Free Lucky Catch by Deborah Coonts

it as he turned it slowly in his hand. “Yes, this is the sort of truffle Fiona would try to sell.”
    “You knew her well?”
    “We all did. She called on the top restaurants in town. Her partner apparently greased the way.” He glanced at me, then refocused on the truffle.
    “Partner?”
    He shrugged as he rotated the truffle, analyzing it. “I don’t know exactly who her partner was, but there was a rumor of some name behind her putting up the money, opening a door to the supply chain.”
    “You don’t know who?” I pressed.
    “Whoever it was stayed in the background.” He glanced at me, his gaze holding mine. “But I know this, they had to be in the food world. Providers of the ingredients of the necessary quality and consistency are few, and in demand. So the competition for the most exclusive products is fierce. And Fiona’s were some of the best from Central and South America.”
    “Explain.”
    “When a chef finds a purveyor, he or she will often agree to buy whatever the farm produces, which can run to tens of thousands of dollars a week.”
    “They buy it all? What if they don’t want it?”
    “If it is of the quality expected, we always want it. We can build a seasonal menu around whatever is available. We can change it daily, if we wish. That is the fun, and the intrigue that keeps the customers coming back and paying the higher prices.”
    Higher prices? Some bordered on the obscene, but I didn’t say so. Of course, I wasn’t a particularly discerning foodie, so perhaps my perspective was skewed. “Food acquisition has really changed since I had to cycle through the food prep side of the Big Boss’s properties.”
    “Ah, this is the high end—very rarified air. Like haute couture.”
    “Haute cuisine . . . I can get behind that. But it sounds a bit cut-throat to me.”
    Chef Omer laughed. “True. And I must admit, when I heard someone else was in town to give Desiree Bouclet a run for her money, I was intrigued. It is never good to have only one supplier. They can try to put you over the barrel.”
    “Would Desiree do that?” My voice was tight.
    Chef Omer gave a light, upward motion with one shoulder. “She is a good businesswoman . . . clever and resourceful, she drives a hard bargain. But her products are worth the price.”
    “And Fiona’s?”
    “I stopped taking her calls months ago. Some of her products—not the South American ones, but others, were not of a necessary quality or consistency.” Lowering the truffle, he caught my eyes. “I have no proof, but I felt Fiona couldn’t be trusted. I lost confidence in her. My reputation could be ruined by a bad batch of tuna, for instance. I am simplifying and probably being overly dramatic, but it is very important.”
    “What made you feel that way?”
    “Just a feeling.” His eyes avoided mine, sliding instead back to the truffle. “Maybe a little bit more. And once this”—he pointed to his gut—“tells me it is time to make a change, I listen.”
    “Maybe I ought to run my romantic choices through that bullshit meter.”
    Omer gave me a knowing, fatherly look of sympathy. “If I can help . . . my wife says I am very particular.”
    I didn’t know whether we were talking about men, or still about food—I assumed the latter, as the male of the species was not a subject I wanted to delve into at the moment. “Maybe so. But to hear Desiree and Chef Gregor tell it, the original truffle that has now gone missing was of exceptional quality.”
    “Yes, I saw it.” Chef Omer’s face cleared. “It was a thing of beauty. I never saw one like it . . . never even heard of one matching it. Huge, it was the perfect Alba truffle. Very, very rare, not only because of its size, but also its quality.” A wistful look softened his features. “Just like in the old days, a pig found it.”
    “A pig.” I must’ve sounded less than pleased as Chef Omer returned from his trip down memory lane.
    “Why this tone?”
    “Until a