Killer in the Kitchen (17 page)

The setting had become still and serene after darkness had fallen. Patio lights, augmented by flickering lanterns, cast a soft glow over everything. Elaine brought out a key lime pie as special as her husband's barbecue sauce. I asked for the recipe.

“It's so easy, Jessica. Even Maureen Metzger couldn't mess up this pie.”

After a cup of strong and flavorful coffee, I stifled a yawn and glanced at my watch. “I think it's time for this lady to head home and to bed,” I said. “It's been a wonderful evening—good food, good friends, and spending time with a future National Book Award winner.”

Melinda beamed as I picked up her manuscript and my purse and stood.

“I'll drive you home,” Ed said.

“I can call a cab,” I protested.

“Nonsense,” Ed said. “Just give me a minute to carry some things inside.”

“I'll help,” I said.

With the table cleared, and after hugs to the ladies, I walked with Ed to his car in the driveway. As I was about to get in, my cell phone sounded.

“I wonder who that is,” I said, rummaging through my purse in search of the phone. “Hello?”

“Oh, Mrs. Fletcher,” a female voice managed between sobs.

“Who is this?” I asked.

“It's me—it's Marcie Fowler.”

“What's wrong, Marcie?”

“You have to come. It's Brad. They took him away.” The rest of her words were drowned in her tears.

“Please, Marcie, try to get ahold of yourself. Where are you?”

“At the restaurant.”

“What's happened to Brad?”

“Sheriff Metzger and his deputies arrested him for Gérard Leboeuf's murder.”

“I'll be right there.”

E
d Filler said that he would be glad to come with me into the Fin & Claw, but I told him it wasn't necessary. During our drive there, I had filled him in about Marcie's call.

“The police must have the goods against him if they've made the arrest,” he said.

It was a reasonable assumption on Ed's part. Brad Fowler's very public dispute with Gérard Leboeuf placed him at the top of the suspect list, and the authorities had focused their attention on him from the beginning. His arrest had begun to feel inevitable. Despite my hopes for Brad's innocence, I had to acknowledge that if someone was arrested and charged, there must be enough evidence to justify such action. Mort Metzger and the other investigators might well have uncovered tangible evidence that incriminated Brad beyond a reasonable doubt. If so, they were to be congratulated for solid police work. However, knowing as I do that the police want to solve a crime as quickly as possible and that there have been times when they take the easiest path, I had to hope that this was one of those occasions.

I thanked Ed for the lift to the restaurant and for the lovely evening, got out of his car, and approached the Fin & Claw's entrance. There were quite a few cars in the parking lot, as there
were in the parking lot for Leboeuf's bistro. It appeared as if Leboeuf's murder hadn't hurt either business, whether thanks to the food on the menus or the notoriety of both owners, one the victim of a brutal killing and the other suspected of the crime. Either way, both establishments were making money.

As I entered the Fin & Claw, I was greeted by Fritzi, who had abandoned his waiter's uniform for a suit and tie, befitting his role that evening as substitute host. I wasn't surprised. Marcie had been emotionally distraught when she'd called, hardly conducive to presenting a smiling, welcoming face to customers.

Fritzi's greeting was nonverbal. He raised his eyebrows and slowly shook his head.

I looked past him at the full dining room. “Where's Marcie?” I asked.

“In the kitchen or the back office,” he said. “You missed all the excitement.”

“She told me that Brad has been arrested.”

“That's right. Sheriff Metzger and two deputies hauled him off in handcuffs. Terrible!”

“Did they do it in front of the customers?”

He cocked his head toward the kitchen. “You'd better talk to her, Mrs. Fletcher—provided you can get her to calm down.”

A number of familiar faces greeted me, and the conversational buzz grew as I passed by their tables on my way to the swinging doors leading into the kitchen. I drew a deep breath and stepped through them.

“Where's Mrs. Fowler?” I asked.

A young man at the salad-making station said, “In the office.” He pointed to a door almost hidden by a massive stainless steel refrigerator. I went to it and knocked.

“Who is it?” Marcie's voice asked.

“It's Jessica Fletcher,” I said.

Marcie was huddled behind a small desk piled high with papers. I could see from the doorway that her face was red and blotchy; her mascara had run down from her eyes over her cheeks, giving her a tragic-comic look. I closed the door behind me and approached the desk. There was one other chair, a red-and-white striped director's chair in a corner, which I pulled close to her.

