by Donald Bain
“It’s more than enough to arrest him. He was carrying twenty packets of what we believe to be cocaine. More than fourteen grams makes it a felony. If any of those packets turns out to be heroin—”
Leboeuf cut him off with, “Spare me the details.”
“Gérard, would you let me handle this, please?” Souzy said.
“You said you’d have him out in an hour, and he’s still here.”
“Like it or not, there are procedures to follow.”
I saw Mort rub his jaw and was sure he was covering a smile.
The door leading to the jail cells swung open, and Chip led in a scruffy-looking Wylie. He didn’t have enough of a beard to affect the stubble look so popular these days, but his hair was greasy, and he was wearing what I’d come to think of as the standard teenage uniform: ripped blue jeans and a puffy black ski jacket. When he caught sight of his father, he smirked.
“Get that nasty smile off your face,” Leboeuf snarled, striding across the room. He stopped in front of his son and slapped him across the face.
Both Chip and Mort jumped to pull Leboeuf away. “I’ll have none of that,” Mort said, “or you’ll end up occupying the cell we just took him out of.” Mort glared at Souzy. “Get him out of here now. And there better not be any more violence at the courthouse.”
Souzy tugged a furious Leboeuf toward the door. “Come on, Gérard. This is not the time or the place.”
Wylie held a palm to his red cheek and sniffled. “Hey, he’s not allowed to do that, is he? Don’t I have any rights here? Why don’t you arrest him?”
“I’ll talk to you about rights, you mewling, cowardly spawn of Satan.”
“You’re talking about yourself, you know,” Wylie yelled. “I’m your spawn. That makes you Satan.” He forced a laugh, but it sounded as if he was closer to tears.
Leboeuf seemed to notice me for the first time. “You!” He pointed at me. “I’d better not see any of this in the newspaper,” he said.
“You’re in no danger from me, Mr. Leboeuf. I’m not a reporter.”
“That’s okay. That’s okay,” Wylie said. “Tell everybody. Tell them the son of the great Chef Leboeuf is a criminal just like his dad.”
“Wylie!” Leboeuf roared, but Souzy pushed him out the door.
Mort shook his head and looked at Chip. “I’ll get someone to bring my cruiser around to the side entrance, and when you get to the court, don’t let his father anywhere near him. I’ll alert Judge Hastings.”
While Mort made arrangements to transport Wylie to the courthouse, I pondered what had just taken place. In my estimation, Leboeuf’s son was a little old to be exhibiting signs of teenage rebellion, but that appeared to be the case. If he was using drugs—and worse, selling them—as a way to gain his father’s attention, he couldn’t be pleased with the results. Then again, if he was trying to punish his father for whatever reason, he’d certainly found the ideal line of attack.
Once the prisoner was taken out, Mort offered me a cup of coffee, which I declined. He poured a large mug for himself and sank down at his desk. “I never asked why you came in, Mrs. F. And then all this craziness took place.”
“I don’t suppose you want to talk about strawberry pies at this juncture, do you?”
Mort slapped his forehead and groaned. “Maureen’s pies! Oh, no. I left them in the trunk of the cruiser. And now I just sent them over to the courthouse with the kid.”
* * *
Leboeuf’s Saturday-night grand opening was only a few days away. On the Thursday preceding it, I attended a morning meeting of the Cabot Cove Historical Society chaired by Tim Purdy. As the town grew, it had become increasingly difficult to keep progress from infringing upon our historic past. Tim and his crew of volunteers did a splendid job of fighting to preserve that past, and I was an enthusiastic member of the committee.
Evelyn Phillips attended the meeting, as she usually did, to report in her newspaper on its activities, and I sat next to her as the tall, erudite Tim ran down his ambitious agenda for the upcoming months. It was during a break for coffee and doughnuts that Evelyn took me aside.
“You’ve heard, of course,” she said, “about the Leboeuf boy.”
“You shouldn’t assume that I hear every rumor the moment it’s launched,” I said.
“Well, this isn’t a rumor. He was arrested for drug possession.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said, deciding not to admit I was already privy to the particulars.
