Killer in the Kitchen (13 page)

She looked down and played with her fingers as she said, “Do you think that's what's happening to Brad?”

“Let's make sure it doesn't. I can try to help you, but I need you to tell me the truth. Where were you and Brad at the time Gérard Leboeuf was murdered?”

“Brad was—I was home. I'd left the restaurant about midnight. We didn't have a lot of customers. The whole town was over there.” She gestured in the direction of the bistro. “I'm sure the talk about the mouse droppings didn't help things. Anyway, all the craziness was catching up to me. The opening. Isabel.” Her eyes filled with tears. “Just everything. I was exhausted.”

“I'm sure you were. What about Brad?”

“He, ah—well, he came home later than that. I'd fallen asleep and didn't wake up until morning. I asked him what time he'd gotten in and he said around one. I think it might have been later though, because the last time I remember looking at the clock, it was one thirty.”

“Where had he been?” I asked.

“Right here. I asked him where he'd gone after the restaurant closed, and he said he stayed around for a while before coming home, just trying to unwind after a difficult night. He was so depressed about Leboeuf's opening. It's hard to compete with a free dinner. He worries so much, Mrs. Fletcher. People don't realize that he's a sensitive guy. Sure, he has a rough edge, but underneath he's just a frightened little boy.”

I nodded before asking, “So he said he got home at one?” I decided to leave her overly sympathetic assessment of her husband for another time.

“Maybe it was a little bit later. I already told you, it was after I'd gone to sleep. Why are you asking me this, Mrs. Fletcher? I'm sure the police already asked Brad the same questions.”

“I'm just trying to get a sense of what happened that night,” I said, although I could see that my questions were not being received well.

“Well, I don't have an answer to that, Mrs. Fletcher, and neither does Brad. We were here and then we went home. You'll have to get your ‘sense of what happened' from someone else. Excuse me. I'd better get to work.”

It was obvious that my inquiries into the Fowlers' whereabouts the night of the murder hadn't gone down well with them. I supposed I could understand their reactions. They'd both turned cold, and I'd had the impression that they were reconsidering their relationship with me. Was I now an enemy, an arm of the law who was narrowing in on Brad as the prime suspect? The truth was that I wanted very much to help them through the ordeal they were experiencing, although they weren't making it easy. It was hard to believe that Brad, with all his negativity, was the son of a woman beloved by all who knew her. I couldn't blame his temper on the loss of his mother, since his reputation for hotheadedness preceded her death. Marcie claimed Brad was a sensitive soul beneath what she called a “rough edge,” but I would have to be convinced. His cold attitude toward Leboeuf's death seemed to contradict her assessment and did not endear him to me, even after he regretted his words.

I finished up dinner with a lobster cocktail. My appetite had waned during my brief confrontations with Brad and Marcie. I kept hoping they would talk with me again, but I was
disappointed. My opportunity to have a longer conversation with Marcie hadn't materialized. Perhaps trying to see them at work was the wrong approach. In the restaurant, their attention was on other things. They couldn't understand my reasons for prying and just became frustrated that I was yet another person who suspected the worst. Maybe it was presumptuous of me to look into matters that were none of my concern. But I'd promised myself that I would do what I could to unravel what had happened to Gérard Leboeuf and see the guilty party pay the price.

I paid Fritzi for dinner and the wine and headed for the door, where Marcie had taken up her position at the dais.

“Good night, Marcie,” I said. “Dinner was delicious. I'm sorry if I've upset you. I hope you know I only want what's best for you and Brad. I owe that much to Isabel. If she were still with us, she would be counting on me.”

“Brad didn't kill Leboeuf, Mrs. Fletcher,” she said flatly.

“Of course he didn't. That's why I'm trying to help.”

There were other things I wanted to say, but clearly this wasn't the right time. I wished her a good evening and stepped outside, enjoying the fresh air that seemed to have been sucked from the atmosphere in the restaurant's interior. I went to the seawall and looked out over the water. It was a clear evening, white stars poking holes in the progressively darkening sky, the almost full moon illuminating the ripples and waves. I was deep
in thought when noise from the direction of Leboeuf's bistro diverted my attention. A man was being dragged from behind the building and tossed like a sack of grain onto the front walkway by two other men, the same two who seemed always to be hovering over Leboeuf and his family. They laughed and disappeared back behind the restaurant.

I ran over to where they had dumped the man on the pavement. Dressed in a suit and tie, he looked like a respectable older gentleman. Blood was smeared on one cheek and had intruded into his hairline. He struggled to get up but fell back against the sidewalk. My questions of him were met with groans.

