Killer in the Kitchen (9 page)

“Sorry to interrupt, Marcie,” I said, “but it's routine for inspectors to arrive unannounced so the owner doesn't have advance notice and time to clean up.”

She reared back and looked at me as though I were an enemy. I realized I probably shouldn't have defended Greene so abruptly.

“Maybe I'm wrong,” I said.

“I don't know, Mrs. Fletcher. Maybe you're right. Anyway, Greene just marched into our kitchen, a clipboard and pen in his hand, and started looking around.” She leaned forward again. “Mrs. Fletcher, I swear to you, the kitchen is pristine. Brad is a fussbudget about cleanliness. At home he rinses the dishes so thoroughly that by the time he puts them in the dishwasher they're squeaky clean.”

I smiled at her anecdote.

“Greene found some things that he said were violations, silly little things like whether certain cooking utensils were too close to one another, how we store mayonnaise—which, by the way, is the right way to store it. And then . . .”

I waited.

“He got down on his knees and started looking at the floor under the range. He looked up, a smug expression on his face, and said, ‘mouse droppings.'”

“Oh, dear.”

“Mrs. Fletcher, those mouse droppings weren't there when he arrived. He put them there. I know it. I just know he did.”

“That's a serious charge, Marcie. What can you do about it?”

She stood, misery etched into her pretty face. “He gave us
two days to correct the alleged violations, but even if we do—and how do you correct something that isn't there in the first place?—we've been fined four hundred dollars.”

“That's a lot of money.”

“Everything is a lot of money, Mrs. Fletcher. It seems that there's no end to what we have to lay out. It's a nightmare. This whole experience of opening a restaurant has been one big, expensive headache.”

I smiled and reached for her hand. “It's really early in the game,” I said. “Starting something as ambitious as a restaurant always involves unexpected expenses and setbacks.”

“Tell that to Brad,” she said.

“Where is he?”

“In the kitchen. Please look in on him before you leave. I know he'll be glad to see you. He's beside himself.”

After I'd finished my soup and paid the bill, I took her suggestion and pushed open the swinging door into the kitchen, then questioned whether I should have. Brad was in the midst of a rant against his sous chef, Jake, calling him names I'd just as soon not repeat. Jake responded by whipping off his white apron and throwing it at Brad, who caught it and flung it across the kitchen.

Jake pushed past me just as Marcie was coming into the kitchen. “Jake, where are you going?”

“I'm outta here.”

“Oh, hi, Mrs. Fletcher,” Brad said, breathing hard in an attempt to calm down.

“Hello, Brad. I'm sorry if I'm disturbing anything, but Marcie thought it would be a good idea for me to stop by to see you.”

“Mrs. Fletcher has some good advice for us,” Marcie put in.

I tried to remember the advice I was supposed to impart.

“Really? The only advice I need is how to get rid of that shark Leboeuf. I'd like to tear his heart out.”

“You don't know for certain that he's behind Mr. Greene's findings during the inspection,” Marcie said. “And why were you arguing with Jake again?”

“He's in Leboeuf's pocket. I'm sure of it! Who else? Mouse droppings? Either he or the inspector put them there. There are no mice in this kitchen, Marcie, and you know it.”

“Brad, please calm down.”

“Calm down? Leboeuf is opening his place in a couple of days. Do you know what's he's doing, Marcie? He sent Jed Richardson to Boston in his plane to bring a couple of celebrities to Cabot Cove for his opening.”

“So he has more connections than we have. So what? The celebrities aren't going to stay around to keep eating at his restaurant.”

“He and his gang have been bad-mouthing our food all over town.”

I tried to smooth things over. “The people in Cabot Cove are more likely to place their faith in someone they've known all his life than in newcomers to town,” I said. “You have to trust in people's good judgment, Brad.”

“That's only the start of it, Mrs. Fletcher. He's scheduled full-page ads for almost a month in the
Gazette
. And look at this.” He handed Marcie a receipt from a vendor. “Joey, who delivers our bread, says that he can't supply us anymore, because Leboeuf has put in a big order for his place here in Cabot Cove and for all his restaurants around the country.”

“Why would he buy his bread for his other restaurants from a baker here in Maine?” I asked.

“To cut off our supplies.”

“Can he do that?” Marcie asked.

“He can keep us from getting it at a decent price,” Brad said, shaking his head sadly. “And what about Winston down at the dock?”

My quizzical expression prompted Brad to say, “Tell her, Marcie.”

“Caleb Winston called to tell us that he wouldn't be able to provide us with fresh clams any longer.”

“You don't have to ask why, Mrs. Fletcher. I'll tell you. Because Leboeuf bought him out. He put in such a large standing order that Caleb said he can't ignore it.”

“He was all apologetic, of course,” Marcie said. “Brad and he went to high school together. But Caleb said that Leboeuf's order commits him to all the clams he can dig.”