“His father hired Millard Souzy to defend him. Souzy arranged for an arraignment, and the boy was released on bail,” Evelyn further explained.
“Is he charged with selling drugs, or using them?”
“From the information I’ve gotten, he had enough with him to be charged with intent to sell, but I don’t know whether he was charged with that. I’ll have to go back and ask Mort; he didn’t specify.”
“I didn’t know he made a public statement.”
“Don’t look so surprised, Jessica. Unlike our previous sheriff, Mort believes in transparency where the press is concerned. The public has a right to know.”
“I’m well aware of that,” I said, masking my annoyance at being lectured on civics.
She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial level. “I’m told that the boy had similar problems in New York.”
“From good sources, I’m sure.”
“Of course. I wouldn’t put any faith in it if my sources weren’t credible.”
Now we were equally irritated with each other.
While I recognized that Evelyn Phillips was a dedicated and experienced newspaperwoman who was tenacious in bringing news of Cabot Cove to its citizens, she and I didn’t always agree. She’d worked on big-city papers before settling in our town and had transformed the Gazette from a sloppily written and edited vehicle for press releases and publicity hounds eager to get their pictures on the front page into a paper with thorough coverage of Cabot Cove and its environs, and with integrity in its reporting. That kind of thoroughness, however, could approach impinging on people’s privacy, on occasion mine. This wasn’t the first time that Evelyn had gotten my hackles up, nor would it be the last. But my respect for her tempered my moments of pique.
“I’m sorry that Wylie is in this sort of trouble,” I said. “It must be especially difficult to be a child of two well-known people and have a spotlight shone on you whenever you behave badly.”
“Being charged with a crime is more than misbehavior, Jessica.”
“I agree, Evelyn. I was speaking in generalities. By the way, will you be at Leboeuf’s opening Saturday night?” I asked, hoping the change in topic would smooth the waters between us.
“I wouldn’t miss it. You?”
“Seth and I will be there,” I said. “We’re hoping it will be more peaceful than the Fin and Claw’s grand opening.”
Evelyn’s laugh was ironic. “It’ll make for a better story if it isn’t. See you there, Jessica.”
With the Fin & Claw in mind, I decided to drop in for lunch after the meeting. Marcie Fowler had taken an ad in the Gazette announcing their daily specials, which included Isabel Fowler’s prize-winning chowder recipe. Although the snow had melted, the temperature outside was still nippy—the perfect chowder weather. The restaurant was half-empty when I arrived, and Marcie led me to a table. Although she flashed a smile, I could see signs of strain on her face.
“How are things?” I asked after I’d been seated and told her that I’d been enticed by Isabel’s clam chowder recipe.
“Things are—well, to be honest, things aren’t going all that well.”
“I imagine it takes time to build up a crowd at lunchtime.”
“It isn’t that,” she said, hesitating.
“Anything I can do to help?”
She drew a breath before leaning forward and whispering, �
��The inspector for the Maine Center for Disease Control and Prevention inspected us yesterday for sanitary violations.”
“And?”
“And we failed on more than one count.”
“Oh, my goodness. I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “Were they serious violations?”
“Any health violation for a restaurant is serious,” she said. “The thing is, we’ve been meticulous about keeping the kitchen clean. I just don’t know how . . .” Marcie spotted two customers coming through the front door and excused herself, leaving me to ponder what I’d just heard.
That Brad and Marcie Fowler would allow an unhealthy situation to exist in their restaurant was a surprise to me, and apparently to them. I suppose that it was possible they’d overlooked a regulation in dealing with the Fin & Claw’s hectic opening and the events that followed.
“Tell me more about the inspection, Marcie,” I said in a low voice after she had returned to my table.
“I’m sick over it. It’ll be around town before the day is out.” She looked around the restaurant. “Maybe it already is.”
“How serious were the violations?” I asked.
She looked to the front of the restaurant, saw that no new customers were arriving, and took the chair across from me. “That miserable man Harold Greene came in here unannounced, flashed his stupid badge, and said he was here to inspect the premises. Brad told him he should have made an appointment, but Greene ignored that.”
