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

by J. A. Lang

  “Mmmm,” said Arthur, who had encountered more than his fair share of flamboyant, foul-mouthed, pan-flinging Italian chefs in his food critic career thus far. “Did you used to come down to Beakley much?”

  “No, not often. I have not been here since last winter, in fact.”

  “Oh, really? That’s odd, because Mrs Eldridge—”

  An elbow to his ribs stopped Arthur mid-flow.

  “We must go now,” said Chef Maurice, shaking Luciano’s hand and patting Tufo one last time. “But you will send me a list of your cheeses, yes?”

  Arthur hurried after Chef Maurice, rubbing his ribs. “What was all that about? And what were you doing to that poor dog? Don’t try to pretend you’re suddenly a dog person.”

  “I am not. And neither is Monsieur Mannozzi. You see, that dog, it is not his.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “On its breath, I smelt the distinct smell of white truffles. It is a truffle dog! And then I remember this.”

  He pulled out the Polaroid that Tara had shown them the other day, down at the Helping Paws Pet Sanctuary.

  It was slightly blurred, but it was definitely the same dog that they’d just met.

  “That dog, mon ami, is the missing dog of Monsieur Ollie!”

  * * *

  Down at the Cowton police station, PC Lucy was grappling with a case of social etiquette.

  “You have to call him back,” said PC Sara, scrolling through some reports on her computer screen. “It’d be rude, otherwise.”

  “No I don’t. I didn’t ask him to call. We had a date, it was horrendous, there’s no need for me to speak to him ever again.”

  “Apart from the fact you have the hots for him.”

  “I do not have the hots for him.”

  “So the fact that you threw yourself across the room at him the minute he walked in the door . . . ?”

  “It was the mushrooms talking.”

  “I doubt there was much talking going on at that point,” said PC Sara with a smirk.

  “And then I threw up all over him!”

  “But he stayed to make sure you were okay. I call that gentlemanly.”

  “Plus, he tidied up my fridge. What kind of man tidies up a fridge for fun?”

  “He is a chef,” said PC Sara, as if pleading first offense.

  “And I think he rearranged my wardrobe,” PC Lucy added darkly. “Anyway, he’s probably just calling to get me to pay for his dry cleaning.”

  “So call him back and see.”

  Thankfully, her phone buzzed at this point. Waving PC Sara away, she pressed ‘answer’.

  “Hello? Gavistone speaking— Oh, hi, Mr Manchot. Yes, I’m feeling much better, thank you for asking. Actually, I had a question, did someone go through my wardrobe last night? Oh, Mister Karl? Well, that’s a relief.”

  From the other side of the desk, PC Sara gave her a big thumbs up.

  “Yes, I’m at the station— What? Maurice— I mean, Mr Manchot, do you really think— Okay, I’ll go over and have a word tomorrow when— No! Stay right where you are! Under no circumstances should you make a citizen’s arrest— No, I don’t care what you’ve read— Okay, okay, I’ll be there right away!”

  She hung up.

  “Maurice seems to think he’s caught Ollie’s murderer.”

  “That’s good of him.”

  “And his dog.”

  “The murderer’s dog? Or Ollie’s dog? Was the dog the murderer?”

  “I’m a bit confused on that point, too.”

  “Well, there you go, case closed. Now you can phone that poor fellow back and offer to do his laundry. At his place.”

  PC Lucy shot her a warning look. “I’ll be back in a while. Let the chief know, okay?”

  “Sure. Don’t go arresting anyone you shouldn’t.”

  A vision of Chef Maurice passed through PC Lucy’s mind.

  “I’ll try my best not to.”

  Chapter 18

  It was not an arrest, nor was it an interrogation; that much was clear. The police merely wanted to have a little chat with Mr Luciano Mannozzi, to clear up a few matters, and if he’d be so kind as to pop down to the station at a convenient moment, it would be most appreciated. They just happened to have a car waiting right now— Oh, how kind of him, his co-operation would of course be duly noted.

