Dead Wind by Tessa Wegert

Author:Tessa Wegert [Wegert, Tessa]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Severn House
Published: 2021-12-09T00:00:00+00:00

EIGHTEEN

Picking up where we left off at work after everything that transpired the previous night felt like switching gears on an abandoned tractor brittle with rust. It would be a grind, but we had a job to do, and we couldn’t let Bram get in the way of our caseload.

When we didn’t find Harvey at Maynard Pope’s house, we drove straight into town. Chateau Gris was on Fuller Street, steps from the River Hospital and just a block from busy James Street. Though I hadn’t dined there, I’d admired the place since arriving in Alexandria Bay; Maynard Pope had chosen to locate his restaurant inside a two-story Victorian home with a wraparound porch, all of it painted sage green with creamy white trim. The tables inside were dressed with white linens, but according to Tim the food was served on rustic cutting boards, slate platters, and pewter charger plates that highlighted the house specialties.

Filet.

Pork belly.

Chickens stuffed with garlic-studded lemons, roasted whole.

Tim’s account of the meat dishes on the menu made my mouth water.

We pushed open the door, and stepped inside.

To my surprise, the restaurant was bustling. Having heard Dori and Courtney’s account of the boycott I’d expected it to be deserted, but every single table was full. After months of hanging on by a thread, Chateau Gris appeared to be back in action. The place was warm and cheerful, the air lush with the smell of fennel-spiced sausages. We were greeted by a harried server who seemed perturbed by our request to see the chef-owner. She pointed us in the direction of the kitchen and continued taking breakfast orders, a rivulet of sweat running down the side of her graceful neck.

In the kitchen, a young man in a rainbow-striped skull cap flipped eggs and rotated sausages on a flat-top grill. A meat grinder sat abandoned on a prep counter, surrounded by strings of empty sausage casings, but there was no sign of Maynard Pope.

‘He around?’ I asked after we introduced ourselves to Pope’s sous-chef.

‘He’ll be back in a sec,’ the man said, not taking his eyes off the grill. I was about to suggest to Tim that we wait out front when he elbowed me in the ribs and gestured toward the back of the room.

At some point, the kitchen in the old house had been expanded to incorporate what must have originally been servants’ quarters. Now, that space was an alcove housing a table and banquette that faced the prep area, the sort of exclusive chef’s table I’d seen people eat at in the movies. An elderly man sat alone, a cup of tea by his side. The great Harvey Oberon, at last. I could see the resemblance to Santa, but only a little. Harvey Oberon had white hair and a beard to match, but both were thin and brittle, and though he might have been a big man once there was a sparseness to him now, too much meat stripped from his frame. His eyes were sunken, his chest hollowed out.

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