by Donald Bain
“Oh, Seth. I’m so sorry.”
“Might be a blessing,” he said. “If she’d survived . . . well, our stroke team said it was so severe, it wouldn’t have left her with much of a life.”
* * *
The rain of the previous night offered a surprise the next morning. It had turned into a wet snow, and there was lots of it. Maine is infamous for April snowstorms. Everyone in town hunkered down, as people in the snowbelt always do, this Maine resident included. I called the man who usually shovels me out but was informed by his wife that he’d taken a job at Gérard Leboeuf’s restaurant and wouldn’t be available any longer for shoveling duties. Fortunately, a young fellow who lived up the road knocked on the door to see if I needed help, and I was grateful to pay him to create a pathway from my front door to the road. A food store truck managed to traverse the slippery roads and delivered some groceries that I was running low on. With my cupboard full, I resigned myself to a long day at home.
News of Isabel Fowler’s death spread quickly, and I received a number of calls from mutual friends. Mostly they wanted to express their shock at Isabel’s untimely demise and to ask if I had any information about funeral arrangements—which I didn’t. But some callers who hadn’t attended the opening had also heard about what happened at the Fin & Claw and knew that I’d been present. I tried to make light of the event, pass it off as a simple misunderstanding. They seemed to accept that, although others, like Tim Purdy, Richard Koser, and Tobé Wilson, who’d also witnessed it, pressed me on whether I knew anything further about the dustup between Brad Fowler and Gérard Leboeuf. I downplayed it, and they were easily satisfied—or at least said that they were—but Evelyn Phillips of the Cabot Cove Gazette didn’t even pretend to be content with my offhand dismissal of the confrontation.
“I was surprised you weren’t there,” I told her.
“Marcie Fowler invited me, but I had another engagement. Just my luck to have missed a doozy of a brawl.”
“Oh, Evelyn, it was anything but a brawl, just a few words exchanged between Brad and Gérard Leboeuf.”
She ignored my characterization and said, “On top of that, poor Isabel Fowler fell ill and had to be carried out on a stretcher. You heard, of course, that she died at the hospital.”
“Yes, I did. I’m finding it hard to believe. I’ve known Isabel for so many years. Cabot Cove won’t be the same without her.”
“I didn’t realize you knew her so well. I’m sorry for your loss, Jessica.”
“Thank you. I do feel like I’ve lost a good friend. We were together over Thanksgiving when she shared the news that Brad and Marcie were opening a restaurant. And last night she was in such good spirits and proud of what they had accomplished.”
“What do you think will happen to the restaurant?” Evelyn asked.
“Happen to it? What do you mean?”
“You saw the menu, Jessica. Isabel’s photo is there and a list of all her recipes. Now that she’s gone, I—”
“I assume that Brad and Marcie will forge ahead, Evelyn. They have a lot invested in this business. Not only because it’s the right thing to do, but because it’s a way to honor Isabel’s memory.”
“That’s what Brad says.”
I paused. “You’ve spoken to Brad?”
“No. I called the house to issue my condolences and got Marcie. Strong lady, that one, even in the face of a family calamity. Naturally she was very upset.”
“Naturally.”
“Brad wasn’t there. He was at the funeral home, making arrangements for his mother’s wake. I asked Marcie about plans for the restaurant.”
“And what did she say?”
“She wanted to close it down tonight as a tribute to Isabel, but Brad wouldn’t hear of it. They evidently have a slew of reservations, and he doesn’t want to lose the business, especially since they must be deep in debt.”
“I can understand that. Closing temporarily, while a nice gesture, isn’t what Isabel would have wanted.”
“I suppose you’re right, Jessica. Now, about the fight between Brad Fowler and Gérard Leboeuf. I’m told that the Leboeuf party was asked to leave in the middle of their dinners.”
