Killer in the Kitchen (21 page)

“How did he respond?”

Her face twisted into anger. “I was leaning against one of the prep tables with my arms crossed. He wrapped his arms around me, so I couldn't move. He pressed himself against me and tried to kiss me. His hands were all over me. It was disgusting.”

“What did you do?” I asked.

“I tried to push him off me, but he had my arms pinned. He was strong, too strong for me. I kept twisting my face away, telling him to let me go. He said something like, ‘Maybe I'll buy your place if you come with it as a bonus.'”

Her tale was wrenching, and I grimaced as she replayed what had happened that night. I was hesitant to ask what happened next, but didn't have to.

“I was sure he was going to try to take it further, but thank goodness, that's when his wife walked in.”

M
arcie's matter-of-fact statement that Eva Leboeuf had walked in on the scene she'd been describing brought me up short for a moment.

“She saw what her husband was doing to you?” I said.

“She did. She went ballistic, called me a slut and every other name she could think of. I told her she should yell at her husband, not me. By this time, he'd let go, but he didn't move away, and he didn't look sorry that she'd interrupted him. He told her to ‘take it easy,' that nothing happened. So then she turned on him, using every four-letter word she could think of.”

“It must have been traumatic for you,” I said.

“It was awful, Mrs. Fletcher. I tried to explain why I'd come there, but I couldn't get a word in edgewise.”

“How did it end up?” I asked.

“I was angry at what she called me, but instead of yelling back at her, I started to cry. I pushed Leboeuf away and ran out the door.”

“Had Chang come back?” I asked.

“No, but he was the one who discovered Leboeuf's body later, wasn't he?”

“Yes. I wonder if he knew she was there. If so, he never mentioned it to the police. Marcie, if what you're telling me is
accurate, Eva Leboeuf, in a furious state, was left alone with her husband at just about the time he was killed.”

“That's right.”

“What did you do once you'd run from the kitchen?”

“I went home.”

“Was Brad there?”

“No. And that's the worst part.”

“So had he gone to Leboeuf's kitchen looking for you?”

She cast her eyes down before answering in a quiet voice, “Yes.”

“How do you know that?”

“I waited up for him. I wanted to know where he'd been. I was afraid that's what had happened.”

“Did he think you were having an affair with Leboeuf?”

“Oh, no! He's knows me better than that. But he did suspect I'd try to see if Leboeuf would buy us out.”

“Did he and Leboeuf have another confrontation?”

She shook her head.

“They didn't argue?”

“Brad said that he went to the bistro's kitchen looking for me. When he got there, he saw Leboeuf's body on the floor with the knife in him.”

“And?”

“He did what I did. He ran out, hoping he hadn't touched anything, and came home. We sat up the rest of the night talking about what it all meant for us. Brad was convinced that if people knew that he'd been there right after Leboeuf had been killed, they'd immediately point a finger at him, especially since he wasn't very subtle about his dislike of the man. He said that since I'd been there with Leboeuf, people might not believe that I
rejected his advances; they might look to me as the logical suspect.”

“What did you do with the note from Leboeuf?”

“We burned it. Was that bad?”

“Too late now.”

“I'm sorry. We were scared it would tie us to the murder.”

“So you decided between the two of you to hide the fact that you'd both been in that kitchen.”

“It seemed the safest thing to do at the time.”

“But if you'd told the authorities about Eva being there, it might have shined a light on her as a suspect.”

“We didn't think anyone would believe that she'd killed her husband.” After a long pause, she said, “Do you think she did?”

“From what you've said, she was very angry with him, but whether she was angry enough to kill him, I couldn't say. Even if it's a possibility, possibilities aren't solid evidence.”

“If she did, then maybe she was the one who paid Jake Trotter to accuse Brad.”

“I wouldn't doubt it, Marcie. But we need proof.”

“Oh, she'll never admit it. And if she doesn't, that just leaves us as the scapegoats.”

“Perhaps. But I have an idea.”

“What is it?”

“Will you be willing to come with me tomorrow morning to see Sheriff Metzger and tell him what you've told me tonight?”

“Do you think he'll believe me?”

“I think if you come forward with the truth, he'll listen. He's a smart man and a kind one.”

“Will it help Brad?”

