Chapter 16
Dear Natasha,
My aunt is coming to visit and asked if I know of a restaurant that serves fish paupiette. What on earth is that? She can’t just eat a nice grouper?
Perplexed Niece in Fisher Island, Florida
Dear Perplexed Niece,
A paupiette is basically a roulade. A piece of meat or fish is wrapped around other meat or fish and then cooked. While grouper is delicious, imagine it wrapped around shrimp!
Natasha
Mars tilted his head. “Don’t the police usually try to eliminate the spouse first? There’s a reason for that.”
“She said she’d been up all night,” I mused. “And she called me instead of the police when she couldn’t find Tate.”
Mars and Humphrey raised their eyebrows.
“No, I think that’s unlikely,” I protested. My voice grew softer as I said, “She was here just this morning to pay me, relieved that the police had arrested Bernie.”
“Sophie, listen to yourself. If Bobbie Sue murdered her own husband, then she would be thrilled that the police thought it was someone else. She might even be the one who framed him. She’s at the top of my list,” said Mars. “At least for now. We don’t have any other suspects, except for Marsha.”
I sat back in my chair. “I don’t know, Mars. I like Bobbie Sue. And she talks about her husband so tenderly. I think she truly loved him. Besides, almost no one is going to have an alibi from midnight to one in the morning.”
“Unless that person is married,” said Humphrey.
“I’m not sure one can always believe the testimony of a sleeping spouse,” Mars pointed out.
He was right, of course. “An awake spouse isn’t always a reliable alibi, either,” I said.
On that note, the two of them left, and I returned to work in my home office.
* * *
That evening, Nina and I set out to find the restaurant where Tate might have eaten his last meal, in the hope that it would lead us to someone who might have been with him that night. Nina took one side of King Street and I took the other. There were plenty of restaurants elsewhere in Old Town and beyond in Alexandria, but chances were good that he had remained local. We couldn’t dismiss the possibility that Tate had gone to someone’s home for dinner, either. But King Street was the most likely place he had eaten his last meal. If nothing else, we could eliminate it.
We examined menus and stepped inside restaurants to ask what the special was on Midsummer Night. By the time we reached the river, we’d had no luck at all.
“Everyone serves shrimp,” said Nina. “I’ve given up asking about that. But almost no one has flounder. It’s all salmon, salmon, salmon.”
“Flounder is out of vogue,” I said. “Salmon has been the trendy fish for years.”
Nina pulled out her phone. “Bernie, hi! Listen, I’m looking for a place that serves flounder.”
She pressed the speaker button and held out her phone so I could listen in. Bernie’s voice came through loud and clear.
“Flounder? Good luck with that. You might find it at one of the restaurants near the river that specialize in seafood. How about Chilean sea bass? It’s much more flavorful, but very pricy. I’m fairly certain that sea bass is sometimes on the menu at Auguste’s over on Lee Street, near Queen. It’s very exclusive, though. You have to make a reservation months in advance. If you go there, tell Auguste I sent you. That might help. One other thing. It’s not marked. Look for the turquoise door with a lion on it.”
Nina thanked him and ended the call. “Well, now we have to go there! Exclusive? It must be if I’ve never heard mention of it.” She eyed my casual outfit. “Think we need to dress up?”
“If it’s that exclusive, they won’t let us in without a reservation. We don’t have to eat there. We just need to see what’s on the menu.”
Nina grumbled a little but readily walked toward Queen Street with me. We found the turquoise door easily. The only sign of the restaurant was an Egyptian symbol of a lion on the door knocker. I had walked by dozens of times without realizing it was a restaurant.
Nina tried the door handle. It opened easily to a tasteful corridor with high ceilings and extravagant moldings. The hallway seemed dangerously long, and I began to have qualms about our little adventure, but just as I was thinking about turning back, we emerged into a small but elegantly appointed room. Classical music played softly, and the murmur of hushed voices was apparent, although no diners were visible.
A gentleman approached us. “Good evening. Do you have a reservation?”
“I’m afraid not,” said Nina. “We just heard about your wonderful restaurant. Bernie Frei sent us.”
I almost laughed when Nina said that. It seemed so sinister, like we were doing something illegal. Entering a speakeasy or an illicit gambling joint.
“You are very lucky. We had a cancellation this evening. Please follow me.”
We trailed along behind him. The servers were all dressed alike in black trousers, white shirts, and black vests. They passed us carrying trays of food that smelled divine.
But none of the diners were visible. The restaurant had been cleverly divided into private alcoves. It was the perfect place for secret meetings.
He seated us at a small table and handed us menus along with a wine list.
“Wow,” whispered Nina. “This is the place to come if you’re having an affair! Almost no one would see who you were with.”
I focused on my menu, which was a simple, good quality, eight by six-inch piece of white paper with five options on it.
