Lady Gold Investigates 2

  Lady Gold Investigates ~ Volume 2

  companion short stories to Ginger Gold Mysteries

  Lee Strauss

  Contents

  The Case of the Recipe Robbery

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  The Case of the Museum Burglary

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Ginger Gold’s Journal

  About the Authors

  Books by Lee Strauss

  The Case of the Recipe Robbery

  1

  “Wouldn’t that be something if we suddenly found ourselves sitting next to Gladys Cooper or Nancy Price?” Mrs. Ginger Reed, alias Lady Gold, couldn’t help but glance around the dining room of The Bromley, a popular Soho restaurant, for a sign of a famous theatre or film star. She and her husband, Chief Inspector Basil Reed, opened up the menus that the waiter had given them, as she continued, “Did you know they’re filming a new motion picture in London?”

  “What on earth would I gain from sitting next to some celebrity?” Basil said with a broad smile and a glint in his hazel eyes. He leaned forward as if telling a secret. “I have you here to outshine them all, my love.”

  “You do know how to flatter a girl.” Ginger couldn’t help the small blush that rose to her cheeks. Newly married, her handsome husband still had that effect on her.

  They both ordered the same dish, gigot d’agneau—French roast leg of lamb—and the head chef’s version of pommes dauphine. Ginger chose a pinot noir to go with the lamb dish while Basil ordered an Italian Chianti.

  Ginger marvelled at how it was so easy to spend time with Basil. There were rarely uncomfortable, silent spaces, indeed if there was a silent moment it was altogether comfortable, with neither feeling the need to speak. Then, in the next moment they could be talking about things that were close to the heart and important to them both.

  The Bromley featured gold and cream wallpaper, vaulted ceilings, and thick red carpeting, which kept the ambient conversation noise at a comfortable level so that even when the restaurant was busy, it was easy to have a quiet conversation. Ginger knew that the restaurant had been a favourite of Londoners for a very long time, due in part to the varied cuisine, which was always delicious.

  “The head chef is known for his original and innovative recipes for both international and British fare,” Basil said, taking a sip of his wine. “I’ve heard that celebrities like E. M. Forster and Agatha Christie sometimes come here, and I once saw Tom Walls—you know, the actor— when I was here with a work colleague.”

  “Impressive,” Ginger remarked. She actually didn’t like Tom Walls’ acting but she kept that to herself in order not to dampen Basil’s enthusiasm.

  “Perhaps we could even go and see a late performance at The Prince’s Theatre, after this,” Basil said. “Noël Coward’s latest production, Hay Fever, is running there right now, I think.”

  Ginger patted her lips with a linen napkin and pushed a strand of red hair behind one ear. “Marvellous idea, love.” She wore a mauve crepe Georgette evening dress embroidered with large silver pearls, and draped at the side with three ribbons in different shades of purple. It was perfectly suited for a night on the town.

  Basil had just asked the waiter for the bill when the reserved atmosphere was abruptly disturbed.

  “Zees ees outrageous!” A distinguished-looking middle-aged man across the room suddenly stood, and dramatically threw his napkin onto his plate of unfinished food. “I will not stand for zees. It has gone too far!” The Frenchman’s face flushed with anger as he glared towards the kitchen. He was tall and slender with black hair that was smoothed back on his head, a long, thin nose, a full moustache, and sideburns.

  The maître d’, a dour man wearing the attire of a head waiter, rushed over. “Dear sir, how can I help you?”

  “I demand to speak to your chef. Where ees he?” The offended man’s Adam’s apple bounced. “How dare he! I have been robbed. Zees ees a crime!”

  A shock rippled through the crowd. A lady sitting near Ginger said to her husband, “That’s Marcel Arseneault! The famous chef de cuisine!”

  Monsieur Arseneault couldn’t be quieted and wouldn’t allow himself to be led out of the room. He seemed intent on making an embarrassing scene while everyone stared in shock. “Zees is robbery of zee worst kind!”

