A Bitter Feast(34)

“No, sweetie.” Viv took a breath. “He’s not going to be okay. He died, too.”

Grace stared at her, then shook her head, her hair flying. “No. He can’t be. I don’t believe you.” When Viv reached for her, she backed up as if she’d been slapped. “I hate you,” Grace spat at her. “You’re just saying that to be mean.” Then she ran out the terrace door after Kit.

Now, sitting huddled in her dirty chef’s jacket in Booth’s car, Viv felt ill with dread. What if what happened was somehow her fault? Two people who had been in her restaurant last night were dead. She didn’t remember Nell ever drinking much, and she didn’t think Fergus had been drinking when he came into the kitchen last night. In any case, Jack wouldn’t have overserved them, although Nell had lived close enough to walk home. And Fergus, where the hell had Fergus come from?

Had there been anything different about him? She glanced at Booth. “Why did you ask if Fergus was taking heart medication?”

Booth seemed to hesitate, then shrugged. “The pathologist found digitalis in his system.”

“Digitalis? You mean like foxglove?”

“Well, it could be. A form of digitalis is used in heart medication, as well as other things.”

“But—” Viv frowned, thinking. Could Fergus have been ill? Was that what had prompted his sudden appearance?

“What are you thinking?” asked Booth.

“Well, it’s just, chefs lead pretty hard lives. And Fergus—Fergus liked to party as hard as he worked.”

“You mean he did coke?”

Viv wished she hadn’t said anything, but in for a penny . . . “I just wondered if his lifestyle might have had long-term repercussions.”

“You said he showed up yesterday morning and made you this proposition. Then what?”

“I told him I wasn’t interested. He left.”

“Did he tell you he was coming back for dinner?”

“No. He just appeared again late in the afternoon, in the yard, but I didn’t really speak to him then. I was getting ready for service.”

“But you knew he was in the restaurant later in the evening?”

“Only because Jack—my bartender—told me. And Jack had no idea who he was, just that he was making a nuisance of himself, ordering things and sending them back.”

“But you didn’t talk to him yourself?”

Viv hesitated again, but there was nothing for it. She wasn’t going to tell an outright lie, no matter how bad the truth made her look. “He came into the kitchen. You can’t just walk into another chef’s kitchen and start throwing your weight around. But that was Fergus for you. Boundaries were never his strong suit.”

Glancing at her, Booth said, “I take it you two didn’t get on.” He turned his attention back to the road, his hands relaxed on the wheel.

Viv blinked furiously against a sudden and unexpected wash of tears. “Oh, we did. Once.”

December 2006

They were in the weeds, had been since the start of service when they’d had two unexpectedly large parties order at the same time.

It had taken Viv six months to work her way on to the fryer station on the hot line at O’Reilly’s. She’d almost quit half a dozen times, but the stubborn streak that had got her through her first few kitchens kept her going. It was the first time she’d ever worked in a kitchen where not even the pastry chef was female. Sometimes she thought she’d accidentally walked into the eighties—or maybe the sixties.

She learned never to go in the walk-in fridge alone, and especially not with John, the pastry chef. When he’d cornered her at the stove one day, she’d accidentally tipped a pot of boiling water on the tips of his clogs. But John was a bit of a friendly puppy—he was out of line but there was no malice in it. Guy, the sous-chef, was another story. He gave her the creeps even when he looked at her. She avoided him as much as possible but it was hard when he was on sauté and she was next to him on the fryer. The kitchen was cramped, but even so they were understaffed for the amount of covers they were doing every night. The restaurant was getting good press, and the food was consistently improving, thanks in no small part to her, she thought. Even when Fergus had moved her on to the hot line when one of the cooks had quit, she’d kept on with the daytime prep. It allowed her to control the quality of the food, and Fergus had turned more and more of the ordering over to her.

Popping a new batch of their signature Parmesan and courgette puffs into the deep fryer, she glanced over at Fergus, plating at the pass. His long hair was pulled back in a ponytail, revealing the deep dimple that showed even when he was frowning in concentration. He bent over a plate, adjusting a bit of garnish with the tweezers in one hand, adding a dot of bright green pea purée from a squeeze bottle in the other.

“Pay bloody attention, can’t you?” Guy snapped at her.

“Sorry,” she said automatically, pulling up the fryer basket and dumping the puffs on a kitchen-towel-lined baking pan to drain. They were perfect, and would go on the plates with the scallops and the pea purée.

Guy passed the hot puffs to Fergus, then turned back and patted her on the bum just as she was lowering another batch into the oil. His hand slid between her legs and squeezed. “And next time why don’t you give me some of that while you’re at it, darling?”