Killer in the Kitchen (16 page)

“I want to know what else you found out, Mrs. F., because I've seen how you get people to open up, spill their inner thoughts, things they seem to ‘forget' when they're talking to law-enforcement professionals.”

“That's very flattering, Mort.”

“That's not why I'm saying it, Mrs. F. The FBI has its own agenda where Leboeuf is concerned, but I've got a murder to solve. Those two detectives from the state, Mason and Lucas, mean well, but all they've been doing is getting in my way. Let me ask you this. Do you think this guy Compton, or Shulte, or whatever name he uses, should be viewed a suspect in the murder?”

I paused before replying. “Isn't it standard operating procedure that every person with a possible motive and access to the victim be included on the suspect list?”

“Sure. That's right. But I'm trying to narrow down the field. Did Compton say anything to you and to the doc that would lead you to think he might be the killer?”

“He certainly wasn't a fan of Gérard Leboeuf,” I said.

“But he worked for him.”

“That's true, but he claims that Leboeuf owed him money. He went to the restaurant after it had closed to confront Mrs. Leboeuf about it.”

“When did he arrive in Cabot Cove?” Mort asked.

That was one of the questions I'd noted on my pad.

“He says he arrived the day after Leboeuf was killed, although I don't know that for certain.”

“Maybe somebody saw him around town the day before,” Mort offered.

“That would certainly be helpful,” I said. “If I learn of anyone, you'll be the first to know.”

“That's the way it should be, Mrs. F.”

“I wouldn't have it any other way,” I said. “Oh, Mort, before you go. Please apologize to your deputy, Chip, for me. I didn't mean to get him into trouble.”

“He needs to learn not to be manipulated, even by someone as charming as the famous J. B. Fletcher.”

“I didn't—”

“You don't have to worry about Chip. He's not at the hospital anymore, but I've got him stationed out in front of the Leboeuf house to keep out the curious, especially those press people who are always trying to sneak in.”

“I'm sure he'll do a great job,” I said, relieved that my actions hadn't caused the young man any further reprimand.

During our conversation, I'd considered telling Mort that I'd be at the Fillers' house that evening, hoping to see for myself what was going on at the Leboeuf residence. But chances were that I'd learn nothing along those lines and would be content with a teeth cleaning and a lovely evening with good friends.

Unless, of course, I got lucky and picked up on something that would be useful to Mort.

We'd see.

M
ort Metzger's deputy, Chip, was sitting in a marked sheriff's department car in front of the Leboeuf residence when my cabdriver pulled up next door. I paid him, got out, and walked over to the young deputy. He saw me coming in his side-view mirror, jumped out, and said, “Hello, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“Hello, Chip. I see that you're on duty.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Keeping people from bothering the Leboeuf family?”

“Keeping away the press and the curious,” he answered. “That's my orders.”

“I'm sure the Leboeuf family appreciates what you're doing,” I said.

He swallowed audibly. “You wouldn't be trying to get in to see them, would you, Mrs. Fletcher?”

“Oh, no. I'm going next door. I'm having dinner with the Fillers. I'm sorry for the trouble I caused you at the hospital, Chip. Sheriff Metzger told me he was not pleased.”

He grinned. “That's okay, Mrs. Fletcher. The sheriff likes to blow off steam, but he gets over it pretty fast.”

“An admirable trait,” I said. “Have a nice evening.”

Ed Filler greeted me as I walked through the side door to his
office, which is attached to the house. “Glad you could make it,” he said.

“I appreciate your fitting me into your schedule, Ed,” I said. “Besides, I'm looking forward to that special barbecue sauce I keep hearing about. I hope it won't undo all the good work you're about to undertake.”

“Nothing in it will stain your teeth, and I promise it will be the best barbecue sauce you ever ate.”

“Even if you say so yourself,” I said, smiling.

“Especially since I say so myself. Elaine says that I should bottle and sell it. Sounds like a great retirement business. But while I'm still working, Jessica, let's get those pearly whites sparkling clean. Then we can fire up the grill.”

A half hour later we were seated on the Fillers' patio, glasses of wine in hand, an outdoor fireplace warming the space, and the aroma from the heating grill whetting appetites. Their niece, Melinda, visiting from San Francisco, was a pretty, ebullient young woman whose excitement about having sold her first YA novel to a publisher was palpable.

“I've been working at a restaurant in the Bay Area,” she told me, “to pay the rent while I wrote my novel. A regular customer is an editor at a publishing house, a really nice guy. I told him about the novel and he asked to see it. Voila! He bought it. It's being published in six months.”

“Makes you sound like an overnight success,” Ed said, “but I know better.”

Melinda blushed. “It's true. What I didn't tell you about were the four books I wrote that got rejected everywhere.”

“That's part of the learning curve for most writers,” I said.

“Well, they don't matter now. I finally got an acceptance, and I'm over the moon.”

