“When?”
“Early this morning. Her call woke me up. It was around seven
a.m
., I think.” He took a deep breath. “You can check the video feeds—they will confirm what I say.”
“I will.” I gave him my best steely stare. He didn’t wilt. If he was that confident, I felt sure the tapes would jibe with his story. I’d ask Jerry to check, but I wouldn’t red flag it. “So, I’m confused. You say this truffle isn’t the real truffle? The one you bought?”
Stepping back, Gregor gave me a look that I couldn’t read. He raised his hand.
The light dawned, but rooted to the floor, unable to raise even a hand to stop him, I stared in horror as the chef dropped the truffle into the pig’s feed bin. It landed with a weighty thunk.
Adrenaline surged. Fear overrode inertia. I leaped toward the pen. “No!”
“The pig, she is not interested.” The quiet words from the corner stopped me.
I whirled to face the man who had uttered them. Short and round, with a cherubic weathered face, gray curls, and a kerchief tied jauntily around his neck, he wrung his hands as he glanced at me, then cast a worried look at the pig. The fabric of his pants was shiny with wear, and his checkered shirt was faded on the shoulders as if from long days spent in the sun.
I’d guess this was the truffler.
“You see,” he said, as he gestured toward the pig, who had turned up her nose at the proffered truffle, “she does not want that truffle.” His voice was soft, heavily accented in that sexy French way. What was it about accents that turned normally smart American women all stupid?
As I struggled to understand, I felt my IQ plummet. “Why not?”
His mouth turned down at the corners, and he gave a shrug. “It is not a good truffle.”
Totally adrift, I stood there with my mouth open. Clearly, my coping skills were at a low ebb. Finally, I managed to pull myself together, snapping my mouth shut and summoning a semblance of cogent thought. “Where is the good truffle?”
Chef Gregor looked like he was about to stroke out as he stepped into my space and pushed his face into mine. “Against my better judgment, I gave it to Chef Bouclet.”
“Jean-Charles?” I squeaked.
“Hmmm. He is the only one with the proper refrigeration controls to keep a truffle of that quality appropriately cooled. You
do
know that once truffles are harvested, they are at their peak for only a few days and must be cooled?”
I nodded, pretending I had a clue as to what he was talking about.
“Jean-Charles has stolen my truffle.” Chef Gregor poked me in the chest, emphasizing each word as he growled. “You tell your chef he is a dead man.”
J
ean-Charles
had not answered his phone, and I’d left a rather terse message. If our prized truffle had gone missing, he sure as hell better tell me about it. After all, since the buck stopped with me, my ass was on the line. Cleaning up after a pig, and now chasing a missing truffle, had me a bit testy when I burst into the kitchen at Tigris, the Babylon’s high-end eatery and the toughest table in town.
“Tell me what you know about truffles.” I had rescued the not-so-good truffle from the pig’s bin and now plunked it down on the stainless prep table in front of Chef Omer.
Chef Omer was the chef de cuisine at Tigris, the Babylon’s top eatery that had just been awarded its third Michelin star. My father had found him toiling away in the bowels of some Turkish eatery, had recognized greatness, and had moved the chef and his family to Vegas, where they all had not only taken root, but flourished. And Tigris had also blossomed under his careful grooming to rival the best restaurants in town . . . even Joël Robuchon, Picasso, and Guy Savoy. Omer gave me the twinkle-eye. “Sweetie, that would take more time than we both have.”
He was probably the only man on the planet who could address me as sweetie and live to tell about it—especially with sharp instruments within easy reach.
Short and round, with dark hair that had thinned considerably the last few years, Chef Omer was clearly amused, his smile folding the loose skin of his jowls and lighting his eyes. “What do you need to know about truffles?”
“I don’t really know.” I pointed to the mound of whitish-gray fungus on the table in front of us. With creases and nodules, weird discolorations, and an odd grayish hue, it looked like a brain drained of blood. “Why don’t we start there?”
Chef Omer picked the thing up, holding it to the light and rotating it a few times. He pursed his lips as his eyes lost their light. “Where did you get this?”
I told him what I knew.
“This is not Chef Gregor’s truffle,” Chef Omer announced, his voice firm, ringing with conviction. “I would guess this is either a cheap Chinese version, or maybe even from Oregon, but it is not the prized Alba truffle.” He pointed to some spots at various points on the thing. “And look here. Someone has loaded it with buckshot.”
“Buckshot?”
“Increases the weight. And since the price is determined per gram . . .” Knowing I was smart enough to keep up, he let the thought hang there.
I sagged onto a stool. “There is nothing I hate more than cheaters.”
“An old ploy.” Omer paused. “Who sold this truffle to Chef Gregor?”
