Killer in the Kitchen (2 page)

I
slept later than usual the morning following Thanksgiving dinner at the Metzgers—they say that turkey can have that effect on you—and took my time getting ready for the day. Since I planned to spend the afternoon doing some final editing on the mystery I'd recently completed, I decided to treat myself to a leisurely start to the day, including breakfast at Mara's Luncheonette on the town dock. A big dinner always seems to make me especially hungry the next morning, and a short stack of Mara's signature blueberry pancakes was appealing.

A November chill had settled in, which made me debate riding my bicycle into town. Then, too, this was the day after Thanksgiving, when all the shops launch their holiday sales. Traffic would be especially heavy, and I didn't fancy competing with four wheels while I was on only two. I called the local taxi service, where I had a charge account.

“It's Black Friday, Mrs. Fletcher. Big shopping day. All our cars are out,” the dispatcher told me.

“Well, do the best you can,” I replied, trying to ignore the rumbling in my stomach.

An hour later, I walked into Mara's, where an assortment of familiar faces greeted me, including Mayor Jim Shevlin, who was having an early lunch with an aide. He motioned for me to join them, which I happily did.

“Good Thanksgiving, Jessica?” the mayor asked.

“Yes. You?”

“Couldn't have been better, although I wish this infernal cold snap would end. I could do without an early winter.”

“Issue a decree banning it,” I said playfully. “After all, you
are
the mayor.”

“I just may do that,” he said through a laugh. “By the way, have you heard the news?”

“That you've banned an early winter?”

“That we're about to have a new restaurant in town.”

“You mean Brad and Marcie Fowlers'. Yes. It was a topic of conversation at the Metzgers' house last night. Brad's mother was at dinner with us. She told me about the restaurant and swore me to secrecy, but it seemed that everyone there had also been sworn to keep that same secret.”

“Boy, I'd love to bottle Cabot Cove's rumor mill,” Jim's aide said. “Make a fortune.”

“It is active,” Jim agreed. “As I understand it, the Fowlers are taking over the old Wharf Seafood Shop. It'll be nice to see it spruced up and open again. It's been an eyesore since Ginger and her husband closed down more than a year ago.”

Mara, who'd come to the table to pour coffee refills, overheard the conversation and said, “We don't need another restaurant in town. Just means more competition for me.”

“No, it doesn't,” Jim said. “They'll be opening a real restaurant and—”

“What do you call
this
place, Mr. Mayor?” Mara said, not attempting to keep the pique from her voice. “A fast-food joint?”

“What I mean is—”

“You and the Fowlers will be running two distinctly different types of establishments,” I quickly interjected.

“I hear they're going to feature a bunch of different lobster dishes,” Mara said, “recipes that Brad's mother came up with.”

“Isabel is an excellent cook,” Jim Shevlin offered.

“So am I,” Mara said. “I've got lobster rolls on the menu and my aunt's recipe for lobster bisque.”

“And they're always excellent,” I said, hoping to defuse what was becoming a contentious conversation. “But there's something you serve that the Fowlers will never be able to duplicate.”

“What's that?” Mara and Jim asked at the same time.

“No one will ever make better blueberry pancakes than you.” I indicated my now empty plate. “As usual, they were sublime.”

My words seemed to appease her, at least for the moment. As Mara walked away, Shevlin rolled his eyes and smiled. “I hope the Fowlers' new place doesn't pit one restaurant owner against another,” he said. “That would be a shame.”

“I don't think it will come to that,” I said.

“Brad Fowler's got a reputation as a hothead,” Jim's aide said.

“Yeah, but he's more bark than bite,” Shevlin said.

I appreciated Jim defending Brad, but I didn't know if that was true. There had been stories about fights Brad had gotten into with fellow lobstermen, and I knew from Mort Metzger that he'd once been locked up overnight after starting a brawl in a local bar. Brad had always been a perfect gentleman around me,
but I'd sensed a tautness and tension that hovered not far beneath the surface. Hopefully, his alleged short fuse wouldn't be on display when the restaurant was open and he had to deal with demanding—and not always polite—customers.

