Wicked Autumn (19 page)

Noah gave him a wry grin. “I’m not sure why. Perhaps I’m just going on the principle that you’d find out anyway. It made the 11:00 a.m. news at the Cavalier some time ago.”

“Or perhaps you are a naturally honest individual.”

Noah smiled modestly and, with a wave of the sandwich, acknowledged the compliment. “Perhaps.”

“How did you find out that something was suspect about the chairs?”

Noah grimaced at the memory. “I had a friend visiting—a man also in the antiques trade. He looked it over and saw the fraud.”

“When was this?”

“Last week.”

“At the Fayre?”

Noah nodded. “Just before.”

“And you confronted Wanda.”

“Well, no, you put it like that. I, well, I…”

“You confronted her.”

“Yes. All right, yes. I ‘confronted’ the old horse trader. She told me she’d sold me what she thought were two genuine chairs, and she still thought they were genuine. But I didn’t really believe her, you know. First she swore the chairs were genuine, then in the next breath she did a big song and dance disclaiming all responsibility if they weren’t genuine.”

“So, ‘Let the buyer beware’ was her attitude.”

“Yes, that’s it exactly,” said Noah, the expression on his face now positively sour. “No apology, no hint of putting things right with me, or attempting to verify what my friend said was true. ‘I’ll go to my grave believing the chairs my mother left me were real’—she actually said that.” He gave Max a look of horrified understanding of the import of those words.

“And that’s what she did, not long afterwards,” Noah said bleakly. “Wanda went to her grave.”

CHAPTER 19

What’s Cooking

The wind had kicked up and Max, on leaving Abbot’s Lodge, found himself in a changed world of scudding clouds and overcast skies. Leaving the safety of Noah’s house, a home surely graced by long centuries of prayer, he seemed to have stepped into an enchanted but sinister parallel world that Awena might have recognized.

He pondered what next to do. Noah’s revelations certainly cast new light on Wanda’s character, but didn’t they similarly cast a light on Noah’s motivations? Still—would a guilty man have admitted what transpired over those antique chairs? While the Major might have mentioned it to Max or to any of the other villagers, in actuality the chances of Max’s ever hearing of the dodgy transaction were slim. Maybe it was in the nature of a double-blind—a “full” confession on Noah’s part to mask his deeper involvement in Wanda’s death.

Max hadn’t told Noah he was talking to him partly at the instigation of DCI Cotton—of course he hadn’t. How Max chafed now at the subterfuge, even knowing it was in the cause of truth, of finding Wanda’s killer. But something in him jibbed, even at that sound and logical excuse. Wasn’t that the reason always given him for the lies and deceits of his MI5 days? But then, he’d had to go on whatever was told him about the justice of a given cause. This, he knew for himself: the worm that had insinuated itself into the goodness that was Nether Monkslip had to be destroyed.

As he walked in the waning hours of daylight, head down into the wind, his steps took him toward the High Street, and he found himself standing in front of the Cavalier Tea Room. He had half intended to go in, but at the sight of the avid faces peering at him from the window, he had a sudden change of heart. After pretending fascination for a few moments with what the nearby newsagent’s window had to offer, he set off in the direction of his old Land Rover. He would go into Monkslip-super-Mare for an evening meal near the harbor, first stopping for a word with the priest at St. Alban’s on some minor but long-neglected church business.

And he knew exactly who else he wanted to see while he was in town. Perhaps just an appetizer course wouldn’t break the budget.

*   *   *

At French Revolution, Guy Nicholls popped his head out the swinging kitchen door long enough to say, “Just a sec and I’ll be with you” before popping back in again. Max had only time to note that his hair stood out in its usual artless tufts—the kind of coiffure that sold for seventy pounds sterling in London, but might today simply be the result of harried preparations for the evening trade. The door, as it swung closed behind Guy, pushed out the heavenly scent of just-baked bread mixed with the slow sizzle of garlic in olive oil.

