Killer in the Kitchen (15 page)

I thought of Special Agent Anthony Cale. Had Mr. Compton changed his name because he'd entered the Witness Protection Program?

I asked.

He managed his first smile since we'd arrived. “Heck no,” he said, shaking his head. “The Bureau wanted me to be a witness against Leboeuf, but I wasn't about to bite the hand that fed me. But when the goons behind Leboeuf got wind that the FBI was
talking
to me, I figured I'd better make tracks. That's what I did.”

“Using an assumed name,” I said.

“Just a precaution.”

“Where have you been living?” Seth asked.

“Different places. I was with a daughter for a while, but I didn't like putting her in jeopardy, so I moved here, there, and ended up out on the east end of Cape Cod.”

“You left New York because you were afraid for your life?” I asked.

“Right.”

“And you felt safe there?”

“Safe as anywhere. Had a little place I rented. Good view of
the road, although I always looked over my shoulder whenever I ventured outside.”

“But the FBI would have protected you in its Witness Protection Program,” I offered.

His guffaw morphed into a cough and became a groan. “Look,” he said, after catching his breath, “I may not be the brightest bulb in the socket, but I don't trust the Feds any more than I trusted Leboeuf.”

“You don't have to worry about him any longer,” Seth grunted. He looked at his watch and raised his eyebrows.

I got the message and quickly asked, “If you wanted to get away from Leboeuf and his men, why did you come here to Cabot Cove and go to his restaurant?”

“I'm wondering that myself right now,” Compton said. “When I heard that the big-shot chef had been killed—and I sure as shootin' wasn't sad about that—I decided to confront his wife for the money I was owed. I've been living hand-to-mouth and figured I had nothing to lose by seeing if Evie would make it right. I helped set her up in business. We used to be good buddies.” He leaned back against the pillow and sighed. “I've made a lot of bad decisions in my life, and this was another one. When I told her why I was there, she told those two jerks who keep an eye on things for the ‘investors' to get rid of me.”

“They could have killed you,” I said.

“They wouldn't do that. At least not as long as I have the goods on Leboeuf and the funny money that's behind him. That's why they're afraid of me.”

“Not so afraid that they hesitated to tear the stuffing out of you,” Seth said. “Have you given that information to the FBI?”

He shook his head. “The way I figure it, that information is my life preserver. It stays with me.” He pointed at his head.

“If that's the only place your evidence is,” I said, “it only gives them more of a motive to get rid of you.”

“Look, I'm not that stupid, sweetheart. It's all written down in the safe in my attorney's office. If I die, he knows what to do. That's my ace in the hole. Leboeuf's goons know that, but what they don't know is who my attorney is.”

As I pondered the wisdom of what Compton considered his “ace in the hole,” the door opened and FBI Special Agent Cale entered.

“What's going on here?” he demanded.

“I'm checking on my patient,” Seth said mildly. He plugged his stethoscope into his ears and placed the chest piece over Compton's heart.

“What are
you
doing here?” Cale asked me.

“I saved this gentleman's life. I wanted to make sure he was okay.”

“Well, now that you've seen for yourself that he'll live, you can leave.”

Mort's deputy poked his head in the open doorway. “Everything okay here?”

Cale speared him with a frosty look. “I thought I told you no one was to visit him. Why did you let
her
in?”

“It's Mrs. Fletcher,” Chip replied. “Everybody knows her, and she was making rounds with the doctor.”

“You can wait for me outside, Jessica,” Seth said. “I need a little time with my patient.” He directed that last comment at Cale.

Several minutes later Seth joined me where I'd lingered in
the hallway outside the door. The FBI agent had spent the time dressing down the deputy. I felt sorry for the young man whom I knew I had tricked into letting me go where I wasn't supposed to be.

Cale broke away from the deputy. “What did he tell you?” he asked Seth, pointing at the door.

“Can't reveal what we discussed,” Seth said. “Doctor-patient privilege.”

“I don't mean what you talked about medically. What else did you talk about?”

“Coming, Jessica?” Seth asked.

“Yes,” I said. “Good seeing you again, Agent Cale.”

I could feel Cale's eyes boring into our backs as we walked down the hall and waited for the elevator.