“I came as quickly as I could,” I said.

“Thank you,” she said weakly. “I shouldn't have bothered you, but I didn't know who else to call. Isabel isn't—”

“Your timing was perfect, Marcie. I was just leaving Dr. Filler's house. I'm glad you reached out to me.”

I thought she was about to cry again, but her reservoir of tears was empty. All that emerged from her were dry gasps. I waited until that spasm had passed before saying, “Do you want to tell me what happened tonight?”

“It was awful, Mrs. Fletcher, a nightmare.”

“Sheriff Metzger arrested Brad here at the restaurant?”

“Yes. They must have gone to the house first. I got a call from my neighbor, who was there watering my plants. She said the sheriff and two other officers arrived in a pair of police cars and asked where Brad was. My neighbor told them that he was working. Where else would he be? We're here day and night, keeping the restaurant going.”

“Brad knew they were coming? I mean, you told him about your neighbor's call, didn't you?”

“Not right away. I was busy with two couples who wanted to change their table. No drafts. Not near the kitchen. Away from
any children. I finally got them seated and went into the kitchen to tell Brad. I had just gotten his attention when the sheriff and his men came through the back door.”

“And they arrested Brad right there in the kitchen?”

“No. I wish they had. The sheriff and his men came through the door that leads into the kitchen. Brad and his sous chef were cooking. Some of the waitstaff were picking up orders from the hot shelf, and—”

I waited for her to regain control of her voice.

“Brad saw them and panicked. He glanced at me and ran into the dining room.”

I drew a deep breath. Running was the worst thing he could have done.

“What happened then?”

“Oh, God, it was terrible. The sheriff and his men raced after Brad. It happened right there in the middle of the dinner service; people were eating their meals, and the sheriff comes bursting through the kitchen doors.”

“They subdued Brad in the dining room?”

She nodded, her sobs coming out in hiccups.

At least Mort Metzger had tried to be tactful, to arrest Brad in the kitchen, out of sight of the Fin & Claw's customers. Although Mort and I had had our disagreements over the years, I respected his integrity and sensitivity and wasn't surprised that he'd tried to take Brad into custody out of public view.

What had prompted Brad to run?
Running from the law is almost always viewed as an indication of guilt.

I put that thought aside and asked Marcie, “Did Brad say anything to you when they arrested him?”

“He was beside himself, Jessica. He was trembling. He cursed at the police, which is so unlike him. He never uses four-letter words, at least not around me.”

“Did Sheriff Metzger say anything about why they were arresting him?” I asked.

She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, either because her thoughts were painful, or because she was trying to recall what had been said. She opened them and said, “They . . . they had him on his stomach on the floor with his hands behind his back.” Newfound tears flowed.

“It must have been a terrible shock to people at the tables.”

“I was so humiliated,” Marcie said, “not for me, but for Brad.”

“Of course you were.”

“The last thing Brad told me as they were taking him away was to stay here and take care of the customers. And then he—”

I cocked my head.

“Oh, Mrs. Fletcher, I wish he hadn't.”

“What did he do?”

“He swore he didn't do it, but he also yelled out that he was glad that Leboeuf was dead.”

Brad Fowler was obviously his own worst enemy. He not only ran from the authorities, but he fed into his motive for having killed Leboeuf.

“I followed them outside,” Marcie said, mopping her eyes with a napkin. “I asked the sheriff if I could come. He said no. He said I should get a lawyer for Brad.”

“Good advice,” I said. “Do you have one you can call?”

“Only the lawyer who drew up the papers for the restaurant, but I don't think he handles criminal cases. Besides, Mrs. Fletcher, where will we get the money for a lawyer? We're broke. Every cent has gone into the Fin and Claw. Our last four hundred dollars went to pay the fine from the health inspector.”

“The court will assign a public defender,” I said. “There are some very good ones in the area.”

“I'm doing as Brad asked. I'm staying here, but for what? I'm sure all the customers are leaving left and right without waiting for their dinners to come out. I don't blame them.”

“Well, actually, when I came through the dining room, it appeared to me as if every table was full.”

“They are? I can't go out there looking like this.”

Fritzi interrupted us. “Sorry to bother you,” he said, “but customers are still coming in. Would you like me to put a ‘closed' sign on the door?”