“Don't move,” I said. “I'll call an ambulance.”

I took my cell phone from my purse and dialed 911. “There's an injured man in front of Leboeuf's French Bistro,” I told the dispatcher. “We need an ambulance right away.”

A crowd gathered as I hovered over the injured man and waited for the ambulance to arrive. It pulled up a few minutes later, and two EMTs emerged.

“Anybody know this man?” one asked as the other knelt beside him and checked his pulse.

“I was the person who called,” I said. “I don't know who he is. Two men from the restaurant dragged him here. Perhaps he has identification on him.”

The EMT groped for the victim's wallet, managed to pull it from his back pants pocket, and said to no one in particular, “His name's Shulte. Warren Shulte.”

They loaded him on a gurney, slid it into the rear of their vehicle, and drove off. I walked away from the knot of curious people and called for a taxi to pick me up. As I waited, I looked to the rear of Leboeuf's restaurant. The two young men who'd so
callously deposited the man on the pier stood laughing. I was tempted to confront them, but decided a more appropriate move was to report what I'd seen to Mort Metzger. I called him at home.

“What's up, Mrs. F.?” he asked.

“I just witnessed an assault on a man in front of Gérard Leboeuf's restaurant.”

“I heard about it. Somebody called it in to nine-one-one.”

“I called it in.”

“It was
you
?”

“Yes. I saw the poor man dragged from behind the restaurant by those two men who are part of the Leboeuf staff.”

“I didn't hear that part of it,” he said.

“I think you should confront them about it.”

“Whoa, slow down, Mrs. F. Does the victim want to press charges?”

“I don't know. I just assumed he would. He was badly beaten and was incapable of talking.”

“Do you know him? Who is he?” Mort asked.

“I heard one of the EMTs identify him as Warren Shulte.”

“I'll check it out,” Mort said. “Thanks for your call.”

“I thought you'd want to know.”

“By the way, Mrs. F., how come you were there when it happened?”

His question surprised me. “I had dinner at the Fin and Claw and had just left the restaurant.”

There was a hint of amusement in his voice. “Were you there asking questions about the Leboeuf murder?”

I ignored the question, apologized for calling him at home, and after we hung up, dialed Seth Hazlitt's number.

“Am I taking you from dinner?” I asked.

“Just finished up, Jessica. Where are you?”

“On the pier by the French bistro. I just witnessed an assault on a gentleman by two men who work for Leboeuf. I called an ambulance for him. The EMTs just took him to the hospital.”

“Who is it?”

“His name is Warren Shulte.”

“Doesn't sound familiar. Do you know him?”

“I don't, but I called Mort Metzger and reported it.”

“How badly was this fellow hurt?”

“He looked pretty beaten up, but I don't think he suffered critical injuries. Then again, I'm not a doctor.”

“You would have made a good one.”

“Not sure that's true. I was wondering if you would be good enough to call the hospital and find out what you can about him.”

“I guess I can do that. You heading home?”

“As soon as the taxi arrives.”

“I'll call you there if I find out anything of interest.”

The cab arrived as I clicked off my call to Seth.

“Home, Mrs. Fletcher?” the driver asked.

“Yes. Wait. No. Take me to the hospital. There's someone there I need to visit.”

T
he emergency room at Cabot Cove General Hospital was quiet when I arrived. The woman at the admitting desk recognized me and expressed surprise that I was there. I explained that I was the one who'd called 911 about the man who'd been deposited on the pier, and asked how he was. “His name, I believe, is Warren Shulte.”

“I'll check with Dr. Keane,” she said. When she returned, the doctor was with her.

“Hello, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said. Joseph Keane had moved to Cabot Cove two years earlier. He'd been an ER physician at New York Presbyterian; I'd met him through Seth Hazlitt.

“Hello, Dr. Keane. Busy night?”

“To the contrary. I understand you're the one who called for the ambulance for Mr. Shulte.”

“That's right. How is he?”

“Better, although you'd never know it from his face. Whoever mugged him did a pretty good job of roughing him up.”

“He wasn't mugged,” I said.

Keane's eyebrows went up. “What happened to him, then?”

I started to explain what I'd seen when Mort Metzger, wearing his sheriff's uniform, came through the door.

“Hello, Sheriff,” Keane said.

“Doc,” Mort said. “Hello, Mrs. F. Thought you'd be home. Didn't know you were coming here.”

“I didn't know that you'd be coming here either,” I said.

“I thought I'd best follow up.” Then he turned to Keane and said, “Can he talk?”

