by Donald Bain
Evidently, the FBI had been looking for Compton, and I made a note to try to confirm how Special Agent Cale had learned of Compton’s new identity as Shulte. He’d come to the hospital the night of the attack and had already known the man’s assumed name. He’d said Detective Mason had called him. But how did he know Shulte was the man he was seeking? Could he have suspected the accountant would come looking for money? Learning his quarry was in the hospital had spurred the FBI special agent into action. How the FBI knew Compton’s assumed name was one of many unanswered questions, but Leboeuf’s former financial manager clearly was not skilled at maintaining an alternate identity. I had quickly picked up that Shulte wasn’t his real name.
I made a note on my lined yellow pad to find out when Compton had arrived in Cabot Cove. He claimed to have gone to the restaurant to find Eva Leboeuf and ask about the money owed him. But had he been in town earlier, early enough to have confronted Leboeuf himself and take action against him if his pleas fell on deaf ears? His hatred of the man was palpable, perhaps enough so to prompt such a drastic step.
That Eva had allowed the opening of the restaurant following her husband’s murder felt strange to me, but perhaps she felt that he would have wanted her to carry on in his absence. How people respond when someone near to them has died is often confusing, complying with a logic only the bereaved can explain—and sometimes can’t.
The Leboeuf neighbors, Ed and Elaine Filler, mentioned that the couple often fought. I had only encountered Eva socially a limited number of times, and truthfully, she’d never come across as a doting wife. The waiter Fritzi said that Leboeuf was known as a ladies’ man back in New York, and Fritzi was right: A husband with multiple affairs wasn’t destined to engender tender feelings in his spouse. However, few high-profile couples ever reveal the truth of their relationships in public, despite what the tabloids blare in their headlines. Eva ran a successful business that hinged on how beautiful she was. If I put myself in her place, I would have wanted people to comment on my products, not on my family. So it wasn’t surprising to me that she worked to keep her private life just that—private. As a result, I had no idea how she really felt about her husband’s death, much less about the fact that he’d been murdered.
It was also hard to eliminate their son, Wylie, from the equation. With a history of drug use and possibly violent behavior, he hadn’t demonstrated any ambition or goals of his own, presenting himself as the opposite of his hard-driving father. And I’d seen for myself the nature of the prickly relationship between father and son. Leboeuf was demanding—there was no doubt about that—and from what I’d seen of his son, Wylie seemed to be a disaffected young man with little interest in anything other than what was on the screen of his cell phone. Marcie claimed to have heard that the young man had struck his father the night of the murder, but if her “facts” came from the Cabot Cove rumor mill, they could hardly be relied upon as the truth. Someone working in Leboeuf’s kitchen telling someone working in Brad’s kitchen was not exactly firm evidence that such an assault had taken place. I would need to find someone who’d actually witnessed the two together before I believed such an aggressive encounter had taken place.
And speaking of those who worked in Leboeuf’s kitchen, who there might have had reason or incentive to silence the chef? Could any of them have taken exception to being browbeaten by the boss? Jake Trotter, the sous chef, who moved from the Fin & Claw to Leboeuf’s French Bistro, seemed to pick fights with everyone for whom he worked. I knew nothing about him except that he had a volcanic temper, and people with so much rage in them are capable of doing irrational things.
And what of Walter Chang, who’d been brought to Cabot Cove to manage the restaurant? According to Mort Metzger, Chang was the person who’d discovered Leboeuf’s lifeless body in the kitchen. What was the tenor of their relationship?
When I thought of the kitchen staff at Leboeuf’s, an image of the two young men dragging Compton from behind the restaurant blazed across my mental screen. Who were they? Were they connected to criminal elements? Compton indicated that they were. Maybe the two had taken out the famous chef, perhaps on instructions from a criminal organization that allegedly had financed him to begin with. But why would they want to eliminate the famous figurehead of Gérard Leboeuf’s restaurant empire, the cash cow that must have made continuous contributions to their coffers—unless the chef was cheating them, skimming off money right under their noses. Had Leboeuf sufficiently angered his “partners” for them to call for his execution?
Thinking about all of these potential suspects kept pushing me away from facing the possibility that the police might already be investigating the right man. Could it be Brad Fowler?
No matter how much I rail against authorities coming to hasty conclusions when investigating a murder, focusing on Brad could hardly be dismissed as a knee-jerk response. If I could weigh Jake’s volcanic temper and imagine that his rage might lead to violence, I could hardly make excuses for Brad’s anger at his competitor. Leboeuf opening his bistro next door to the Fin & Claw had threatened to destroy Brad and Marcie’s dream. The snide comments from Leboeuf and his party at opening night were not only crude and uncalled for, but they bordered on a challenge to Brad to defend what was near and dear to him. And then there was Leboeuf’s nasty comment to Isabel Fowler minutes before she suffered a fatal stroke. That could well have tipped Brad into a murderous mode when coupled with his well-known short fuse. Of everyone, he seemed to have the strongest motive, although I wanted desperately for Brad not to have been the murderer.