Max picked up a menu he’d taken from the reception stand and perused it idly as he waited. The descriptions of the offerings just escaped the sanctimony of most trendy new restaurants: even the humble coley had a place on the menu. His eye caught on the lobster risotto starter flavored with basil and orange, the main-course turbot with tartar sauce and peas, and the honey-and-whiskey parfait to finish—although the chocolate mousse with black cherries ran a close second. He heaved a wistful sigh, even though tea at Noah’s amounted to a full meal of Edwardian proportions. Everything sounded delicious, even the standard warnings about allergies and consuming raw food at the bottom of the page. If the food was as good as it sounded, French Revolution was in for a good run. Perhaps he’d find a special occasion to dine here one day.

Guy eventually emerged from the kitchen, wearing black-and-white checkered chef’s pants and a white cotton chef’s jacket, meticulously starched and ironed. Well-muscled and athletic, he moved with a lithe, nimble grace, weaving his way in and out between the closely spaced tables while managing to balance a heavy tray over his head. If he sampled too much of his own wares, as chefs were said to do, Guy was evidently at pains also to work off the calories.

“I thought you might want something while you waited. I’ll be right with you.” With that, Guy placed a glass of white wine before him, and a small plate of the lobster risotto described on that night’s menu. Max could hardly believe his luck—how did the man know?

Max watched as Guy served a lone middle-aged couple in the far corner. Apparently being the chef/owner also involved pitching in to help wherever needed. Max reflected that he had come across many men like Guy in his career—in tight situations, they were often the most useful of men, because of their intelligence. They were natural leaders, as those around them sensed that all risks taken would be carefully calibrated to enhance everyone’s chances of survival. Liking had nothing to do with it, really, although Guy struck him as a highly personable and attractive man, with his choppy hair, his craggy mien, and his earrings lending him the touch of a Renaissance man. He returned carrying two cups of coffee as Max was polishing off the risotto, which was perfection. He set the cups on the table and, pulling out a chair, said, “I’m afraid I may have to run out on you if we get busy. Midweek is usually slow, though.” He signaled to a passing waiter: “
Crème et le sucre
—cream and sugar, please.”

Settling in and turning to face Max, he said, “What a rum business, this thing with Wanda. I assume that’s why you’re here—word is getting around that you’ve been talking with people about it, sort of officially-slash-unofficially on behalf of the police—or so the villagers think. You know how they gossip. The world really is going to hell, isn’t it?”

While it wasn’t clear if Guy were saying the police must be desperate to call on a priest for investigative services, Max assumed he meant that Wanda’s murder, taken in the context of a depressingly high national crime rate, was generally deplorable.

He merely said, “I certainly hope not. That would make my job a lost cause before it started.”

Guy looked puzzled for a moment, then laughed.

“Right. We’re
not
going to hell with men like you at the wheel.”

They were interrupted by the waiter bringing the coffee accoutrements. Max looked around. The restaurant, while publike in appearance, seemed to be a conversion of a large private dwelling. Max placed its origins somewhere in the seventeenth century. It now was spartanly modern in decor, but with whitewashed walls beneath beamed ceilings, crisp white tablecloths, and late summer flowers on each table, it exuded a low-lighted coziness that would encourage customers to dwell over several courses with wine. A gray cat slumbered on the hearth, so unmoving that Max at first thought it was merely ornamental until it turned, stretching out one unsheathed paw.

“Things are going well with the restaurant, you say?”

Guy nodded. “Better than I could have hoped. I’m trying something different here—a return to basics, really. I wasn’t sure it would fly. But I knew in this economy, fancy restaurants were failing left and right.”

“It must make a change from Paris.”

“Hmm.” A nearby waiter, apparently unused to juggling heavy trays, had caught his eye; Guy watched until he was safely inside the swinging door into the kitchen. “I bought the place from old man Gardner, who was retiring,” he said, returning his attention to Max. “He’d done the work, long ago, of converting the kitchen area and installing the equipment. That’s usually the worst part of a conversion, anyway. It was the menu and the seating areas that I had to build from scratch. I was a pâtissier in my former life, but I got fed up with the whole Michelin-starred restaurant scene. Far too much pressure there, to keep chasing after the brass ring that is always
that
much out of reach.” He held up thumb and finger, an inch apart, to demonstrate. Another burnout case like me, thought Max. But in a different way from me. At least, he didn’t imagine people were killed when a soufflé fell, although he had heard of people taking their own lives over a Michelin star.

