Slain in Schiaparelli (Vintage Clothing Mysteries Book 3) by Angela M. Sanders Read Free Book Online Page A

have kept it for us in the kitchen. With a premier cru Bordeaux—right bank, naturellement —it will be divine.”  
    Bette had hired the chef away from a two-star restaurant in Lyon simply to prepare two days of meals plus appetizers for the reception. A team of foragers in Portland had met him at the airport with the crates of produce, locally raised meat, and wine he’d ordered ahead, then swept him up the mountain to the lodge.  
    At the mention of food, Joanna’s stomach tightened. The coffee hadn’t gone far. As shocking as the morning was, maybe she should have had a few bites of scrambled eggs. “Chef Jules, I have some bad news—”
    He crossed his arms and smiled. “Oh, I know you appreciate the good food. I saw you admiring the artichauts . A little trick from Chef Passard—put the most tender bay leaves between the leaves. Each artichaut had twelve bay leaves, then they are gently cooked in a bain marie.”
    The artichokes last night were especially delicious. So meltingly tender, their green infused with the almond-herb scent of bay. Even Wilson had commented on them. Her thoughts jolted to his body above them. “Thank you. But—”
    “What now? You’re worried because I’m reading a book? I need a break. Or maybe that lady wants special food for the dog again?” He leaned forward. “And I have not been smoking inside.”
    Would he ever stop talking? “I’m afraid the dog is the least of our problems. There won’t be any wedding.” She had the chef’s attention now. “The blizzard will keep away the guests today. And” —she trained her gaze on him— “Wilson Jack died last night.”
    His mouth dropped open. At last the chef was speechless. He reached around as if looking for a pack of cigarettes, then tucked his hands in his pockets. “ Tu blagues .”
    “I’m afraid I’m serious. It looks like he ate some clams in a sandwich.”
    “ Non! ”
    “One of the sandwiches you prepared.” Joanna watched him closely. “Surely by accident.”
    “Clams?”
    “Clam dip, maybe.”
    “Impossible!” the chef said. “No clam dip. I have no clam dip. What is this clam dip? C’est fou. Besides, the Jackal, he tells me to keep the langoustines away from his food because he cannot tolerate them. No no no. Clam dip,” he sputtered. “ Non. Absolument pas .” His body went limp as he sagged back into his chair. “He is dead you say?”
    She nodded. If Chef Jules was lying, he deserved an Oscar. Maybe they were mistaken about seeing clam dip. It could have been some other kind of chunky spread. After all, Wilson had had a rough life. Maybe the stress of the wedding was too much and he had a heart attack.
    “La la la. This is bad,” Jules said.
    “Maybe it was something that only looked like clam dip. What was in the sandwich?”
    The chef raised his fingers to tick off the ingredients. “Roast beef, cooked à point , mayonnaise fait à main with a hint of tamarind, blue cheese, lettuce, tomato, spelt bread, and c’est tout .”
    “One more thing. I don’t know how long the storm will last, but we might be here another day until the snow plows get through. Can you stretch the wedding food to cover us?”
    The chef’s brows were drawn together. “Of course, of course. Pas de problème . The Jackal Wilson is dead. Oh la.” His head shot up. “And they want to blame me, n’est-ce pas ? They say I put clam dip on his sandwich?”
    “Don’t worry about it, Jules. He might have died of something else altogether. That’s for the medical examiner to determine.” When he finally arrived, that is.
    Chef Jules stood and rocked foot to foot, then hurtled to the door. He led Joanna past a stuffed bear standing on his hind legs, across the stone-floored lobby, to the kitchen. “ Voilà. No guests, we have lots to eat.” Platters of food—smears of pâté on crackers, tiny potato tarts with slivers of black truffle, rounds of farmhouse cheeses—covered the kitchen counters and