Chef Maurice and the Wrath of Grapes (Chef Maurice Culinary Mysteries Book 2) (23 page)

“Ariane? Oh no, she was as shocked as I was. Though I have to say, she got her head around it a lot quicker than I did. She’s already got it all earmarked—we’ve given the go-ahead on the purchase of the new fermentation tanks, and she’s going to speak to the builders about the new visitor centre when we get back.”

Bertie gave his head a little shake. He wore the bemused look of a man with a wife on a very serious spending spree.

“Will Madame Lafoute, her
grand-mère
, I mean to say, be in attendance at the dinner?” asked Chef Maurice, halting in his circuit of the room.

“I’m afraid not. She’s not so keen on flying nowadays, so we’re having a little film made instead, at the chateau itself. Ariane’s flown down there this morning with Chuck and his film crew.”

“Very obliging of him,” said Arthur, without thinking. Too late, he noticed the slight flush in the young man’s cheeks.

Dammit. Of course, Bertie already knew about his wife’s affair—Paloni had said as much. No doubt she had made various conciliatory gestures and promises in the aftermath—after all, surely not even Bertie would be as spineless as to let his wife go gallivanting off with a man she was
still
having an affair with—but even so, the topic was clearly a sore point. And no wonder.

“He did insist on being able to attend the dinner himself. A return for borrowing his film crew, though he didn’t say as much,” said Bertie. “A bit odd, I said, having another winery owner here, but Ariane had her heart set on capturing her grandmother on film.”

“Ah,
c’est terrible
,” said Chef Maurice, tutting. “To make such an imposition on you. These Americans . . . ” He laid an arm around Bertie’s shoulder. “But now that we speak of the guest list . . . ”

“You really are a shameless hussy,” said Arthur, as they climbed back into the car.

“Bah! There is no time for making politeness. There is a crime continuing, and I must be there to stop it.”

“Oh, come now, you’re not honestly expecting another murder at this dinner, are you? And what are you going to do, tackle the perpetrator with a fish knife?”

“Aha, I did not say the crime I speak of will be murder. There are, we know, many other crimes in this world . . . ”

Arthur gave up. Getting information out of Chef Maurice when he was in one of these moods was harder than turning water into wine.

“You could have at least got me an invite, too.”

“Ah, do not worry,
mon ami
. You are also in my plan. Do not think you will be left on the outside of the loop.”

“Oh, goody. Still, at least you’ve finally seen sense—a cool customer, our Bertie is. I do have to agree with Mrs Bates. Rather bad taste and all, having this party all so soon.”

“
Comment?
Ah, you still hold on to your idea that Monsieur Bertie is our murderer?”

“Is there any other alternative? He’s got the motive, he’s bound to have known about the passageway, and then there’s that handkerchief, to top it all off. He’s our man, all right.”

“
Non
,
non
, it cannot be. There are still too many questions. What is the purpose of the yellow stickers? Why does Monsieur Gilles disappear? And why this dinner, why now? When we know the answers to all this, only then,
mon ami
, we will have the answer to the murder of Sir William . . . ”

That night, Chef Maurice went to bed, a glass of cognac in his hand, his mind whirring.

It all came down to the money, of course, but that wasn’t the important part. It was the wine, he was sure of it. Gilles’s disappearance, the missing cellar book, even the fact that Sir William had been murdered in his very own wine cellar. Wine was the key to all this.

He remembered that night at Le Cochon Rouge. Sir William walking away, muttering: “
In vino veritas
. Hah, or so I thought . . . ”

Chef Maurice had kept hold of
The World’s Hundred Greatest Wines
for a little bedtime reading. As he flipped through the pages, his thoughts turned to the task ahead. He was almost certain he now knew who the murderer was. But almost certain wasn’t nearly good enough. And then there was the little matter of proof . . .

He reached over to top up his glass and found his bedside decanter empty. With a sigh, he threw back the warm covers and wriggled his feet into the thick woollen socks Dorothy had knitted for him last Christmas. They were made of thick black wool, with grey toes, just like his usual steel-capped boots—though the effect was rather marred by the fluffy pompoms Dorothy had sewn on around the cuff.

In the kitchens, the smell of gently simmering mulled wine drifted about in the dark. But, to his surprise, the room was not in complete blackness. There was a faint light, spreading out from beneath the cellar door.

Either Patrick, who had seemed oddly distracted of late, had forgotten to turn the lights off, or else . . .

Chef Maurice tiptoed over to the pastry section and felt around for the largest rolling pin. Then, woollen socks muffling his footsteps, he eased open the cellar door and peered inside.

A blond crew-cut head was bent over the wine racks. Not just any wine racks, but the section belonging to the late Sir William.

“Hands up, or I shall call the police! And lock you in this cellar, without any wine glasses,” added Chef Maurice, in his most menacing tones.

The man stood up slowly, hands on head. “Now, sir, I can explain,” he said, in clipped East Coast tones. “This isn’t what it looks like.”

Chef Maurice waved the rolling pin. “
Non
, in fact, I am hoping that this is exactly what it looks like. Because if you are who I think you are,
monsieur
, then I require your help in the trapping of a murderer.”

“And who do you think I am, sir?”

