Mystery: The Cook's Comeuppance: A Duncan Dewar Mystery of Murder and Romantic Suspense (Duncan Dewar Mysteries Book 3)

by Victoria Benchley

  She took her time and several sips of water before answering. Each time she lifted the stem to her lips, she swirled the glass until its ice made a sound akin to boots crunching on fresh snow.

  "We decided we needed a more epicurean approach to the meals we offered our guests at the academy. Ms. Peña was a stop gap of sorts before we concluded the vetting process for a new chef. Our hope is to continue to attract world renowned chefs for our artists. Our current chef, Armondo Berluca, is such a man. Ms. Peña had many fine qualifications, but she wasn't of the caliber we intend to have at the academy," Sunny said with an air of satisfaction.

  She leaned forward towards Duncan, as if ready to confide a juicy tidbit of information.

  "Don't get me wrong, her food was good and we may have kept her in some capacity if not for the accident."

  "Were you in the area when it happened?" he asked.

  "Not the day of. I left a day or two before for a ski weekend in Chile. Have you ever skied Portillo?"

  He shook his head, No.

  "It's where the U.S. team skis in the summer. I insist on being there at the start of the season."

  Something about her expression and the way she referred to the U.S. Olympic team embarrassed Duncan. It was almost as if she'd made an off-color remark. The manservant appeared and removed their plates. Sunny only consumed a few bites, but Duncan ate most of his lunch while she spoke.

  "Joseph will see you out. You must contact Frogo if you need anything while you're here. He knows you have carte blanche," she said, rising.

  "Thank you," he said and he walked towards the doorway where Joseph stood.

  Duncan didn't know what to call her. She had so many last names and she had not instructed him to call her Sunny. He figured she preferred Vizcondesa. He stopped and looked back at the chairwoman of the foundation.

  "May I ask why I was chosen for this job?"

  He had wanted to ask her that from the beginning. Now he pretended it was an afterthought. Her answer sent a chill up his spine.

  "You're good with death by crushing," Sunny said, a faint smile toying at the corner of her lips.

  - 3 -

  Mi Casa es Tu Casa

  His first stop was the casa in Manchiego, supplied by Sunny for his accommodations. There wasn't a soul on the cobbled streets when they entered the town's outskirts. The chauffeur carried his luggage into the villa where a housekeeper met them. Mary appeared to be about sixty years old, spoke perfect English, and gave him a tour while his bag was deposited in his bedroom by the driver. The casa proved luxurious, with a gated private courtyard in the front and a large, rectangular swimming pool out back. The terrace near the pool had a view of the countryside. After showing Duncan his room, Mary handed him a note that reflected his schedule for the rest of the day, then disappeared.

  Duncan checked his watch. It was three o'clock, local time. His itinerary stated that a driver would pick him up at five for a meeting and dinner with Frogo Valentine, the academy's director. The name conjured a picture of a frog carrying a box of chocolates. He decided to unpack and shower before encountering Frogo.

  He discovered his housing was sumptuous. A private hall led from his spacious bedroom to an enormous bathroom, complete with lavish tub and shower. When finished showering, he found Mary had already unpacked for him. At least he assumed it was Mary. There was no sign of her, but his clothing was all neatly tucked away in closets and bureaus. A decanter of water along with a glass sat on a night stand. He poured himself a drink. The water was cold and soothed his parched throat. The air was hot and dry, a big change from Edinburgh, where a wet summer followed a damp spring. Duncan sauntered onto his private balcony. From there, he could view the pool and countryside surrounding Manchiego. He saw what appeared to be olive orchards and farms dotting nearby hills. A white plastered church sat atop the highest knoll. Here, the land appeared more verdant than at Sunny's fortress.

  He viewed the wind moving shafts of durum wheat on a distant hillside long before he felt the breeze. Light glinted off the golden crop, creating patterns as the air moved through the plants. Busy preparing for harvest, the local farmers would soon be bringing in the crop that produced semolina flour. As Duncan surveyed the countryside, he decided Manchiego was an excellent vacation spot to get away from it all. No wonder the Tormes Foundation chose it for their academy. Between the buzzing city of Madrid and the World Heritage Site of Toledo, the home of El Greco, Manchiego seemed the perfect spot for an art colony.