“Sorry to interrupt, Marcie,” I said, “but it’s routine for inspectors to arrive unannounced so the owner doesn’t have advance notice and time to clean up.”
She reared back and looked at me as though I were an enemy. I realized I probably shouldn’t have defended Greene so abruptly.
“Maybe I’m wrong,” I said.
“I don’t know, Mrs. Fletcher. Maybe you’re right. Anyway, Greene just marched into our kitchen, a clipboard and pen in his hand, and started looking around.” She leaned forward again. “Mrs. Fletcher, I swear to you, the kitchen is pristine. Brad is a fussbudget about cleanliness. At home he rinses the dishes so thoroughly that by the time he puts them in the dishwasher they’re squeaky clean.”
I smiled at her anecdote.
“Greene found some things that he said were violations, silly little things like whether certain cooking utensils were too close to one another, how we store mayonnaise—which, by the way, is the right way to store it. And then . . .”
I waited.
“He got down on his knees and started looking at the floor under the range. He looked up, a smug expression on his face, and said, ‘mouse droppings.’”
“Oh, dear.”
“Mrs. Fletcher, those mouse droppings weren’t there when he arrived. He put them there. I know it. I just know he did.”
“That’s a serious charge, Marcie. What can you do about it?”
She stood, misery etched into her pretty face. “He gave us two days to correct the alleged violations, but even if we do—and how do you correct something that isn’t there in the first place?—we’ve been fined four hundred dollars.”
“That’s a lot of money.”
“Everything is a lot of money, Mrs. Fletcher. It seems that there’s no end to what we have to lay out. It’s a nightmare. This whole experience of opening a restaurant has been one big, expensive headache.”
I smiled and reached for her hand. “It’s really early in the game,” I said. “Starting something as ambitious as a restaurant always involves unexpected expenses and setbacks.”
“Tell that to Brad,” she said.
“Where is he?”
“In the kitchen. Please look in on him before you leave. I know he’ll be glad to see you. He’s beside himself.”
After I’d finished my soup and paid the bill, I took her suggestion and pushed open the swinging door into the kitchen, then questioned whether I should have. Brad was in the midst of a rant against his sous chef, Jake, calling him names I’d just as soon not repeat. Jake responded by whipping off his white apron and throwing it at Brad, who caught it and flung it across the kitchen.
Jake pushed past me just as Marcie was coming into the kitchen. “Jake, where are you going?”
“I’m outta here.”
“Oh, hi, Mrs. Fletcher,” Brad said, breathing hard in an attempt to calm down.
“Hello, Brad. I’m sorry if I’m disturbing anything, but Marcie thought it would be a good idea for me to stop by to see you.”
“Mrs. Fletcher has some good advice for us,” Marcie put in.
I tried to remember the advice I was supposed to impart.
“Really? The only advice I need is how to get rid of that shark Leboeuf. I’d like to tear his heart out.”
“You don’t know for certain that he’s behind Mr. Greene’s findings during the inspection,” Marcie said. “And why were you arguing with Jake again?”
“He’s in Leboeuf’s pocket. I’m sure of it! Who else? Mouse droppings? Either he or the inspector put them there. There are no mice in this kitchen, Marcie, and you know it.”
“Brad, please calm down.”
“Calm down? Leboeuf is opening his place in a couple of days. Do you know what’s he’s doing, Marcie? He sent Jed Richardson to Boston in his plane to bring a couple of celebrities to Cabot Cove for his opening.”
“So he has more connections than we have. So what? The celebrities aren’t going to stay around to keep eating at his restaurant.”
“He and his gang have been bad-mouthing our food all over town.”
I tried to smooth things over. “The people in Cabot Cove are more likely to place their faith in someone they’ve known all his life than in newcomers to town,” I said. “You have to trust in people’s good judgment, Brad.”
“That’s only the start of it, Mrs. Fletcher. He’s scheduled full-page ads for almost a month in the Gazette. And look at this.” He handed Marcie a receipt from a vendor. “Joey, who delivers our bread, says that he can’t supply us anymore, because Leboeuf has put in a big order for his place here in Cabot Cove and for all his restaurants around the country.”
