by JJ Marsh
The man clenched his hands together and his eyes had a haunted look.
“You’re safe here. I promise. But even if Rami was a spy, someone else is still active. The affogato recipe has appeared on more than one menu this week.”
Suhail shook his head with a dismissive frown. “My belief is they don’t have an insider anymore. So they try to copy the dishes but with no expertise, they will fail.”
“Do you know who they are?”
“No. Rami never gave me any names. The people who approached me are nothing more than agents but their employers have connections. That is how it works. Beatrice, I want to do my job and protect Ecco. The problem is that I am afraid, for myself and also for you. These people are powerful and very dangerous.”
Beatrice stared out across the twilight rooftops. “But not infallible. I have a rough plan. With your help, we can make it perfect. Why don’t you unpack, freshen up and join me in the kitchen? We have work to do.”
With the help of their curious six-year-old assistant, Beatrice and Suhail created eight individual desserts. Once in the kitchen, Beatrice was amazed to see Suhail’s tension and trembles disappear. His focus was extraordinary, as was his patience with Luke. At one point Beatrice even suggested Luke go play on his device in the living room, but Suhail spoke up and suggested the task of peeling pistachios would be perfect for small fingers. Beatrice gave in and watched the interaction between the two with some curiosity.
The official tasting was a formal affair. Each taster at the dining table – Matthew, Adrian, Will and Luke – was given a piece of paper with A & B, C & D written as a column. Beside each letter was room to write a score out of 5 and space for comments.
Beatrice poured everyone a glass of water. “Don’t forget; score the jelly and the ice-cream separately. Drink a couple of sips of water between the two dishes to cleanse your taste buds,” she instructed. “Keep your opinions to yourself while tasting, just concentrate on the dish and write your notes on your scorecard. Please remember, the presentation is limited to what shops were open on an Easter Monday.”
Suhail presented Dish One: four plates with a lilac-coloured ball of ice-cream resting beside a smooth dome of golden jelly, decorated with a few crushed pistachios and around the edge of the plate, some sugared almonds.
The chefs watched as the tasters took several mouthfuls and considered their verdicts. Once Adrian, the last to finish writing, had laid down his pencil, Beatrice removed the plates, hushing Luke’s protest.
“If you like either or both, you can polish off the lot later. But first I need you to try Dish Two. Drink some water, please.”
Suhail presented four cocktail glasses, frosty from the freezer. The ice-cream, a darker mauve this time, had set at a diagonal so the jelly settled into the remaining triangle, creating an asymmetric effect. Lying across each glass was a golden brown and blond lingua di gatto or cat’s tongue biscuit and at the edge of the glass perched a purple and yellow flower.
Eyes widened as the glasses were set before them. “Buon appetito,” said Beatrice. “The real thing would have edible flowers, but these are actually pansies I picked from the roof garden. Just set them to one side. Right, dig in.”
The reactions were initially similar, thoughtful faces and expressions of approval. Until they took a spoon of the ice-cream. Luke’s nose wrinkled and he took a sip of water. Matthew shook his head and bent to sniff his glass, while Adrian and Will put down their spoons.
Beatrice held up a finger to prevent any comments and pointed to the score sheets. All four heads bent to scribble urgently on the comments section. To her satisfaction, she could already see Adrian had written a zero next to section D and Luke gave it a minus 10. So far, so good.
She shared a smile with Suhail. “So, could you please give us your overall scores for Dish One, that is, jelly A and ice-cream B?” She totted them up and got a score of 37 out of 40, because Luke was not a fan of the Prosecco flavour.
“Now to Dish Two, which was evidently less popular. Scores please?”
Everyone spoke at once and Beatrice could only make out the words ‘soapy’, ‘overly scented’ and ‘revolting’ until Luke’s voice was the last to fade.
“It tastes like Grandma’s bathroom!”
After the laughter died down, Beatrice and Suhail took their seats.
