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  Her interest piqued, Dominique was about to ask him what he meant when she was interrupted by the arrival at their table again of Guy Fraysse. He tipped his head toward them, raising an enquiring eyebrow. “How was it?”

  “Absolutely wonderful, Monsieur Fraysse,” Dominique said. “I have eaten cuisses de grenouille many times, but they never tasted like this.”

  “Excellent.” He beamed his delight and placed a bottle of red wine on the table, which he began to open very carefully. “This is a Burgundy, as you can see. Domaine Michel Gros. Aux Brulees, 2005.” He turned toward Enzo. “Which, as you will know, is being hailed as the vintage of the century. And I still find it hard to see past the pinot noir. I’m just going to leave this to breathe for a while. It’s to have with your veal. But more of that later.” He checked how much of the Muscadet was left. “Good. I’m happy to leave you this to finish with your fish.” He raised a finger. “Although, you may wish to forego wine with this dish altogether. It is served in a sauce of red wine.”

  Enzo couldn’t conceal his amazement. “Fish in a red wine sauce?”

  “Another nod to the incomparable Monsieur Loiseau. He liked to serve sandre with his red wine reduction. Marc served it with filets de rouget lightly sauted with rondelles of steamed leak. The sauce itself is quite extraordinary. Seven litres of strong, raisiny, southern wine reduced to one, thickened to the consistency of blood, and finished off with a nob of butter.”

  The tiny rouget fillets, three each, were served on white china, the skin side crisped to an almost caramel finish. The sauce was, indeed, the consistency of blood, startlingly dark red against the white, and delivered in a swirl with what seemed like an artistic flourish. Both fillets and sauce were sprinkled with the delicate rondelles of leek and half a dozen soft green peppercorns.

  As recommended by Guy, they abandoned the wine to focus on the delicate flesh of the soft, moist fish, the burnt crunch of the skin, the mellow flavour of the sauce, all offset by the bite of the leek and the occasion burst of spicy pepper. Conversation, again, took second place to appreciation of the food, and it wasn’t until they had mopped their plates clean that Dominique returned to the subject that had so intrigued her before Guy’s interruption.

  “So how many children do you actually have?”

  Enzo dabbed his mouth with his napkin and wondered just how much of himself he should reveal. Finally he said, “I have three children. A daughter by my first marriage. My daughter by my French wife.” He hesitated. “And a son I have never seen.”

  Dominique’s eyes opened wide. “How old is your son?”

  “About six months.”

  She sat back in her chair and looked at him in amazement. “And you’ve never seen him?”

  “I don’t even know his name.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “His mother didn’t want me to have anything to do with him. Doesn’t even want him to know who his father is.”

  “That’s not fair. On him or you.”

  Enzo gazed at his empty plate. “That was the deal.”

  “What deal?”

  He looked up. “When she found out she was pregnant she delivered an ultimatum. She would have the child aborted unless I would agree to stay out of their lives. What was I going to do? I couldn’t let her kill my son.”

  Dominique shook her head, her eyes filled with the horror she felt. “Why on earth did she even tell you she was pregnant?”

  “I guess, because she knew I would find out.”

  “Who is she?”

  “Her name’s Charlotte. She’s a forensic psychologist. Lives in Paris. I met her during my investigation into the first case in Roger Raffin’s book. She was Raffin’s ex-lover.”

  “My God, what a complicated life you lead! Did you know Raffin?”

  “Not before I started investigating his cold cases. And I only got involved in that because of a stupid bet with the police chief in Cahors and the Prefet of the Lot.” He turned his dessert spoon around in his fingers, watching its polished silver catching light reflections from around the dining room. “Now Raffin and my elder daughter are involved.”

  Dominique frowned. “Involved? You mean they have a relationship?”

  “They sleep together.” Just saying it was painful.

  “You sound like you don’t approve.”

  “I don’t. I don’t like Raffin. I never did. At first I felt sorry for him. He was only motivated to write his book of cold cases because of the unsolved murder of his own wife. But I found him cold, slightly reptilian, and never felt easy in his company.” He sighed and put his spoon firmly back in its place. “But Kirsty is her own master. She is over thirty now. She does what she wants.”

