by Peter King
“I talked to her too,” I said. That was one of my limited repertoire of ruses, and it was intended to make the witness think that you knew more than you really did.
Maybe it was working. She shot me a look of surprise. “What were you talking to her about?”
Ouch. Elaine had a more direct approach than I did.
“She was concerned about Kathleen Evans.”
That came close to scoring a hit. If Elaine was going to cross-examine in court, she might want to brush up on nonchalance.
I decided to follow up and show how honest I was being. “Kathleen left very abruptly—like Janet.”
“Yes, I know. I talked to Kathleen too.”
I recalled seeing the two of them in conversation and thinking that they had looked as if they might already have been acquainted.
“I believe you knew her previously, didn’t you?”
“No,” she said. An emphatic head shake reinforced the word.
“She seemed to have some other reason for being here and not just doing a story for the magazine,” I suggested.
“I wouldn’t know,” Elaine said. She seemed to consider a more cooperative reaction. “Well, she might have,” she conceded. “I wish I was sure what it was.”
“Does this have some connection with your murder case?”
“Frankly, I don’t see how it can,” she said, meeting my eyes. “But there might be some tenuous link.”
“What does that mean?”
“Well, for instance, some person connected with my case might be involved with what’s going on here at the spa.”
“Is something going on here at the spa?” I asked with all my most bright-eyed innocence.
“Shall we take a stroll?” Elaine offered.
We went outside and along the wide concrete walk between the reception and the next building, the one with several conference rooms. Other strollers were out too, especially those who were having guilt pangs after the rich Danish pastries, the heavy pumpernickel bread, the creamy omelettes, and the German sausages. Elaine waited until no one was within earshot.
“You’re an investigator,” she began. “Kathleen Evans has left suddenly and now Janet Hargrave has too.”
“I don’t see how you can put those three facts together and come up with any kind of conclusion.”
She shook her head. “It’s not something I need to prove.”
“I am not here for the purpose of investigating. I came to replace Carver Armitage, who is unfortunately hospitalized. What did you find out about Kathleen’s abrupt departure?” I asked.
“Well, she isn’t back in her office.”
“Maybe she has another assignment.”
“I don’t think so,” she said, watching me for telltale reactions. “Her office thought she was still here.”
So Elaine had called Good Food magazine as well. The girl there must be wondering by now about all these phone calls. She would be wondering even more if Janet didn’t return to the office.
I was in a quandary as to how much I should confide in Elaine. Whatever it was she was looking into just might have something to do with the strange happenings here at the spa, although her description of it as being a “tenuous link” suggested that she didn’t think so.
“Maybe we should pool information.” I tossed it out lightly.
She took it the same way. “Maybe. You first.”
“Kathleen asked me to meet her in the Seaweed Forest. She was there but when I, er, wanted to talk to her, she disappeared. She hasn’t been seen since as far as I can make out. She has not gone back to her office, and when I asked about her here, they said she had checked out and taken a taxi to the airport.”
It was as near to the truth as I wanted to venture. As to whether Kathleen was alive or dead, my best guess was that she was dead, but I wasn’t ready to bring that up until I knew where Elaine stood.
“You called her office?”
I had expected her to be astute enough to catch that. “Yes. As you did.”
“And now Janet has disappeared just as abruptly,” she said, reflectively.
I nodded. “Now it’s your turn. You said we’d pool information.”
“I said ‘maybe.’”
“If you have something to hide, it makes me suspect that you are more involved in this than you’re admitting.”
We reached the end of the concrete walkway. We stopped and faced one another.
“Give me one more day,” she said. “I have some phone calls to make. I expect to learn enough to clarify a lot of points.”
I didn’t have a lot of choice. Nevertheless, I tried to sound as if I were being magnanimous as I paused and then said, “All right, but one thing—don’t call from your room—and Elaine …”
“Yes?”
“Be careful.”
She looked surprised, as if the thought had not occurred to her that she might be in danger. I did want her to be careful but at the same time, any hint that she was threatened might render her more likely to share information. I ought to be ashamed of myself for using such tactics, I thought. Lord Peter would never do anything so ungallant. No, but Mike Hammer would, came my immediate response.
The morning session was to be a hands-on affair, and well before ten o’clock all hands were on deck and eager to get in on some culinary action. Leighton Vance and Michel Leblanc were joint presenters today, and the subject was puff pastry.
Lines of tables were set up and trays of ingredients were on each one. The “students” sat in rows. Marta Giannini sat at the front, looking glamorous in a new cooking outfit that must have come from Emmanuel Ungaro rather than Williams-Sonoma. Oriana Frascati was looking studious and already had her notebook open and was gazing at a screen full of moving stars. Helmut Helberg was carefully tying a large apron around his substantial middle, and I heard Millicent Manners saying, “I am really looking forward to this—it’s just what I need to learn.”
“The greatest discovery of the modern kitchen,” was Leighton’s opening statement. “That’s what Auguste Kettner called puff pastry,” he went on, “and the emphasis is on ‘the kitchen’ because that is exactly where pastry originated. Other culinary discoveries have come about in other ways, but pastry comes from the kitchen.”