  Luciano now sat in Cowton Police Station’s only interview room, which was empty apart from a few pieces of furniture; a look that spoke less of menace and more of budgetary constraints. The door was left unlocked. However, two uniformed constables sat outside on either side, discussing the cricket.

  PC Lucy had failed to prevent Chef Maurice and Arthur from entering the station itself. However, she’d instructed the two constables to keep them out of the interview room using any means possible.

  This suited them fine, as Chef Maurice soon discovered that the interview room backed onto an empty corridor behind the main office, with a conveniently located air vent high up on the wall. Chef Maurice and Arthur settled themselves into a couple of plastic chairs, and Chef Maurice pulled out a pair of tuna-and-caper-filled baguettes from his jacket.

  The interview, from what they could gather through the vent, was not going well. Despite his initial co-operative air, Luciano was clearly not too happy about PC Lucy’s particular line of questioning.

  “Tufo is my dog, why do you not listen? I lent him to Ollie—for a sum, which he never paid me—so I come to get Tufo and Ollie gave him back. That is the end of the story.”

  “So why did Mr Meadows borrow your dog in the first place?”

  Silence.

  “I understand your business involves the import of Italian foodstuffs into the UK, predominantly from the Piedmont region?”

  “Yes, that is correct.”

  “And these foodstuffs also include the white Alba truffle?”

  A pause. “Yes.”

  “Which, according to your website, you pick yourself in the winter months with the help of your dog? A trained truffle dog?”

  “This has nothing to do with my nephew!”

  “I’ll ask again, Mr Mannozzi. Why did Mr Meadows wish to borrow your truffle dog? Had he, in fact, found an unknown truffle ground in this vicinity and wished to profit from it?”

  “Ha! My nephew was always one for schemes, for rumours. Perhaps someone told him stories of truffles in this area. Lies, and more lies. Everyone knows there are no Alba truffles in England.”

  “But you still went and lent him your dog?”

  “Yes, he is family, it is expected.”

  “Plus, he offered you a substantial sum of money, didn’t he?”

  There was the sound of Luciano shifting uncomfortably in his chair. “To train a good truffle dog is a long process. They are valuable animals. He was lucky I was willing to make him the loan.”

  “And how much did he offer to pay you to borrow your dog?”

  Another scrape of chair against concrete floor.

  “Two thousand pounds.”

  They heard PC Lucy whistle. “That’s a lot of money for borrowing a dog.”

  “Which he did not pay me,” growled Luciano.

  “So at that point, you came and took back your dog?”

  “Yes.”

  “And when was this?”

  “On the Sunday last.”

  “That’s interesting. Because you told one of his neighbours today that you hadn’t been to Beakley in several months.”

  “It was none of their business.”

  “I see. So, in fact, you had been here in Beakley last week. The week Ollie went missing.”

  “Yes, but I did not see him!” Luciano now sounded worried.

  “I thought you said that Ollie gave your dog back to you?”

  There was a long silence. Then a fist banged on the table.

  “Okay! It is like this. I phone my nephew, he tells me some story about Tufo running away from him. This is rubbish, Tufo would never do something like this
, he is a good dog. So I come down, no one is at home. So I think to myself that maybe there is a chance my nephew is telling the truth. I go to the animal home, and there is Tufo. He had been lost in the woods, they said. So I take him and go home. That is the end!”

  “Did you leave Mr Meadows a note when you visited his cottage? Perhaps one like this?” There was a rustle of paper, then PC Lucy read out: “‘Have come to collect my loan, don’t give me any more lies if you know what’s good for you.’ A threat, Mr Mannozzi?”

  “I did not mean it! Why would I harm my own nephew?”

  “He owed you quite a sum of money.”

  Silence.

  “So you came down to Beakley last Sunday, and left this note?”

  “Yes, that is what I said.”

  “So you hadn’t been down in Beakley before this?”

  Another pause. “No.”

  Next to Arthur, Chef Maurice threw down his baguette and climbed onto his chair, so his face was level with the vent.

  “He lies!” he shouted through the grille. “He was here on the Friday too, Madame Eldridge observed him! And that day, someone broke into Monsieur Ollie’s cottage. The first time!”