I was about to ask Mara for my check and head home when the subject of our conversation, Brad Fowler, entered. He looked around the luncheonette, spotted me, and headed our way.

“Speak of the devil,” Jim Shevlin said. “Not that we were calling you a devil, but—just a phrase. Sit down and we'll toast your new restaurant.” Jim held up his coffee cup.

Brad grinned and took the remaining seat. “That's okay, Mr. Mayor. Seems like everybody in town is talking about me—and Marcie.”

“And where is your lovely wife?” I asked.

“Taking a well-deserved rest. Marcie and I got back late last night. No, make that early this morning. We had Thanksgiving dinner with friends in Portland. We had to get back because we had an appointment at the bank. I've never signed so many papers in my life. Mr. Wagner has been great, led us by the hand through the whole loan process.”

“Then it's settled,” Shevlin said. “You have the loan and are going forward with the restaurant.”

“Looks like it,” Brad said, beaming. I noticed that he'd swapped his usual work clothes for a suit and tie, which testified to his growing maturity.

“My mom says she was with you last night at Thanksgiving dinner,” Brad said to me.

“Yes. That's how I learned about your plans.”

“We wanted to keep it a secret until the final papers were
signed, but Mom is too excited to keep anything under wraps. But yeah, the deal is done.”

“Congratulations to all of you,” I said.

“Marcie says she's finally going to get to use the lessons she learned at the Culinary Institute.”

“I didn't know your wife attended the Culinary Institute,” Shevlin said. “I thought you and your mother were the cooks in the family.”

Brad's face reddened. “She didn't attend, exactly. It was just a summer course she took between high school and junior college.” He shrugged. “She wanted to stay on, but couldn't afford it. Those schools cost a fortune.”

“But between the two of you, you're starting out with a good foundation,” I said.

Brad shot me a grateful look. “Yeah. I think so, too.”

Mara came to the table and asked whether Brad wanted breakfast.

“Thanks, but I don't have time. Just a fast cup of coffee. I have to pick up my mom at Doc Hazlitt's office.”

“How is your mother?” Shevlin asked.

“She hasn't been feeling well, only you'd never know it by talking to her. Ask her how she is and she always says ‘great.' I finally got her to admit that she's been feeling lousy and make the appointment with Doc Hazlitt.”

“She certainly was in good spirits last night at dinner,” I said. “She's so proud of you and Marcie.”

“We couldn't have done it without her,” Brad said as Mara brought him his coffee. “It's a shame my dad isn't around to see it happen.”

“I'm sure he'll get the word from somebody up there,” the mayor said.

“That's good to hear,” said Brad, raising his eyes to the ceiling.

“When will you start renovations?” I asked.

“Marcie and I have already met with the architect who's drawing up the plans, and Billy Tehar will be doing the construction.”

“Looks like you and Marcie have a busy couple of months ahead of you,” I said. “Do you have a date yet for when you'll be opening?”

“As close to spring as possible,” he replied. “Tourists start showing up earlier every year, it seems.” He gulped down what was left of his coffee. “Got to run.” He fished for change in his pocket.

“My treat,” I said.

“Okay, so long as you agree that your first cup of coffee in our new place is on me.”

“It's a deal.”

As Brad started to walk away from the table, Shevlin called after him, “Have you got a name yet?”

Brad turned and nodded. “We're thinking, maybe, the Fin and Claw,” he said. “Marcie came up with it. Pretty sharp, my wife, isn't she? See ya.”

“The Fin and Claw,” Shevlin repeated. “Good name. Has a nice ring to it.”

“The Fin and Claw?” Mara said as she came to collect our money. “That's what they're calling it? Sounds pretty fancy for Cabot Cove.”

“Cabot Cove is getting fancier all the time,” our mayor said. “A sign of progress.”

