and service and that Leboeuf had insulted Brad's mother—”

“Brad's mother?”

“You don't know about that, Detective?”

He shook his head.

I told him about Isabel Fowler suffering a stroke and Brad
being convinced that Leboeuf's callous remarks had precipitated her illness.

Mason's eyebrows went up. “That's a pretty serious accusation,” he said.

“You know that in the heat of the moment people will say things they don't really mean.” It occurred to me what the purpose of our chitchat was: Mason, and I assume the other investigators, including Mort Metzger, were zeroing in on Brad Fowler as their chief suspect in the murder of Gérard Leboeuf.

“Frankly, I don't believe that Brad Fowler is capable of killing Gérard Leboeuf,” I said, the suddenness of my comment causing Mason to sit back, eyes open wider.

“I didn't say that he was,” Mason said.

“But that's what you're working up to, isn't it?”

“We have to start somewhere, Mrs. Fletcher. I'm sure you're aware after having written so many bestselling murder-mystery novels that everyone is considered a suspect at the beginning of a murder investigation.”

“Which is as it should be,” I said, “and I understand why you're looking at Brad. It's just that I'm always uncomfortable when someone is viewed prematurely as a prime suspect. It's been my experience that too often that person had nothing to do with the crime.”

“Then again,” he said, “it's been my experience that first hunches often prove to be right.”

There was nothing to be gained by arguing with the detective. I was not a trained investigator; nor was I in a position to defend Brad Fowler. I had no idea where he'd been at the time of the murder. While I found it hard to believe that the young man was capable of committing such a grievous act, Brad certainly
appeared to have had a motive for killing his business rival, not to mention the fact that he had made his hair-trigger temper abundantly obvious in recent days.

“I'm afraid I don't have any more to offer you,” I said.

Detective Mason replaced the note in his pocket and sipped his coffee. “I'm not sure that's true, Mrs. Fletcher, but we can let it rest for the moment. I would appreciate having access to you from time to time as the investigation progresses. You have a reputation of possessing a particularly keen insight into crime, plus you're known to be on the inside track in this town.”

I couldn't help but laugh. “I'm not sure that's an especially flattering trait,” I said.

“But it could prove useful. After all, you're a respected longtime resident of Cabot Cove and know all the players. I'd like to arrange a time when I can do a more formal interview of you.”

“I'm at your disposal anytime you wish.”

“And my colleague, Ms. Lucas, will also want to talk to you. We work as a team.”

“Who is the third person that Sheriff Metzger introduced as an investigator?” I asked.

“Him? He's FBI. He's interested in this case for a different reason. Thanks for your time. We'll be in touch.”

We shook hands in front of the coffee shop, and I watched him walk back up the street toward the sheriff's office. FBI? Could his “different reason” for being interested in Leboeuf's
murder have to do with the rumor Matt Miller had passed along, that Leboeuf was being investigated for laundering mob money?

That thought remained with me on my way home. If it was true, my sleepy little town of Cabot Cove was about to become the epicenter of a massive investigation into the murder of a famous chef and restaurant owner and what role organized crime might have played in his success.

I felt like I was back in New York City.

T
here were a number of recorded messages on my answering machine at home, including one from Marcie Fowler, who sounded distraught. I recognized the number she left as the phone at the restaurant.

“It's Jessica Fletcher,” I said when she answered.

“Oh, Mrs. Fletcher, thanks for getting back to me so quickly.”

“Is everything okay?” I asked. “You sounded frazzled on your message.”

“It's Brad.”

“Is he ill?”

“No, he's—he's just been taken away by two of Sheriff Metzger's deputies for questioning about Leboeuf's murder.”

“That isn't surprising, Marcie. Everyone with any connection to Leboeuf should expect to be questioned about the murder. I've just spoken with one of the detectives myself. I'm sure it's just routine.”

“I don't think so, Mrs. Fletcher.” I could tell that she was fighting to maintain her composure. “Everyone is pointing a finger at Brad because of the bad feelings he had about Leboeuf.”

“Have people said anything about it?”

“They don't have to. I can just tell that they think Brad killed him,” she said, her voice quavering. “I can see it in their eyes,
those who don't turn their backs to me.” Now her composure cracked, and she cried.

“I'm sympathetic, Marcie, believe me. But you'll be no help to Brad if you fall apart. He needs you to be on top of things right now,” I said, knowing that self-control didn't seem to be a strong suit for either of the Fowlers.

“And I need him, too. We have a full house of reservations tonight and—I don't know what I'll do without Brad.”

“Chances are he'll be back in time to take over the kitchen. And if he's a little late, what about his sous chef, that fellow Jake?”

Her tears turned to an angry snort. “Jake? That two-timing snake. You were here when he walked out. He's gone to work at Leboeuf's place, and Brad says he noticed some things have gone missing in the kitchen.”

