I saw only a few workers but they were in clean uniforms—a telltale sign and, surprisingly, not as common as it should be. I visit vineyards and breweries fairly often and make a personal point of checking that the staff look clean and properly dressed.
We came to an open area on the way to the storage chambers. Mr. Poydras made occasional comments and I replied just enough to make it clear that I was well acquainted with the various operations. A wall on the right had two doors in it. One was old, wooden and had slats nailed across it. The other was steel and had a large padlock.
“We rebuilt this section some time ago,” Mr. Poydras said. “The old door should have been bricked-in but wasn’t. We’ll have to do that one of these days. The steel door was put in as part of the new regulations—that’s the alcohol storage chamber.”
“Ouch!” I said, hopping on one foot.
“Something wrong?”
“I got a stone in this shoe outside and it must have moved and I forgot about it. Now it’s—Ouch!” I leaned against the steel door for support then hopped a pace and stopped near the wooden door. I bent down to untie my shoe. After I had shaken the offending—if invisible—stone, we continued.
I let Mr. Poydras hurry me through the rest of the tour. He was anxious to show me as little as possible and I was anxious to get out before Mr. Landers returned.
One more of the final pieces of the puzzle had slid into place.
W
HEN I AWOKE NEXT
morning, I noticed an envelope under the door. It might have been put there yesterday and I hadn’t seen it when I came in. It was a large envelope and made of expensive paper. I opened. It was a handwritten letter from Ambrose Belvedere, inviting me to lunch at the Belvedere mansion, and gave an address. It wasn’t exactly cold but it was a little stiff and very polite. It apologized for the short notice and I saw that it had yesterday’s date and the lunch was today.
I wondered to what extent the fine hand of Eric Van Linn was behind this. He would know that I could respond to such an invitation at short notice and he knew where I was staying. Maybe my attempts to get him to let me talk to Ambrose Belvedere had borne fruit after all. Would Van Linn be at the lunch? I wondered.
I went down to breakfast and when I came back, judged it to be an appropriate time to phone the Belvedere mansion. A young lady with a Southern accent like unstirred molasses accepted my apology for not calling sooner and assured me that there was no problem and that they would be expecting me today.
Did I know where the mansion was? she asked, and I said no and furthermore, I did not have a car or know the city. “We are only just outside the city,” she told me.
“That’s fine,” I said. “I can take a taxi.”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “All the drivers will know where we are. We will expect you at noon.”
I had time to make a few phone calls before taking a taxi to the Belvedere mansion. I stood in the hotel lobby for some time, watching vehicles come and go and keeping an eye open for either Larry Mortensen or Dominic Landers. I could not see either of them and wondered whether they had lost interest in me or some twist had made me unimportant. It was a little deflating, whichever was the truth. An indefinable prestige was attached to being followed.
The mansion was on a plantation just near the banks of the Mississippi River and to the west of the city of New Orleans. We drove in through wide wooden gates and along a well-worn track of hard-packed earth. The vegetation was dense with many trees I didn’t recognize.
The house itself was not at all grandiose but it was big. It rose out of the breeze-combed grass and was all wood, which was unusual to me, and after I had paid the taxi, I climbed the steps onto the broad front porch, lined with clusters of chairs and small tables. Its facade was punctured by shuttered windows. The large wooden door had intricate carvings and looked to be made of cypress. A black man, elderly and with white side whiskers that gave him an old-world look, opened the door. He confirmed my name and ushered me into a large hall. Ambrose Belvedere came hurrying across the hall to greet me.
He was in his late twenties, barely medium height and of a light build. His face was lightly tanned and he had one of those smooth complexions that I had seen in this part of the world a number of times. He was pleasant-featured but with a serious air that belonged on an older man. His eyes were brown and his hair black and cut short. He wore a tan suit with metal buttons, rather like an upmarket version of a safari outfit.
“Shall we sit on the porch?” he asked. “We don’t have to worry about mosquitoes or other insects—unlike earlier generations.”
We did so and the elderly man approached with a tray. “Robert makes an excellent cocktail—rather like a whiskey sour but with sour mash. Like to try one?”
I agreed and Robert nodded. “Two, Master Ambrose?”
