Recipe for Murder Read online

“You’re sure it was a threat?”

  “What else could it be?”

  He snapped his notebook shut. “Now, don’t take offense. But Richards was a chef. This ‘piece of the pie’ comment—could it have anything to do with cooking?”

  Nancy tried not to be insulted. He doesn’t know you’re a detective, she reminded herself. “It was a threat,” she said firmly. “He said, ‘Or I’ll put you out of the way for good.’ ”

  The policeman shrugged. “Well, we’ll look into it.”

  “Claude DuPres, the head of the DuPres cooking school, was threatened too. He thought someone was after him.”

  “He told you that?” the man asked swiftly.

  “He murmured it just after his heart attack. He pleaded for help.”

  The officer looked thoughtful. He glanced quickly at her name tag and said, “Thank you, Ms. Drew,” as he walked out. “I’ll have to have a talk with Chef DuPres.”

  • • •

  The next morning before class Nancy concluded that the only way to attack the mystery was to confront Claude DuPres. She felt certain he was the key, somehow. It was just a matter of being able to see him—and see him alone.

  When she arrived for class, Nancy had barely scooted into her place beside Ned when he said, “Did you hear? Chef DuPres’s out of the hospital. He’s even back at school today—against his doctor’s orders.”

  “Is that right?” Nancy asked excitedly.

  “That’s what everybody’s been saying,” Ned said. “I guess cooking’s his life.”

  “Great. This is my chance to finally talk to him at lunch today.”

  “Maybe I should come with you.”

  Nancy shook her head. “No. Meet Bess and George and tell them what I’m doing. I’ll be okay.”

  “That’s what they all say,” Ned muttered. But when lunchtime came he went to meet George and Bess as she headed for Chef DuPres’s office.

  The office was on the second floor of the adjacent building. Nancy hurried up the stairs, shoving her sunglasses to the top of her head. She checked her watch and made a face. She wasn’t going to have much time to talk to him.

  “Entrez!” Claude DuPres called when Nancy rapped at the door.

  Nancy stuck her head inside the door. “Chef DuPres? My name’s Nancy Drew. I met you on the first day of this class session, as we were all walking into the auditorium.”

  The chef’s face was still ashen. He beckoned her feebly over to his desk. “I remember you, Ms. Drew. It was right before my—heart attack. You are the detective.”

  “How are you feeling?” Nancy asked.

  “Much better. Though my doctor would like to chain me to my bed.” His smile was wry.

  “Do you remember what you said when you first came to?”

  He froze, then shook his head.

  “You said someone was after you. You asked for help.”

  DuPres averted his eyes. “You must have misunderstood.”

  “I couldn’t have misunderstood. I was right there.” Nancy stared at him. Why was he covering up?

  “Ms. Drew, I was not myself that day. I may have said many things.”

  Nancy slowly sank into the chair across from his desk. She was certain DuPres remembered what he’d said. But how could she get him to open up?

  She looked around the room for a minute, trying to think of what to say next. On the wall behind his desk were many pictures of the famed chef with famous people. To the far right hung a picture of half a dozen solemn-faced men, seated around a long table.

  Claude DuPres’s eyes followed her gaze, and his expression tightened. “There you see the real owners of the Claude DuPres International Cooking School,” he said with a trace of irony. “I am more the—how do you say?—the up-front person?”

  “You’re the spokesman?” Nancy was startled. She had assumed the school belonged solely to him. “You mean you’re not the owner?”

  “I own a small percentage of the school, and I am on the board of directors.” He shrugged. “I am paid for the use of my name and for my support of the school.”

  Nancy wondered if the board of directors would choose Paul Slesak to run the school if anything should happen to Claude DuPres. But would that be reason enough for Slesak to want DuPres out of the way? She couldn’t ask that.

  Choosing another tack, Nancy said, “I’m sure you’ve heard about Trent Richards.”

  DuPres’s face grew sad. “A terrible, terrible accident. I cannot believe it could happen here.”

  “What if it wasn’t an accident? What if someone tampered with the freezer door handle and locked Chef Richards in on purpose?” Nancy asked.