Tomahawk Rib Eye for Two
Served with truffle mashed potatoes and roasted asparagus.
Duck Confit
Served with French lentils in a red wine sauce, and spinach puree.
Grilled Lobster Tails
Served with drawn butter, haricot verts, and our own
Asiago cheese biscuits.
Vegetarian Wild Mushroom Stroganoff
Served with Asiago cheese biscuits and Caesar salad.
Vegan Pasta e Fagioli with Roasted Vegetables
Served with fried plantains.
Nina flipped her menu around and looked at the blank backside. “That’s it? I mean, it’s some fancy stuff, but I’m used to more variety.”
It was an interesting venture. I had been to restaurants with only two items on the menu that never changed. But they did them so well that they were extremely popular. “I’m game for duck confit.”
Nina sighed. “Lobster tails for me. So much for flounder, shrimp, or crab. They don’t even have any rice listed. Wherever Tate ate his last meal, it sure wasn’t here.”
The server came to take our order.
“This is such an interesting menu,” I said. “How often does it change?”
“Daily. We source only the freshest and most exquisite ingredients for our guests.”
That sounded like a line they were taught to say. Who spoke that way?
“Do you ever have flounder?” asked Nina.
“Not in the time that I have been here.”
“Did you work on Midsummer Night?” I asked.
Our server now looked at me curiously. “Yes, I did. Is there a problem?”
Oh boy. I was going to have to come up with a reason for wanting to know what was on the menu that night—and fast! “Our friend dined here and recommended the fish entrée.”
He smiled at me. “Ah, that was our Chilean Sea Bass Paupiette.”
Nina frowned at him. “What’s a paupiette?”
“The Chilean sea bass is wrapped around a filling of shrimp and crab. It is one of my favorites.”
I took a chance. “Served with rice?”
“It was served with creamy risotto and spinach, madam.”
Almost, I thought. Could the pathologist have confused Chilean sea bass with flounder? “Thank you,” I said. “I believe one of my friends had dinner here that night. Tate Bodoin?”
“Word of mouth is our best advertisement.” The server smiled and left.
“He obviously didn’t recognize Tate’s name,” said Nina. “But I can see a medical examiner mistaking the kind of fish. It all looks alike.”
Said like someone who didn’t cook, although if I were in a contest and had to identify ten different kinds of fish, I wouldn’t fare well. Plus, a medical examiner would be looking at cooked and eaten fish. It would likely have lost any distinctive appearance. I smiled at her and muttered, “Maybe you’re right.”
At that moment a petite man arrived. His sharp brown eyes took us in. “Ah, Sophie Winston and Nina Reid Norwood. I was told you would make your way here. Which is which?”
Nina blushed, obviously flattered. “You’ve heard of us? I’m Nina.”
“Nina, my dear, your reputation precedes you.”
Oh no! I knew what that reputation was.
He spoke with a slight accent that I couldn’t quite place. “Then you must be the lovely Sophie. It is a pleasure to have you dining in my establishment.”
He lowered his voice. “You are here because of Tate Bodoin. No?”
“To be honest,” I said, “Mr.—” I drew a blank. Had he told us his name?
“Auguste Beausoleil.” He bowed his head. “Please call me Auguste. I am very fond of American informality. May I?” He gestured toward an empty chair.
“Of course, Auguste.” Beausoleil had to be a French name. Is that a French accent I detect?” I asked.
“You have a good ear, Sophie. My mother is Egyptian, and my father is French. My love of good food comes from both sides. How can I help you with the tragic death of Tate Bodoin?”
I was slightly taken aback by his eagerness to help. I couldn’t tell whether he was a closet sleuth or had some ulterior interest in Tate’s demise. “Are we correct that Tate ate dinner here on Midsummer Night?”
“He did. I have wondered if I should go to the police with this information.”
Once again, I wasn’t sure what to think. Why wouldn’t he have volunteered that information to Wolf immediately upon hearing of Tate’s murder? “Why didn’t you do that?”
“You have surely noticed that my restaurant is the ultimate in discretion. We keep the secrets of our patrons. You understand that it is a delicate matter. Tate was a fine man, and I am broken by his death. When I opened my restaurant, I never imagined such a terrible thing could happen. It all seemed very clear to me. We would be most discreet, and our diners could rely on us for that. Washington, DC, is a political hotbed. There is a specific clientele who wish to dine together without making the morning news. Not only American politicians but also people from the embassies and those who visit from around the world to make deals. But now I have to think, what if our roles were reversed and someone had killed me? Would I not want my friends to seek the killer? To obtain justice for me? To help me in death? It is the final gesture of friendship. The police should know. But I will not reveal the information to his wife. It is not my place to do so. You understand.”
I understood all right. His wife had spent most of the evening with me in a different restaurant.
“He was here with other people,” said Nina.
“One other person, to be exact.”