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“Can I help you?” Barely civil.
“Is the chef available?” asked Marple.
Piedalu looked down his aquiline nose. “I’m sorry. He’s not. If you’re interested in a server’s position, leave your résumé.”
“No,” said Marple. “I’m interested in his cooking seminar.”
“Really?” Piedalu openly sneered. “The seminar is by invitation only. And the next session is filled.” He paused, staring at her as if he wished she would simply evaporate. “Is there anything else?”
“If I could just speak with the chef, I’d love a chance to make my case.”
“The chef is occupied. Now please…” Piedalu actually made a flicking “go away” gesture with his wrist, confirming his reputation as an insolent prick.
Marple sighed. She thought it might come to this—and she hoped her plan wouldn’t backfire. She reached into her purse and pulled out a folded leather case. She stepped up to the podium and flipped it open under Piedalu’s nose.
“I’m a private investigator,” said Marple firmly. “Get Gestard out here now.”
CHAPTER 21
THE KITCHEN DOORS banged open. Michael Piedalu stepped aside as Luc Gestard burst through and approached.
He was as tall as Marple had heard but bulkier. He looked and moved like an athlete. His close-cropped dark hair gave him a severe, ascetic look, but he was handsome, with piercing green eyes.
“What is the trouble here?” he asked. His English was good, but the Loire Valley still colored his pronunciation.
“Can we talk privately?” asked Marple.
Gestard glanced at Piedalu and waved him back into the kitchen. He led Marple to a corner table and motioned for her to sit. She hung her bag on the back of the chair and opened her coat just enough to expose her sweater. Louis Vuitton. The French statement couldn’t hurt, she’d figured.
Gestard was wearing a white chef coat. When he sat down, Marple saw a pattern of burn scars on his hands and the edge of a tattoo ending at his right wrist.
“Show me your badge,” said Gestard. “Michael said that you were with the police?”
“I’m not with the police,” said Marple, “and the ID already served its purpose. I’m afraid it was a ruse. A trick.”
“You’re telling me your badge is fake?”
“No, I assure you it’s genuine. But that’s not why I’m here.”
Gestard pushed away from the table and stood up. “I don’t have time for tricks.”
Marple stood up too. She positioned herself so that Gestard would need to take an extra step to go around her. She looked him in the eye. “I’m here for your seminar. I heard about it from Dario Aquilar.”
Gestard hesitated. Marple could tell that the name registered. Gestard narrowed his eyes. “How do you know Aquilar?”
“I did him a favor once, in New York, when he was opening his restaurant there. His sous chef needed some papers to clear Immigration. I obtained them.”
“How?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Another trick?”
Marple just smiled.
“I’m sure Aquilar told you that my seminar is extremely demanding,” said Gestard. “The toughest three days in the business. What’s your restaurant experience?”
“None.”
