Killer in the Kitchen (6 page)

“What will it be this evening?” Seth asked, snapping me out of my focus on the next table.

“I'm going to have that lobster with butternut squash,” I said. “I've never tried that combination.”

Seth opted for the more conservative boiled lobster, and we both ordered salads to start. When our dishes arrived, we were delighted to see that our lobsters were of the new-shell variety, which made access to the sweet and tender meat easier.

“This is wonderful,” I told Seth, breathing in the enticing aroma of the perfectly cooked lobster perched on a puff-pastry cushion over a rich butternut sauce. I dipped my fork into sautéed spinach, which offered a sharp contrast to the buttery main ingredient.

“Not bad. Not bad,” was Seth's assessment as he dipped a luscious claw into a bowl of clarified butter.

As we enjoyed our meal, Leboeuf's table continued to poke fun at their dishes.

“He obviously has no idea how to properly cook trout,” someone said.

“If you think the trout is bad,” Leboeuf said, “you should try the baked stuffed clams. All bread, no clams.”

“Why don't you tell him where he can find good clams,” Chang said.

Another round of sarcastic mirth.

Our waiter was also serving the Leboeuf table. As they expressed their complaints to him, his face mirrored his confusion and unhappiness. His only retort was to head for the kitchen to relay the complaint and then return with, “The chef is sorry that the meal isn't to your liking. Would you like to order something else?”

I felt sorry for him. Whether or not the Leboeuf party's choice of appetizers and entrées had pleased them, it seemed to
me that they were making much too much of a public display of it. I even considered turning to Leboeuf and suggesting that he take into consideration that it was opening night, with the kitchen and staff getting their footing, and to tone down the spiteful remarks. But as that possibility ran through my mind, Isabel approached the Leboeuf table. “Good evening,” she said brightly, enhancing her greeting with a smile. “I'm so glad you came to help us celebrate the opening. I'm sure that when your restaurant opens, we'll all be there to help you—”

“You're the owner's mother,” Leboeuf said through a Cheshire-cat smile. “You look just like your picture in the menu.”

“Oh, I was a little younger then,” Isabel said, her hand creeping up to touch her coiffure, “not quite as many gray hairs. I'm looking forward to having dinner in your place, Mr. Leboeuf. I hear that the food in your other restaurants is always wonderful.”

Leboeuf looked at his companions as he said, “Well, compared to here, I suppose it always is.”

It took Isabel a moment to grasp what he was saying. She started to reply, didn't find the words, pursed her lips to keep them from trembling, turned, and walked to the kitchen, almost tripping on her heels, which caused giggles at Leboeuf's table.

I was furious. I'm not a violent person, but I wanted to slap Gérard Leboeuf's face.

“Of all the nerve,” I said to Seth.

With that the kitchen door swung open. Brad Fowler came through it and headed straight for Leboeuf. His mother stood in the open doorway.

“Uh-oh,” I said.

“You have a problem, Mr. Leboeuf?” he said, his face red, hands clenched into fists at his sides.

“Your food is second-rate,” Leboeuf said, “and the service is pitiful.”

Brad looked around the room. “Everyone else seems to be pleased.”

“Maybe their standards are lower than mine,” Leboeuf said, which elicited titters from his dining companions.

“What did you say to upset my mother?”

“Nothing at all! I told her she looks like her picture in this—in this tome you call a menu.”

“If you're not pleased with your dinner—why don't you and your gang just get out of here before I punch your lights out?” Brad's voice was loud enough that other diners turned to see what was going on.

“So, you're not only the owner of a lousy restaurant,” Leboeuf said as he stood, “you're a tough guy.”

“I'll show you how tough I am,” Brad said, making a move toward Leboeuf. He hadn't taken two steps before the two young men at the table sprang to their feet and stood between them.

“Get out of my way,” Brad commanded.

One of the young men pushed Brad, causing him to stumble back. Marcie, who saw what was happening, ran through the dining room to her husband's side. “Stop it,” she said.

“Your husband has a big mouth, sweetheart,” Leboeuf said, patting her on the cheek.

Eva grabbed his arm. “Gérard? What are you doing?”

“Keep your hands off my wife,” Brad said, unable to move around the blockade formed by Leboeuf's men.

“Please go,” Marcie said, fighting to hold back tears. “There's no charge.”

“With pleasure,” Leboeuf said, taking out a wad of bills and throwing a few on the table. “For the waiter.” To his entourage: “Let's get out of this dump. This place doesn't deserve our patronage.”

Everyone in the dining room watched as they huffily abandoned their table and strode through the room, Leboeuf muttering under his breath on the way. Eva turned to look back at Marcie, her gaze cold. Wylie never took his eyes from his cell phone's screen as he walked with them.