  When Angus heard he was heading to Spain, he begged to join his brother. With an average temperature of about 12 degrees Celsius and rain half the time, Edinburgh had not cured Angus's spring fever. Manchiego boasted high temperatures of almost 30 degrees Celsius and little chance of rain. He agreed Angus should come. They would share the villa and enjoy time relaxing together when Duncan wasn't working. Angus was slated to come in three days and he looked forward to his brother's arrival.

  Duncan closed his eyes and slumped in a chair on the balcony. The sun on his face felt wonderful. The breeze alleviated some of the heat, making the terrace comfortable. He'd felt sick to his stomach after Sunny's parting shot. He wanted to leave behind the merlon murders and everything associated with his last case. Now, he felt at peace for the first time in months. Like a tonic, the sun and the breeze had a wonderful effect on him. He soon fell asleep and Mary had to wake him when his driver arrived.

  He splashed some water on his face, grabbed his briefcase and strolled to the waiting car. This time it was no limousine, and Duncan soon discovered why. As they headed for the town's center, the streets became narrower and narrower. Soon, the tiny compact automobile barely fit between the houses lining the lane. Paved with stones set in patterns, the roads themselves were works of art. Each street seemed to have its own unique pattern. Traditional Spanish houses lined the tiny avenues. Some were built of stacked stone, some whitewashed plaster, while others had been painted bright colors. All had red tile roofs and none stood out as not belonging in the setting. A few had window boxes overflowing with bright flowers, while others showed off fancy wrought iron balconies and roof terraces. Ropes strewn across the streets from village rooftops held colorful flags. Some weeds grew up here and there between cobblestones, but overall, Manchiego seemed well kept, charming, and quaint. The occasional succulent reminded Duncan that this was still an arid region, now that the town's buildings blocked the sun from its tight streets.

  The compact halted in front of a pristine whitewashed building, resembling a monastery. A dome topped the structure, and he imagined it held a bell tower. The driver hastened around the car and opened his door, then directed him through a slender archway, following close behind. He was surprised to find himself in a large courtyard. His driver, now acting as guide, took the lead and walked across the area to an arcade, signaling that Duncan should follow.

  Shouting, clanging, and a general cacophony greeted the two as they entered the sheltered walkway. A swarthy man materialized ahead, as though thrust from a doorway, and ran past him at record speed. His face was red and slick with sweat. Duncan spun in time to see him dart across the courtyard. He moved fast for someone so heavyset. Just as the man sprinted through the arch to the street, he looked back towards the arcade, without slackening his pace. He then ran smack into the compact with a sickening thud. Duncan watched as the man bounced off the car. His driver let out what he assumed was an oath and ran towards the road, presumably to check on his automobile. Duncan guessed the large running man left quite a dent.

  A heated argument ensued in the lane between his driver and Running Man. Duncan caught some movement in his peripheral vision and turned in time to see an even larger man running in the opposite direction down the breezeway. He was screaming and waving a skillet about in a threatening manner. He dashed around a corner and out of view. Duncan had a decision to make. Should he sprint after the man with the skillet or check on Running Man? He figured the latter was well off enough to argue wi
th his driver. He decided to go after Skillet Man before someone else got hurt. He never considered he might be the one injured.

  Duncan jogged down the hall and turned the same corner as Skillet Man. He faced a set of stairs and could hear another argument taking place not far above. Duncan rushed up the steps, following the sound of the commotion. He entered a posh office where two men faced off. One, had dropped his skillet to his side and no longer appeared threatening, although still yelling. The other remained perfectly composed in his Italian cream suit with open-collared white linen shirt, listening in earnest to the larger man, a grand desk positioned between them. The well dressed gentleman looked about Duncan's age. The Scotsman guessed he was Spanish with his tan skin, brown hair and large, round dark eyes.

