by Donald Bain
“He intends to take over that abandoned warehouse down by the lobster pound and open a French bistro,” Jim continued.
“Wait! That’s right across from where the Fowlers are opening their place,” I said.
“One thing’s for sure,” Mort said, tucking a copy of Mike Isabella’s Crazy Good Italian under his arm. “Maureen and I won’t have to go far for a good dinner out.”
My mind was racing, and what I was thinking had nothing to do with how far I would have to go for a meal. I wondered whether Brad and Marcie Fowler knew about Leboeuf’s plans and what it would mean to the success of their own place.
“Anything wrong, Jessica?” Shevlin asked. “You look lost in thought.”
“Wrong? No. I’m just afraid that Mr. Leboeuf’s restaurant will make things difficult for Brad and Marcie Fowler. They don’t have the experience he does, much less the financial backing.”
“That’s free enterprise at work, Mrs. F.,” Mort said.
He was right, of course. Competition could be healthy, prompting competitors to put their best feet forward, which benefits consumers. But Leboeuf was a wealthy and powerful restaurateur, with a string of successful establishments in New York, Las Vegas, Chicago, and other big cities. He had a lot of money behind him and could bide his time until a new restaurant took hold. Stories abounded of his having forced smaller places to close simply by staying open even though his new enterprise lost money. What would he do to the Fowlers’ Fin & Claw? Would it even be possible for them to compete? Would his presence doom their dream?
“Does he ever stay at the palace he built north of town?” the mayor asked, putting down the cookbook he’d been perusing.
“You mean his summer place?” Mort said. “We keep an eye on it, but as far as I know, Mr. Leboeuf and his family hardly ever spend time there. You probably know more than I do, Mrs. F. You’re friends with him.”
“I wouldn’t call it being friends,” I said. “Mr. Leboeuf was good enough to grant me an interview in New York, but we’ve rarely touched base in Cabot Cove. I haven’t seen him since I attended a large cocktail party he held for his business associates last year. If he doesn’t spend much time at his summer home, I suppose it’s because he’s simply too busy running his restaurant empire.”
“His plans for the restaurant didn’t go over too well with the Zoning Commission,” Shevlin said. “His lawyers are asking for a series of variances to the zoning code to allow Leboeuf to put his architect’s plans into action. He wants the kitchen to be large enough to accommodate television cameras and sound equipment.”
“Does the commission really think Cabot Cove can support a new place, along with the Fowlers’?” Mort asked.
Shevlin shrugged. “That remains to be seen. I understand Leboeuf decided to open a place in town because recent legislation that came out of Augusta gives tax breaks to out-of-state companies that bring business to Maine. He’s got himself a sweet deal.”
“Will the Fowlers get a similar ‘sweet deal,’ Jim?” I asked.
“I think it only applies to businesses that come here from another state, Jessica.”
“That hardly seems fair,” I said. “Why shouldn’t local citizens like the Fowlers also benefit from a tax break? Besides, Leboeuf has a home here in Cabot Cove. Why is he considered to be from out of state?”
Shevlin chuckled. “Go ask the legislators up in the state capital. I’ve never been able to figure out half the decisions they come to in Augusta.” Shevlin picked up another book and riffled the pages. “You think Susan would be offended if I bought her a cookbook? I don’t want my wife to think I’m hinting at something.”
“She might prefer a mystery,” Mort said, cocking his head toward me.
“Good idea, Sheriff! Where are your books, Jessica?”
“There’s a pile on the front table,” I said.
“Thanks,” Shevlin said, putting down the cookbook. “Should be interesting to see what develops. At the very least, looks like we’ll all be well fed this summer.” He shook Mort’s hand and gave me a peck on the cheek. “If I don’t meet up with you again, have a good holiday.”
We wished him the same.