I’d known Isabel for many years. To suspect that her son and only child might be capable of such drastic action was unthinkable. Yet was it my sentimental attachment to his mother that made me willing to defend Brad, to believe that while he still had a lot of growing up to do, he was not the out-of-control teenager he had once been? If nothing else, Brad had matured into a man who loved his mother, adored his wife, and was willing to work long and hard to achieve a goal he’d held for many years. I prayed that that man had not betrayed the trust so many had invested in him to become a coldhearted killer.
Taking a break from the depressing work of analyzing motives for murder, I wandered outside and down the front path to the mailbox. Correspondence, whether paper or e-mail, could always be counted on to force me to abandon such thoughts in favor of catching up with friends, answering business queries, even dealing with household bills. Sorting through the envelopes I retrieved from my mailbox, I turned over a postcard with a cartoon drawing of a tooth on it. It was a notice from Ed Filler that I was due for a cleaning. Ed had said I would receive his reminder soon, and his postcard couldn’t have come at a better time. Back at my desk, I picked up the telephone. Ed’s wife, Elaine, answered my call.
“Hi, Elaine. It’s Jessica Fletcher.”
“Hello, Jessica. Ed ran out for a few minutes and I’m covering the phones for him. Need an appointment?”
“As a matter of fact, I do. I see I’m due for a cleaning.”
“Oh, good. You got my card. Let me check the appointment book for you. Ooh, he’s booked solid. Nothing open for a few weeks.”
“I was hoping to get there sooner.”
“Are you having problems with your tooth?”
“No. No. Ed fixed it perfectly.”
“It can’t be that you’re that eager for a cleaning.”
“Not exactly.”
“Oh, yes, the neighbors,” Elaine said. “Had a feeling you’d want to look in on them. I have an idea.”
“I’m listening.”
“Our niece Melinda is here visiting from California, just an overnight on her way to Boston. She’s about to have her first novel published, a YA I think she calls it.”
“Young adult, a popular category of books these days.”
“Melinda knows that we live in the same town as Jessica Fletcher and would love to meet you.”
“It’d be my pleasure.”
“Let me see. I think I can fit you in as the last patient, six o’clock. Ed’s hygienist is home sick, but Ed hasn’t lost his cleaning touch. Are you free this evening?”
“As a matter of fact, I am.”
“How about combining your cleaning with an impromptu cookout? Ed is a whiz at barbecuing ribs, almost as good as at putting in a crown. You can get your teeth cleaned by the man himself and enjoy good ribs with a heavenly barbecue sauce that Ed whipped up last night.”
“How could I possibly say no?” I said. “Clean teeth and first-rate barbecued ribs? Pencil me in. I’ll be there at six on the button.”
Until that call, I had planned a quiet night at home, a simple dinner, a good book, and early to bed. But two things had changed my mind.
First, I thoroughly enjoyed being with the Fillers, and I would be fulfilling my dental obligations. Second, the Fillers’ property was adjacent to the Leboeufs’ summer home. Some tasty ribs, good conversation, and a chance to see close-up what was going on with the neighbors next door—a win-win situation.
I’d no sooner hung up when the phone rang. I looked at the readout; it was Mort Metzger. I was certain that he was calling about my conversation with Compton earlier that day and was undoubtedly irate. I could envision Agent Cole chastising him about untrained deputies and poor police practices. I was tempted to not pick up and let the answering machine take the call, but I realized that would be cowardly on my part. Time to face the music.
“Hello, Mort,” I said cheerfully.
“Hello, Mrs. F.” He didn’t sound cheery at all.
“How are you today?” I asked, knowing his reply would match the tone of his greeting.
“I could be a lot better, Mrs. F.”
“Oh? A problem?”
“You know why I’m calling.”
“No, I don’t.”
But I did, of course. Word had obviously gotten back to him about my accompanying Seth to see Mr. Compton despite Mort’s deputy’s orders to keep everyone out except medical personnel and the authorities.
“I heard you went to see the man who got beaten up, the one you called in to nine-one-one.”
“I wanted to see how he was doing.”
“Doc Hazlitt could have told you how he was doing. There was no need for you to show up there in person.”
“I’m sorry if it has upset you, Mort.”
“I’m a bit more than upset, Mrs. F. You humiliated me in front of the FBI.”
“Oh, dear. I didn’t mean to do that.”
“Agent Cale reamed me out, and you better believe I did the same to my deputy. I was going to suspend Chip, but he swore he now understands the meaning of ‘no visitors.’”
“Please don’t be hard on Chip, Mort. He meant well, didn’t see anything wrong with allowing me to accompany Seth into the room.”
“He had his orders. Makes me and the department look like a bunch of clowns.”
“My apologies.”
“Made us look like third graders in the schoolyard, like tourists losing their way in Times Square.”
“I get the picture, Mort. I’m truly sorry to have embarrassed you.”
“Now that I’ve gotten that off my chest, Mrs. F., maybe you’d be good enough to tell me what Compton told you.”
“You know his real name.”
“Of course I do. Just because the FBI has him under wraps—or so they think—doesn’t mean that I shouldn’t be in the loop.”
“Of course not.”
“So?”
“So—what?”
