Chef Maurice and the Wrath of Grapes (Chef Maurice Culinary Mysteries Book 2) (17 page)

Chef Maurice ignored him. “There are many in this room who knew Sir William well. And also a possible suspect.” He nodded towards the dais, where Resnick was fussing about with his notes in preparation for his key role.

From over the other side of the room, Mr Mingleberry waved his paddle at Arthur and Chef Maurice and hopscotched his way through the crowd to meet them.

“Twice in one day, our stars must be aligning!”

“Our pleasure, Monsieur Mingleberry. You come to place a bid?”

“What? Oh no, I just come along to these things for the nibbles and a good old natter. It’s a good chance to meet face-to-face with my clients— Ah, speak of the devil, here’s one coming by just now.” Mr Mingleberry used his cane to hook the elbow of a large rotund gentleman in a pinstriped suit.

“Mr Norton, I didn’t know you were in town! Come, let me introduce you to Mr Wordington-Smythe and Mr Manchot. Arthur, Maurice, this is Mr Frank Norton, owner of the Terra Brava Vineyards in Oakville, Napa Valley.”

They shook hands.

“We happened to meet one of your fellow countrymen and winery owners the other day,” said Arthur. “I suppose you’re well acquainted with Chuck Paloni, given that you’re both out in Napa?”

Mr Norton’s pug-like features descended into a scowl. “Can’t say I like his type much. Bunch of johnny-come-latelies, if you ask me.”

“The Norton family have been winemakers in Napa since before the Prohibition,” explained Mr Mingleberry. “They have, ahem, views on the latest spate of celebrity-owned wineries.”

“We’ll run them out of town soon enough,” said Mr Norton, with some satisfaction. “Not that we need to, in that Paloni’s case. I heard Basking Buffalo’s not exactly rolling in funds at the moment. Investor troubles. Typical. Hype dies down and then what’ve you got left? Some actor playing winemaker, mismanaging the place left, right and centre, and a fancy label. That’s all.”

With a nod, Mr Norton resumed his travels through the crowd, tipping his hat and exchanging ribald jokes with various acquaintances.

Chef Maurice watched the large American depart. “Why do the winemakers attend the auctions? Surely they have no need for more wine?”

“Actually, you’ll find they rather do,” said Mr Mingleberry. “You’ll be surprised how often wineries, even the well-known ones, have to come to auction to buy back their older vintages, especially from the lesser years. Harder to find, you see? All this collecting business has only been going on for a short while. Back in the day, wineries used to simply sell off all the bottles they could. There was none of this keeping back of stock that happens nowadays.”

Mr Mingleberry tipped his hat and hurried off to politely accost another of his long-time customers, leaving Arthur in the grasps of a dowager-duchess-style lady who was, apparently, a great fan of Arthur’s restaurant column, and was not going to let him go until she got an invitation to accompany him on a review one day soon.

“I’m, uh, flattered, but I’ll have to check dates with my editor,” said Arthur, looking around desperately for backup, but Chef Maurice had drifted off in search of the source of the canapés.

Eventually, Arthur located his friend at the back of the room, standing by a set of swinging doors, ready to pounce as the waiters emerged with fully laden trays.

“Come on, old chap. We better get seats if we want a good view.”

A good view in this case was near the back of the room, where they would be able to watch the rise and fall of paddles and the fortunes that went with them.

They shuffled down the row until they found two seats next to a well-dressed silver-haired lady, with the kind of sharp angular features that called to mind a broody eagle.

“So what’s your poison?” she said, looking pointedly at the brochure in Arthur’s lap.

“Oh, we’re just here to observe. First time at auction and all that, don’t want to get carried away.”

She looked him up and down, then nodded. “You’ll have to do. Right, this is how it goes. If you see me bidding over fifty for the magnum of ’61 Latour, that’s Lot 212”—she held open her brochure—“you’re to break my arm, understand? Harold will have a complete fit if he finds me spending any more on wine this month.”

“Fifty . . . ?”

“Thousand, of course.” She peered around Arthur at Chef Maurice, who was working his way through a bulging napkin of smoked trout blinis. “Maybe I should ask your friend here instead. He looks more like the arm-breaking type.”

“Madam, I assure you I am more than capable in the destruction-of-limbs department, should the need arise,” said Arthur, who felt his manliness was being impugned. “Though, if I might suggest that my first course of action would be to relieve you of your paddle, rather than anything more . . . irreversible?”

“Oh, very well, if you must. And, please, call me Eugenia.”

A jigsaw puzzle of memory went
click
in Arthur’s mind. This was Lady Eugenia, wife of Lord Harold Mansfield, peer of the realm whose father had made his fortune in the manufacturing of instant stock cubes.

She gazed down at the brochure and ran a bejewelled finger over the glossy page. “Such impeccable provenance. Straight from the Vandergriff collection, who’ve had it since the ’40s. None of this ‘source unknown’ nonsense. Don’t drink anything if you don’t know where it’s been, that’s my motto. In fact, only last month, Lord Holland—a dear fellow, known him for years—served us up this bottle of ’59 Palmer he said he bought off a friend of his wife’s cousin’s father, some fellow with a long German name—fishy story, I said right away to Harold—and what a horror it was, pure
vinegar
, though of course everyone was too polite to say anything to the poor man. Well, I had a look at the bottle afterwards, and what do you know, it was an utter
fake
. They’d even spelt ‘Palmer’ wrong! That’s what comes, I said to Harold, of not buying your wines through the
proper
avenues.”

