Toast Mortem
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter 1 - ~Courgettes et Tomates~ au Caviar LeVasque
Chapter 2 - ~Asperes Vinaigrette~
Chapter 3 - ~Confiture de Tomates Rouge~
Chapter 4 - ~Carottes LeVasque~
Chapter 5
Chapter 6 - ~Socca~
Chapter 7 - ~Salade Nicoise~
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10 - ~Roti LeVasque~
Chapter 11 - ~Farcis a la LeVasque~
Chapter 12
Chapter 13 - ~Brochettes de LeVasque~
Chapter 14 - ~Chevon a la LeVasque~
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17 - ~Betty Hall’s Reuben Sandwich~
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Author’s Note
Praise for Claudia Bishop’s
Hemlock Falls Mysteries
“Always a great reading experience . . . Claudia Bishop writes an enthralling amateur-sleuth mystery.”
—The Best Reviews
“An entertaining, quirky, and offbeat mystery . . . A special treat for amateur-sleuth lovers.”
—Midwest Book Reviews
“The reader can settle in Hemlock Falls comfortably.”
—The Armchair Detective
Praise for the Beaufort & Company Mysteries
by Claudia Bishop writing as Mary Stanton
“I was hooked from page one . . . This book should give Mary Stanton the same kind of cult following usually reserved for Charlaine Harris.”
—Rhys Bowen, author of Royal Flush
“Engaging and charismatic . . . Will be a breath of fresh air for fans of paranormal cozy mysteries.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Spooky Southern charm and a wonderfully inventive approach to the afterlife.”
—Madelyn Alt, national bestselling author of Where There’s a Witch
“An elegant enchantment with a delightful heroine and a historic setting.”
—Carolyn Hart, author of Merry, Merry Ghost
Berkley Prime Crime titles by Mary Stanton
DEFENDING ANGELS
ANGEL’S ADVOCATE
AVENGING ANGELS
Titles by Mary Stanton writing as Claudia Bishop
Hemlock Falls Mysteries
A TASTE FOR MURDER
A DASH OF DEATH
A PINCH OF POISON
MURDER WELL-DONE
DEATH DINES OUT
A TOUCH OF THE GRAPE
A STEAK IN MURDER
MARINADE FOR MURDER
JUST DESSERTS
FRIED BY JURY
A PUREE OF POISON
BURIED BY BREAKFAST
A DINNER TO DIE FOR
GROUND TO A HALT
A CAROL FOR A CORPSE
TOAST MORTEM
The Casebooks of Dr. McKenzie Mysteries
THE CASE OF THE ROASTED ONION
THE CASE OF THE TOUGH-TALKING TURKEY
THE CASE OF THE ILL-GOTTEN GOAT
Anthologies
A PLATEFUL OF MURDER
DEATH IN TWO COURSES
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
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.
TOAST MORTEM
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / June 2010
Copyright © 2010 by Mary Stanton.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
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eISBN : 978-1-101-18815-6
BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME
Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
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For Lyn Stanton
Cast of Characters
The Inn at Hemlock Falls
The Hemlock Falls Chamber of Commerce
The Village of Hemlock Falls
Bonne Goutè Culinary Academy
Supernumeraries
Prologue
Bernard LeVasque stormed into the kitchen at La Bonne Goutè Culinary Academy in his usual way: his left hand thrust palm out to smack open the swinging doors, his right clenched around his favorite butcher knife. “Hola! You collection of stupides!” he shouted, by way of greeting.
The academy’s five chefs were assembled in the large, airy space.
Despite the fact that M. LeVasque had announced his presence in the same insulting tones for the past three months, all of them reacted with a range of very satisfying behaviors: Pietro Giancava (sauces and wines) hissed like a snake. Raleigh Brewster (soups and stews) let out a muffled shriek. Mrs. Owens (fruits and vegetables) growled like the mastiff she resembled. Jim Chen (seafood and fish) scowled, clenched his fists, and balanced himself evenly on both feet, as if readying to charge his employer.
The only person who remained unruffled was the young and pretty pastry chef, Clarissa Sparrow.
M. LeVasque was pretty sure he could fix that. Mme. Sparrow, he recalled, was the fond owner of Bismarck, the enormous orange-and-yellow cat glowering under the prep sink. Without a word, he strode across the terrazzo floor, grabbed Bismarck by the scruff of the neck, and flung the startled animal out the back door.
Then, with an insincere grin that bared his yellowing teeth, he said, “Bon matin.”
