Killer in the Kitchen (19 page)

The deputy informed Kristen that her time with the prisoner was up.

“You've got to help me, Mrs. Fletcher,” Brad said as he stood. “I didn't kill him.”

“We'll do everything we can to prove that,” his attorney said.

Kristen Syms and I left the courthouse together and continued our conversation on a bench outside.

“I want to believe Brad,” I told her. “In addition, there are so many others who might have wanted Leboeuf dead. I feel like we're dealing with an incomplete investigation.”

“That may be true, Jessica, but we—at least I—can't worry about other suspects at the moment,” she said. “Later I'll want you to tell me about them, but right now I need to know everything you can pass along about Brad.”

“All right, but I'd like a favor in return.”

“What's that?”

“Do you have a copy of Jake Trotter's statement with you?”

Her hand slid down to the briefcase she'd set on the bench. “I can't give it to you.”

“I'm not asking you to make me a copy for me. But would you let me read it? I'll just scan it and give it right back.”

“I guess that won't hurt anything.” She snapped open her case, pulled out two pages stapled together, and handed them to me. I gave them a quick once-over and gave them back to her.

“Did anything strike you?” she asked.

“I'll have to think about it a little, but you said something earlier that struck me.”

“What's that?”

“You talked about Jake Trotter being a volatile man, and he is that. But what complicates this case is that we're dealing with three volatile men, not just one. Brad, Trotter, and Leboeuf. Brad goes off like a rocket at the first provocation. He and Jake were like oil and water. But Gerard Leboeuf was not a nice man either. He was known for crushing his competition in the
business. You can find lots of material about him online. I was there when he insulted Brad's mother, Isabel, made fun of the Fin and Claw menu, and sneered at the food.”

“Aren't you giving me more reasons why Brad would want to kill Leboeuf?”

“It would seem so, but the point I'm making is that Leboeuf must have a trail of former rivals lined up wanting to see him dead, not to leave out how many others he may have abused with his elevated ego and sharp tongue.”

“But how many of them were in town the night he died?”

I sighed. “I don't know. And there's something else I have to tell you, even though it pains me to do so.” Reluctantly, I told the attorney what Marcie had said to me about Brad asking her to lie about the time he'd returned home the night of the murder. Kristen listened quietly. When I was finished, she grimaced, sat back, and directed a stream of air at an errant wisp of hair on her forehead. “That's not good,” she said.

“Not good at all.”

“It also wasn't in his favor that he tried to run from the police,” she said.

I nodded my agreement.

“Have you told anyone else?” she asked.

“No, but I know that I'll have to at some point.”

“And I'll have to share it with the prosecutor.”

“I understand,” I said. “I want to help, not hurt Brad. If there's anything I can do, please let me know. I was so fond of Brad's mother, Isabel, and I want to see Brad and Marcie succeed with their restaurant. If Brad is innocent, I—”

“
If
he's innocent,” Kristen said solemnly.

That word “if” stayed with me all the way home and far into the night.

T
he lead story on the front page of the next edition of the
Cabot Cove
Gazette
was about Brad Fowler's arraignment. Evelyn Phillips's photographer had managed to grab a candid shot of Eva arriving at the courthouse with her entourage; a stock shot of Brad, taken when the Fin & Claw opened, also accompanied the article.

I read the piece with great interest. In it Evelyn retraced the path of events leading to Gérard Leboeuf's murder, ending it with a statement from Marcie Fowler: “My husband is innocent of this charge, and I'm confident it will be proved beyond a doubt.” Evelyn didn't indicate where or how she had obtained Marcie's statement. I hadn't seen the
Gazette
editor in the packed courtroom, but the article made it sound as if she had been there in person.

When I moved on to the inside pages and caught up on happenings around town, a headline caught my eye:
FOOD INSPECTOR CHARGED
.

Harold Greene, a longtime employee of the Maine Center for Disease Control and Prevention, Division of Environmental Health, has been charged by the state attorney general with multiple counts of breach of duty. Among the
charges are accusations that Greene, a state health inspector, solicited bribes from restaurants in exchange for withholding reports of violations of the State of Maine Food Code, and instead gave them a clean bill of health. Mr. Greene has denied all charges.

However, this reporter was also made aware of an incident in which a health inspector assigned to Cabot Cove allegedly falsely accused a merchant of sanitary violations posing an imminent health hazard. The merchant claims his reputation was so damaged by the false report, he was forced to close his business. The merchant, who prefers to remain anonymous at this time, would not name the health inspector but has told the
Gazette
that he is considering bringing his case to the attention of the attorney general's office. If so, Mr. Greene, who has been the only state inspector assigned to this town for many years, may have more charges leveled against him.