“What should I do, Mrs. Fletcher?” Marcie asked. “I want to get out of here and see Brad.”

“Can you cook?”

“Of course.”

“Why don't you let Fritzi handle the front of the house and you keep things going in the kitchen,” I said. “I
doubt that they'll allow you to see Brad tonight. The best thing you can do is take care of your customers and then go home and try to get some sleep. I'm sure Sheriff Metzger can arrange for you to visit him tomorrow.”

“I can't bear the thought of going home without Brad there.”

“What about your folks?”

“They're down in Florida.”

“Would you like to spend the night at my house?”

“Oh, Mrs. Fletcher, are you sure?”

“Of course I'm sure. I have a guest room that's always made up and ready for visitors.”

A great sigh escaped her. “I'd be so grateful,” she said. “I think what I need most is someone I can talk to, someone who understands.”

“I'm flattered if you think I'm that person, Marcie. Go take care of your diners. You want them to keep coming back, don't you? I'll find a quiet corner of the dining room and wait for you.”

Two hours later I got out of Marcie's car in my driveway. We entered the house and I offered to brew tea, but she asked if I had anything stronger. I poured her a snifter of brandy and made the tea for myself. We sat in my living room, each immersed in our own thoughts, until she said, “I never thought I'd say this, but maybe Brad
did
kill Leboeuf.”

M
arcie and I sat up talking until two in the morning. To be more accurate, Marcie talked and I listened, a role I was perfectly willing to assume. She needed to vent, to empty herself of all her conflicting feelings and thoughts about Brad, the Fin & Claw, and her life in general. She told stories of her childhood, of vacations with her parents, silly things she did as a teenager, and spoke in detail of how she met Brad, their courtship, marriage, and life together.

“I think what attracted me most to Brad,” she said, “was how sure he was of things. I mean, when he made up his mind about something, or to do something, he did it. Nothing was going to stop him.”

“That is an admirable trait,” I agreed, “but sometimes we can be too sure of ourselves.”

She looked at me, puzzled.

“This sure-mindedness you speak of, Marcie—I just wonder if he forged ahead with opening the restaurant without having benefited from what others might know about the business.”

“We talked about that,” she said, “and I urged Brad to seek advice from other people. He did. He studied and he read, but he also had his own way of doing things, and as I said, once he'd made up his mind, there was no stopping him.”

Her conversation flowed easily. She seemed to be on automatic pilot, one recollection melding into another, the words sometimes coming so fast that I had to ask her to repeat what she'd said. Her nerves were exposed; she constantly ran her fingers through her hair as though to confirm that it was still there, and she had a habit of chewing her cheek between tales. Her stories didn't seem to follow any sort of chronological order.

But I kept thinking of what she'd said earlier, that she wondered whether Brad
had
killed Gérard Leboeuf. I wanted to pick my spot to raise that with her and found it when she said, “I'd never known Brad to take immediate offense with anyone until Leboeuf came into our lives. God, how he hated that man.”

“Why do you think Brad disliked Leboeuf so much?” I asked. “Was it just the competition, or was it because you disliked him, too?”

“Me? I didn't have anything against the man.”

“Now, Marcie, when I met you at the press conference when Leboeuf announced his new restaurant, you were upset.”

“Of course I was upset, but it was because Leboeuf was such a big shot and he was going into competition with us.”

“At the time, you told me you hated Leboeuf.”

“I don't remember that. You must have misunderstood. I just didn't want our place to go up against a famous chef with loads of money behind him, that's all.”

I decided not to pursue Marcie's faulty memory or my possible misunderstanding and asked about what had been nagging at me since we walked in the door. “When we first got home tonight, you said that you thought that maybe Brad
had
killed Leboeuf. That comment shocked me.”

“I didn't really mean it,” she said. “It's just that—” She took a deep breath and let it out.

“Just that what? Did something happen? Did Brad say or do anything to lead you to doubt his innocence?”

She shifted her position on the couch, diverting her eyes from mine. I waited for her to reply. When she did, she said it flatly, without looking at me. “Brad wanted me to tell the police that he'd come home the night of the murder hours before it happened.”

“But he hadn't?”

A slow shaking of her head was her response.

She turned to me. “Brad knew that he'd be the prime suspect because of the angry exchanges he'd had with Leboeuf. He was sure that what Leboeuf had said to his mother had triggered her stroke. There was also the threat to the Fin and Claw that Leboeuf and all his money represented.”

