A Bitter Feast(33)

“Yes. I worked for him. At his restaurant in Chelsea.”

“O’Reilly’s?”

“Yes. Did you know it?”

Booth gave her a disarming smile. “Oh, yes. I ate there, once. I had the duck breast with farro risotto and duck confit. I think it was the best meal I’ve ever eaten.”

Viv’s look of surprise would have been comical under other circumstances.

“O’Reilly was ahead of his time with the farro, don’t you think?” Booth added. When Viv nodded, he went on. “You were there, then? It would have been”—Booth closed his eyes for a moment, as if counting to himself—“twelve years ago.”

“Yes, I—I think I was. I worked there for a couple of years. But it was a long time ago.”

“But you’d had recent contact with Mr. O’Reilly?”

“Before yesterday, I hadn’t seen or heard from him in years, not since I left the restaurant. I told the officers that this morning. He just showed up yesterday morning, in the yard of the pub.”

“Did he say why he was there?”

“He said he’d heard about the luncheon. Lady Addie did a lot of promotion.”

“But he wasn’t a guest?” asked Booth.

“No. The tickets were sold out.”

Booth raised an eyebrow. “He came all the way from London for a luncheon he couldn’t attend?”

Viv shrugged. “I think he was hoping I could get him a ticket. But it was limited seating. There was no way I could add someone, even if I’d wanted to.”

“I’m not following this,” broke in Melody, forgetting for a moment that it wasn’t her job to ask questions. “Why would Fergus O’Reilly want to come to my mother’s luncheon? Unless . . .” Melody didn’t like where the thought was taking her. “Unless he wanted something from my parents?”

“Oh, no.” Viv sounded shocked. “It wasn’t your parents he wanted something from. It was me.” When they all looked at her expectantly, she sighed. “He had some crazy idea. Fergus always had mad ideas. He said there were some mysterious London backers who were offering him a great deal on a new restaurant. He wanted me to come back to London and run the kitchen.” She must have read disbelief in their faces because she went on, “It’s not unusual. Chefs are always recruiting other chefs for projects, especially someone they’ve cooked with before.”

“What did you tell him?” Melody asked.

“No, of course,” Viv said sharply. “My life and my business are here. But I wish I’d been . . . kinder about it. If I’d known . . .” She shook her head. “Look. I’m very sorry that Fergus is dead. But I don’t understand why you’re asking me these things.”

Booth gave Melody a quelling glance. “Was Mr. O’Reilly on any heart medication?” he asked Viv.

“What? No. At least not as far as I know.”

“Can you tell us where he was staying?”

“I have no idea. He didn’t tell me.”

“Do you know if he had a car in the village?”

“If he did, I didn’t see it in the pub car park. But Fergus didn’t like driving. He never kept a car in London.”

“Do you have any idea where Mr. O’Reilly was living?”

“Absolutely none. I told your officers this morning. But . . . he always left his wallet in his coat—I told them that, too—and as far as I know his coat is still at the pub.”

Booth took a moment to make a note on his phone. From his expression, Melody thought she would not want to be the officer who had failed to follow up on the coat.

Viv had half risen when Booth looked up and said, “What about Nell Greene? What was her connection to Mr. O’Reilly?”

“I have no idea. I told you, I hadn’t seen him in years. And I honestly didn’t know Nell well at all. Look, I really must—”

“I’m afraid whatever it is will have to wait a bit longer.” Booth set his empty cup on the coffee table and stood. “Before we go any further, I need you to make a formal identification.”

“But I don’t want— And I’ve got to load food in my van—”

“In that case, it might be easiest if you come with me.”



Sitting in the leather passenger seat of DI Booth’s Volvo, Viv felt like she’d been hijacked. She’d protested, but Melody had whispered in her ear, “Best get it over with. It won’t get easier.” Then more loudly, Melody had added, “Don’t worry, we’ll load the van and drive it down to the pub. And we’ll get Grace home.”

Viv had insisted on talking to Grace first. She’d found her in the scullery with Kit, who hadn’t even needed a word to realize that Viv wanted a moment alone with her daughter. When Kit had gone out, Viv had leaned down, eye level with Grace, and said, “Sweetie, the man who was here yesterday—”

“You mean Fergus.” Grace glared at her.

“Yes, Fergus. I’m afraid the police think he was in the car crash last night as well as Miss Nell. I have to go to the . . . hospital, to—to be certain it’s him.”

“But he’s going to be okay,” Grace said, suddenly looking small and frightened and much younger than her eleven years.