Deception On the Danube

by D'arcy Kavanagh

  “So, everything is working out.”

  “It is. I worried at the start that working in a new kitchen with another chef would be a recipe for disaster, but it’s been excellent. I could get used to working on a ship although the hours can be a little long. The only things I’m missing are my herbs from Provence, but that’s to be expected since we’re not in France.”

  Burke could see Claude was moving into an old routine he liked to do. But he didn’t mind. He could use a distraction.

  “You know, Paul, I used to think Austrian cooking focused entirely around breading veal and making dumplings that sank to your toes, but Reinhard has taught me otherwise,” Claude said, an impish grin working at the edge of his lips. “Of course, I also thought the Austrians were more talented in the kitchen than the English who believe boiling a potato to death is the pinnacle of culinary skill.”

  Burke laughed at that one. Claude, who firmly believed the French were the world’s culinary masters with the Italians a distant second, was always doing a variation on the “nations who can’t cook” routine. This was a slightly redone version.

  “Of course, you shouldn’t laugh too hard, Paul. You come from a country where drowning french fries in cheese curds and gravy is considered a national treasure, despite the fact you can hear your arteries harden while you eat it.”

  “Claude, you’re getting into dangerous territory when you attack poutine. But I’m glad it’s working out for you in the kitchen.”

  Thanks to Claude and Hélène, Burke had a decent understanding of the pecking order in a professional kitchen and how easily jealousies could occur. But Claude’s kitchen aboard the ship was obviously a model of teamwork. Besides their spirit of co-operation, the staff communicated very well, mostly in English. The Austrians spoke the language almost fluently while Claude could get along with it. And sometimes, as Claude told Burke, he had managed to score some points by trying his limited German.

  “By the way, I appreciate the pastis,” Burke said, taking another small sip.

  “When I poked my head out during the lunch, I could see you needed it.”

  “How could you tell?”

  “You were picking at your food which is a signal that your mind is pre-occupied or you’re feeling depressed.”

  “Really? How do you know that?”

  “I’ve been in the café business a long time, my friend, and one of the skills I’ve learned is to notice how a person’s mood or personality matches the way they eat.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Not at all. For example, when your life is going well, Paul, you eat with enthusiasm, taking a large bite and then working it slowly in your mouth to squeeze out all the tastes. You also eat more.”

  Burke considered Claude’s observation. It seemed accurate.

  “And when you’re depressed or distracted, you move your food around on the plate like you’re chasing it but not too interested in catching it. Occasionally you stab something and put it inside your mouth, but, on those occasions, I doubt you taste much.”

  That was true as well, Burke thought.

  “The only time my observations about you don’t work is when you’re with Hélène and considering what will happen later. On those occasions, you eat but barely know what’s on your plate.”

  Burke laughed. “It’s an unusual skill, Claude.”

  “It’s really about observing how people do things. If you watch how someone treats his car or decorates the living room, you can learn a lot about that individual. Eating is like that except more personal since it involves one of our strongest senses – taste. Of course, if you want to be more scientific, you can do personality tests using questionnaires or you can examine their handwriting for personality clues. Then you have the Rorschach Test.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A person gets a series of inkblot figures and is asked to identify what they are. The person’s responses are supposed to provide a clue about his or her personality.”

  “How do you know all this, Claude?”

  His friend shrugged. “In prison, the psychologist had me do a few personality tests and the Rorschach Test was one of them.”

  “How did you do?”

  “I kept seeing different types of food in the blots,” Claude said with a laugh. “The prison food was so abominable that most of my waking thoughts were consumed by memories of great meals I’d had. The psychologist wasn’t impressed, though, and kept telling me to be more serious on the tests. But I was serious. Food, especially good food, gives meaning to life, but the psychologist didn’t understand that. It wasn’t surprising, though. He was skinny as a rail and looked like he only ate once a month and probably just tofu when he did.”

  This time it was Burke’s turn to laugh.

  Claude wagged a finger. “I know you think my little theory is farfetched, maybe even silly, but as far as I’m concerned, the best way to judge a person’s personality is to watch the way that individual eats. For example, our Monsieur Delisle barely knows there’s food on his plate at most meals because he’s so distracted, probably with trying to figure out the next task he has to do. He worries about all kinds of potential problems. However, if the dish has pasta on it, he eats like a wild animal, barely noticing anything or anyone else. So, he can be distracted under the right conditions – by ravioli, for instance.”

  “And what about Renata Hable?”

  “Our dear Renata is a woman of appetites. She likes large portions and even second plates. She pays attention to her tablemates, but never loses sight of the delight in her next bite. She’s a woman who is aware of those around her, even interested in them, but she doesn’t neglect her own desires. She’s a woman with some passion, I think.”

  Burke, intrigued by his friend’s theory, asked Claude to critique some of the team-building participants.

  “OK, I’ll start with your fellow Canadian, Monsieur Chapman. He’s extremely meticulous and never allows the different food groups on his plate to touch. I’d bet that his office and his home are carefully arranged and extremely clean.”