“Right, your reaction was exactly what we’d hoped for. The jellies are in fact the same, just in a different presentation. The ice-creams have one important difference. The amount of lavender. The second one uses dried lavender and a significant amount more of it. Hence the overly perfumed, oppressive taste. Only Suhail and I know the exact measurements and it will stay that way. To everyone else, including Agusto and Isabella, we tell them the second recipe. Desserts at Ecco will be perfectly balanced and for those who like Prosecco, utterly delicious. If I’m right regarding our leak, those at the Nonna chain will smell like a grandma’s bathroom.”
Chapter 26
Maintaining Suhail’s security was an issue that concerned them all. No one should know where he was staying, which presented an immediate problem on Tuesday morning. Ettore would arrive at his apartment to collect him for work and after finding no one home, would come to fetch Beatrice. They had to conceal their guest, for everyone’s sake.
Beatrice woke early from bad-tempered dreams of crocheted toilet roll covers and lavender fields, feeling hungover despite the fact she’d drunk nothing more than water last night. She slipped out of bed and went upstairs to get some fresh air on the terrace. As she paced the perimeter of the huge space, a vehicle horn tooted, attracting her attention. She looked down to the car park behind the building. She’d hardly even noticed it before, as the view from the other three sides was so commanding. People were beginning their day. As she watched, a woman got out of a car and called something to the adjacent building. Finally a man came hurrying across the gravel, pulling on his jacket as he ran. Two teenagers called something to the harassed man who lifted his hands to the heavens. They laughed, she tooted the horn again and he got into the car. Before their car had even left the compound, two women got onto a moped, placing helmets over their glossy hair, and buzzed out of the gates into the street. Two more suited workers got into their separate cars and vacated their spots.
The car park was private, shared by three apartment blocks on the same street. Somehow, each vehicle that entered or exited was able to operate the large steel gates which closed after each arrival or departure. Directly below her, a man hared out of the same building as hers and straddled a silvery motorcycle. He threw the strap of his briefcase across his chest and fastened the chinstrap on his helmet. He blew a kiss back at the doorway. Curious, Beatrice leaned over the balustrade to see the recipient. Rather than a Gina Lollobrigida lookalike in a suggestive nightgown, there was a brindle cat sitting Sphinx-like on the doorstep.
Helmets. Gates. Privacy. Beatrice began pacing. Yes, on a moped, Suhail could leave and arrive at their apartment with relative anonymity, but at the restaurant? If people were watching him, they could follow the bike and put two and two together. How could they get the man to and from work without revealing the connection to Beatrice? It would have to be a team effort. Time to call on the cavalry. Again.
Will adopted the role of bodyguard with proprietary authority. “Today, Suhail and I can leave via the back gate and take a cab. Beatrice, you should stick to routine. Go with Ettore. We’ll work out an alternative for this evening to get Suhail back here. Tomorrow, I’ll hire a moped and helmets, drive Suhail to work and pick him up afterwards. Between us, we can handle this and keep you both safe.”
Suhail, clutching a cup of coffee, listened to the conversation. A smile blossomed on his face, an expression so rare it stopped Beatrice in her tracks.
“Will, Beatrice, I cannot begin to thank you enough. Your kindness and the efforts you make for my safety are humbling. One day, I will repay such gestures of humanity.”
“Hey, we’re a
ll in this together,” said Will. “You’re the chef; we’re your back-up team. I’ll go tell Adrian the plan then we should hit the road. Beatrice, is that OK with you?”
Beatrice finished her coffee. “You two go ahead. I need a few minutes to brush my hair. Will, what would we do without you?”
“Stay out of trouble, I guess. You remember I thought this private investigation gig was a good idea, right?”
Ettore was late and when he did arrive, he was distraught.
“Suhail is gone! His apartment is a catastrophe!” He pronounced it Cat-Ass-Troff. “I don’t know where he is, if he is alive, how to find him. His neighbours know nothing. This is bad, very bad. First Rami and now Suhail, what is happening in this city? We welcome everyone! Always. Napoli is a melting pot, we have all kinds of people and this is what makes the city special. If Suhail is gone or somebody hurt him, it is my fault. I am to protect him, bring him to work. This is very bad, Beatrice. Isabella will blame me!”