Shevlin, his aide, and I exited Mara's into a stiff, frigid breeze off the water.

“Can we give you a lift somewhere?” Jim's aide asked.

“Thank you, no. I'm going to see if I can take advantage of some of these sales before I head back home. Good seeing you both.”

They walked toward City Hall, and I headed for Charles Department Store.

The Fin & Claw,
I thought as I hunched forward to brace myself against the wind. It did have a nice ring to it.

T
he next few weeks flew by.

Christmas decorations were up in all the stores, and a crew had strung tiny colored lights from telephone pole to telephone pole downtown, giving Cabot Cove a festive air despite the overcast sky.

The premature chill of Thanksgiving had given way to a brief thaw, surprisingly mild weather for Maine in December, which lured shoppers out of their homes and gave a boost to the town's retail economy. I'd finished my final edits on my latest novel and proudly sent it off to my publisher, Vaughan Buckley, in New York. Of course my excitement—and relief—at having finished and submitted another novel was tempered with concerns. Would Vaughan and his editors like it? You'd think after all these years I'd have more confidence as a writer. But I'd learned from interacting with other authors that my paranoia was not at all unusual. We all want to be appreciated and dread having our work rejected.

Construction started on the Fin & Claw before Christmas,
and the site became a frequent stop for people curious about its progress. The architect's plans called for a complete gutting of the interior, which meant that big trucks dominated the street in front of the pier as workmen hauled out and loaded the rubble onto the truck beds, to be carted away.

I had an appointment one day with Seth Hazlitt—a burn on my hand from being careless in the kitchen—and after he tended to my wound, we strolled downtown to see how things were moving forward. A temporary wall of plywood had been erected to keep people out and the dust in, but Seth spotted Billy Tehar, whose construction company was working the job. “Can we take a look?” Seth called.

Tehar waved us inside. “If you don't mind getting dusty, I'll show you around.” He handed us two plastic hard hats. “Just in case.”

“Starting from scratch, I see,” Seth commented.

“It's the only way to go,” Billy said. “Better to clean it out and begin with a clean slate than try to work around existing things. More economical in the end.”

“Starting a project like this must be daunting,” I commented as Tehar led us around a pile of debris to the back of the space.

“Not a problem if you know what you're doing, Mrs. Fletcher. I have a good crew. They've been with me for a long time.”

“Nothing like experience,” Seth said.

“You should know,” Tehar said, laughing. “How many years have you been practicing medicine here in Cabot Cove?”

“Too many to count,” Seth replied.

“Is this where the kitchen will be?” I asked, indicating the rear portion of the rapidly emptying room.

“That's what the drawings call for,” Tehar said, “only—”

“Only what?” Seth said.

“Well, the plans keep changing.” He didn't sound happy.

“The architect keeps changing them?” I asked.

“No. His original chart for the space is terrific. He's designed restaurants before, in Bangor and Portland, and he did one in Montreal last year. He knows what he's doing.”

“Then—?”

Tehar shook his head. “It's Brad Fowler, but don't tell him I said that.”

“What's
his
problem?” Seth asked, raising his voice to be heard over the sound of hammers and saws and workmen tearing down walls.

“Oh, I shouldn't be too hard on him,” Tehar said. “This is his first experience with opening a restaurant, and I suppose he's eager to see it just the way he wants it. But every time he gets a new idea, the cost goes up and the time it takes to get it done gets longer. Nothing is ever simple; when you change one piece, all the other pieces are affected. It's like tipping over the first domino. I've tried to point that out to him, but he's—well, he tends to be bullheaded about how he sees the picture in his mind.”

We stepped out of the way as two men pushed a cart overflowing with trash toward the front.

“Looks like the young Mr. Fowler could use some good advice about listening to people who know more than he does,” Seth said.

Tehar laughed. “Care to volunteer to pass that message along to him, Doc?”