“There's no way that Leboeuf can use as many clams as he's ordered,” Brad said, his voice rising. “He just wants to corner the market on them and keep us from another source.”

“There must be other clam diggers in Cabot Cove,” I said.

“But it's like starting all over again,” Marcie said, “researching the quality of supplies and making deals with new vendors. We thought we already had those arrangements covered. That kind of planning takes time, and we'd already moved on to the next phase, until Leboeuf—”

“See?” Brad said. “It's Leboeuf, always Leboeuf.” He slammed a spatula on the stainless steel countertop, causing the other three workers in the kitchen to jump and to look at one another.

Marcie tried to calm him down by saying, “Brad, you have to get ahold of yourself. I'm worried you're going to get sick. Mrs. Fletcher told me that these sorts of problems are only natural when opening a new restaurant.” She looked at me imploringly. “Isn't that right?”

Brad sighed. “What do you know about opening a restaurant?”

“Nothing, I'm afraid,” I said, taken aback by his question. “I'm only trying to give you my support. I'm sorry that you had a problem with the inspector, but I'm sure it will work out all right.” I made a show of looking at my watch. “I wish I could offer you something more concrete, but right now I have to leave.”

“Thanks for trying to help, Mrs. Fletcher,” Marcie said as we walked from the kitchen into the dining room. “Can I offer you some dessert? On the house. We have a new strawberry pie on the menu today.”

“Another time,” I said.

Across the way, at Leboeuf's restaurant, trucks were delivering produce, meat, and fish for the opening-night festivities. The thought of attending his opening wasn't especially appealing at that moment. While Gérard Leboeuf had every right to live in Cabot Cove and to open his French bistro, he was spreading rancor and bad feelings throughout the town I loved. I wished that he'd found another idyllic seaside spot in which to build a summer home and expand his restaurant empire.

Brad Fowler was justified in being upset. Leboeuf was up to his old tricks, putting pressure on his competitor by closing off his suppliers—pressure that the smaller business was not prepared to counter. There was nothing I could do to help. It was
true that I didn't know anything about opening a restaurant. My fear was that Brad and Marcie didn't either. But they were learning, and learning fast, that all was not fair in love and war—and the restaurant business.

D
espite my misgivings about attending the launch of Leboeuf's restaurant, it was only natural to be swept up in the anticipation of the opening. Although Seth was loath to exhibit his excitement—well, maybe “excitement” is too strong a word where Seth is concerned—he'd dressed for the occasion, just as I had. After he admired my outfit, we drove to the town dock, where uniformed valets parked his car.

The weather had cooperated, and it was a beautiful night. When we arrived, there was a vivid red carpet at the entranceway, and two video crews trained their cameras on arriving guests. It felt as though we were attending the Oscars. I spotted Evelyn Phillips, who was gussied up for the occasion after an afternoon at Loretta's Beauty Shop, where I'd also had my hair done. She was interviewing one of the celebrities who'd been flown from Boston for the occasion, a tall, striking redhead who regularly appeared on a TV reality show—which I'd never seen and didn't intend to, but knew about from Evelyn's write-up in the
Gazette
. The other celebrity attending tonight was a news anchor from a Boston television station, a familiar handsome man with a deep voice who delivered the day's grim news each night.

I knew that Seth was eager to try the food at Leboeuf's
“authentic” French bistro. He loved steak frites and onion soup and was a real fan of crème brûlée, especially the vanilla variety, which he'd pointed out was on the menu and had been featured in an ad that Leboeuf had placed in the
Gazette
.

Across the street, the parking lot of the Fin & Claw was half-empty. That wasn't necessarily a bad sign for Brad and Marcie Fowler. It's hard to compete with a grand opening of any sort, and particularly one in which the dinner was being given away free. But it was only one night; their competitor would be charging for his dishes the next day.

The bistro was crowded with familiar faces from town and many that I didn't recognize. I glanced across the lobby and saw another cadre of friends. Spirits were high. The sound of a string trio playing spirited French tunes—I immediately thought of Édith Piaf—wafted through the restaurant's open door. No doubt about it—Gérard Leboeuf had gone all-out for his special night. He may not have had George Clooney and Meryl Streep in attendance, but the evening had all the trappings of a movie premiere.

I wondered what role Leboeuf's wife, Eva, played in the restaurants. She was a stunning woman who'd once graced the covers of leading magazines, and she would make a smashing hostess. But she wasn't at the reception desk. I also looked for their son, Wylie, but he wasn't in attendance either, at least as far as I could see. Evelyn's revelation about his arrest on drug charges may have prompted his parents to keep him away from an event that attracted news coverage. Those were my thoughts as I looped my arm in Seth's and we went inside, where Leboeuf himself greeted us.

“Ah, Mrs. Fletcher and Dr. Hazlitt. What a pleasure to see
you again, and so glad you could come.” He winked at me. “All is forgiven, eh?”

