Page 44

Marple plucked a clean fork and knife from a plastic bin. She leaned over the table and carved a small section from the dish that was hers. She slid it into her mouth and bit down. Amazing. Marple had said a silent prayer of gratitude after she’d killed her hen. Now she said another. The ballotine was one of the best things she’d ever tasted.

Gestard was a prick for sure, but he was a knowledgeable prick. And he knew how to get the best out of his students. Once again, Marple felt lucky to be here.

She put down her utensils and picked up the plate. She walked over to the garbage bin and slid the rest of her chicken in. Then she did the same with the other two plates. She put the soiled utensils and dishware into a plastic bus bin for the dishwashers who would be in shortly. She wiped down the prep table until it gleamed.

She took off her apron and tossed it into in a cloth-lined hamper near the back door. Then she headed out the front through the dining room.

There had been some progress in the construction over the past few days. Wires were now hidden behind ornate switch plates, and the last of the builder’s paper had been taken up from the floor. The work this morning was on the roof, where a leak in a skylight had been discovered.

Marple weaved her way through the empty tables to the stairway that led to the basement, where employees had their lockers. Each of the students had one too. The lockers, neatly numbered, were in a row along a corridor lined with rough stone, which reminded Marple of dungeon walls.

At the other end of the long hallway was a door that led to a rear alley. Marple had only used it once. After the first class, she had volunteered to take out the garbage. Behind that door were the restaurant’s huge trash and recycling bins.

The basement corridor was lit by a series of bulbs in industrial fixtures. Halfway down was the door to Gestard’s tiny office. At first, Marple found it odd that in a multimillion-dollar renovation, the chef hadn’t given himself a little hideaway upstairs. But that would have cut back on kitchen space, which was precious, or on dining room footage, which was where the money would be made. There was something quaint and European about an office in a stone cellar, like the lair of some disgruntled dragon.

Marple spun the combination and opened her locker. She grabbed her coat and slipped it on, then pulled her gloves from the coat pocket.

As she turned, she heard voices from down the hall. A male and a female, arguing in French, intense and heated, but too muffled for her to understand. Suddenly she heard the bang of a door hitting a wall. She closed her locker. Light was coming from Gestard’s office. The door was open. Gabrielle Desan was in the hallway, leaning against the opposite side, her face in her hands. She was still in her chef uniform. After a couple of seconds, she turned down the hallway and walked quickly toward the alley exit. She jerked open the door and slammed it behind her. A second later, the door to Gestard’s office closed from the inside.

Desan clearly had been upset or angry. It was the first sign of emotion Marple had ever seen from her. For a second, she thought of following her outside and making sure she was okay.

But no, she decided. Gestard was tough on everyone. Even the loyal Gabrielle Desan, apparently.

It was none of her damn business.

CHAPTER 45

AS MARGARET MARPLE rumbled back to the lodge in the rusty pickup, she thought about how to deflect the blast of ire and resentment she was sure to get from her partners. Holmes in particular.

She could almost hear him already, in that superior tone of his. How could she be fretting about French cuisine when the country was blowing up? When Oliver Paul was running loose?

She’d asked the same questions herself, over and over. But she’d learned that when she was around Holmes all the time—his obsessiveness, his peculiarities, his overpowering genius—it was too much for her. It diminished her. If their love was going to recover and survive, it would take some distance.

The simple truth was, Marple needed time to herself, no matter the cost. It wasn’t about work–life balance. To her, life was all work. The cooking class was just a different kind. It was necessary for her sanity. And without her sanity, she was no good to anybody.

She turned off the main road and onto the driveway. The truck bounced over frost heaves in the pavement. Smoke from the lodge’s chimney curled above the trees ahead. Marple looked forward to warming herself in front of a fire with a nice cup of chamomile tea.

The second she rounded the last curve, she jammed on the brakes. Her heart started pounding. Sitting in the open space in front of the lodge was a large black helicopter, with its rotors turning slowly. It looked jarringly out of place.

Marple leaned forward and looked through her frosty windshield. The chopper had a tail number but no other markings. Friend or foe? No way to tell. She continued slowly up the driveway, worried that she was heading straight into danger.

She pulled out her cell phone and called Holmes.

He picked up on the first ring. “Margaret!”

“Brendan, there’s a helicopter in the front yard.”

“Correct. I’m in it. We’re waiting for you.”

Marple drove closer. The side door of the chopper slid open. Holmes leaned out, waving vigorously, cell phone to his ear. “Hurry up!”

A familiar thrill rushed through her. She shook her head at the sheer madness of it. This was life with Brendan Holmes. You never knew when you’d find a new gadget on the table, new software on your laptop—or a strange helicopter on the lawn.

She parked the truck at the far end of the circle and climbed out. The chopper rotors were starting to spin, faster and faster, until they turned in a blur. By the time she reached the door, the downdraft was whipping her hair around her face. Holmes leaned down and extended his hand. Marple stepped onto the chopper’s metal skid. Holmes pulled her into the tiny cabin.

Poe was already inside, strapped in with a flight helmet on. Marple took the seat opposite Holmes. He put his helmet on and handed one to her. “Buckle up, Margaret!” he shouted above the engine noise.

Marple fastened her harness and forced the helmet down over her head. Now their voices traveled through the helmets’ mics and speakers. “Let’s go!” Poe said to the pilot. The chopper lifted off and pitched forward, rising over the roof of the lodge.