Chef Maurice and the Bunny-Boiler Bake Off (Chef Maurice Cotswold Mysteries Book 3) by J.A. Lang Read Free Book Online Page B

myself”—he thumped his chest—“and the type of Miranda Matthews. To them, she is a chef. So we must ask if other chefs, too, are in danger from this murderer.”
    Arthur gave this statement its due consideration. As an entirely spurious reason for Chef Maurice to indulge in his penchant for dabbling in crime investigation, he could, Arthur supposed, have done a lot worse.
    “You might be on to something there, old chap,” said Arthur, as they wandered out through the now-deserted Fayre-ground stalls. “For all we know, there might be some serial killer on the loose with a predilection for bumping off famous chefs.”
    “Ah, so you agree that this case is one requiring of our attention?”
    Arthur wasn’t too sure about this part, but he conceded that it couldn’t hurt to make a few enquiries of their own. Thankfully, he pointed out, if the serial-killer-famous-chef theory was correct, it meant that Chef Maurice would be well clear of any danger.
    They headed back up the lane into the village with Chef Maurice striding on ahead, nose in the air, wearing an expression of injuriously injured pride.

    That evening, the staff of Le Cochon Rouge sat down at the big kitchen table to tuck into plates of grilled sardines on toasted seeded bread, to fortify themselves for the busy dinner service ahead. Many of the Spring Fayre visitors had decided to soothe their frayed nerves with a slap-up dinner before the drive home, and the restaurant was fully booked. The kitchen crew were joined at the table by Mrs Merland, who had offered to pitch in with a special dessert for the evening menu.
    “Have they found the murderer yet?” asked Alf, pouring some balsamic vinaigrette over his sardines.
    “This one’ll have ’em stumped for a while, I’ll bet,” said Dorothy, nodding in satisfaction at the prospect of weeks of speculation and idle gossip with her regular customers. “Big crowd, no witnesses, all ’em woods just to disappear into. You know it was all on the telly this afternoon? We made the national news, we did.”
    Patrick nodded, though he didn’t quite share their head waitress’s level of enthusiasm. He wondered how the next few weeks’ table bookings were going to fare, though he had to admit that the news report had painted the village of Beakley in quite a flattering light. If you ignored the part about brutal murder, of course.
    “Makes you think twice about wandering about late at night,” continued Dorothy.
    “But it happened right in the middle of the day,” Patrick pointed out.
    “All the more reason to know how to defend yourself,” replied Dorothy. She had recently signed up to a series of self-defence classes run by Mrs Petticoat, the vicar’s wife. However, it seemed that Mrs Petticoat was a subscriber to the belief that the best defence was a good offence, and news of Dorothy’s one-inch punch had spread fast through the village. Tips had more than doubled over the last month alone.
    Chef Maurice, who generally found that the application of a heavy steel-capped toe was usually enough to ward off any would-be attacker, shook his head. “It is possible that the attack on Mademoiselle Miranda may not have been a random chance.”
    “Cor!” said Alf. “Like, someone had some kind of vain debtor against her?”
    They looked at him.
    “I think you mean a ‘vendetta’,” said Patrick, after a few moments.
    Alf was currently going through a mafia movie phase, which had led to various recent attempts to tough talk the vegetable box into submission when he thought no one else was around. Still, it provided some light relief in a demanding schedule, given that the job of commis chef mostly consisted of following orders that could not be refused.
    “I am grieved, Madame Merland, that you have travelled all this way to be welcomed by such a tragedy,” said Chef Maurice, tearing off another chunk of bread.
    “Not at all,” replied Mrs Merland. “First chance I’ve had to get out of the