Eat, Drink and Be Buried (30 page)

“Overhere,” Delancey said to me, moving his hands toward the other, book-filled room. We went into the comparative quiet, leaving the technicians with the body.

“Whaddayerknowaboutthis?” It was going to take me a little while to get accustomed to this condensed speech, I could see that. The general drift of his question was obvious, though, so I was saved from having to ask him to repeat it.

I told him about Van Linn first, hoping that the name of a prominent New Orleans lawyer would weigh in on my side. Too late, I realized that Van Linn might well be a defense lawyer and persona non grata with a police force that had been thwarted by him countless times. I went on anyway, telling him about the book, the auction and the reason for my being here in Gambrinus' shop.

It did not sound too convincing to me—and I knew it was true. I could see why the expression on Lieutenant Delancey's face was turning into a frown that, if not outright doubt, was certainly heavy on skepticism.

“A book? Telling me thisisallaboutabook?” There it was again, skepticism in his voice as well as his look. At least I was able to detect a couple of breaks in the continuity of his speech.

“Not just a book, Lieutenant. It may be a fairly valuable book. There may be a great story in it—how the Belvedere family built a restaurant dynasty—”

“But stillabook.”

“Some of the recipes could be valuable. One of the recipes was for oysters Belvedere, which was the one dish more than any other that made the name of Belvedere famous.”

I was losing ground with him, I could see that—at least, losing ground as far as convincing him that the book was important. Getting him to accept the concept that a recipe could be worth money might be an uphill battle. On the other hand, as far as communication was concerned, I was making rapid progress in learning to understand the lieutenant's staccato approach to the English language.

“How valuable?”

“Hard to say. A thousand dollars, maybe, give or take a—”

“Murdersbeencommitted for less.”

Another couple of minutes and I would have broken the code.

“I suppose so.”

“Thiswomanwhowasthere, at the auction. Gethername?”

“No, I didn't.”

“But you thought she was coming here.”

I had it! Bletchley Park could not have been more elated the day they solved the Enigma puzzle. I was understanding every word without having to examine possible variants. The lieutenant and I were on the same wavelength!

“I thought she was. She got the name and address and she certainly left hurriedly.”

“Tell me about you.”

The lieutenant was not a native of New Orleans, that was plain. I would have guessed New York but that didn't matter at the moment. We were speaking the same language. A fleeting thought went across my mind that perhaps he was having as much trouble with my speech as I was with his, so I kept it simple, fairly slow and enunciated carefully. I probably sounded like a Cotswolds shopkeeper determined to sell a priceless antique to a Japanese tourist.

I handed him a card. Better get this over as quickly as possible. The session began as anticipated.

“‘The Gourmet Detective'! You're a detective?”

“No, I'm not a detective, I'm a food-finder …” I went through my whole explanation. “—Somebody gave me the nickname of ‘The Gourmet Detective' and it stuck. It's good for business but it causes problems when something like this happens.”

He seized on that like a hungry terrier on a meaty bone. “Things like this happen often, do they?”

“I wouldn't say ‘often,' but food and restaurant businesses turn over billions of dollars. That kind of money attracts criminals and even normally law-abiding people are tempted. Inevitably, some crimes are committed—thefts, substitutions and—”

“—And murders?”

“Well, yes, once in a while.” I thought it was time to give myself a plug. “I have been able to be of help to Scotland Yard on more than one occasion.”

“Is that right?”

“Yes. I have worked with Inspector Hemingway, among others.”

Delancey kept his light-blue eyes on me as he gave a slight nod. “You helped them.”

“Yes. They were cases involving food, and my job means I accumulate a lot of specialized knowledge. That's how I was able to be helpful. I also helped Inspector Gaines of the Unusual Crimes Unit in New York not long ago.”

“Is that right?”

He said it again and I was about to assume it was rhetorical when he said, “Hal Gaines?”

“Yes. You know him?”

“Worked with him once or twice. I was with the NYPD.”

So I was right. He was from New York, and if he knew Hal Gaines, that could clear me.

“If you talk to him—you know, when you're checking on me, give him my regards and tell him I hope the King's Balm is still working.”

“King's Balm?”

“It's a herbal remedy I recommended, cured his stomach problems.”

“Yeah, well, about this book …” He combed his fingers through his untidy hair. It did not improve it. “You're sure it's not here?”

I looked around the room, thousands of books on racks, on shelves, on tables, stacked here, piled there. “I haven't looked,” I admitted.

He gave me a rueful grin. “Guess not. Labor of Sisyphus, huh?”

That surprised me. He went on: “Give the sergeant a complete description of the book and where you're staying. Meantime, you can go.”

“I'll stay around a few days,” I volunteered. “Then you won't have to ask me not to leave town. I'm at the Monteleone.”

“Nice hotel.” He gave me a nod of dismissal. “I'll be in touch.”

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

copyright © 2001 by Peter King

cover design by Connie Gabbert

ISBN: 978-1-4532-7728-7 (ePub)

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