The store manager was delighted to have me sign my latest novel. She set me up at a counter with a pile of books and a roll of SIGNED BY AUTHOR stickers, and I went to work. Mort paid for Maureen’s gift and offered to drive me home, but I declined. When I finished writing my name a dozen times, I took a walk around town, trying to clear my thinking about what I’d learned. Although Mort had been right—competition is usually healthy—I couldn’t shake the feeling that two new restaurants were more than our town could support. Someone was going to be very disappointed, and I had a premonition that something unpleasant was in the wind for Cabot Cove.
Chapter Four
A lot had happened in the years since I’d interviewed Gérard Leboeuf in New York. He and his much younger wife, Eva, a successful model and creator of a popular line of cosmetics, went through with their plan to buy waterfront property in Cabot Cove, on which they’d built a stunning summer house for their family, which also included their by-now twenty-year-old son, Wylie. What Leboeuf termed a “country cottage” was framed in redwood and featured huge, soaring windows that gave them a 360-degree view of their surroundings, particularly the water. A few neighbors had complained to the Zoning Commission that the home partially blocked their own views of the sea, but Leboeuf’s attorneys successfully challenged or settled these complaints, in one case by buying off the neighbor. While the house was a permanent fixture in town, its occupants weren’t.
Gérard Leboeuf and his wife were seldom seen . . . until he arrived one day to hold a press conference to announce his plans to open a new restaurant. The press event, which I’d been invited to attend, was held at a lovely small hotel called the Blueberry Hill Inn that was owned by friends of mine and that sat on a grassy knoll overlooking the water. With Leboeuf were two of his lawyers, a New York PR woman whose agency handled the celebrity chef’s publicity, a couple of young aides, a man who was introduced as the future general manager of the newest jewel in Leboeuf’s culinary holdings, and the great man’s dog, a German shepherd named Max. I knew that the editor of our local paper, Evelyn Phillips, would be there, but I wondered if the occasion would attract more than a smattering of people looking for something to do, or maybe a free buffet. When I walked in, I was surprised to see almost every chair in the room occupied.
Evelyn spotted me and came to my side. “Exciting, isn’t it?”
“Any new business coming to Cabot Cove is exciting,” I replied.
“I wasn’t sure the Zoning Commission would let it go through, but they did,” Evelyn countered. “This is really big-time. Imagine, someone of Gérard Leboeuf’s stature in the restaurant industry choosing to open a restaurant here. Next thing we’ll have Bobby Flay, Paula Deen, maybe even Emeril Lagasse opening their restaurants in Cabot Cove. We might become the Las Vegas of the East Coast.”
What a dreadful thought!
Evelyn returned to the chair she’d staked out directly in front of the speakers’ table, and I found a vacant one next to Maureen Metzger on the opposite side of the room. I’d just taken my seat when Leboeuf’s PR woman took the microphone and welcomed everyone.
“Gérard has been talking for years about opening one of his signature restaurants in this charming town,” she said, “and once he decided to build his summer retreat here, there was no stopping him. Cabot Cove is about to get an authentic French bistro, the first of its kind in this part of Maine. As most of you know, the name Leboeuf is synonymous with fine dining. His standards are the highest in the industry, and he’ll be bringing those values to Cabot Cove. I might also add that simply having Gérard’s name attached to this new fine-dining establishment will encourage the tourist dollars to flow. Plus, your unemployment rate, no doubt, will go down.”
The PR woman introduced Leboeuf, who stood to the applause. He wore a double-breasted blue blazer, white shirt with vivid red and blue stripes, and a jaunty white yachtsman’s cap, an obvious—and slightly silly—acknowledgment that Cabot Cove was a seafaring community. After the clapping had died down, he said, “I’ve opened many restaurants around this great country of ours, but none has excited our family as much as opening my bistro in Cabot Cove. We are thrilled to be so close to our lovely home here, especially my wife, Eva, who says it will be nice to have her husband around for a while.”
“Which one is his wife?” Maureen whispered, turning her head to scan the women in the room.
