by Donald Bain
I knew that Seth was eager to try the food at Leboeuf’s “authentic” French bistro. He loved steak frites and onion soup and was a real fan of crème brûlée, especially the vanilla variety, which he’d pointed out was on the menu and had been featured in an ad that Leboeuf had placed in the Gazette.
Across the street, the parking lot of the Fin & Claw was half-empty. That wasn’t necessarily a bad sign for Brad and Marcie Fowler. It’s hard to compete with a grand opening of any sort, and particularly one in which the dinner was being given away free. But it was only one night; their competitor would be charging for his dishes the next day.
The bistro was crowded with familiar faces from town and many that I didn’t recognize. I glanced across the lobby and saw another cadre of friends. Spirits were high. The sound of a string trio playing spirited French tunes—I immediately thought of Édith Piaf—wafted through the restaurant’s open door. No doubt about it—Gérard Leboeuf had gone all-out for his special night. He may not have had George Clooney and Meryl Streep in attendance, but the evening had all the trappings of a movie premiere.
I wondered what role Leboeuf’s wife, Eva, played in the restaurants. She was a stunning woman who’d once graced the covers of leading magazines, and she would make a smashing hostess. But she wasn’t at the reception desk. I also looked for their son, Wylie, but he wasn’t in attendance either, at least as far as I could see. Evelyn’s revelation about his arrest on drug charges may have prompted his parents to keep him away from an event that attracted news coverage. Those were my thoughts as I looped my arm in Seth’s and we went inside, where Leboeuf himself greeted us.
“Ah, Mrs. Fletcher and Dr. Hazlitt. What a pleasure to see you again, and so glad you could come.” He winked at me. “All is forgiven, eh?”
“Your restaurant is lovely,” I said, avoiding his question as I took in the bistro’s dining room. It was all glittering glass and chrome, reflecting lights from the crystal chandeliers in the mirrors that ringed the room. A wall of wine bottles nestled on curved steel mesh shelves. Crisp white tablecloths showed off sparkling place settings, and huge vases of fresh flowers in strategic spots softened the hard edges throughout the room. I thought of my favorite French restaurant in New York City, L’Absinthe, and how different Leboeuf’s French Bistro was from Jean-Michel Bergougnoux’s approach to establishing a Continental mood for his customers. Whether the food was as good as Jean-Michel’s was yet to be determined.
Leboeuf’s guests for the evening weren’t immediately seated. Waiters passed trays of fancy hors d’oeuvres and glasses of champagne while Leboeuf made his way through the crowd, his face set in an expansive smile, shaking hands, slapping backs, and in general making everyone feel welcome.
Seth and I circulated among friends and ended up chatting with my dentist, Ed Filler, who’d recently repaired a cracked tooth for me. Ed’s full name was Edward Zachary Filler, an apt name for his profession. The sign in front of the home he shared with his wife, Elaine, and where his office was located, read E.Z. FILLER, DENTIST, and was regularly stolen as a souvenir. Ed and Elaine’s waterfront home was one property removed from the summer mansion that Leboeuf had constructed. I was pleased to see that the restaurateur had invited the couple next door.
“Quite a shindig,” Ed commented.
“Mr. Leboeuf has gone all out,” I said.
“This is Cabot Cove’s first and only French restaurant,” Elaine said. “Don’t you love the music? I can’t wait to try the food.”
“Well,” Seth said, “your neighbor is putting on quite a show. I imagine that you and the Leboeuf family have become good friends, living near to each other as you do.”
They looked at each other and grinned.
“Hard to be good friends with people who are seldom there,” Elaine said, “although they have spent more time at the house since construction of the restaurant started.”
Ed laughed. “We always know when they’re in residence, however. Never a quiet moment.”
Seth was not about to let that go. “Meaning what?”
Ed lowered his voice. “I shouldn’t say this, since we’re his guests tonight, but the Leboeufs tend to be loud when they’re fighting.”
“They do that often?” Seth pressed.
“Often enough,” Elaine said. “When the police arrived . . .”
Her husband shook his head.
“Well, there’s no need to go into that.”
“Police?” Seth said.
I hadn’t mentioned to him that the Leboeuf boy had been arrested on a drug charge.
“It’s not important,” Ed said as he reached out and plucked an hors d’oeuvre off a passing tray. “Don’t bite down on anything hard,” he told me through a laugh. “I’m off duty.”
The cocktail hour at an end, waiters began leading guests to their tables. At each place was a small shopping bag with the name of the restaurant on its side. I saw Maureen Metzger draw out a card and smile.
While we waited our turn, Eva Leboeuf entered the room and walked up to her husband, who’d been chatting with customers. The look on her face indicated she was not especially pleased at the moment, and her stern expression was at odds with the perpetual grin Gérard had adopted for the evening. Seeing his wife, Leboeuf’s smile dipped into a scowl. He started to say something, but she snarled at him, waving a long, manicured, crimson-tipped index finger in his face, and turned her back to her husband, surveying the room.
Seth had noticed their exchange, too. “That’s one angry lady. Do you know about this business of the police going to Leboeuf’s home?”
