Healthy Place to Die Read Online Free Page B

smaller larder, built of wood and with a wire mesh front. An apprentice chef had the task of keeping it supplied with ice.”
    “You are well informed,” she said in surprise.
    “It’s my job,” I said, and explained that I was obliged to live up to my sobriquet of “the Gourmet Detective.” The history of food and a knowledge of what foods were eaten and how they were prepared and cooked in earlier times and civilizations were a part of my work.
    She was listening, but only partly. She had stopped moving her hands, and a thick slice of duck breast stood uncut. When I finished, she said with wide eyes, “You’re a detective?”
    I explained further, emphasizing the food aspects and skimming over the times when my investigations had led to danger and even death. “I see,” she said, mollified. I supposed detectives were rare in a law-abiding country like Switzerland, and she was a quiet, reserved young woman. She probably spent most of her time in the kitchen and saw little of the outside world.
    She was about to say something when a harsh voice from behind me said, “We don’t allow people in the kitchen.” It was Leighton Vance. He wore light pants and a dark blue blazer with white shoes. His crisp white shirt sported a light blue ascot, which, though dated, suited his dashing image. He looked like a country squire who had just come back from a stroll through the village, nodding to his serfs.
    “That’s all right,” I said easily. “As this whole week revolves around kitchens and what they produce and how they do it, naturally I was curious to see this one.”
    “You’ll be in the kitchen enough during the presentations,” he said, and his voice was still steely. “Otherwise, our rule is no outsiders.”
    “I was congratulating your wife on her technique with the terrine. She’s an expert in an area that doesn’t receive much attention today.”
    His handsome face was set in a hard cast and even a quiff of golden hair seemed to be bristling. My attempt to stretch the conversation was failing. I could see that as he said, “We are all experts here. It’s why we are so successful. We hope to see you at dinner.”
    I knew when I wasn’t wanted. I gave Mallory an extra-big smile as I left, just to irritate him.
    As I prepared for dinner, I was wondering about the strange attitude of Leighton Vance. A week of cooking classes was about to begin—and Vance wanted to throw me out of his kitchen! What could be there that he wanted to hide? Yet I recalled more than a few chefs I knew who were jealously protective of their trade secrets. Many of them did not allow strangers in their kitchens, though most were a little more diplomatic in the way they ushered them out when caught. When the classes commenced, the kitchens would be open to scrutiny by all of the class members. Any secrets would be difficult to hide. So if such secrets were not in the kitchen, where could they be?
    In the food—was that the answer? It seemed unlikely. An operation as prestigious as this would be very unlikely to be doing anything clandestine along those lines, and, in addition, the Swiss authorities are very strict in all matters concerning tourism. I was still puzzling when I went to dinner.
    The main restaurant was high ceilinged and lit by four giant chandeliers. Wood-paneled walls gave it a slight feeling of period, but all else was modern while still maintaining a sense of tradition. Tables were set for eight, and place settings were shown on a large display at the entrance. It was also noted that settings would be changed every lunch and dinner so that everyone could enjoy a variety of dinner companions.
    Next to me, a large gray-haired man with a look of authority introduced himself. He was Karl Wengen, a member of Switzerland’s Nationalrat, the national council of 196 men. “All men?” I asked, a little surprised.
    “Women in Switzerland were first granted a vote in 1953,” he told me. “We have very few in