  Dominique put her elbow on the table and leaned her chin in the upturned palm of her hand, gazing at him, awed by what she clearly saw as his complex and exotic existence. “Do you have any other family? Brothers, sisters?”

  Again Enzo hesitated. But this time he lied. “No. My parents are both dead.” And he was anxious now to switch the focus of the conversation away from himself. “How about you?”

  “Oh, I have a brother and two sisters. All older, and all living in other parts of France now. We only see each other at Christmas. My mom’s still alive, but she went back to be with her family in the north-west after dad died.”

  “So you’re all alone here.”

  She smiled. “All alone. Just me and Tasha. It’s a good thing I have a job that takes up most of my life.”

  Guy returned to let Enzo taste the red. “It’s a Vosne Romanee premier cru,” he said. “Tell me what you think.”

  Enzo sipped the rich red wine and his brow furrowed with pleasure. “Spice. Coffee. Pure, concentrated cherry.” He shook his head. “An amazing wine, Guy. Really amazing.”

  “Good. Because you need an amazing wine to go with your humble veal chop. Marc always cut the chop from the ribs himself. A beautiful, thick slab of meat on the bone. And he perfected a process he called double deglazing to produce the most concentrated and wonderful jus to go with it, thickened with foie gras.” He paused. “Oh, and in case you are in any way squeamish, all our veal calves are raised in the open and feed from their mothers. Marc always insisted on that. He believed that the animals we eat should be respected in every way.”

  The veal, when it came, was beyond doubt the best veal chop that Enzo had ever tasted. While it looked no different on the plate from any he’d had before, the flavour was so rich, and the meat so tender, that it was hard to believe that it was not the mythological food of the Greek gods. And if the veal was the ambrosia, then the wine was the nectar. It was as if the gods themselves had designed them to be eaten and drunk in concert. He finished his plate, and looked up to see in Dominique’s expression the regret that he felt himself in bringing the experience to a conclusion.

  They drank the last of the wine with a selection of delicious local mountain cheeses, and completed their meal with a delicate tart of tender pumpkin on a chocolate-coffee sauce, served with hazelnut flavoured ice-cream.

  Dominique sat back, flushed from the wine, her eyes shining. “I have never eaten a meal like that,” she said. “And I probably never will again. Thank you for the experience, Enzo. It was truly wonderful.” She laughed. “I will now go on a diet for the next month. And after all that wine, it’s a good thing I came up by taxi.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  After coffee and petits fours in the lounge, Enzo and Dominique wandered through the lobby to the main entrance. Enzo noticed that there was still no one at reception, and no sign of Anne Crozes.

  As the revolving door ushered them out into the cold wind coming off the mountains, Dominique slipped her arm unselfconsciously through Enzo’s. Much to his surprise. He didn’t react, but Dominique did. Suddenly aware of what she had done she quickly withdrew it.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry!” Her face flushed even more darkly. “Must be the wine. I’m forgetting who I’m with.”

 
Enzo smiled. “You can put your arm through mine any time you like, Dominique.”

  She looked at him speculatively. “I’m probably not that much older than your eldest daughter.”

  He laughed. “You’re not.”

  “And you probably think I’m far too young and unsophisticated for a man like you.”

  Almost unthinking, he reached out to brush away the hair that the wind was blowing in her eyes. “Neither of these, Dominique. You’re smart, attractive, and single. And all of those things make you very appealing.” He grinned. “Especially to an old guy like me.” He chuckled. “The only observation I would make is that I am far too old for you. You want a young man with a future ahead of him.”

  “I want a man I feel something for. It doesn’t matter to me what age he is.” Her eyes met his very directly. And the smile on her face was replaced by something a little more intense. He felt his tummy flip over. “I’d like to cook for you sometime.” And she laughed, breaking the tension. “Not that I can offer you anything like we’ve had today. But it would be nice. Just the two of us.”

  “And Tasha.”

  She laughed unrestrainedly. “Yes. And Tasha.”

