Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter 1 - Perilous Pâté
Chapter 2 - The Pâté Thief
Chapter 3 - Welcome to Lyon
Chapter 4 - Goldilocks at the Hotel Charlemagne
Chapter 5 - The Death Warble
Chapter 6 - Brasserie Georges
Chapter 7 - Resurrection
Chapter 8 - Lyonnais Bistro Delights
Chapter 9 - The Empty Chair
Chapter 10 - “Who, in Lyon, Would Want to Kill Us?”
Chapter 11 - The Dog, the Vet, and the Inspector
Chapter 12 - Sylvie’s Suspects
Chapter 13 - An Academic Suspect and a Japanese Fish
Chapter 14 - Lyonnais Cuisine for the Well-To-Do
Chapter 15 - Traboule Transportation
Chapter 16 - Trabouling and Puffer Fishing
Chapter 17 - A Peugeot Full of Gourmets
Chapter 18 - Scenic Sauces
Chapter 19 - A Pious Tour
Chapter 20 - A Perilous Picnic
Chapter 21 - Where’s Carolyn?
Chapter 22 - I’ve Been Poisoned
Chapter 23 - Lost Reservations
Chapter 24 - Only One Visitor at a Time, Please
Chapter 25 - The Angry Suspects
Chapter 26 - Albertine, Bearing Flowers
Chapter 27 - Late to Bed, Late to Rise Tends to Strain the Marital Ties
Chapter 28 - Au Revoir, Lyon
Chapter 29 - Surprise at the Hotel de l’Horlage
Chapter 30 - Albertine and Dog to the Rescue
Chapter 31 - Reconciliations and Strange Art
Chapter 32 - On the Terrace
Chapter 33 - A Morning Chat
Chapter 34 - A Twenty-four Euro Breakfast
Chapter 35 - ATM Shopping
Chapter 36 - Haute Cuisine Provençal
Chapter 37 - Sightseeing with Boring Hair
Chapter 38 - Banquet Blues
Chapter 39 - A Gunshot in the Grand Tinel
Chapter 40 - Rescue
Chapter 41 - “Where Have You Been?”
Chapter 42 - The Morning After
Chapter 43 - Phone Calls and Gifts
Chapter 44 - A Perfect Afternoon
Chapter 45 - The Telltale Research
Chapter 46 - Good Food, Good Gossip
Chapter 47 - Facing the Angry Parents
Chapter 48 - A Word to the Gallant Pierre
Chapter 49 - A Terrorist at Large?
Chapter 50 - The Terrorist, the Police, and Martin
Chapter 51 - Illegal Entry
Chapter 52 - Convincing the Police
Chapter 53 - Evidence of Intruders
Chapter 54 - Found: The Evidence, but Not the Suspect
Chapter 55 - French Fried
Epilogue
Recipe Index
Praise for the delectable Culinary Mysteries by Nancy Fairbanks
“A clever, fast-paced tale sure to satisfy the cravings of both gourmands and mystery buffs. Food columnist Carolyn Blue is a confident and witty detective with a taste for good food and an eye for murderous detail. A literate, deliciously well-written mystery.”
—Earlene Fowler, author of The Saddlemaker’s Wife
“Not your average whodunit . . . Extremely funny . . . A rollicking good time.”
—Romance Reviews Today
“An entertaining amateur sleuth tale . . . Fun.”
—Painted Rock Reviews
“Fairbanks has a real gift for creating characters based in reality but just the slightest bit wacky in a slyly humorous way . . . It will tickle your funny bone as well as stimulate your appetite for good food.”
—El Paso Times
“A fast and funny whodunit.”
—The Best Reviews
“Nancy Fairbanks scores again . . . a page-turner.”
—Las Cruces (NM) Sun-News
“Nancy Fairbanks writes a delicious . . . amusing amateur-sleuth story.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Humor, entertaining characters, and a puzzling mystery round out the mix . . . a not-to-be-missed read.”
—Roundtable Reviews
Berkley Prime Crime titles by Nancy Fairbanks
CRIME BRÛLÉE
TRUFFLED FEATHERS
DEATH À L’ORANGE
CHOCOLATE QUAKE
THE PERILS OF PAELLA
HOLY GUACAMOLE!
MOZZARELLA MOST MURDEROUS
BON BON VOYAGE
FRENCH FRIED
Anthologies
THREE-COURSE MURDER
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.
FRENCH FRIED
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / December 2006
Copyright © 2006 by Nancy Herndon.
