Chef Maurice and a Spot of Truffle (Chef Maurice Mysteries Book 1)

by J. A. Lang

  They were approaching the northern edge of Cowton, Beakley’s nearest large town and home to the country’s smallest watchtower, an annual Goose Fair, and a particular type of local cider that dissolved your teeth and brain cells in equal amounts. Chef Maurice swore by the latter as part of his secret recipe for copper pan cleaner.

  The lack of traffic meant they were now directly behind their prey, who seemed oblivious, bopping along in their car to whichever hair-gel-endorsing young male was dominating the pop charts that week.

  “Where do you reckon they’re going?”

  “I do not know, but I am hoping there is food.”

  A few minutes later, they followed the VW Beetle into the car park of an old pub building of similar construction to Le Cochon Rouge, but in much worse repair. To add insult to injury, this particular pub had been converted into a bar-cum-nightclub, its name picked out in fluorescent tubing.

  “‘The Office’,” read Arthur, as they pulled up on the other side of the car park. “Presumably named so that you’re technically telling the truth when you phone home saying you’re stuck here at midnight with your secretary.”

  “You have a secretary?”

  “Only Horace. And he’s not so good at the filing.”

  They watched the two girls complete their requisite reapplication of make-up, then shimmy out of their car and into The Office.

  Inside, the owners had decided upon a monochrome theme, with dingy black carpet, black walls and black painted booths. Even the barman’s teeth were black.

  However, the decor—or lack thereof—didn’t seem to be deterring the local crowd, mostly made up of trendy-looking youths in their late teens and early twenties, decked out in outfits that seemed to consist of a strategic combination of rips and tears, and boasting enough piercings to set off airport security with a single earlobe.

  Just by stepping through the door, Arthur and Chef Maurice probably doubled the average age in the room.

  They stopped at the bar to pick up a pint of locally brewed ale for Arthur and a large brandy and bag of pork scratchings for Chef Maurice, then wandered with studied nonchalance over to a booth by the far wall, which sat back-to-back with a larger booth containing the two girls they’d just tailed, along with an assortment of jaded youths of both sexes, their faces mostly obscured in the low lighting.

  “ . . . didn’t come out on Monday?”

  “None of your business what I get up to in my free time.”

  “Bet PJ’s mum didn’t let him out to play, that’s why.”

  “Don’t talk to me about my mum,” sniped the voice named PJ. “You won’t believe the rubbish she’s been having me do this holiday.”

  “Like cleaning your room, I’ll bet . . . ”

  On the other side of the booth, one of the girls was recounting her day.

  “ . . . so then we got up and drove over to Beakley, tried going round to Ollie’s, but—”

  “You did what?” That was PJ again, who had the kind of high-pitched whiny voice that makes one itch to apply some boot to the speaker’s behind.

  “Went over to Ollie’s. Don’t worry, we parked up the hill like usual, no one saw us.”

  “Jeez,” added the other girl, “you get so wound up about your mate—”

  “He’s not my mate, and—”

  “—and anyway, he wasn’t even in.”

  “Of course he wasn’t in, don’t you read the papers? He got murdered up in Farnley Woods last week!”

  Far from producing the hushed awe that this news possibly deserved, the two girls leapt upon this tidbit like birds on the early worm.

  “You’re freaking kidding me—”

  “How, where, what, you’ve gotta tell me—”

  “I never liked the way he looked at me—”

  “Have they found the murderer yet?”

  Another male voice roused itself from its pint to relay the tale of the forager’s sad demise, roughly as it had been recounted every day since in the local paper—which had been bolstering their coverage with snippets from concerned neighbours (Mrs Eldridge), local residents (Mrs Eldridge) and the village leaders (Mrs Eldridge).

  “That’s crazy,” breathed one of the girls. “Do you think the police will find out about—”

  Several voices shushed her into silence.

  “Did anyone see you today?” said the voice of PJ. “Because if they did—”

  “No one saw us,” said one of the girls. “And even if they did, we weren’t doing anything wrong.” She gasped, then giggled. “Wait, you didn’t do it, did you?”

  “Don’t be daft,” said PJ sharply.