Mara apparently had been correct in her assessment of Harold Greene. And if Mr. Greene was guilty of accepting money for his silence regarding legitimate violations, it wasn't too far a stretch to think that the health inspector might have “seeded” a new restaurant like the Fin & Claw with rodent droppings as a way of establishing the power of his position, or as a warning to the restaurant owners to treat him generously. Was it also possible that a man willing to accept a bribe might also be willing to falsify a report at someone else's behest? Brad had claimed that someone—maybe Jake—had put evidence of rodent infestation where it didn't exist. But could Harold Greene have been paid off by someone else to find such a violation—someone like
Gérard Leboeuf? Could it possibly be that Leboeuf would have gone so far as to pay Greene to trump up health violations against the Fowlers in order to gain a competitive advantage? I hated to believe that anyone would do such a thing to gain a financial advantage over another human being, but that kind of behavior obviously does exist. And Leboeuf's reputation for having forced other competitors out of business argued that such action was not out of character for him.

As I read the article I couldn't help but think about Brad and Marcie Fowler's run-in with Harold Greene. I picked up the phone and called Evelyn at her newspaper.

“Good hearing from you, Jessica,” she said. “Did you read today's story on Brad Fowler's arraignment?”

“Couldn't have missed it, Evelyn. It was thorough and well written.”

“A welcome comment from someone with your writing skills. What can I do for you this morning?”

“Well, I was wondering whether you'd been provided with a list of restaurants that were alleged to have been shaken down by Mr. Greene.”

“Why do I have the feeling that Jessica Fletcher has a hidden agenda in asking me that?”

“No hidden agenda, Evelyn. I'm curious because it was Harold Greene who inspected the Fowlers' Fin and Claw and
claimed to have uncovered violations, including mouse droppings in the kitchen.”

“Yes, I heard about that. You know how things like that get around. But I don't usually run a list of those who failed an inspection the first time around. They usually correct the violations and pass on their second try. I don't see tarnishing someone's reputation unless they're flagrant violators.
Then
it becomes a public service to expose it, and I write it up in the paper.”

“That's very sensitive of you, Evelyn.”

“I'm not always the bull in a china shop you seem to think I am,” she said.

“Now, Evelyn—”

She laughed. “Just giving you a hard time,” she said. “What would you like to know?”

“Can you tell me a little more about the man who closed his business after one of Greene's inspections? I'm not asking for his name, just a few more details than you wrote in your article.”

“Interestingly enough, it was another situation where two restaurants were in competition. The man, who shall remain nameless, at least for now, opened his establishment down the street from an existing place and began having problems with the health inspector from his first day. He believes the other owner was paying off Greene to find violations in order to give his place a bad reputation, with the eventual goal of closing him down.”

“And that's what happened?”

“Apparently so. The guy got weary of answering a series of what he says were unjustified and increasingly expensive
citations—not to mention the tarring of his reputation for running an unsanitary and unhealthy restaurant.”

“Why didn't he go over Greene's head?”

“He did. He appealed to the state, but the complaints he filed fell on deaf ears. He says he finally gave up and closed his doors. Nothing was ever proved against Greene, but that doesn't mean he wasn't involved. Mara down at the luncheonette told me the guy has a shady reputation.”

So Evelyn had spoken with Mara as well.

“I talked with her, too. She said that she's never paid Greene a penny, but that he always seems to have his hand out.” I laughed. “You know Mara. She'd sooner slug him than pay a bribe. She says that she always follows him around closely when he's doing an inspection.”

Evelyn laughed, too. “I don't blame her,” she said. “But to answer your earlier question, I don't have a list of the restaurants involved. Why your interest?”

“I was curious to know if Jake Trotter ever worked for any of the restaurants that received notices of violations.”

“Oh, ho! Now we get to the crux of the reason for your call. I hear that Trotter was an eyewitness to the murder. Did you?”

“I had heard that, yes.”

“But even if Trotter was in cahoots with Greene in setting up restaurant owners to get violations, how would that impact the case against Brad Fowler?”

“I don't know that it does.” I said. “I'm just looking at the case from all angles. You know his mother, Isabel, was a friend of mine. I feel that, for Isabel's sake, I have to defend Brad.”

“Even if he murdered Gerard Leboeuf?”

“‘If' is the operative word here, Evelyn.”

“Hard to ignore an eyewitness, Jessica.”

I could visualize her holding up her hand against what I was about to say.

