Chef Maurice and the Wrath of Grapes (Chef Maurice Culinary Mysteries Book 2) by J.A. Lang Read Free Book Online

was!”
    “Are you sure? And what did you need to speak to him so badly about in the first place?”
    Paloni hesitated. “Just winery business,” he said finally. “Wanted his advice. No, thanks,” he added, as Chef Maurice proffered the tray of goat’s cheese and red onion tartlets that he’d found going cold in the kitchen.
    “Who’s making that infernal racket?” said Lady Margaret, coming out of the drawing room, book in hand.
    “The master’s gone and locked himself in the cellar, ma’am,” said Mrs Bates.
    “Can’t say I blame him. I told him throwing all these parties would wear him out eventually. A nice quiet evening with a book, that’s what you need, I told him.”
    Gilles returned, walking fast and carrying a key-shaped lump of red wax.
    “Sir William gave you the code to his safe, but keeps the spare cellar key in wax? How oddly . . . untrusting,” said Resnick with a sneer.
    Gilles broke the wax open and turned the key in the door. There was a click and a whirring sound, and the door swung backwards. It was now evident that the carved oak was merely a facade, hiding a thick steel door lined with deadbolts all around.
    “Gosh, when did that happen?” said Bertie. “It wasn’t like that last June.”
    “Sir William had new security measures installed over the summer. I advised him on the design, after he made some rather valuable additions to the collection,” said Resnick.
    They descended the stairs, Gilles leading the way, closely followed by Bertie. Chef Maurice brought up the rear, supporting a weak-kneed Mrs Bates.
    “Sir William, are you there—” Gilles voice strangled to a stop, mid-sentence.
    Chef Maurice, dragging the poor Mrs Bates, hurried down the last steps. They rounded the corner of the stairwell to find the others frozen in place, staring at the scene before them.
    Sir William was laid out on the floor, motionless, a broken wine bottle beside him and a terrible gash on his neck.
    “Is he . . . ?” breathed Ariane.
    Gilles, his face drained of colour, knelt down carefully beside his master and applied two fingers to the man’s wrist.
    He nodded. “He’s dead.”

Chapter 5

    Patrick pulled his hat further down over his ears, stuffed his gloved hands deeper into his pockets, and tried not to think about snow, ice, icicles, ice cubes, ice cream, and other chilly topics.
    In the moonlight, the stranger’s footprints were dark pits in the snow, leading endlessly over the fields behind the restaurant.
    “Why couldn’t he have taken the main road?” said Patrick, his breath misting the air.
    “If he’s heading to Bourne Hall, then this is the quickest way,” said PC Lucy. “The gate on the main road is nowhere near the house itself.”
    “So he knows the layout of Bourne Hall, then.”
    “Looks like it.”
    The black-clad man was nowhere in sight. Patrick liked to think of himself as a fairly fit specimen—it was amazing what lugging copper pots all day would do for your biceps—but it was dawning on him that chefs were built for power over short distances, such as between the walk-in and hobs.
    Plus, professional kitchens never got this cold .
    At least the snow had now stopped falling, leaving the air icy fresh. The low hills around Beakley were soft and pristine in the moon’s glow. It was almost romantic, if you ignored the fact they were on the trail of a potential gun-toting killer.
    Perhaps now was a good time to tackle the matter of the other mystery man . . .
    “So, um, did you get up to much last weekend? Sorry I had to work.”
    “What?” PC Lucy was a good head shorter than Patrick, and keeping up the pace was clearly exerting her. But it was equally clear that if he slowed down, she’d take it as a deadly insult and probably never speak to him again. “Oh, no, not much. I was on shift all of Saturday, so I had a lazy Sunday. TV, pyjamas, didn’t see a soul. Blissful, really.”
    “So you didn’t go out at all?”
    “No. Why,