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For My Niece, Anne Herndon
Author’s Note
Characters and plot elements are fictitious. Many places and dishes are real, but used in a fictitious context. Who
wouldn’t love the sights, food, and people, not to mention their dogs, of Southern France? The book was inspired by one of our most delightful trips ever, but of course no one got killed, or even injured. Winston Churchill was inspired by a pug dog named Winnie, who belongs to my friend Mary Sarber. Charles de Gaulle was inspired by the late Buster, who belonged to my friend Becky Craver. I have no dogs, but they are fun to write about.
Take my word for it: Southern France is a wonderful place to visit, and the natives are very nice, even if you can’t understand a word they say. There were no riots when we were there, and while I was writing French Fried, the rioting didn’t last too long, but that’s easy for me to say; no one torched anything belonging to me. None of the places I write about are as perilous as my books might make them seem, so don’t obsess about danger; travel if you have the chance.
Books I used for research in writing French Fried are Gerard Comeloup, Lyon: World Heritage Excursions; Louis Jacquemin, Traboules & Miraboules; Gerard Gambier, Murs peints Lyon; Louis Jacquemin, Colors of Lyon; J. Granier and S. Gagniere, Avignon; Alexandra Bonfante-Warren, Timeless Places: Provence; Francie Jouanin, A Taste of Provence; Gerard Gambier, The Traditions of Lyon’s Gastronomy; Andre Domine (editor), Culinaria France; Maria Villegas and Sarah Randall, The Food of France; Giovanna Gibert, Provencal Cooking; Patricia Wells, At Home in Provence; Waverley Root, The Food of France.
NFH
Lyon
“There is another stretch of wine-covered hillsides, running from Macon almost to Lyons. Here the wine is coarser and the food becomes heavier; the southernmost section, which produces the coarsest wine of all, Beaujolais, has probably affected the cooking of Lyons, too, with its sausages and its potato dishes . . . The cooking of Lyons fits the character of the city—it is hearty rather than graceful, and is apt to leave you with an overstuffed feeling.”
Waverley Root, The Food of France
“It is no accident that Maurice Edward Saillard, the famous writer on food and drink, known as Curnonsky (1872-1956), referred to Lyon as the capital of gastronomy, considering the city’s optimal strategic position, from the culinary point of view . . . Many well-to-do gourmets have lived in Lyon during the course of its history, whether they be Romans, medieval princes of the church, bankers, merchants, or silk manufacturers. Their cooks created exquisite dishes from the rich variety of the ingredients on offer.”
Andre Domine, Editor, Culinaria France
1
Perilous Pâté
I made the pâté de foie gras, using nothing but the best ingredients, including exceedingly expensive black truffles, minced fine. The four slices had to be irresistible in taste as well as appearance.
My own kitchen was the scene of my preparations, which is not to say that, as a rule, I cook. I have better things to do with my time than to waste it on what, among nonprofessional cooks, is considered woman’s work. But any scientist who has worked in a lab can follow a recipe. This one had been in my family for generations. I followed it exactly but for the one tiny addition, which should not change the flavor for the worse. Even if it did, it was only one tiny drop surrounded by several inches of delectable homemade pâté on all sides. This particular compound is over 1,250 times more toxic than cyanide and would begin to do its work rapidly—the more ingested, the quicker the effect.
I made it in my lab. Not an easy synthesis, but it had been done before; in fact, the compound was becoming of interest medically in very dilute solutions. The solution in my small vials was not at all dilute and, therefore, satisfyingly deadly. Having made the pâté in a small roll, I sliced it neatly into four rounds and carefully placed a drop in the middle of each. Then I covered and refrigerated the tray that held the rounds and, after running water into the vials for a half hour each, I crushed them in a towel and disposed of the whole, along with my protective gloves, by putting the “evidence” into a paper bag and throwing it into a public trash container in a suitably distant neighborhood. It was early morning when I returned to prepare the offering of iced champagne and pâté with toast accompanied by the handsome computer-generated note attached to the champagne. Again I wore gloves so that there would be no fingerprints except those of the delivery messenger, who would not be able to identify me because I disguised myself as a messenger in taking the package to him.
I couldn’t predict whether both or only one of the visitors would eat the pâté with its unexpected ingredient. But surely at least one would love pâté enough to indulge. If the husband, my vengeance would be direct. If the wife, her loss, for gossip revealed that he was very fond of her, would be devastating and would last as long as he lived. Or as long as I allowed him to live. I had not yet made that decision.
Or perhaps they would both die. By leaving something to chance, my retaliation became the more exciting.
