Honey Trap

by JJ Marsh

  Matthew’s attention was drawn to the menu and he took out his reading glasses with intent, murmuring his approval as he perused the dishes on offer. Beatrice was talking Luke through the choices when Isabella returned with a tall imposing man in chef’s whites.

  “Agusto, this is Matthew, Beatrice and Luke. Everyone, this is my husband and the genius behind this restaurant, Agusto Colacino.”

  Agusto shook Matthew’s hand. “Welcome! Thank you for coming!” He crouched down so he was at eye level with Luke. “Ciao, Luke! Is your first time in Italy?”

  “Yes. I went to Portugal last year and I liked it. And when I was small, I was in France with my mum, but I can’t remember much about that.”

  “We must give you an unforgettable experience of Napoli. Starting tonight.” He stood up again. “And this is the famous Beatrice Stubbs. Our saviour.” He took both her hands in his. “I thank you with my whole heart for helping us.”

  Beatrice flushed. He had an extraordinary aura, an intoxicating energy and charm which were futile to resist.

  “Pleased to meet you, Signor Colacino. As I said to Isabella, I can’t promise anything, but I will do my best.”

  He squeezed her hands and let go. “If my wife has faith in you, so do I. Let us sit and I will tell you the background. Maria, drinks!”

  Once the waitress had poured three glasses of Prosecco and two sparkling waters, she retreated to the bar, leaving them in peace.

  Agusto raised his water and proposed a toast. They joined in, chinking glasses, wishing each other a successful week.

  “I will start at the beginning. Ecco is here for six years now, same age as you, Luke! We have a Michelin star for three. My clients tell me my vitello recipe appears on another menu, but I am not concerned. Replications can never reach the standards of the original. Then I hear a new restaurant is reproducing most of my menu at lower prices. So I go, I taste the piatti for myself. These are not replications but the exact same dishes. They produce MY dish exactly the way I do. They are not even ...” He frowned and looked at Isabella. “Come se dice sottile?”

  “Subtle.”

  “Yes, subtle. They are not even subtle. Even the presentation is the same as if I had sent the dish out myself. But this is a local restaurant, quite new, with financial support from some well-known people. It is better if I don’t shake the boat.”

  Isabella nodded. “We don’t want any trouble.”

  “Instead, I take the dish off my own menu and create something original and delicious. Venison and chestnut-stuffed ravioli with a rosemary butter and wild garlic cream. The recipe sounds simple but it is not. It was my signature dish of the season last autumn, until a friend of mine, also a chef, came back from Piedmont and told me that he had eaten the exact dish in a restaurant there. He took photographs. It is my dish, even to the shape and size of each raviolo. How is this possible? Only I and my chefs know how to create this plate of food. Someone is selling my secrets. It is the only explanation.”

  Isabella chimed in. “Since last summer, we have huge staff turnover. Normally, we keep people for years. But now, someone is offering higher wages and taking the people we train for their own restaurants. We know this. But spies in the kitchen, this is too much. Agusto has inspiration no longer. Everyone is suspicious. This will destroy us if we cannot stop the leaks.”

  Beatrice sensed the heat in their impassioned speeches. Their clasped hands and tender looks between the chef and his wife gave evidence of loyalty, love and deep frustration at whatever was thwarting their dream. “Thank you for the context. When I come to the kitchens tomorrow, I will need a list of current staff, duration of employment and if possible, details of those who have left since last summer. I’d also like any information on the recently deceased chef. Can I interview both of you separately at some point?”

  Isabella flicked her blue hair behind her ear. “I will organise the personnel files for you. No one in the kitchen knows who you are except Suhail. We had to involve one other person, you understand? He is the pastry chef and we need him to make your story work.”

  “I see. You think he can be trusted?” asked Beatrice.

  Agusto checked his watch and got to his feet. “We have no choice but to trust him. I must go now as the first covers are due. Tomorrow Ecco is closed and Suhail and I will train you on desserts and pastries. He will be your sous chef for desserts. You can speak to me, Isabella and interview Suhail also. He was a good friend of the man who was stabbed. They come from the same town in Syria. Enjoy your meal and I will see you tomorrow. Buonasera a tutti!” He placed his fingertips to his mouth and blew a general kiss at them all, before charging back through the kitchen doors.

