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

across Arthur’s mind. “You didn’t tell Meryl about this, did you? She gets jealous over the smallest of things,” he said, nevertheless with a smidgen of pride regarding his status as an evidently much-coveted male.
    “ Oui , of course I tell her. But do not worry, she found it to be most amusing.”
    “Hmph,” said Arthur, manly pride somewhat deflated.
    They also found various letters and financial papers relating to Paloni’s wine venture, the Basking Buffalo winery. There were several iterations of the agenda for the upcoming shareholders’ meeting in two weeks’ time. In the latest, Sir William’s listing as the after-dinner speaker had been crossed out. With some force.
    “Interesting,” murmured Arthur. The accompanying Annual Report also bore further scrutiny, littered as it was with telling phrases such as ‘rising to the inevitable challenges’, ‘longer-term site potential’ and ‘much appreciated continuing support of our shareholders’. All was not well at Basking Buffalo.
    “Cash flow troubles, if you read between the lines,” said Arthur, handing the report to Chef Maurice, who flipped through, looking at the glossy pictures.
    “And we know that Sir William was an investor.”
    “Or so Paloni told us,” said Arthur, thinking about the crossed-out agenda.
    The guest rooms dealt with, PC Alistair led the way up to the attic rooms, where Gilles and Mrs Bates had their living quarters.
    Mrs Bates’ rooms were functional and spotlessly clean, bare of personal memorabilia apart from a half-eaten box of milk chocolates and a small shelf of well-thumbed paperbacks featuring smouldering-looking young men wearing top hats and waistcoats, and frilly ladies in horse-drawn carriages.
    Gilles’s quarters consisted of two rooms: a living room and a smaller bedroom. The former afforded him a small fireplace, an armchair and a desk, while the latter housed a single bed and a wardrobe almost entirely filled with white shirts, pressed black trousers, and a row of identical tailcoats. A stool and shoeshine kit were neatly arranged in one corner.
    PC Alistair set about peering behind furniture and riffling through the drawers, with the desperate enthusiasm of one who has failed to find anything suitably incriminating to report back to one’s superiors.
    Thankfully for the young policeman, Chef Maurice’s excavations under the bed revealed a strange metal suitcase, about the size of two briefcases put together. He laid it on the bed and reached for the fastenings.
    “Wait, it might be a bomb,” said Arthur.
    “Bah, who will sleep with a bomb under their bed?” said Chef Maurice and snapped open the locks. “ Voilà! ”
    Two very old, and most likely highly valuable, bottles of wine stared back up at them, nestled quietly in the black velvet interior. A small thermometer monitored their temperature, and the whole case hummed gently as the thermostat kicked into action.
    “A 1918 Cheval Blanc and 1945 Mouton,” said Arthur. “Not a butler’s usual bedtime drink, I should think.”
    It appeared to be time for another little chat with Gilles.

Chapter 8

    In the kitchens of Le Cochon Rouge, the big clock over the prep station ticked its way past two o’clock in the morning. Chef Maurice stood at the stove, stirring a pot of thick hot chocolate.
    They’d returned to find Alf fast asleep on the floor, arms and legs wrapped firmly around a sack of potatoes. Patrick had loaded the commis chef into a handy wheelbarrow, spuds and all, covered him with a blanket and headed down into Beakley to deliver Alf to his lodgings.
    “So, you believe the explanation of Monsieur Gilles?” said Chef Maurice, thumping three full mugs down on the table.
    PC Lucy shrugged. “I don’t have any reason not to.”
    “Bah! ‘Taking wines for a valuation’? Why does the company not come to the Hall? Non , I tell you, Monsieur Gilles, he keeps the truth hidden. I have many suspicions.”
    “You always have