Free Chef Maurice and the Bunny-Boiler Bake Off (Chef Maurice Cotswold Mysteries Book 3) by J.A. Lang Page A

another ironing.
    “Alf?” said Patrick.
    “Er, yes?”
    “When exactly did chef put in this order?”
    “Um . . . Might have been after you left last night. I might have showed him how to order one on the Internet.”
    “ Might have?”
    “Um . . .”
    Despite his escalating feelings of exasperation, Patrick had to admit he was also rather impressed. Chef Maurice must really want him to stay, to have been willing to set foot within two metres of a computer monitor.
    (It wasn’t that the head chef was I.T.-illiterate; one could consider him as more techno-embattled, waging a constant war with the electronic devices in his life. The attempted use of an electronic alarm clock had resulted in several mornings of unintentional 3 a.m. starts—which had been accompanied by a series of predawn phone calls to the rest of his kitchen staff, demanding to know why they had yet to turn up to work. His ancient mobile phone appeared only able to dial the Croatian talking clock, and the robotic vacuum cleaner, bought for him one Christmas by an optimistic Meryl, had managed on its first day to get into his chest of drawers and consume all his socks.)
    However, even in the face of his head chef’s technological efforts, Patrick was determined to be a man unswayed by such means of persuasion.
    “We’re sending it back,” he said firmly.
    “We are?” said Alf, in hopeful tones.
    “I’m not having chef think he can bribe me into staying. It’s my decision, and I’m perfectly capable of making it without the help of a TM Professional—”
    “—Deluxe Professional—”
    “— Deluxe Professional ThermoMash. With the extra pasta-rolling attachment, too,” sighed Patrick, tucking the leaflet back in amongst the stainless steel rotors.
    Despite his claims to the contrary, he was aware that he was still no closer to making any decision than he’d been last night, when his mother had dropped her manor-house-sized bombshell on them all.
    He’d been back and forth with himself on the merits of the new venture—his first head chef position, the chance to make a name for himself—and the downsides—starting life yet again in another village, and the prospect of Chef Maurice chasing him all around Beakley with a frying pan if he handed in his resignation. And then, of course, there was Lucy to think about. The Lake District was by no means an easy commute from the Cotswolds, and what with them both working long shifts and irregular hours . . .
    Still, Patrick was looking forward to being able to discuss the whole matter with someone more sane than his current kitchen compatriots. Of course, he fully expected his girlfriend to drop the occasional heavy hint that she wanted him to stay—that was only natural.
    But PC Lucy had a sound, level head, and he had a feeling she’d be infinitely more helpful when it came to thinking through his decision than a crazed French chef with a suddenly very large budget for culinary equipment.

    Back at Miranda Matthews’ flat, it took a while to persuade Angie Gifford that the England Observer ’s food critic had not, in fact, been attempting to steal Miranda’s solid-walnut bookcase, but instead had merely been trying to conceal himself behind said item in case she, Angie Gifford, had turned out to be a lead-pipe-wielding attacker.
    Angie looked less than convinced, too, at the explanation that the two of them had simply stepped inside the flat after noticing the front door left unlocked, and, being good Cotswolds neighbours, had wanted to check that nothing had been taken.
    “We might ask you the question, Madame Gifford, why you also are found here in the flat of Mademoiselle Miranda,” said Chef Maurice sternly, having now left the confines of his wardrobe hideout. (A sudden appearance, it should be noted, that had not done much to soothe Angie Gifford’s already frazzled nerves.)
    “Miranda left me a set of her keys when she first moved in, as I was the only person she