I sighed. “I can't promise anything, but I think it might. Without Jake Trotter's false testimony, the authorities don't have anything to justify holding Brad. It's one man's word against another.”

“I'll do anything if this nightmare can be put behind us and Brad and I can have the sort of relationship we used to have.”

“Be back here tomorrow morning at nine. I'll call ahead and arrange an appointment with the sheriff.”

“Okay, Mrs. Fletcher. I hope you know what you're doing.”

*   *   *

I hoped I knew what I was doing, too. I shared Marcie's desire to see the nightmare end. For me it would mean being able to shut down my racing mind, climb into bed at ten, and enjoy eight hours of uninterrupted sleep for the first time in days. For them it would be an opportunity to look at their future without the threat of jail and to decide whether they'd taken the right steps for their life together.

I was showered, dressed, and had had breakfast when Marcie arrived the following morning. I carried my shoulder bag with me, as usual, as well as the goody bag I'd received at Leboeuf's grand opening. Marcie gave me a strange look when she saw Leboeuf's name on the side of the little shopping bag, but she didn't ask and I didn't volunteer any information. We entered police headquarters, where the desk sergeant, who was expecting us, told us to go directly to Mort's office.

“Good morning, ladies.” Mort directed us to two chairs that were usually covered with piles of paper but had been cleared for our visit. “So,” he said once we'd been seated, “what's this all about? I hope it's important, because I've got a bear of a day ahead of me.”

“You'll be the judge of how important it is, Sheriff.” I hoped that my addressing him formally would capture his attention and keep it. “Did you have an opportunity to follow up with Jake Trotter and the lies he told in his statement about having seen Brad Fowler kill Leboeuf?”

“First thing this morning, Mrs. F. I spoke with the DA, who agrees with you that what Trotter said he saw could not have happened the way he described it. We picked Mr. Trotter up an hour ago. At the moment, he's in a holding cell, awaiting legal representation. He doesn't have very kind words to say about you, I might add. He said you had a deal, and he's furious you didn't keep to your part of the bargain.”

“We never had a deal. I merely let him ramble on, thinking it was a possibility, so that he would reveal the truth.”

“He admits he perjured himself, which means he's in for big trouble for having given a false statement to authorities.”

Marcie leaned forward. “Does that mean you'll release Brad now?”

I put my hand on hers. “These things take time,” I said. “There are procedures that have to be followed.” I was afraid that if Mort let Brad go right away, Marcie might never tell the sheriff the truth about the night of the killing.

Mort looked from me to Marcie and leaned back in his seat. “Mrs. F. is correct. We have procedures to follow. Now, what is the reason for this little get-together this morning?”

“Did Mr. Trotter say who paid him to lie?” I asked.

“No, but I have a sneaky suspicion that you know the answer to that question.”

“Well, I do have some ideas, but before we get to that, Marcie has something you should know.”

“You have the floor, Mrs. Fowler,” Mort said, taking a pen from his breast pocket and pulling a legal pad toward him.

Ten minutes later Marcie finished recounting what she'd told me at my home the previous night. When she was done, Mort raised his eyebrows and said, “So according to you, Mr. Leboeuf was alive when you left him, and Mrs. Leboeuf was alone with her husband in the kitchen. Was anyone else there?”

“Not as far as I know,” Marcie said.

“And your husband says that he saw the body and no one else when he went there looking for you, and then he took off.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Leboeuf's manager, Mr. Chang, was the one who reported finding the body.”

“He'd left when I arrived, but said he was coming back,” Marcie reiterated.

“Mort,” I said, “I know that there was one readable print on the knife that killed Leboeuf.”

“Right, origin unknown. Whoever left that print had never been fingerprinted before. We ran it through the FBI database in DC. No such print on record.”

I held up the goody bag I'd received at the opening of Leboeuf's French Bistro. “This might help you,” I said. I reached inside and, using a handkerchief, carefully extracted the fancy stemless wineglass with the fancy gold “Leboeuf” on its side.

“What's this?” Mort asked.

“The bag of favors the Leboeufs provided guests on their opening night. This glass was in it. You and Maureen must have received one, too.”

Mort leaned forward to better see it. “Oh, yeah,” he said. “Maureen has it on the fireplace mantel. So what?”

