Killer in the Kitchen (18 page)

“Which also goes for Brad Fowler,” I said, aware that the conversation was becoming slightly contentious.

Mort looked around before leaning closer to me. He removed his hat—“Maureen insisted that I wear this stupid
thing”—and said, “Look, Mrs. F., I know that you're friends with the Fowlers and don't like seeing Brad in this pickle. I don't either. Truth is that I really liked his mother, Isabel, and I like his wife, too. He's not a bad sort. But I've got a job to do, and I'm doing it the best way I know how. Brad Fowler killed Gérard Leboeuf. Case closed.”

Maureen came to the kitchen door. “Mort, come in, sweetheart. Dinner's being served.”

“Hope you like Mexican food, Mrs. F.,” Mort said to me. “Not my favorite thing, but I made the mistake of buying Maureen a membership in a cookbook-of-the-month club for Christmas, and the latest one was Mexican.”

I laughed. “That's what called being ‘hoisted by your own petard.'”

“What's that mean?”

“It was a phrase used in
Hamlet
, and it literally means you were blown up by your own bomb, but more casually it means you were undone by your own action.”

“Undone, huh? I can buy that. Maureen's been trying out these exotic recipes for a week now. I've been the official taster of whatever she concocts.” He made a face.

“That bad?”

“I have to admit that some of it tastes pretty good, but it smells up the kitchen something awful. It's okay. I'm getting used to it. Come on, Mrs. F. Time for Maureen's Mexican fiesta.”

Mort's wife had set her buffet with a colorful serape as a tablecloth, on which she placed a variety of south-of-the-border dishes. I carefully chose which ones to taste, knowing that my tolerance for extraspicy was limited, and joined everyone at the table in praising what she'd created in her kitchen. Even Seth Hazlitt, whose dislike for most ethnic foods is well-known, agreed that some of the dishes were to his liking. Maureen did a running commentary on what she served: “The chile verde is mostly green chiles and deep-fried pork,” she proudly proclaimed. “The chilaquiles are tortilla chips with green sauce made with tomatoes, and this is my favorite, pollo pibil. It's a Yucatecan recipe—chicken wrapped in banana leaves with lots of spices added.”

We gave her a round of applause after everyone had dined on her latest culinary creations, which delighted her. “Of course, you didn't have to taste the dishes I dumped in the garbage,” she admitted, smiling at her husband. “Mort is such a good sport when it comes to my cooking.”

“Helps to have a cast-iron stomach,” her husband replied to a round of laughter, but he gave Maureen a big hug as we carried our plates into the kitchen.

“Still a beautiful night,” Mort announced. “We'll have dessert and Spirit of Aztec coffee outside. The coffee comes direct from Mexico.”

“Don't forget your sombrero, dear,” Maureen reminded her husband. “You look so handsome in it, like a real caballero.”

I've tasted strong coffee before, but nothing like the brew Mort served up from behind his bamboo bar. My occasional sweet tooth was satisfied with a layered lemon cake Maureen had whipped up, smothered with thick, sweet dulce de leche and
topped with white chocolate curls. While my craving for sweets is a sometime occurrence, Seth's is seldom absent, and he opted for a second slice of the sinfully rich cake. Maureen had outdone herself; my appreciation for her efforts in the kitchen grew considerably that night.

With so many guests, it was difficult to corner my host again, but I waited until I found an opportunity to chat alone with Mort.

“You say that the Leboeuf case is closed,” I said.

“That's right, Mrs. F.”

“Everyone else who might have killed Leboeuf has been ruled out?”

“You know as well as I do that everyone is a suspect at first. I interviewed everybody. So did those detectives from the state, Mason and Lucas. Of course I took the lead and asked the toughest questions.” He leaned closer and spoke in conspiratorial tones, “At first Mason and Lucas focused in on Leboeuf's son, Wylie. I went along with them, but there was something stuck in my craw, Mrs. F. The kid may be a foul ball, a druggie with a chip on his shoulder, but something didn't ring true to me. Anyway, long story short, the techs think they have a match to Fowler's fingerprint on the kitchen door, and here's the kicker—I came up with an eyewitness who saw the murder go down.”