“Why would he buy his bread for his other restaurants from a baker here in Maine?” I asked.
“To cut off our supplies.”
“Can he do that?” Marcie asked.
“He can keep us from getting it at a decent price,” Brad said, shaking his head sadly. “And what about Winston down at the dock?”
My quizzical expression prompted Brad to say, “Tell her, Marcie.”
“Caleb Winston called to tell us that he wouldn’t be able to provide us with fresh clams any longer.”
“You don’t have to ask why, Mrs. Fletcher. I’ll tell you. Because Leboeuf bought him out. He put in such a large standing order that Caleb said he can’t ignore it.”
“He was all apologetic, of course,” Marcie said. “Brad and he went to high school together. But Caleb said that Leboeuf’s order commits him to all the clams he can dig.”
“There’s no way that Leboeuf can use as many clams as he’s ordered,” Brad said, his voice rising. “He just wants to corner the market on them and keep us from another source.”
“There must be other clam diggers in Cabot Cove,” I said.
“But it’s like starting all over again,” Marcie said, “researching the quality of supplies and making deals with new vendors. We thought we already had those arrangements covered. That kind of planning takes time, and we’d already moved on to the next phase, until Leboeuf—”
“See?” Brad said. “It’s Leboeuf, always Leboeuf.” He slammed a spatula on the stainless steel countertop, causing the other three workers in the kitchen to jump and to look at one another.
Marcie tried to calm him down by saying, “Brad, you have to get ahold of yourself. I’m worried you’re going to get sick.
Mrs. Fletcher told me that these sorts of problems are only natural when opening a new restaurant.” She looked at me imploringly. “Isn’t that right?”
Brad sighed. “What do you know about opening a restaurant?”
“Nothing, I’m afraid,” I said, taken aback by his question. “I’m only trying to give you my support. I’m sorry that you had a problem with the inspector, but I’m sure it will work out all right.” I made a show of looking at my watch. “I wish I could offer you something more concrete, but right now I have to leave.”
“Thanks for trying to help, Mrs. Fletcher,” Marcie said as we walked from the kitchen into the dining room. “Can I offer you some dessert? On the house. We have a new strawberry pie on the menu today.”
“Another time,” I said.
Across the way, at Leboeuf’s restaurant, trucks were delivering produce, meat, and fish for the opening-night festivities. The thought of attending his opening wasn’t especially appealing at that moment. While Gérard Leboeuf had every right to live in Cabot Cove and to open his French bistro, he was spreading rancor and bad feelings throughout the town I loved. I wished that he’d found another idyllic seaside spot in which to build a summer home and expand his restaurant empire.
Brad Fowler was justified in being upset. Leboeuf was up to his old tricks, putting pressure on his competitor by closing off his suppliers—pressure that the smaller business was not prepared to counter. There was nothing I could do to help. It was true that I didn’t know anything about opening a restaurant. My fear was that Brad and Marcie didn’t either. But they were learning, and learning fast, that all was not fair in love and war—and the restaurant business.
Chapter Ten
Despite my misgivings about attending the launch of Leboeuf’s restaurant, it was only natural to be swept up in the anticipation of the opening. Although Seth was loath to exhibit his excitement—well, maybe “excitement” is too strong a word where Seth is concerned—he’d dressed for the occasion, just as I had. After he admired my outfit, we drove to the town dock, where uniformed valets parked his car.
The weather had cooperated, and it was a beautiful night. When we arrived, there was a vivid red carpet at the entranceway, and two video crews trained their cameras on arriving guests. It felt as though we were attending the Oscars. I spotted Evelyn Phillips, who was gussied up for the occasion after an afternoon at Loretta’s Beauty Shop, where I’d also had my hair done. She was interviewing one of the celebrities who’d been flown from Boston for the occasion, a tall, striking redhead who regularly appeared on a TV reality show—which I’d never seen and didn’t intend to, but knew about from Evelyn’s write-up in the Gazette. The other celebrity attending tonight was a news anchor from a Boston television station, a familiar handsome man with a deep voice who delivered the day’s grim news each night.