Dick Francis - Dead Heat

I made my way back up to the boxes only to find MaryLou stomping around outside the elevator, looking for me.

“Ah, there you are,” she said in a tone that implied I should have been there long before. “You must come and meet Mr. Schumann. He’s our company chairman.”

She almost dragged me by the arm down the corridor to the boxes, which now had large notices stuck to the doors: DELAFIELD INDUSTRIES, INC.-MAIN EVENT SPONSOR.

There were about twenty people already there, some standing around the tables while others had made their way out onto the balcony outside to enjoy the watery May sunshine and the magnificent view down the racetrack.

My role was as guest chef for the event rather than just the caterer. The usual racetrack hospitality company and I had a fine working relationship that was beneficial to both parties. They had no objection to me having “special” access to the track, and I would try to help them out if they were short staffed or stretched with a big function. Their managing director, Suzanne Miller, was a frequent client at the Hay Net, and she always claimed that it was a benefit for her company to have an association with, as she put it, “a local gourmet restaurant.” The arrangement had worked well for more than five years, but time would tell whether it would survive Suzanne’s approaching retirement. To be honest, I wouldn’t mind if it didn’t. The growing success of the Hay Net meant that I was finding it increasingly difficult to devote the time and energy needed to my track events, and I was not good at saying no to longstanding clients. If the new boss of the caterers didn’t want me on his patch, then I could always blame him to get me off the hook.

MaryLou guided me across the room to the door to the balcony and then hovered next to a tall, broad-shouldered man of about sixty wearing a charcoal gray suit, white shirt and a bright pink-and-blue striped tie. He was deep in conversation with a younger woman who was much shorter than he. He leaned over her, supporting himself on the doorframe, and spoke quietly in her ear. I couldn’t hear what was being said, but he certainly was amused by it, and he stood up, laughing. She smiled at him, but I had the impression that she didn’t quite share in his pleasure.

He turned to MaryLou with what I thought was a degree of irritation.

“Mr. Schumann,” said MaryLou in her clipped manner, “can I introduce Mr. Max Moreton, our chef for today.”

He looked at me in my chef’s garb, and I had the feeling that he thought I should be back in the kitchen and out of sight of his guests.

MaryLou, it appeared, must have read the same thing in his expression.

“Mr. Moreton,” she went on, “is a chef of some reputation, and has often been seen on TV.”

Some reputation indeed, I thought: the mass poisoner of Newmarket Town.

Mr. Schumann didn’t seem impressed.

MaryLou hadn’t finished. “We are very lucky to have Mr. Moreton cooking for us today,” she said. “He is much in demand.”

This wasn’t altogether true, but I wasn’t going to correct her.

Mr. Schumann reluctantly stretched out a hand. “Glad you could help,” he said. “Young MaryLou here usually gets her man.” He spoke with more of a drawl than his marketing executive, but his voice lacked warmth and sincerity.

I shook the offered hand, and we looked at each other directly in the eyes. I found him somewhat intimidating and decided that retreat to my rightful place would be a wise option. However, I was prevented from going by a hand on my arm from the lady to my left.

“Max,” she said. “How lovely. Are you cooking for us today?”

Elizabeth Jennings was a regular customer at the Hay Net along with her husband, Neil, who was one of the most successful trainers in town. Elizabeth herself was a tireless worker for charity and organizer of great dinner parties, some of which I had attended and others that I had cooked.

“Rolf,” she said to Mr. Schumann, “you are so clever to have got Max to cook for you today. He’s the absolute best chef in England.”

Good old Mrs. Jennings, I thought.

“I wouldn’t say that,” I said, although I might privately think it.

“Only the best for you, my dear,” said Mr. Schumann, turning on the charm and laying a hand on the sleeve of her blue-and-yellow floral dress.

She smiled at him. “Oh, Rolf, you are such a tease.”

Rolf decided that he was needed by someone else outside on the balcony and, with a slight nod to me and an “Excuse me” to Elizabeth, he moved away.

“Is Neil here with you?” I asked her.

“No,” Elizabeth said. “He should have been, but he wasn’t too well last night. Something he ate, I expect. Probably the ham he had for lunch. I told him that it was past its sell-by date, but he ate it anyway. He always says that those dates are just to make you throw away perfectly good food all the time and get you to buy new stuff. Maybe now he’ll change his mind.”

“What did he have for dinner?” I asked as innocently as possible.

“We went to that big do here last night, you know. I saw you,” she said. “Now, what did we have? You should know. I always forget what we eat at these things.” She stopped and laughed. “Sorry, I suppose I shouldn’t say that to a chef.”

“Most people had chicken,” I said.

“That’s right. We did. And it was very good. And I loved the crème brûlée.”

“So you definitely had the chicken?” I asked. “Not the vegetarian pasta?”

“Of course I had the chicken,” she said. “Never have that vegetarian stuff. Vegetables should accompany meat, I say, not replace it. I always have a steak at your place, don’t I?”

That’s true, I thought. Maybe the chicken was not guilty after all. She was beginning to look puzzled at my questions. Time for me to depart to the kitchen.

“Sorry, Elizabeth, I must dash or you’ll get no lunch.”

THE LUNCH SERVICE went well in spite of the poor state of the chef. Louisa, one of my staff, came into the kitchen carrying empty plates and said how pleased MaryLou was with the steak-and-kidney pies. Apparently, everyone had loved them.

I had learned early on from Marguerite, my mother’s cousin’s fiery cook, that the real trick to cooking any meat was to not cook away the taste and texture. “What makes roast beef roast beef is not only its smell and its taste but its appearance and the feel of it on your tongue,” she had said. “Food involves all the senses,” she maintained, and she reveled in the chance to make food noisy to prove her point: sizzling steaks, and even whistling toads in the hole. “If you want to add flavor,” she would say, “get it into the meat before you cook it, so that the natural taste of the meat still comes through.”

And so I had. The pie filling had been well marinaded in my special concoction of spices and herbs, with a little citrus fruit to add zest. Add a good dose or two of Scotch whisky and allow to soak for forty-eight hours or so to absorb the liquid and the flavors. Then cook slowly, at first in a moderate oven, before briefly placing it in a hot one to golden the pastry, and the results were delicious. Piece of cake-or pie.

Carl and I sat on stools in the kitchen and dozed. The summer puddings had been served, with whipped cream and the strawberry garnish, and, thankfully, the coffee was the regular caterer’s responsibility. I leaned on the countertop, rested my weary head on my arms and went to sleep.

“CHEF. CHEF. Mr. Moreton,” said a female voice. Someone shook my shoulder.

“Mr. Moreton,” said the voice again. “Wake up, Chef.”

I raised my head and opened an eye. It was Louisa.

“They want you in the dining room,” she said.