Crozes ripped open a piece of sausage with his pearl-handled Laguiole, allowing its stuffing of pig’s intestine to burst out of it. The smell almost turned Enzo’s stomach. So this was how a three-star Michelin chef ate at lunchtime. “What do you want to chat about?”
“Marc Fraysse.”
“What about him?”
“How long had you worked for him before his death?”
“I was with Marc from the time he got his second star.”
“So that was about… seven years before he was killed?”
“I guess so.”
“You must have been pretty close.”
Crozes glanced up as if he suspected Enzo of loading the question in some way. “Professionally, yes. Personally, no.”
“But you must have spent, what, ten, twelve hours a day with him?”
“I must have done.”
“You spend that much time with someone every day over seven years, you must get to know them pretty well.”
Crozes sighed, and a mouthful of sausage was followed by a forkful of lentils. “The man was a genius. I never worked with anyone like him. His attention to detail was extraordinary, and he brought me to realize just how important those details were. He made me, Monsieur Macleod. He moulded me in his image. And I knew the only reason he did that was because he saw himself in me. He saw what I could be. And he made damn sure I fulfilled my potential.”
“You liked him, then?”
Crozes shook his head. “No. I didn’t like him. I loved him, monsieur. He was father, brother, mentor, friend, all rolled into one. But only in the kitchen. It was the only place we ever spent time together. I didn’t know the first thing about his private life. Nor he about mine. That was beside the point. The only thing that mattered was what we put on the plate.”
Enzo found it hard to imagine how such an intense professional friendship could fail to spill over into a personal one. And yet something in Crozes’ tone, and his choice of words, led Enzo to believe him. And he supposed that outside of the kitchen, neither man really had much of a personal life anyway. Which brought him to the question which had been burning through the facade of patience he had been at pains to build around himself. He glanced along the table, and saw the glowering face of a young man turned in his direction. The youth, in his chef’s whites, immediately averted his gaze when he saw that Enzo had seen him. But something in his eyes had left Enzo feeling distinctly uncomfortable.
Enzo turned back to Crozes, lowering his voice. “I heard a rumor that Marc Fraysse and your wife were having an affair.” He watched carefully for a reaction.
Crozes jabbed a forkful of sausage into his long, lean face and chewed in silence, still staring down at his plate. Then slowly he raised his eyes again to meet Enzo’s. “You repeat that to anyone, monsieur, and I will personally beat the crap out of you.” There was no doubting his sincerity, and given his ten year advantage over Enzo, there was a distinct possibility he could keep his promise.
“Does that mean it’s true?”
Anger fired in his eyes. “No, it does not. I don’t know where it came from all those years ago, and I don’t know who’s repeating it to you now, but it’s a lie. It always was.” He leaned forward, his voice low and threatening. “You’re eating in the restaurant today, I hear.”
Enzo nodded apprehensively.
“Then take care, monsieur. You shouldn’t upset the chef before dining. You never know what you might find in your food.”
He wiped the blade of his Laguiole on his sleeve and folded it up, standing suddenly, his meal unfinished in front of him, and pushed his way brusquely past the other diners to make his exit.
A hush fell over the shed, and Enzo felt eyes turning toward him. There couldn’t have been anyone at the two rows of tables who wasn’t aware that something fractious had passed between le patron and the Scotsman. He waited for a few minutes, until mealtime conversations had resumed, albeit, tentatively, before rising from his seat and making his way outside.
He could almost feel the buzz of speculative chatter that started up at his back.
Enzo entered the empty west dining room from the garden terrace. Tables were set. Crisp, fresh white table linen laid out with simple but elegant bone-handled silver cutlery made in Thiers. Condiment dispensers were fashioned from the horns of Auvergnat cattle. Serving staff were administering the final touches to the presentation. The hotel, Enzo knew, was full. Both dining rooms were fully booked, lunch and evening, as they were every day. Seventy-five couverts, with diners asked to make their menu choice while still in the lounge, sampling their amuse- bouches and quaffing their aperitifs, to provide the kitchen with maximum advance notice of the numbers ordering from the two set menus, and any unusual orders from the carte.
Enzo attracted one or two glances as he made his way from the dining room, through the lounge and into the reception area. He caught a glimpse of the large figure of Guy Fraysse emerging from the cave, and he hurried after him.
“Guy…” The big man stopped and turned, and his face broke into an infectious smile when he saw Enzo. He pumped Enzo’s hand.
“How are you today, my man? The mirabelle help you sleep?”
“I’m not sure if it was the mirabelle, or the rarified air up here on the plateau, or maybe a mix of the two, but I slept like a log, thanks.”
“Excellent. Worked up a good appetite for your lunch?”
“I have.” Enzo hesitated. “About lunch… I wanted to ask if I could bring a guest.” And he added hurriedly, “I’ll pay, of course.”
Guy nodded. “Well, since I’ve set up a table specially for you, it’ll be no problem to add another place.”
“Great.”
“Who’s your guest?”
“It’s Dominique Chazal. The gendarme from Thiers.”
Guy raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Ah. Well, in that case, she will be my guest, too.”
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly accept that,” Enzo said.
Guy grinned and placed a big hand on Enzo’s shoulder. “I’m not asking you to. Just telling you… there’ll be no charge. I’m the boss. It’s my prerogative.”
Enzo shook his head. “That’s incredibly generous of you.”
But Guy waved his hand dismissively in the air. “A few vegetables, a couple of pieces of meat or fish… I don’t think that’ll break the bank.”
Enzo found himself momentarily distracted by the appearance at the reception desk of Georges Crozes’ wife, Anne. She came from the hotel shop beyond, and was starting to shuffle through files in a mahogany cabinet when she looked up and caught his eye. He could have sworn that her face colored.
Guy put a friendly arm around his shoulder and steered him away toward the sliding glass doors to the kitchen. He leaned in, confidentially, lowering his voice a little theatrically. “So tell me, Enzo… what would induce a chap like yourself to spend the kind of money it costs to eat here on a young female gendarme he’s just met? Eh? Do I detect the perfume of testosterone in the air?”
Enzo was not at all sure how to respond. And for a moment he wondered why he had asked her to lunch. Had he felt sorry for her? Or was he simply trying to atone for undermining her authority at the PMU? Or was Guy right? Was he, as so often had been the case in the past, a victim of his own libido? In the end, he just grinned in response, and let Guy take from it what he would. And Guy’s lecherous return grin provided a fairly good indicator of just what that might be.
He unpeeled his arm from around Enzo’s shoulder as the doors ahead of them slid open. “I might join you for a glass or two during lunch, if that’s alright. Meantime, I have some unpaid suppliers to appease. I’ll see you later.” And he vanished off into the kitchen.
Enzo turned and hurried back into reception. But Anne Crozes was gone. He heard a car starting up in the car