“What kinds of things?”

“A fancy Microplane grater that Isabel gave him last Christmas, mixing bowls, one of our new frying pans . . . Who knows what else? I never got around to doing an inventory of our tools. We've been too busy.”

“Do you know if the bistro will be open tonight?” I asked. “I thought they might close in light of the events.”

“Oh, they'll be open. You can bet on that. The police have taken down the yellow crime-scene tape and said that they could use the kitchen again. People will flock there to see where the famed Gérard Leboeuf was killed, and they'll come here to see Brad, the murderer.”

I was out of positive things to say.

“One of the kitchen help, the salad maker, says he can help me handle the cooking,” Marcie said.

“That's good.”

“This is a nightmare, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“Do you have room for one more reservation?”

“What?”

“I'd like to come to dinner tonight.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely sure, Marcie. Maybe we can find some time to chat.”

“All right, Mrs. Fletcher. Just you?”

“Just me. Make the reservation at seven. I'll see you then.”

After hanging up, I thought about our conversation.
Strange that Leboeuf's restaurant would be open the night after its namesake was brutally murdered. I wonder whose decision that was.
As far as I knew, Leboeuf's wife, Eva, wasn't involved in the restaurant's operations, and I doubted that their son, Wylie, would be in a position to decide to open the doors the night after his father's death. Was it the chef who'd made the call? Chang ran the kitchen. What about the two young men always seen with the Leboeuf family? What part did they play?

My musing was interrupted by Detective Mason, who hadn't wasted any time in contacting me again. I hadn't been home an hour when he called.

“Sorry to bother you again, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said, “but you did say that you'd make yourself available for an interview.”

“Of course,” I said. “I just didn't expect to hear from you again so soon.”

He laughed. “I believe in speaking with people while recollections are fresh.”

“That's understandable,” I said. Detective Mason obviously knew that time has a habit of eroding even the best of memories.
It was precisely for that reason that I'd made my series of notes about Gérard Leboeuf as soon as I'd learned of his murder.

“Would you like me to come to your home?” the detective asked.

“I don't want any special treatment,” I said, thinking it would be better to have the interview in a more neutral, official setting. “I'd rather come to police headquarters. I assume that's where you're conducting other interviews.”

“That's correct, Mrs. Fletcher. Sheriff Metzger has been extremely cooperative and accommodating. But he tells me that you don't drive.”

“That's true. I don't suppose he mentioned that I fly—airplanes, that is.”

Mason gave a hearty laugh. “I didn't think you flew on a broom.”

“Just making sure we have the facts correct,” I said, smiling. “Taking flying lessons was—well, it fulfilled a dream of mine. What time would you like to see me?”

“How about now?” he said. “The sheriff said he'll send a deputy to pick you up.”

“That's very good of him.”

“Shall we say a half hour?”

“That will be fine.”

Before the deputy arrived, I took a few minutes to go over the notes I'd made about Leboeuf to refresh my memory. I considered taking them with me but decided against it. The detective would probably want to keep them, depriving me of access to my initial impressions.

Mort Metzger was in the reception area of the Sheriff's Department when I walked through the door.

“You're here to see Detective Mason,” he said.

“Right, Mort. Thanks for arranging the ride.”

Mort laughed. “Mason said he'd never met an adult who didn't drive.”

“Well, he's met one now,” I said. “Where is he?”

“I'll take you to him, Mrs. F., but I want you to know that even though the state sent these detectives, I'm in charge of the investigation. It happened on my turf.”

“Of course,” I said, recognizing the onset of a jurisdictional dispute, a frequent occurrence when law-enforcement authorities are forced to work together.

“Just didn't want to have any misunderstandings,” Mort said.

He led me to one of the interrogation rooms at the rear of the building, where Mason and the other detective, who introduced herself as Anne Lucas, were seated at the table.

“We don't want to take any more of your time than necessary, Mrs. Fletcher,” Mason said, “so I'll get right to the questions. The first one has to do with the night Mr. Leboeuf was killed. You were at the opening of his restaurant.”

“That's right.”

“Did you see anything unusual that night?”

“Many things,” I said, “but nothing nefarious. Mr. Leboeuf picked up the tab for the entire evening, which I suppose was unusual. It was a festive, enjoyable evening.”

“Did he have any confrontations with anyone?” Lucas asked.

“Not that I observed,” I said. I thought of the brief, seemingly contentious moment between Leboeuf and his wife, Eva, but to say their conversation was as angry as their expressions would have been speculation on my part. Nevertheless, I mentioned it
to Mason and Lucas with the caveat that I hadn't overheard what they'd said to each other.

After a series of questions about my interactions with Leboeuf over the years—which were few and far between—Lucas asked whether I saw Brad or Marcie Fowler the night of the murder. “Were they at the dinner?” Mason asked.

I was sure that the detectives had already asked the Fowlers whether they were there and were looking for someone to contradict them.