I suppose my face reflected my surprise at what he'd just said. He smiled and nodded. “Can't do better than an eyewitness,” he said.

“Who is—?”

Mort held up his hand. “Don't even ask, Mrs. F. You'll find out soon enough, after Bradley Fowler has been arraigned.”

I knew better than to probe and dropped the subject.

Later, after Seth had delivered me home, I pondered what Mort had said. He was right, of course. There was nothing more solid for a murder investigator than an eyewitness to the crime.

Provided, of course, that the eyewitness was both credible—and honest.

Who was this eyewitness?

As Mort had said, I'd know soon enough.

“S
oon enough” happened at two o'clock the next afternoon.

I'd called the courthouse in the morning and learned that Brad Fowler's arraignment would be at two. It was open to the public, of course, and I decided that I'd be part of that public to witness the proceeding.

Most arraignments attract few people other than family members of the accused. Others might include retired folks who view the court's goings-on as a form of free entertainment. But this was the arraignment of the famed restaurateur Gérard Leboeuf's alleged murderer, and when I walked into the court building at one forty-five, I was among a throng of onlookers, including a few members of the press who'd returned to Cabot Cove when they got wind of the court date. I found a seat against a wall in the courtroom and waited along with everyone else for the judge to make her entrance and for Brad Fowler to be led in to enter his plea. I scanned the crowd for Marcie and saw her seated with her parents, who must have flown up from Florida to support their daughter. Eva Leboeuf was also there, accompanied by the PR woman who'd been part of the press conference Leboeuf had held when he'd announced his new restaurant. Walter Chang, the bistro's manager, was with her, along with the
two sullen young men who were never far away. Although the capacity crowd tried to be discreet, their eyes kept wandering to Eva. She was dressed immaculately in a black silk sheath with matching hat and veil and looked as though she were about to pose for a
Vanity Fair
photo shoot.

Our attention was directed to the front of the room when the clerk announced that court was in session and instructed us to rise. When we did, the judge, her customary black robe floating behind her, entered, took her seat behind the bench, and instructed us to sit. Moments later, another door opened and Brad Fowler was led in by two bailiffs. A flash went off, and a number of people raised their cell phones to capture an image of the prisoner. Brad's ankles and wrists were shackled, and he wore a pale green prison uniform that was too tight for his muscular build. He looked frazzled. He needed a shave, and his eyes darted about the room as though seeking an escape hatch. It broke my heart to see him in that situation. Not long ago he and his ebullient wife had been basking in the excitement and promise of opening the Fin & Claw. Now their restaurant was in danger of becoming a losing venture, and he was an accused murderer. I was secretly grateful Isabel was not around to see how quickly her son's and daughter-in-law's fortunes had changed.

Brad was accompanied by the attorney assigned by the court to defend him, Kristen Syms. Kristen had settled in Cabot Cove after having practiced law in Augusta for ten years, and I'd met her through our memberships in various organizations. When I needed clarification of a legal term or process for one of my novels, she was always there with the right answer. Kristen was
smart and dedicated, and I was pleased—and not a little relieved—to see that Brad would have good legal representation.

After some preliminary housekeeping between the judge and her clerk, Brad and Kristen stood, and the prosecutor read the charges against Brad. I had assumed that the charge would be first-degree murder, but instead it was murder in the second degree. The judge asked how Brad pled to the charges. When he didn't respond, Kristen nudged him with her elbow and said something in his ear.

“Not guilty,” he said in a faltering voice.

The judge announced the schedule for an evidentiary hearing and court was dismissed.

When Kristen saw me, she waved and left Brad's side.

“Jessica, I'm so glad you're here,” she said. “I have a favor to ask.”

“Certainly. What can I do to help?”

“As soon as we leave here, I'm going to spend time with Brad in one of the holding cells, and I'd like you to join us. Would you mind?”

“I don't mind, but I'm curious as to why.”

“Brad has told me repeatedly that you're on his side. He wants to meet with you. I could arrange for a separate meeting, but I think it would be better if I was present.”

I hadn't prepared for this turn of events and tried to gather my thoughts. It wouldn't be the first time that I'd been involved in an interview of an alleged criminal, but I couldn't help wondering why Brad had had what seemed to be a change of heart. I'd become convinced that he viewed me as being one of “them,” the people who automatically assumed that he'd killed Leboeuf.
That he now considered me “on his side” was unexpected, and I had to do some mental shuffling.

