Free Healthy Place to Die by Peter King Page A

might not have been so significant, but this was the second time that one of the blond staff members had been involved—the first time in a death (or at least an unaccountable disappearance) and the second time in a near death. From now on, I was going to look at those girls with suspicion. How many more of them could be involved?
    “There’s another thing,” Marta said. “I didn’t think it had any meaning before, but now …”
    “Go on,” I encouraged her.
    “I waited a long time on that phone line. I was told to wait, wait. … Finally, a voice said there was a problem with the line and they would try again later.”
    “It’s possible,” I said. “Even Swiss telephones aren’t perfect.”
    “I called my agent in New York. He knew nothing about a conference call.” I was silent. She continued, “He is trying to put together a deal for a new picture, but it’s not ready yet.”
    “Yes, that is strange,” I admitted. “Some kind of mistake, I suppose.”
    “It must have been.”
    She might have been waiting for me to tell her that I was in the Secret Service and could not tell her any more. She had probably heard that line in half a dozen movies, although that would not mean she was ready to believe it now. I thought of telling her more, but at this stage I did not want to get her involved. I was not sure yet of what was happening. All I knew was that too much of it was happening to me.
    I could always quit and go back to London.
    No, I couldn’t. I was really curious, and besides, I liked the spa. I would hang in there a little while longer, even if I didn’t have a paying client—and even if someone did want to boil me like … well, like a lobster.

CHAPTER ELEVEN
    I HAD NO TIME to reflect on my narrow escape from being boiled to death—an inexcusable end for a gourmet detective. Our session at four o’clock began right on time—always a predictable occurrence in Switzerland.
    Four of us were on the podium—Leighton Vance, Michel Leblanc, Axel Vorstahl, and I. Caroline introduced us and pointed out again that the week’s classes and demonstrations were not basically for professionals. A few of these attended, those who wanted to brush up or those who had been away from cooking for some time. Basically, though, the classes were for serious amateurs or those in auxiliary fields.
    “The latter includes guests that the spa is pleased to have with us this week,” said Caroline. She named Oriana Frascati as an editor of cookbooks, Helmut Helberg as the owner of a supermarket chain, and Bradley Thompson as a fast-food pioneer.
    “This is to be a short session,” she explained. “You will all have accumulated a lot of questions so far, and many may not have had the opportunity to have them answered in the regular classes. So here is your chance. …”
    It was a popular idea, and the room was crowded. Questions came thick and fast. First of all, someone wanted to know what to do about salt. “We are supposed to cut down on it—in the United States, the federal government says by at least one-third. Salt contributes to high blood pressure, we are told. But everyone knows that there is just no substitute for salt when it comes to flavor. What is the answer?”
    Michel Leblanc fired the first shot. “The desire for salt comes when a society moves away from fresh foods to processed foods. Unfortunately, all processed foods contain extremely high amounts of sodium, added as a preservative.” He turned an apologetic face to Helmut Helberg and he answered promptly.
    “Bradley and I are, of course, suppliers of processed foods, and we must use preservatives so that canned foods have the shelf life that customers demand.”
    Caroline, presiding, was cleverly bringing in all the members of the panel as early and as quickly as possible. She pointed next to me.
    “Salt is trapped in a vicious circle,” I said. I wanted to avoid taking up the cudgels on behalf of either of the proponents here. “As