Recipe for Murder (2 page)

F
OR HALF A
beat nobody moved. Then Nancy and Ned rushed forward, and the place exploded with noise.

Nancy had just reached the unconscious DuPres when one of the other chefs, a thin man with a mustache, roughly pushed her aside. He dropped his ear to DuPres's chest.

“He has a weak heart,” the man explained tersely. “Give him some air!”

Ned held up his hand to keep the crowd back and shouted, “Someone call an ambulance! I think Chef DuPres's having a heart attack!”

George took off like a shot. Nancy bent down to the mustached man. “Is there anything I can do?” she asked.

The man had undone the top buttons of DuPres's shirt and was looking down at the head of the cooking school. To her horror Nancy saw that DuPres's face had taken on a grayish tinge. His chest was rising and sinking shallowly. “I do not know what we can do,” the man said in what sounded like a German accent.

Quickly Nancy read the pin attached to the man's lapel. Paul Slesak, it said. He must be the pastry chef DuPres had mentioned.

DuPres shuddered and moaned faintly. His eyelids fluttered open, and his gaze fixed determinedly on Nancy. “They—are—after—me,” he muttered with difficulty.

“Shhh,” Nancy said, alarmed. “You mustn't talk.”

“Please—help me—”

“Chef DuPres!” Nancy exclaimed, but he was slipping back into unconsciousness.

She stared at him. A dozen questions were racing through her mind. What had he meant? Could this be something more than a heart attack?

Standing up abruptly, Paul Slesak grabbed Nancy's elbow. “Do not make him talk,” he said flatly. “It is dangerous.”

“I wasn't trying to—”

“Go.” Chef Slesak waved her away dramatically. “I will attend to him.”

Rudely he shouldered her aside, and just then the ambulance attendants arrived. They quickly moved DuPres to a stretcher and out the door to the waiting ambulance.

Paul Slesak moved forward. “Please! Everyone to your classes to meet your instructors,” he said loudly. “Today's classes will proceed on schedule.”

“What about Mr. DuPres?” a young man called.

“He is in good hands. Please. Go to your classrooms. That is all.”

Nancy frowned. Was it her imagination, or was there a hint of satisfaction in Slesak's manner?

Feeling her steady gaze, Slesak turned to Nancy. “Is there something I can do for you?” he asked her coldly.

Nancy straightened. “I was just worried about Chef DuPres.”

“He has had these attacks before. It will pass.”

“You seem awfully sure of that.”

Slesak didn't bother to answer her. He stalked off the stage and pushed through the doors to the outer corridor, leaving Nancy staring after him.

Ned had been keeping the crowd back. Now he returned to Nancy's side, touching her elbow. “You ready to go to class?”

“Yes, I guess so.” She turned to him. “Ned, what's your impression of Slesak?”

He shrugged. “He handled that crisis pretty well.”

“I suppose. But we have only Slesak's word that DuPres has a weak heart.”

“That guy really bugged you, didn't he?” Ned asked.

“Yes, he did. Hang on a minute, Ned. I want to talk to Bess.”

When Nancy caught up with her, Bess asked, “What are you doing here? I thought you were in Ned's class.”

“I am. But I want you to do something for me.”

“Uh-oh. What?”

“Paul Slesak will be teaching your class, and I don't trust him. He seems too—too—” Nancy finally shook her head in frustration. “Oh, I don't know. Too smug, I guess. Would you keep your eye on him for me? Let me know if anything strange goes on?”

“Don't tell me there's another mystery underfoot.” Bess gave an exaggerated sigh. “I should have known.”

“Thanks, Bess. I owe you one.” Nancy laughed and dashed off to find Ned.

He was waiting impatiently by the door of their classroom. “Hurry up,” he said. “Everyone's inside already.”

“I wonder who the instructor is,” Nancy whispered
as she slipped into the back of the room. The students were standing in a semicircle around a half-dozen sinks, a refrigerator, three rows of counters, several range tops, and an enormous gas oven.

A young chef was standing by the oven. “Everyone please put on an apron and hat,” the chef said, his tone flat and disinterested. “Women, if you have long hair, tuck it inside your hats or pull it back.” He heaved a sigh and glanced at his watch.

As Nancy pulled her hair into a ponytail, she wondered why the young chef sounded so bored. It's as if he doesn't really want us here, she thought.

The young chef introduced himself as Trent Richards, an assistant chef working to become a master chef. He was an American, and he made a point of telling them all about himself.

“I'm just finishing my courses here, and then I'll be on my way to the big time,” Richards said, by way of wrapping up his introductory speech.

“Humble sort of guy, isn't he?” Ned muttered, tying on his apron.

Nancy and Ned sat down on stools behind the rear counter, and Chef Richards launched into a speech about the cooking school. But before long he returned to talking about himself.

“I hope he gets all this out of his system today,” Ned said under his breath. “The guy's a broken record!”

Nancy had to agree. Richards just didn't seem like much of a teacher. And he looked even less like a chef. He was tall and gangly, and right then he was staring over their heads toward the door.

“Now, first things first,” Richards said. “In the cupboards in front of your stools are all the tools you'll need.”

While the students looked through their cupboards, Nancy saw Richards consult his watch again. He's done that several times, she realized. Is he in a hurry to meet someone? Or just bored?

“Come on, come on,” he said irritably. “We haven't got all day.”

Nancy bent down to search her cupboard. “Paul Slesak and Trent Richards sure aren't going to win any personality contests,” she whispered to Ned as she hurriedly placed her utensils on the stainless steel counter.

“Maybe it's something they ate.”

They burst into silent laughter—but stopped abruptly when Richards glared at them.