  “You did say you owed him—”

  “I paid him off ages ago. More’s the pity,” the youth muttered.

  “So the papers haven’t said anything about Ollie and all the—”

  “Shhhhh! Honestly, Chrissy . . . ”

  The conversation continued in lowered tones. Arthur and Chef Maurice paused, drinks halfway to their lips, and sat up higher in their seats to listen.

  After a bit, Arthur was forced to remove the bag of loud crunchy pork scratchings from Chef Maurice’s reach.

  Then they listened some more.

  * * *

  Patrick cleared his throat, adjusted his glasses, and took one final look at the bouquet in his hand—were carnations good or bad? He’d been too embarrassed to ask Mrs Jenkins, who ran the Beakley post office, which also served as the local flower shop, newsagents and tobacconist—and knocked on the front door of PC Lucy’s cottage.

  An elderly man, wearing an embroidered waistcoat and red velvet trousers, opened the door.

  They stared at each other.

  “I’m, uh . . . does Lucy live here?”

  “Ah, yes.” The old man looked a trifle disappointed. “I did think I was getting on a bit to be receiving young men with flowery bouquets,” he said, adding a rather disconcerting wink. “You’ll find your young lady upstairs in Flat B.” He gestured to the narrow staircase behind him.

  “Oh,” said Patrick. “You’re her landlord, then?”

  “Ha, I wish. I’m only renting too, just the bottom flat. Flat A, that’s me.”

  Patrick looked around the hallway, which was filled with old books, jazzy paintings and a long sideboard carved with elephants.

  “This is Flat A?”

  “That’s right.”

  “So . . . Flat B is inside Flat A?”

  The old man stroked his goatee.

  “Never thought of it like that, but I suppose you’re right. Still, we rub along just fine, the two of us. Wasn’t too sure at first, her working for The Authority and all, but she’s a nice gel, ever so polite. Knows a closed door’s a closed door, if you know what I mean.”

  Another wink was deployed in Patrick’s direction.

  “And what’s this? Pink carnations, for a lady? We can’t be having that . . . ”

  He plucked the bunch out of Patrick’s hands and disappeared into his back room. Patrick stood there, frozen, unsure what the protocol was in such cases of blatant horticultural theft.

  “Um,” he said, to the world in general.

  The old man returned a moment later, holding a beautiful white rose.

  “Had a dozen delivered just the other day. Never know when you’ll be needing one,” he added cryptically. He pressed the stem into Patrick’s hand.

  “Thanks, um, Mr . . . ”

  “Karl.”

  “Thanks, Karl.”

  “That’s Mister Karl, to you,” said the old man sharply.

  “Um, sorry, Mister Karl.”

  The old man nodded. “Right, up you go, sonny. And don’t be coming back down these stairs too soon.” With that, he disappeared into his living room and shut the door, before Patrick could reply.

  He noticed, though, that Mister Karl’s door hadn’t quite closed fully.

  He climbed the stairs, ducking to avoid a low beam that, judging by the dents in it, had already disqualified a number of pr
evious suitors, and knocked on the door of Flat B.

  Light spilled out and down the stairs as the door was flung back. PC Lucy leaned in the doorway, one hand climbing the door frame, a wooden spoon in the other.

  “Why, hello there,” she said. Her hair was dishevelled, falling around her face in messy waves. “I’ve just finished cooking. Come on in.”

  Patrick sniffed. There was an odd smell drifting about in the kitchen. Something that reminded him of—

  “Oooo, you brought me flowers?”

  “Well, flower.”

  PC Lucy threw the spoon in the sink, then plucked up the rose and took a deep sniff. “My favourite.” Her nose wrinkled. “I think. It’s gorgeous, anyway.”

  She put the rose down and walked, somewhat unsteadily, over to the front door.

  “As are you,” she added, closing the door with a meaningful click.

  “Um . . . ” Patrick glanced around as she sashayed towards him. There was a wine bottle on the table, cork out, but it looked full. “Are you sure you’re feeling—”

  It was at this point that PC Lucy kissed him.

