“Waiters?”
“Local girls, all dependable.” Another shake of the head. “No way, Jack.”
He paused.
“And what about you? Any enemies?”
“Sure. This business? Always. But from way back – not here. Back home, maybe.”
“People have long memories. And a long reach.”
“Come on, Jack. Some sous chef I pissed off ten years ago in Manhattan isn’t going to come poison my diners here, put rats in the kitchen, delete bookings!”
“Oh really? Isn’t that what you’re accusing Sam of?”
“He was already here. We have history. And I’m, well, competition.”
Jack shrugged. This whole “he said, she said” thing was just going nowhere.
Gotta drill down into one of these events, nail it… he thought.
“Okay. Tell me about the seafood thing.”
“Back in December, you mean? Ancient history. What about last night?”
“I know, I know. Trust me – I want to solve this as much as you do.”
“Okay – if we have to go there. But what’s to tell? Twenty-five people got food poisoning. One of them even ended up in hospital. The health guys tested them all – each and every one ate oysters here. Total mess.”
“That’s a lot of people ordering seafood, isn’t it?”
“We ran a special promotion. Champagne, oysters for a whole week. Amazing deal. They were superb by the way. And the place was packed – for once.”
“So where’d the oysters come from?” said Jack.
“I did a deal with the wholesaler. And chose the oysters myself.”
“Every day?”
“Yep. Got up at dawn. Drove to the fish market in Cheltenham, drove back.”
“You prepped them?”
“Me and Paddy. Lot of shucking. And like I said – he knows what he’s doing.”
“Maybe they sold you bad oysters?”
“Nope. Fish market got the all-clear.”
“And… so you got the blame?”
“Yep.”
“But you don’t think that was right?”
“I never served a bad oyster in my life. To serve twenty-five in one night? No way. Somebody – somebody who knew what they were doing – messed with my stock. Did something…”
“Somebody who came into the kitchen?”
“You saw last night how easy that is. We’re running on a skeleton staff. Can’t keep an eye on the back twenty-four-seven.”
“So you think Sam slipped in during prep?
“Had to be. Or one of his damn employees. Chefs can command that kind of loyalty.”
Sounds somewhat logical, Jack thought.
But still – it just didn’t hang together.
“And it never occurred you to talk to him – when that all happened? I mean, you guys – some bumpy history. Grievances and all that. Still, why not try to–”
But Jack never got to finish the sentence.
As he heard more voices raised, this time coming from the back of the restaurant.
Not in the kitchen proper, but in the distance.
But loud enough, angry enough to carry all the way to the dining room.
And one of those voices Jack recognised.
Sam Walters.
10. Temperatures Rising
Jack followed Anna, navigating the too-tight space of the kitchen past bubbling pots, and a black commercial stove, burners on, ready to sauté, fry, sear.
She pushed past an assistant chef, then someone at a giant double sink. They both stood as if frozen, listening to the noise from outside.
She flung open the back door, Jack hard on her heels.
In the alley out back, he saw Anna’s burly sous chef, Paddy, with Sam’s double-breasted chef’s jacket bunched in his meaty fist. He had Sam’s face pulled to within inches of his own.
“God!” Anna said.
The arrival of Paddy’s boss didn’t seem to stop the argument, as Sam grabbed at Paddy’s jacket, now the two of them looking ready to roll over, to brawl on the ground amidst the discarded outer leaves of romaine and the wispy green tops of carrots.
Jack hesitated only a second, then moved.
*
Jack positioned himself as close as possible to both Sam and the sous chef, whose grip hadn’t eased up.
“That’s… enough.” Then a look to Sam. “Sam. Back away.”
Though Jack knew that Paddy’s fist was currently making that action impossible.
Jack turned to Paddy, who he guessed would be the more difficult of the two to get to cease and desist.
“Paddy – let him go.”
That’s all. The words simple. Words Jack had said a thousand times.
Sometimes they worked, and sometimes they didn’t.
But then Anna was beside him, took in the power balance between Paddy and Sam, and stepped in too.
“Paddy – stop it.”
The sous chef looked at her as if debating whether to follow the command. Then the fingers of his fist released, and Sam’s white jacket was freed.
Jack quickly added something – so that the moment for peace wasn’t lost…
“Sam. Enough.”
And Sam – his hand still locked on Paddy’s apron – looked at Jack.
His eyes… fiery.
Not the happy chef that Jack was used to seeing in the Spotted Pig on so many wonderful evenings.
Finally, Sam let go.
Now Jack moved in tighter, using his own frame to make the two men take a step back.
And with the physical battle for the moment suspended, Paddy raised a finger to Sam, but now looking at Anna and Jack.
“This bastid comes snooping around here? Bet it was you trashed our dishwasher last night!”
Jack watched Sam.
Course – Sam didn’t know that he had been spotted last night, that Jack saw him running away from the Bayleaf.
For now, that would be Jack’s secret.
Sam dug into the side pocket of his chef’s jacket.
He waved a piece of paper in the air.