“Alas, my sweet wife, Eva, sends you her regrets. She desperately wanted to be here today, but business has taken her out of the country. Even so, I know that, were she here, she’d join me in thanking you for welcoming us as you have as your new neighbors, and I promise that my new restaurant will make you as proud as I am.”
“He’s so handsome,” Maureen said into my ear.
I ignored her comment as Leboeuf continued.
“It takes a lot to run a successful restaurant,” he said, “not just a charming location, as you have here in Cabot Cove, but expertise in creating delicious food, pleasing not only people’s palates, but their enjoyment of the entire dining experience. I’ve spent many years honing my craft, and I’ll bring that unique knowledge and feel to Leboeuf’s French Bistro. Now, I’d like to introduce you to Walter Chang, a graduate of Le Cordon Bleu in Paris, who’ll be moving here shortly to manage the restaurant. And I might add that my furry friend, Max, agrees with everything I say.” He waited until the laughter ebbed to add, “He’d better, or that’s the end of his doggy bones.”
Chang, a portly Asian gentleman wearing chef’s whites, took the mike and waxed poetic about Leboeuf and his success as a world-famous chef and restaurateur. He spoke of what the restaurant would offer and pointed to a pile of menus at the end of the table. “Naturally, we’ll adjust the daily fare based upon what fresh ingredients are available each season, but please feel free to take a menu from some of our other French brasseries. They’ll give you a hint of what’s to come.”
Leboeuf replaced him at the dais and indicated a pile of books at the other end of the table. “Some of the cookbooks I’ve authored are for sale. I’ll be happy to autograph them for you. And you’ll also have an advance peek at what my new restaurant will look like. The famed designer Tony Chi and his people have come up with beautiful and innovative designs, and their renderings are available for you to peruse. And since we’re talking about food, the good folks here at the Blueberry Hill Inn have provided a lovely assortment of pastries based on recipes from my latest cookbook. So you can sample the results before you buy the book. Thank you for coming.”
“That’s for me,” Maureen said, pulling out her wallet. “His recipes are a bit tricky, but it’ll be helpful to know what they’re supposed taste like. I can’t wait to try them.”
Leboeuf acknowledged the polite applause greeting his closing remarks but remained at the microphone. When the room quieted again, he said, “I see that Jessica Fletcher is with us this morning. I hope that she doesn’t decide to set one of her bestselling murder mysteries in my restaurant.”
The crowd joined in his laughter as he pointed a finger of recognition at me, the way politicians do when acknowledging someone in the crowd. I waved in response, although I wished that he hadn’t done it.
I mingled with others at the long table and eyed the drawings of what Leboeuf’s new restaurant would look like. It was all very impressive, and there were a lot of oohs and aahs.
Maureen had cornered the manager, Walter Chang, and, from the snippets of conversation I overheard, was extolling the virtues of her latest favorite dish. Evelyn Phillips had managed to isolate Leboeuf for an interview, the young photographer on her staff snapping photos.
“What do you think?” Mayor Shevlin asked as we walked from the room. He’d grabbed a cherry pastry on the way out.
“They certainly are ambitious plans, according to the architect’s and designer’s drawings.”
“Mr. Leboeuf is big-time, that’s for sure. Will you honor his request not to set a murder in his place?”
“I promise nothing, Jim,” I said, laughing.
He laughed, too. “You have the makings of a politician, Jessica.”
Out in the parking lot I was surprised to see Marcie Fowler. Dressed in only a thin white silk blouse and green skirt, she leaned against her car, crying.
I hurried over. “Marcie! What’s wrong?”
She shook her head and wrapped her arms about herself, trembling in the cold.
“Where’s your coat?” I asked.
She wiped the tears from under her eyes and sniffled. “I forgot it. I just ran out and I left it inside.”
“Then let’s go back inside and retrieve it,” I said.
She didn’t move.
“Were you at Mr. Leboeuf’s press conference?”