“Your restaurant is lovely,” I said, avoiding his question as I took in the bistro's dining room. It was all glittering glass and chrome, reflecting lights from the crystal chandeliers in the mirrors that ringed the room. A wall of wine bottles nestled on curved steel mesh shelves. Crisp white tablecloths showed off sparkling place settings, and huge vases of fresh flowers in strategic spots softened the hard edges throughout the room. I thought of my favorite French restaurant in New York City, L'Absinthe, and how different Leboeuf's French Bistro was from Jean-Michel Bergougnoux's approach to establishing a Continental mood for his customers. Whether the food was as good as Jean-Michel's was yet to be determined.

Leboeuf's guests for the evening weren't immediately seated. Waiters passed trays of fancy hors d'oeuvres and glasses of champagne while Leboeuf made his way through the crowd, his face set in an expansive smile, shaking hands, slapping backs, and in general making everyone feel welcome.

Seth and I circulated among friends and ended up chatting with my dentist, Ed Filler, who'd recently repaired a cracked tooth for me. Ed's full name was Edward Zachary Filler, an apt name for his profession. The sign in front of the home he shared with his wife, Elaine, and where his office was located, read
E.Z. FILLER, DENTIST
, and was regularly stolen as a souvenir. Ed and Elaine's waterfront home was one property removed from the summer mansion that Leboeuf had constructed. I was pleased to see that the restaurateur had invited the couple next door.

“Quite a shindig,” Ed commented.

“Mr. Leboeuf has gone all out,” I said.

“This is Cabot Cove's first and only French restaurant,” Elaine said. “Don't you love the music? I can't wait to try the food.”

“Well,” Seth said, “your neighbor is putting on quite a show. I imagine that you and the Leboeuf family have become good friends, living near to each other as you do.”

They looked at each other and grinned.

“Hard to be good friends with people who are seldom there,” Elaine said, “although they have spent more time at the house since construction of the restaurant started.”

Ed laughed. “We always know when they're in residence, however. Never a quiet moment.”

Seth was not about to let that go. “Meaning what?”

Ed lowered his voice. “I shouldn't say this, since we're his guests tonight, but the Leboeufs tend to be loud when they're fighting.”

“They do that often?” Seth pressed.

“Often enough,” Elaine said. “When the police arrived . . .”

Her husband shook his head.

“Well, there's no need to go into that.”

“Police?” Seth said.

I hadn't mentioned to him that the Leboeuf boy had been arrested on a drug charge.

“It's not important,” Ed said as he reached out and plucked an hors d'oeuvre off a passing tray. “Don't bite down on anything hard,” he told me through a laugh. “I'm off duty.”

The cocktail hour at an end, waiters began leading guests to their tables. At each place was a small shopping bag with the name of the restaurant on its side. I saw Maureen Metzger draw out a card and smile.

While we waited our turn, Eva Leboeuf entered the room and walked up to her husband, who'd been chatting with customers. The look on her face indicated she was not especially pleased at the moment, and her stern expression was at odds with the perpetual grin Gérard had adopted for the evening. Seeing his wife, Leboeuf's smile dipped into a scowl. He started to say something, but she snarled at him, waving a long, manicured, crimson-tipped index finger in his face, and turned her back to her husband, surveying the room.

Seth had noticed their exchange, too. “That's one angry lady. Do you know about this business of the police going to Leboeuf's home?”

I nodded. “His son was arrested for drug possession.”

“And where did you learn that, Jessica?”

“I was at the sheriff's office when Mort released him.”

Leboeuf, his lips once more set in an upward curve, invited stragglers to find their tables and announced that dinner would soon be served. Eva drifted away from him in our direction.

Settled in our seats, Seth and I peeked into our little shopping bags to find a lipstick sample—“Not my color,” he said, handing it to me—and a tiny vial of men's cologne—“This will smell better on you,” I said, dropping it in his bag. Also inside mine were a postcard advertising Eva's cosmetics website, a refrigerator magnet with the telephone number of Leboeuf's French Bistro in large numbers, and a small box covered in gold foil. I opened it to find a delicate glass with the Leboeuf logo embossed in gold on its side.

“This is stunning,” I said, holding up the glass.

“Isn't it?” Eva said.

I hadn't seen her come up to our table.

She took the glass from my hand and held it up to the light.

“What's it for?” Seth asked.

She seemed startled by the question and handed the glass back to me. “It's a stemless wineglass, of course. We had them especially made for the opening by a glassblower in Murano. They used cotton gloves to pack them.” She gave me a wan smile. “Sorry if I smudged yours.”

“Not at all,” I said. “It's very beautiful. I'll look forward to using it.”

“You do that.”

Seth waited until Eva stopped at another table before he handed me his box. “You take it. I'll only break it.”

