by Donald Bain
“Say that again.”
“Gérard Leboeuf has been murdered. Doc Whitson, the medical examiner, is out of town; they called me.”
“Oh, my goodness,” I said, hardly a comment with the gravitas to do the message justice. “Where? When? How did it happen?”
“In the kitchen of his new place. Sometime around three a.m., somebody stabbed him with a big knife.”
“Good heavens! Are there any suspects? Do the police know who did it?”
“Not yet. None that I’m aware of, Jessica. Just thought you’d want to know before you start your day.”
Some way to start a day.
“I wonder if this has anything to do with what Matt told me.”
“Matt who?”
“My agent, Matt Miller. He said that federal authorities were looking into Leboeuf’s business practices to see whether he’d been laundering money for the mob.”
“Well, aren’t you full of surprises, Jessica.”
“I forgot about it until this minute.”
“Any more tidbits that you’ve forgotten to tell me?”
“I don’t think so. What about you? Any ‘tidbits’ you haven’t told me?”
“Only that I imagine I’ll be asked to do a formal autopsy later today. I suspect he had a lacerated spleen and bled out. But you never know until you look into these things. Mort hasn’t released the body yet. Not sure what he’s waiting for, but I can give you more information later. Right now I’m thinking there’s no question what killed him, and it wasn’t a heart attack.”
“What about his family?”
“What about them?”
“Have you spoken with any of them?”
“Not my job. I’m just the substitute ME.”
“Who discovered the body?”
“You sound like a detective.”
“Sorry. Natural instinct.”
“The chef—Chang, isn’t it?—found Leboeuf and called the police. Mort was still there when I left.” He yawned. “Got to ring off, Jessica. I’m going to have patients backed up here at the office, and I need a little shut-eye before I greet them or I won’t remember my own name, much less theirs.”
I clicked off the phone, swung my legs off the bed, and drew a deep breath. What Seth had said seemed impossible. Less than twelve hours ago Leboeuf was shaking hands, smiling, and basking in the glory of his opening-night festivities. What could have caused the night to end in such a shocking, brutal way?
I showered, dressed, and made myself toast with raspberry jam and coffee. The phone started ringing again; I let the answering machine take the calls, although I could hear the callers’ voices. Maureen Metzger was one of them, followed by Evelyn Phillips of the Gazette, Mayor Jim Shevlin, and three other friends, all asking whether I’d heard about Leboeuf’s murder. I decided to return Maureen’s call first.
“I can’t believe it,” were her first words.
“I know what you mean,” I said. “I talked to Seth Hazlitt. Dr. Whitson is out of town.”
“Mort told me. He was rousted out of bed at three this morning. He’s still at the restaurant. Too bad about Leboeuf. He was such a wonderful cook. I was hoping he would give some classes here. You know I’ve never dared to try any of his recipes. They’re so complicated. I saw him make that famous fish soup on TV, on Kitchen Wars. What’s it called?”
“Bouillabaisse?”
“That’s it. And . . .”
“Have any suspects been identified?” I asked, hoping to divert Maureen before she launched into a discussion of her cooking shows.
“Not that I know of. Of course, there’s talk. Oops! Mort’s just coming through the door. Don’t want him to hear me discussing his case. Talk to you later. Bye.”
After returning other calls, I retreated to my home office, sat in my leather swivel chair, and attempted to put my thoughts in order. The information that I’d received from Seth, and the reactions to the news by a half-dozen other people, had settled in on me.
Gérard Leboeuf’s murder would impact Cabot Cove as though a hurricane had come ashore, turning this otherwise peaceful seaside town upside down. Because Leboeuf was an internationally known celebrity, if he died of anything other than natural causes—which appeared to be the case—the investigation would involve many more authorities besides Mort Metzger and his perpetually understaffed sheriff’s department. Everyone who had had any contact with the victim—which certainly included me—would be questioned. The media would descend on us, generating myriad theories and rumors, and fingers would be pointed.
I looked up at the gift bag from the opening, which I’d left on a shelf and absently began jotting down notes on a lined yellow legal pad. What did I remember from the previous night? That expanded into observations about every time I’d had as much as a conversation with Gérard Leboeuf. Before I knew it—and despite the ringing telephone that never seemed to stop—I ended up with almost a dozen pages chronicling my recollections of the famous chef, going back to when I’d first interviewed him in New York for a novel I never finished.
* * *
Leboeuf’s offices were located in the Flatiron District of the city. The reception area was handsomely decorated with expensive pieces of furniture, white carpeting into which I sank as I crossed the room, and colorful abstract art on the walls. Photos from Leboeuf’s television show and guest appearances on the Cooking Channel lined the walls. A stunning brunette sitting behind a large desk gave me a warm smile as I approached.
“I’m Jessica Fletcher,” I said. “My agent, Matt Miller, arranged for me to meet with Mr. Leboeuf this morning.”
“Of course, Mrs. Fletcher,” she said with a charming French accent. “Monsieur Leboeuf is expecting you.”