I nodded. “His son was arrested for drug possession.”
“And where did you learn that, Jessica?”
“I was at the sheriff’s office when Mort released him.”
Leboeuf, his lips once more set in an upward curve, invited stragglers to find their tables and announced that dinner would soon be served. Eva drifted away from him in our direction.
Settled in our seats, Seth and I peeked into our little shopping bags to find a lipstick sample—“Not my color,” he said, handing it to me—and a tiny vial of men’s cologne—“This will smell better on you,” I said, dropping it in his bag. Also inside mine were a postcard advertising Eva’s cosmetics website, a refrigerator magnet with the telephone number of Leboeuf’s French Bistro in large numbers, and a small box covered in gold foil. I opened it to find a delicate glass with the Leboeuf logo embossed in gold on its side.
“This is stunning,” I said, holding up the glass.
“Isn’t it?” Eva said.
I hadn’t seen her come up to our table.
She took the glass from my hand and held it up to the light.
“What’s it for?” Seth asked.
She seemed startled by the question and handed the glass back to me. “It’s a stemless wineglass, of course. We had them especially made for the opening by a glassblower in Murano. They used cotton gloves to pack them.” She gave me a wan smile. “Sorry if I smudged yours.”
“Not at all,” I said. “It’s very beautiful. I’ll look forward to using it.”
“You do that.”
Seth waited until Eva stopped at another table before he handed me his box. “You take it. I’ll only break it.”
“Are you sure? It’s a lovely memento.”
“I’m sure.” He folded up his bag and stuffed it in his jacket pocket. “The Leboeufs certainly know how to leverage their brand.”
“‘Leverage their brand?’ When did you become so knowledgeable about marketing?”
“You’re not the only one who reads the business sections of the newspaper.”
Our host interrupted our conversation by bringing Walter Chang from the kitchen and introducing him. “Can we assure these good people that you will see to it that every dish they order reflects the best in French cooking and
is done to their liking?”
“Yes, Chef,” Chang barked on cue. He seemed anxious to get back to the kitchen but dutifully thanked everyone for coming.
Leboeuf led a round of applause while Chang disappeared through the swinging doors. “And so, as proprietor of Leboeuf’s French Bistro, I give you the classic gastronomic salutation: Bon appétit!”
Seth rubbed his palms together. “Well, I’m eager to sample some authentic French cooking. Haven’t had it since the last time I was in Cuba, of all places.”
“Good cooking crosses all borders,” I commented as I opened the menu. “Where shall we start?”
As the evening progressed, I was taken with the smooth choreography of the dining room, in contrast to what had been more fitful service at the Fin & Claw’s opening night. That reflection naturally morphed into thoughts of Brad and Marcie Fowler, and I wondered how they were doing that evening. Had Leboeuf invited them to the opening? That would have been a neighborly gesture, although given his crass behavior at their restaurant’s debut, I doubted if they would have accepted any overtures of friendship from him. Then again, judging from the way Leboeuf had roped off his parking lot to keep opening-night patrons of the Fin & Claw from using it, it was unlikely he had been diplomatic enough to try to mend the breach he had created. What a shame that such bad feelings existed between them. Cabot Cove has always been a friendly place. Yes, there’s competition between some business interests here, but they’ve always been played out with little ill will, with a few exceptions.
The food was superb. Around us, as waiters passed with trays of French specialties, we caught the delicious aromas, our anticipation rising. The meals did not disappoint. Once we were served, Seth took his time over onion soup, a crock of rich beef and onion broth with a crust of melted cheese on top, followed by steak frites, a French version of steak and fries that featured a robust sauce made from the pan juices. I enthusiastically dipped into my coq au vin, a classic Gallic stew of chicken cooked in red wine with mushrooms, onions, and garlic. If I closed my eyes, I could bring up visions of the French countryside where I’d sampled some of these dishes years ago.
We lingered over his dessert—I’d passed on ordering one, but enjoyed a few spoonfuls of Seth’s vanilla crème brûlée—and strong coffee.
“I’d say that Mr. Leboeuf knows his way around a kitchen,” Seth said after scraping the final dollop of crème brûlée from its scalloped ceramic shell and patting his lips with his napkin.
“Or Mr. Chang does,” I inserted.
“All in all a delightful meal.”
“If the food is any barometer, Leboeuf’s French Bistro will be a rousing success.”
Seth nodded. “Hope it is. Hope Isabel’s son’s venture does well, too. Hope they all succeed. Did you read what Leboeuf said in that feature on him in Evelyn’s newspaper?”
“That he foresees Cabot Cove becoming an even greater tourist attraction in a few years?”
“Ayuh. Seems a bit over-the-top, wouldn’t you say?”
I had to agree. While our idyllic seaside town in picturesque Maine had been growing—and our annual Lobsterfest drew big crowds—to envision Cabot Cove as a tourist mecca was a stretch. But I supposed that Leboeuf had to justify, at least in his own mind, his reason for committing so much money to opening a restaurant here.