Brad glared after them. Marcie rubbed her hand over his back and whispered something in an attempt to calm him down. He breathed heavily, and his hands clenched and unclenched. He suddenly lurched away from her and disappeared into the kitchen, where his mother had also retreated.

Marcie looked at me and Seth and shook her head. She instructed the waiter to clear Leboeuf's table before pasting a tight smile on her face and returning to the dais at the front.

“What a shame,” I said to Seth, who'd taken in the incident without commenting.

“There was no need for Mr. Leboeuf to act the way he did,” Seth said, “no need at all. Downright rude and arrogant.”

“I feel terrible for Marcie and Brad,” I said. “It was supposed to be a festive, special night, and it ends up in an ugly confrontation. I feel saddest for Isabel. Her dream was to make their dream come true. She must be so upset.”

From the buzz, I guessed that everyone in the restaurant was discussing what had just transpired. Seth and I picked at what was left of our lobster dinners, our appetites flown. “What a
shame that Isabel had to see Brad treated with such disrespect,” I said.

“He'll have to put it behind him,” Seth commented. “He's got a business to run and—” He looked up to see Brad walking swiftly toward our table.

“Dr. Hazlitt,” he said. “Come quick. Please. It's my mother.”

Seth dropped his napkin, got up, and followed Brad to the kitchen. I waited a few moments to avoid making it appear as if a parade of people were heading into the kitchen, then followed. Seth was on his cell phone, standing next to Isabel, who sat in a chair, her face ashen. He pressed the cell phone to his ear, a frown creasing his face. “Right,” he said. “Ayuh. Get some EMTs and an ambulance here yesterday, back door of the new restaurant on the pier, the Fin and Claw. Pull up Isabel Fowler's records in the computer. Have a stroke team waiting. I'll be there as soon as I can.”

“Isabel's had a stroke?” I asked.

Seth nodded, his eyes grave. “I'll ride with her to the hospital. Sorry to abandon you.”

“Don't give it a moment's thought.”

The ambulance arrived within minutes, and two EMTs, carrying a wheeled gurney, entered the kitchen. A few minutes later they wheeled Isabel Fowler out, covered by a sheet up to her chin.

Seth fished in his wallet.

“You go ahead, Seth. I'll get the check. Plenty of friends here to give me a lift home.”

I returned to the dining room and sank back into my chair at the table. I looked at the half-consumed lobster on my plate and willed myself to not cry. Instead of a night of celebrating the
grand opening of the Fin & Claw, the evening had turned into one of rancor and sorrow.

M
arcie came to my table. “Will she be all right?” she asked.

“I hope so.” It was the only thing I could think of at the moment. I walked her back to the entrance to keep our conversation private.

Mort Metzger joined us. “What's going on, Mrs. F.?” he asked.

“Isabel Fowler has been taken to the hospital. Seth says she's had a stroke.”

“So that's why the doc hightailed it outta here.”

“Yes. He's accompanying her.”

“If you need a lift home, Maureen and I will take you.”

Brad emerged from the kitchen. He'd shucked his white chef's garb and wore a sweater, jeans, and a tan Windbreaker. “I'm going to the hospital,” he told Marcie.

“Do you want me to come with you?”

“You can't, sweetheart. Customers are still coming in. I need you to take over here.”

“Who'll run the kitchen?” she protested. “I'm not sure I know what to do.”

“Jake can handle the kitchen. You'll be fine with the rest. Get
a ride home from somebody when you close up,” he said. “I'll call you later.”

With that he was gone.

Marcie slumped on the stool behind the dais and rubbed her forehead. “What else can possibly happen?” she said, struggling to maintain her composure.

“If it's any comfort, you must know that Isabel is in competent hands,” I said. I took in the dining room, which was filled with customers in various stages of enjoying their meals, some of them aware that something was wrong, others oblivious to the drama behind the scenes.

“Do you think you should announce that there's been a family emergency and close up?” I suggested to Marcie.

“No!” She wiped her eyes and stood. “Brad is trusting me to stay.” She addressed a couple who had come to the podium to express their concern. “We've had a family emergency,” she said, “but please don't let that spoil your evening.”

I had to admire her fortitude.

“I'm going to see if Jake needs any help on the cook line,” she said. “Excuse me. I'll get to the hospital as soon as everyone is gone.” She assigned one of the waitresses to cover the podium and went into the kitchen.

“We've already paid our bill,” Mort said to me. “Maureen and I can take you home.”

“Thank you, Mort, but I'd like to swing by the hospital on the way.”

“No problem, Mrs. F.”