I glanced at my watch. It was time to end the conversation. I understood Evelyn’s need as a newspaper editor to find out everything she could about what was going on in town, but I didn’t want to be put in the position of analyzing for her what had occurred between other people. It would be thirdhand hearsay, and I wasn’t about to sensationalize an unfortunate confrontation between a pair of excitable restaurateurs. “You’ll have to ask Brad and Leboeuf,” I said.
“But you were there, Jessica.”
“Yes, I was, eating my dinner—the food was excellent—and not really paying attention to them. You’ll have to excuse me, Evelyn, but I really have to run.”
“Run where? With all this snow?”
“Lots to do around the house.”
“I’m just asking you on background, Jessica. I won’t quote what you say.”
“You’re a good reporter, Evelyn. You don’t need me.”
I heard a big sigh on the line. “Okay, but I may call you again later.”
After spending the better part of the day housebound and on the phone, I decided to venture out with the help of my friendly taxi company, whose owners had the good sense to include four-wheel-drive vehicles in their small fleet. The driver dropped me off in front of Charles Department Store, where I sipped the latest coffee blend they were providing their customers and perused their assortment of winter boots on sale.
“That must have been quite a tussle at Brad Fowler’s restaurant last night,” the clerk, who’d been working at the store for a long time, said as she rang up my purchase.
“How did you hear about that?”
“That’s all everyone is talking about today,” she said. “I had a customer who was seated near to Gérard Leboeuf and his party. She said that he was pretty obnoxious.”
I didn’t respond.
“It’s too awful about Isabel Fowler, isn’t it?” she said. “Dr. Hazlitt’s nurse was in earlier and told me. Nice lady. Must have come as a shock to everyone. One minute she’s enjoying her son’s restaurant opening, and the next minute she’s dead.”
“A terrible tragedy,” I said.
“What do you think is going to happen with the Fowlers’ restaurant, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“I hope it will be a huge success.”
“It won’t be, according to Mr. Leboeuf.”
“Oh?”
“He came in to buy a strainer. For his new kitchen, he said, but I think he just wanted to be seen around town.”
“And what did he say?”
“When I asked him if Brad and Marcie’s restaurant would make it tough for him to open his new place, he laughed and said something like, ‘I never have a problem with amateurs. I give them a month before they fold.’”
“Not an especially generous comment,” I said. “Most important is that he be proved wrong, which I’m sure will be the case.”
“Of course, I hope so, too. Well, enjoy your new boots, Jessica.”
“I’m sure I will. Thanks for your help.”
A call to the taxi company brought the same driver who’d delivered me downtown, and I was ensconced in my study a half hour later with a steaming cup of tea on my desk and a pile of correspondence I’d retrieved from my mailbox. In a velvety cream-colored envelope was an invitation from Gérard Leboeuf to be his guest at the grand opening of his new restaurant the following weekend.
I debated whether to accept. I’d developed a sour taste in my mouth about Gérard Leboeuf. He was a self-centered man to begin with, and his behavior at the Fin & Claw had been atrocious. Every time I thought about it, I got angry on behalf of the Fowlers. My heart went out to Marcie and Brad. It’s difficult enough
to go into debt to launch a new business, with all the stress that it involves, but then to lose the one person who shared their commitment to the dream both emotionally and financially must be unbearable. That was a lot for a young couple to face without having someone make a show of trashing their efforts in public. Tapping the envelope on my desk, I decided to call Seth to see if he, too, had received the invitation.
“Ayuh,” he said. “Arrived in today’s mail.”
“Are you planning to go?”
“Been thinkin’ about it. You?”
“I’ve been—thinking about it.”
“I talked to a new patient of mine who works in Leboeuf’s kitchen. He says that Leboeuf is picking up the tab for everyone on opening night.”
“No such thing as a free meal, Seth,” I reminded him.
“Not always true, Jessica. Sampling what comes out of his kitchen doesn’t carry with it an obligation to like the man. Hopefully, his opening night won’t end up the way the Fowlers’ did. I think we should accept Mr. Leboeuf’s hospitality. It’s not as though he doesn’t have the money to put on a spread. Besides, I happen to like French food, especially onion soup prepared the right way, and steak frites.”