A minute later I was face-to-face with the famous chef himself. “Please sit down,” he said, indicating a pair of armchairs upholstered in a rich red and gold fabric. Despite his French name, there was no trace of an accent, which didn’t surprise me. I knew from having done research on him before our meeting that he’d been born in St. Louis to American parents who originally came from French stock, which accounted for the name.
“I appreciate you giving me some time this morning,” I said.
“I don’t have a lot of it. I have another engagement.”
“I’ll try to be brief.” I flipped to an empty page in my notebook and jotted down the date.
Leboeuf squinted at me. “Where are you from?”
“I live in a small town in Maine. You probably haven’t heard of it. It’s called Cabot Cove.”
“I’m familiar with Cabot Cove.”
“You are?”
“My wife and I have been looking at waterfront property in that area.”
“Really? We’d be neighbors.”
“Nothing definite,” he said.
His receptionist entered the room carrying a tray on which coffee cups, spoons, a small, delicate sugar bowl, and a carafe sat. She placed it on Leboeuf’s desk and, to my surprise, used a wooden tongue depressor to perfectly level the sugar in its bowl. I managed to suppress a smile; Leboeuf was obviously a man who liked things neat and precise.
His overall bearing was as carefully put together as the sugar in the bowl. He wasn’t tall—we looked each other eye to eye—but he had the type of frame on which his obviously expensive clothing draped nicely. I wouldn’t describe him as particularly handsome. He had a certain pugnacious look to him, his lips a little too large for his thin face and a nose that appeared to have been broken at one point in his life. What most struck me was that he carried himself the way self-assured, successful men usually do, on top of the world and not reticent to broadcast it.
Once our coffee was poured, he asked what sort of information I was looking for to use in my novel.
I explained the loose plot that I’d concocted and that I was hoping t
he research would help me further develop the story. I left out the details so as not to try Leboeuf’s patience, which seemed in short supply. He listened impassively, saying nothing but occasionally nodding.
“That’s it,” I said when I’d finished my capsule explanation of the book.
“I hope you’re not about to make me a murderer in this book,” he said, not smiling.
“I can promise you I won’t,” I said. “What I’m hoping you’ll do for me is take me backstage to give me the feel, the atmosphere, what goes on in a real restaurant.”
“Backstage at a restaurant isn’t a pretty place,” he said.
“Certainly hectic.”
“Have you ever been in a busy commercial kitchen?”
“A few times. I have friends who own restaurants.”
“Then why are you wasting my time? Why don’t you get the information you need from your friends?”
“I certainly could,” I said, wondering whether he was about to blow me off, “but since I’m in the city, Matt Miller encouraged me to see you. If you’d rather not talk today—”
He waved my comment away. “No,” he said. “I’ve already set aside the time. Besides, Matt’s a good agent.”
“One of the best.”
“You want to spend a day or two in one of my restaurants?”
“If that wouldn’t be too much trouble. I’d also like to gain some insight into the business end, how restaurants are financed, the relationship with suppliers, choosing the menu, the nitty-gritty of being a restaurateur.”
“I assume you’ll credit me in the finished book.”
His premature concern over credit brought me up short.
“Certainly,” I said. “I always acknowledge those who’ve helped with my research.”
“All right,” he said. “I’ll have the manager of my midtown restaurant show you around. I have a half hour before I’m due at a meeting. Fire your questions at me about what you call the nitty-gritty.”
That half hour extended into almost an hour. The chef seemed happy to talk about himself and his rise to fame, although he didn’t provide much factual information about running a restaurant. I would have to get those details from the manager of his midtown restaurant. When we said good-bye, I met up with Matt Miller for lunch.
“How did it go with Gérard?” Matt asked.
“Fine. I learned all about his career, but I’m not certain that I can use any of it in the novel. However, I have an appointment with one of his managers, and that should prove helpful.”
“What did you think of Leboeuf personally?”
“He was pleasant enough, certainly sure of himself.”
“That’s an understatement, Jessica.” Matt laughed. “His ego is the size of an aircraft carrier.”
“Well, I didn’t want to be so blunt. He may become a neighbor.”
“Oh?”
“He said that he and his wife are looking at waterfront property in Cabot Cove.”
Matt leaned back in his chair and gazed up at the ceiling. “I envy them that. I wouldn’t mind having a summer place in Cabot Cove.”
“We have more summer residents every year.”
“Maybe Gérard will open a restaurant there.”
“That would be interesting,” I said, and turned my attention to the menu.
* * *
Little did I know at that juncture that when the dust settled and Leboeuf’s murderer had been brought to justice, I would be sitting down, surrounded by piles of research materials, to finish the novel I had set aside two years earlier. Only this time the story would be about two competing chefs—and the title Murder Flambéed would become Killer in the Kitchen.
Part Two
Chapter Twelve
Sheriff Mort Metzger, the first law-enforcement official at the scene of Gérard Leboeuf’s murder, and his deputies were joined the following afternoon by investigators from the Major Crime Units (MCU) of the Attorney General’s Homicide Unit, who’d been dispatched overnight to Cabot Cove from Portland. At Jim Shevlin’s urging, Mort held an impromptu press conference in the council chambers at town hall. I found out about it from the mayor himself and decided to attend.