  The bigger man had his back to Duncan and thus took no heed of his entrance. The calm man reacted immediately by raising his hand to Skillet Man, implying he should cease and desist. The one with the skillet turned to see where Calm Man looked and nodded. He left the room, but not without gesticulating and, Duncan guessed, cursing wildly. He did not understand Spanish, but he gave the large man a wide berth as he left the office.

  "Hola, you must be our consultant, Señor Dewar. So sorry you witnessed that just now," Calm Man said, coming around the desk to shake Duncan's hand and greeting him with a warm smile. "I am Frogo Valentine, director of the Tormes Foundation for the Arts Academy." He chuckled and continued, "I know, it's a mouthful. Please, you will call me Frogo, no?"

  Duncan took in the details of the director's appearance. Frogo was slim, about 15 centimeters shorter than Duncan with a firm grip and dazzling white smile. Duncan wasn't sure he could ever get used to calling someone Frogo. He noted the director was bilingual, yet spoke English well, with only a mild Spanish accent. He had used a different tongue when speaking to Skillet Man.

  "Please, call me Duncan."

  "Do sit down. I'm so glad you are here. Once you make your report, we're hoping the artists will return," Frogo stated.

  "Have the artists left the academy?" he asked, shocked he hadn't heard of this before.

  "Well, they were understandably upset, after the accident. Then rumors began circulating. You know how artists can be."

  Frogo lowered his voice and leaned across the desk towards Duncan.

  "They don't exactly operate with the left side of the brain, no?" he said in a conspiratorial whisper. He continued, "Most of them departed within a few days of the discovery of Ms. Peña's body. We had twenty before the accident. Only eight remain. But how are you settling in?" Frogo asked. "Has Mary made you comfortable? She's on loan from the Vizcondesa, to take care of you and the casa."

  Duncan made a mental note to obtain background checks for all twenty artists. Without a staff he'd have to do more leg work himself.

  "Yes, Mary has been wonderful and I feel right at home. Would you mind if I asked you a few questions tonight, Frogo?"

  "Not at all. In Manchiego, we still follow the old customs of siesta in the afternoon and late dinner. Did you notice the streets were empty when you arrived?"

  "Yes, as a matter of fact, I did."

  "It was siesta time. It used to be like this all over Spain. Everything closed at noon," he said, following his statement with a long sigh. "People went home for lunch and rested until four. Then, they returned and worked until eight. Nightlife beyond midnight was not uncommon. Now, the rest of the world is intruding, and more and more businesses stay open all day. Lucky for us, Manchiego holds to the old ways. So ask away, Duncan, we have plenty of time before dinner," he concluded with a smile.

  Duncan hated to break the pleasant mood created by the congenial Frogo, but he needed some basic answers.

  "Can you tell me what happened, from the beginning?"

  Frogo took a deep breath and leaned back in his chair, gathering his thoughts. He took a few moments before beginning.

  "The only thing lacking in our accommodations was the kitchen. We had been using local women as cooks, to help the town's economy and generate good will with the villagers. The food was fine, but not gourmet. Some of the artists complained, but only on occasion mind you," he said, waving a finger in the air. "The board decided an upgrade was in order. We hired Ella Peña as head cook until we could employ a more experienced chef. She had been a sous chef in more than one well respected establishment. She was in charge of revamping our kitchen equipment, and that's what led to the accident."

  The director paused. Duncan took notes with his laptop as he explained the situation. He instinctively liked Frogo. The man cared about the townspeople and, in spite of his trendy Italian suit, seemed quite down to earth. Duncan sensed he needed some prompting before he could proceed to the difficult subject of the accident.

  "Please, continue," he urged.

  "It was the installation of the new stove that went terribly wrong. The arch where you entered the courtyard is tight. The crew needed to lift the equipment over that wall before we could get it into the kitchen. The workers got it lifted, but something went wrong with the crane. The arm jammed or the hydraulics failed somehow. They left the oven hanging from the crane, over the courtyard. It was Friday afternoon, around five, and a special mechanic was not available until Monday. We were told parts must be sent for from Madrid. The operator assured us the cooker was secure. Only sometime, late Friday or early Saturday, it wasn't secure. It fell on poor Ms. Peña. A staff member discovered the disaster around noon on Saturday," he concluded, the corners of his mouth tucked towards his chin.