“I think Brad was right in assuming that those things would cause the authorities to point a finger at him,” I said. “It's only natural to first look at those who had a motive to kill. But motive alone doesn't prove guilt. Did Sheriff Metzger say anything when he arrested Brad to indicate that he had sufficient evidence to take such a step?”

“Not in front of me. No.”

“Have you told the police what Brad asked you to do?”

“Oh, no, of course not.”

“They have questioned you, though, haven't they?”

“Not for very long. I told them I was at home asleep. The kitchen workers could verify the time I left the restaurant. I guess that's my alibi.”

Did she have a legal obligation to tell the authorities what
Brad had requested of her? Did I? Because Marcie was Brad's wife, she was not legally obligated to say anything that would be injurious to her spouse. Morally? The line between moral obligations and legal requirements has always been gray. But what of
my
moral obligation?

A series of yawns preceded a lull in the conversation, during which Marcie's eyes closed and her head nodded.

“Time for bed,” I said.

“Can't I sleep right here?” she asked, dropping her shoes to the floor.

“Wouldn't you be more comfortable in a bed in the guest room?”

She answered with another yawn. “I'm fine here, if you don't mind.” She stretched out.

“The bed upstairs is made. You could just climb in.”

But she'd already rested her head on a brown leather pillow on the couch. Within seconds her breathing told me that she was sound asleep. I pulled a throw from a chair and gently covered her with it.

Poor thing,
I thought.
To be so young and to have to suffer through such a horrible experience.

I left her sleeping, went upstairs, and ten minutes later I, too, was gone.

Four hours later I awakened to a noise from another part of the house. Groggily, I got out of bed, slipped on my robe and slippers, and ventured from the bedroom. Marcie was in the kitchen, looking out at my backyard.

“It's so pretty here,” she said absently when I came into the room. “I'm sorry if I woke you.”

“I'm just sorry that you had so little sleep.”

She raised her arms overhead and stretched. “I'm fine. I used to get by on four hours when I was in school. Besides, your couch is more comfortable than our bed at home.”

“What would you like for breakfast, Marcie?”

“Nothing, thanks. I'd better go home and change and then get down to police headquarters to find out what's happened to Brad. I'll also be needed at the restaurant to get ready for the lunch crowd. Hopefully there will be a crowd.” She gave me a wan smile.

“I understand,” I said. “Some coffee in a traveling cup?”

She shook her head. “You were so sweet to let me ramble on last night.”

“You needed to unburden yourself. And please call on me if there's anything more I can do to help.”

I watched her pull away from the driveway, sighed, and headed back to the kitchen, where I made myself a cup of coffee and an English muffin with cherry preserves I'd recently bought. I debated going back to bed but decided that since I was up I might as well get an early start to the day. Dressed and ready for action, I settled in my home office and waded through e-mails that had accumulated and gone unanswered and tackled my least favorite office chore, filing. I was in the midst of creating multiple piles of paper on my desk when the phone rang.

“Hi, Jessica. Maureen here.”

“Hello, Maureen. I understand your husband had a busy night.”

“You've heard about Brad Fowler.”

“Yes. His wife, Marcie, spent last night here.”

“She did? Why didn't she go home?”

“I guess she felt the need for a little company. We sat up
talking until the wee hours. She didn't get much sleep—and neither did I,” I said, stifling a yawn.

“I feel bad for her, and for her husband.”

“So do I.”

“But I'm not calling about that, Jessica. Just want to make sure that you remember tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“My dinner party. Don't tell me you've forgotten?”

There goes my early-to-bed night,
I thought
.

The truth was that in the flurry of events of the past few days, I
had
forgotten to put Maureen's dinner party on my calendar. I confessed to her that it had slipped my mind, but since my schedule for that evening was open, I assured her that I'd be there.

“I'm glad I called,” she said. “It wouldn't be the same without you. By the way, I've made a wonderful dessert based upon Isabel Fowler's recipe.”

“Looking forward to it, Maureen. I'd better get my calendar up to date.”

I was thankful that Maureen had reminded me of her dinner party. It was uncharacteristic of me to have forgotten about it, and I would have felt terrible had I not shown up. Maureen's dinner parties were always pleasant occasions, although you could never be sure that the dishes she created would turn out the way she intended. But the food wasn't as important as the conversation that always sparkled when this group of friends gathered, and I'd be less than honest if I didn't say I was looking forward to a chance to talk with Mort Metzger about Brad Fowler's arrest.