Michel took up the presentation at that point. “The most difficult pastry of all is the puff pastry, so we are going to teach you how to make this. When you have mastered puff pastry, all the others come easy. In French, we call it mille feuilles, and you will see why in a moment. This is the kind of pastry used in vol-au-vents—I like to translate that as ‘gone with the wind,’ which describes how light it is.”
“I’m going to describe what Michel is doing,” said Leighton. “He has flour on the pastry slab and is adding salt. He is making a well in the middle of it and is pouring water into it. Now, he is mixing it into a smooth paste. He is leaving it to cool from the heat of his hands. … Now he has a slab of butter which has come straight from the refrigerator to make sure it is cold. He is pressing the butter slab flat. … Now he rolls out the paste to a large square and lays the butter on it.”
Michel folded over the paste to envelop the butter. “Now he rolls out this ‘sandwich,’” said Leighton, “and he folds it again. He continues to repeat this operation, folding and rolling, rolling and folding.”
“The aim,” said Michel, completely intent upon his task, “is to have all the layers of paste and butter thin and uniform. This is difficult to do and requires practice and concentration.” He paused and looked up. “I am not stopping because I am tired,” he explained. “It is to allow the paste to cool between turns. For perfect results, some chefs allow it to sit half an hour between rollings. Others put it into the refrigerator.”
“Can I add a tip?” I asked.
“Certainly,” said Michel.
“The rolling surface of the pastry can be quick-chilled with a self-sealing bag of ice. It is a trick used in hot climates.”
Michel t
hanked me. Leighton hurried on.
“Mille feuilles means ‘a thousand leaves,’” continued Leighton, “and you will get tired long before you reach that count.” He looked around the room. “These tables are set up so that you can all try to make your own puff pastry.”
Only a few minutes had gone by when the first loud groan came from one would-be pastry chef. “My arms are going to fall off!” she complained. Sympathetic noises sounded around the room. “There must be a machine for this!” said someone, and Leighton snapped, “There is—it’s you.” Another student grumbled. “I think this is just a sneaky way to get us to lose weight. I used to like pastry—not anymore.”
Leighton and Michel were unrelenting taskmasters. “Nobody is born a chef,” snapped Leighton to one protester. “You have to work to become one.” Michel was supervising a different group. “No, no!” he was shouting. “You are pressing too hard. You do not want to blend the butter and the flour together. Each layer must be thin but separate.”
It had been a good idea, I conceded, to leave this session until later in the week. The spa did not want to discourage its guests too soon, and there was no doubt that rolling feuilletage is difficult, tiring, and aggravating. I stayed with the class through its travails, lending a hand here and there.
“When do I graduate?” groaned one perspiring student. Michel heard that. “You don’t,” he said. “You will be a student all your life if you work in a kitchen.”
When everyone had finished, Leighton and Michel toured the tables, commenting on the results. Michel showed how to cut rounds and form them into cups. A large variety of fillings were on the tables—curly anchovy fillets, tiny shrimp in a pink sauce, chopped mushrooms with onions, ground turkey, foie gras, caviar, and several cheese blends. Some guests had chosen to make dessert soufflés: strawberry, cherry, orange, and blackberry were very apparent and all looked scrumptious. Tempers were being restored now and patience being recovered.
“The ovens are at four hundred and twenty-five degrees,” Leighton said. “Your pastry will take fifteen minutes.”
“Well done, all of you,” said Michel, beaming.
Leighton was more reserved with his praise. “You’ve learned some of the tricks of making puff pastry, but it doesn’t matter how beautiful it looks when it goes into the oven or when it comes out—if the taste is not there, then the dish is a failure.”
A quarter of an hour later, Leighton’s skepticism was justified. A foie gras pastry received frowns from both of the chefs—then, “Salt!” They both said it simultaneously. “It lacks salt.” Accusing glances darted here and there, but no one stepped forward valiantly to claim responsibility and Michel gave a short but pointed speech on the need to check every ingredient. “Puff pastry is one of the most unforgiving dishes,” he warned. “That is why it has such a reputation of being difficult to prepare. Certainly the baking operation is important, but it is critical to observe all the other aspects of preparing it.”
Other pastries received nods of satisfaction, and some got words of approval. There was a chastened air about the guests who filed out after the session, but I caught a few comments that showed that many had gained a heightened respect for professional chefs and a better understanding of the demands placed on them.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
SWITZERLAND’S NEIGHBOR, AUSTRIA, WAS for centuries a crossroads of Europe. The great valleys of the Danube River provided ready-made passage for traders and merchants, linking East and West. From Roman times, what is now Austria has been host—even if sometimes unwillingly—to a variety of nations.
The Roman fortress of Vindobona became Vienna, and when Charlemagne’s empire was divided among his grandchildren, Austria was the leading country in the Holy Roman Empire. From that time on, the history of Austria was the history of the Hapsburg family, and the country gained control of Hungary, Belgium, Sardinia, and much of northern Italy.