“I know. I know,” she said, adding words to her silent signal. “Jake's a flake, a less than savory character, plenty of problems with the law over the years. But he swears he saw Brad kill Leboeuf. From what I'm told, Trotter was stone-cold sober when he told Mort Metzger and the other investigators what he'd seen. Just because he's a troublesome hothead doesn't mean he's not telling the truth.”

My silence prompted her to add, “You do agree with me—don't you, Jessica?”

“Yes, of course. But what if—?”

“What if what?”

“Nothing. I was just coming up with scenarios.”

“Like when you write your novels? This isn't fiction, Jessica. This is real life.”

I didn't need to be reminded of that and told her that I appreciated what information she had and would be in touch again.

“Before you go,” she said. “When I was in the courtroom, I saw you chatting with Fowler's attorney, Kristen Syms. What was that about?”

“We've been friends for a long time,” I said.

Evelyn had responded to my questions about Greene and the restaurant owner who shut down his business. Should I thank her by revealing that I'd been invited to sit in on Kristen's interview with her client? Anything I said to Evelyn could end up in the pages of the
Gazette
. I wanted to be fair, but I decided I'd better not share that information, at least this time. I'd been in a
privileged position and felt that it would be a violation of Kristen's trust in me, to say nothing of Brad's request that I be present.

After we hung up, I reviewed the notes I'd made when I returned from the arraignment. If the fingerprint Mort said the techs had found was indeed Brad's, there was nothing I could do to explain it away. But what about the eyewitness? I'd been given only a few minutes to skim his statement, but something
had
stood out in the report. Trotter claimed to have seen Brad arguing with Leboeuf, and in his fury, pick up a knife from the counter, raise it over his head, and bring it down on the famous chef.

I reached for the phone and dialed Seth Hazlitt, crossing my fingers I'd reach him at a good time.

S
eth wasn't in his office when I called, but I managed to track him down at the hospital, where he was visiting patients and their families. He said that he'd have to call me back, and I waited in my office until he did.

“What can I do for you, Jessica?”

I'd prepared a list of questions to ask, and ran down the list.

“Anything else you'd like to know?” he said.

“No, that's it, Seth. Sorry to have bothered you while you made your rounds.”

“It was a pleasant respite, Jessica. Mind telling me why you have these questions?”

“Just filling in some blanks, Seth. Nothing important.”

Since I'd called him at the hospital, he probably didn't buy my “nothing important” protestation, but he didn't press and we ended the call.

While Seth had, indeed, helped fill in some blanks for me, I didn't enjoy a sense of resolution. To the contrary, I spent much of the next few hours pacing the floor between bouts at my desk, where I pored over my notes. I decided to relieve my restlessness by taking out my bicycle and riding downtown. Even though most of the stores would close within the hour, I needed a little exercise to clear my mind of what had occupied it at home. I was
brimming with nervous energy. When that occurs, I need to be moving, walking, focusing on anything and everything other than the cause of my angst and irritability.

I left my bicycle in a bike rack and ended up strolling through one of the parks in town that provides relaxing greenery. After a few minutes of sitting on a bench and watching squirrels scurry after one another, I walked to the pier, where I paused, looking back and forth from the Fin & Claw to Leboeuf's French Bistro, the respective parking lots of which testified to a busy night ahead for both. I suppose my aimless wandering was a way to put off an action that I'd been pondering all day. Convinced that I was making the right decision, I approached the rear entrance to the bistro. As I did, the door opened and two kitchen workers on a break came through it. One lit a cigarette; the other swigged water from a bottle.

“Excuse me,” I said. “Is Jake Trotter in the kitchen?”

They looked at each other before the one with the cigarette said, “No, ma'am. Trotter doesn't work here anymore.”

“Oh. When did that happen?”

The fellow with the water giggled. “Jake quit,” he said. “He left right after the boss got killed!” His tone said loud and clear that he wasn't displeased at Trotter's absence.

“Do you know where he is?”

They looked at me strangely.
They must think I have a crush on Jake. Why else would a middle-aged woman follow him to his place of work—or former place of work, as I now knew?
I thanked them and walked to the seawall, feeling a mixture of frustration and relief. I'd gotten myself all worked up expecting to confront Jake Trotter and pin him down about important comments he'd
made in his statement. And now he wasn't where I'd been expecting him to be.

I looked out over the water. A fishing boat was on its way in from a day at sea, accompanied by a flock of seagulls following the day's catch. I took in the first wave of tourists who'd come to town and were strolling the promenade, men, women, and children enjoying all that Cabot Cove has to offer. It seemed to me that there was probably plenty of business for both new restaurants to handle, and that all the bad feelings each owner had held for the other were unnecessary. Yet a murder had taken place, and people were thinking the motive had to do with who was going to emerge triumphant in this restaurant war. But there are no winners when one man is dead and another is accused of his murder.

