Chef Maurice and the Bunny-Boiler Bake Off (Chef Maurice Cotswold Mysteries Book 3) (11 page)

“Was there anyone else?” said Arthur.

“I only heard about one other application. From Mr Bonvivant.”

“Eh?” Chef Maurice stopped in the process of inspecting the shelves in the back storeroom. “Bonvivant? That
imbécile
of a man, who calls himself a chef but spends more time looking in the mirror than at the plates he sends to his guests? What does he require this place for? He has already a cookery school at his restaurant. All made of glass, and with the ovens with too many buttons!”

“Didn’t I see you looking at a brochure after that last time we visited him?” said Arthur, which earned him a frosty glare.

“Miranda reckoned he didn’t want another cookery school setting up in this area,” explained Angie. “He said he was going to run it as an offshoot of his own school, but really, it’d just be to keep everyone else out of the market. There aren’t a lot of available sites in central Cowton, and the council’s ever so strict on having the right mix of shops and restaurants. Rory seems to spend half his time arguing with shop owners about what they can and can’t do with the properties. So if one of the other two gets the lease, there’s no chance of opening up another cookery school nearby.” She gave a sad little sigh.

“And Bonvivant, did he too make threats to Mademoiselle Miranda?”

“I didn’t hear about any,” replied Angie, to Chef Maurice’s disappointment.

“Ah, still, we cannot leave him from our investigation. It is in his interest that you and Mademoiselle Miranda did not continue this project.” He stooped down to retrieve a long-trampled flyer from the ground.

Cauliflowers and Cupcakes presents the Competent Chef Cookery Course! Cook like a pro in only ten weeks! Every Monday, 7-9pm.

“Bah! Ten weeks? Three months, it was, before Alf could make
un bon mousse au chocolat
! How dare they make these claims? It is no wonder that they closed!”

“I heard it was because the last owners won the lottery and moved to Barbados,” said Arthur.

“Humph!”

“You really think that the murder might have something to do with the cookery school?” said Angie, as they wandered back out through the main classroom.

“One must consider all the boulevards,” was Chef Maurice’s gnomic reply.

Angie left Arthur and Chef Maurice outside on the pavement, to run over to return the keys before she drove over to the Lady Eleanor School to teach her afternoon classes. She promised to quiz her mayoral husband later on the subject of any other competitors to her and Miranda in the bid for the cookery school site.

“And we’ve still got that suspicious appearance by Miranda’s ex-boyfriend to look into,” said Arthur, flipping through the notes he’d made at Miranda’s flat. “So what’s the plan now?”

Chef Maurice jabbed a thumb at the sign hanging above them, which depicted a green cartoon tree, its branches draped with spaghetti.

“We start with the suspect we find the nearest,” he said. “And also, it is now time for lunch. The solving of crime, it creates a big appetite, do you not think?”

Like that of many Italian restaurants of a certain age, The Spaghetti Tree’s decor was firmly mired in the Eighties, complete with plastic red-and-white-check tablecloths, rickety wooden chairs, and faded photos in black frames showing Signor Gallo pressing the flesh with various celebrities and dignitaries who, from the uncertain grins on their faces, most likely had no idea what they were doing in Cowton and would be hard-pressed now to locate the town, even with the help of a large-scale road map helpfully opened to ‘C’.

“Look, I know you’re keen to speak to Gallo about this whole cookery school business,” said Arthur, from somewhere behind a tall and somewhat sticky laminated menu, “but did we really have to eat here too? I’m not exactly the staff’s favourite person at the moment.”

“Ah,
oui
? The Spaghetti Tree did not survive well under your pen?”

The life of a restaurant critic was one spent doling out various measures of praise and censure—often in unequal amounts, as there was nothing the readers of the
England Observer
liked better than the good and thorough roasting of a highfalutin restaurant that had got a little too big for its boots and required Arthur’s rapier pen to deliver some much needed ego-deflation.