I bade good-bye to friends at various tables—the Shevlins and Wilsons, Tim Purdy, photographer Richard Koser and his wife, Mary-Jane, and others. They had questions, which I
managed to deflect, telling them that I'd talk to them the following day. I used a credit card to pay for our dinner and followed Mort and Maureen to their car. Fifteen minutes later we pulled up in front of the Cabot Cove General Hospital.

“Thanks for the lift,” I said.

“Want us to come in with you?” Maureen asked.

“No, thank you. I'll see how Seth is doing. He'll drive me home.”

When I entered the hospital's lobby, I saw Seth sitting with Brad Fowler on a bench in the far corner of the room. Seth waved me over.

“How is Isabel?” I asked.

Seth just shook his head, a somber expression on his face.

“Is she—?”

“She's alive, but it was a massive stroke, intracerebral if I'm not mistaken. She's undergoing a CAT scan as we speak.”

Brad, who was fighting back tears, asked, “Is she going to make it, Doctor?”

“We have to give it some time, Brad. We generally do pretty well with stroke victims who are treated within three or four hours of the onset, depending upon the sort of stroke it is. We've got a few good drugs that really help early on.”

Brad stood and paced the lobby.

“Quite a night for him,” I said to Seth.

“One he'd just as soon forget. What happened at the restaurant after I left?”

“Marcie took charge, and there's a sous chef named Jake who was taking over in the kitchen.”

“Good. I keep thinking about that arrogant son-of-a-gun Leboeuf and the way he acted.”

“He's the least of Brad's worries at this moment,” I said.

Seth was paged and told me to wait for him. Brad slumped into the seat next to mine. “She was so happy today,” he said. “She was smiling and trying to cheer me up, while I was a nervous wreck.” He looked at me sadly. “I don't want to disappoint her, Mrs. Fletcher. She's invested all she could to make our dream come true—Marcie's and mine—even though we're not exactly experts in this business. She never held it over us. She spent hours in the kitchen, patiently showing me everything she knew. ‘It's my pleasure,' she kept saying when I told her she needed to rest. Do you think that's what made her sick?”

“I'm sure Isabel was telling you the truth when she said it was her pleasure, Brad. And I don't see how that could have made her sick. Whatever health problems she has are not because she spent too much time teaching you to cook.”

“She's the best mother a guy could ever ask for.” He shook his head. “I haven't been the best son, I know. I was a terrible student. Got in trouble in school. I'm short-tempered and stubborn. I can't seem to help it. She says I'm just like my dad, but I think she just says that to give me an excuse.” He sat back and closed his eyes, a tear escaping and rolling down his cheek. “At least I did one thing right.”

“What's that?”

“I married her favorite person. She loves my wife like a daughter. And Marcie loves her right back.”

“You're a lucky man to have two such beautiful women in your life.”

Brad swiped under his eyes with his fingers and smiled. It was the first smile I'd seen on his face that evening, but it didn't last. “We'll take care of her no matter what. But what'll I do if I
lose her, Mrs. Fletcher?” He shook his head and knocked a fist against his skull. “I can't even think like that.”

“It's better not to anyway,” I said. “Dr. Hazlitt and the other medical personnel will do everything in their power to keep her with us. We can't ask for more than that.”

We said little more to each other until Seth returned twenty minutes later, his face etched with apprehension. He sighed as he sat next to Brad.

“It's not good news, son,” he said. “I'm afraid she's sustained a lot of cranial bleeding. There is a strong possibility of permanent damage. All we can do is wait and see if the drugs will get her through.”

“Can I see her?”

“Not right now. They've taken her up to intensive care. The specialists are working with her.”

“How long will it take before we know?” Brad asked, his voice cracking.

Seth shrugged. “Certainly hours, perhaps days. Sorry to have to be the one to tell you, Brad. If she survives the night, she might not be right. She might be . . .” He looked away.

“A vegetable?” Brad filled in. His head dropped into his hands and he moaned. “Nooo! She would hate that, absolutely hate that.”

“Let's not think the worst,” Seth said. He squeezed Brad's shoulder. “My suggestion is that you go back to the restaurant and take care of business there. I think Isabel would want you to do that. Don't you? I promise that I'll call you if there's any change.”

“He's right,” I told Brad. “There's nothing you can do for your
mother here except worry. But I'm sure that Marcie needs your help right now.”

Brad glanced at his watch and heaved a sigh. “Maybe you're right,” he said. “She'll want to know what's going on. I'll check on things at the restaurant and we'll come back as soon as we close. Do you think we'd be able to see Mom then?”

“There's a much better chance once they've got her settled in and had an opportunity to monitor her response to the medication.”

“Okay.”

Seth and I watched the young man cross the lobby and disappear through the doors.

“I ache for him,” I said. “The ugly scene with Leboeuf and now this. If trouble
does
come in threes, Seth, I dread to think what's next for Brad Fowler.”