“When I received mine,” I said, “I thanked Eva Leboeuf and held the glass in my hands. She took it, held it up to the light, and bragged about a glassblower in Venice who had made them exclusively for the bistro's opening night.”

“I see where this is going,” Mort said. “You think the print on the knife used to kill Leboeuf might match up with his wife's prints on this glass.”

“That's what I'm hoping,” I said, replacing the glass in the bag. “Of course my prints will be on it, too, but I assure you that I didn't kill Gérard Leboeuf.”

Mort called in a deputy and instructed him to take the bag and run the glass to one of the state's regional crime labs a few hours away. “They have the print from the knife used in the Leboeuf murder. Tell 'em we need a fast answer.”

That answer came back later that afternoon. The print on the glass was a perfect match to one on the murder weapon. Both prints belonged to Eva Leboeuf.

T
he aftermath of Gerard Leboeuf's murder played out in Cabot Cove, and in the media around the country and the world, over the ensuing six months. I used that time to continue documenting events as they occurred, filling notebook after notebook, transcribing my observations, and saving press reports and official documents as they became available.

In the meantime, all the players in the case found their way through the legal system. Naturally, Eva denied having stabbed her husband to death. The attorney she hired pointed out that it was not unusual for her fingerprints to be on the murder weapon; after all, she spent considerable time in the bistro's kitchen. That stance might have prevailed, except that her son, Wylie, himself under indictment for drug possession with the intent to sell, broke down during questioning and told Mort and the other investigators that he was awake when his mother returned to the house the night of the murder and that she'd had blood on her dress. When asked to produce the dress, Eva said that she had torn it and tossed in into the trash. No one believed her, and under continuing questioning, she eventually confessed to the murder but claimed it was self-defense. Leboeuf had grabbed her hand when she tried to slap him, she said, and had twisted her arm back. She told him that he was hurting her, but when he refused to let go, she swiped a knife off the counter and stabbed him in the side to make him release her. She wept sweetly when she took the stand, and the jury was sympathetic, convicting her of involuntary manslaughter and giving her a reduced sentence.

The shocking murder of noted restaurateur Gérard Leboeuf, and the conviction of his wife, former supermodel and businesswoman Eva Leboeuf, was certainly sensational enough to satisfy even the most inquisitive of onlookers. But the story expanded when the FBI, aided by the agent assigned to Cabot Cove following Leboeuf's death, Anthony Cale, filed federal charges against the chef's corporate organization for a variety of crimes, including money laundering, racketeering, tax evasion, and a half-dozen other violations of the law. In exchange for leniency, Charles Compton—aka Warren Shulte while he was hiding away on Cape Cod (Shulte happened to be the name the FBI had suggested for the Witness Protection Program he'd rejected)—gave devastating testimony as Leboeuf's accountant. Having nailed the case for federal prosecutors, Compton decided to take the government up on its offer this time, entered the Witness Protection Program, and has again disappeared. The two young men who constantly hovered over the Leboeuf family were charged with racketeering, having provided strong-arm manipulation for the Leboeuf empire, and they departed Cabot Cove in handcuffs.

As for Wylie Leboeuf, the judge gave him a suspended sentence, provided he enroll in an approved rehabilitation facility for thirty days, which he agreed to do. He'd been brought up in a tumultuous family atmosphere, and my good wishes and prayers went with him.

The only member of the Leboeuf family who emerged unscathed was Max, their German shepherd, who found a good and loving home with Mort Metzger's deputy, Chip.

Another player in this twisted, wrenching, and sad saga was the state food inspector, Harold Greene. In return for pleading guilty to taking bribes from restaurant owners, he lost his job and pension and was prohibited from working for any government agency for three years. As part of his plea bargain, he admitted that Gérard Leboeuf had paid him to trump up sanitary violations at the Fin & Claw, which he'd also done with other restaurants during his shabby career.

As for the corrupt Jake Trotter, he was convicted of giving false testimony to the authorities and was sentenced to two years in a state penitentiary, where he served his time in the prison kitchen. I hoped he would find a different community in which to live when he was released.