Eva Leboeuf passed by our table a few more times, but she didn’t stop again. She was tall and willowy and walked with the sort of self-assurance that beautiful women usually possess. I took note that she rarely spoke with anyone, simply made herself visible to the patrons, nodding and smiling as if she were a member of a royal family. She crossed the room several times as though on a mission, only to disappear outside, or into the kitchen, occasionally accompanied by one of the two grim young men who always seemed to be in attendance with the Leboeufs. Were they bodyguards? Why would the Leboeufs need bodyguards? The face of the young man trailing Eva was set in a stony expression, only his roving eyes testifying that he was constantly taking in his surroundings.
“Good-lookin’ young fellow,” Seth commented during one of their passes.
Seth was interrupted by Mayor Shevlin’s wife coming to our table.
“Jessica, you look stunning.”
“Thank you, Susan, and may I say the same about you.”
“Isn’t it fun to get dressed up for these wonderful evenings in Cabot Cove? Won’t happen again, I’m sure, but I’ve loved being part of these restaurant openings in our little corner of the world. If this keeps up, I told Jim, I’ll have to start booking the travel agency’s clients for staycations instead of vacations.”
With the dinner service complete, a festive party atmosphere prevailed, enhanced by the music and waiters delivering after-dinner drinks. We left our seat to do as others were doing, mingling with friends.
“Must have cost Leboeuf a fortune, picking up the tab for everyone,” Tim Purdy said as he held her coat for his date.
“Chump change for him,” Levon Walsh, a local attorney, chimed in.
Walsh’s wife, Dora, said, “His wife used to be a model. She’s beautiful, but she always looks as if she’s posing for the camera.”
Mort and Maureen Metzger also stopped to greet us on their way out.
“What’s this I hear about Leboeuf’s son bein’ in some sort of trouble?” Seth asked Mort in his usual direct way.
The sheriff shook his head.
Seth got the message and didn’t pursue it.
The evening had continued much later than I’d expected, extending well past my usual bedtime. But I was wide-awake. The lilting music was infectious, the conversation with so many friends stimulating, and the handsome surroundings created an atmosphere that I was reluctant to leave. But as the crowd dwindled, I noticed that Seth had sat in his chair again and was fighting to stay awake. Chances were that he’d have a waiting room full of patients first thing in the morning, and I decided it would be selfish to stay longer.
“Time to go home,” I told him, jolting him awake.
Seth went to retrieve his car, instructing me to wait inside. “No use both of us shivering in the cold.”
I looked through the window that flanked the front door. The valet-parking attendants were busy fetching cars for the many people leaving at the same time. I caught sight of Brad Fowler standing at the edge of his parking lot, the yellow light from a streetlamp casting an eerie glow on his face. Oh, dear, I thought. Don’t be discouraged. There will be plenty of business for both you and Leboeuf.
By the time the parking attendant delivered Seth’s car to the door, Brad was gone. A young man held the door for me, and I slid into the front passenger seat. As I buckled my seat belt, I looked across the pier to where Wylie Leboeuf stood at a railing, the red ember of his cigarette acting like a beacon directing attention to him.
“That’s the Leboeufs’ son,” I told Seth as he settled in the driver’s seat.
“I didn’t see him inside. Wonder what he thinks of the evening,” Seth muttered.
“I hope he’s proud of what his father has accomplished,” I said.
“You always look on the bright side,” my curmudgeonly friend complained.
I smiled. “Someone has to.”
As we pulled away, I took a look back at Wylie Leboeuf, who tossed his cigarette butt over the rail into the sea and walked in the direction of the rear of his father’s restaurant complex, where a door led into the kitchen.
“Enjoy the evening?” Seth asked.
“Yes, very much.” I held up my little shopping bag. “Everything was carried off well—don’t you think?”
“Nothing to complain about. The food and service were good.”
“Do you think Leboeuf’s restaurant and Brad and Marcie’s place will be able to coexist?” I asked.
Seth shrugged. “That remains to be seen, doesn’t it?” h
e said with his characteristic bluntness.
As much as I’d been offended by Leboeuf’s behavior at the Fin & Claw’s opening night, I had to admit that his opening night had been a delightful evening. I suppose the fact that he’d picked up the tab for everyone and had given all of us gift bags added to the celebratory spirit that permeated the restaurant, but along with that generosity, everything had been handled with class and professionalism. And, of course, the food had been excellent. Seth, who can find fault with half the dishes served to him in restaurants, had nothing but praise for his meal, and I mirrored his approval.
I quickly fell asleep that night, my concerns about Brad and Marcie Fowler getting lost in my pleasant reverie. Nor were they on my mind when the telephone on my nightstand rang, a jarring way to awaken from a deep sleep. I looked at the clock radio: six o’clock.
“Hello?”
“Jessica?”
I don’t know who else you might have expected, I thought through the sleep that was still fogging my mind.
“Yes?”
“It’s Seth.”
I sat up in bed and blinked furiously to snap my eyes and brain into functionality.
“Did I wake you?”
“Of course, Seth, but that’s all right. Is something wrong?”
“I’d say so. Gérard Leboeuf is dead.”
Chapter Eleven