“Has anyone called the police?” asked Beatrice, disingenuously. “Or perhaps the restaurant should do that if he doesn’t turn up for work.”
“Yes, Agusto must call the police. This, all of this, is because somebody wants to destroy Ecco. It makes me sad in my soul. Good people, beautiful food, loyal employees and now, what happens to us?” He took his hands off the wheel for an empty-handed gesture and Beatrice’s right foot hit an imaginary brake.
His phone rang and Ettore conducted a brief and urgent conversation in Italian. When he rang off, he reached over to shake Beatrice’s leg.
“God be praised! Suhail is at Ecco!” he said, with a huge grin. “He left his apartment and he stays with a friend. Isabella cries and Agusto thanks God. I am so happy, Beatrice! And so are you!”
Beatrice played the game. She bent her head onto her clasped hands. “Our prayers have been answered, Ettore, and we should give thanks. Suhail has a guardian angel. This is going to be a very special week!”
Ettore closed his eyes and thumped a palm to his chest. Beatrice’s toes clenched and she wished her passionate and emotional driver would keep his eyes open, at least while he was behind the steering-wheel.
The morning was as busy and stressful as ever, particularly as everyone had a new dish to prepare for Agusto’s approval, yet the atmosphere had a celebratory feeling. Rather like a new beginning.
Suhail took charge of the daily duties, leaving Beatrice to create ‘The English Garden’ herself, under his supervision. The temperatures and timing had to be precise, so she used a thermometer and timer. Once diners began to arrive, the basic house desserts were complete, so they had around an hour to prepare all the extras – tuiles, biscotti, lingue di gatto and citrus crisps. There was always a brief hiatus for the dessert corner while the primi piatti were served and Beatrice seized her chance.
She ducked through the mayhem of the main kitchen and out into the courtyard, clutching her phone. Ensuring no one was in earshot, she dialled Herr Karl Kälin of Swiss Federal Police. She wasn’t sure if he’d remember her from that serial killer case a few years back, but she had certainly not forgotten him.
He answered the call in the same brusque manner she recalled from their collaboration. “Kälin.”
“Hello, Herr Kälin, this is Beatrice Stubbs. We worked together a few years ago on the D’Arcy Richter case.”
“Hello, Frau B. Yes, I remember that case. And you are not someone I would forget. Are you well?”
Beatrice had a sense of déjà vu, the uncertainty of whether he was being friendly or simply dry. She chose the optimistic outlook. “Yes, thank you, just dealing with the onset of old age. How are you? I hear you recently retired.”
“Correct. And unless I am mistaken, so did you. I am curious what reason you have to call me, unless it is to compare pensions.”
Beatrice’s lips twitched. He really was a truculent old bugger. “Indeed I have retired from the Metropolitan Police, but I still do a little detective work on a private basis. I’m currently investigating a case in Italy and there appears to be a Swiss connection. Do you know of a place called Einsiedeln?”
“I do. It is in Canton Schwyz about one hour from Zürich. What about it?”
“Well, there’s a new restaurant of interest to my investigation, and the chef and owner shares your name. Kälin. I wondered if it might be a relative of yours.”
“Ah, I see. You find two people with the same name from the same country and assume they are related. Do you apply the same logic when investigating someone from England called Smith?”
“It’s not something I would discount,” she retorted, her jaw tensing. How could that irascible git still irritate her over so many miles and years? “Perhaps if I give you the full details, you can tell me if I’m chasing my own trail. The chef’s name is Stefan Kälin and the name of the restaurant is Chalet Nonna.”
There was a moment’s silence at the other end and Beatrice paced the courtyard, spotting something on the ground. The knife sharpener she had hurled at the intruder who scratched Agusto’s Ferrari. She crouched to pick it up and spotted something else a few paces away. It looked like a credit card. Beatrice’s eyes widened, just as Kälin’s voice rumbled into her ear.