Seth returned his white lab coat, and we left the hospital and got in his car.

“Satisfied?” he asked as we pulled from the lot.

“It was an eye-opener,” I said. “If I understood him correctly, according to Shulte—I mean Compton—those two young men who work for Leboeuf are members of organized crime.”

“Ayuh.”

“Either one of them might have killed him.”

“Possible.”

As we pulled into my driveway, Seth said, “You heard Compton say that he's been looking over his shoulder everywhere he goes.”

“Yes, I heard that.”

“My advice to you, Jessica Fletcher, is that you do the same.”

A
s soon as I walked in the house, I went to my desk and made notes about everything Compton had said about Leboeuf and their former relationship. I had no idea at that juncture, of course, that one day I would be writing a book about the murder and would find these notes helpful. For the moment I was concerned only that I not forget things in the event they proved useful to the authorities in solving the Leboeuf murder.

Once I'd recalled what had transpired in the hospital room and got it down on paper, I sat back and thought about what it all might mean.

From what I knew of the man, Gérard Leboeuf had made plenty of enemies over the course of his career. According to Mr. Compton, Leboeuf owed him money. I wondered how many others the chef may have taken advantage of—even defrauded—not to mention those he had forced out of business with his tough tactics. Notwithstanding his denials, Compton feared for his life to the extent that he had bolted from New York and had been living a low-profile existence ever since, constantly looking over his shoulder. From what he'd told Seth and me, as Leboeuf's accountant he'd been in a position to know everything about the restaurateur's fiscal dealings, including the source of the
financing with which he'd launched his dining empire, as well as the allegation that he'd used his restaurants to launder money. Compton understood that such inside information could get a man killed, which motivated his skipping town. Perhaps he'd figured with Leboeuf dead, he was safe in confronting Eva over the money owed him. What he hadn't counted on were the two bodyguards, if that's what they were, who seemed to be tickled to have the opportunity to exercise their muscles against an aging man.

Evidently, the FBI had been looking for Compton, and I made a note to try to confirm how Special Agent Cale had learned of Compton's new identity as Shulte. He'd come to the hospital the night of the attack and had already known the man's assumed name. He'd said Detective Mason had called him. But how did he know Shulte was the man he was seeking? Could he have suspected the accountant would come looking for money? Learning his quarry was in the hospital had spurred the FBI special agent into action. How the FBI knew Compton's assumed name was one of many unanswered questions, but Leboeuf's former financial manager clearly was not skilled at maintaining an alternate identity. I had quickly picked up that Shulte wasn't his real name.

I made a note on my lined yellow pad to find out when Compton had arrived in Cabot Cove. He claimed to have gone to the restaurant to find Eva Leboeuf and ask about the money owed him. But had he been in town earlier, early enough to have confronted Leboeuf himself and take action against him if his pleas fell on deaf ears? His hatred of the man was palpable, perhaps enough so to prompt such a drastic step.

That Eva had allowed the opening of the restaurant following
her husband's murder felt strange to me, but perhaps she felt that he would have wanted her to carry on in his absence. How people respond when someone near to them has died is often confusing, complying with a logic only the bereaved can explain—and sometimes can't.

The Leboeuf neighbors, Ed and Elaine Filler, mentioned that the couple often fought. I had only encountered Eva socially a limited number of times, and truthfully, she'd never come across as a doting wife. The waiter Fritzi said that Leboeuf was known as a ladies' man back in New York, and Fritzi was right: A husband with multiple affairs wasn't destined to engender tender feelings in his spouse. However, few high-profile couples ever reveal the truth of their relationships in public, despite what the tabloids blare in their headlines. Eva ran a successful business that hinged on how beautiful she was. If I put myself in her place, I would have wanted people to comment on my products, not on my family. So it wasn't surprising to me that she worked to keep her private life just that—private. As a result, I had no idea how she really felt about her husband's death, much less about the fact that he'd been murdered.