“We have a deal, don’t we? I told you about the knife. Now you tell me about what Compton told you.”
“I’m sure that I learned nothing you haven’t heard from Special Agent Cale. Compton was once Gérard Leboeuf’s accountant, which meant he was privy to Leboeuf’s financial situation. Some of his financial dealings were evidently illegal, and Compton knew that being in possession of such information might put him in danger. That’s why he left New York and has been living under the assumed name Shulte.”
“Yeah, I know all that.”
“Well, then, you know what I know. What else are you asking me?”
“I want to know what else you found out, Mrs. F., because I’ve seen how you get people to open up, spill their inner thoughts, things they seem to ‘forget’ when they’re talking to law-enforcement professionals.”
“That’s very flattering, Mort.”
“That’s not why I’m saying it, Mrs. F. The FBI has its own agenda where Leboeuf is concerned, but I’ve got a murder to solve. Those two detectives from the state, Mason and Lucas, mean well, but all they’ve been doing is getting in my way. Let me ask you this. Do you think this guy Compton, or Shulte, or whatever name he uses, should be viewed a suspect in the murder?”
I paused before replying. “Isn’t it standard operating procedure that every person with a possible motive and access to the victim be included on the suspect list?”
“Sure. That’s right. But I’m trying to narrow down the field. Did Compton say anything to you and to the doc that would lead you to think he might be the killer?”
“He certainly wasn’t a fan of Gérard Leboeuf,” I said.
“But he worked for him.”
“That’s true, but he claims that Leboeuf owed him money. He went to the restaurant after it had closed to confront Mrs. Leboeuf about it.”
“When did he arrive in Cabot Cove?” Mort asked.
That was one of the questions I’d noted on my pad.
“He says he arrived the day after Leboeuf was killed, although I don’t know that for certain.”
“Maybe somebody saw him around town the day before,” Mort offered.
“That would certainly be helpful,” I said. “If I learn of anyone, you’ll be the first to know.”
“That’s the way it should be, Mrs. F.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” I said. “Oh, Mort, before you go. Please apologize to your deputy, Chip, for me. I didn’t mean to get him into trouble.”
“He needs to learn not to be manipulated, even by someone as charming as the famous J. B. Fletcher.”
“I didn’t—”
“You don’t have to worry about Chip. He’s not at the hospital anymore, but I’ve got him stationed out in front of the Leboeuf house to keep out the curious, especially those press people who are always trying to sneak in.”
“I’m sure he’ll do a great job,” I said, relieved that my actions hadn’t caused the young man any further reprimand.
During our conversation, I’d considered telling Mort that I’d be at the Fillers’ house that evening, hoping to see for myself what was going on at the Leboeuf residence. But chances were that I’d learn nothing along those lines and would be content with a teeth cleaning and a lovely evening with good friends.
Unless, of course, I got lucky and picked up on something that would be useful to Mort.
We’d see.
Chapter Eighteen
Mort Metzger’s deputy, Chip, was sitting in a marked sheriff’s department car in front of the Leboeuf residence when my cabdriver pulled up next door. I paid him, got out, and walked over to the young deputy. He saw me coming in his side-view mirror, jumped out, and said, “Hello, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Hello, Chip. I see that you’re on duty.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Keeping people from bothering the Leboeuf family?”
“Keeping away the press and the curious,” he answered. “That’s my orders.”
“I’m sure the Leboeuf family appreciates what you’re doing,” I said.
He swallowed audibly. “You wouldn’t be trying to get in to see them, would you, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“Oh, no. I’m goi
ng next door. I’m having dinner with the Fillers. I’m sorry for the trouble I caused you at the hospital, Chip. Sheriff Metzger told me he was not pleased.”
He grinned. “That’s okay, Mrs. Fletcher. The sheriff likes to blow off steam, but he gets over it pretty fast.”
“An admirable trait,” I said. “Have a nice evening.”
Ed Filler greeted me as I walked through the side door to his office, which is attached to the house. “Glad you could make it,” he said.
“I appreciate your fitting me into your schedule, Ed,” I said. “Besides, I’m looking forward to that special barbecue sauce I keep hearing about. I hope it won’t undo all the good work you’re about to undertake.”
“Nothing in it will stain your teeth, and I promise it will be the best barbecue sauce you ever ate.”
“Even if you say so yourself,” I said, smiling.
“Especially since I say so myself. Elaine says that I should bottle and sell it. Sounds like a great retirement business. But while I’m still working, Jessica, let’s get those pearly whites sparkling clean. Then we can fire up the grill.”
A half hour later we were seated on the Fillers’ patio, glasses of wine in hand, an outdoor fireplace warming the space, and the aroma from the heating grill whetting appetites. Their niece, Melinda, visiting from San Francisco, was a pretty, ebullient young woman whose excitement about having sold her first YA novel to a publisher was palpable.
“I’ve been working at a restaurant in the Bay Area,” she told me, “to pay the rent while I wrote my novel. A regular customer is an editor at a publishing house, a really nice guy. I told him about the novel and he asked to see it. Voila! He bought it. It’s being published in six months.”