I walked back through the park to where I'd left my bicycle and debated what to do next. Now that I knew Jake Trotter wasn't in the bistro's kitchen, I had another decision to make. It was going to get dark in an hour. Should I try to find him or let it go for another day? I consulted my cell phone, then climbed on my bike and headed home. Once in my driveway, I made up my mind. I called the taxi company and told them I needed a cab. One of their drivers pulled up to my house within fifteen minutes. The driver waved to me. “Just got the call, Mrs. Fletcher, that you need a taxi.”

“Yes, I do,” I said, sliding into the rear seat.

“Going downtown?” the driver asked as he slowly pulled away.

“As a matter of fact, no.”

“To Dr. Hazlitt's house?”

“Not this time.”

“Sheriff and Mrs. Metzger's place?”

“No.” I gave him the address I'd found on my cell phone.

“That's out on the peninsula,” he said.

“Yes, I know.”

“There's not much out there, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“I'm visiting someone who lives there,” I said.

“Okay,” he said. “Whatever you say.”

The trip took almost a half hour. The route took us through the center of town and to a stretch of four-lane highway until it narrowed into a two-lane road. The final ten minutes found us on a poorly maintained gravel road that led down to a line of small houses—“shacks” might be a more apt term—behind a row of low industrial buildings. The six dwellings that constituted the small community were in various states of repair. A rusted vehicle sans tires rested on cement blocks in one yard. Clothes dried on a line in another, where someone had made an effort to dress up the house with small pots of geraniums on the steps.

Jake Trotter's address was 6; the black iron numeral hung from a single nail on the front of his home. I recognized the red pickup truck in Jake's driveway as one I'd seen parked near the restaurants, a distinguishing large dent on one fender and a coating of rust along the bottom of the door. A small porch ran the width of the cottage's front. Two green wicker rocking chairs flanked a table on it.

“You're sure this is the address?” my driver asked.

“If this is the address on the paper I gave you,” I replied. “Yes, this is it.”

“Want me to wait for you, Mrs. Fletcher?”

I was tempted to say yes. “That won't be necessary. I'm not
sure how long I'll be here,” I said, “but I have my cell phone with me. I'll call in plenty of time before I need a ride back.”

I signed the chit with my name and account number on it, got out, and watched him drive away, seriously wondering whether I'd made a prudent decision.
Too late for second-guessing
, I told myself as I approached the front porch, climbed the three rickety steps, and knocked on the door. There was no response. I knocked again, louder and more prolonged this time. Still no reply.

“Mr. Trotter?” I said in a loud voice. “Are you home?”

There was silence, aside from the sound of water lapping onto the rocky shoreline and the long calls of gulls.

I called his name again, louder this time, and knocked with more force. To my surprise the door creaked open a little. I pushed it further and tried Trotter's name one more time. When he didn't answer, I stepped through the opening and took in the room. It was, to be kind, a mess. A rancid odor reached my nose, and a pervasive aroma of whiskey and stale cigarettes or cigars hung in the air.

I knew that I didn't have any business intruding into his home and considered leaving and calling back the taxi. But items on the counter of the Pullman kitchen caught my eye. Marcie had said that Brad accused Trotter of stealing things from the Fin & Claw's kitchen. What had she said was missing?

I circumvented a wooden box of tools on the floor and stepped over to the kitchen. The obvious newness of the pieces that Jake had left in a pile was in contrast to other scattered paraphernalia on the counter, which had seen longer wear. There were an obviously expensive frying pan, a set of stainless steel mixing bowls, and a long, narrow grater covered by a plastic
shield. I hesitated before picking up the grater, turning it to see what company made it. It was a Microplane, the same brand of grater Marcie had said was a gift to Brad from Isabel. As I examined it, a sound from behind caused me to stiffen. I didn't want to look behind me, but knew that I had to. I replaced the grater on the counter and turned to face Jake Trotter, who stood in the open doorway. He was dressed in a stained white T-shirt and dungarees. But what was more noticeable was the shotgun that he carried. It was pointed directly at me.

“Who the hell are you?” he growled, tipping up the gun's barrel for emphasis.

“I'm sorry to have barged in,” I said brightly, “but you didn't answer when I called your name, and your door was open. I'm Jessica Fletcher, by the way. We've met before.”

“We have?”