This also had the result of Arthur becoming a
persona non grata
in many dining rooms up and down the country, but this was not something that often caused him any bother, up until now.

“Hmm. I do recall comparing their mozzarella to eating a white bathing cap filled with old skimmed milk . . .”

“Ah. And?” Arthur’s reviews never went easy once he had descended for the kill.

“And I might have made some comment about the home-made meatballs tasting like something you’d find in a service station microwave meal.”

“Yet everyone says that the recipe was given to him by his dear old
nonna
.”

Arthur snorted. “Unlikely, for a man who was born Bob Higgins, and only changed his name to Roberto Gallo when he opened up this place. And that fake accent of his, it borders on the ridiculous!”

Chef Maurice had to agree, though personally he had always been rather impressed by the restaurateur’s dedication to his hastily adopted new culture. The man knew no half measures; every time he announced his
pasta arrabiata
, diners would wince and hide behind their menus to avoid the extraneous spittle.

“Still,
mon ami
, it is important that we speak with Monsieur Gallo. And it is not right to run in here shouting our questions. We must make an approach
diplomatique
.”

Their discussion was halted by a compact but well-rounded stomach floating into view at the side of the table. It was attached to Signor Gallo himself, dressed, as usual, like a down-on-his-luck opera singer.

“Welcome,
signori
, to The Spaghetti—” He stopped as he looked down and noticed Arthur for the first time. His mouth opened and closed soundlessly, while his face tried on a range of hues, from beetroot purple to white with hints of rage, until settling for an alarming shade of maroon.

“
Bonjour
, Monsieur Gallo,” said Chef Maurice. “You have met my friend, Monsieur Wordington-Smythe?”

Signor Gallo had now managed to force his features into a rictus of a smile. “Signor Wordington-Smythe, how kind of you to choose to dine with us
again
. I will be sure to let our head chef know.”

No mafia boss pronouncement could have sounded quite as chilling as that last particular statement.

“Oh, er, capital. Maurice, were you ready to order?”

Chef Maurice nodded, selecting the bruschetta with tomatoes and olive tapenade, followed by a mushroom-and-taleggio-cheese polenta, and put in a reservation for a portion of the allegedly ‘home-made’ tiramisu.

Arthur, with a fearful glance towards the kitchens, declared himself to be oddly full still from breakfast, and ordered a double espresso.

“You are sure,
signor
, that you are not hungry?” said Signor Gallo with a leer, as Arthur’s stomach gave a traitorous little rumble.

“Not at all, I assure you. Another time, perhaps.”

“Verrrry well. Then you will not be needing these.” With an oily smile, Signor Gallo snatched the breadsticks off the table and traipsed away towards the kitchen.

“Tch, now you have lost us our pre-starter,” grumbled Chef Maurice, who was partial to bread in any form.

“They taste like compressed sawdust, believe me.”

Thankfully for the nearby tables, whose main courses were now being subjected to some longing stares, Chef Maurice’s starter turned up not long after. Arthur stared at it in amazement.

The tomato was expertly diced into bright red little jewels, a far cry from the usual anaemic-looking specimens found in the British supermarkets. The tapenade glistened, the bread was toasted golden, and the whole dish was garnished with torn basil and what smelt like freshly pressed olive oil.

“You are sure you do not wish to order?” said Chef Maurice, tucking into his dish with gusto. “The ingredients, they are most pleasingly fresh.”

“He’s doing this on purpose.” Arthur threw a dark look at Signor Gallo, who was now charming a table of lunching ladies with tales from his ersatz Italian childhood. “I had that same dish when I came. It was nothing like that. He must have a secret stash of olive oil hidden out the back . . .”

Chef Maurice shrugged, and ordered a large glass of chilled Vermentino to accompany his meal.

Signor Gallo soon returned with the main dish, a generous portion of polenta, with the scent of tangy taleggio wafting up from the warmed plate.