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~Courgettes et Tomates~ au Caviar LeVasque
For four personnes
2 medium tomatoes
2 small zucchini
Chopped onion
Chopped parsley
Caviar LeVasque*
Prepare the zucchini and vegetables by slicing in half and scooping out the seeds. Stuff with one cup Caviar LeVasque, garnish with parsley and onion, arrange beautifully.
*Caviar LeVasque is available at my website for a small fee only.
—From Brilliance in the Kitchen, B. LeVasque
“That Mr. Levaskew’s going to end up with his butcher’s knife buried smack in the middle of his back one of these days,” Doreen Muxworthy-Stoker predicted. “You mark my words.”
“Well, it won’t be soon enough for me.” Meg Quilliam sat curled in the lounge chair farthest away from the outer deck of the gazebo and bit her thumb with a cross expression. Her sister, Quill, sat on that part of the deck that faced the waterfall tumbling into Hemlock Gorge. Doreen, their housekeeper, perched on the sturdy gazebo railing like a broody hen. Jackson Myles McHale, who was going to be two years old in less than a week, climbed up the shallow steps to the gazebo floor and climbed back down again.
Quill kept a careful eye on her son and wriggled her bare toes in the soft moss that edged the decking.
It was a perfect August afternoon. Sunshine flooded the emerald green lawns surrounding the Inn at Hemlock Falls. Roses and lavender scented the soft air. Flowering clematis, shouting crimson, climbed over the old stone walls of the sprawling building. The breeze that came up from the gorge was cool and smelled of fresh water. Quill didn’t want to talk about the horrible Mr. LeVasque. She wanted to roll over in the grass with Jack and tickle him until he collapsed into giggles. But she was a loyal friend and loving sister, so she said: “What’s he done now?”
“What’s he done?” Meg shrieked. “What hasn’t he done!? He’s built a whacking huge cooking academy smack in my backyard and stolen all our customers and you’re asking me what’s he done?!” She wriggled out of the lounge chair, put her hands on her hips, and glared across the gorge.
La Bonne Goutè Academy of Culinary Arts sat on the opposite side of the ravine. It was three stories high. Practically everyone in the village of Hemlock Falls thought it was gorgeous. The building was cream of cream clapboard with hunter green trim. The roof was smooth copper. All three stories were surrounded by clear pine decking. The place was surrounded by apple trees, peach trees, figs, and a vegetable garden that looked as if it belonged outside a French chateau with an army of gardeners at the duc’s command.
Quill had gone to the open house three months before. Like all the other villagers in Hemlock Falls, she hadn’t been able to keep away. She knew that the inside was as serviceable and elegant as the outside. The floors were wide-planked cedar, buffed to a perfect shine. The tasting room was big and dark and cool, and the antique wine racks that covered the walls had come from M. LeVasque’s own vineyards in France. As for the kitchens . . . Quill sighed. The biggest classroom had twenty dual-fuel Viking ranges. Four were arranged in each of five stations complete with prep sinks and all the knives, spatulas, graters, sieves, choppers, bowls, measuring cups, ladles, spoons, and whisks an aspiring student chef could ask for.
Hemlock Falls was pleased with the addition of all this glory to their picturesque cobblestone village. Its proprietor, M. Bernard LeVasque, was the author of the best-selling cookbook Brilliance in the Kitchen. His television show The Master at Work had a successful five-year run on network TV. He attracted tourists in droves.
“I’d like to bomb the place,” Meg said through gritted teeth. “I’d like to dump a billion tons of cow manure on that copper roof. I’d like to throw five hundred gallons of brindle brown paint all over that perfect siding.”
Jackson Myles McHale glanced up at his aunt, a slight pucker between his feathery eyebrows. The sunshine made his red curls glow like a new penny. He seemed to debate a moment. Then he bent over, grabbed the red plastic shovel Quill had bought for him so he could dig in the dirt like Mike the groundskeeper, and presented it to Meg. “Frow this!” he said, with a pleased expression. “Frow it now.”
“Thuh-row,” Quill corrected gently. “Thuh-thuh-thuh. Thuh-row, Jack.”
“Frow,” Jack said ecstatically. “Frow, frow, frow!”
“Give it here, Jack,” Meg demanded. “And I’ll throw it right up M. LeVasque’s . . .”
Quill cleared her throat noisily, then extracted the shovel from her son’s chubby grasp and sat on it. “No throwing,” she said firmly. “Either one of you. And M. LeVasque is undoubtedly a grouchy guy, Meg, but let’s not talk about this kind of stuff in front of Jack, okay? And for God’s sake, don’t encourage him to throw things. You’ll have to admit,” she added, fondly, “that he’s the smartest little boy and he picks up on everything.”
