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“Morning, Chef!” they all echoed. Marple was part of the chorus, as loud as the others. Maybe louder. She could feel her adrenaline pumping.

“Aprons on,” said Gestard, barely glancing at the group. “This is a practical class.”

Desan reached under a workstation and pulled out a stack of folded blue aprons. She tossed them at the students, one after the other. Marple caught hers and quickly slipped it on, knotting the ties at the small of her back.

Gestard was already at the stove, pulling pans and plates off an overhead shelf. “Quiche Lorraine!” he called out, not even turning around. Marple felt her heart pounding in her chest. The recipe was familiar enough, but Gestard’s attitude made it seem like they were about to climb Everest.

Desan clapped her hands together. “Ingredients?”

The replies came in a free-for-all. “Eggs! Cream! Bacon! Cheese!”

“What else?”

“Scallions?” offered Mandi.

Desan cocked her head. “Is that a question?”

“No!” said Mandi, red-faced. “I mean shallots. Definitely shallots!”

“What kind of cheese?” asked Desan.

“Gruyère,” Marple said firmly. No doubt about it.

“Everything you need is in the kitchen or the walk-in,” said Desan. “Go!”

There was a nervous exchange of glances, then a frantic divide and conquer. Mandi headed for the refrigerator. Stacy and Lisa made a dash toward the walk-in. Marple spotted a stack of produce cartons by the back door. She ran over and shifted the pile until she found the shallots. She ripped open the box and grabbed a handful, still cool from shipping. In less than a minute, everybody was back at the prep table, piling the ingredients in the center.

Marple scanned the items on the table. Shit. The pastry! There were no ingredients for dough! Then she caught the aroma. Just a hint. She looked over as Gestard opened the oven and peeked in. Sneaky bastard. The shell was already baking.

Gestard closed the oven door and pulled a large knife off a magnetic rack. He walked over to the prep table and grabbed a thick slab of bacon in the other hand. He tossed it in front of Mandi, who looked terrified. He handed her the knife. She held it poised over the fatty chunk, waiting for instructions.

“Now!” shouted Gestard. He leaned in close as Mandi grabbed the bacon and began running the knife through it.

“Are you dicing or chopping?” Gestard asked, his nose in the student’s face.

Mandi looked flustered. “I’m sorry, I—”

Gestard slipped in behind her, wrapped his hand tightly around her wrist and forced the knife down through the bacon, first in one direction, then another. “Diced!” he shouted into her ear. “Small, equal squares! Nothing haphazard! Everything precise!” He looked at the others. And waited.

Marple took the cue. “Yes, Chef!” The others chimed in a split second later in a sloppy mishmash.

“Again!” shouted Gestard.

This time the unison was perfect. “Yes, Chef!”

Gestard released Mandi’s wrist. She kept on dicing furiously, following his pattern.

He tossed a metal bowl at Stacy and told her to start peeling the shallots. “Quickly! Like this!” He took a shallot in both hands, broke it in half and shucked off the papery outer covering. It happened in a blur, like a magic trick.

Stacy grabbed a shallot and squeezed. It shot out of her hand and landed on the tile floor. Marple winced. Gestard bent down, grabbed the runaway and crushed it in his hands like a peanut. “Waste will put me out of business. And it will put you out of the course!” Stacy gathered the rest of the shallots in front of her like precious gems and got to work.

Gestard slid a wedge of Gruyère in front of Lisa. “Shred it!”

Lisa looked around the kitchen, a bit cocky. “Where’s your food processor?”

Gestard reached underneath the table and pulled out a metal box grater. He shoved it across the stainless-steel surface. “Right here.”

The whole time, Gabrielle Desan hovered near Gestard like a wraith, handing him whatever he needed at the moment. Bowl. Paring knife. Towel. Marple noticed that they hadn’t exchanged a single word. He barely looked at her. They seemed to be communicating on their own private wavelength.