  “What? What are you saying?”

  Quickly Nancy related the series of events that had taken place, ending with Trent’s threats to that unknown person.

  “You are making this up!” the chef said angrily.

  “Why would I? I don’t think Chef Richards’s death was an accident, and I don’t think the oven’s catching fire was an accident either.”

  DuPres shook his head, his hands nervously shuffling the papers in front of him. “It has nothing to do with me.”

  Nancy was sure he was hiding something. “What could Chef Richards have been involved in?” she asked, watching him closely. “Why would he be threatening someone?”

  “He was not a popular chef,” DuPres admitted reluctantly. “He was too interested in climbing to the top. Success was everything. He made that very clear.”

  “And he resented having to work for it,” Nancy suggested, remembering Trent’s attitude in class.

  “Yes. He wanted too much, too soon.” DuPres shrugged. “He was young.”

  “But that doesn’t explain why he would—” Nancy started to say.

  “Maybe you should forget these theories. Chef Richards’s death was an unfortunate accident. That is all.”

  “And what about you?” she asked. “You said, ‘They are after me.’ Could ‘they’ have really been Trent Richards?”

  “No!”

  “Then who? Paul Slesak?”

  He shook his head, his lips tight.

  “Jacques Bonet?” Nancy suggested.

  Claude DuPres shook his head rapidly. “You do not know what you are saying.”

  “I’m sorry. Chef DuPres,” Nancy answered. “Please don’t excite yourself.”

  “Excite myself? You accuse my friend Jacques—the one man I trust—when I know that it can only be—” He broke off, his eyes widening.

  Nancy stood up and leaned over his desk, her sunglasses tipping from her crown. “It can only be who, Chef DuPres? Who?”

  She held her breath, watching his face slowly drain of color. “I really do not know,” he finally admitted. “I have only guesses. But, yes, Ms. Drew, someone has been threatening me.”

  “Do you have any idea why?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “But I do know one thing: if Trent Richards was murdered, the murderer made a mistake.”

  “A mistake?” Nancy asked, puzzled.

  Claude DuPres drew a shaky breath. “Yes, a mistake. A very costly one. You see, the murderer was really after me.”

  Chapter

  Seven

  NANCY STARED AT him. “The murderer’s after you?” she repeated. “How can you be sure?”

  “Because there have been attempts on my life before! That was no heart attack I had. I was—”

  Suddenly the door to his office burst open, and Paul Slesak stalked inside. “What kind of security do you have here?” he demanded. “Accident after accident! None of them should have happened!”

  DuPres’s cheeks flushed. “I agree with you. Since I was not here when the accidents occurred, I was hardly in a position to—”

  “That is no excuse.” Slesak swept his arguments away with a dramatic gesture. “Trent’s death could have been avoided if there had been adequate maintenance and security. Which reminds me: someone has gone through my private recipes! Someone is trying to ste
al them. There is no security around this place! And if so much as one of my recipes is missing, I’ll hold you personally responsible!”

  “Get out of my office!” DuPres shouted, leaping to his feet. “You are no longer in charge. And I suggest you remember that!”

  Slesak’s look was murderous. He turned on his heel and stalked out, slamming the door until it shook in its casing.

  Slesak was so angry he hadn’t seemed to notice Nancy. Either that, or he had ignored her.

  DuPres muttered a few words in French, high spots of color on his cheeks. Shaking his finger at the door, DuPres said, “I take back what I said. Paul Slesak could want me dead! He could! He wants this school for himself!”

  “Enough to kill for it?” Nancy asked softly, waiting for DuPres to calm down.

  “Maybe,” he muttered, sinking slowly back into his seat. “Maybe.”

  “Let’s go back to where we were before Chef Slesak interrupted,” Nancy suggested. “You said the murderer must have made a mistake.”

  “That is correct.”

  “Well, that may be,” Nancy said, treading carefully. “But you and Chef Richards don’t look anything alike. It seems more likely that whoever killed Richards did it on purpose.”

