Free Chef Maurice and the Wrath of Grapes (Chef Maurice Culinary Mysteries Book 2) by J.A. Lang Page A

secret underground passageway that would allow a nefarious outsider to enter and exit the building unseen—the young policeman being uncomfortable with the thought of any of the fine upstanding citizens downstairs being potential murderers—and was keen to be proved correct.
    Chef Maurice shook his head and pointed to the building in the centre of the map. “It is a plan of Chateau Lafoute. And this new building, it appears to be a winery.”
    Arthur whistled. “Not just a winery. Look, they’re planning a visitor centre too. Very spacious. Looks like a serious undertaking. Do you think Sir William was going to be one of their investors?”
    “If he was, it would give Monsieur Bertie and Madame Ariane a reason for not wishing his murder.”
    “Very true.”
    They exited the suite and moved on to Resnick’s room next door. The decor was decidedly more spartan, with a four-poster oak bed, a desk and wardrobe and sombre maroon wallpaper. On the bedside table was a pile of blue-backed notebooks—“He claims to record every single wine he drinks,” sniffed Arthur—as well as a few brochures from recent wine auctions.
    Resnick’s cat-hair-ravaged clothes were hung on the back of the door, and they found a selection of fresh shirts and trousers arranged in the wardrobe. Aside from the usual travel necessities, a search of his suitcase revealed a small flask of whisky, a half-eaten jar of potted mackerel, and a box of crackers.
    “He is a more sensible man than I thought,” said Chef Maurice in tones of approval.
    Next up was Lady Margaret’s room, which, compared to the last two rooms, had a much more lived-in feel. Clearly this was her regular abode when visiting her brother-in-law.
    “Do you really think one of the guests did it?” said Arthur, as he flicked through the stack of hardback novels on the nightstand. “Hard to imagine any of this lot smashing a bottle over anyone’s head, let alone going for the throat afterwards.”
    “A murderer can come from the most unexpected places,” said Chef Maurice, staring sternly at Lady Margaret’s lacy-cuffed rose-patterned bathrobe.
    There was the sound of glassware rolling across tiles. “Whoops,” came PC Alistair’s voice from the bathroom.
    They found him on his knees, scrabbling on the floor for a wayward jar that had escaped from a battered embroidered carry bag containing a collection of creams, lotions and ointments, all giving off an overly floral scent. There were tubs of ‘100% natural’ remedies, various herb-based lozenges, and several phials of ‘aroma-centric calming oils’.
    “Just as well Sir William wasn’t poisoned,” said Arthur to PC Alistair. “Your labs would be tied up for weeks with all this lot. And Ariane’s collection too.”
    Paloni had somehow managed to snag the most opulent of the guest suites. Every piece of furniture was upholstered in thick gold-threaded brocade, the bed linen felt like silk, and the bathroom was dominated by an elegant claw-foot bath.
    “ Très ’Ollywood,” commented Chef Maurice.
    The wet loofah and half-empty bottle of expensive bubble bath suggested that Paloni had wasted no time in availing himself of the amenities on offer.
    “What kind of gentleman wears red silk boxers?” demanded Arthur, recoiling from the suitcase that PC Alistair had just popped open. “ And carries around signed photographs of himself,” he added, as PC Alistair used a pen to push aside the offending undergarments, revealing a stack of prints beneath.
    “There was once a lady in the restaurant, she expressed herself as a fan of your restaurant column. She even carried a picture of you in her wallet,” said Chef Maurice, rummaging through the wardrobe.
    “What? Where’d she get a picture of me?”
    “She cut it from the newspaper, I think.”
    “But they haven’t changed that photo for decades!”
    “ Oui . I told the lady she would be most disappointed if she should meet you now.”
    A worrying thought crept