“To be honest, I have no idea where that truffle came from. Gregor said Fiona Richards gave it to him. Do you know her?”
He pursed his lips. “Hmmm.” A rather noncommittal reply that spoke volumes.
“She was in the kitchen at Burger Palais, saw the truffle box, couldn’t resist a peek . . . her story via Gregor. When she saw it was not the right truffle, she took it to Gregor.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Interesting. What was she doing in the walk-in of Jean-Charles’s place?”
“We’ll never know exactly. I’ve got Fiona Richards laid out in Chef Bouclet’s food truck with a smoking thing, and a truffle.”
Chef Omer’s face slackened, his eyes sad but not surprised. “Dead?”
I nodded.
He bowed his head for a moment, then proffered the truffle. “Now this is something she might try.”
“I haven’t met anyone yet who thought highly of her, but do you know anyone who would want her dead?”
“Run out of town, perhaps.” He smiled a knowing smile. “But dead? That takes a special kind of hate.”
“You do know the police will come around? Since the truffle was to be part of the Last Chef Standing competition, I’m sure they will want to talk to anyone associated.”
Chef Omer looked surprised. “I am just one of the judges.”
“Just the same, it’s what the police do to make us think they are doing their job. Tell me about the other judges.”
“You’ve not met them yet?” He gave me a steady, appraising stare. I shook my head, and he grinned. “Well, you’ve got a treat in store, then. Besides myself, there is one other chef, Viktor Gordon. He fancies himself quite the continental, but he was born to poor Ukrainian potato farmers. To his credit, though, he taught himself to cook, studied the techniques of the masters, then wrangled an apprenticeship with Ducasse in Paris.”
“Brash?”
“Hmmm, we all are, to some degree. He has the talent to match.”
“I’ve read his CV. Quite impressive.”
“Yes, James Beard several times, Michelin stars, all the accolades, but well deserved.” Chef Omer shot me a knowing look. “Talented, yes, but mind you, he’s a bit of a prima donna. He not only reads the glowing press, he takes it to heart.”
“A peacock showing his feathers—he preens, but he gets down to business, so he shouldn’t be too much of a problem.”
Chef Omer didn’t look convinced. “I shouldn’t tell you, but Viktor Gordon is a sham.”
“Meaning?”
“Gordon Ramsay, he will be the judge. The press is already sniffing a McGuffin.” Omer shrugged. “Publicity. You’d think the great chefs and wonderful culinary creations would be enough.”
“The dumbing-down influence of pop culture—look what it’s done to music.” I smiled and shook my head. “The ruse is actually quite clever—it’ll go viral, and the chefs and this hotel, we will all have a wonderful platform to exploit.”
“And our sponsors will be happy.”
The marketer in me was impressed. “A win-win. And the other judge? Who is he?”
“Well, that’s been a bit of an issue. The original one, I can’t remember his name—some Hollywood luminary. He got stuck in Dubai or some such place. Heard he had a bad case of the clap.”
I hit him on the arm. “The higher their K score, the stupider they get.”
“What?”
“Klout score: a measure of one’s ability to influence pop culture.” I waved my hand, deflecting interest. “Have they found another judge?”
Chef Omer looked at me with big, dark eyes. “I heard your friend Jordan Marsh has agreed to sub for our fallen star.”
I started to say something, but my phone singing out at my hip stopped me. Grabbing it to shut down Teddie and his song, I glanced at the number and smiled. If Chef Omer had anything to say about Teddie as my ringtone, he was smart enough to keep it to himself. I slid my finger across the face of the phone, then pressed it to the side of my face. “Jordan, we were just talking about you.”
His warm, rich voice brightened my day. “Lucky, I’m counting on you to be at the airport.”
“Just tell me when.”
He gave me the particulars.
“Will Rudy be with you?” I asked.
A few months ago, Jordan, with my reluctant help, had broken the heart of every female on the planet when he had plighted his troth to his partner, Rudy Gillespie, an entertainment lawyer here in Vegas. I’d set them up. Thankfully, that was not a widely known bit of information, or I’d have had to go into hiding. As it was, although I had no proof, I still harbored a belief that somewhere depressed women in-the-know were sticking pins in my voodoo doll.
“Of course,” Jordan said, adding jauntily, “and we are expecting our regular accommodations, please.” With that, he hung up, squelching my objection.
His regular room was my guest room . . . in my apartment . . . at the Presidio . . . one floor below Teddie’s digs. As I pocketed my phone, I tabled my worry. Why did it seem the whole world was conspiring to force me to face Teddie? I narrowed my eyes as I thought. . . . Why indeed? This had my parents’ fingerprints all over it.
Some days, I wished I were an orphan. Today was one of them.
I turned my attention back to Chef Omer, who waited with amusement lighting his eyes. “So, are you comfortable with Jordan Marsh being a judge?”