  Now that Claude mentioned it, Burke had noticed Chapman was fussy about his food. He was also immaculately groomed whatever the situation.

  “As for Madame Chapman, I don’t think she knows what she eats.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “She rarely looks at her food, preferring to give her full attention to what’s happening around her. She’s a lawyer, right?”

  “Yes and I understand she’s a very successful one.”

  “That’s not surprising at all. I believe she’s always filing away everything she sees and hears for possible use later on.”

  “And their son Matthew?”

  “He doesn’t eat like a lot of teenagers at a buffet who load their plates if they like the look of the food and then start shoveling it in. He’s disciplined in what he takes and efficient when he eats.”

  “Efficient?”

  “He doesn’t talk much, just takes a bit, chews and moves on. It’s like he’s eager for the nourishment, but ready to be distracted by anything happening around him.”

  Burke had an idea. “What about Bennett Blake?”

  Claude grinned and shook his head. “Monsieur Blake eats and drinks like he hasn’t had anything in a month. He’s very aggressive and very passionate. When he digs into a meal, I’d be surprised if he hears much around him. He’s a man who likes to treat himself well and probably puts his interests above those of others, maybe even those of his family.”

  “And his wife?”

  “She rarely drinks wine and she looks at her food like she’s calculating how many calories she should take in.”

  “That’s probably because she’s a competitive runner and triathlete.”

  Claude nodded. “That explains her approach to food, but I still think the average endurance athlete eats much more than she does. After all, they burn off a great deal dur
ing training, but she eats like a sparrow. No, I think there’s something else there.”

  “Sadness? Depression?”

  “I’d bet on it.”

  “And what about Niklaus Gast?”

  “I’ve noticed him a couple of times. He does everything slowly, from the way he selects his food, to how he brings it to his mouth and even how he chews it. He also drinks his wine in slow motion. Initially, I thought he has that approach because he wants to draw all the taste out of every morsel or bite, but I’m not entirely sure that’s why.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I think he takes that approach because he wants to be in control all the time. It’s important to him.”

  Burke thought there was no doubt that the Swiss rarely did anything quickly. Every gesture, even his speech, was slow and elegant.

  “For Monsieur Gast, I think it is all about appearances,” Claude said.

  “One more person, Claude: Kendall Young.”

  “He’s interesting. If he’s talking a lot, he still finds time to eat a considerable amount. It’s like the food fuels his conversation. If he’s quiet, he picks at his food and usually doesn’t finish everything on his plate.”

  Claude’s theory was definitely unusual, Burke thought, but it had elements of truth in it as well.

  “How are you able to make all these observations when you’re working?” Burke asked.

  “I’ve been cooking for people almost as long as you’ve been alive, my friend, and I learned long ago that it’s wise to see how my customers respond to what they get served. With so much experience, I don’t need much time to make a complete observation. And by the way, Paul, I’m good at it, too.

  Burke told himself he’d apply Claude’s theory to those around him whenever they were eating or drinking.

  If nothing else, it might make meal times more interesting.

  Chapter 10

  After dinner, Burke checked the bikes for any problems. He found nothing.

  Then he went to his cabin which he shared with Claude. He had to write a blog for his newspaper group back on the French Riviera. He had written a couple before leaving on the tour and now it was time to do another one. His deadline was in 24 hours.

  But he was stuck for a topic although his editor, François Lemaire, had told him that writing about the trip would be acceptable as long as Burke didn’t turn the piece into a promotion for the tour company, FWC Specialty Tours.

  He had thought about a subject throughout the day. The beauty of the Danube? The increasing popularity of bicycle touring? The Wachau wine district? Teaching people to co-operate in the work world by applying bike-racing principles? All the ideas seemed cliché, bordering on boring.

  Then he wondered if he should write about how people react to an unexpected death. Especially when they’re on a holiday. After a moment’s thought, Burke dismissed that idea. Tacky and trite.

  Frustrated, he dashed off an email to Lemaire, offering his possible topics and asking for guidance. He expected he’d get a response in the morning which would leave him tight for time, but probably still able to produce a blog.

  Lemaire responded within five minutes by phoning Burke. “Who died?”

  Burke told him about Wilson Talbot being found dead in the ruins of the castle where Richard the Lionheart had spent months imprisoned while his release was being negotiated.

  “How did he die?”

  “Apparently, it was an accident. He was up there in the evening when it was dark and must have missed a step because he fell and died. He probably hit his head on some rocks.”

  Describing it, Burke knew the story seemed weak. A fit, athletic man goes for an evening walk and ends up dead because he lost his balance?

  “What do the police say?”

  Burke told him.

  There was a pause. Burke figured the newsman was working on an angle for Burke’s blog. Or maybe he was thinking about getting someone to do a news story about the death. After all, the company organizing the tour had its main office in Nice along the French Riviera.

  “Paul, I want you to talk with the police. They may be saying the death was accidental, but it still sounds strange.”