  There was the click of a door, a clatter of footsteps, and PC Lucy appeared round the corner, her cheeks flushed.

  “Mr Manchot! Mr Wordington-Smythe! This is a police station, not a picnic ground!” She waved at the half-eaten baguette wrapped in a napkin.

  “But it all makes sense!” argued Chef Maurice. “He comes to collect his dog, he follows them up in the woods, but Monsieur Ollie refuses to give him back. Then, in anger, bang! We know he has a gun, he threatened us today with it. So he shoots poor Monsieur Ollie, then he goes home.”

  “Rubbish!” shouted a distant voice through the grille. “Yes, I come here on the Friday too, I wait for Ollie all day, but he does not come home. So I leave a note. Ollie is my own blood, my sister’s child. I would never do anything to—”

  “And you stole his map too! So you could find the truffles that Monsieur Ollie found!”

  “Map? What map? Hah, my nephew knows nothing of truffles, how could he find a patch, even with Tufo’s help?”

  “So you deny it?”

  “Of course I deny it, I have done nothing!”

  “You broke into Monsieur Ollie’s cottage on the Friday, non?”

  “Yes, but only to find Tufo! He was not there, so I go!”

  “And you also deny that you steal my pig? And then send me bacon?”

  PC Lucy looked at Arthur. “What’s he on about now?”

  “I’ll tell you later.”

  Luciano was now yelling at the top of his voice. “Pig?! Why would I want a pig?”

  “Hamilton is a truffle pig!”

  “Hah, truffle pigs, they are useless! They will bite your arm off, just to steal the truffle! You can keep your stupid truffle pig.”

  “You will not talk about my Hamilton in such a way!”

  “Enough of this!”

  They heard stomping footsteps and the sound of a metal door being flung against the wall.

  One of the constables put his head around the corner. “Uh, PC Gavistone . . . ”

  “Let him go,” said PC Lucy irritably. “There’s no reason for us to keep him here.”

  “Bah!” said Chef Maurice. He turned to PC Lucy. “If you do not find my little Hamilton soon, I will . . . ”

  He trailed off, searching for a suitable punishment.

  “I will forbid my sous-chef from ever setting foot in your home again!”

  After Chef Maurice and Arthur had taken their leave, along with the remains of their picnic, PC Lucy sagged down into a chair.

  She wondered if Chef Maurice would make good on his threat.

  It would, she thought, at least solve the problem of having to call Patrick back.

  * * *

  It was a gloomy little group that sat round the table in the kitchens of Le Cochon Rouge, quiet in the post-lunchtime lull. Rain dripped down outside and the kettle steamed up the window panes.

  Chef Maurice was hunched over the table, staring morosely at a spare copy of the Missing Hamilton flyer. So far, only two people had called, both to ask where they could purchase their own micro-pigs.

  Patrick was alternately watching the phone and making his way through a book entitled: What Women Think (But Don’t Want To Think They Think).

  Arthur was dealing with the aftermath of his latest review, of a restaurant in London’s trendy Shoreditch district that only served fried chicken cutlets and scrambled eggs. (“Which to order first, the chicken or the egg? After sampling both, the cutlet burnt on one side, perilously raw on the other, the eggs having reached a peculiar rubberised texture that reminds one of a slice of Pirelli’s finest, the answer is an emphatic ‘neither’.”) The review had apparently angered the young-chef-cum-farmer-cum-restaurateur and had resulted in an envelope of chicken droppings being delivered with the morning post.

  Every household has one person who dutifully slices open the mail, and another person who hides unopened mail under piles of newspapers and lets letters get lost behind the hallway table, and in the Wordington-Smythe household, the designated letter-opener was Meryl. Hence why Arthur was now in the serious doghouse and was hiding out at Le Cochon Rouge until his wife’s anger cooled down to a gentle simmer.

  Only Alf, having spotted a supply gap in the local mushroom market, seemed fairly contented, leafing through a copy of The Beginner’s Guide to Field Foraging.

  So far, he’d reached Chapter 1: Mushrooms, Fun(gus) Friend or Deadly Foe?