  Isabella gazed after him, a softness in her eyes. “He is happy you are here. He is optimistic again.” She clapped her hands together. “Dinner! Luke, would you like to try our risotto with buffalo milk for your first course? The ricotta tortelloni with our own ragù is my personal recommendation for you, Matthew. But, Beatrice, I remember how much you enjoyed a particular dish in San Sebastián. I want you to try the blue lobster salad with smoked beans and anchovy dressing. Maria, the wine list please!”

  She flashed her brilliant smile at them all and departed. All three of her guests ordered exactly what she suggested and Matthew accepted the wine waiter’s recommendation of a Greco di Tufo.

  Luke followed Beatrice and Matthew’s example and poured a little olive oil and balsamic vinegar onto his side plate. Each tore off a chunk of ciabatta from the bread basket and dipped it in. City lights reflected off the blue-black sea through the windows, delicious smells emanated from the kitchen and the party settled into a relaxed silence. Until Luke asked a question.

  “Beatrice? Did that man say someone got stabbed?”

  Matthew’s eyes switched from the boy to Beatrice, but gave no indication of how to respond. Beatrice opted for the truth.

  “Yes, he did. One of the chefs at this restaurant was killed a few weeks back. As Isabella and Agusto told us, someone is trying to poach their staff or persuade them to spy. It seems this particular man refused to do either and ended up dead. Which is why I’ve come to investigate.”

  Luke chewed his bread. “OK. The other thing ...”

  Beatrice steeled herself. “Ask whatever you want. I will always tell you the truth, Luke, even if you might not like it.” Her noble position was instantly deflated.

  “I didn’t want to say in front of that lady but I don’t know if I like buffalo milk.”

  Matthew coughed and took a sip of his wine, leaving Beatrice to reply.

  “I suppose it does sound a bit strange. Let’s look at this another way. Do you like pizza?” asked Beatrice.

  “Yes.”

  “What about the cheese on pizza, mozzarella?”

  “The stringy stuff? That’s one of the best bits.”

  “That is made from buffalo milk. So I’d say it’s a safe bet that you will like buffalo milk risotto. and now’s your chance to try it.”

  A waiter approached with three perfectly arranged plates, placing each in the correct place and wished them buon appetito.

  Beatrice picked up her fork and looked into Matthew’s smiling eyes. “I think I might enjoy Naples,” she said.

  Luke piped up before Matthew could reply. “Me too!”

  Chapter 9

  At ten the next morning, Beatrice reported for work at Ecco’s staff entrance beside the garage. Agusto, already in his whites, opened the door and hurried her inside, glancing around the courtyard. Once the door closed, he seemed to relax.

  “Good morning, Beatrice. How are you? Would you like coffee?”

  “Thank you but I already had breakfast. I’m ready to start when you are.”

  “You have the right attitude! Isabella is printing the personnel files ready for you. Suhail, come here. I want you to meet Beatrice Stubbs.”

  A thin young man emerged from behind a fridge. Also in kitchen whites, he wore round spectacles and had a droo
py moustache. His long-lashed eyes were deep brown and somehow sad. He attempted a smile, holding out his hand.

  “Hello, Missus Stubbs. I am happy to meet you. I look forward to working with you and helping you in this investigation. Please call me Suhail.”

  Beatrice shook his hand, noting the firm grip, and returned his smile. “Nice to meet you too and thank you for allowing me to shadow you. Please call me Beatrice.”

  He gave a respectful nod. “Do you want to start now?”

  “Yes, I do, but not with the cookery. First, I want to sweep the entire restaurant for listening devices. To be honest, I think it’s unlikely the copycats are getting your recipes through bugging the place, especially with the amount of background noise. But I would be remiss in my duties if I did not check. It would also save us a great deal of time if that were the route through which the information is leaked. Do you mind?” she asked Agusto.

