“They had to have been added after the reduction,” I said. “That sauce had cream in it to add richness. It wasn’t boiled after the cream was added.” To prevent it curdling in the acidity of the wine.
I remembered back to the dinner. In order to produce enough, I had used four large aluminum cooking pots to produce the sauce, similar to domestic kitchen saucepans only bigger, with handles on each side. The ones that Stress-Free Catering had provided would each hold about six liters of liquid, if full. I had estimated that we would require fifty milliliters of sauce per person. So for two hundred and fifty servings, I had needed twelve and a half liters of sauce. I had made it in four separate batches, just in case a batch curdled. In the end, all four batches had been fine, and there had been plenty left over. I remembered it well, as I loved the sauce and had poured extra on my own dinner. Just my bad luck.
The four half-full pots had stood in the serving area, where we had made up the dinners on the plates with the sliced stuffed chicken breasts, the roasted new potatoes, the snow peas and the sauce, with a sprig of parsley on the potatoes to garnish. The pots hadn’t been directly heated on a range for some minutes, as I had judged that they were hot enough and would maintain their temperature throughout the serving if simply placed on top of the hot stainless steel servers. I had told one of the temporary kitchen staff to stir the sauce to prevent it from separating. He had been of little use for anything else, and I remembered him because it had taken me some time to explain what was required because he didn’t understand English very well. I had assumed at the time that he was Polish or Czech, or from some other eastern European country, as so many staff in the catering business seem to be these days.
I reckoned there had been about a ten-minute window when the beans could have been added to the sauce between being moved from the kitchen and the service. At that time, I mostly had been around the corner in the kitchen or out in the dining area. Either way, I had been out of sight of the pots during that vital time. Due to the positioning between the kitchen and the dining room, almost any of the staff that night could have had the chance to add something to the pots. But it had to have been someone who knew the place, and surely my stirrer or someone else would have seen them. It still made little sense to me.
“So what do you suggest we do?” said Gary.
“Nothing we can do,” I said, “except carry on as before. We have sixty-five booked for dinner, and, so far, no one has called today to cancel.”
The telephone on my desk rang. Why didn’t I keep my stupid mouth shut, I thought, as I lifted the receiver.
“Hello,” I said. “Hay Net restaurant.”
“Max? Is that you?” said a female voice.
“Certainly is,” I said.
“Good. This is Emma Kealy. I understand you saw George at Elizabeth’s funeral yesterday.”
“Yes,” I said, “I did. I’m so sorry about Elizabeth.”
“Yes,” she said. “Thank you. A dreadful thing, especially for poor Neil.” She paused for a moment. “But life has to go on for the rest of us.”
“How can I help?” I asked her.
“Well, George tells me that he canceled our booking for tonight.”
“Yes, he did. He said to leave it for a while.”
“Stupid old fool,” she said. “We still have people staying tonight, and there’s no food in the house. What does he think I’m going to do? Go to the Raj of India?” The Raj of India was a seedy take-out curry place on Palace Street. It would never have crossed my mind that Emma Kealy would have even known about it, let alone thought of going there. “Can you fit four of us in for tonight at eight-thirty?” she said imploringly. “I will perfectly understand if we can’t have our usual table.”
“Of course we can fit you in,” I said. “Look forward to seeing you.”
“Great. See you later, then.” I could hear the relief in her voice. I wondered how much of a row had gone on between her and George.
I put the phone down and looked at Gary and Carl. “Four more bookings for tonight,” I said, smiling. Thank goodness for the Kealys.
The other two went into the kitchen to start preparing for dinner while I sat at my desk to complete some paperwork. I shuffled the stack of already-tidy papers, checking that there were no outstanding bills that had to be paid immediately. I came across the delivery note from Leigh Foods, the supplier I had used for the gala dinner. I looked through the ingredients again, as if I could have missed the kidney beans before. They weren’t there. Of course they weren’t there. I would swear on my father’s grave that I had not put any damn kidney beans in that dinner.
I called Suzanne Miller on her cell.
“Hi, Suzanne,” I said, “Max Moreton here. Sorry to disturb you on a Saturday afternoon. Do you have a minute?”
“Fire away,” she said. “I’m in my office anyway. We’ve had a wedding here today, so I’m still working.”
“I didn’t know you had weddings at the racetrack,” I said.
“Oh yes,” she said. “Most Saturdays during the summer, when there’s no racing, of course. We use the Hong Kong Suite for the ceremony and then, often, the Champions Gallery restaurant for the reception. It works quite well.”
“You live and learn,” I said.
“How can I help you?” she asked.
“I wonder if I could have a copy of the guest list from last Friday night?”
“Sure,” she said, “no problem. I have it on my computer. I’ll e-mail it to you now.”
“Thanks,” I said. “There is another thing. Do you have a list of the names of all the temporary staff that you found through the agency?”
“Not their names,” she said. “The agency just gave me the number that would be there, not their names.”
“But, you remember, some of them failed to turn up, and we had to draft in a few of your own staff at the last minute,” I said. “Do you, by chance, have the names of those that didn’t come, and also the names of your staff that we drafted in?”
“I’ll e-mail the agency’s phone number and you can ask them directly,” she said. “Why do you need to know the names of my staff?”
How much should I tell her? She had been quick to hang me out to dry when the letter from Caroline Aston had first appeared on her desk. Would she now simply think I was looking for a scapegoat?
“I have reason to believe that something may have been put into the dinner that shouldn’t have been there,” I said, “and I am trying to determine the names of everyone who was there and had access to the food so I can find out who was responsible.”
There was a long pause at the other end of the line.
“Are you saying that you think my staff are to blame for making people ill?” Suzanne said rather frostily.
“No,” I replied hastily. “I’m not saying that, and I don’t think it. Your staff were all last-minute replacements, so it is impossible for them to be the ones.” I thought it most unlikely that anyone could buy and prepare a large number of kidney beans on such short notice. “I would just like their names so that I can eliminate them from my inquiry.” I was beginning to sound like a policeman.
“I will look it up,” she said. “But I will have to ask them first if they are happy for you to have their names.”
“That’s fine by me,” I said.
“Do you really think that the food was poisoned on purpose?”
“Suzanne,” I said, “I know it sounds crazy, but I have absolutely no other explanation. Hospital tests have shown beyond doubt that there was stuff in that dinner that I didn’t put in there, so what am I to think?”
“What stuff?” she asked.
“I’d rather not say,” I said. I don’t know why I thought it might be useful to keep some of the facts secret. Perhaps I had hopes of catching out the culprit by him saying “kidney beans” when I hadn’t mentioned it. I was sure that I had once read a detective novel when that sort of thing had happened and the policeman had instantly solved the case.
“All sounds very cloak-and-dagger to me,” she said. “And a bit far-fetched as well, if you ask me. Why would