“Not my concern,” Seth said. “I run into it enough with young physicians who think because they got their MD license
they know everything there is to know about medicine. When you've been practicing as long as I have and see all the progress being made by research, you learn that not only don't you know everything, but you know less and less every year.”

“I've been treated by one or two of those know-it-alls over the years,” Tehar said. “Luckily, I'm still here.” He helped us navigate the demolition as we returned to the pier.

Seth and I handed him back the hard hats, and I fluffed my hair with my fingers. “Nice to breathe fresh air,” I said.

“A construction site is always dusty,” Tehar said, “but demoing is the worst part.”

“Does Brad often stop in to check on progress?” I asked.

“
Too
often,” Tehar said. “He's out lobstering today. Better he stays out on the water and leaves the construction to me.”

“What about his wife?” I asked. “Has she been playing an active role in the planning?”

“Marcie? She's a sweetheart,” Tehar said. “Dealing with her is a pleasure. Brad? Well, like I said, please don't repeat what I've told you.”

The temperature had dropped while we were inside the construction zone, and I pulled my coat collar tighter around my neck.

“I have to get back to the office,” Seth said.

“Don't let me keep you,” I said.

“Follow my instructions about that burn,” he said, nodding toward my injury. “Try to keep your hand out of water. Get a pair of rubber gloves.”

I'd forgotten about the burn, which Seth had bandaged with gauze. “Yes, sir!” I said. “You go on. I think I'll stop into Cabot
Cove Books and see if they'd like me to sign copies of my last mystery.”

It was midday, and I was pleased to see the bookstore full of holiday shoppers. I spotted Mayor Shevlin and our sheriff poring over a display of new cookbooks and went to say hello.

“We have to stop meeting like this,” said the mayor with a chuckle.

“People will think I'm lobbying you for something,” I said.

“Are you, Jessica?”

“Not today. How are you, Mort?”

“Just fine, Mrs. F. Been out and about?”

I told them about having visited the construction site of Brad and Marcie's Fowler's restaurant with Seth.

“Some folks are complaining about the noise,” Mort commented.

“It is noisy,” I agreed, “but the demolition phase will soon be over.”

“Only to start up again,” the mayor said.

I looked quizzically at him.

“Seems like Cabot Cove is on its way to becoming the Down East restaurant capital,” he said.

“What are you talking about, Jim?”

“Mrs. F. hasn't heard the news,” Mort said, paging through a tome with the celebrity chef Gérard Leboeuf's face on the cover. “You think Maureen would like this one?”

I read over his shoulder. “The recipes look pretty complicated,” I said. “What haven't I heard?”

Shevlin laughed. “Hard to believe that the news hasn't reached you.”

Mort picked up another cookbook. “What about this one?”

“She'll like that one better.
What
news?”

“Your old pal is about to open a new restaurant.”

“What old pal?”

“Gérard Leboeuf.”

“Where?”

“Here.”

“Leboeuf is opening a restaurant
here
?”

“Yes,
here
.”

“Do I hear an echo?” Mort asked, looking around.

“I don't know that I'd characterize him as ‘my old pal,'” I said.

“Looks like it'll go through,” Shevlin said. “I spent a good part of this morning in a meeting with the zoning board. Leboeuf sent two of his attorneys from New York to submit the plans. It's a pretty ambitious undertaking.”

I had met Gérard Leboeuf years earlier, when I was in New York researching a novel I'd titled
Murder Flambéed
, which I later put aside. The plot just wasn't gelling. I had been hoping that meeting a famous chef would help me work out the kinks in my story. Our mutual agent, Matt Miller, had introduced us and, after a bit of arm-twisting on Matt's part, the chef had grudgingly allowed me to peek behind the scenes at one of his restaurants.

“He intends to take over that abandoned warehouse down by the lobster pound and open a French bistro,” Jim continued.

“Wait! That's right across from where the Fowlers are opening their place,” I said.

“One thing's for sure,” Mort said, tucking a copy of
Mike Isabella's Crazy Good Italian
under his arm. “Maureen and I won't have to go far for a good dinner out.”

