Indulgence in Death (In Death #31)(78)

Sipping, he studied his temporary realm, the stove, ovens, sinks, prep counters, and deemed it would do.

For the client who had paid him handsomely for the trip to New York to prepare a romantic, late-night supper for two, he would create a selection of appetizers highlighted by the caviar he’d chosen and served on a bed of clear, crushed ice. When the appetite was whetted, the fortunate pair would enjoy an entrée of salmon mousse along with his signature baguettes and thin slices of avocado. His main, poulet poêle de Delaflote, would be served with glazed baby vegetables and garnished with generous sprigs of fresh rosemary from his own herb garden.

Ah, the fragrance.

This he would follow with a salad of field greens harvested only an hour before he’d boarded his private shuttle, then his selection of well-aged cheeses. For the finale he would prepare his far-famed soufflé au chocolat.

Satisfied, he set up his music—romantic ballads—in French, bien s?r, for a romantic meal. Donning his apron, he got down to business.

As he sometimes did, he acted as his own sous-chef, chopping, slicing, peeling. The shapes, the textures, the scents pleased and excited him. For Delaflote, peeling a potato could be as sensuous and pleasurable as peeling the clothes from a lover.

He was a man of small stature and trim build. His hair, a dramatic and carefully styled mane of glossy chestnut, flowed back from a face dominated by large, heavily lidded brown eyes. They gave him the look of a romantic, a dreamer, and were often the first element in the seduction of women.

He adored women, treated them like queens, and enjoyed having several lovers revolving through his life at the same time.

He lived life fully, wringing every drop of flavor from it and savoring every morsel.

With the chicken in the oven, the mousse chilling, he poured another glass of wine. Enjoying it, he sampled one of his own stuffed mushrooms, approved.

He cleaned his area, washed the greens, vegetables, and herbs for the salad, then set that to chill. This he would lightly toss with a tarragon dressing while his client and the fortunate husband dined on the main course. Pleased with the scents perfuming the air, he basted the chicken with sauce—the recipe a secret guarded as fiercely as the Crown Jewels—added the pretty little vegetables.

Only then did he step out into the walled garden where, according to the client’s wishes, the meal would be served. Again he approved. Lush roses, big-headed hydrangeas, arching trees, starry lilies rose and spread and speared around the paved courtyard. The night held clear and warm, and he would see that dozens of candles were arranged and lit to add the sparkle of romance.

He checked the time. The servers would be arriving any moment, but in the meanwhile he would call the droid, have it set out the table, show him the selection of linens and dinnerware.

He took out one of his herbal cigarettes to smoke while he set the scene.

The table just there, little tealights glittering in clear holders. Roses from the garden in a shallow bowl. More candles ringing the courtyard—all white. He would send one of the servers out to get more if there weren’t enough on hand.

Ah, there, nasturtium. He’d toss some of the flowers with the salad for color and interest.

Crystal stemware, mais oui.

The sounds of the city, of traffic crept over the garden walls, but he would mask that with music. The droid would have to show him where the system was kept so he could make the appropriate selections.

He turned a circle, stopped when he saw a man step out of the lights of the kitchen into the shadows of the garden.

“Ah, you are arrived. There is much work to be . . .” He stopped, eyebrows lifting when he recognized the man.

“Monsieur, you I was not expecting.”

“Good evening, Delaflote. I apologize for the subterfuge. I didn’t want it known I was your client tonight.”

“Ah, so, you wish to be incognito, oui?” Smiling a knowing smile, Delaflote tapped the side of his nose. “To have your rendezvous with a lady, what would it be, on the q.t. You can trust Delaflote. I am nothing if not discreet. But we are not complete. You must give me time to create the ambience as well as the meal.”

“I’m sure the meal would be extraordinary. It already smells wonderful.”

“Bien s?r.” Delaflote made a slight bow.

“And you came alone? No assistants?”

“Everything is prepared only by my hands, as requested.”

“Perfect. Would you mind standing just over there a bit? I want to check something.”

With a Gallic shrug he’d perfected over the years, Delaflote moved a few steps to the right.

“Yes, just there. One moment.” He backed into the kitchen, retrieved the weapon he’d leaned against the wall. “It does smell exceptional,” he said as he stepped back out. “It’s a pity.”

“What is this?” Delaflote frowned at the weapon.

“It’s my round.” And he pulled the trigger.

The barb went through the heart as if the organ had been ringed like a target. With its keen, merciless edge, it continued out the back to dig into the trunk of an ornamental cherry tree.

Moriarity studied the chef, pinned there, legs and arms twitching as body and brain died. He stepped closer to take the short recording as proof he’d completed the round.

With the ease of a man who knew all was in place, he walked back inside, replaced the weapon in its case. He opened the oven for a moment, breathed in the rich aroma before shutting it off.