Seth’s reasoning didn’t surprise me. He’s the ultimate pragmatist, although he can project an ornery side if someone rubs him the wrong way.
“You’ll be my date for the evening?” he asked, a hint of mirth in his voice. “I know that your Inspector Sutherland isn’t here to escort you, but I’ll do my best to fill in for him.”
The sentiment behind his comment wasn’t lost on me. My friend George Sutherland was a senior investigator for Scotland Yard in London, and we’d struck up a “relationship” after first meeting years ago. Seth was well aware of the fondness that had developed between George and me, and enjoyed teasing me about it from time to time. Close friends speculated that Seth might be jealous of the handsome, dashing Scotland Yard inspector, which I always dismissed. If anything, I considered Seth to be a good friend and adviser of sorts, not a potential paramour. The truth was that as much as I adored George Sutherland, I wasn’t looking for a romantic relationship with anyone.
So Seth and I accepted the invitation to be Gérard Leboeuf’s guests at the opening of his French bistro, and I hoped that Brad and Marcie Fowler wouldn’t view it as an act of disloyalty.
The week leading up to Leboeuf’s grand opening was eventful and sad. I attended Isabel Fowler’s funeral with a large number of men and women who knew and loved her, and the eulogy given by her son, Brad, emptied everyone’s tear ducts. Isabel had been on view in her casket at the funeral home prior to the church service, and a succession of mourners passed to issue their final good-byes. Quite a few people spoke—Isabel had many friends in Cabot Cove—and it was a lovely tribute to a lovely woman who had been a valued member of our community. At one point I found myself talking with Brad, who’d retreated to a secluded corner of the large room.
“Mom looks beautiful, doesn’t she?” he said.
“She was always a beautiful woman, Brad. I feel privileged to have been her friend. How are you and Marcie holding up?”
“We’re all right. Thank goodness for the restaurant. It was Mom’s dream for us, and now we get to carry on her dream. I’m glad we’ve been real busy, because it leaves less time to feel sorry for ourselves.”
“I understand the Fin and Claw is doing splendidly,” I said.
“I don’t know about splendid, but yeah, business is good. Did you see the review Ms. Phillips gave us in the Gazette?”
“I certainly did,” I said, smiling. “And well deserved.”
“I’m sorry about the way things turned out on opening night when you and Dr. Hazlitt were there.”
“It couldn’t be helped, Brad. Besides, it certainly wasn’t your fault.”
“It was that nasty b—” He paused. “That louse, Leboeuf,” he said, venom in his voice.
I didn’t want to get into that sort of discussion but wasn’t sure how to smoothly transition to something else. “Now is not the time to talk about him,” I finally said. “I’m just glad that your mom was around long enough to see her picture and recipes in the menu.”
“He insulted her,” Brad said flatly. “She was shaking when she came into the kitchen after she talked to him.” Tears filled his eyes. “She was so upset. That’s probably what caused her stroke. As far as I’m concerned, he’s responsible for my mother’s death.”
I looked beyond him and saw Marcie talking with a small group of visitors.
“I think Marcie wants you, Brad.”
“She does?” He looked back, took a deep breath, and let it out. “Okay. Thanks for being here, Mrs. Fletcher. Mom would have been pleased that you came.”
I was disappointed at how our conversation had ended. The resentment Brad harbored toward Gérard Leboeuf was not going to go away, and I was afraid it would have ramifications as time progressed. We were going to have two new restaurants competing with each other, and that could have been positive for Cabot Cove. But negative feelings were running deep in both men. Combine Brad’s rage with Leboeuf’s arrogance and I could see only further unpleasantness down the road.
Chapter Nine
“Jessica, I have a favor to ask.” Maureen’s voice sounded urgent.
“Of course, Maureen. Is something wrong?”
“Oh, gee, I hope not.”
