3 Service for Two by Kate Kingsbury Read Free Book Online Page B

about the menu, that’s all. I’ll be happy to leave the details of the young man’s murder in the capable hands of P.C. Northcott.”
    Baxter’s grimace made clear his opinion of the constable’s hands, but he offered no further comment on the subject. Instead he opened the door as Cecily moved toward it, and stood back to let her pass.
    “Don’t worry, Bax,” Cecily murmured as she swept by him. “If I decide to go hunting for the murderer, you’ll be the first to know.”

CHAPTER
5
    Michel was in the kitchen when Cecily arrived there. She could hear him crashing around long before she reached the door. It was no wonder the pots and pans had dents in them, she thought as she walked into the warm, steam-clouded room. Michel seemed utterly incapable of cooking a meal without dropping something.
    The fact that he usually consumed a large amount of brandy in order to “create” his famous dishes probably had a great deal to do with his lack of coordination. Since his reputation as a chef was renowned and envied by a great many hotel proprietors up and down the coast, Cecily was prepared to overlook the imbibing. And, to a certain extent, the noise.
    She couldn’t help wincing, though, when an enamel jug flew off the edge of the stove, spraying milk everywhere.
    “Sacre bleu!”
Michel muttered, casting a scathing glance at the jug as if it had thrown itself to the floor just to annoy him. Catching sight of Cecily, he straightened his tall white hat, more from habit than necessity.
    “
Bon soir
, madame,” he murmured, “I ’ope you are well, yes?”
    “Very well, thank you.” Cecily smiled at Gertie, who bobbed a clumsy curtsey as she headed toward the door with a loaded tray of soup tureens. The savory aroma wafting from them gave her hunger pangs.
    “Lobster bisque tonight, madame,” Michel declared. He touched his fingers to his lips and flicked them away with a gesture that was pure Italian. The dark-eyed, excitable chef tended to get his nationalities mixed up sometimes. If he over-imbibed on the brandy, his French accent disappeared entirely, lapsing into a strong cockney.
    It was Baxter’s contention that Michel’s assumed French guise was to conceal his identity, most likely from a jealous husband. Cecily preferred not to conjecture on the matter. Michel contributed a great deal toward the excellent name of the Pennyfoot.
    Ever since the Prince of Wales had inherited the throne from his mother, the aristocracy had followed His Majesty’s lead in the indulgence of good food, and the richer and more exotic the better.
    The hotels who catered to the wealthy were hard put to compete, endeavoring to create wild and wonderful dishes in the hopes of luring the members of Society away from their favorite restaurants. A chef of Michel’s caliber was an asset too precious to treat lightly, and by the same token, so also was the menu.
    The menus were drawn up each week jointly by Baxter, Mrs. Chubb, and Michel, and they were then approved by Cecily. No one else had access to the list, since it was considered a valuable weapon in the constant battle of competition.
    And yet, Cecily thought uneasily, someone must have laid hands on it somehow. It was unimaginable to consider Michel involved in something as serious as murder. And totally out ofthe question for Mrs. Chubb. Somehow she would have to discover exactly how that menu ended up on the floor of St. Bartholomew’s vestry.
    Alone in the kitchen with the volatile chef, Cecily carefully phrased her question. “Michel, I wonder if you’d mind giving me a moment, if you can spare it?”
    The chef whirled around, gravy dripping from the wooden spoon in his hand. Another mess for Gertie to clean up, Cecily thought ruefully.
    “I always ’ave ze time for Madame, of course,” Michel said, giving her a small bow from the waist. “What can I ’elp you with? I ’ope the food has been satisfactory, yes?” He nodded and smiled while he asked this,