“He's pretty groggy, Sheriff. We've given him painkillers, but you can speak with him as long as you make it short. I've ordered X-rays and a CAT scan. He'll be admitted.”

Because no one told me that I wasn't invited, I followed Dr. Keane and Mort back into the treatment area, where the man lay on a bed, its head slightly elevated. He was covered by a sheet, and a nurse checked his vital signs. Shulte's eyes went from face to face, finally settling on the doctor's. “Who are they?” he asked, his voice weak and raspy.

“Our sheriff,” Keane said, “and the woman who found you and called for help, Jessica Fletcher.”

Shulte closed his eyes and groaned.

“Just want to ask you a few questions,” Mort said, coming to the side of the bed.

“What?” Shulte said, opening his eyes.

“Mrs. Fletcher here says she saw the two men who attacked you.”

Shulte's attention shifted to me, but he said nothing.

“Can you name them?” Mort asked.

He started to respond but swallowed the words before they emerged.

Mort looked at me.

“As I told you when I phoned, Mort, it was the two men who work for Leboeuf.”

“You're sure about that, Mrs. F.?”

“I didn't see them hit him. I only saw them carry him to the curb and drop him on the ground. They seemed to think it was amusing.”

Shulte said what sounded like, “They owe me.”

“They owe you?” I asked. “Who owes you?”

“Leboeuf.”

“What does he owe you? Money?” Mort asked. “Did you work for him?”

Shulte groaned again and nodded.

“Where did you work for them?” I asked.

“New York.”

“Doing what? In what capacity?”

He mumbled something and closed his eyes.

“I think that's enough,” said Keane.

Mort and I went from the ER to the lobby.

“Wonder what this is all about,” Mort muttered.

“You'll be able to ask more questions when he's up to it,” I said. “I think I'd better call a cab and go home.”

“No need. I'll drop you off, Mrs. F.”

We were almost to the door when a young man in horn-rimmed glasses walked in. I recognized him as one of the investigators who'd been on the dais with Mort and detectives Mason and Lucas during the press conference.

“Good evening, Sheriff,” he said.

“Hello, Agent Cale,” Mort said. “Have you met Mrs. Fletcher?”

“No, I haven't.” He extended his hand. “Special Agent Anthony Cale.”

He turned to Mort. “Where is Mr. Shulte?”

Mort inclined his head toward the emergency room. “Back there. I just tried to question him, but he's pretty well out of it.”

How does Special Agent Cale know the victim's name?

“Detective Mason called me right after you called him to report the incident,” Cale told Mort.

“Thought I should fill Mason in, considering that it might involve Leboeuf and his people. Mrs. Fletcher says he was probably assaulted by two of Leboeuf's men,” said Mort.

Another question came to mind.
Why did an FBI special agent consider it important enough to show up at the hospital?

“I appreciate being informed of this,” Cale said. “I'll take over from here.”

Take over what?
Why would the FBI be interested in what happened to a stranger who got himself beaten up?

*   *   *

Seth called shortly after I'd arrived home.

“I called the hospital to check on your Mr. Shulte,” he said. “Tried you earlier but got your infernal answering machine.”

“I was at the hospital,” I said.

“Why?”

“Well, I was the one who called for help for him. I thought I should check up on the patient.”

“So I wasted my time calling on your behalf,” he said, but I
could sense the smile on his face. “Let's see who found out more information. What did
you
learn?”

“Nothing, really.” I told him about Mort and the FBI special agent arriving.

“Well, I know a bit more than you, then. Seems he's a VIP of some sort,” Seth said.

“Oh? Why do you say that?”

“They've got him in a private room, no visitors, no information given out to anyone who calls. That's the order. Of course, the nurses talked some to me. He's stable, a couple of broken ribs and a possible broken nose, but nothing life threatening. So, Dr. Fletcher, your earlier assessment was pretty close to the mark.”

“Since they talked to you, Seth, did you find out why he's getting the VIP treatment?”

“Nope. Didn't apply my investigative powers any further.”

“Strange,” I said. “Well, I appreciate your checking on it.”

“Happy to oblige. Mind a word of advice, Jessica?”

“Have I ever minded, Seth?”

“Just don't want to see you get yourself all wrapped up in what happened to Mr. Leboeuf. We've got Mort, those investigators from out of town, and an FBI agent on the case. Best you spend your time writing your books and leave solving Leboeuf's murder to others.”

“I'll take it under advisement, Seth. Thank you.”

Now his smile turned into a chuckle. “Which means you haven't heard a word I've said.”