“Wish me luck,” I whispered to the ghost who haunted my rooms and my dreams.
2
The Pâté Thief
Robert Levasseur drove his sporty coupe up and down Charlemagne Cour, looking for a place to park and glancing anxiously at his watch. Why the devil had they chosen to stay in the Perrache area? The university had excellent hotels in which to house guests, places convenient to the chemistry department building. In order to carry out his mission, he had to arrive at the hotel before the visitors collapsed into their beds to sleep until the evening’s welcome dinner.
Adrien Guillot, senior professor and organizer of the Avignon meeting next week, had assigned Robert the task of taking Professor Blue and his wife to breakfast, but Guillot, in a hurry to escort his own wife to visit her mother in a Paris hospital, had failed to tell Robert when the plane was to land. Ah! A parking place! Robert pulled in, locked his car, and strode toward the hotel. Fortunately, Zoe, the adorable departmental secretary, whom Robert very much wished to invite to dinner, had had the name of the Americans’ hotel.
He entered and called to a sour-faced young woman sitting at a computer, pointedly ignoring him, “Mademoiselle, I am here to welcome Professor Jason Blue and his wife.”
“I’m busy,” she snarled.
“They’re Americans. Are they here?”
She looked up and squinted at him. “Americans? No, not yet.” A sly look came over her face. “But they are troublesome even before their arrival. Already a messenger has come by demanding to take champagne and hors d’oeuvres to their room. You could go up and wait for them there.”
“Surely that’s not encouraged. It is their room.”
“Champagne. Pâté de foie gras. Wasted on Americans if you ask me. But where are you from with your strange accent? Are you another American?”
“French Canadian.” Pâté? Robert’s mouth watered. Even the disappointment of having his excellent French pegged as American could not overcome the thought of pâté. “Well, perhaps I will, if that’s the way you handle things here.”
She rose from her desk to fetch the heavy key from under the glowing counter. “Cover the desk for me,” she called to an idle fellow behind the bar. The hotel had a Las Vegas ambiance to it. Lots of neon. Robert had been to a meeting in Las Vegas once and considered the place extremely tasteless.
He did like Jason Blue, whom he had met at an Ottawa conference. The poor man had had to leave suddenly because his wife had been lost on a cruise ship. Although the couple had grown children, Blue still seemed to be in love with her. Why else would he had left before the banquet, which Robert himself had planned and arranged to have flown in so that the conferees would have at least one wonderful meal in the French style?
Here in Lyon most of the couples in enduring marriages had already found lovers with whom they met several times a week—always discreetly, of course. He himself was involved in an affair with Madam Laurent, the chairman’s wife, and they were very, very discreet. In fact, the situation terrified him, but Victoire was an intimidating as well as a passionate woman. She wouldn’t mind if he managed to get a date with Zoe, which would serve as cover for th
eir affair and irritate her husband, but she would mind if Robert ended his relationship with her before she grew tired of him.
Once in the Blues’ room, he sat down in a soft orange chair that was much too small for him and stared longingly at the split of champagne and the four slices of pâté with their mouth watering bits of black embedded—truffles, no doubt. He hoped that when the Blues arrived they would offer to share. Robert thought a really fine pâté de foie gras the finest dish in the world. He had once dreamed that at his death, the priest administering the last rites had offered him a wafer with a bit of pâté smeared on it to go with the communion wine. Dying with the taste of foie gras in one’s mouth would be the perfect appetizer to heaven, he had thought on awakening, not a dream that was likely to be fulfilled when his time came.
He turned the chair around and stared out the window at the green-leaved upper branches of the trees that lined Charlemagne Cour. With the drapes pulled partially back by Yvette, the hotel’s grumpy receptionist, he would hear the gentle rustling. Very nice. Perhaps the Blues had known what they were doing when they reserved a room here—well, except for the unpleasant Yvette. He had to assume that she was a Parisian. People in Lyon weren’t rude to guests.
But no thought could distract Robert from the pâté that rested so close. He sniffed the air, thinking he could detect its rich fragrance, then glanced over his shoulder and swallowed hard. Perhaps they wouldn’t mind if he took one slice. They were late arriving, and what a shame to let fine pâté dry out under its glass dome. What could one slice matter? He rose, carefully removed the dome, and with the small spreading knife, swiped pâté across a piece of toast. Ah, it was so good! One of the best he’d ever had. In Canada there was never pâté like this. Something must be wrong with the geese. In less than a minute he had devoured the rest of the slice before forcing himself to sit down again.
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