Karl Wengen was telling us all this. He was not only a politician but a renowned historian, it emerged, and his interest in history extended to many of its facets, including food.
Lunch was being served, and, the menu announced, this meal and dinner would feature Austrian specialties. This is what prompted Karl Wengen to give us a brief history lesson and explain why both the lunch and dinner menus today would contain dishes that were not only from Austria but also from its former possessions such as Hungary, Italy, and Bohemia and even former enemies such as Turkey.
I had the porkolt, which is thicker and contains more onions than the more familiar Hungarian goulash. Karl Wengen and a couple of others at the table had the szekelygoulash, another variation made with pork and sauerkraut. We all drank a light and pleasant Austrian white wine, a Veltliner from the Gumpoldskirchener district in the south of the country.
After the meal, I chatted with Marta, starry-eyed as usual. “Do you have any assignments for me?” she asked eagerly.
“Now, Marta, I told you I didn’t come here to investigate,” I admonished her.
“Isn’t that what you have to say? So that no one knows you’re under cover?”
“Which movie does that come from? That Charlie Chan one you were in?”
She gave me a mock glare. “Charlie Chan! I’m not old enough to have been in any of those.”
“I think it was the last one,” I said hastily.
“And I was too important a star,” she added.
“I must have been thinking of that one with Cary Grant.”
She softened. “Oh, yes, I was very good in that.”
“I enjoyed it. You shouldn’t have betrayed him, though.”
“Why not?” she demanded indignantly. “He kept lying to me.”
“I was disappointed in him there.”
“I helped him. I could help you as well.”
I decided not to remind her that she had got the signal wrong in that film. As a result of her pulling the wrong ear, the detective had arrived prematurely and caught Cary with the jewels in his hands.
“I’m sure you could,” I told her. “In fact, you can help me …
“Yes?” she said eagerly.
“By keeping your eyes and ears open.”
She showed her dissatisfaction with that suggestion by using her expressive face. “Is there anyone you suspect? Oh, it doesn’t matter, I know what you’re going to say. You suspect everyone. At least, that’s what Sidney Toler said.”
Naturally, I did not give her any clue that she had made a gaffe.
Outside, I strolled across the grass. A good breeze was rolling up the valley but it was not bringing any sounds of cowbells. The sky was light blue and laced with disappearing vapor trails. Without making my way there in an obvious manner, I headed for the kitchen. No one was in sight except for a distant figure, and I slowed until the figure was gone. I tried the kitchen door. It opened.
Three of the younger members of the staff were in there. Their slightly stained white uniforms indicated that they had been responsible, in part at least, for the lunch. I looked around and satisfied myself that Leighton Vance was not here.
Two of the staff were young women, cleaning up. The third was a boy about twenty, and he had his arms full of large iron pans.
“Everyone at my table wanted me to congratulate you on the great Austrian dishes,” I said heartily.
“Mr. Vance doesn’t allow guests in the kitchen,” said the boy, a little truculently.
“Oh, that’s all right,” I assured him. “He knows me.”
The boy eyed me uncertainly. He had obviously had his instructions from Vance, but he also knew better than to argue with a guest. I waited for the pans in his arms to get heavier. They did. He went on with his task of returning them to their hooks on the far wall.
The girls were less concerned about spa protocol and one smiled shyly. “I had the porkolt and it was wonderful,” I told her. “That flavor …”
“I made that,” said the shy girl, a blue-eyed blond-haired Swiss miss.
“It deserved a prize,” I told her. “Two people said it was the best they had ever tasted.” That was only a slight exaggeration. I was sure I could have gotten two diners to endorse the statement, perhaps more.
“I made the goulash,” said the other girl, a few years older and not quite as blond.
“I wish I’d had the goulash as well,” I told her, and she glowed.
If Leighton allowed no contact between cooking staff and guests, these girls did not get much credit for their efforts, not from guests and probably not from Vance. I troweled on some further praise. It was not forced and certainly not insincere. I congratulated them on other dishes, but when I mentioned the egli, the fish dish, one of the girls said, “Oh, Mallory prepared that.”
“What about Mr. Vance?” I asked, keeping my tone conversational. “What are his specialties?”
The girls glanced at each other in apparent embarrassment. Neither seemed to want to answer my question.
“I know pork tenderloins and soufflés are two of them,” I prompted them.
The younger girl giggled. The older of the two gave her a reproving look.
“He cooked both of them for us at the cooking sessions,” I explained.
They exchanged looks again, then the older girl said, “Yes, he is very good at both of those.” She said it in a guarded way, but the other, less inhibited one now spoke out boldly.
“He should be good at them. He spent the whole week before, practicing them.”
I digested that. I nodded. “All great chefs keep practicing their art,” I told them.
I chatted with them a few minutes longer until the boy completed his pan handling. He had the facial expression known as a glower, and though I could have won him over with about two compliments, I didn’t want to cause any trouble for the girls.
I left wondering why a chef of Leighton’s caliber needed to practice. I also wondered again why he was adamant about keeping guests out of his kitchen. What happened there that he was so determined to hide?