  He shook his head with emphasis and thrust a hand around the room, inviting her to go ahead. She had the impression Agusto came to life in the evenings and was not what she would call a morning person.

  She got to work with the new devices she had picked up in London and scanned all work surfaces, serving hatch, restaurant and waiting staff station. Not a single blip. Next she should check the security status of their telephone calls and emails, but that could wait till Isabella joined them. Now, to learn all about puddings.

  While undoubtedly a brilliant chef, Agusto was a dreadful teacher. He spent too much time telling her what not to do and getting distracted by anecdotes and outrage at his imitators to guide her step by step. So when she made an error and his patience exploded, both tempers frayed to breaking point. Three different attempts at a Savarin had gone into the bin before Isabella took Agusto away to look at some new glassware, leaving Beatrice with Suhail. His quiet, diffident manner of teaching was a simple demonstration of one stage with an invitation to repeat. His corrections were gentle suggestions and in one hour, she had achieved a complete Savarin, glazed with apricot jelly and filled with cream and fresh fruit, along with a dozen rum babas, shaped like mushrooms and soaked in a rum glaze.

  They broke for lunch and Suhail went outside to pray. So it was only the chef, his wife and the private investigator who sat in the empty restaurant to eat pasta and discuss the case.

  After working all morning with food, Beatrice was surprised to find she still had quite an appetite. She tucked into the tagliatelle alla verdura with gusto, while quizzing her hosts on exact locations where they might have discussed menu ideas and the level of communications security.

  Isabella was completely convinced their emails were secure but could not guarantee either mobile had not been hacked. With a shake of his head, Agusto dismissed her concerns. He never wrote recipes down, insisting staff learned them by heart. His mobile could only be relevant in his telephone orders to suppliers.

  “I always meet all my suppliers in person so I can trust the product and the person. Some of these farmers grow crops especially for me. It was impossible to get baby courgettes until Signor Bertolino agreed to pluck them very young and keep the flowers. Now, everyone wants them and I must move on.”

  He was still gesticulating at Beatrice when there was a knock at the window. A darker version of Agusto pressed his face to the window.

  “Gennaio!” exclaimed Agusto. “Beatrice, this is my little brother!”

  Beatrice glanced at Isabella. “Should I leave? I mean, how do we explain my presence?”

  Isabella rose to her feet and moved to unlock the door. “No, no, Gennaio is family. I know you will like each other.”

  “I thought it was only ...” Beatrice trailed off as the big man entered the room and made a bee-line for her, grabbed her by the shoulders and kissed her on both cheeks. He smelt of tobacco and cloves, a pleasing combination.

  “Benvenuto in Italia! So happy you are here! You will be the one to save Ecco! My name is Gennaio and I am your servant. Anything you need, anything at all, I am here for you.”

  Before she could reply, the large man kissed Isabella’s cheeks and embraced his brother. When they were side by side, Beatrice saw Agusto was slimmer, greyer and a few centimetres taller than his younger brother. Gennaio’s dark curls and heavy frame made him seem squatter and more bullish than the chef.

  A shadow crossed the corner of her vision and she spotted Suhail back at his post, waiting for his pupil to return.

  “Lovely to meet you, Gennaio. The lunch was most welcome, Isabella, but perhaps I should get back to work. We have more pastries to perfect and I’m a slow learner despite Suhail’s excellent instruction. Can we have a quick word before I return to the kitchen?”

  Isabella’s hand snaked into Agusto’s huge paw. “We are at your service. All of us. Anytime you want, you can pick our brains!” She burst into laughter, causing an expression of puzzlement on the faces of the two men. Beatrice was none the wiser. She dropped her napkin on her plate and followed Isabella into the office.

  “Take a seat, Beatrice. What can I do for you?”

  “That’s all right. I’ll only be a minute. Do all restaurants close on Sundays?”

  “No, many are open over the weekend. Why?”

  “I wondered if you could call those who have copied your recipes and ask them where they got them from. Not as Agusto’s wife. Pretend you are a journalist, say you’re doing a review of their restaurant and see how they react to your questions.”

  “That is a brilliant idea! I will do it this afternoon.”

