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To Marple, the exam was part inquisition, part stress test. As Gestard and Desan fired questions at her, workmen swarmed all around. The whole place was smelly, noisy, and stifling. The clear message seemed to be “If you can’t stand the heat…”

Marple was determined not to crack.

The next question was from Gestard. “How would you prepare a vinaigrette?”

Marple didn’t hesitate. “Champagne vinegar, Dijon mustard, extra-virgin olive oil.”

“And in what proportions?” asked Desan.

Marple rattled off the measurements from memory.

“How would you test a duck breast for doneness?” asked Gestard.

“Duck should be cooked medium rare to 135 degrees Fahrenheit, with a slightly pink center. It should be firm to the touch when pressed with an index finger.”

“Define brunoise,” said Desan.

“It means to julienne vegetables into strips, then dice them into uniform cubes.”

“To what size?” asked Gestard.

“No more than three millimeters on each side, usually two millimeters.”

On and on it went, the questions getting harder and harder, demanding more arcane knowledge. Ignoring the noise and clutter, Marple described the finer points of au gratin and three methods of deglazing. She identified the top five wine regions in France and listed several suitable pairings for venison. She named all fifteen cuts from a whole pig, remembering at the last second to add ears, brains, and snout.

Thirty minutes passed. Question after question. Detail after detail. Meanwhile, workers hammered a new range hood into place a few feet away and installed a butcher-block counter using power drills.

At the half hour mark, Gestard’s cell phone rang on the countertop. The screen lit up with an incoming call. He glanced at his assistant. Marple took a deep breath. Was that it? Was it over?

Apparently not. Gestard let the phone ring. He reached for a small pan hanging from a rack and slammed it down in front of Marple.

“Make me an omelet,” he ordered. Then he turned away and answered his phone.

“Bonjour!”

Gabrielle Desan stood up and snapped her fingers in Marple’s face. “Tell me what you need. Your mise en place. Quickly!”

Marple took a breath to center her energy. She reminded herself that she’d had guns pointed in her face. She’d stared down burglars, kidnappers, and killers. Damned if she was going to let this little martinet get to her. She quickly washed her hands in the sink and picked up the pan. “Get me three fresh eggs, sweet butter, salt, white pepper—not black—a bowl, and a fork.”

Desan raised her eyebrows. “Nothing else?”

It felt like a trick question.

“And a hot burner,” said Marple.

Desan walked to an industrial-sized refrigerator as Marple carried her pan to the spanking new stove, a La Cornue. For a second, Marple was intimidated. She knew the gleaming unit was worth more than a hundred thousand dollars. Was she the first to use it? Was it even connected?

Marple placed the pan on one of the front burners and cranked the knob. The gas flame jumped to life with an authoritative whoosh.

Desan was back with three brown eggs in a ceramic bowl, a slab of butter, and a fork. She put them down and held up three spatulas—one wood, one plastic, one metal. It looked like another trick. Marple shook her head and held up the fork. Like a weapon.

Desan put the spatulas on the counter and stood with her arms folded. Marple turned. “I’ll do better if you’re not watching.”

The assistant shrugged. Her expression said, Your funeral. She stepped away.

Marple could feel sweat beading on her forehead. She blotted herself with the sleeve of her blouse and got to work.

She reached up to a shelf and grabbed a ceramic dinner plate. Small containers of salt and white pepper sat on the countertop. She cracked the eggs and let the insides plop into the bowl. She used the fork to whip the eggs into a light froth. She added a pinch of salt and another of white pepper. She touched her bent knuckles to the cooking surface of the pan to gauge the temperature. Perfect. Ready.