“That is a coincidence. Stefan is the son of my cousin. His success as a chef has come as a surprise to all of his family. Until now, he has always been what you would call a ‘quitter’. Stefan has begun many careers seeking fame and now finally finds himself a celebrity on the restaurant scene.”
“Aha! So I was right to ask you,” said Beatrice, with a certain smugness.
“I’m afraid you just got lucky, Frau Stubbs. Every third person you meet in that area is called Kälin. As I said, this is a coincidence.”
Exasperated, Beatrice got to the point. “Very well. So that is one of those areas where cousins are still allowed to marry. My question is more about this restaurant, how well you know the owner and if you can tell me anything about the financing and creative impetus behind the venture.”
The silence went on for much longer this time.
“Herr Kälin?”
“The older we get, the less we learn. I see you still cannot manage to moderate your opinions before expressing them, Frau Stubbs. Although I am a busy man, I will visit the restaurant. Perhaps I might learn something by using a more sophisticated approach. I wish you a good day.”
He rang off before Beatrice could wish him the same.
After a hectic but more successful lunch service, Agusto was ready to try his chefs’ new ideas. Each nervous cook had designed and prepared a new dish for his approval, presented to the Colacino trio in the restaurant. Nerves and a certain amount of friendly competition electrified the kitchen.
Agusto, in an excellent mood, made some changes and additions, yet gave the thumbs up to them all. Every chef who returned to the kitchen had positive news. Finally, it was time for dessert.
Beatrice used her hip to open the swing doors, gave them all a big smile and placed the single dish in front of Agusto. The script she had prepared with Suhail scrolled through her head. Double cream, egg yolks, milk, honey, dried English lavender to create the delicate scent of summer in an ice-cream, with subtle flavours of Prosecco in a sunshine jelly, with a light biscuit evoking the classic birthday tea.
Agusto tasted first, followed by Isabella and Gennaio.
“Yes,” said Agusto. “I like. The birthday tea, the English Garden, this is a good story. The jelly is too sweet, use a Brut. The ice-cream is perfect but I don’t like the biscuit. Too simple for Ecco. Nothing we do is boring. Hmm. The birthday tea. Alice in Wonderland. Tea party.” He closed his eyes.
Beatrice wondered if this was a typically Italian habit. She said nothing and kept smiling. He may well have dozed off.
“What happens at an English birthday party?” Agusto demanded, his eyes now wide open.
“Oh, you know, singing, presents, cake. Sparklers in winter, bunting in summer, maybe a scavenger hunt or pass-the-parcel
. At least, that’s how we did it in my day.”
Gennaio shook his head. “I understand nothing.” He stood up and took out his cigarettes, jerking his head at the door.
“Wait, Gennaio!” called Isabella. “What is ‘bunting’, Beatrice?”
“Flags. Little triangular flags along a line. Very British symbol of a celebration.”
Isabella and Agusto spoke eagerly in Italian. Whatever was said, both were pleased with the outcome.
“We will make the bunting,” Isabella announced. “Agusto did it many times before with edible paper. Lavender ice-cream, Prosecco jelly and little flags you can eat. I LOVE this idea!”
Isabella clapped her hands and Agusto kissed her cheek. Gennaio, still on his feet, flicking his lighter, looked back at the table. “OK, I can vote for this English dessert. What about the other guy’s idea?”
Agusto shook his head. “Suhail’s apartment was trashed this weekend. We can’t expect him to create a dessert in those circumstances.”
“Really? Everyone had the whole weekend to invent new ideas, including the Arab. When he comes home to a burglary, all his ideas go ...” He flashed both hands as if to make something disappear.
Isabella got to her feet. “Gennaio, go smoke.”
“I’m going. But listen to me, when even the fake chef can create something and that refugee cannot, we have a problem? He is useless.”
Beatrice bristled. “Fake chef? That refugee? Just a minute ...”
“Out!” yelled Isabella, shoving Gennaio towards the door. She flashed a threatening look behind her, but it was not directed at Beatrice. Her husband cringed and retreated to the kitchen.