  Ginger and Basil rose from their chairs at the same time, shared a questioning look, then turned quickly towards the angry man and the flustered maître d’.

  The man opened his mouth to shout again, but Basil interrupted him. “Now look here, I’m Chief Inspector Basil Reed of Scotland Yard. I cannot permit you to keep yelling, sir. This is a public place and furthermore a place of business. I can arrest you on the grounds of causing a disturbance.”

  The man sputtered but did not seem capable of forming a sentence. “Well I…I… that ees to say… I’m…”

  Ginger turned to the maître d’. “Is there a private room somewhere close?” She couldn’t help but be thoroughly curious, and wanted to give the man an opportunity to explain himself.

  The maître d’, clearly relieved that someone had taken charge, nodded. “Right this way.”

  They were led to a smaller version of the main dining room. “This area is reserved for private functions,” he explained. “I will fetch Mr. Chatsworth, the chef, at once.”

  He closed the double glass doors behind him and they sat at the nearest table to wait.

  The protester drew a deep breath. “I am zee great chef Marcel Louis Arseneault! I will not tolerate zees humiliation, and I demand…”

  “Sir,” Basil said, cutting him off. “Please, state clearly the nature of your complaint.”

  “Zee problem ees outright thievery of the worst kind!”

  “Did someone steal your wallet or something else of value?” Basil asked, leaning forward in his chair. “If so, I will need to make a report immediately and search the premises.”

  “No, nothing trivial like zat. Zees is something far more nefarious.”

  Ginger prompted, “Do continue.”

  “A recette.” The man threw up his hands. “A recipe! Ratatouille to be exact. A dish from zee south-east of France.”

  Basil and Ginger looked at each other with raised eyebrows.

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Basil said. “There are likely to be many ways to cook that dish. How do you know someone stole your recipe?”

  “From zee taste!” The man started waving his right hand wildly at his mouth. “Yes, zees is a favourite dish but I have concocted a recipe zat ees very distinct and depends on zee exact length of time you must sauté zee vegetables and by adding certain extra herbs to normal ingredients of tomatoes, garlic, onions, courgette, aubergine…” He counted on his fingers.

  Ginger cut him off, “Yes, but do you mean to say you are convinced of theft because of the taste?”

  “But of course.” Monsieur Arseneault stared at Ginger incredulously. “And who are you?”

  Basil answered on Ginger’s behalf. “This is my wife, Mrs. Reed.”

  “Enchanté.” He shook her hand and bowed slightly. “So back to your question, Mrs. Reed. I know my own creations, just as surely as a father would know ees own children! To make eet worse, zees ees not zee only one! I have tasted counterfeits of several of my other dishes at various ‘fine’ restaurants all over zees city in zee las
t few weeks.” He said the word ‘fine’ with much sarcasm. Basil and Ginger shared another amused look.

  “From a police perspective, Monsieur Arseneault,” Basil said, “I’m afraid that isn’t good evidence that a crime has been committed. Your sense of taste is not going to be enough to convince a judge in any court that I can think of. How do you know someone did not just taste your dish and sought to duplicate the results?”

  Monsieur Arseneault rolled his eyes. “Zees ees simply not possible. No one is zat talented, not even me.” The chef vigorously tapped his chest with his finger. “And in addition to zees, zeese recipes have not been released. Zey are unpublished so to speak. No one except for myself and my assistant have tasted zem.”

  Just then the maître d’ entered the room along with a middle-aged portly man in chef’s whites. “May I introduce the head chef here, Mr. Chatsworth.”

  Mr. Chatsworth, who seemed to be in his fifties, had sandy hair which was slightly tousled from having just removed his chef’s hat. He wore spectacles, which made his intense, bright-blue eyes seem larger than usual, and watched in horror as his opponent rose suddenly from his chair and waved his fists in front of himself in a boxing stance.

  “I will claim my honour. You mountebank…you charlatan! En garde!” the Frenchman yelled.