  It would have been a rather wonderful moment, aside from the momentary confusion of having an attractive woman launch herself at him, lips first, for no apparent reason. She had her hands in his hair, her skin smelt of lavender soap, and her body was pushed up against his own in a manner that suggested that being just good friends wasn’t necessarily at the forefront of her mind.

  It would have all been rather wonderful, if she hadn’t at that point pulled back with a sudden look of panic, run over to the kitchen sink, and started throwing up.

  Chapter 15

  Chef Maurice hammered on the cottage’s front door, with Arthur lurking reluctantly behind.

  “Maurice, don’t you think this can wait—”

  The door swung open, to reveal the distinguished countenance of Mister Karl.

  “Why, Mister Maurice, what a pleasure! Do come in. And Arthur too!” Mister Karl held the door open and ushered them into the hallway.

  “Bonsoir, Monsieur Karl. It is good to see you too.” Chef Maurice bowed slightly.

  It had always puzzled Arthur how, despite their completely divergent interests, Chef Maurice and Mister Karl seemed to get along just fine. Perhaps it was because they both loved to talk and rarely listened to what the other person was saying. Plus Mister Karl was known to keep quite a good collection of vintage port.

  “Can I get you gentlemen something to drink? I’ve just opened a rather good ’77 . . . ”

  “Ah, I am afraid we are here to visit Mademoiselle Lucy.”

  “Lucy? My, my, she’s a popular one tonight. She’s already had one gentleman caller. Your sous-chef, in fact.”

  “He is still here?”

  “I think I can say, most undoubtedly.”

  “Well, let’s not disturb them, then,” said Arthur, turning to go.

  “Non, non, this is too important. We must let Mademoiselle Lucy know at once what we have discovered!”

  He started up the stairs but was pulled back by Arthur.

  Mister Karl coughed discreetly. “I don’t think that this would be a particularly good time to disturb them.”

  Chef Maurice pulled a battered wristwatch out of his jacket. “It is only nine o’clock. They must surely still be eating dinner,” he said, in the tone of a man for whom mealtimes were sacrosanct.

  “You’d think so,” said Mister Karl drily, “but I think you’ll find young people these days are rather more impatient than our generation.”

  “But it is imperative that we—”

  “Ahem.” Mister Karl coughed again, and gestured towards his back room. “Perhaps you should . . . judge for yourselves . . . ”

  Through the door they found a tiny kitchen, a small but well-perfumed bathroom and Mister Karl’s bedroom, which involved far too much purple silk and tasselled pillows for Arthur’s liking.

  “Our flats have the same layout, you see. So that’s Lucy’s bedroom, right above mine. Makes me blush, it does. I never realised how thin these floors are,” said Mister Karl, displaying no such evidence of embarrassment.

  From above, though faint through the floorboards, was the unmistakable rumble of Patrick’s voice, and a female voice presumably belonging to PC Lucy. It was moaning.

  If he hadn’t known better, Arthur would have said it sounded like someone experiencing severe gastrointestinal pains. As it was, Arthur felt himself go bright red.

  “I think we better go back outside. Quickly.”

  They reconvened in Mister Karl’s opulently decorated front room to ponder their options. In the end, Chef Maurice compromised on writing a long-winded note detailing the results of their stake-out, complete with many underlinings and exclamation marks.

  They agreed they would knock politely on PC Lucy’s flat and, pending no answer, would slip the note under the door and not return until at least seven o’clock the next morning.

  In the meantime, Chef Maurice was not to climb any nearby trees, throw stones at any windows, nor set fire to Mister Karl’s flat in an effort to gain PC Lucy’s attentions.

  Terms and conditions thus agreed upon, they trooped up the stairs in single file to deliver their missive.

  Arthur knocked gently on the door.

  “There you go,” he said, when no one answered. “They’re busy, now let’s go and—”

  “Bah, that is not how you knock on a door!”

  Chef Maurice manoeuvred his bulk around Arthur and raised a fist, but before he could knock, the door swung open to reveal Patrick, looking dishevelled in only a T-shirt and boxers.

  “Thank goodness you’re here!” he said.

  Arthur and Mister Karl exchanged a puzzled look.