“He still calls me Master Ambrose. Yes, Robert, two.” He smiled. “I wonder if he’ll ever accept me as an adult,” he said as Robert walked away.
“I’m glad you could come,” he said to me. “This talk is overdue. I asked Eric to make the arrangement with you and he was perhaps overzealous in not clarifying that he was the family lawyer.”
“Someone told me,” I said.
“Hard to keep something like that secret in this town. Well, you can understand my interest in getting hold of the chef’s book.”
“Certainly,” I agreed. “After all those generations, it’s more than just a family heirloom. Especially as you’re intending to reopen the restaurant.”
“You mean because of the recipes? Yes, of course.”
“Do you intend to change the menu at all?”
“Considerably. We’ll keep just a few of the old classics but the rest will be new versions of the earlier dishes or completely new ones.”
“What about oysters Belvedere?” I asked, keeping the question as lightly casual as I could.
He shook his head immediately. That question had already been deliberated. “It’s an old classic, I know, but some of the ingredients are no longer available.”
“Did you ever see the book?” I asked.
“Not that I recall. Oh, I was in the restaurant from time to time, though I never had any great interest in it—never intended to get involved in the business. Ah, thank you, Robert.”
The tall glasses looked inviting, with just a hint of foam on the top as Robert placed them in front of us. The pause gave me an opportunity to reflect that Ambrose was being open and friendly as far as I could determine.
We toasted, drank and I found the drink more full-bodied than the usual whiskey sour but very tasty.
“What made you change your mind about reopening the restaurant?” I asked.
“I studied business at Wharton; then, when I was graduating, I had to decide what kind of business. A classmate said to me, ‘Why do you have to look for a business? You already have one.’ It should have been obvious to me but it wasn’t. I thought about that, then the idea began to grow. Food continues to be a rapidly growing field and the challenge of bringing the Belvedere name back into the top rank of restaurants appealed to me.”
“Do you think that locating the chef’s book will help you?”
“Not really. Oh, it would be a nice prestigious touch but it’s not an important part of reviving Restaurant Belvedere.”
“So you don’t have to have the original oysters Belvedere recipe to do that?”
He laughed softly. “No. I’d certainly like to have it, but mainly for sentimental family reasons.” He twirled the tall glass slowly in his fingers. “Eric Van Linn has kept me informed on your progress. Are you close to recovering the book?”
“I believe so,” I told him, and watched carefully for a reaction. He looked a little surprised but no more than that.
“And also close to finding out who killed those two men?”
“That too,” I nodded. I must have sounded like Hercule Poirot about to reveal all—I hoped it was an accurate assessment.
“The two are connected, aren’t they? The theft of the book and the two murders?”
“Oh, they’re connected,” I said, being agreeable but not helpful.
“I understand that you told Eric that forged copies of the chef’s book were being offered for sale.”
“That’s right. I was offered one.”
“But you didn’t accept?”
“No, I decided it was a forgery.”
Ambrose studied me quizzically. “How did you decide that?”
“I was allowed to look through it. Only briefly, but it was enough. It’s hard to explain with something like that,” I went on, introducing a touch of the mystique. “Difficult to put a finger on the exact difference but I was sure it was a phony.”
Ambrose didn’t look altogether satisfied with that as an answer. “You could have been wrong,” he said.
“I could,” I said. “But I know I was right.”
Well, you can’t argue with someone who gets on his high horse as an expert. That’s what I was doing and Ambrose looked about to dispute the point further when Robert entered quietly. “Luncheon is served, Mr. Ambrose.”
“Thank you, Robert.” To me he said, “Shall we go in?”
It was a Cajun meal—I expected no less. The gumbo was thick with okra, tiny shrimp, small peppers, pieces of crabmeat, chunks of white fish, and richly but not strongly spiced. The main course was chicken baked with oysters. It was nicely herbed and served with red beans and rice. I congratulated Ambrose on the meal, a fine example of local cooking, not elaborate but beautifully done.
“I keep the menus modest at home,” he explained. “If I am to embark on any flamboyance in cooking, it will be in the restaurant.” We had drunk a Château St. Jean from Sonoma, California, a delicious fumé blanc, and as Ambrose poured the last of the bottle, Robert brought in the dessert.