  “I say, old chap,” began Mr. Chatsworth as he took a step back and raised his own fists in defence, a wild, astonished look on his face, “I don’t know what you’re on about but if it’s fisticuffs you want…” He frantically waved his clenched hands in front of his face, pausing only to push his spectacles back up on his nose.

  Ginger had to hide her face behind her hands for fear of letting out a chuckle at this absurd display of chefs’ bravado. Nonetheless, she was glad she didn’t have to be the one to break it up.

  “I will have none of this!” shouted Basil as he rose from his chair. “Mr. Arseneault, I will not warn you again!” The two chefs stared at each other. “Sit. Down!” Basil said forcefully.

  Monsieur Arseneault risked a sideways glance at Basil, then slowly sat back down.

  Having regained control of the room, Basil tugged on his waistcoat. “You, Mr. Chatsworth, please sit over there.”

  Mr. Chatsworth complied and claimed a chair on the opposite side of the table, out of the reach of the agitated Frenchman.

  “Now then,” Basil said. “I want the simplest and the quickest route to the truth here.”

  “He stole my recipe!” The Frenchman glared across the table.

  “I didn’t steal any bloody recipe,” Mr. Chatsworth said. He folded thick arms over his chest, huffing a bit, rather out of breath.

  “You are a liar,” Monsieur Arseneault sputtered, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

  Mr. Chatsworth bounced in his chair. “And you are a fool!”

  Basil stretched out his arms in warning. “Gentlemen, this may not be a matter for the police, but it certainly will be if you don’t remain calm.”

  Ginger held out a hand to Mr. Chatsworth. “I’m Mrs. Reed. I found your leg of lamb to be delightful.”

  The chef shot the Frenchman a sharp glance before smiling back at Ginger. “I regret that your dining experience has been needlessly ruined. Please be my guest the next time you decide to dine here.”

  Monsieur Arseneault harrumphed.

  Basil pressed on. “I feel compelled to inform you that Mrs. Reed runs an office as a private detective.”

  At this, both chefs raised their eyebrows and looked at Ginger from a new perspective.

  “She is jolly good at what she does and … even though I don’t know if she would agree to become involved,“ he said, nodding at Ginger, “I daresay, Monsieur Arseneault, you may want to enquire about her services in this matter.”

  “Oh? Why ees zat?”

  “Because this is a very strange situation,” Basil said. “A police matter involves a crime that is provable in court.”

  “I have not committed any crime,” Mr. Chatsworth said.

  “Be that as it may,” continued Basil, “even if you had, there would be no way to prove it. I’m not about to order a police constable to watch over you as you cook, and if you had a written copy of the recipe I am sure you could hide it, or destroy it even before we were able to look for it.”

  “That is absurd,” Mr. Chatsworth said.

  Monsieur Arseneault slapped a hand on the table and leaned in. “Where did you get your recipe for ratatouille?”

  Mr. Chatsworth met him halfway, fists pressing against the tabletop, and Ginger feared their noses would knock together. “That is none of your business!” the chef said, “but I can certainly tell you that I did not steal it from you!” Mr. Chatsworth then turned to Basil. “Chief Inspector Reed, I assume that I have the right to refuse service to anyone whom I deem to be causing a disturbance in my place of business?”

  Basil let out a sigh. “Yes, I suppose that is correct.”

  “Well then, if you are not conducting an investigation at the moment, and I am not under arrest, then I am going to return to my very busy kitchen. In the meantime, as an officer of the law, and as a witness to this man disrupting the peace in my restaurant, I adjure you to kindly escort this man out of my restaurant.” At this, he stood up and walked resolutely out of the room.

  Basil, Ginger, and Monsieur Arseneault sat looking at each other for a moment.

  “I cannot believe zat you cannot do anything about zees.” Monsieur Arseneault shook his head and looked helplessly at Basil.

  “I am very sorry,” Basil returned, “but the man is within his rights.”