Chef Maurice told him.

It was the evening of the grand wine tasting. Sunday church bells rang faintly in the distance. At the Bourne Hall front door, the chime of the doorbell was answered by a tall gentleman in a black tailcoat.

“Good evening, madam. Do come inside. May I take your coat?”

Miss Janet Fetters, acclaimed critic for the
International Journal of Wines and Spirits
, peered over her glasses at the butler.

“Arthur, is that you, under that . . . 
thing
?” She waved a hand at his face.

The butler grimaced and tugged off the fake moustache.

“You don’t think it suits me?”

“It looked like it was savaging you.”

“I see. Opinion duly noted.”

Arthur stuffed the offending face piece into his pocket and led the new guest through to the main drawing room, where a Champagne-fuelled reception was well underway.

Ariane, resplendent in a glittering black dress that clung to her figure for dear life, was flitting around the small crowd, dispensing kisses and effusive thanks for the guests’ having travelled all this distance to be here. Lady Margaret sat on the long sofa, watching disapprovingly as yet another bottle of Champagne was popped—something she no doubt viewed as the flagrant squandering of Timothy’s rightful inheritance.

Resnick was standing by the fire in the middle of a coterie of his fellow wine writers, which included the colossal form of Bob Barker, America’s foremost wine critic. A perfect score of 314 from him could send a wine rocketing off the shelves all around the globe, and ‘Barkering a wine’ had become a common catchphrase for setting out to create the light, fresh, high-acidity wines so favoured by Barker himself.

Bertie Lafoute stood off to one side, an untouched glass in his hand, watching the milling guests with an odd, almost calculating stare. It was momentary, though, and his usual expression of bemused good-naturedness returned as he spotted Arthur and hurried over.

“Everything going all right?”

“Very good, sir,” replied Arthur, endeavouring to play the part, even if he was
sans
moustache.

“Good, good. Honestly, I can’t say how grateful we are for your stepping in like this, makes the whole thing run so much smoother, and Mrs Bates already had so much on her plate.” He looked down at his watch. “I think everyone’s here now. Maybe you could send in the rest of the canapés, then we’ll move through to the dining room after?”

“Certainly, sir,” said Arthur, and glided away towards the kitchen.

He found Mrs Bates loading up the final trays with little jewel-like creations—duck pâté with cranberries on slivers of melba toast, delicate goat’s-cheese-and-honey crostini, and of course, the little Yorkshire puddings so beloved by Sir William.

The hired waitstaff had failed to materialise, citing bad weather and a faulty minivan, so Alf had been hastily transferred from commis chef duty to front-of-house, courtesy of one of Gilles’s old suits. He now hovered nearby, itching at the collar of the ill-fitting white shirt, complete with a slightly lopsided bow tie.

“Off you go now,” said Mrs Bates, pushing a finished tray towards him.

“Dorothy makes this look so easy,” muttered Alf, his knees buckling as he heaved the tray onto one shoulder and weaved his way out of the kitchen with only minor damage to the doorframe.

Chef Maurice, in a black dinner jacket and burgundy-coloured velvet bow tie, was dozing in the armchair beside the stove.

Arthur prodded him with his foot. “Late night yesterday?”

Chef Maurice opened one eye and looked up at his friend. “Ah, that is much better. The moustache, it did not become you,
mon ami
. I trust you have not lost it?”

Arthur patted his pocket. It had been Chef Maurice’s idea, after listening to Arthur’s concerns of being recognised, for his friend to borrow the disguise. Though why a man who already had such a monstrous one of his own should own a fake moustache was beyond Arthur’s comprehension.

“Did you know Lady Margaret would be here? I thought she doesn’t even like wine—she only ever came to these things to butter Sir William up. And that didn’t exactly work out.”

“Perhaps she now chooses to make her appeal to Monsieur Bertie himself. He tells me that she, also, had made her own invitation. See,
mon ami
, to do such things is not unusual, even for the English.”

Only if they’re crotchety old ladies with an eye on a hefty inheritance, thought Arthur. Though the chance of Lady Margaret guilt-tripping Bertie into handing over some of Sir William’s fortune was unlikely, what with Ariane’s winery-expansion plans.

There was a commotion out in the hallway, then Paloni appeared in black-tie, flanked by a cameraman and soundman.

“Just getting some footage of the preparations,” he said, eyeing up the kitchen from between two squared hands. “Now, Arthur, if I could get you to step aside, and Mrs Bates, try to look busy . . . ”

“I
am
busy,” muttered Mrs Bates through gritted teeth, as she piped cream cheese into the smoked trout parcels.

“Fantastic! Very atmospheric. Come on, boys, let’s go get some shots of the big gallery upstairs . . . ”

Paloni and his crew trooped off again, leaving the kitchen in relative peace.

“That man should be ashamed of himself,” said Mrs Bates, moving on to the next tray. “Do you know what he was up to earlier? He had some actor man all dressed up like Sir William, wandering all about the garden! Said he wanted to capture the history of Bourne Hall. Well, I think it’s completely tasteless. Had no thought at all for my feelings. Gave me such a turn, like seeing a ghost, it was. He looked ever so like him, especially when he turned his head just so.”