“They had their own restaurant to run,” I said.

“You didn't see them that night?”

“No. Well, yes, I saw Brad as Seth—Dr. Seth Hazlitt—and I were leaving the bistro. I saw Brad standing at the edge of his restaurant's parking lot.”

“What time was that?” Lucas asked, taking notes as the questioning continued.

“Close to midnight,” I replied.

“What was he doing?”

“Just standing there. Only for a few seconds. I turned away. When I looked again, he was gone.”

“You were present when the victim and Mr. Fowler had an altercation at Mr. Fowler's Fin and Claw.”

That led to a lengthy series of questions about that evening and what I'd seen and overheard. I pointed out that Leboeuf and his party had behaved rudely and had insulted Brad's mother, who had given them a pleasant welcome. “I was offended by their attitude, and so was my dinner companion, Dr. Hazlitt. That's Seth Hazlitt.” I spelled out his name.

“We'll be talking with Dr. Hazlitt later today, after his office hours.”

“Is there anything else you'd like to know?” I asked.

“Not unless you remember something additional,” Mason said.

“I did see the Leboeuf boy outside as we were leaving. I should say young man. Leboeuf's son must be in his twenties.”

Mason consulted his notes. “Wylie Leboeuf,” he said.

“Yes. He was having a cigarette by the seawall. He finished smoking, tossed the cigarette into the water, and walked toward his father's restaurant, in the direction of the back of the building.”

“Where a door leads into the kitchen,” Lucas said.

“You must be correct. I haven't been through that door,” I said. “In fact, I've never been in the bistro kitchen.”

“Did you ever hear Mr. Fowler threaten Mr. Leboeuf?” Lucas asked.

“Aside from hearing Brad say that he'd like to punch Leboeuf's lights out—just a heated expression, of course—I've never heard him issue a direct threat.” Of course Brad had made harsh comments about Leboeuf in my presence, but I chalked them up to his frequent frustrated outbursts. They were not direct threats, and I decided not to add fuel to what could be a manufactured fire by trotting them out for the detectives.

“That'll do it,” Mason said. “We really appreciate you giving us your time, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“I'm available anytime,” I said.

“Before you go,” Mason said, “I have a favor to ask.”

“Oh?”

“Detective Lucas and I know how wired in to the Cabot Cove community you are, and you might pick up information in your travels that would help in our investigation of Mr. Leboeuf's
murder. All we ask is that you share anything you happen to hear.”

I was a bit taken aback. What they were asking was exactly what I was trying to avoid. “If I think it's relevant, Detective Mason, I'll contact you, but I won't pass along any gossip or loose talk. It wouldn't be fair to you or to the victim of speculation.”

“Can't ask for more than that,” Mason said as he and Lucas stood. “Thanks again for coming in.”

I left the room and wandered down the hall in the direction of Mort's office. His door was open and he was sitting back, feet up on his desk, reading something in a manila file folder. He looked up, saw me, stood, and waved at a chair. “Come and sit a few minutes, Mrs. F. How'd the interview go?”

I settled myself in the seat across from him. “It went well, I think. Detectives Mason and Lucas are very pleasant.”

“I suppose they asked you to keep your eyes and ears open around town.”

“As a matter of fact they did, Mort.”

“Yeah, well, I told them how you know almost everybody in town.”

“That was nice of you,” I said, waiting for what I knew was coming next.

“The point is, Mrs. F., I'd really appreciate you running anything you come up with past me first.”

My expression was quizzical.

“You know how it is. These out-of-town types come in and take over, grab all the credit, even when the local authorities do all the groundwork.”

“Happy to do it,” I said, “but turnaround is fair play.”

He raised one eyebrow and cocked his head. “What do you mean?”

“May I ask
you
a question?”

“Shoot.”

“Has the murder weapon been examined for prints?”

“It's at the lab for further analysis. They were able to pull one clear print from it, but no identification yet. But remember, Mrs. F., those kitchen guys wear gloves when they handle the food. I
can
tell you that it was a pretty fancy knife.” He flipped open the manila folder and ran his index finger down the top page. “It was a Corkin, which I'm told costs as much as a suite for the night at the Waldorf Astoria Hotel.” He looked up. “Are we agreed?”

I smiled and assured him that he would be the first to know if I came across any relevant evidence.

I realized at that moment, even though I was not involved in any way with the murder of Gérard Leboeuf and didn't have any official reason to delve into it, that people were expecting I would anyway because my natural curiosity would be running rampant. I'm ashamed to admit that it was. When that
happened—and it happened too often as far as Seth Hazlitt was concerned—I was almost powerless to overcome it.

Not only that, but I don't like it when a murder takes place in my beloved Cabot Cove, and I was now determined to do whatever I could to shine light on whoever had killed Gerard Leboeuf and see that justice was
served.