Page 43

A few seconds later, the door banged open again. This time it was Luc Gestard, wearing a field jacket over his whites. He was lugging a small wooden crate with slatted sides. He put it down on the floor and pulled off his heavy gloves. “Today,” he said, “we do a ballotine.”

“Yes, Chef!” the students all shouted back.

Marple felt an anxious tingle. She had studied a few ballotine recipes, but she had never actually made one. Too time-consuming, and too intimidating. The technique involved a complex process of deboning, stuffing, wrapping, and roasting. It would be a challenging lesson, and a lot could go wrong, especially if the chef demanded one of his signature finishes, like a truffle reduction or a complex fruit glaze.

Gestard opened the front hatch of the crate, reached in, and pulled out a large, flapping hen. The bird was plump and fluffy, with lush white feathers and a crimson comb and wattle.

Gestard cradled the bird gently in the crook of his arm and stroked its head. “Look carefully,” he said. “This is a poulet de Bresse, bred near the Seille River. Only five percent of these hens are allowed to be exported from France. One percent of those come to me.”

“She’s beautiful,” cooed Stacy, as if admiring a new baby.

“Yes,” said Gestard. “She is.” He reached under the chicken, grabbed it by its legs, and flipped it so that it was hanging head down. “The best cooking chicken is fresh from the farm, not sitting in a cooler, yes?”

“Yes, Chef!” the whole class shouted.

Gestard hooked his thumb and fingers around the bird’s neck, then jerked downward in a single, sharp motion. There was an audible crack.

“Omigod!” Stacy reeled to one side. Marple caught her before she fell over. The hen flapped violently. Mandi turned away. Lisa closed her eyes and covered her mouth with both hands.

Desan grabbed the chicken from Gestard in mid-spasm and held it up. “It’s nothing. Just nerves sparking.” The flapping gradually slowed, then stopped. The wings splayed out. Desan tapped the bird’s head, now hanging limp. “See? Vertebrae severed. Painless.”

Lisa backed away from the prep table, clearly shaken. “That’s it. I’m done.”

“Don’t be a hypocrite,” said Gestard. “You eat chicken, don’t you?”

Lisa stopped at the dining room door. “Yes. Yes, I do. But I don’t need to see the murder.” She pushed the door open and walked out.

Gestard looked over at the three remaining students. “No loss,” he said. “Weak link.” He bent down and reached into the crate again. He pulled out another chicken, then another, then another, until he was holding all three by their legs, two in his left hand, one in his right, like some kind of circus act.

Marple felt her belly go sour. She knew what was coming.

Gestard scanned the group. “Who’s first?”

Mandi flushed and shook her head. Stacy was still trembling in Marple’s arms. “No way,” she whispered.

“If I can do it,” Marple whispered back, “you can do it.”

Marple steadied Stacy against the table and stepped around to the other side. She reached for the hen in Gestard’s right hand and held it just the way he did, head down. In that position, the bird was surprisingly calm, almost sedated. It was heavier than she’d expected.

“No warning,” said Gestard. “No hesitation.”

Marple nodded. She wrapped her fingers gently around the bird’s neck. Soft feathers brushed her wrist. She felt everybody’s eyes on her. She took a quick breath. Food is survival, she told herself. As primal as birth and death.

She looked directly at Gestard, tightened her grip—and yanked.

CHAPTER 44

THREE HOURS LATER, Margaret Marple was alone in the kitchen. She blotted the sweat off her forehead with a damp towel. Three artfully plated servings of Chicken Ballotine sat on the prep table. Each presentation had exactly one slice missing from the center. Luc Gestard had tasted all three without comment before disappearing downstairs, trailed by Gabrielle Desan, as usual.

Mandi and Stacy had left as soon as class ended. They still looked partly in shock. In the end, both had managed to kill and pluck their chickens. A bonding experience for sure.

To Marple, the executions gave the class an elevated, almost religious overtone. Blood sacrifice. But now she was physically and emotionally drained. And she knew that back at the lodge her partners were dealing with killings on a whole different level.

But she couldn’t leave yet. It was her turn to clean up after class, and everything needed to be spotless. She’d already wiped down the oven and range top, mopped the floor, and put the extra supplies away in the refrigerator and walk-in.

All that was left to do was dispose of the three barely touched ballotines. It seemed like a pitiful waste, especially after all the effort expended, but Chef Gestard had a firm rule. Nothing from class was to be left in the kitchen or taken home. And no photographs, ever. What happened at La Forêt stayed at La Forêt.

Marple rested her hands on the prep table for a moment, staring at the plates. Each serving was a perfectly crisped roll of poultry, stuffed with cheese, bread, and spinach. The mouthwatering aroma still hung in the air. Except for the missing slices, the dishes looked ready to serve.