“He has very refined taste. Besides, I think the audience will like having a nonculinary person on the panel—sort of someone like them.”
I thought Jordan Marsh was as far from an average Joe as it was possible to get, but he’d shown he could play any role, and besides, presentation was everything, so I went with it and trusted Chef Omer’s instincts. “So, back to Fiona.”
Chef Omer’s grin faded. “A truffle and a Saf-T-Smoke?”
“Someone was very specific.”
As easy to read as a cook-by-the-numbers recipe, Chef Omer’s thoughts marched across his face; he didn’t even try to hide them. “Yes, whoever killed Fiona is sending a strong message.”
“A message, yes. But to whom?”
Chef Omer stepped around the corner, then returned with a knife. He grabbed the truffle. He squinted at it as he turned it slowly in his hand. “Yes, this is the sort of truffle Fiona would try to sell.”
“You knew her well?”
“We all did. She called on the top restaurants in town. Her partner apparently greased the way.” He glanced at me, then refocused on the truffle.
“Partner?”
He shrugged as he rotated the truffle, analyzing it. “I don’t know exactly who her partner was, but there was a rumor of some name behind her putting up the money, opening a door to the supply chain.”
“You don’t know who?” I pressed.
“Whoever it was stayed in the background.” He glanced at me, his gaze holding mine. “But I know this, they had to be in the food world. Providers of the ingredients of the necessary quality and consistency are few, and in demand. So the competition for the most exclusive products is fierce. And Fiona’s were some of the best from Central and South America.”
“Explain.”
“When a chef finds a purveyor, he or she will often agree to buy whatever the farm produces, which can run to tens of thousands of dollars a week.”
“They buy it all? What if they don’t want it?”
“If it is of the quality expected, we always want it. We can build a seasonal menu around whatever is available. We can change it daily, if we wish. That is the fun, and the intrigue that keeps the customers coming back and paying the higher prices.”
Higher prices? Some bordered on the obscene, but I didn’t say so. Of course, I wasn’t a particularly discerning foodie, so perhaps my perspective was skewed. “Food acquisition has really changed since I had to cycle through the food prep side of the Big Boss’s properties.”
“Ah, this is the high end—very rarified air. Like haute couture.”
“Haute cuisine . . . I can get behind that. But it sounds a bit cut-throat to me.”
Chef Omer laughed. “True. And I must admit, when I heard someone else was in town to give Desiree Bouclet a run for her money, I was intrigued. It is never good to have only one supplier. They can try to put you over the barrel.”
“Would Desiree do that?” My voice was tight.
Chef Omer gave a light, upward motion with one shoulder. “She is a good businesswoman . . . clever and resourceful, she drives a hard bargain. But her products are worth the price.”
“And Fiona’s?”
“I stopped taking her calls months ago. Some of her products—not the South American ones, but others, were not of a necessary quality or consistency.” Lowering the truffle, he caught my eyes. “I have no proof, but I felt Fiona couldn’t be trusted. I lost confidence in her. My reputation could be ruined by a bad batch of tuna, for instance. I am simplifying and probably being overly dramatic, but it is very important.”
“What made you feel that way?”
“Just a feeling.” His eyes avoided mine, sliding instead back to the truffle. “Maybe a little bit more. And once this”—he pointed to his gut—“tells me it is time to make a change, I listen.”
“Maybe I ought to run my romantic choices through that bullshit meter.”
Omer gave me a knowing, fatherly look of sympathy. “If I can help . . . my wife says I am very particular.”
I didn’t know whether we were talking about men, or still about food—I assumed the latter, as the male of the species was not a subject I wanted to delve into at the moment. “Maybe so. But to hear Desiree and Chef Gregor tell it, the original truffle that has now gone missing was of exceptional quality.”
“Yes, I saw it.” Chef Omer’s face cleared. “It was a thing of beauty. I never saw one like it . . . never even heard of one matching it. Huge, it was the perfect Alba truffle. Very, very rare, not only because of its size, but also its quality.” A wistful look softened his features. “Just like in the old days, a pig found it.”
“A pig.” I must’ve sounded less than pleased as Chef Omer returned from his trip down memory lane.
“Why this tone?”
“Until a little while ago, that pig was ensconced in Bungalow 7.”
When he laughed his belly shook, reminding me of Santa Claus, well, without the beard—he did have a stomach like a bowlful of jelly . . . and a round, warm face and infectious laugh.
“You’d better not let your father know this,” he warned, unnecessarily.
Personally, I didn’t care what my father knew or didn’t know—he was close to the top of my shit list. But I didn’t need to air the family dirty laundry, so I shifted gears . . . again. I’d done more of that today than a NASCAR driver. “You are sure this is not the original truffle?”