Free Deadly Tasting by Jean-Pierre Alaux, Noël Balen

grumbled and asked to be left in peace. He dismissed his assistant with the wave of a hand and an irritated sigh. He waited for the nausea to subside, stood up slowly, and left without saying good-bye to the rest of the staff.
    Once on the street, Benjamin breathed in the cold night air and walked carefully toward the Allées de Tourny. At his side, Virgile looked anxious and frightened.
    “We’re going to the office?”
    “So it appears,” Benjamin grumbled.
    “Maybe it’s not a good idea to go back to work so late, especially after that fainting spell you just had.”
    “Who says I’m going to work? I’m going to the office to get warm and heat up the rest of that soup before I drive home!”
    Once in the hallway, Benjamin threw his coat over a chair and headed toward the microwave. He didn’t even bother to turn on the lights. There was enough illumination from the streetlights outside to see where he was going.
    “Please, let me warm up the soup for you,” Virgile said as he turned on the overhead lights.
    “Let me do it, for heaven’s sake. I didn’t ask you!”
    “It’s all ready to go. Just set the timer for a minute and a half,” the assistant dared to say as he slipped behind Jacqueline’s empty desk.
    Benjamin struggled with the microwave and cursed the “fucking electronic piece of shit” twice before punching in the numbers and slamming the door shut. He didn’t hear Virgile pick up Jacqueline’s phone. Nor did he hear his assistant talking in hushed tones with Elisabeth, who had been waiting for him at Grangebelle.
    “Mrs. Cooker? I hope I am not disturbing you.”
    “Not at all, my dear Virgile.”
    “You really have to do something for your husband, ma’am.”
    “But what can I do for you? Speak up, I can hardly hear you.”
    “I’m worried about him,” the assistant whispered. “He just had a dizzy spell…”
    “Nothing serious, I hope?”
    “No, rest assured. But in my opinion, he’s dying of hunger. He can’t take it anymore!”
    “Probably a little hypoglycemia. He needs to eat his soup regularly throughout the day.”
    “You know him. He doesn’t always have the time.”
    “I’m counting on your influence, Virgile,” Elisabeth said.
    “There’s more to it, Mrs. Cooker. He’s really not easy… How can I say it? Well, he’s almost impossible to bear since you put him on that diet. Please forgive me for being so blunt.”
    “I’ve been thinking of you these last few days, and I do feel sorry for you, Virgile. I can only imagine the foul mood he’s been in at the office.”
    “Well, actually, as a matter of fact, ‘foul’ is exactly the word for it. I would never want to interfere in your personal life, ma’am, but I do hope you understand what I’m getting at. Are you sure that we have to do this diet thing all the way to day seven?”
     

 
     
     
     
     
    7
    The two representatives of Cooker & Co. were greeted with deference by a sallow-complexioned maid with gray hair. She invited them into the living room to await Renaud Duboyne de Ladonnet. She offered them tea, which they happily accepted as they sat down awkwardly on the worn cushions of the Louis XV chairs. The apartment was posh without being the least bit flashy. Everything around them suggested the faded comfort and timeless elegance of provincial aristocracy. The woodwork, crown molding, and stucco rosettes on the ceiling, the printed fabric on the walls, the thick velour curtains held in place by silk braided tiebacks: the entire décor seemed to have weathered the decades without succumbing to the influence of fashion.
    The master of the house arrived. He was out of breath, and his face was pink and sweaty. He greeted them with firm handshakes and sat down in the closest chair without bothering to remove his raincoat, buttoned to the chin, as usual. Renaud Duboyne de Ladonnet blended perfectly with his apartment: his stiff and formal demeanor, his dated hairstyle, the thick lenses of his