FRENCH CUISINE
CAN KILL YOU
ORVILLY MYSTERIES
BOOK 1
Rebecca Dunsmuir
www.manderleybooks.ca
Copyright © 2018 by Rebecca Dunsmuir
All rights reserved. No part of this publication, including the cover, may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.
Rebecca Dunsmuir/Manderley Books
www.manderleybooks.ca
Cover design by Samia McFee.
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
In loving memory of R.
My warm thanks to Darlene, Gabrielle, Pam, Selina and Tricia for their help and encouragement. It is a joy to write, and a greater one to know that I entertained you, my readers.
French Cuisine Can Kill You/ Rebecca Dunsmuir. -- 1st ed.
ISBN 9781723849367
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Traditional French Recipes
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About the Author
Chapter 1
T he last day of March brought a pile of leaves to the main entrance of the Greater Victoria University. They were swirling with the strong winds blowing that day on the rainy West Coast as students rushed into the hall to join the long line at the Registrar’s Office. And it wasn’t even open yet.
Amanda hurried to the building, holding tight to the hood of her raincoat. When she saw the wave of future undergraduates, she felt tempted to turn around and go back to bed. Why do students always wait for the last minute to register?
Amanda opened the backdoor of the office and wiped her feet on the doormat vigorously. Kate was already at her desk, sipping a large coffee, a toddler's sock hanging out of her bag.
"I think you forgot something," said Amanda, pointing to the bag.
"Crap! Oh well, they must have tons of spare socks at daycare, they'll find one for Joshua. And even if they don't, this is how he spends his days anyway, one sock on, one sock lost. No big deal." Kate bent her head toward the large glass window and passed a hand through her short hair. "Have you seen what's waiting for us?"
"Unfortunately, I have,” said Amanda. “I recognize faces we’ve seen a dozen times before. Always the same ones who don't have the right paperwork... So, how was my ratatouille yesterday? Did David and the kids enjoy it?"
"They loved it! I don't remember the kids being that happy to eat vegetables, especially Nathan who's so picky."
"I'll give you the recipe. It's very easy to make."
"Are you kidding me? Cooking isn’t just about the ingredients, and you know I'm a real disaster in a kitchen. How many times have I told you that you should open your own restaurant instead of entering some boring information in old computers that crash all the time? You have a talent and you should use it."
"It's not that simple, Kate. What puzzles me more is that I have two degrees, one in psychology, one in French literature, and here I am, working in a registrar’s office. Where did I go wrong?"
Kate chuckled. "I should've been the drummer in the biggest metal band in the world, and look at me, married with three kids. You did well!"
Both women laughed.
“Just two months left before you go to France,” said Kate. “I don’t know how I’m going to do this without you.”
Amanda looked at her friend with a sweet smile. “You’ll be fine,” she said.
Amanda knew that Kate was more anxious about her wellbeing than having to deal with the crazy daily life at the office without her.
The past year had been very difficult for Amanda. Both her parents, who were in their late eighties, had passed away within a few months of each other. Amanda, their only child, had arrived quite late in their lives, at a time when the couple had lost any hope of having children. Amanda’s father had been an only child too, and her mother had mentioned the possibility of distant cousins in Europe. Therefore, Amanda had felt very lonely through this hard time. The only family she had left were her friends and her pets.
Although Kate had been wonderful and very supportive, Amanda needed a long rest, and Kate understood that. This is why, in two months’ time, Amanda would fly to France and spend a year there, thanks to a small inheritance her parents had left her.
She had never visited France before, but it had been a long-time dream. Passionate about French cuisine, Amanda had registered for a very sought-after class with a world-renowned French chef to improve her culinary skills. She had booked a little house for her and her pets in Nice, in the south of France, where the class would take place. She looked forward to learning how to cook traditional French meals to perfection under the warm sun of the French Riviera, and to saying goodbye to the rainy days of the Canadian West Coast.
The digital clock on the wall displayed the fated time: 8:30 a.m. Amanda reluctantly walked to the glass door to unlock it.
"Please, don't let them in," implored Kate, joking.
"Too late," answered Amanda. "We're doomed to live a life of endless registration, until the end of time."
And at 8:30 a.m. sharp, the students invaded the office and ran to the ticket dispenser. The number one appeared in red on the electronic ‘Now Serving’ board.
Chapter 2
A bit later that same morning, a mailman walked with difficulty on Bayview Road, leaning in to the strong wind. The heavily loaded bags he carried, filled with letters, flyers and parcels, made him swing back and forth. He was just a few steps away from the house at number 466, where he had to deliver a letter, but these few steps felt like an obstacle course. Finally, the mailman staggered up the steps and dropped the letter in the mail slot of Amanda’s red door.