“Are you sure? It's a lovely memento.”

“I'm sure.” He folded up his bag and stuffed it in his jacket pocket. “The Leboeufs certainly know how to leverage their brand.”

“‘Leverage their brand?' When did you become so knowledgeable about marketing?”

“You're not the only one who reads the business sections of the newspaper.”

Our host interrupted our conversation by bringing Walter Chang from the kitchen and introducing him. “Can we assure these good people that you will see to it that every dish they order reflects the best in French cooking and is done to their liking?”

“Yes, Chef,” Chang barked on cue. He seemed anxious to get back to the kitchen but dutifully thanked everyone for coming.

Leboeuf led a round of applause while Chang disappeared through the swinging doors. “And so, as proprietor of Leboeuf's
French Bistro, I give you the classic gastronomic salutation:
Bon appétit!
”

Seth rubbed his palms together. “Well, I'm eager to sample some authentic French cooking. Haven't had it since the last time I was in Cuba, of all places.”

“Good cooking crosses all borders,” I commented as I opened the menu. “Where shall we start?”

As the evening progressed, I was taken with the smooth choreography of the dining room, in contrast to what had been more fitful service at the Fin & Claw's opening night. That reflection naturally morphed into thoughts of Brad and Marcie Fowler, and I wondered how they were doing that evening. Had Leboeuf invited them to the opening? That would have been a neighborly gesture, although given his crass behavior at their restaurant's debut, I doubted if they would have accepted any overtures of friendship from him. Then again, judging from the way Leboeuf had roped off his parking lot to keep opening-night patrons of the Fin & Claw from using it, it was unlikely he had been diplomatic enough to try to mend the breach he had created. What a shame that such bad feelings existed between them. Cabot Cove has always been a friendly place. Yes, there's competition between some business interests here, but they've always been played out with little ill will, with a few exceptions.

The food was superb. Around us, as waiters passed with trays of French specialties, we caught the delicious aromas, our anticipation rising. The meals did not disappoint. Once we were served, Seth took his time over onion soup, a crock of rich beef and onion broth with a crust of melted cheese on top, followed by steak frites, a French version of steak and fries that featured a robust sauce made from the pan juices. I enthusiastically
dipped into my coq au vin, a classic Gallic stew of chicken cooked in red wine with mushrooms, onions, and garlic. If I closed my eyes, I could bring up visions of the French countryside where I'd sampled some of these dishes years ago.

We lingered over his dessert—I'd passed on ordering one, but enjoyed a few spoonfuls of Seth's vanilla crème brûlée—and strong coffee.

“I'd say that Mr. Leboeuf knows his way around a kitchen,” Seth said after scraping the final dollop of crème brûlée from its scalloped ceramic shell and patting his lips with his napkin.

“Or Mr. Chang does,” I inserted.

“All in all a delightful meal.”

“If the food is any barometer, Leboeuf's French Bistro will be a rousing success.”

Seth nodded. “Hope it is. Hope Isabel's son's venture does well, too. Hope they all succeed. Did you read what Leboeuf said in that feature on him in Evelyn's newspaper?”

“That he foresees Cabot Cove becoming an even greater tourist attraction in a few years?”

“Ayuh. Seems a bit over-the-top, wouldn't you say?”

I had to agree. While our idyllic seaside town in picturesque Maine had been growing—and our annual Lobsterfest drew big crowds—to envision Cabot Cove as a tourist mecca was a stretch. But I supposed that Leboeuf had to justify, at least in his own mind, his reason for committing so much money to opening a restaurant here.

Eva Leboeuf passed by our table a few more times, but she didn't stop again. She was tall and willowy and walked with the sort of self-assurance that beautiful women usually possess. I took note that she rarely spoke with anyone, simply made
herself visible to the patrons, nodding and smiling as if she were a member of a royal family. She crossed the room several times as though on a mission, only to disappear outside, or into the kitchen, occasionally accompanied by one of the two grim young men who always seemed to be in attendance with the Leboeufs. Were they bodyguards? Why would the Leboeufs need bodyguards? The face of the young man trailing Eva was set in a stony expression, only his roving eyes testifying that he was constantly taking in his surroundings.

“Good-lookin' young fellow,” Seth commented during one of their passes.

Seth was interrupted by Mayor Shevlin's wife coming to our table.

“Jessica, you look stunning.”

“Thank you, Susan, and may I say the same about you.”

“Isn't it fun to get dressed up for these wonderful evenings in Cabot Cove? Won't happen again, I'm sure, but I've loved being part of these restaurant openings in our little corner of the world. If this keeps up, I told Jim, I'll have to start booking the travel agency's clients for staycations instead of vacations.”

With the dinner service complete, a festive party atmosphere prevailed, enhanced by the music and waiters delivering after-dinner drinks. We left our seat to do as others were doing, mingling with friends.