  “Did you know,” he said to the captive audience around the table, “that just one Death Cap mushroom can kill several people, by attacking the liver and kidney cells, with no known antidote?”

  “Très intéressant.”

  “I mean, at least they were dry. And the kitchen table wipes down easily enough. I don’t know why she’s making such a fuss . . . Women!”

  “‘Women claim to admire a man of strong intent and mind, who is capable of expressing his opinions in a calm and rational manner.’”

  Chef Maurice flipped over the flyer and started scribbling. “I must make an arrangement of my thoughts,” he muttered to himself. “The rescue of Hamilton is without doubt tied to the solving of the murder of Monsieur Ollie. So I must think.

  “First, we have the break-in to Monsieur Ollie’s cottage. The first time, on the Friday, Monsieur Mannozzi admits to. According to Monsieur Ollie, nothing was taken. Did he lie? Perhaps something was put there instead? Or is Monsieur Mannozzi telling the truth, he was only looking for Tufo?

  “The second time, an old map is stolen. A map of Farnley Woods, made many decades ago. But we have seen this map, it shows nothing of interest. Did Monsieur Ollie add to the map? Mrs Eldridge said that he drew on it. But who would know to take it?”

  The rain continued to drum on the windows.

  “‘Unfortunately, the Death Cap mushroom can easily be confused with the Tawny Grisette, a harmless edible example of the Amanita family, with a delicate flavour best enjoyed on its own or in omelettes.’”

  “Then we have the pignapping of Hamilton. To send a warning, it is clear. But a warning of what? Monsieur Ollie searched for truffles. We search for truffles. Who else might search for them?”

  “‘However, when faced with an angry or upset woman, it is best to avoid calm and rational opinions altogether. Instead, endeavour to see things from her, and only her, point of view. Under no circumstances should you offer up what you view as reasonable solutions to the problem at hand. Especially when expressly asked to do so.’”

  “Finally, we have the case of the magic mushrooms. Monsieur Ollie was without doubt part of this illegal trade. There is money in this trade, according to Madame Fey. Did someone owe Monsieur Ollie money? And if so, did they murder him in order to cancel their debt?”

  “It’s not my fault Horace got his paws all up on the table and they went all over the place
. . . ”

  Chef Maurice slapped his hand down on the flyer. “We need to know more! And we must find those who will tell us. Had Monsieur Ollie truly found truffles in Farnley Woods? Then who did he sell to? Who would know? He seems to have no friends . . . ”

  “‘Women often think they have left you subtle hints about things they like. Unfortunately, these hints are generally only discernible to other women.’” Patrick looked up from his book. “Do you think she didn’t like the rose I gave her?”

  “Roses! A capital idea. Meryl has a thing for the pink ones . . . ”

  “Les fleurs . . . les fleurs sauvages . . . ” muttered Chef Maurice. “Why do I think of flowers?”

  “What’s that about savage flowers, old chap?”

  “Wild flowers, mon ami. I am thinking of wild flowers . . . ”

  Ollie hadn’t had many close acquaintances in Beakley. But what was that Miss Fey had said? Something about his many lady friends. Maybe one of them might know something about his shady dealings.

  And then he remembered a pot of wild flowers . . .

  * * *

  The afternoon rain clouds were just clearing as Chef Maurice and Arthur swung up the driveway to Laithwaites Manor.

  It was time to return to the scene of the crime, thought Chef Maurice, and do some detectoring of his own. Clearly the local police had their minds on other priorities, such as letting hardened pig-stealing criminals shout at him and wander out of their station, and letting their female officers get high on illicit substances and proposition his sous-chef. No, if this crime was to be solved, it would not be solved by the police.

  Soon, they were ensconced in Brenda’s warm kitchen, with a pot of coffee brewing on the stove and compliments flowing about the frangipane plum tart he’d brought along.

  “I just don’t know how you get the pastry so nice and even,” said Brenda, cutting a generous slice each for her guests and a smaller one for herself.

  “It does take much practice,” said Chef Maurice, who’d spent the last few months standing over Alf’s shoulder as the commis chef rolled out the pastry to just the right depth.