A letter that would change her destiny.
Although the important document was delivered on time, Amanda would have to wait another day to read its contents. On the other side of the red door, a small, white, furry paw took possession of the brown envelope as soon as it landed on the floor. Bronx—the most unpleasant cat of all—was determined to make it his new treasure. This was the exact reason why Amanda had opted for email delivery only.
The day she discovered that Bronx had hidden away sixty-two letters in a large flower pot behind the old shed, Amanda called Canada Post to apologize for the many and regular complaints she had been filing for over two years. The agent on the phone was not impressed at all. What kind of dummy couldn’t figure out that her cat had stolen her mail for that long? To be fair, this employee didn’t know Bronx's twisted mind...
Carrying the precious letter in his mouth, the cat ran to the other end of the corridor and escaped through the pet door in the kitchen. D'Artagnan ran after him, barking. The dog wasn't sure yet why he was barking, but he knew for sure that this damned cat was up to no good.
D'Artagnan was the opposite of Bronx. Affectionate, fun, obedient. Most of the time obedient. And tall. Very tall. When the Great Dane stood up on his back legs to put his front ones on Amanda's shoulders, he reached an impressive six foot height. Amanda, who was only 5'3’’, would lose her balance and land on her butt. D'Artagnan always believed that this was a game; Amanda did not.
Knowing that he couldn’t get out of the house and run after the evil cat, d'Artagnan gave up and returned to his pillow, growling. His 'pillow' was a sofa, his dedicated sofa, that Bronx had no right to step on.
The dog mumbled for a while, devising a plan to take revenge on his worst enemy once he’d be back into the house.
After the last applicant of the day—holding ticket number 302—was called and helped, Kate closed the registrar’s door. Amanda was still rushing to enter some data into her computer. She kept looking nervously at the clock hung on the wall facing her. Twenty minutes left. The longest minutes ever, and one of the most painful days at work.
"No! No, no, no!" said Amanda "Don't freeze again, don't!" The screen froze. Amanda hit the computer. "Damn screen! I just said, 'don't freeze!'"
"It's just a computer," said Kate, "why do you expect it to listen to you?"
Amanda scrunched up her face. Kate smiled.
"Just leave the forms until tomorrow. Anyway, by the time you reboot the computer, re-open the program, and so on, and so on... it will be time to go. These applications won't go anywhere."
Kate was right. But this goddam machine... it was a curse. The university had recently installed new software to manage student files, but they hadn’t upgraded the hardware. Big mistake. The outdated computers often failed to agree with the new software, which caused a lot of headaches for the employees at the Registrar’s Office. What was supposed to make their lives easier and more productive had quickly turned into a daily ordeal.
Amanda put the paperwork into her drawer and locked it. The women turned off their computers, took their coats, and left.
"Did I tell you about this guy who wore a wig and glasses to file another fake application?" said Amanda.
"What are you talking about?" asked Kate.
"An idiot came in today and filed two different applications for the same program to try to double his chances of getting in. The second time he was wearing a wig and fake glasses. Unfortunately for him, I'm the one he met both times at the front desk."
"Are you serious?"
"Very serious. Are they stupid or what? Can you imagine that these kids are going to university next year?"
"Well, maybe not this one..." answered Kate.
The friends laughed and joked about the students as they walked down the long corridor that led to the back of the building. They talked for a while in the parking lot and then parted ways.
Although Amanda was exhausted by this crazy day, she still had to do one important thing before heading home: a stop at the grocery store.
Chapter 3
W hen d'Artagnan heard the key turning in the lock, the dog woke up at once and galloped out of the living-room, executed a sharp turn to get into the corridor, and slid on his rear end like an Olympian in a bobsled competition.
Amanda could barely open the door. The dog was barking, jumping, turning around himself, blocking the entrance.
"D'Artagnan, move away, please!" said Amanda. “I promise we’ll go for a walk in a few minutes, but I need to go into the house first.”
Finally, d'Artagnan calmed down, and Amanda stepped into the house. Her big friend jumped up on her and licked her face.
"Yes, yes, I love you too, d'Art."
Amanda patted the dog to help him calm down, but d'Artagnan kept blocking her way as she tried to reach the living-room.
"This is getting old, d'Art. Come on!"
Amanda put the heavy grocery bags on the floor and slumped on the couch. The dog jumped beside her and lay his head on her lap.