  “I know.”

  “When you do, text me or phone me about what you get and we’ll go from there. If you get nothing, write a blog about how the Austrians think their wine is comparable to French wine – which is ludicrous – or about the popularity of bike touring along the Danube. Your choice. But talk to the flics first.”

  Burke said he would.

  They ended the call just as the cabin door opened and a tired-looking Claude entered. “You look lost in thought, my friend,” he said as he sat in one of the cabin’s two small captain’s chairs.

  “I was just talking to François Lemaire about Wilson Talbot’s death.”

  “Are you on the trail again?”

  “I’m just looking for a topic for a blog.”

  Claude paused for a few moments, staring at his friend. “Really? I don’t buy it. You’re wondering what happened up there. I know you, Paul, and you’ve got that look on your face, the one that says you have to find out. I’ve seen it before. It’s like an addiction for you.”

  “Well, it is strange, you have to admit.”

  “I agree. I mean, young Talbot goes up at dusk, stumbles and dies? There may be no evidence that a crime was committed, but I’m like you – his death seems odd.”

  “I hope the police think the same way.”

  “Maybe they do, maybe they don’t, but let them do their jobs without interfering.”

  Burke didn’t respond. Claude then excused himself to take a shower. While he was in the bathroom, Burke texted Hélène back in the old village part of Villeneuve-Loubet where they lived in a small apartment with their friendly, curly-haired Jack Russell dog, Plato. He told her about the progress of the tour, adding the information about Talbot’s death. He finished by saying he loved her and missed her, both true statements. The worst part of the tour, Burke felt, was how far away she was. In a few days, however, he’d see her again.

  To his surprise, she answered almost immediately. He had expected her to be busy at her Café de Neptune in the village square and unable to do anything with his text till midnight or even the following morning.

  “I love you and miss you, too, chéri,” she said in her reply. “Now, are you getting into any trouble with that man’s death?”

  Burke understood her concern. Two years before when they had begun their relationship, Burke had looked into a series of murders, two of them associated with the Tour de France. His efforts had proved helpful in solving the crimes, but he had ended up in hospital, his body shattered after being run off the road while he had been cycling by an elderly woman and her son who were responsible for the deaths of two men. Then, after he had recovered, he had gotten involved in another multiple-murder investigation; he hadn’t been injured but there had been dangerous moments.

  “I’m only doing my job,” Burke wrote back. “I haven’t poked my nose into any police business.”

  But he wanted to. He just didn’t tell Hélène that.

  “Good. Stay safe and out of trouble,” Hélène replied. “I love you.”

  Claude, rubbing his hair with a towel, came back into their small stateroom. “I see you’ve been talking to my niece.”

  “How do you know?”

  “You have that silly, wide-eyed look on your face that I see whenever you’ve been thinking about her or talking to her.”

  Burke shrugged. He was still happily in the throes of passionate love with Hélène.

  “And that’s a good thing for you – and for her,” Claude added. “For what it’s worth, I heartily approve.”

  “I’m glad, Claude. You’re like a father to Hélène and you’re a good friend to me.”

  “Now, let’s have a little more pastis and celebrate how grand love is,” said Claude, reaching for th
e bottle on the small nearby table.

  Chapter 11

  As usual on the tour, Burke was up a half hour before sunrise the next morning. Staying in bed for more sleep wasn’t an option since Claude had to get up early to start working on the breakfast buffet and it was almost impossible to be quiet in the small cabin. Besides, Burke liked to double-check the bikes before he had anything to eat himself.

  On this day, if he worked quickly, he could eat and then spend some time chasing down a police officer who might have something to say about Wilson Talbot.

  “It looks like it’s going to be a perfect day out there,” Claude said looking through the large cabin porthole which was half open. “I always thought this part of the world tended to be cool and wet. Clearly, I’ve been misguided in thinking that. It’s almost as nice here as it is on the Mediterranean.”

  Burke saw the faint hint of sun against a cloudless sky and felt the warmth of the outside air. He heard gentle waves against the ship’s hull just below them and birdsong from a thicket of trees on the shoreline. It was going to be a fine day.

  “Everyone should be in a better mood when it’s this nice,” added Claude, buttoning up his chef’s jacket which today was red, a bold statement for anyone in the kitchen. “Are you going to have breakfast now?”

  Because he was staff, Burke sometimes managed to grab a bite to eat before the buffet was put out. “I want to do the bikes first.”

  “Didn’t you check them last night after dinner?”

  “I did, but you never know if there’s somehow been a change overnight. Mechanical gremlins can get in there.”

  “Well, once you’re done, come into the kitchen and I’ll whip you up an omelet.”

  Then they left, going in different directions on the ship which was still quiet.

  Burke went to the back part of the ship where the bicycles were kept in storage. It took him a half hour to ensure every unit was still in perfect working order. Then he went to the kitchen where Claude, busy with a half dozen tasks, still managed to make him a cheese and mushroom omelet that was heavenly.