  This sounded just like dozens of industrial accidents Duncan had investigated over the years. He surmised Ms. Peña's family wanted some sort of compensation for their loss. He imagined his report would place blame on the crane company, limiting the liability of the academy. So that's why they hired me. The job would be a piece of cake and he could enjoy time with Angus around the villa's swimming pool during siestas.

  "Well, that was a tragedy, wasn't it," Duncan said, remembering the rumors Frogo had mentioned.

  "What kind of rumors got the artists so rattled that more than half of them quit the academy?" he asked.

  It seemed the artists had a pretty good deal going here and Duncan couldn't imagine someone giving up free room and board because of a freak accident.

  "I don't know who started it, but word got around that it wasn't an accident. They said that someone released the rigging that held up the stove, after luring Ms. Peña to the courtyard," he said, distaste evident in his voice.

  "Exactly who said such things?"

  "Artists started approaching me, asking if there was any truth to the rumor that it wasn't an accident. No one seemed to know where the rumor originated. I think it was just someone's overactive imagination. The police concluded it was just a piece of older equipment that malfunctioned."

  Duncan took a deep breath. The two men had been discussing the accident for some time. He wanted a break from the heavy atmosphere the subject created.

  "Would you like to show me around the academy, Frogo?"

  The director smiled as relief spread across his face.

  "Of course. I've been instructed to give you whatever aid you require. After you learn your way around, I'm hoping you'll make yourself right at home here."

  He rose from his chair and led Duncan from the room. Just down the hall, he stopped at an open door.

  "I hope this will suit you as an office."

  Duncan peered into the room, right next to the director's office. It was ample, with a large window, desk, credenza, and what looked like comfortable chairs.

  "It's perfect. Thank you."

  Frogo smiled his pleasure at Duncan's appreciation and the tour continued. The director showed off the academy's state of the art computer center, a library, and work rooms. They passed through an empty suite, once inhabited by a composer who left after the accident. The apartment was spacious and well appointed. Frogo commented that it was indicative of the accommodations provided for the visiting artists.<
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  A high point of the tour was the dining hall. Resembling a bucolic five star restaurant more than a cafeteria, it could seat forty with room to spare. A variety of tables filled the room, some sized to seat one or two diners, and two long enough for ten people to eat together. The floor was stone and the furnishings refined but rustic. The tables and chairs were constructed of heavy dark wood, yet the room was airy. Duncan glanced up. Open beams braced the walls and stood out against a high, white stuccoed ceiling. Large arched windows lined one end of the room with a view above the village rooftops to the countryside beyond. The academy sat atop a natural promontory.

  "That's the grand tour, Duncan. Shall we now sample some of the local nightlife? There's an excellent tapas bar within easy walking distance," Frogo said, leaving the dining room.

  "That sounds wonderful. I just want to get a look at the kitchen before we go," he added.

  For the first time this evening, Frogo looked worried. He started to say something, stammered on a few syllables, then stopped. Duncan halted, waiting for his guide.

  After a moment Frogo said, "I'm not sure that's such a good idea at the moment."

  The director checked his watch.

  He continued, "No, I think he's still in there, working at tomorrow's menu."

  "Who's still in there?" Duncan asked.

  Frogo sighed and said, "Mondo, our chef. He just went through his third sous chef in four weeks. That was Armondo in my office when you arrived."

  "Oh," Duncan said.

  "He's not a bad fellow," Frogo interjected, worried Duncan might think the worst of a staff member. "Mondo is an excellent chef, trained in the classic manner. We're very lucky to have him. He's just a little temperamental. He was willing to come on short notice, the week after the accident. Armondo ran the kitchen by himself for almost two weeks before we hired an assistant for him from Madrid. I'll have to work on another replacement first thing in the morning."