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

something wrong with that?”
    “No! I just thought, um, you might have been seeing family, or something.”
    “Family? You’ve got to be kidding. You’d need a crowbar to get my parents further than five miles from their farm. Plus I’ll soon be up there for Christmas.”
    “What about your, uh, brother?” It was a stab in the dark, Patrick knew, but he refused to stew any longer over what might be a simple misunderstanding.
    PC Lucy gave him a strange look. “I don’t have a brother. Only child, remember?”
    Patrick didn’t remember, but he knew better than to admit to the crime of not having listened fully at some point on their last two dates.
    “So, Mr Nosy Parker, what did you get up to at the weekend?”
    “Me? Well, we had a few early Christmas parties at the restaurant, so we were pretty busy. Plus Alf was off all Sunday. I think he went into Cowton to do his Christmas shopping.”
    He watched her face carefully for any admission of guilt, but got no reaction.
    “Didn’t think Alf was that organised. Just goes to show, eh?”
    She halted suddenly, and pointed to a deep rectangular depression in the snow.
    The stranger had stopped here to take something out of his briefcase.
    Patrick’s heart started beating louder.
    “Maybe he just got cold and wanted a hat and scarf,” said PC Lucy.
    Even so, they both picked up the pace.

    PC Lucy felt bad. Not from the snow slowly dripping into her faux-fur-lined boots, nor the biting wind that was threatening to freeze her nose off. But from the fact that she’d just lied.
    She’d lied to Patrick.
    And she liked Patrick. She really did. He was smart, and funny, and good-looking in that dark, wavy-haired Clark Kent way, minus the occasional urge to run around in tights and red underpants (as far as she knew).
    But that was it. She didn’t know him that well, yet. Soon, she promised herself, she’d tell him the truth.
    But not just yet.
    They walked on in silence through the crunching snow.

    After a quick search of the cellar, in case the attacker was still present, Gilles ushered the stunned guests up the stairs, then carefully locked the cellar door and pocketed the key.
    Following some unspoken search for comfort—or perhaps because Chef Maurice had been first up the stairs and naturally gravitated towards food preparation areas—they found themselves huddled in the Bourne Hall kitchens.
    “If the ladies and gentlemen will remain here,” said Gilles, “I will conduct a quick search of the building, in case the . . . perpetrator is hiding somewhere still.”
    Mrs Bates gave a little wail from her rocking chair by the stove. Bertie was sat at the table with his arm around Ariane, talking quietly in soothing tones.
    “I’ll come with you,” said Paloni, glancing around and snatching up a heavy-based saucepan to accompany them.
    “I suppose we’d better call the police,” said Resnick. “Though in these parts, who knows how long they’ll take to turn up.”
    Arthur, who found himself nearest to the wall-hung phone, picked up the receiver and held it to his ear.
    “Line’s still down,” he reported. “Nothing but crackle.”
    “Surely that can’t be a coincidence,” said Bertie, looking pale.
    “Really?” said Resnick. “I understood the line had been down since this afternoon. Surely someone would have noticed an intruder sneaking around all that time.”
    “Not necessarily,” said Lady Margaret, crisply. “It’s a big house. My Timothy used to hide for hours in all the nooks and crannies, and only a good gingerbread cake would get him to come out. Plenty of places to hide in here.”
    With that, she flipped open her book and started reading.
    There was a series of clinks and clatters as Chef Maurice conducted a thorough investigation of the cupboards in search of a coffee pot.
    “There’s loose tea and some instant coffee in the drawer over there,” said Mrs Bates, who’d perked up at the sound of another cook invading her