  DuPres leaned back in his chair, his face tired and pale. “The reason I say the killers were after me is because I did not have a heart attack. I was poisoned. The police have not leaked this to the press at my request. I did not want the reputation of the school jeopardized.”

  A chill ran down Nancy’s spine. She’d been right all along. “Do the police have any clues?”

  “Not yet. But I will make sure they put Chef Slesak on the top of their list of suspects!”

  “Will you tell me about the threats you received?” Nancy asked.

  DuPres took a deep breath. “Just before the poisoning I received a message—a message I could not mistake. It was a note with a skull and crossbones on it.”

  “Where is it now?” Nancy asked.

  “It is missing. Someone took it from my chef’s jacket sometime after I collapsed.”

  That could have been easy for Paul Slesak to engineer, Nancy thought grimly, but she kept her thoughts to herself.

  “But that is not all,” Chef DuPres went on. “A few weeks ago I was nearly run down by a delivery van here at the school. At first I thought it was an accident, but now I am sure it was not. The van could have easily avoided me.”

  “What kind of van was it?”

  “It was unmarked. Gray. All I saw as it sped away was a broken taillight.”

  “Well, that’s something to go on at least,” Nancy murmured.

  “I have told you these things only because you persisted, but you must not involve yourself any further, Ms. Drew.” Chef DuPres frowned. “It is too dangerous.”

  “I’ll watch my step,” Nancy assured him. “But I can’t give up the investigation now that I have something to go on.” There was nothing more Nancy could say. Thanking DuPres for confiding in her, she walked out of his office.

  Could Paul Slesak have murdered Trent Richards? she asked herself. Why? What, if anything, was the connection between the two men? It was more likely by far that Slesak was after DuPres. The pastry chef hadn’t exactly kept it a secret that he was interested in running the school.

  But DuPres’s theory that the murderer had simply made a mistake didn’t wash.

  Nancy heaved a sigh of relief when her cooking class finally ended for that day. She needed to talk to Ned without fear of someone—such as Jacques Bonet—overhearing.

  “We had a powwow at lunch,” Ned told her as they walked back to the hotel. “George and I outvoted Bess and decided on pizza for dinner.”

  “What did Bess want?” Nancy squinted as she looked up at him. Even this late in the afternoon the sun was still beastly.

  “French food,” Ned said with a grimace. “Your friend Bonet really made an impression on her.”

  “He’s not just my friend,” she said, digging through her purse for her sunglasses. “You know him as well as I do. Oh, no— I’ve lost my sunglasses. They were on my head in DuPres’s office, but they must have slipped off.”

  Nancy glanced back. They were over halfway to the hotel. She was too hot and tired to go back for them.

  “Tell you what,” Ned said. “Let’s go to the hotel and have a swim. We’ll pick up your sunglasses on the way to get pizza.”

  “Good idea,” Nancy said.

  After a cooling swim and a nap on the sun deck, Nancy felt a thousand times better. When George and Ned said they were ready to get the pizza, she declined a ride. “I feel like walking,” she said. “How about you, Bess? Want to come along?”

  Bess lifted her own sunglasses to the top of her head, grimacing at her sun-pinkened skin. “Sure, why not?”

  Dusk was falling as the two girls walked down the pathway to the school. “I’ll wait in the main building,” Bess said. “I’d like to talk to Chef Slesak for a minute.”

  “Be careful,” Nancy warned. “Chef DuPres doesn’t trust him.”

  Nancy crossed to DuPres’s office building and climbed the stairs to the second floor. She tried his door, but it was locked tight.

  When she returned to the main building, Bess wasn’t outside waiting. “Hurry up, Bess,” Nancy muttered, then tried the door to the school. Locked.

  Nancy began walking slowly back to the hotel. George and Ned were undoubtedly back with the pizza. But where was Bess?

  Evening shadows were lengthening near the towering laurel hedge along the walkway. Was that something moving ahead of her? Nancy stopped, squinting into the gathering darkness.

  “Bess?” she called. “Are you there?”