The resolution of Leboeuf's murder and its accompanying sordid scenarios was announced at a press conference conducted by Mayor Shevlin and Sheriff Mort Metzger, who shared the stage with state investigators Anne Lucas and Clifford Mason. Mort had privately thanked me for my help in bringing Eva Leboeuf to justice but asked whether I would be offended if he didn't mention me in his public remarks.

“Of course I won't be offended, Mort,” I told him. “All I did was put a few pieces together, which you would have done in due time. You've done a wonderful job and deserve the gratitude of everyone in Cabot Cove.”

Armed with that assurance, Mort took over the stage after being introduced by the mayor and heaped praise upon Lucas and Mason, who appeared to be uncomfortable with his words. In my opinion, they hadn't been instrumental in resolving the murder, but at least they hadn't gotten in the way. It pleased me to see Mort bask in the limelight, and the broad grin on his wife's face was all the thank-you I needed.

Once Cabot Cove had settled back into some semblance of normalcy, I got down to the task of telling the tale for my next book. I interviewed everyone involved who made themselves available—the Leboeuf family and their organized crime keepers the exceptions—and my excitement grew as the pages piled up and the story took shape to my satisfaction. Naturally, Brad and Marcie Fowler—their names changed—were front and center in my fictional recounting of the events and cooperated fully. They represented my “happy ending.”

Brad's mother, Isabel, had taken out a life insurance policy for $200,000, with Brad as the beneficiary. Armed with that infusion of capital and free to devote their energies to the Fin & Claw, Brad and Marcie developed a new menu offering fewer dishes, but still with a page devoted to Isabel's recipes, including the divine lobster in butternut sauce that I'd loved. As a result, the restaurant grew more successful with each passing week.

Not long after, Marcie and Brad decided to start a family, with Marcie opting to be a stay-at-home mom during their child's early years. What especially warmed my heart was to see that the couple's relationship had solidified. “Brad is a different person,” Marcie confided in me. “He puts things into perspective now and doesn't let trivial things get to him.”

Brad made Fritzi Boering the Fin & Claw's general manager, a role for which Fritzi was well suited after his years keeping customers happy at Sardi's, Manhattan's famed show-business eatery. Fritzi regaled everyone who would listen with the tale that he alone had solved the murder of Gérard Leboeuf, way before Jessica Fletcher and the police had come up with the answers.
Cherchez la femme!

*   *   *

I was a month away from finishing
Killer in the Kitchen
when my publisher, Vaughan Buckley, summoned me to New York to appear on a highly rated TV talk show. Following my appearance, we had dinner at our favorite French restaurant, L'Absinthe, where, as usual, we were enthusiastically greeted by Jean-Michel Bergougnoux, who showed us to Vaughan's usual booth.

“You were terrific on the show,” Vaughan told me over appetizers—tartare de boeuf for him; I went along with something raw but made it salmon tartare. In honor of my being close to completing
Killer in the Kitchen,
he sprang for a bottle of 2005 Bordeaux Chateau Lynch Moussas Grand Cru, which, after tasting, he proclaimed was superb. I'm not a wine connoisseur, but I took his word for it. It was tasty.

When it came time to order our entrées, Vaughan asked if I was in the mood for boeuf bourguignon, steak in red wine sauce.

“Steak?” I said. “Beef?
Boeuf?
No, I think I've had enough
boeuf
to last me a long time. Anything but
boeuf
.”

*   *   *

I returned to Cabot Cove and eagerly dove into writing the final chapters. I declined lunch and dinner invitations from friends and, as usual, became a virtual recluse. When I thought that I'd written the final page, I came up for air and joined Seth, Evelyn Phillips, Mort and Maureen Metzger, and Jim and Susan Shevlin for dinner at the Fin & Claw, where we toasted Isabel Fowler and enjoyed dishes based on her recipes, which came from the kitchen cooked to perfection.

“So you finished the book,” Evelyn said. “Congratulations!”

“Actually,” I said, “I forgot to add one thing, so this celebration is a bit premature.”

That didn't put a halt to the festivities, and I returned home sated with good food and scintillating conversation with some of my favorite people.

Before I got ready for bed, I turned off the lights throughout the house, with the exception of my office. I sat down at my computer, pulled up the manuscript of
Killer in the Kitchen
, smiled, and typed: “THE END.” Now the story was complete.