Not only had the state investigators responded quickly, but members of the press had, too. Contingents from Augusta and Portland were joined by reporters from Bangor, Boston, and New York, as well as a writer-photographer team from a leading restaurant-industry trade magazine. Evelyn Phillips was there, of course, as were a few employees of Leboeuf’s Cabot Cove restaurant. I looked for members of his family, but they weren’t present. I was also surprised to see Marcie Fowler seated at the rear of the room. I started in her direction, but she looked as though she wouldn’t welcome company; instead I chose a seat next to the reporter from the trade magazine.
“I sure don’t like having to get up here and talk to you today about what happened last night,” Mort said after he’d established quiet in the room, “but as you all know, one of our citizens—and a pretty famous one—died at the restaurant he’d just opened here in town.” He consulted notes in his hand. “The deceased’s name is Gérard Leboeuf, and he heads up—or I guess I should say headed up—a big restaurant chain in New York and other cities, including the new place he opened here, Leboeuf’s French Bistro. This is an ongoing investigation, so there’s not a lot I can tell you at this point about how he died, but I can say that we’re considering his death a homicide unless the investigation turns up something different. Our ME, Doc Whitson, is on his way back and will be doing an autopsy this evening. He will be assisted by Dr. Seth Hazlitt, who filled in for Doc Whitson last night when the body was discovered.”
“Where is Dr. Hazlitt now?” a reporter asked in a loud voice.
His intrusion flustered Mort for a moment. “He’s not here because Doc Whitson will be taking over.”
“But it was this Dr. Hazlitt who first saw the body,” the reporter pressed.
“Was he invited to be here?” another reporter asked.
“Doc Hazlitt has a busy private practice,” Mort said.
“Where can we reach him?” Mort was asked.
Jim Shevlin, who as mayor had opened the press conference and introduced Mort, said, “I’m sure that Dr. Hazlitt will be glad to speak with you at a later date.”
I wasn’t sure that the mayor was correct in that promise. Seth’s disdain for the media was well-known in town, often to Evelyn Phillips’s chagrin, and I wasn’t at all surprised that he wasn’t present at the press conference.
There were three other people standing with Mort and Jim at the front of the room: a handsome African-American man, a middle-aged woman with sharp features, and a young man wearing large horn-rimmed glasses who looked professorial. They were all immaculately dressed, and I suspected they were members of law enforcement. It’s a look I recognize, although don’t ask me to define what that is. It’s just there, on their faces and in their body language.
Mort confirmed my suspicion when he introduced them as detectives who’d come to Cabot Cove to aid in the investigation.
“We’re told that Mr. Leboeuf was stabbed to death,” a reporter said.
“I’m not at liberty to discuss method of death,” Mort said, “at least not yet.”
“Ah, come on, Sheriff. It’s all over town that he was found with a big kitchen knife sticking out of him.”
As he said it, I looked to where Marcie sat with her arms tightly wound about her, as though she were seeking to collapse herself into invisibility.
“What about the bad blood between Leboeuf and the other restaurant owner next door?” The reporter also consulted notes. “Fowler. His name’s Bradley Fowler, owner of the Fin and Claw.”
“I don’t know anything about bad blood,” Mort said. “Everyone who knew the victim will be interviewed in due course.”
As oth
er reporters called out questions in a noisy chorus, Marcie abandoned her seat and slipped out of the room.
“That’s all I have to say at the moment,” Mort said. “We’ll post a notice when the next press briefing will take place.”
There were disgruntled comments from the reporters about how useless the press conference had been. “He said nothing,” one growled to a colleague. “A waste of time,” said another.
“Have you talked to this Fowler guy?” someone asked.
“That’s what I intend to do next,” was the reply.
“I talked to one of the kitchen help an hour ago.”
“What’d he say?”
“Not much. He says that while he and others in the kitchen cleaned up at the end of the night, Leboeuf was still there,” he said, “having a drink at the bar with his wife and his manager, Chang. Why don’t you do some reporting of your own?”
“I’ve been working another angle. This guy Fowler’s mother died in his restaurant on his opening night. That famous murder-mystery writer Jessica Fletcher lives here and was close with Fowler and his mother. Anyone talk to her yet?”
“Not yet, but I have her number.”
One of the reporters turned to me. “Who are you representing?” she asked.
“Representing?” I replied, relieved that she hadn’t read my books and didn’t recognize me from my photo on the dust jackets. “No one. Just a curious citizen.” I left quickly, hoping no other reporter would connect my face to my name.
Outside town hall, I looked for Marcie but didn’t see her. I wanted to talk to Mort and Seth but knew it wasn’t the time to contact either of them. But then Mort suddenly came through the door accompanied by one of the investigators.
“Mrs. F., got a minute?” Mort said.
“Yes, of course.”
“Mrs. F., this is Detective Clifford Mason.”
We shook hands.
“Detective Mason would like a few words with you,” Mort said.
“Certainly.”
“Buy you a cup of coffee?” Mason asked in a deep, gravelly voice.
“That sounds appealing,” I said.