  The only answer was the rustle of leaves. In spite of the heat Nancy shivered.

  She picked up her pace, circumventing the laurel hedge, crossing the street, and pausing under the light cast by the hotel’s outdoor lamps.

  Then, from a distance, Nancy heard, “N-a-a-a-ancy! Wait up!”

  It was Bess! Straining her eyes, Nancy caught sight of her friend. She was across the street.

  Nancy waved, then hurried back to meet her friend. She caught up with her near the laurel bushes. “Bess! Where have you been? I thought you had gone back.”

  “Nancy!” Bess grabbed her arm. “I saw Paul Slesak go into the school, so I followed him!”

  Nancy’s pulse quickened. “What happened?”

  “He unlocked the door to his office and went inside. I peeked in through the door window and saw him go to his desk and unlock a drawer. Then he pulled out a white folder and all of a sudden he got really upset.”

  “By what he found in the folder?” Nancy asked.

  “I guess so. He slammed his fist on the desktop and started yelling. Half of it was in German. I could barely understand him.”

  “But you could understand some of it?”

  “Yes. He was mad about his recipes, about not being able to trust anyone.”

  “He complained about his recipes to Claude DuPres earlier today,” Nancy said.

  Quickly Nancy glanced around. Was someone there? Watching them? “Bess, come on. Let’s get back to the hotel.”

  Before they could move, a white-robed figure suddenly sprang from behind the laurel hedge. Bess screamed as the figure swooped down on her.

  But the figure wasn’t after Bess. It was after Nancy. As she moved forward it grabbed her in a viselike grip, pinning her arms to her sides.

  It’s a man! Nancy thought wildly, struggling with all her might against his incredible strength to see his face. But it was covered by a stocking.

  Just as Nancy opened her mouth to scream, his white-gloved hand reached up and closed around her throat, cutting off her air.

  Her attacker was strangling her!

  Chapter

  Eight

  NANCY!” BESS SHRIEKED, running toward her to try to save her.

  Nancy felt a release of pressure as her assailant turned to dea
l Bess one stunning blow. It sent her friend reeling backward.

  Nancy pried at her attacker’s fingers, gulping air. She was nearly free! She twisted, loosening his grip, and bit down hard on his wrist. He howled in pain—but then his fingers found her neck again. Was he going to kill her on the spot?

  No. He was starting to drag her away.

  “Nancy!” Bess screamed again, struggling to her feet. She flung herself on the white-robed attacker, but he knocked her down easily.

  Dimly, Nancy heard running footsteps somewhere behind her.

  “Let her go!” a familiar voice shouted grimly, and Ned hurled himself straight at the assailant.

  Nancy felt a hard thud—and then she was free. Gasping, she staggered to her feet, her hands at her throat. Ned and the assailant were locked together, rolling on the ground.

  “Ned!” she screamed, but her voice was weak and scratchy. She had to help him! She searched for a weapon—and then, to her horror, she saw the assailant’s hand grabbing a rock.

  “No!” Nancy lunged forward just as the attacker smashed the rock against Ned’s temple. Ned crumpled, and the white-robed man twisted away, scrambling to his feet and leaving Nancy clutching at his billowing cape.

  Nancy took two steps after him, but knew she would never catch him.

  “Oh, Ned,” she murmured, turning back and bending over him.

  His eyes fluttered open. He groaned, reaching for his head.

  “Is he all right?” Bess asked tremulously, getting to her feet.

  “I’m okay, I think,” Ned said, sitting up. “What about you?”

  “I’m fine—now. Thanks to you.”

  Ned drew a deep breath and let it out again. “Who was that guy?”

  “I don’t know. I never saw his face. But he was in a chef’s outfit, and he had on some kind of white robe.”

  Ned just looked at her. “A chef’s outfit? This gets crazier by the minute. What was he trying to do to you?”

  “I don’t know, but it’s clear somebody doesn’t want me snooping around. How did you manage to rescue me just at the right moment?”

  “When you didn’t come back I got worried. I told George to stay at the hotel, and then I came looking for you.” He stood up, swaying a bit.