My mind was racing, and what I was thinking had nothing
to do with how far I would have to go for a meal. I wondered whether Brad and Marcie Fowler knew about Leboeuf's plans and what it would mean to the success of their own place.

“Anything wrong, Jessica?” Shevlin asked. “You look lost in thought.”

“Wrong? No. I'm just afraid that Mr. Leboeuf's restaurant will make things difficult for Brad and Marcie Fowler. They don't have the experience he does, much less the financial backing.”

“That's free enterprise at work, Mrs. F.,” Mort said.

He was right, of course. Competition could be healthy, prompting competitors to put their best feet forward, which benefits consumers. But Leboeuf was a wealthy and powerful restaurateur, with a string of successful establishments in New York, Las Vegas, Chicago, and other big cities. He had a lot of money behind him and could bide his time until a new restaurant took hold. Stories abounded of his having forced smaller places to close simply by staying open even though his new enterprise lost money. What would he do to the Fowlers' Fin & Claw? Would it even be possible for them to compete? Would his presence doom their dream?

“Does he ever stay at the palace he built north of town?” the mayor asked, putting down the cookbook he'd been perusing.

“You mean his summer place?” Mort said. “We keep an eye on it, but as far as I know, Mr. Leboeuf and his family hardly ever spend time there. You probably know more than I do, Mrs. F. You're friends with him.”

“I wouldn't call it being friends,” I said. “Mr. Leboeuf was good enough to grant me an interview in New York, but we've rarely touched base in Cabot Cove. I haven't seen him since I
attended a large cocktail party he held for his business associates last year. If he doesn't spend much time at his summer home, I suppose it's because he's simply too busy running his restaurant empire.”

“His plans for the restaurant didn't go over too well with the Zoning Commission,” Shevlin said. “His lawyers are asking for a series of variances to the zoning code to allow Leboeuf to put his architect's plans into action. He wants the kitchen to be large enough to accommodate television cameras and sound equipment.”

“Does the commission really think Cabot Cove can support a new place, along with the Fowlers'?” Mort asked.

Shevlin shrugged. “That remains to be seen. I understand Leboeuf decided to open a place in town because recent legislation that came out of Augusta gives tax breaks to out-of-state companies that bring business to Maine. He's got himself a sweet deal.”

“Will the Fowlers get a similar ‘sweet deal,' Jim?” I asked.

“I think it only applies to businesses that come here from another state, Jessica.”

“That hardly seems fair,” I said. “Why shouldn't local citizens like the Fowlers also benefit from a tax break? Besides, Leboeuf has a home here in Cabot Cove. Why is he considered to be from out of state?”

Shevlin chuckled. “Go ask the legislators up in the state capital. I've never been able to figure out half the decisions they come to in Augusta.” Shevlin picked up another book and riffled the pages. “You think Susan would be offended if I bought her a cookbook? I don't want my wife to think I'm hinting at something.”

“She might prefer a mystery,” Mort said, cocking his head toward me.

“Good idea, Sheriff! Where are your books, Jessica?”

“There's a pile on the front table,” I said.

“Thanks,” Shevlin said, putting down the cookbook. “Should be interesting to see what develops. At the very least, looks like we'll all be well fed this summer.” He shook Mort's hand and gave me a peck on the cheek. “If I don't meet up with you again, have a good holiday.”

We wished him the same.

The store manager was delighted to have me sign my latest novel. She set me up at a counter with a pile of books and a roll of
SIGNED BY AUTHOR
stickers, and I went to work. Mort paid for Maureen's gift and offered to drive me home, but I declined. When I finished writing my name a dozen times, I took a walk around town, trying to clear my thinking about what I'd learned. Although Mort had been right—competition is usually healthy—I couldn't shake the feeling that two new restaurants were more than our town could support. Someone was going to be very disappointed, and I had a premonition that something unpleasant was in the wind for Cabot Cove.