“Oh, Mrs. Fletcher. We’re ruined.” She started crying again.
“Come on,” I said, tugging on her arm. “Let’s get your coat. It’s crazy to be out here without it in this weather. You’ll catch pneumonia.”
She managed to get herself under control. We reentered the inn and went to a coatrack in the lobby, where she retrieved her coat, draping it over her shoulders.
“Do you have time for a cup of coffee?” I asked.
I didn’t think that she would agree, but she nodded. We helped ourselves to the coffee Leboeuf’s entourage had provided for the press and took our cups into the inn’s cozy sitting room, taking matching wing chairs that flanked a window overlooking the cold gray ocean. The wind had churned the water into angry waves, accurately reflecting the roiling emotions of the young woman sitting across from me.
“I know it’s not my business,” I said to break the silence, “but you’re obviously in distress. Would you like to talk about it with me?”
“Oh, Mrs. Fletcher, it’s just that—” She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. “Why does he have to open a restaurant here?”
“There are quite a few other restaurants in Cabot Cove. And there will be more in the future, I’m sure. Tell me, how are things coming along with the Fin and Claw? That’s the name you’ve chosen—am I right?”
“The Fin and Claw is turning into a nightmare,” she replied, the tears threatening again. “Why wasn’t it enough for Gérard Leboeuf to come here and build his mini-mansion? Why does he have to open a restaurant just when Brad and I are opening ours?”
“It’s bad timing, I admit,” I said, “but it doesn’t mean that your restaurant and Mr. Leboeuf’s can’t happily exist side by side.”
“I wish you were right,” she said, “but we’re sure to suffer by comparison. Leboeuf is so powerful and has so much money to spend on promoting his place.”
“Sometimes competition is good, Marcie,” I said. “People who stop in at Leboeuf’s will want to also try the Fin and Claw. I would assume that variety is appealing to restaurant patrons.”
She ignored my attempt at viewing the glass as being half-full and said, “Brad and Billy Tehar had a terrible argument last night.”
“I’m sorry to hear it.”
“Brad wants to change things again. He got freaked out when he learned Leboeuf had bought the old lobster pound property. Billy keeps pointing out that every time Brad decides to change something in the construction, it costs more money.”
“That’s usually the case,” I said. “Why does Brad want to change things at this late date? I understand that you’re opening in a month.”
“It’ll make it more like two months now.”
“Still in time for spring and the tourist season,”
I offered, again trying to put a positive spin on things. My words, meant to be encouraging, wafted into the air like a puff of smoke.
“Brad is being unreasonable about everything, Mrs. Fletcher. Even before this news, he did nothing but argue with the people supplying the fixtures and kitchen equipment, kept changing his mind. It’s driving everybody crazy, including me. And it’s eating up our budget. We had to ask his mother for more money. She took out a personal loan.”
Isabel Fowler is getting in deeper and deeper financially, I thought, and hoped she knew what she was doing.
“And now Leboeuf!” Marcie said in what was almost a snarl, “strutting around in his captain’s outfit and with that big dog at his side, like some third-world dictator.”
I realized that there was nothing I could say that would lift Marcie out of her despair. Her coffee sat untouched, her eyes were red-rimmed, and she displayed her upset by the constant interlacing of her fingers on the tabletop. We sat in silence before I said, “I think what you’re facing is what happens in business, Marcie. I can’t comment on Brad’s behavior, but the reality is that Gérard Leboeuf is opening a restaurant here in Cabot Cove, and that means that you’ll be in competition with him and all the other restaurants in town. Your mother-in-law told me at Thanksgiving that you’re very good at marketing and publicity. If I were you, I’d stress that you and Brad are native Cabot Covers. You know how people are in this town. They take care of their own, support local businesses. While Gérard Leboeuf might have a big reputation and lots of money, don’t sell yourself and Brad short. The town is flooded with visitors in the spring and summer, and you’ll just have to take advantage of that and be prudent with money the rest of the year.”