“That deserves a toast,” I said, raising my glass. “To Melinda and her success as a writer.”

“Would you read it, Mrs. Fletcher?” Melinda asked. “I'd really be honored. It does have a murder in it.”

“Even if it didn't, I'm flattered that you want me to read it,” I said, which prompted her to run into the house, returning seconds later with a box containing the manuscript, which I put next to my purse.

While I was very much in the moment with my host and hostess and their niece, my attention occasionally wandered to the broad expanse of acreage next door, which sloped down to the water and a dock where the Leboeufs' boat, a moderately sized yacht, was tethered. In what my neighbors would call their “yahd,” the Leboeufs had installed a putting green, tennis courts, a large free-form swimming pool, and a separate guest cottage, all of which had been commented upon during construction and none of which was visible from the Fillers' patio. However, because the Leboeuf deck was elevated, I could see it from where I sat despite a solid white board fence and tall hedgerow that defined the property line. Eva Leboeuf came in and out of a rear door. Obviously for tonight, at least, she was leaving the running of the bistro to the staff. The two brooding young men who'd beaten Compton also made appearances from time to time, including ten minutes tossing a football between them. I hadn't seen her son, Wylie, and wondered whether he was also at the house.

Ed Filler fiddled with his grill, which he said was called a Big Green Egg. He was a purist when it came to barbecuing, using a
special brand of charcoal and tending it with loving care. When Elaine and Melinda declined my offer of assistance and went inside to put finishing touches on the evening's meal, I stood, stretched, and casually strolled down the hill to where a breakwater separated the two properties. I looked back. From this vantage point I had a better view of the goings-on at the Leboeuf house. Eva had returned to the deck. She wore sunglasses and a shawl around her shoulders and sat in a teak armchair, reading a magazine. One of the young protectors sat at the opposite side of the deck, lost in what I assumed was a smartphone. Today's technology is sometimes baffling to me, surefire evidence that I'm on the wrong side of fifty. But I have learned my way around my cell phone as well as my computer.

I was about to turn back to the Fillers' patio when something caught my attention on the Leboeuf boat. Someone was moving about.

I walked closer to the fence and shielded my eyes from the setting sun. The figure that I'd seen now came into view on the boat's aft deck. It was the Leboeufs' son, Wylie.

“Hello,” I called, waving.

My greeting startled him. He looked left and right before focusing on me.

“Hello,” I repeated. “It's Jessica Fletcher.”

He appeared to be uncertain how to respond. Finally, he gave me a halfhearted wave and said, “Hi.”

“It's a beautiful boat,” I said. “Do you get to go cruising on it often?”

“No.”

“That's a shame. You have such a picturesque spot here.”

“It's nice,” he mumbled; I had trouble hearing him.

“I wanted to let you know that I'm so very sorry about what happened to your father,” I said.

Wylie's head bounced up and down, but he didn't respond.

I glanced back to see whether Eva and her watchdogs were aware of our conversation. They didn't seem to be.

“Do you mind if I talk with you?” I asked.

“Huh?”

“May I come aboard?”

When he didn't respond, I wedged through an opening at the end of the fence and hedgerow and walked out on the dock. Wylie's expression was pure confusion.

“It's a lovely evening, isn't it?” I said as I stepped onto the boat's deck.

“I don't know if you should be here,” he said, looking back to where his mother had dozed off. “I'm not supposed to talk to the press or anyone.” Her two bodyguards—I suppose that was the proper description of them—had disappeared inside the house.

I held my hands up to show that I wasn't hiding anything. “I'm not the press,” I said. “I just wanted to extend my condolences to you and your family. How are you and your mother holding up? Your father's death was such a terrible, unexpected tragedy.”

He stared at me in wary silence.

An unexpected response to be sure; I didn't pursue it.

He walked toward the bow and I followed.

“Do you know how to pilot this boat, Wylie?”

“No. He never taught me—wouldn't ever let me touch the controls—but I think I could do it anyway. I watched how he did it, and sometimes when we had guests he hired a captain do the
piloting.” He smiled softly. “
He
used to show me what everything was for.”

“Maybe you can learn now. Your mother might like that.”

“I don't think so. You're that writer, aren't you?”

“Yes. Jessica Fletcher.”

“You're not a cop.”

“No. I promise I'm not.”

“Then why are you asking questions about my family?”

“Did you know your father and I were colleagues of sorts? We share the same agent in New York. I once interviewed your father for a book I was writing. He was very helpful to me.”

Wylie gave a soft snort. “You must have been one of the few, but that doesn't explain why you're here.”

“It's a terrible blow when someone is murdered, Wylie. I'm sure this is a painful time for you. And like you, I want to see your father's killer brought to justice.”

