Killer Critique by Alexander Campion Read Free Book Online Page A

Huguelet. I’m counting on you to put in a good word for me. I need all the help I can get.”
    The Kir arrived. It really was in a class apart, bubbly and almost tart, with a slight alcoholic unctuousness.
    â€œSo what can I tell you that I didn’t already tell your charming policewoman that horrible night?”
    It was the first time Capucine had ever heard Isabelle described as charming. Capucine checked closely for cynicism, but apparently there was none.
    â€œI just wanted to go over the events of the evening a little more carefully and make sure we didn’t miss anything. I understand you were in the kitchen the whole time and came out only once, about half an hour before the murder.”
    â€œGood Lord, no. I’m very much focused on the front of the house. I come out as often as a can, and when I can’t, my eye is constantly at the judas in the service door. A chef feels her house like an actress senses the mood of her audience. I need that to cook. Do you understand?”
    Capucine nodded.
    â€œWell, that night was a nightmare. The kitchen was hopeless. They kept getting into mess after mess. They were in a tizzy over Fesnay. It was his third and last dinner before he wrote his review. I had to be in the kitchen, but you can bet I was glued to that little window to see how he reacted to his meal. I didn’t miss a forkful.”
    â€œAnd did you see anything out of the ordinary?”
    â€œNo, nothing at all. The service was perfect. I’m blessed with my maître d’. Fesnay seemed to like his first course, a truffled duck foie gras from the Landes I serve with a celery root fondant and a kumquat confit. Then the sommelier served him his second wine, a Château La Moutonne, and with perfect timing the chef de rang presented the ravioles. He took his first bite, and I saw that look in his eyes that makes you feel better than sex. Then I smelled something just beginning to scorch in the kitchen, had the cook replate, and went right back to my window. But Fesnay already had his face in his dish. A waiter was rushing up to help him, and I ran out of the kitchen.”
    â€œAnd did you see anything unusual then? Say, someone coming back from the men’s room or something like that?”
    â€œDid I see anything unusual?” Béatrice snorted. “Are you kidding? A man had just collapsed at his table. The waiters danced around with no idea what to do. A number of guests got up to look. In a few minutes the SAMU arrived. Then the police arrived. Then the Police Judiciaire . It was pandemonium.”
    â€œWhat I meant was, did you see anyone coming back to his table? You know, someone who might have gone to the toilet or gone outside for a quick smoke?”
    â€œHalf the dining room was standing up, edging in for a closer look. There was so much confusion, any number of guests could have walked in or out. The place was such a mess, I didn’t even bother presenting the checks. How could I?”
    As she spoke, the maître d’ began arriving more and more frequently with little white dupe sheets taken from the waiters’ order books and stuck them in a circular rack over the service counter. In a few minutes the rack had turned into a Christmas tree of fluttering slips. Béatrice went to the door and peered intently through the little round window. Back in her chair she no longer looked at Capucine but swung her head, relentlessly scanning the kitchen. Her breathing was faster and her cheeks became flushed. She reminded Capucine of a cavalry major surveying his troopers as the enemy appeared on the crest of the hill opposite.
    â€œShall I tell you the supreme irony?” Béatrice said.
    Capucine nodded.
    â€œI’m sure Fesnay would have given me an excellent review. He was much more human than most critics. The first time he came, he had the ravioles and very politely suggested as he left that the sauce was excellent, but it was a bit