“See this? My food order from Anand! I’ve just been up there now. My veg, cuts of meat, the whole deal… and you know what Anand tells me?”
Now Sam looked from Jack to Anna, his gaze finally landing on Anna. His eyes… as if they could burn right through her.
He took the crumpled sheet and waved it at Anna.
“Your order, matching everything needed for all my signature dishes. Ox hearts? Check. Beetroot? Fresh ginger and leeks? Check! Fennel? Berkswell cheese? You’re doing my whole bloody menu.”
Jack thought that Sam might again explode. And with a hulking Paddy nearby, not a good idea.
Jack raised a hand to Sam, hoping it would be enough of a cue.
But it was Anna who answered.
“Sam – I’m not stealing your dishes. No, it’s you who is making my recipes.”
Oh boy, Jack thought. We’re off to the races now.
And whoever was right – or wrong – it was unlikely to be resolved out here.
He moved to Sam, put an arm around him.
“Sam – let’s get you out of here. Come on.”
Paddy though, face in a snarl, seemed unwilling to let it go.
“Yeah… and you better stay well away! I spot you round the back here again, you’re dead!”
Jack tightened his grip and guided Sam away.
Icy cold day out, Jack thought. But this little scene had sure generated a lot of heat.
And with tempers this high, could there be a danger of something worse?
This restaurant war – far from over.
He kept a seething Sam moving on back to the High Street. Anna went to Paddy and corralled her sous chef, who had a midday service to get through.
Jack thought: Might not be a good day for a great lunch or dinner in Cherringham.
As they walked away, Jack knew he would need confront Sam.
He hoped Sam told
the truth.
*
Jack sat with Sam at a low table in front of the open fire in the Angel Inn.
A good place to take stock.
But – right now – neither of them talking.
This time of day, out of the tourist season, the pub was pretty much empty. Just a few locals sitting up at the bar, the conversation low.
For them – just another mellow winter’s day in Cherringham.
Jack watched Sam take a sip of his beer, put it back on the table.
“It’s a mess, isn’t it?” said Sam, staring down at his pint.
“Doesn’t have to be,” said Jack.
“What? She’s just going to up-sticks – leave Cherringham? That isn’t going to happen, is it?”
Jack sipped his beer.
“Not sure the solution is in her hands, Sam.”
“You think I can sort this? How? I told you – I’ve got nothing to do with what’s happened at the Bayleaf.”
“And I told you – I want to believe you. But it seems every time something bad happens up there, you’re around.”
“Thought we were friends, Jack. Doesn’t sound too friendly.”
“Don’t pull that one on me, Sam. Of course we’re friends. I’m just telling you how it looks. But I’m also very aware that you’ve not been honest with Julie about things. New York. Your relationship with Anna for instance.”
He saw Sam look up at him quickly.
That sure got your attention, thought Jack.
“All of which means… well… it means that I’m aware you have secrets, Sam.”
Jack watched Sam nod, and stare at his beer again.
“That stuff with Anna – it just happened, you know? When Julie and I met, I felt bad about how I’d left things in New York. Didn’t want her to think I was somebody who could just cut and run. Then, as the years went by, it got harder to tell her. So many small lies I’d told – I’d have to unravel the whole lot…”
“Okay. Believe me, I’ve heard that story plenty of times. It happens. But now, when something like this is going down – well – it’s bigger than those small lies. There’s more at risk. Fact – there’s everything at risk.”
Sam looked away. It was obvious what he had to do… and painful.
“If I don’t tell her now, you mean?”
“Yep. Regardless of what is happening between the Pig and the Bayleaf – you need Julie on-side, right behind you. And that isn’t going to happen as long as you’ve not been honest with her.”
“God.”
Jack took another sip of beer.
“We’ve got Lady Repton’s dinner this weekend,” said Sam. “There’s a killer amount of prep to be done. New kitchen to figure. Work with her staff. Sort the menu. Do the numbers–”
Jack put a hand on his shoulder, needing to slow him down. “Sure, Sam, I understand – it’s not ideal. But you saying you’ll talk to her then?”
“Can’t do it before, really.”
“Guess that’ll have to do,” said Jack. “But I wouldn’t wait any longer.”
Sam pushed his drink to one side.
“I need to get back. Help Izzy with the prep for tonight’s service.”
“She’s new, yes?”
“What? Um, yeah. Hired her a couple of months ago. Soon as we get somebody else we’re going to have to let her go.”
“She not up to it?”
“Some kids have it, some don’t. I need a worker. She’s got her head in her phone all the time.”
Jack nodded and watched Sam get up.
“Jack – listen, I appreciate your help,” he said. “About what you said – I do count you as a friend, you know. A good one.”
“Sure thing,” said Jack, getting up too. “And remember what I said about Julie? Sooner rather than later, hmm?”
Sam nodded and headed for the door onto the High Street.
Jack watched him go, then thought: Scallops. Now what shall we do with them tonight…?
Funny. Was just with a world-class chef.
Could’ve asked Sam!
11. Dinner on the Goose
Sarah felt the wind whipping over the dry grasses, silenced by winter.