He turned to face me, and I saw in his large brown eyes torment and hurt, anger and resentment. In the few times I'd seen him before, he'd never had that youthful glow that most young people have, and I wondered whether his use of drugs had dulled his expression, dulled every aspect of his life.

He stared at me. His lips moved, but no words came from them. Then he said, “It was that guy Fowler who killed him, wasn't it?”

“I don't know,” I said. “Is that what you and your family think?”

He nodded and mumbled, “Yeah. My mother said that's who did it. Rico said so, too.”

“Rico? Is he one of the men on your father's staff?”

He nodded, his gaze going up to the deck of the house.

“I'm sure the police will determine who's responsible for your father's death,” I said. “But it's a mistake to jump to conclusions until all the facts are in.” I glanced back to the Fillers' patio, where Ed was fussing with his prized barbecue. “I think it's time I rejoined my hosts. It was good to talk with you, Wylie.”

“What are you doing here, Jessica?” a harsh female voice asked.

It was Eva Leboeuf. She stood on the pier with hands on her hips, an angry expression on her fine-boned face.

“I'm having dinner with your neighbors,” I said, gesturing up the hill. “I saw Wylie here and walked down to offer my sympathies to your son.”

“Do you really think that's necessary?”

“He's suffered a tragic loss. I don't see anything wrong in acknowledging that.”

“You've been here longer than that. What else did you talk about?”

“About Dad's murder,” Wylie said harshly.

Eve kept her eyes on me. “He doesn't know anything about it.”

“As I said, Eva, I simply came to offer condolences. To you as well as Wylie.”

Behind her, the two men had left the house and were heading downhill toward us. Max, the German shepherd, was with them, thankfully on a leash. “Is she bothering you, Mrs. Leboeuf?” one of them called out, as Max let out a series of sharp barks.

She didn't answer.

“I feel sad about your husband's death, Eva,” I said. “I know
we don't know each other very well, but in my few encounters with Gérard, he always spoke so proudly about you and—”

I started to retreat from the boat when Eva said, “Maybe it's time you and I had a talk, Jessica.”

Her protectors flanked her, arms crossed, their faces stony, while Max growled at me.

“I'd like that,” I said.

“I know that you're some sort of a celebrity in this wretched town and that you enjoy poking your nose into other people's business.”

I was startled by her aggressive tone, but waited for her to continue.

“I also know that you're a friend of the Fowler family and that you questioned that imbecile, Compton, in the hospital.”

“That's all true,” I said.

“Gérard may have been helpful to you in business, but that does not give you the right to meddle in our lives.”

“A vicious murder has been committed in Cabot Cove, and that impacts everyone who lives here. I would think that you, above all, would want the killer arrested and prosecuted as swiftly as possible.”

“There are professionals investigating my husband's murder. We don't need amateurs analyzing us or thinking they know more than the police.”

“I agree. However, I have been helpful to the authorities in the past, and I hope to be again.”

“All they have to do is arrest Brad Fowler and charge him with the murder. You certainly can't think that he's innocent.”

“Jessica, soup's on!” Ed Filler yelled from his patio.

Eva seemed to be trying to push me into concurring with her conclusion. But I didn't agree and wasn't about to be pressured to say something she could—and likely would—use against me. “I'd like very much to continue this conversation, Eva, but it will have to be at another time. My host is calling. Please excuse me.”

I could feel their eyes boring into me as I retraced my steps through the gap in the fence and up to the Fillers' yard, where I joined my friends at a nicely set table near the barbecue.

“Have a productive conversation with our neighbor?” Ed asked, grinning.

“I suppose you could call it that,” I said. “It wasn't especially friendly, but considering what they're going through, I can hardly fault them for being reluctant to speak with me.”

“They've never been friendly,” Elaine put in, lowering her voice, although it was doubtful anyone next door could overhear our conversation. “She's always been a cold fish, and the son—well, you've heard the rumors about him.”

“I feel sorry for him,” I said.

“He's a loner. No telling what's on his mind,” Ed said. “What did you talk about?”

“I mentioned the murder. He said that he and his family believe that Brad Fowler killed his father.”

“Well, they're only saying what everyone else in Cabot Cove is,” Ed said, “at least that's what I hear from my patients.”

Elaine spooned homemade potato salad onto our plates. “I
just wish it was over,” she said. “Gérard Leboeuf's murder has the whole town on edge.”

I silently agreed. Knowing that a murderer was wandering around Cabot Cove had created a pervasive tension among townspeople, me included. But I forced that thought from my consciousness. I chose to sit with my back to the Leboeuf estate next door as I dug into the meal in front of me. Elaine was right; the barbecue sauce that her husband had created was superb, the ribs tender and falling off the bone. There was, of course, lots of conversation with Melinda about her young-adult novel and her plans for the future. Such youthful enthusiasm was contagious, and her exuberance brought back memories of when I was her age and viewing the future with wide eyes and an equal amount of awe.