Read Online Lucky Catch by Deborah Coonts - Free Book Online

knew it was not my truffle, not the Alba.” Gregor pulled out the same handkerchief I’d seen him use earlier, which I found a bit disgusting—or maybe that was just the chef’s normal effect on me. This time, he blew his nose into it.
    “Where did she give it to you?” I searched his face. If he was lying, I’d broil him myself.
    “Right here in this bungalow.” His eyes held mine.
    “Was anybody else there?”
    “No.” His voice was firm.
    “When?”
    “Early this morning. Her call woke me up. It was around seven a.m ., I think.” He took a deep breath. “You can check the video feeds—they will confirm what I say.”
    “I will.” I gave him my best steely stare. He didn’t wilt. If he was that confident, I felt sure the tapes would jibe with his story. I’d ask Jerry to check, but I wouldn’t red flag it. “So, I’m confused. You say this truffle isn’t the real truffle? The one you bought?”
    Stepping back, Gregor gave me a look that I couldn’t read. He raised his hand.
    The light dawned, but rooted to the floor, unable to raise even a hand to stop him, I stared in horror as the chef dropped the truffle into the pig’s feed bin. It landed with a weighty thunk.
    Adrenaline surged. Fear overrode inertia. I leaped toward the pen. “No!”
    “The pig, she is not interested.” The quiet words from the corner stopped me.
    I whirled to face the man who had uttered them. Short and round, with a cherubic weathered face, gray curls, and a kerchief tied jauntily around his neck, he wrung his hands as he glanced at me, then cast a worried look at the pig. The fabric of his pants was shiny with wear, and his checkered shirt was faded on the shoulders as if from long days spent in the sun.
    I’d guess this was the truffler.
    “You see,” he said, as he gestured toward the pig, who had turned up her nose at the proffered truffle, “she does not want that truffle.” His voice was soft, heavily accented in that sexy French way. What was it about accents that turned normally smart American women all stupid?
    As I struggled to understand, I felt my IQ plummet. “Why not?”
    His mouth turned down at the corners, and he gave a shrug. “It is not a good truffle.”
    Totally adrift, I stood there with my mouth open. Clearly, my coping skills were at a low ebb. Finally, I managed to pull myself together, snapping my mouth shut and summoning a semblance of cogent thought. “Where is the good truffle?”
    Chef Gregor looked like he was about to stroke out as he stepped into my space and pushed his face into mine. “Against my better judgment, I gave it to Chef Bouclet.”
    “Jean-Charles?” I squeaked.
    “Hmmm. He is the only one with the proper refrigeration controls to keep a truffle of that quality appropriately cooled. You do know that once truffles are harvested, they are at their peak for only a few days and must be cooled?”
    I nodded, pretending I had a clue as to what he was talking about.
    “Jean-Charles has stolen my truffle.” Chef Gregor poked me in the chest, emphasizing each word as he growled. “You tell your chef he is a dead man.”
     
     

Chapter Four
     
    J ean-Charles had not answered his phone, and I’d left a rather terse message. If our prized truffle had gone missing, he sure as hell better tell me about it. After all, since the buck stopped with me, my ass was on the line. Cleaning up after a pig, and now chasing a missing truffle, had me a bit testy when I burst into the kitchen at Tigris, the Babylon’s high-end eatery and the toughest table in town.
    “Tell me what you know about truffles.” I had rescued the not-so-good truffle from the pig’s bin and now plunked it down on the stainless prep table in front of Chef Omer.
    Chef Omer was the chef de cuisine at Tigris, the Babylon’s top eatery that had just been awarded its third Michelin star. My father had found him toiling away in the bowels of some Turkish eatery, had recognized greatness, and had moved the