“In the restaurant, it will, of course, be Bananas Foster,” Ambrose said, “but this is baked bananas, tropical style.”
Simplicity in this case was the key. The bananas had been lightly browned in butter, then, after sugar and lemon juice had been generously sprinkled over them, baked with more butter.
We retired to a relaxing lounge, pleasantly subtropical with coconut matting carpet, cypress-paneled walls dotted with old prints, a fireplace inlaid with marble and even a couple of rocking chairs. Robert poured thick black coffee into thin, china cups with an engraved
B
on them.
We were drinking when Ambrose put down his cup carefully and said, “I had a visit from a Mrs. Pargeter. She’s the volunteer lady—one of the committee that runs the book auction. She told me you know her.”
I nodded.
“A very sophisticated lady,” Ambrose said, sitting back and looking reflectively at his coffee cup. “A lady of great character, a lot of integrity—I mean of the type that is sadly becoming less commonly encountered today.”
H e rose and walked over to the fireplace. He took down a bronze urn that stood on the dark-rose-colored marble slab. “She left me something, a memento you might call it.”
He lifted the ornate cap, tilted it so that he could see inside. I had noticed that Ambrose lapsed now and then into a serious mood that belied his years. He would do well in the restaurant business, I decided. He had uncommon maturity and a balanced attitude that even many successful men do not acquire until they are much older.
I said nothing, just waited for him to go on. He turned the urn so that I could see inside, too. A small pile of black ashes covered the bottom. A few curls indicated burnt paper. He put the cap back and replaced the urn.
“She has not only integrity but, in addition, she has a considerable amount of sympathy for, and understanding of, her fellow human beings.”
He smiled apologetically. “I’m sorry. I’ll be getting pompous if I say any more.”
“I don’t know her too well,” I said, “but from my brief acquaintance with her, I would say you’re right.”
He took another sip of his coffee. He didn’t have much left and it must have been cold by now so I gathered it was a gesture, a delaying tactic while he contemplated his next statement. When it came, I could see why.
“I believe you will understand me,” he said, “when I tell you that Mrs. Pargeter’s visit here has led to my decision to thank you for your efforts, and to instruct Eric Van Linn to pay you in full and terminate our arrangement.” He looked me in the eye, awaiting my reply. I was looking him in the eye, too, but I wasn’t seeing it. I was seeing a certificate on the wall of Mrs. Pargeter’s apartment, I was seeing the photograph on Dominic Landers’s desk and I was recalling the wooden door in the distillery. Ambrose Belvedere’s words of a few minutes ago came back, too—he had said he wanted the chef’s book “for sentimental family reasons.”
“I understand completely,” I said, “and I am glad this matter has been resolved for you. How are your plans coming along for reopening the restaurant?”
“We should be open for business by early summer,” he said. “Maybe you can come over for the opening?”
“If I can, I’d be delighted.”
We walked out onto the front porch. A watery sun was squeezing through the clouds and the silvery light dappled the trees. “This porch goes all the way around the house,” Ambrose said, and he led the way to the back. We took steps to a brick walkway that led across the grass and to a stand of giant oaks. Beyond it the land had been cleared but nothing was left above knee-height. As we came closer, I could see the ground was blackened.
“I had to burn all this,” Ambrose said, and there was a flat tone to his voice. We stood for a long moment and I waited for him to go on but he just stood looking at it then we walked back.
A large, four-door Buick with mock wooden panels and still impeccable chrome plating came rolling slowly toward us.
“I’ve hired Frederick as maintenance man at the restaurant,” Ambrose said, “but meanwhile he’s helping us out here. He’ll drive you back to your hotel.”
My last glimpse of Ambrose was a lonely figure standing on the porch but I had seen his face when I had told him that I understood completely. It was the face of a happy man, one who had finally banished specters that had haunted him for years.
F
REDERICK OBLIGINGLY DROPPED ME
off at the hotel and, when I checked into the room, a red light was flashing to tell me that I had a message. It was on the hotel answering service and I pressed a button that brought me Emmy Lou Charbonneau’s delightful Southern drawl.