She paused to take a deep breath, while Arthur blinked, head spinning from the verbal onslaught.

“Yes,” Lady Eugenia continued, tapping the brochure again, “this will slot very nicely into my collection. For the right price, of course.” She tapped Arthur’s arm with her paddle. “Nothing over fifty, remember?”

“Madam, you have my word.”

“You make a collection of magnums,
madame
?” said Chef Maurice, leaning over Arthur. “We have a friend, the late Sir William, who also made a fine collection.”

“Oh, yes, of course I know about William’s collection. He outbid me on quite a few occasions, though he was ever so gallant about it. Now there was a man who knew how to raise a most apologetic paddle when he knew I was beaten. And he’d send me flowers to commiserate. God rest his soul. The nerve of some burglars nowadays! That’s why I keep my cellar key down at the bank, and I make sure to tell all and sundry. I tell them, even
I
can’t get at my wines without giving Mr Barclays a call.”

Lady Eugenia sighed. “Such a dashing man. And such a shame he never married.” She gave the pair an arch look. “Not that I didn’t try to stake my claim, back in the days before I met Harold. But William was simply hung up on Annabel Marchmont back then, and then she went and made a complete hash of the thing. Married the wrong man, everybody always said. It should have been William. But in those days, what could you do? He never got over it, if you ask me.”

Chef Maurice looked over at Arthur and mouthed, ‘A for Annabel?’

“Was Sir William still in acquaintance with this Madame Marchmont?” asked Chef Maurice.

“Oh, no. She died in a road accident—awfully tragic—why, almost ten years ago. Right, hush now, I think we’re starting . . . ”

The auction proceeded at a steady rhythm, Resnick leading the room like a seasoned circus ringmaster. International collectors rang in their bids, men in dark suits and darker glasses with wires in their ears raised paddles on behalf of their mystery employers, and new records were set for the prices of certain rare old bottles.

The magnum of ’61 Latour went for sixty thousand pounds.

“You tried your best, dear,” said Lady Eugenia, patting Arthur on the arm. He was massaging a spot on his temple, where the paddle had hit him repeatedly as he’d tried, in the most gentlemanly of manners, to wrestle it out of Lady Eugenia’s iron grip when the bidding hit over fifty-five thousand pounds.

“You have my profuse apologies for not succeeding in my duty,” said Arthur.

“Nonsense! Sixty was a bargain for that bottle. Even Harold will see that. Now, I’ve just seen Lady Harwick, I really must go say hello . . . ”

Arthur watched her shuffle away down the aisle, still rubbing his forehead.

“Do not worry,
mon ami
,” said Chef Maurice. “We have another auction to attend.”

“We do? I thought you were just saying that to annoy Resnick.”

“
Non
,
non
, it is real. But you will not be required to stop any bidding. Because, at this one, I intend to win!”

Patrick sat at the long kitchen bench. He was waiting for a batch of puff pastry to chill, while keeping an eye on the spinach-and-feta quiches in the oven, plus making sure Alf didn’t lose a finger while boning out a tray of quails. Given this relative lull in activity, it seemed the perfect time to indulge in a little online shopping, in preparation for what he was dubbing The Lucy Project.

“What do you think about this coat?”

Dorothy, who was ironing a stack of starched napkins, looked over. “Oooo, that’s a nice one. Reminds me of the one my granddaddy had. He used to practically live in it. Hid the tea stains like nobody’s business, it did, and it took three of us together to get him out of the thing to send it to the cleaners.”

“Right.” Patrick clicked onwards. “How about this one?”

“Ooo, that’s a nice one, too.”

“If you’re a flasher,” said Alf, wandering past.

“You know,” said Dorothy, tipping her head to one side, “I think you may be right.”

Click.

“Nah, mate, only plonkers wear coats like that. And it’s
purple
.”

Click.

“Now
that’s
a fancy coat, luv. Always thought frills would look good on you.”

Patrick turned to face his two co-workers.

“Are you trying to help me or not?” he demanded.

Alf, smirking, returned to his quail station.

“We are trying to help, luv,” said Dorothy, smoothing out another napkin. “But do you really think that stalking the poor girl is the right way to go about things?”

“I’m not going to stalk her. I’m just happening to turn up in the same place at the same time. I want to get a good look at this other guy.”

He didn’t dare mention the other part of his plan. He had a feeling that Dorothy would not approve, and Alf would tell him he was just being a plonker.

It was this part of the plan that necessitated a new wardrobe.

In a way, being a chef was a little like being in the army; you had a strictly dictated uniform, you didn’t get much of a social life, and there were always men with dangerously sharp objects in your vicinity. It also meant you didn’t develop much in the way of outside-of-work wear, seeing as most of your waking hours were spent in chefs’ whites.

Eventually, he selected a grey-brown wool blend coat, classically cut, with a dash of the debonair—or at least that was what he hoped.

It occurred to him he wasn’t thinking in an entirely rational manner. But everyone said that love was irrational. Therefore, thinking irrationally meant that this was love.

QED.

Heartened by this thought, he hovered over the ‘buy’ button.

Click
.

“I suppose congratulations are in order,” said Arthur, as they joined the crowds spilling out of the Smithfield Annual Turkey and Goose Auction.

Chef Maurice, who was pushing a large styrofoam box on a trolley, beamed. “It is a most handsome goose. The Elmore Society will be honoured to have this goose for their Christmas table.”

“You do know you’re barely going to break even on that dinner.”

“Sometimes,
mon ami
, one must think of more than profit!”

“Wait until Patrick sees this monster.”