It was also hard to eliminate their son, Wylie, from the equation. With a history of drug use and possibly violent behavior, he hadn't demonstrated any ambition or goals of his own, presenting himself as the opposite of his hard-driving father. And I'd seen for myself the nature of the prickly relationship between father and son. Leboeuf was demanding—there was no doubt about that—and from what I'd seen of his son, Wylie seemed to be a disaffected young man with little interest in anything other than what was on the screen of his cell phone. Marcie claimed to have heard that the young man had struck his father the night
of the murder, but if her “facts” came from the Cabot Cove rumor mill, they could hardly be relied upon as the truth. Someone working in Leboeuf's kitchen telling someone working in Brad's kitchen was not exactly firm evidence that such an assault had taken place. I would need to find someone who'd actually witnessed the two together before I believed such an aggressive encounter had taken place.

And speaking of those who worked in Leboeuf's kitchen, who there might have had reason or incentive to silence the chef? Could any of them have taken exception to being browbeaten by the boss? Jake Trotter, the sous chef, who moved from the Fin & Claw to Leboeuf's French Bistro, seemed to pick fights with everyone for whom he worked. I knew nothing about him except that he had a volcanic temper, and people with so much rage in them are capable of doing irrational things.

And what of Walter Chang, who'd been brought to Cabot Cove to manage the restaurant? According to Mort Metzger, Chang was the person who'd discovered Leboeuf's lifeless body in the kitchen. What was the tenor of
their
relationship?

When I thought of the kitchen staff at Leboeuf's, an image of the two young men dragging Compton from behind the restaurant blazed across my mental screen. Who were they? Were they connected to criminal elements? Compton indicated that they were. Maybe the two had taken out the famous chef, perhaps on instructions from a criminal organization that allegedly had financed him to begin with. But why would they want to eliminate the famous figurehead of Gérard Leboeuf's restaurant empire, the cash cow that must have made continuous contributions to their coffers—unless the chef was cheating them,
skimming off money right under their noses. Had Leboeuf sufficiently angered his “partners” for them to call for his execution?

Thinking about all of these potential suspects kept pushing me away from facing the possibility that the police might already be investigating the right man. Could it be Brad Fowler?

No matter how much I rail against authorities coming to hasty conclusions when investigating a murder, focusing on Brad could hardly be dismissed as a knee-jerk response. If I could weigh Jake's volcanic temper and imagine that his rage might lead to violence, I could hardly make excuses for Brad's anger at his competitor. Leboeuf opening his bistro next door to the Fin & Claw had threatened to destroy Brad and Marcie's dream. The snide comments from Leboeuf and his party at opening night were not only crude and uncalled for, but they bordered on a challenge to Brad to defend what was near and dear to him. And then there was Leboeuf's nasty comment to Isabel Fowler minutes before she suffered a fatal stroke. That could well have tipped Brad into a murderous mode when coupled with his well-known short fuse. Of everyone, he seemed to have the strongest motive, although I wanted desperately for Brad not to have been the murderer.

I'd known Isabel for many years. To suspect that her son and only child might be capable of such drastic action was unthinkable. Yet was it my sentimental attachment to his mother that made me willing to defend Brad, to believe that while he still had a lot of growing up to do, he was not the out-of-control teenager he had once been? If nothing else, Brad had matured into a man who loved his mother, adored his wife, and was willing to work long and hard to achieve a goal he'd held for many
years. I prayed that that man had not betrayed the trust so many had invested in him to become a coldhearted killer.

Taking a break from the depressing work of analyzing motives for murder, I wandered outside and down the front path to the mailbox. Correspondence, whether paper or e-mail, could always be counted on to force me to abandon such thoughts in favor of catching up with friends, answering business queries, even dealing with household bills. Sorting through the envelopes I retrieved from my mailbox, I turned over a postcard with a cartoon drawing of a tooth on it. It was a notice from Ed Filler that I was due for a cleaning. Ed had said I would receive his reminder soon, and his postcard couldn't have come at a better time. Back at my desk, I picked up the telephone. Ed's wife, Elaine, answered my call.

“Hi, Elaine. It's Jessica Fletcher.”

“Hello, Jessica. Ed ran out for a few minutes and I'm covering the phones for him. Need an appointment?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. I see I'm due for a cleaning.”

“Oh, good. You got my card. Let me check the appointment book for you. Ooh, he's booked solid. Nothing open for a few weeks.”

“I was hoping to get there sooner.”