Mort wasn't like many other lawmen with whom I'd
interacted over the years. While he was always professional, he was more willing to confide things in me that those others wouldn't, never breaching the rules of confidentiality, of course, but taking me into his confidence after I'd shared something with him that aided his investigation. That he trusted me and occasionally sought my counsel was flattering. Nevertheless, I couldn't be sure he would share information with me this night about Brad's incarceration and the charges against him. I'd have to see how the evening progressed and whether I could find an opportune time to ask about the case.

As I prepared lunch for myself, the small knife I was using to slice a tomato triggered thoughts of how Gérard Leboeuf had been killed and what I'd learned about the knife his assailant had used. I left my half-prepared lunch to go to my computer, where I Googled
Corkin Knives
. The Japanese company's website proudly pointed out that it took four separate craftsmen and two weeks to create one of their signature knives, and it involved fifty different steps—forging, edge crafting, handle making, and assembling. No wonder they were so expensive. Sharpening them was also an art, according to what I read, and testimonials from leading chefs were many: “There is nothing of greater value in my kitchens than a Corkin knife,” one celebrity chef wrote.

Had a Corkin knife ever been used before to kill someone? If so, I wouldn't expect to see it on their website. Some of the articles written about Leboeuf's murder had mentioned a Corkin knife as the murder weapon—not the sort of PR the company would welcome, although the fatal use one of their knives had been put to certainly wasn't the company's fault. I printed out what I'd read, put the printout with the other notes I'd been
keeping since the murder, and returned to the kitchen, where I finished making my sandwich and concentrated on eating it slowly even though my thoughts were in overdrive.

Brad and Marcie had alleged that kitchen items had been stolen, but they'd never reported the theft to police. Was a knife among the missing tools? They'd accused Jake Trotter of stealing, which he'd vehemently denied. Could it have been Brad's knife that had been used as the murder weapon? I jotted a note to follow up on the question and added a few more questions to pose to Mort Metzger, provided the opportunity presented itself that evening.

The previous night's abbreviated sleep caught up with me, and I napped that afternoon, which was unusual for me. By five thirty I was showered and dressed, and at six my taxi driver dropped me at Mort and Maureen's house.

I was among the earlier arrivals, but a half hour later all the guests had arrived, ten in all, including me. Mort and Maureen made twelve. It was a beautiful evening, unusually warm for the time of year, and with a gentle breeze that made having cocktails and hors d'oeuvres on their patio comfortable. Maureen was cooking in her kitchen, leaving it to Mort to entertain guests outdoors. He'd recently purchased a weatherproof bamboo bar, which he manned with obvious pride, pointing out its features to anyone who would listen. It was a theme party, judging from the mariachi band playing Mexican music through a boom box on the bar top, although Maureen hadn't specified that in her invitation. Another hint at the evening's motif was the sombrero Mort wore. I could only assume that the dinner Maureen had concocted would feature Mexican food, a first for her as far as I
knew. I was glad that Seth Hazlitt was there. He could always be counted on to have a roll of Tums with him.

As the predinner festivities wound down, I found time at the bar with Mort, out of earshot from others. It was no surprise that much of the guests' chitchat had revolved around the Leboeuf murder and Brad Fowler's arrest, although I hadn't heard Mort join in any of those conversations.

“When will Brad Fowler be arraigned?” I asked casually, as though I really didn't care.

“Tomorrow,” Mort said. “Refill on your margarita?”

“No, thank you. Marcie Fowler stayed at my house last night.”

“How come?”

“She needed to talk, and I was a willing listener. You can imagine how upset she is that her husband has been arrested for murder.”

“No more upset than Leboeuf's family is,” Mort countered.

I let his comment pass and said, “I assume you and the other investigators have unearthed some damning evidence against Brad.”

Mort's Cheshire-cat smile said a lot. “You don't think I'd arrest somebody and accuse them of being a murderer if I didn't have proof, do you?”

“Of course not. It's just that Gérard Leboeuf seemed to have alienated many people aside from Brad Fowler.”

“That's true, Mrs. F., but it doesn't mean that any of them would stick a knife in him.”