“If you think it's appropriate,” I told Kristen.

“No problem at all, Jessica. Give me ten minutes, and I'll meet you where they're holding Brad. The clerk will escort you.”

As the courtroom emptied out, I sat quietly, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. Unfortunately, I was approached by several members of the press who'd been informed of who I was and who demanded a comment from me about the case. I adamantly refused to say anything except to state the obvious, that the Leboeuf murder and its aftermath were sad days for Cabot Cove, but two of the reporters took seats on either side of me and continued to pepper me with questions. I was immensely grateful when the court clerk, whom I knew, summoned me to follow him.

Kristen and Brad sat in a sparsely furnished holding cell at the rear of the courthouse. Two bright overhead lights above a Formica table provided glary, unflattering illumination. Brad and Kristen sat opposite each other on uncomfortable folding gray metal chairs. Kristen indicated that I should take the one next to her. Brad stood when I entered, but I asked him not to. The loud “clang” of the heavy metal door being closed caused me to flinch.

“Thanks for coming, Mrs. Fletcher,” Brad said.

“You're welcome,” I said, “although I'm not sure why you wanted me here.”

Kristen said, “Brad feels that you might have something to offer that would help his defense.”

Because I couldn't think of anything at the moment, I simply said, “I'll do anything I can,” not adding that while I was loath
to believe that he had murdered Leboeuf, I couldn't be certain he was innocent. The jury, literally and figuratively, was still out.

I sat and listened while Kristen reviewed every event that had occurred since Leboeuf had arrived in Cabot Cove and announced that he was opening his bistro next door to the Fin & Claw. She'd obviously been thoroughly briefed by the prosecutor regarding the evidence he and his office had amassed to implicate Brad in the murder and included incidents Brad or Marcie must have told her about as well.

She brought up the threat to the restaurant's financial success; the regrettable confrontation between Leboeuf and Brad on the Fin & Claw's opening night; the exchange between Isabel Fowler and Leboeuf on that same night, which immediately preceded her fatal stroke; Leboeuf's manipulation of local baked goods and seafood purveyors to cut the Fin & Claw out of the supply chain; the sanitary violations that Brad and Marcie were convinced had been planted by someone, possibly even the health inspector, perhaps at Leboeuf's request; and Brad's frequent—and public—harsh comments about Leboeuf.

While Kristen went over what the prosecution considered justification for bringing charges against Brad, none of it proof of his guilt in my view, two things continued to worry me: Brad asking Marcie to lie about what time he'd returned home the night of the murder and Mort Metzger's comment that there was an eyewitness to the crime who claimed that he, or she, saw Brad deliver the fatal blow with the kitchen knife. I was reluctant to raise either issue and waited for Kristen to mention them. I knew that Marcie's claim about the time that Brad came home that fateful night would not help his cause. As for there being an eyewitness, if
I
knew about it, Kristen would certainly have been
made aware of that. Without it—and I'm certainly not a lawyer—it seemed to me that she could have successfully demanded Brad's release based upon his being held with nothing but circumstantial evidence, at best.

Had Brad been told the unhappy news about an eyewitness? It was possible that he hadn't.

Brad vehemently denied having killed Leboeuf. He swore that he'd left the Fin & Claw about one o'clock and had gone directly home. While he acknowledged that his hateful feelings about Leboeuf ran deep, he would never be capable of killing him, or anyone else for that matter. At times I thought he might break into tears, but he held them—and his temper—in check.

I was relieved when Kristen brought up the crucial piece of evidence that had justified the authorities, led by Mort Metzger, to charge Brad with the murder.

“As your attorney, Brad, it's important that I know the truth,” she said. “That doesn't mean that I would not defend you if you were guilty, but the scenario would demand different legal tactics to mitigate whatever punishment the court would impose on you. I want very much to believe that you are innocent of this serious crime and will do everything in my power to bring about that result. But there's something that you should know before we go any further.”

Her serious tone captured his—and my—full attention.