  “Good. Now I’m off to work.”

  Next on the menu, zabaglione, white chocolate mousse and candied fennel sauce. Truth was, rather than learning new culinary skills, Beatrice quite fancied a nap. Standing at counters, whisking, beating, folding, stirring and piping was quite hard on the arms, not to mention the feet. All the bending over plates with a pair of tweezers to position a mint leaf just so and heaving pans on and off the heat took their toll on her back. Suhail noticed her wince and gave her a kind smile.

  “On a normal day, we don’t work as many hours as this. But we work much faster. When the kitchen is full, it is very hot and noisy and stressful. Running shoes are a good idea.”

  “Thank you for the advice. I will make sure to wear trainers next time.”

  “You’re welcome. Are you ready to present these dishes to Agusto?”

  Beatrice looked at the three plates. A perfect chocolate heart filled with white chocolate mousse in a circle of upended strawberries. Panna cotta with an almond and fennel coulis sprinkled with candied mint leaves and sliced almonds. Amaretto poached peaches with zabaglione and Amarettini biscuits. She’d gone right off fussy puddings.

  She huffed. “I suppose so.”

  Agusto had plenty of criticisms and pointers about the presentation, but seemed satisfied with the quality of the desserts. Then he dropped his bombshell.

  “Good. Once the kitchen is clean, we are finished for the day. Tomorrow, we will do two things. Suhail will teach you the pastries and I will create your signature dessert. What is it?”

  “What is what?”

  “Your signature dish! This is the story we tell. Competition winner and British pastry chef comes to Ecco for two weeks, with special dessert created just for us. You tell me the idea, I will design it. No?”

  “Um, well, I don’t really ...” The expression on Agusto’s face stopped her short. “Let me think it over and I’ll give you a couple of ideas in the morning.”

  “No, no, no. That is too late. I need to think about this overnight. Creativity is not a flash of inspiration. It is hard work and practice and years of technique, understanding of ingredients and storytelling. Give me an idea. Anything I can work with.”

  Beatrice’s mind froze. How could she pull an idea that would meet Agusto’s artistry out of a hat?

  He placed his palms together and dipped his fingers up and down, an imploring gesture with a touch of impatience. “What do you make for dessert at dinner pa
rties? What is your favourite after-dinner sweet when you go out to a restaurant?”

  In a panic, she told the truth. “Brown bread ice-cream. There’s a pub near our house which serves the most delicious brown bread and honey ice-cream. It’s like breakfast in a bowl.”

  “Brown bread ice-cream?” Agusto’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “At Ecco?”

  “Sorry, it was the first thing I could think of.” Beatrice’s voice trailed off.

  “Chef?” Suhail spoke in little over a murmur. “What if we make the ice-cream part of an affogato? The story is already there. Beatrice described it as ‘breakfast in a bowl’. What goes better with brown bread and honey than coffee? A classic London combination with a sophisticated Neapolitan twist.”

  Agusto’s eyes gleamed. “An affogato? Let me think about this.” He paced off around the dining room tapping a forefinger to his lips.

  “What is an affogato?” whispered Beatrice.

  “It means ‘drowned’ in Italian,” answered Suhail, sotto voce. “At its simplest, it is a ball of ice-cream with a hot espresso tipped over it, usually served in a glass with biscotti for some texture.”

  “But here we already have texture,” boomed Agusto, from the other end of the room. The man must have the hearing of a bat. “The caramelised breadcrumbs give crunch and the ice-cream gives sweetness. The hot rich coffee over the top makes the ice-cream melt a little and accompanied by a digestif, is the perfect way to finish a meal. But the twist? What is the twist? I must think. You clean the kitchen and I will empty my mind. The answer is there, I feel it. Ciao, a domani!”

  Chapter 10

  Thanks to Suhail’s constant efficiency throughout the day, the kitchen was returned to its pristine condition in under ten minutes. Ettore sent Beatrice a message informing her he would wait for her outside. Despite her desire to rush home and relax, she hadn’t finished the job. After Suhail had gone, Beatrice went in search of Isabella and found her in the office, poring over a spreadsheet.