“I thought Signor Wordington-Smythe might be now feeling hungry, so I asked my head chef to prepare him a special dish.” A silver-domed platter was placed before Arthur.

The dome was whisked away, to reveal a bulging white bathing cap.

“Hilarious,” muttered Arthur, while his stomach gave another little growl.

It was halfway through the superlative tiramisu—“I’ll bet you anything they popped out and bought it from the patisserie across the road”—when Chef Maurice decided it was time to broach the topic of Miranda Matthews with their good host, who was fussing around nearby, placing new baskets of breadsticks on all the tables around them.

“Is what I hear true, Monsieur Gallo, that you plan to open a cookery school in the shop next to here?”

“
Sì!
It has been an idea of mine and Maria’s for a long time. We will enlarge our space, and Maria will teach pasta-making classes for the children.” He waved a hand at Maria, née Mary, who ran the front of house and, unlike her husband, had been unwilling to surrender her native Yorkshire accent.

“But there is some competition, I understand, for the site?”

Signor Gallo gave him a suspicious look. “Where did you hear that?”

“We were speaking earlier to Madame Angie—”

“Ah, the mayor’s wife?
Sì.
I told Maria, the council should not have let that woman apply! A clear case of conflicting interests. But never mind,” he added, with a shrug, “without her business partner, she cannot continue now. I hear she has no money of her own.”

“Ah,
oui
? But Madame Angie has given hint that this may no longer be the case,” said Chef Maurice, who generally liked to stir things up.

But Signor Gallo would not be drawn. “Whatever the case, if that woman wins, I will make my protests to the council. Did you know, they made attempts to make me withdraw my case by threatening and harassing me?”

“Angie Gifford?” said Arthur. “Harassing you? I can hardly believe that.”

Chef Maurice agreed. It was easier to imagine a duckling, perhaps one in the throes of an identity crisis, taking down a fully grown swan than to picture Angela Gifford even mildly taking anyone to task.

“Ah, no, not that one. But the tall one, with the ridiculous big hair. Everywhere I go, she follows me! I take Maria out for dinner, and she is there. I go for my Pilates class, and she is there!” Signor Gallo ran a hand through his greasy black hair. “I thought at first she was trying to seduce me—”

Chef Maurice choked on a mouthful of tiramisu.

“—and so I tell her,
signorina
, I am sorry but I am a one-woman man. And yet, she continues. Sometimes she tries to hide away, but I still see her!”

“Did you contact the police, then?” asked Arthur.

Signor Gallo looked uncomfortable. “I did not wish to make a fuss. And now, there is no need. She brought her fate down onto her, with her wickedness,” he added, with some satisfaction.

“You were at the Fayre, perhaps,” said Chef Maurice, “when the finding of the body was made? I do not remember seeing you at that time.”

“No, I had returned here after my pasta-making demonstration to open up the restaurant. Maria, she stayed at the Fayre. She tells me two married women were taken by the police for questioning. The wives whose husbands were entrapped by the dangerous
signorina
, I am sure, and who therefore took their revenge.”

Satisfied with his solution to the crime, Signor Gallo left them to join in a rousing chorus of ‘
buon compleanno!
’, directed at a timid five-year-old wearing a party hat and a fearful expression.

“So what do you make of that?” said Arthur, leaning over the table. “Do you believe his alibi, about coming back here after his demo?”

“Hmm, it will be difficult to check. His staff, they will make lies for him, of course.”

“What about the customers?”

“Ah, that is true. We will ask questions around. But remember, his wife, Maria, she was also at the Fayre, and could have been the one to commit the crime. And he was fast to admit that without Madame Angie and Mademoiselle Miranda in the run, they have now a much greater chance to gain the cookery school site.”

“As does Bonvivant, don’t forget. Though I have to say, clobbering someone over the head with a drainpipe doesn’t really seem to fit his style.”

“
Oui
, that is true.” If Gustave Bonvivant was going to murder someone, one would expect it to involve a lot of well-tailored black and stiletto knives in the dark.