“There is someone who claims to have seen you arguing with Gérard Leboeuf at a little before three in the morning, in his kitchen, the night he was killed. This person told the district attorney that he witnessed you picking up the knife that killed Mr. Leboeuf and stabbing him.”

Brad started to say something, but the words didn't come out.

“Do you understand what I'm saying, Brad?”

“Yeah, I—it can't be. It's not true. Why would someone—? Whoever said that is lying.” With each utterance, I could see Brad's face getting redder.

“We know that this individual might not be telling the truth, but—”

“Of course it's not true. Who is it?” he asked forcefully.

“Someone who worked for you and for Gérard Leboeuf.” She consulted her notes. “His name is Trotter, Jacob Trotter.”

“Trotter?” Brad erupted. “
He
said that? The sheriff believes
him
?” Brad turned to me. “Tell her, Mrs. Fletcher. You know what a foul ball he is. You've seen him yelling and screaming at me.” He slumped back in his chair. “Jake Trotter,” he muttered. “That SOB. He went to work for Leboeuf and now he says that I killed the louse.” He came forward and shouted, “Let Trotter tell me to my face that he saw me kill Leboeuf. He's a dirty, rotten liar.”

His loud voice alerted the deputy standing guard at the end of the hall. He came over to the cell and asked through the bars, “Everything all right here?”

“Yes, everything is fine,” said Kristen.

“Keep it down, huh?” the deputy said, and walked away.

I'd been silent for the half hour that we'd been together. Now I spoke up. “Brad,” I said, “you and Jake Trotter have had difficulty getting along, and that's no secret. I saw the confrontation the two of you had the first day I visited the Fin and Claw, before it even opened. He was furious with you, accused you of being an amateur when it comes to running a restaurant. And I was
there when he quit and stormed out of your restaurant. But do you think that because of these personal ill feelings, he would deliberately lie to the authorities and place you in the precarious position you're in?”

“I don't know,” was Brad's answer. “I don't know what he
thinks
he saw. What I do know is that whatever he says, it's not the truth. It wasn't me. I did not kill Gérard Leboeuf!”

“Kristen, has Trotter made his accusation under oath?” I asked.

“Not to my knowledge,” she replied, “but he'll have to at some point.”

“Trotter went to work for Leboeuf after leaving Brad's restaurant,” I said. “Isn't it possible that Trotter is accusing Brad of the murder in order to deflect suspicion from himself?”

Kristen nodded slowly. “We know what a volatile man he is. It's certainly something to consider.”

“Yeah,” Brad said, having mustered a sudden burst of energy, “that's got to be it. Trotter had run-ins with Leboeuf, too. Ask the other guys in the kitchen. Jake's got a mean streak, and everybody in town knows it. Sure, Trotter killed Leboeuf and he's trying to blame it on me so he can walk free.”

Brad's hopeful analysis was within the realm of possibility, of course, although at that juncture it was just speculation on his part. He needed proof. I wondered whether Mort Metzger and the other investigators had probed deeply enough into Trotter's
activities the night of the murder, and I intended to ask Mort about it at the first possible moment.

But this was a case where potential suspects were plentiful. It was frustrating to me that the authorities had zeroed in on Brad so early in the investigation. I wondered how much Brad's attorney knew of Leboeuf's alleged ties with organized crime and whether they might have played a part in his killing. And had Charles Compton, aka Warren Shulte, come to town earlier than he claimed to get even with his former employer?

What about Leboeuf's wife, Eva?
Cherchez la femme
, or
Look for the woman
, was the famous French phrase that Fritzi the waiter had quoted. Leboeuf had a reputation as a skirt chaser, as the saying goes, at least according to gossip at Sardi's in New York City, where Fritzi once worked. My casual observations of the interaction between Gérard and Eva had been that there was palpable tension between them. While not something to build a case on, there was a certain wisdom to it based upon many murders in history in which a wronged woman wielded the murder weapon or had enticed someone else to act for her.

Then there was Leboeuf's son. Mort had told me that the initial focus was on Wylie, but that line of inquiry had been abandoned once what they'd thought was Brad's fingerprint had been found and Trotter had made his claim. Had Mort or others on the case really spent a lot of time questioning Wylie about his father's death? Or did Trotter's claim bring the investigation to a jarring halt before all the interviews were concluded?