French Cuisine Can Kill You by Rebecca Dunsmuir

Author:Rebecca Dunsmuir [Dunsmuir, Rebecca]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781723849367
Publisher: Manderley books
Published: 2018-09-18T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter 31

A manda waited in a little room, at a table, with an empty chair facing her on the other side. She could see her reflection in the two-way mirror in front of her, and was horrified to notice how awful she looked after her unfortunate 'alcoholic' evening. She couldn't figure out what she had tried to do with her hair, her skin looked dull—but the horrible neon lighting in the room could've been responsible for that—and she realized that she had put her shirt on inside out. She had the perfect look for a murderer sitting in an interrogation room. This didn't look good.

Mr. Ferment arrived in the room, slammed the door behind him, and dropped something on the table in a sealed plastic bag with a red label on it.

"Do you recognize this, Ms. McBride?"

"Oh, yes, this is my Ginette Mathiot, my cook book. I forgot it in the kitchen yesterday. Thank you." Amanda was about to take her book back, but Mr. Ferment stopped her.

"Oh, no, no, no. Not so fast, mademoiselle. You can't have it back. This is a piece of evidence for the investigation."

Amanda froze, puzzled. The police officer frowned, staring at her with a stern look, holding the book on the table with a firm hand. Mr. Ferment looked much less pleasant than the day before.

"A piece of evidence?" said Amanda with a soft voice, "but, I don't understand, I—"

"Ms. McBride, you just recognized this book. Is this the one you used for your recipe?"

"Yes, but—"

"Oh. So, you admit it. Hmm... Show me the page of the recipe." Mr. Ferment removed the book from the sealed bag.

"Uh... If I well remember, it was on page 141," said Amanda while turning the pages nervously. "Yes, here it is."

"Perfect," said Ferment, "read it."

"What?"

"You heard me. Read it."

"I'm confused, Mr. Ferment, why should I read it? How will it help the—"

Mr. Ferment leaned on the table, adopting an odd and unsteady position, one hand on the table, and another on his hip. He was talking to Amanda, only two inches away from her face. "Please, don't make me repeat myself, Ms. McBride," whispered the police officer. "Just proceed."

Amanda was confused. It seemed quite a peculiar way to lead an interrogation. Were they all conducted this way in France? "All right," said Amanda, "'Norman Apple Pie for six servings. For the sugar crust pastry: one egg, two-hundred grams of white flour, one hundred grams of sugar, one hundred grams of butter, one pinch of salt. For the—"

"Stop there," said Ferment, "read the last part."

"Uh... Put in the oven and bake for 40 minutes?'" asked Amanda. She wasn't sure where all this was going. Mr. Ferment banged his fists on the table loudly. The table moved. Amanda jumped.

"Exactly. For 40 minutes!"

She stayed silent for a few seconds, wondering if the officer had all his mental faculties. Or maybe she had lost hers? "Uh... Is there a problem with the 40 minutes?'" she asked tentatively.

Suddenly, Mr. Ferment straightened his back and gave her a broad smile.

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