“Are you having problems with your tooth?”

“No. No. Ed fixed it perfectly.”

“It can't be that you're that eager for a cleaning.”

“Not exactly.”

“Oh, yes, the neighbors,” Elaine said. “Had a feeling you'd want to look in on them. I have an idea.”

“I'm listening.”

“Our niece Melinda is here visiting from California, just an
overnight on her way to Boston. She's about to have her first novel published, a YA I think she calls it.”

“Young adult, a popular category of books these days.”

“Melinda knows that we live in the same town as Jessica Fletcher and would love to meet you.”

“It'd be my pleasure.”

“Let me see. I think I can fit you in as the last patient, six o'clock. Ed's hygienist is home sick, but Ed hasn't lost his cleaning touch. Are you free this evening?”

“As a matter of fact, I am.”

“How about combining your cleaning with an impromptu cookout? Ed is a whiz at barbecuing ribs, almost as good as at putting in a crown. You can get your teeth cleaned by the man himself and enjoy good ribs with a heavenly barbecue sauce that Ed whipped up last night.”

“How could I possibly say no?” I said. “Clean teeth and first-rate barbecued ribs? Pencil me in. I'll be there at six on the button.”

Until that call, I had planned a quiet night at home, a simple dinner, a good book, and early to bed. But two things had changed my mind.

First, I thoroughly enjoyed being with the Fillers, and I would be fulfilling my dental obligations. Second, the Fillers' property was adjacent to the Leboeufs' summer home. Some tasty ribs, good conversation, and a chance to see close-up what was going on with the neighbors next door—a win-win situation.

I'd no sooner hung up when the phone rang. I looked at the readout; it was Mort Metzger. I was certain that he was calling about my conversation with Compton earlier that day and was
undoubtedly irate. I could envision Agent Cole chastising him about untrained deputies and poor police practices. I was tempted to not pick up and let the answering machine take the call, but I realized that would be cowardly on my part. Time to face the music.

“Hello, Mort,” I said cheerfully.

“Hello, Mrs. F.” He didn't sound cheery at all.

“How are you today?” I asked, knowing his reply would match the tone of his greeting.

“I could be a lot better, Mrs. F.”

“Oh? A problem?”

“You know why I'm calling.”

“No, I don't.”

But I did, of course. Word had obviously gotten back to him about my accompanying Seth to see Mr. Compton despite Mort's deputy's orders to keep everyone out except medical personnel and the authorities.

“I heard you went to see the man who got beaten up, the one you called in to nine-one-one.”

“I wanted to see how he was doing.”

“Doc Hazlitt could have told you how he was doing. There was no need for you to show up there in person.”

“I'm sorry if it has upset you, Mort.”

“I'm a bit more than upset, Mrs. F. You humiliated me in front of the FBI.”

“Oh, dear. I didn't mean to do that.”

“Agent Cale reamed me out, and you better believe I did the same to my deputy. I was going to suspend Chip, but he swore he now understands the meaning of ‘no visitors.'”

“Please don't be hard on Chip, Mort. He meant well, didn't see anything wrong with allowing me to accompany Seth into the room.”

“He had his orders. Makes me and the department look like a bunch of clowns.”

“My apologies.”

“Made us look like third graders in the schoolyard, like tourists losing their way in Times Square.”

“I get the picture, Mort. I'm truly sorry to have embarrassed you.”

“Now that I've gotten that off my chest, Mrs. F., maybe you'd be good enough to tell me what Compton told you.”

“You know his real name.”

“Of course I do. Just because the FBI has him under wraps—or so they think—doesn't mean that I shouldn't be in the loop.”

“Of course not.”

“So?”

“So—what?”

“We have a deal, don't we? I told you about the knife. Now you tell me about what Compton told you.”

“I'm sure that I learned nothing you haven't heard from Special Agent Cale. Compton was once Gérard Leboeuf's accountant, which meant he was privy to Leboeuf's financial situation. Some of his financial dealings were evidently illegal, and Compton knew that being in possession of such information might
put him in danger. That's why he left New York and has been living under the assumed name Shulte.”

“Yeah, I know all that.”

“Well, then, you know what I know. What else are you asking me?”