"My day was exhausting. How was yours, d’Art?" Amanda sighed and caressed d'Artagnan's head. The dog was looking at her as if she were the Seventh Wonder of the canine's world. Who could resist that?
Silently and slowly, moving with a dexterity that only a feline can master, Bronx entered the kitchen through the pet door. Not even a sound. His timing was perfect: Amanda was cooking and d'Artagnan wasn’t paying attention to him.
The blue Great Dane sat beside his owner, focused on each little move she made, wagging his tail. The dog knew that he would get a piece of the delicious thing that Amanda was cooking that smelled so wonderful. He didn't know what it was, but he knew that it would be tasty, for sure. What Amanda cooked was always tasty.
Bronx jumped onto the top of a cupboard to get a better view and dominate the scene. He was meticulously cleaning his fur, and his guilty paws. The—pretty much only—humorous thing about the cat was his fur. Bronx's back was black, but his head and paws were white, which made him look like he was wearing a black jacket. It suited him well because of his 'rock star' kind of swagger, ready to dive into the audience at any moment. The audience being d'Artagnan, preferably. It always ended up in a concert of painful yowls, screeches, and barks. Not the sweetest music to Amanda's ears.
Amanda perused an old book whose cover illustration had faded away. The corners were worn out and the pages were yellow, some of them held together with tape. Why all this care for an old book? Because this wasn’t any book. This was the ‘Bible of French Cuisine.’ Moreover, it was a rare original first edition of 'Je sais cuisiner' by Ginette Mathiot—I Know How to Cook—published in the thirties. A classic cookbook that has dominated French households for several generations. This was why French cuisine connoisseurs simply called it "The Ginette." Amanda had found the priceless book while wandering in a rare books and antiques shop, one of her favorite activities besides cooking.
The irresistible smell of butter mixed with onions and bacon wafted throughout the kitchen, but d'Artagnan's nose was particularly captivated by the braised beef simmering in the dish. Amanda grabbed a glass of red wine from the counter and drank a quick sip—it was listed as an ingredient for the recipe, but it didn't hurt to have a sample while cooking, right?—and she poured some over the beef.
"Be careful d'Art." Amanda pushed the dog back and opened the oven to put the dish inside.
Why would you do such a thing? D'Artagnan, looked with despair at the casserole that Amanda put in the hot thing he didn't have the right to touch. Bronx smiled viciously when he saw the dog's disappointment.
"One hour, d'Art, and the magic of French cuisine will end up teasing our palates."
The dog mumbled and followed Amanda into the living-room. Bronx jumped down from his cupboard and followed them. With a bit of luck, he’d might be able to annoy this dummy dog a bit.
Amanda opened her laptop and browsed her favorite website, allyourfrenchmovies.fr. She was a fan of historical romantic movies,
particularly the ones set in France. She had read a plethora of old romance novels—in French, if you please, this is how she kept practicing her second language—and had watched hours of famous French cloak-and-dagger movies. This evening would be the twelfth rewatch of one of her favorite classics: The Three Musketeers.
Amanda put the computer on the coffee table, started the movie, and settled comfortably on the sofa. D'Artagnan joined her, slid his head under her left arm, and put one big paw on her lap. Receiving affection from Amanda wasn’t an option with d'Artagnan; it was a requirement.
"Hey d'Art, this is the movie that inspired me to give you your name. You were so small and so cute. Look at your big paws, now."
D'Artagnan raised his eyes to Amanda. I've heard this story a thousand times, already. And we've seen this movie a thousand times too.
Bronx was sitting on the armrest on the opposite side of the couch. He gave Amanda a sideways look, not moved a bit by the evocation of this past event. It was a dark day, the day that this dummy dog had arrived in the house. Nothing to celebrate, really.
The opening credits started, accompanied by a dramatic soundtrack typical of these old movies that mixed adventure and romance.
"Look d'Art, that's France. A beautiful country we’ll visit soon. You'll love it there because they make excellent food. What do you think?"
D'Artagnan was doubtful. I'm perfectly fine here. Is the thing in the oven cooked yet?
While Amanda had her eyes fixed on the computer screen, d'Artagnan began to fall asleep. Bronx knew that it was the right time to make a strategic move. Discreetly, the cat went from the armrest to the cushion located just behind the dog's back, and hid behind it. Bronx wasn't the least bit interested in horses galloping, men fighting with swords or women in beautiful dresses crying in despair. This cat's sick brain was constantly concocting Machiavellian plans to torture the hateful dog, with the intention of eliminating him from this world. Definitely.
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