“Yes, Mr. Trotter, when you worked for the Fin and Claw. Remember?” I didn't elaborate that we'd never had a formal introduction. I'd simply been present two times when he'd been arguing with Brad Fowler.

“What are you doing in my house?”

I drew a deep breath, hoping it would inflate me with confidence. “I came to talk to you,” I said. “I knocked, more than once. The door swung open, and I came in, hoping you were here. And now you are.”

“You're trespassing.”

I forced a laugh. “Yes, I certainly am, although I don't mean you any harm. I simply wanted to talk.”

“About what?”

“About Gérard Leboeuf's murder.”

“I already told the cops all I know about it.”

“Yes, I know that you gave a statement to the sheriff. Would you be kind enough to please put down that gun? It's making me uncomfortable.”

He pondered what I'd asked, his long, angular face set in a question mark. I thought he might accommodate my request, but the shotgun remained aimed in my direction.

“People know that I'm here. I told them that I was coming to talk with you about the murder and the statement you gave the police.”

It wasn't true, of course. Apart from the taxi driver who'd brought me to the house, no one had any idea of my whereabouts. But it seemed a sensible thing to say at the moment, and I wished that I
had
let others know of my plans.

“Do you mind if I sit?” I said, indicating one of two straight-back chairs at a slab of wood atop a barrel. A half-empty bottle of bourbon and a glass rested on it. “I'm feeling a little tired.” I didn't wait for his permission, and settled myself in one of the chairs, figuring he was less likely to shoot a woman sitting down than one standing up. I didn't bother to wipe off the seat, which clearly had crumbs of some previous meal on it, not wanting to offend my host.

Host! That's a laugh, Jessica. Wouldn't it be ironic if your writing career ended right here in a shanty outside your beloved Cabot Cove?
Seth would shake his head and say he'd always told me to mind my own business and leave the investigatin' to the police, but his stubborn friend would never listen.

I forced a smile. “You said that you witnessed Brad Fowler kill Gérard Leboeuf,” I said, eager to get to my reason for being there.

“That's right.”

“I'm sure you'd never lie to the police, Mr. Trotter, but somehow I have trouble accepting your story. And Brad—Brad Fowler, that is—denies having had anything to do with the murder.”

He laughed, exposing a large set of yellowing teeth. “What do you expect him to do?” he said. “He killed Leboeuf, plain and simple.”

“And you saw him do it?”

“That's right. I gave my statement and I'm done with it. I'll be out of this cruddy town, and good riddance to it.”

“You're leaving?”

“You bet I am. I've got me some money now. Been saving up. I'll be outta here before you can blink.”

“But where will you go? And don't you have to come back to testify when Brad Fowler comes to trial?”

“I'll worry about that when the time comes.”

If the police can find you by then.
He said he'd saved some money, but for a man who didn't keep a job for very long, it was more likely that he'd come into money another way. I wondered if he'd pawned items that he'd stolen from his previous employers. Otherwise, where would a sudden influx of money come from?

I asked.

“None of your damn business,” was his reply.

“Did you sell this house?” I asked, indicating with a sweep of my hand where we were talking.

“Not mine to sell,” he said. “I rent this dump. I'll find me a lot better place once I get on the road. Plenty of places, nicer than this, for a man with my talents.”

I decided to stay with the topic of money.

“I'm pleased for you, Mr. Trotter, that you now have enough money to leave and improve your living conditions.”

“It's about time,” he said, pulling the second chair away from the makeshift table and sitting heavily on it. He frowned, as though a thought had crossed his mind. He asked, “What's this to you anyway? What are you, a buddy of Fowler?”

“I was a very good friend of Brad Fowler's mother, Isabel. Remember her? She died, you know.”

“I knew that. Had a stroke in Fowler's kitchen, at the restaurant. What a joke—him running a restaurant. Didn't know what he was doing.”

“But you know your way around a commercial kitchen, don't you, Mr. Trotter?”

“I sure do. Only the clowns I've worked for never had the good sense to listen to me.”

“Including Mr. Leboeuf?”

“He was okay; sorry when he died.”

“And according to your statement, you saw him die, saw him killed with a kitchen knife.”

“That's right.” He cocked his head and leaned closer to me. “You don't believe me, huh? Well, the cops believe me. That's what counts.”

Now that he was sitting, the shotgun rested on his lap, no longer pointed in my direction. He poured himself a drink from the bottle, and as an afterthought asked whether I wanted a drink, too.

“No, thank you.”

“You know,” he said absently, as though speaking to a third person in the room, “I don't really blame Fowler for killing Leboeuf.”