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Gestard snorted. “Are you insane? My seminar is for prodigies, for geniuses! I don’t take walk-ins. And I don’t take beginners.”
Marple was not surprised at the reaction. But at least she had him face-to-face. She shifted direction. “I’ve studied your Duck à l’Orange.”
“A culinary-school cliché,” said Gestard, waving his hand dismissively. “I’m done with it.”
“But nobody has ever equaled your technique,” said Marple. “Or the quality of your ingredients.”
Gestard seemed to not even hear what she was saying. “You’re not unattractive,” he said. “If you were still in your twenties, we could train you for a hostess position.” He started walking off. But Marple wasn’t done.
“You have your ducks flown in daily from a small farm near Rouen. They’re fed on a grain-based diet, adjusted for the seasons. You add soybeans and flaxseed oil to their final feed to maximize fat content.”
Gestard stopped.
Marple continued. “Your sauce is not made with off-the-shelf Grand Marnier. Only special batch, direct from the French distillery, blended to your specifications.”
Gestard turned. His eyes narrowed. “Are you some kind of spy?”
“You source your oranges from Valencia for the best balance of sugar and acidity, except for last year, when there was a weak harvest. Then you switched to a vendor near São Paulo. You fly in your thyme from Sicily and your rosemary from Tamil Nadu. The reason your duck glaze is so silky is that you—”
“Stop!” Gestard walked back and halted directly in front of her. “What’s your name again?”
“Margaret Marple.”
“Are you up this early every morning, Margaret?”
“With the birds.”
Gestard tapped his chin and looked at her. Really looked. Like he was assessing a fresh salmon. She half expected him to poke her.
“Tomorrow,” he said gruffly. “Be here an hour earlier. You’ll speak with me and my assistant, Gabrielle. You think you know French cuisine?”
“I do.”
“We’ll find out.”
Marple felt like cheering. Instead, she spoke softly. “Yes, Chef.”
Gestard waved a scolding finger. “No, no. Not yet. Only students and employees get to call me that. And right now you are neither. We’ll see. Tomorrow.”
She nodded.
“And no more tricks.”
As Marple picked up her bag and headed for the door, she noticed a young woman hovering in a corner of the dining room. Early twenties, Marple estimated. Pretty face. Dark eyes. A tousled, pixie-style haircut. And a no-nonsense expression. Gestard didn’t even acknowledge her as he shoved his way through the kitchen doors.
Outside, under the blue awning, Marple exhaled loudly, her breath billowing out as white vapor. As she hurried toward the garage, she realized that she wasn’t even feeling the cold. Her mind was busy with the list of materials she needed to buy.
She’d done it! Or at least she had one foot in the door. Who knew where this could lead? Maybe there was a life beyond mysteries and murder.
And beyond the inscrutable Brendan Holmes.
CHAPTER 22
HOLMES WAS STILL sitting at the table with Poe when he heard a vehicle pull up outside. It wasn’t Marple. He knew the sound of the pickup, and this was different. No rumble.
Poe jumped up and ran to the window. “Shit. It’s Buck Gregson. Do you want to evade?”
Holmes felt his gut tighten slightly. Was this about Celia Rogers? Had Sheriff Gregson come up with more evidence? Something else that Oliver Paul had planted? Maybe something that would actually stick? Holmes glanced toward the back door, but he was in no mood to run off like a fugitive. Besides, it was freezing outside.