  “I’d like that,” he said.

  They turned at the sound of a car horn, as Dominique’s taxi pulled up in the turning circle in front of the hotel. She leaned forward quickly, pushing herself up on her tip-toes, to kiss him briefly on the lips. And then she was gone, down the steps, and pulling in the tail of her coat as she closed the rear door of the taxi. The car revved and coughed diesel fumes into the wind and was gone with a crunching of tires over gravel.

  Enzo was suddenly aware of a presence at his shoulder, and he turned to find Guy there.

  “Attractive woman,” Guy said thoughtfully. “I’ve only seen her in uniform, so I had no real impression of her before.”

  Enzo shook his head sadly. “And far too young for me.”

  Guy nodded. “Me too. A young woman like that? She’d drive you to an early grave.” And he laughed. “Anyway, I hope you enjoyed lunch.”

  “We did, very much. It was an extraordinary experience, Guy.”

  Guy scratched his chin. “You probably feel like going and sleeping it off right now. But I was going to suggest that you might like to go for a walk this afternoon. I’ll take you down to see the kitchen garden, and then up on the hill to stretch your legs. Better for you to walk it off than sleep it off.”

  “I’d like that,” Enzo said. “It would give us a chance to talk. There are some things I have been meaning to ask you.”

  The sound of a car coming up the hill drew his attention away from the elder Fraysse brother. He saw Anne Crozes’ Renault Scenic emerging from the pine trees as it rounded the bend in the road. She accelerated past them, and up into the car park beneath the plane trees.

  Enzo turned back to Guy. “I’ll catch you in about half an hour, then.” And he headed off around the east side of the hotel toward the car park.

  Anne Crozes saw him approaching as she slammed the driver’s door shut. She looked around for a moment, almost in a panic, as if seeking an escape. But there was only one way to exit the car park, and she couldn’t do that without passing him. He saw the resignation in the slump of her shoulders as he approached, and he looked at her this time with different eyes.

  When he had first encountered her at the reception desk, he’d had an impression of a woman in her early forties, slim, attractive. But out here, in the unforgiving fall light of late October on the plateau, the cold pinching skin and draining color from her face, he saw that she looked older. That she had been attractive when younger was clear. And it was the impression she still gave at first glance. But shoulder-length auburn hair cut in an old-fashioned pageboy style was surely dyed now, and the lines around her eyes and mouth, and the thinness of her face, gave it a certain meanness on closer inspection. Enzo had the sense of a woman worn down by life, disillusioned, bitterness revealed in the thin line of her lips.

  “Madame Crozes. Could I have word?”

  Nervous grey eyes gave him a cold look. “I have to get back to work.” She tried to step around him, but he moved to the side to block her.

  “It won’t take a moment.”

  “A moment to what? Ruin my life?”

  “I would say there’s a good chance that’s already happened.”

  A look like pain flashed across her eyes, to be replaced almost immediately by anger. “And what would you know about it?”

  “That’s what I am hoping you’ll tell me.”

  Her jaw set itself in a jut of determination. “I don’t want to talk to you, Monsieur Macleod.”

  “Or you don’t want to be seen talking to me.” Again that flash of pain. “The fact is, madame, you can talk to me here, and now. Or we can do it at the gendarmerie.”

  She sighed and folded her arms across her chest. “What do you want?”

  “I want to know if you were having an affair with Marc Fraysse.”

  She stared at him, eyes unflinching. “Yes.”

  Which took Enzo completely by surprise. He was momentarily discomposed. She saw it in his face, and something like a smile stretched her lips.

  “No point in lying to you about it. Everyone knew at the time anyway.”

  “Even Madame Fraysse?”

  “Of course.”

  “And Georges?”

  “It was an open secret, monsieur.” And Enzo was struck by her use of the same phrase he had employed with Dominique earlier. He had guessed it just right. “Open in that everyone knew. Secret in that nobody acknowledged it. But the relationship died with Marc, and those of us who were left behind just had to get on with it.”

  “Get on with what?”

  “Life. Work.”