“I saved up enough to travel around, and regain my sanity,” Guy was saying. He offered the cream and sugar to Max, who refused, then he flavored his own coffee with minute servings of each. “I spent some time in Mumbai and a few other places, but then I returned to Europe. This time I worked at a
cave
à
manger
—a wine bar. The new generation wants something more casual—basic wholesome food, less expensive. The recession changed everything, but this trend started even before.” Guy warmed to his theme. “Before we had God-knows-what style. I mean, fuck fusion cooking. Oh, excuse me, Father … um, Reverend. I meant no disrespect. Anyway, food has all these fads, you see, and once everyone is through running around experimenting and being arty-farty—sorry—what you are left with is a populace desperate for a nicely cooked rare steak with two veg. That’s what I aim to provide, only better than anything anyone in Monkslip-super-Mare has ever tasted. You’ll see if we haven’t driven Jeanne d’Arc out of business by the end of next year.”

Max noted for the first time the rings of exhaustion under the other man’s eyes.

“It’s hard work, I know, the restaurant life. That’s why I always overtip,” Max told him. It was true. He always emptied his wallet over waiters, especially young people, because he was so thrilled to see them employed, regardless of the service, so long as it wasn’t rude service.

Guy smiled. “That plate was on the house, no worries. Tell your friends, though. Actually, a mention from the pulpit wouldn’t hurt.”

That earned him a small chuckle. Max, turning the conversation, asked, “Did you notice Wanda in particular during the Fayre that morning?”

Guy laughed, and Max was struck anew by his youthful handsomeness. He had to be over forty, but the force of life was strong in him, taking years away, even with the fine etching of wrinkles and those dark circles beginning to appear under his eyes. Here was a man fully engaged in his world.

“Notice her? Well, no more than you did, I dare say. Doing the ‘Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy’ she was not. I don’t think Wanda had quiet days, like most folk. I hid in the marquee all morning, surrounded by a wall of people, and didn’t emerge until I ran into you on your way to the Village Hall.”

“Did she look happy to you?”

“I guess so. Happy, for her.”

Max considered this slowly.

Just then an attractive blond waitress walked by. Not too subtly, Guy gave her a wink, then followed her surging, hip-swaying progress with his eyes. The incident seemed to prompt his next remark.

“Damned attractive woman, that Suzanna Winship. She’s got her sights set on you, my good man—or didn’t you notice?”

Max shot him a warning grimace and changed the subject.

“I wanted to ask if you remembered anything that struck you as unusual, that day we found Wanda—now that you’ve had some time to think about it.”

Guy laughed at Max’s expression. “If you are really not interested, would you mind…?”

“If you asked Suzanna out? Of course not.”

“Brilliant. Now, about Wanda that day. I’ve thought about it quite a lot, and I’ve come up with nothing that seemed—I don’t know, that suggested she was headed for disaster. Do you have any theories?”

“None,” said Max flatly.

“I was knocked for six when we found her,” said Guy. “Just unbelievable, isn’t it?”

“That seems to be the general reaction. But we’ll have to start believing it if the killer is going to be caught.”

Guy shook his head. “One minute she’s after me to do a presentation for the Women’s Institute—‘One Hundred Ways with Zucchini,’ you know the kind of thing. Or to cater a meal for her—of course, she wanted my services practically for free. And then, the next minute it seems, she’s gone. It really makes you think, doesn’t it?”

“That was your only extended contact with her?”

“Just about. Of course, I got dragged into donating to the Fayre. No one was immune. But it was for charity, so no one really complained. Not really.”

Max said, “Wanda came into Monkslip-super-Mare periodically—for one thing, she used the hairdresser here in town rather than the one in the village, according to her husband. Did she ever stop in here, perhaps for lunch?”

“Never. Not that I’m aware, and I’m here most days. I live above the shop, as it were. For now, until I have time to buy my own place. Then I’ll expand the restaurant into the upstairs rooms, when the timing’s right. Anyway, I’ll ask the staff to be sure—they’d remember her if she’d ever come here.”

“Wanda did have that effect.”