  Monsieur Arseneault turned to Ginger. “It seems you are my last hope in zees matter. Would you agree to help me? I will pay any reasonable fee.”

  “I am not entirely sure,” Ginger said. “As my husband has already said, this is a puzzle that would be difficult to solve since the very fact that any theft has taken place is in question. You must admit, Monsieur Arseneault, your sense of taste, while highly esteemed, is not the strongest proof for anyone else who does not share your… culinary sensitivity. “

  “Please, Mrs. Reed, zeese recipes are like treasures of gold. Zey are supposed to be published in a new recipe book at the end of zees year by Bowes Publishing, one of England’s largest publishers. Zis ees a follow-up to a very successful book I published last year. You may have seen it, French Cooking for English Kitchens.”

  Ginger had indeed heard about this famous book. The London Times had called it “a revolution in international cookery”. It went against societal norms in London, which regarded talking about food as being rather inappropriate. A well-known quote from the book was “food worth eating is food worth talking about”.

  “Yes, I have heard of that book,” replied Ginger. “It made quite a splash last year.”

  “Zee anticipation for a follow-up book ees quite impressive. I am working on it now with an English collaborator to deliver it to zee publishers on time. But now zat some of zeese recipes have already been prematurely revealed, it ruins all prospects of a successful book release. I will be made un objet de risée, a mockery.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand. Wouldn’t it just be good promotion for your book if people tasted the recipes before the book was published?” Ginger asked.

  “Yes, if I was credited with zee recipe perhaps, but as you can see zeese chefs do not intend to give me credit for zose recipes. Zerefore I am made to look like a fraud, claiming to be zee originator of zeese fantastic dishes after zey are already on menus all over London. Besides, I want to be in control of how and when my recipes are introduced into zee world. It is a great matter of principle!”

  Ginger let out a long breath and after a moment of thought opened her handbag. “Here’s my card. Please set up an appointment with my assistant and we can discuss this further.”

  2

  As he sat across from Ginger’s desk in the office of Lady Gold Investigations, Monsieur Arseneault seemed a bit calmer then he had the
night before. His tall frame filled the leather-backed chair as he glanced around the office at the gold and beige papered walls, plush red carpet, and Ginger’s fine walnut desk. Felicia Gold, Ginger’s sister-in-law by her first marriage, a thoroughly modern young lady, sat at the adjacent desk, ready to take notes. Boss, Ginger’s Boston terrier, was lying in his usual place, a wicker basket next to Ginger’s desk, gnawing on a dog treat.

  The Frenchman peered down at Boss with a look of amusement. “My wife, Flora, also has a dog zat she loves. It ees a French bulldog she calls ‘François’. François has a particular penchant for French pastry, I’m afraid, so he ees needing a rather large basket since he does not fit in zee normal one anymore. He ees also sneezing all zee time, it seems to me. I only tolerate zee pudgy leetle dog, but my wife adores heem.” Monsieur Arseneault’s pronounced Adam’s apple bobbed slightly as he took a sip of his tea.

  The thought of a sneezing, plump French bulldog made both Felicia and Ginger smile. Ginger felt a bit more comfortable with her decision to take the case. Unlike his performance at The Bromley, the French chef seemed rather reasonable today, and the thought of this case affecting the high society culinary world of London intrigued her.

  “Well, let’s start with some basic questions, shall we?” Ginger began. “When did you start realising your recipes had been stolen?”

  “One month ago, I was dining with my wife at a restaurant on Sheraton Street. I ordered zee poulet chasseur because I had recently perfected a beautiful combination of ingredients for zee reduced chasseur sauce. I was curious to compare zem. Imagine my horror when I immediately recognised zee distinctive taste zat I had just invented in my own private kitchen! It is a far more bold and exciting taste zan zee normal sauces for zees dish, especially when paired with zee right French wine. In any case my wife also tasted it and we both agreed. It was my own recipe!”