Free Cities of the Dead by Linda Barnes Page A

Something in her demeanor called forth the best efforts of waiters and cooks alike. Maybe she looked like a restaurant reviewer.
    â€œCan I help?” she asked eagerly. “With Armand?”
    â€œJust be interested,” Spraggue said.
    â€œI am.”
    â€œIf he’s a talker, let him talk. Talkers are always looking for listeners. If he’s not the chatty type, we crank the interest level a little higher. I’ve seen you do it when you deal with your money men. Suddenly you hang on their every word—”
    â€œThat’s just common sense—” Mary began.
    â€œThat’s acting,” Spraggue said.
    When Paul Armand crossed the room, heads followed. There was a faint murmur as savvy diners recognized the chef and whispered his identity to their table mates. He was a tall man with a stooped posture that made him look as if he’d been caught bending over to stir a sauce pot. He must have been lean once, but age and haute cuisine were catching up with him in the form of a protruding belly, which he sometimes remembered to hold in. Now, aware that eyes were on him, wrapped as he was in chef’s apron, his graying hair topped with a tall white toque, he made the effort, straightened himself, and was altogether an imposing figure with his thin, drawn face and bushy eyebrows.
    He sketched a courtly little bow in Mary’s direction. From his name and appearance, Spraggue expected a French accent, possibly fake, but Armand’s voice was pure deep South, broad and lilting. “Miz Hillman? Pleased to meet you again, and I do hope the circumstances are more congenial this time than last—though I doubt the food could be as fine.”
    Mary returned his formality. “Mr. Armand, I’d like you to meet my nephew, Michael Spraggue. The cooking at the awards banquet was exquisite, but I have found nothing to complain of here.”
    His gallantries accepted, Armand sank into a chair and the paunch came out of hiding. He said, “You’re a cook yourself?”
    â€œNo,” Mary replied, “but I am an avid eater, and I don’t know where or if I’ve tasted a finer sauce than the one on this soft-shell crab.”
    â€œAh.” Armand smiled. His fingers were busy on the table, automatically aligning the silverware in front of him precisely one inch from the table’s edge. “You’re one dangerous lady. You’ve got me totally disarmed, and I’ll tell you whatever it is you want to know. Now you said you were working for that woman who’s accused of killing poor Joseph. Denise told me the whole story, how she used to be married to Joe and all, or thought she was, anyhow. I think the cops are way off base, but I don’t see how I can help.”
    Poor Joseph. Spraggue regarded the man with interest. Had he found a friend of Joe Fontenot’s, someone who mourned his passing?
    â€œI already ordered dessert,” Armand said abruptly as waiters began hovering. “First, something from the cheese tray, a chèvre with just a bit of cinder, then an assortment of tiny French fruit tarts, and café filtre. ”
    Mary nodded happily and Spraggue thought of another fat male role—Big Daddy in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof . He said to Armand, “You sound as if you were a friend of Fontenot’s.”
    â€œI surely was,” Armand answered gravely. His eyes never left the hands of the waiters. One young waiter, aware of the intense scrutiny, almost dumped the “ chèvre with the hint of cinder” on the rug.
    â€œWhat can you tell me about him?” Spraggue said.
    â€œTo help get that lady out of jail?”
    â€œDora Levoyer,” Mary reminded him. “She was at our table at the awards dinner.”
    â€œThe name slipped my mind. She is—or she was—one fine cook. Lost track of her. Haven’t heard that name for some time.”
    â€œShe no longer cooks for the restaurant