Mort’s redheaded wife was prone to theatrics, but now she had me thoroughly confused. “Well, what can I do for you?”
“I sent a sample in with Mort this morning, and before I send it over, I just wanted you to tell me if it’s okay.”
“You sent a sample of what with Mort? And you’re sending something over where? And what am I supposed to tell you is okay?”
“Really, Jessica. I thought you’d understand. Didn’t you hear what I said?”
“Why don’t you slow down and start over, Maureen. I’m listening.”
“Okay. I gave Mort two of my pies to bring into the stationhouse. He’s supposed to drop one off with Marcie Fowler. She said she’d buy pies from me, but only if I used Isabel’s recipe, which I did. I made two pies using fresh strawberries; they’re exactly the same.”
“All right. Now I think I see. And the favor you’re requesting? Did you want me to taste one of the pies before he brings the other one to Marcie?”
“Yes,” she said on a long sigh. “My reputation is at stake here, Jessica. If Marcie refuses to accept my pie, I’ll never be able to hold my head up in this town again.”
“I don’t think Marcie would spread nasty rumors about your pie, but I’m not certain my skills as a pastry taster are enough to get you hired.”
“Well, even if I don’t get hired, if you taste one of the pies and say it’s okay, then whether she accepts the other one or not, at least I’ll know I made it right.”
We agreed that I would stop in at the sheriff’s office and offer my considered opinion on the quality of his wife’s strawberry pie. Maureen said she’d call ahead so Mort would expect me. Unfortunately, pie was the last thing on Mort’s mind when I pushed through the door that morning.
“I understand your concern, Mr. Souzy, but we have procedures we have to follow, just like everyone else,” he was telling a gentleman in a navy blue pinstripe suit.
“Don’t give me your ‘procedures’ routine, Sheriff. You know as well as I that an immediate arraignment is not only acceptable under the law, but preferable. I have a note here from Judge Hastings that says he’ll open his court for the boy if you’ll have your deputies bring him over. We can even do a video arraignment if you don’t have anyone available. You have the equipment, I assume?”
“We don’t do video arraignments as a matter of course.” Mort ran his fingers through his hair. “There’s a long list of conditions that have to be met before that takes pla
ce.”
“Look, I want this boy out of jail, and I want him out now. Give me a copy of the complaint and do whatever you have to do to make it happen!”
Music from the original Dragnet television program sounded from Mr. Souzy’s pocket. He pulled out his phone and barked into it, “Hold on!” He aimed a raised eyebrow at Mort. “I have to take this call. When I get back, I want Wylie ready to go to court.” He marched out of the station, yelling into his phone. “What? Speak up. I can’t hear you.”
Mort let out a big sigh and sank into his chair. He cocked his head at me.
“Was that Millard Souzy?” I asked. Souzy was a criminal defense lawyer with myriad connections in Maine’s legal and legislative worlds, including close ties with some of the area’s judges.
“The very same.”
“And is the Wylie he’s talking about Gérard Leboeuf’s son?”
Mort nodded. “But you didn’t hear it from me.”
I took one of the chairs across from his desk. “What was he arrested for?”
“Possession of CDS—controlled dangerous substances—with intent to sell. We got a tip about him dealing, and when my men went to question him, he had enough marijuana and cocaine on his person to set up shop on the worst blocks of Alphabet City. I’d like to know who his supplier is, and it better not be anyone in town.” He picked up his phone and dialed a number. “Chip, bring in the Leboeuf boy. You’re going to take one of the cruisers and deliver him to Judge Hastings’s court. Yeah, I know he plays golf on Tuesdays, but he’s holding off to accommodate our celebrity boarder.”
The sound of angry voices reached us from outside. Gérard Leboeuf stormed into the station house followed by a ruffled Millard Souzy.
“Where is he?” Leboeuf shouted at Mort.
“At the moment, he’s in cell C, Mr. Leboeuf. One of my deputies is just bringing him here.”
“What have you got him on?”
“Possession with intent to sell.”
“Is that all?”