  “Lucy’s really sick. I’ve phoned the doctor, but he said he won’t get here for another few hours . . . ” He looked at them wildly, running his hands through his hair. “I think it might be something she ate before I got here. I think it was some kind of mushroom . . . ”

  * * *

  They all stood in PC Lucy’s kitchen.

  “It’s a bit early for reindeers,” said Arthur, for lack of anything else to say.

  Patrick looked down at his boxers. “Oh. Well, I didn’t expect anyone to see them . . . ”

  “God favours the prepared,” said Mister Karl.

  “I had to take off my jeans and shirt after Lucy threw up all over them. She did try not to,” he added, always the gentleman.

  Chef Maurice wandered over to the kitchen table, which was still set for two, with pristine white plates and empty glasses. He picked up the wine bottle and his eyes went wide.

  “Patrick, you must marry this femme. At once!” He poured himself a glass and drew a deep sniff. “Ahhh, Gevrey-Chambertin, ’79. Domaine des Moines. Like an old friend . . . ”

  “Maurice, I really don’t think you should be drinking that.”

  “But wine, it is made to be drunk.”

  “Yes, but not when it belongs to someone else . . . ”

  There was another moan from the direction of the bedroom.

  “I better get back to Lucy,” said Patrick, grabbing a roll of kitchen paper.

  The others followed him, Chef Maurice with a glass in one hand and a buttered wedge of soft seeded bread in the other. It had been a long time since those pork scratchings.

  PC Lucy was lying on her bed, fully clothed, her face covered by her pillow.

  “I just want to curl up and die,” she groaned. A bucket, as yet unused, sat next to the bed.

  It had been a while since Chef Maurice had jousted in the lists of love, but unless things had changed dramatically in the time intervening, this was not how an amorous evening was meant to go.

  “What has happened?”

  Patrick rubbed his eyes. “I don’t know. I turned up for dinner, she let me in, then suddenly she started throwing up.”

  “Just like that? She did not do anything, eat anything, just before that?”
<
br />   Patrick’s ears reddened. “Well . . . ”

  The pillow lowered, and one blue eye, rather unfocused, peered out into the room. It took in the bulk of Chef Maurice, seated at the foot of the bed, Patrick, who was standing nearby, Arthur in the doorway, and Mister Karl, who was busy rearranging the closet by season and colour.

  “How many of you are there in here?” croaked PC Lucy.

  Chef Maurice looked around. “There is just me, Arthur, Patrick and Monsieur Karl.”

  “And the flamingos and the maroon elephant . . . ?” Her head slumped back and she put a hand across her eyes. “Someone stop the ceiling from waving like that, please . . . ”

  Chef Maurice looked over to Arthur, who nodded. They headed for the kitchen and the large pot of risotto, which was now a sludgy grey mass with burnt bits at the bottom.

  Strange aromas emanated from the pot.

  “I am not an expert in these matters,” said Chef Maurice, sniffing the spoon, “but I think these are not dried cèpes. But why would Mademoiselle Lucy . . . ?”

  Their gaze fell on the open plastic box in the corner.

  There was another groan from the bedroom.

  “Did I just hallucinate a Chef Maurice?” said PC Lucy’s voice.

  Chef Maurice hurried back to the room.

  “Non, mademoiselle, I assure you I am quite real.”

  PC Lucy pulled her pillow back over her face. Chef Maurice didn’t quite catch what she muttered, but Patrick looked rather scandalised.

  “Mademoiselle Lucy, you must listen. We have important reconnaissance regarding the murder of Monsieur Ollie. Do you hear me?”

  “Mmmph . . . ”

  “We happened upon a public house in Cowton—”

  “Since when do you go drinking in Cowton?” said Patrick suspiciously.

  “—and we were present to overhear a discussion about Monsieur Ollie, and his trade in the most illegal of—”

  “Magic mushrooms,” groaned PC Lucy, coming up for air. “Damn magic mushrooms. I recognise the smell now. Can someone pass that bucket—”

  They all left the room to give PC Lucy some private time with the bucket and the maroon elephants.

  “So that’s why it smelt so weird in here,” said Patrick, poking at the risotto. “I thought it was her cooking.”