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Gestard pulled out his cell phone and held it up. He jabbed at the screen. “You fucking ruined me!”
“No,” said Marple. “You did that all by yourself.”
Marple knew exactly what he was pointing to. The stories were everywhere. YouTube, Reddit, Instagram, TikTok. She had been enjoying the headlines for two days.
Grabby Chef Is Cooked
Serial Sleaze Finally Off the Menu
Four-Star Creep
Check, Please!
Marple’s video interviews from two nights ago had seeded the frenzy. Now the knives were out in force.
Gestard glared at Desan. “You! What more do you want from me? Plane fare back to France? A letter of recommendation?”
“No,” said Desan, stepping up to the prep table. “I want this.”
“What do you mean—‘this’? The table?”
Desan waved her hand around the kitchen. “I mean this. All of it. I’ll pay you ten dollars for your restaurant and everything in it.”
“You’re insane!”
“I’ve spoken to the Tompkins County Clerk,” said Marple. “They’ll be revoking your business certificate.”
“On what basis?”
“On the basis of business misconduct. A reputation for mistreatment of employees, to be specific. Ithaca is a very progressive little city, you know.”
“I’ll sue!” shouted Gestard.
“You’ll lose,” said Marple. She reached into her bag and pulled out two sheaves of paper. She held up one in each hand. “I’ve got the ownership transfer documents for the restaurant right here. Or I’ve got twenty more complaints I can release.” She started to read off the names. “‘Phoebe Foster. Sara Scott. Hannah Huggard.’ Should I go on?”
Gestard banged his fist down on the prep table, shaking a pile of plates. He glared at Desan. “Fine!” he yelled. “Take it! I don’t need the headache. I’ve got plenty of other businesses.”
Marple put the ownership contract on the table and handed him a pen. Gestard riffled through to the last page and scrawled his name across the bottom. He threw the pen down. Desan picked it up and signed her name below his. She pulled a ten-dollar bill out of her pocket and laid it out flat on the table.
Gestard ignored the gesture. “These signatures need to be witnessed,” he said curtly.
“You’re in luck,” said Marple, pulling a rubber stamp out of her bag. “I happen to be a licensed notary in New York.” She pressed the stamp down on the last page and signed her name above the inky impression. “Done,” she said, stuffing the document into her bag. “All legal.”
Gestard sneered in Desan’s direction. “You’ll fail. You don’t have my recipes. And you’ll never get them!”
Desan leaned in. “That’s where you’re wrong, Chef. I do have them. You drilled them into my brain, day and night, for three years. Do you think I wasn’t paying attention? Do you think I could ever forget what you taught me?” She pointed to her temple. “Everything I need is right here.”
Marple smiled. “As my favorite mystery author once said, memory is a wonderful gift.”
CHAPTER 93
THAT EVENING, OUTSIDE the massive field house near Cayuga Lake, snow was swirling off the ice and falling steadily. In the huge parking lot behind the building, cars were already partly hidden under piles of white. A Jeep with a snowplow attached sat idle as drifts buried the blade.
Repercussions from the Aquila oil spill were still rocking the industry and global markets, but inside these aluminum walls, high-octane fuel and heavy-duty lubricants were in good supply.
The temperature was in the high seventies, bolstered by over a thousand warm bodies and dozens of supercharged engines. Monster engines.
Poe estimated the decibels at about 110, close to the same level as a standard jet taking off. He could feel the vibration of the engines in his bones. He leaned over and shouted into Virginia’s ear. “What do you think?”