The young chef began fiddling with the calibrated dials for the gas oven. When nothing happened, he muttered angrily, “Terrific. The pilot light's out again. I'll have to relight it.”

As the class watched, Richards opened an underpanel. Then he struck a match and reached in to reignite the pilot light.

There was a loud
whoomph!
and blue flames exploded from the oven. Richards stumbled
backward, his sleeve smoldering. Frantically he tried to beat out the sparks with his other hand.

It was no use. In front of Nancy's eyes, flames leapt up and licked at Richards's arm. In another minute the fire would engulf him!

S
OMEONE IN THE
class screamed. Chef Richards's arm was ablaze, and acrid smoke was filling the room. “Help me!” Richards shouted frantically.

“The fire extinguisher!” Ned yelled, yanking it off the wall.

Then abruptly the flames shooting from the oven vanished—as if someone had turned off a spigot. But Chef Richards's jacket was still burning.

“Look out!” Ned shouted. He shot a stream of
white foam onto the chef's arm, and the fire died instantly.

“Are you all right?” Nancy asked Richards, who looked dazed.

“It's not too bad,” he said, staring down at his arms. His jacket was ruined. Huge holes were singed through to his shirt beneath.

“Are you sure?” Nancy asked.

“I'm fine,” Richards said. He yanked off his coat and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. The skin beneath was red, as if he'd been in the sun too long.

“You're lucky it's not any worse,” Nancy said quietly.

“Better get away from that oven,” Ned told Richards.

“The oven's fine now,” Richards said flatly. “The gas is off. The pilot light isn't even on.”

“How can that be?” Nancy asked. “It was on just a moment ago.”

“Was it?” Richards gave her an unreadable look.

“Well, yes. That's how the fire got started, isn't it?”

Color was returning to the chef's pale cheeks. It flooded over his face in an angry dark-red wave. “Yeah, right. That's how it got started,” he spit out. He brushed past her and charged out of the room.

Nancy followed him into the hallway. “Are you leaving? What should we do?”

“Stay there.” He waved her back. “I'll send someone along.”

When Nancy walked back into the room, Ned was bending over the oven. “Maybe everyone should go out to the hall,” she suggested.

“No, it's all right.” Ned stood up, wiping the oily grime from his hand onto his white apron. “Richards was right. The pilot light's out, and there's no gas leak.”

There was a collective sigh of relief from the class. Nancy walked to Ned's side, staring at the oven.

“Then what started the fire?” she asked, chewing on her lower lip.

“Uh-oh,” Ned said. “I recognize that look on your face.”

“What look?”

“That on-the-trail-of-a-mystery look. I don't think your mind's on cooking.”

“There might be something more going on here than meets the eye,” Nancy said. “First Claude DuPres collapses in the auditorium, and now an oven bursts into flame. A pretty unusual first day, wouldn't you say?”

“Well, yeah, when you put it that way.” Ned looked thoughtful.

Just then another chef walked into the room. Nancy glanced his way—and did a double take. The new chef wasn't much older than she was, and he was the stuff dreams were made of: tall, dark, and handsome, with a rakish smile and
brooding gray eyes. She looked at Ned, who whispered in her ear, “You always get upset when I look at girls the way you're looking at him.”

Nancy's blue eyes sparkled. “Just because I'm on a diet doesn't mean I can't look at the menu.”

“One more cooking joke and you're history,” Ned groaned.

The new chef strode to the front of the room as the students sat down again. Placing his palms flat on the counter, he had to duck his head to see the class from beneath the wrought-iron pot rack that swung from the ceiling. “Well,” he said with a smile. “I understand there's been some excitement around here today.

“My name is Jacques Bonet.” He introduced himself in a voice that had only a trace of a French accent. “I'll fill in for Chef Richards today. This was a frightening accident. And until the oven is checked out and repaired, we won't use it.”

Nancy could tell that Bonet wanted to get back to a business-as-usual atmosphere. He opened the cupboard in front of him and pulled out a skillet. “To understand French cuisine, you must first understand what makes a good sauce. Let me demonstrate.”

He turned on one of the burners and slid a fat pat of butter expertly around in a shallow pan until it had melted. Then he tossed in some flour. For a minute or two he worked the butter and flour together with a whisk, then lifted the pan
from the gas flame. “This is called a roux,” he explained. “A mixture of fat and flour. It is important that the roux be mixed well, or the sauce will be lumpy when the liquid is added.”

Deftly he added two cups of milk. The mixture sizzled enticingly. “Keep stirring constantly,” Bonet warned, “or your sauce will burn and stick to the bottom. Especially if you add milk. Milk has milk sugar—lactose—in it, and sugar burns easily.”

Ned glanced from Bonet to Nancy. “You need a degree in chemistry for this!”

Overhearing him, Bonet said, “Courses in chemistry are almost a must for a true master chef. One cannot understand why food reacts as it does without breaking it down into its particular elements.
Voilà!”
He finished and placed the pan with the smooth, creamy white sauce on the tile counter. “It is
fini!”

“I've made lots of sauces before,” a girl said. “But I never knew why I did what I did.”

“Tomorrow you will all get a chance to make your own sauce. That is all for today.”

The rest of the class began to file out, but Nancy paused by the door. “I want to ask Chef Bonet a few questions about Trent Richards,” she murmured to Ned.

Nancy walked slowly back to where Bonet was clearing off the counter. What was the best way to get the information she wanted? “When is someone coming to fix the oven?” she asked.

“Probably this evening. Or maybe tomorrow morning.” Bonet sounded unconcerned. “The school has a maintenance man who will see to the oven as soon as he can.”

Smearing some of the blackened grime from the oven onto her finger, Nancy rubbed it thoughtfully with her thumb. “Chef Richards seemed kind of concerned about the accident.”