  Enzo frowned and shook his head in puzzlement. “I’m surprised that Madame Fraysse would have kept you on, in the circumstances. Why didn’t she just sack you?”

  “Because she needed Georges. He was the only chef on the staff capable of keeping the three stars that Marc had got them.”

  “And he would have gone if you’d been fired?”

  “If Madame Fraysse had lifted one finger against me, it would have been admitting to the secret, Monsieur Macleod. As long as we all maintained the facade of ignorance, nobody lost face. Elisabeth Fraysse may still be my employer, but she hasn’t spoken to me in seven years.”

  “And Georges?”

  “Georges is a weak and spineless man. Marc was his lord and master in every sense. Georges would have done anything for him, including sacrificing his marriage. Which shows you just how much he thought of me.” Anger curled her mouth. “He turned a blind eye at the time, and has never referred to it since.” She glanced at her watch. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m late. I don’t want to give Madame Fraysse an excuse to fire me after all this time.”

  She side-stepped the big frame of the Scotsman and hurried off through the plane trees toward the hotel. Enzo turned to watch her go. She seemed a slight, almost frail figure as she rounded the corner of the east extension and disappeared from view.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Marc Fraysse’s kitchen garden was vast, spread over an acre of south-facing hillside below the auberge, and protected by a high stone wall. It was built on terraces linked by stone steps covered in lichens and mosses. Parts of it were shaded by fruit trees: apple, pear, cherry, and plum. Extensive rock gardens provided haven for many of the herbs and wild flowers that the chef had used to flavour his dishes. And a huge greenhouse ran along the top end of the potager where it would catch most sunlight for germinating seeds and cultivating bedding plants that would be transferred to the great outdoors in the late spring.

  Now, however, large parts of it were being dug over in preparation for winter, with clear polythene sheeting stretched over ribbing to protect the winter vegetables. Along the far wall, huge orange pumpkins sat among fleshy green leaves in soft earth.

  As Guy opened the gate to let them in, En
zo saw the dark-haired man with the haunted face who had been putting in snow poles on the road, and who had cast such dead eyes in his direction in the staff canteen that morning. He wore a cloth cap now, and was wielding a long-pronged fork to turn over rich earth near the bottom of the garden.

  “Of course, the garden alone can’t supply all our needs,” Guy was saying. “We buy fresh vegetables at the market in Clermont three days a week, and we get a lot of produce from the local farmers.” He chuckled. “They generally turn up at the kitchen door with stuff they’ve just dug out of the ground. Marc always sent the sous-chef to check out the quality and haggle for a price. But we paid them well. Marc believed in supporting the locals. Most of our employees were born within ten kilometres of the auberge.”

  He started off down the steps and Enzo followed him.

  “But almost all of our herbs and wild flowers come from the garden. Marc laid out these terraces himself, you know. A labour of love. That was in the early days. But when success came, he no longer had the time, and so he asked Lucqui to look after it full time for him.”

  The man turning over the earth looked up as they approached.

  “Enzo meet Lucqui. Lucqui meet Enzo.”

  Lucqui glowered at Enzo from beneath abundant eyebrows and thrust out a big hand to crush Enzo’s and leave it cold and muddy. Enzo tried not to wince, and nodded solemnly. Lucqui’s eyes never left his.

  Guy said, “There’s not enough in the garden to keep Lucqui occupied all year round, so he does other odd jobs around the estate, and also acts as gamekeeper and water bailiff.”

  “Ah,” Enzo said. “Looks after the flora in the summer and the fauna in the winter.”

  Guy smiled, Lucqui didn’t. Guy said, “There’s some good fishing in the river, and we have deer and wild boar in the woods. We also have poachers. A problem which has kept Lucqui out of his bed for quite a few nights recently.” He looked at the gardener. “Still no luck, I take it?”

  Lucqui shook his head.

  Guy turned to survey the fallow potager at its end of season. “Marc and Lucqui spent a lot of time together here in the old days. God knows what it was they talked about all those hours in the garden. I always figured Lucqui knew Marc better than me.” He turned a grin on Lucqui. “That right, Lucqui?”