“Phooey,” Meg said.
“Phooey,” Jack echoed. He made a determined effort to extract the shovel from beneath Quill’s cotton skirt.
“There, you see?” Quill said. She held the shovel up in one hand. “Darling, you can only have the shovel if you promise not to throw it, okay?”
“Phooey,” Jack said. He grabbed the shovel, gnawed at the handle for a bit, and threw the shovel down the steps.
Quill beamed at him. “Get the shovel and bring it back to Mommy, please.”
“Phooey,” Jack said. “Phooey-phooey-phooey!”
“That’s enough, young man.” Doreen jumped down from the railing and brushed herself off briskly. She wore her usual work uniform of denim skirt, cotton blouse, and canvas shoes. Her gray hair frizzed around her face and the tip of her nose was red from sunburn. Her hands and wrists were gnarled from arthritis and Quill marveled, as she occasionally did, at the toughness in her friend’s wiry, seventy-eight-year-old frame. She’d outlived four husbands. Stoker, the last one, had died peacefully in his sleep and left Doreen a comfortably wealthy woman. “That’s it. Nap time. Come here to Gram.”
“Nap time,” Jack said. “No. No. I don’t think so.”
Doreen bent over with a slight grunt of effort and picked him up. “Say night-night to Mommy.” For a long moment, the two pairs of eyes regarded each other; Jack’s bright blue and thoughtful, Doreen’s black and beady. “Night-night, Gram,” he said meekly. Then, suddenly, he yawned widely, put his head on Doreen’s shoulder, and went to sleep.
“Amazing,” Meg said. They watched the two of them cross the lawn to the Inn. With one hand supporting the toddler’s back, Doreen opened the French doors to the Tavern Lounge and disappeared inside.
“It is, isn’t it?” Quill sighed. “How come that never works for me?”
Meg turned her head. “You mean Jack and Doreen?” She scowled. “Because you turn into a sap every time you see him. He could stick beans up your nose and you’d think it’s adorable. Doreen’s over being a sap about kids. She’s got how many grandchildren of her own?”
“Twenty-two, last count,” Quill said. “And that includes Jack, she says. Furthermore, I am not a sap.”
“Yes, you are,” Meg fumed.
Quill decided not to argue the point. Her sister was the world’s best fumer and she’d made it a long-standing practice to ignore the explosions.
Meg clasped her hands behind her back and began to pace. The gazebo was large. Its radius was twenty feet, which Quill knew because she’d designed it herself. And Meg was short, no more than five feet two, even when she was standing on her tiptoes in rage. But the place was too small to accommodate her sister’s agitation.
“Here’s an idea. Let’s go to the beach.”
Meg scowled at the gorge. It was a wonderful afternoon, warm, but not sticky, and the air coming up from the Hemlock River smelled like freshly cut grass. The water was a clear greeny brown. From where she stood in the gazebo, Quill could see it lapping peacefully against the little sandy beach she and Mike the groundskeeper had designed t
ogether and then installed that spring. Mike had built a sturdy pine staircase on the steep slopes that led down from the Inn, too. The whole thing was quite a hit with the guests. Quill was trying to encourage wisteria to grow around the railings. She’d planted several of the new hybrid hydrangeas at the foot of the stairs, and they were blooming like anything.
On the beach itself, which was small but smoothly sandy, two of the Inn’s guests sunned themselves in the pair of Adirondack recliners. Both had sunhats over their faces, but from the brevity of the bikini on the one and the color of the Speedo on the other, it was Mr. and Mrs. Anson Fredericks.
“You mean go swimming? You’re trying the change the subject. It’s not going to work.” Meg started to pace again, her gray eyes narrowed to tiny, glittering slits.
Quill had been trying to change the subject ever since the Bonne Goutè Culinary Academy had thrown open its oversized oak doors in April. Meg came back to it as if scratching at a case of poison ivy.
“You know how many bookings we’ve got for dinner tonight?”
Three, Quill said silently.
“Three!” Meg roared.
Far down the slope of Hemlock Gorge, Mrs. Fredericks sat up, looked around in a dissatisfied way, and poked her husband in the stomach.
“And it’s the height of the tourist season. Last year at this time, do you know how many bookings we had the ninth of July?”
Forty-six, Quill said to herself.
“Forty-six!”
Quill sighed.