In just a few months, this meadow by the river and the boats would come alive.
Now – it felt like an icy tundra.
Still, as she looked ahead, she saw Jack’s boat, The Grey Goose. And she remembered the first time she went to it.
She’d been trying to find out what had happened to her old friend from school, Sammi. Good girl, turned party-girl – and then… found dead.
And she remembered how cold, how indifferent, Jack was… at first.
Did not want to get involved – at all!
Now, as she neared the old barge, the saloon glowing a warm yellow in the cold night, she had to marvel how Jack – at that time bitter, closed off – had become the person she knew now.
Cared about.
A part of the village.
And yeah, she thought, this had indeed become as much Jack’s village as hers.
And what a good thing that was.
*
No need for formality, Sarah walked the makeshift gangplank, then down the wheelhouse steps and opened the door that led into the galley and the saloon.
Some opera echoed through the room. Not one that she recognised, but then, she was still learning about that world.
Unlike her, the ex-NYPD detective knew volumes about opera.
And, above the singing, she heard the shaking of ice as Jack – holding the mixer with two hands – shook the vodka and trace amounts of vermouth to within an inch of its life.
No glasses on the table since they would be safely waiting in his small freezer compartment.
And though one might question the suitability of such an icy drink on a cold night, it seemed, nonetheless, perfect.
“Expecting company?”
And at that, Jack grinned.
“Could say that!”
And he popped open his fridge, and retrieved the long-stemmed glasses covered with a frost that rendered them, for that first taste, opaque and altogether wonderful.
Jack popped the top of the shaker, and poured the martinis, as slivers of lemon floated to the top mixing with the nearly-invisible shards of ice.
She took her glass. They clinked.
“Here’s to winter… moving on soon,” he said.
And then – that first always-fantastic sip.
*
They talked while Jack cooked.
But not about the day’s events. Not yet, Jack was too intent on explaining exactly what he was doing at the small stove.
“Scallops were a bit of rarity back in Brooklyn. Tons of clams, mussels, even oysters. New York Harbour used to be filled with oyster beds. We have this street, Pearl Street, and–”
She loved it when he talked about New York City.
The Big Apple. She’d visited years ago. And she promised herself that this year, one way or another she’d go back.
Hopefully with Jack as her local guide!
“And Pearl Street was named for the shiny inner shell of the oyster. They used them to actually pave the first road.”
“Really?”
“That’s the story,” said Jack, taking a bowl of glistening scallops from the fridge and tipping them into the pan. Then, as he quickly stirred: “But these guys? Always a tad expensive.”
“So, you’re cooking outside your comfort zone tonight.”
“Could say that. Key thing with the big sea scallops is not to overcook. They can turn from rubbery and underdone… to tough and chewy in a heartbeat. You got to–”
And he looked back to check that she was watching.
“–use your fingers. Press them a bit. Feel when they are done just right. Get that nice sear on both sides…”
This, Sarah thought, was like watching one of those cooking shows. Only here, the cook was a cop!
She took another sip of her martini. The
vodka tasted so clear, and, considering the potency, the taste refreshing.
“Different vodka?”
Another smile from Jack. “Ah – you can taste it? Belvedere. French.”
“Very nice.”
Then, without missing a beat, he pulled the scallops from his cast-iron pan.
“Now… bit of butter… shallots.” He dumped another small bowl into the pan which sizzled with the cool ingredients being added. “Some diced leek… bring to a boil… and–”
He grabbed a bottle of brandy, and thumb over the opening, poured a splash in.
More sizzling.
“Cooks down in a minute, and finally… bit of cream. Not too much.”
The smell of it all – fantastic.
He turned, as he took the heavy pan and poured the just-made sauce over the scallops.
He brought them to the table.
“Frisée and rocket salad, with honey-pepper dressing, by the way. Huffington’s best baguette. Oh–”
He shot up again, and hurried to the small refrigerator.
“And in the spirit of celebrating winter’s hopefully imminent departure, a Pouilly Fuisse.”
“Yum.”
Jack popped the cork. Poured two glasses, and sat down.
He always seemed outsized for the small saloon of the boat.
“Shall we?”
Riley, who had also been watching the cooking demonstration, got up and ambled closer.
After clinking glasses with Sarah, Jack turned to his dog.
“Sorry boy… doubt there will be any table scraps tonight.”
And after a sip of the fabulously dry wine, Sarah started eating.
And it couldn’t have been better.
*
Only when they had clean plates and a second glass of wine did talk turn to Sam, Anna and the restaurant wars.
Sarah described her visit as bogus reporter to Karl Desmond. The horses, the estate.
The sense that she was missing something…
Then Jack described Sam nearly coming to blows with Paddy.
“Right. If I hadn’t been there, think Sam would be sporting a shiner tonight.”
“I always thought Sam could look after himself okay.”
Jack laughed. “Oh yes. But that Paddy – he’s something. I mean, he stood down when I got between them… but I’d hate to really go toe-to-toe with the guy.”
“And your chat, later with Sam? At the Angel, right?”
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