Toured to Death Read Free

“Emil,” she pleaded. “We are occupying sixteen rooms. And we paid a good deal extra to reserve the whole restaurant.” She was sounding like a pushy businessman. Even worse, an American.
    â€œYou think this is about money?”
    Well, yes. “Of course not.”
    â€œIt’s not about money.”
    â€œI’m sorry. No artist likes being told how to perform. The green beans look fantastic.”
    â€œLook? Ha.” And in a smooth motion perfected over years of stuffing capons, he slipped a bean between his adversary’s teeth.
    â€œThese are American tourists,” Amy mumbled as she crunched. “Which is not to say they don’t appreciate food. Mmm, delicious. But they won’t mind something not quite so perfect.”
    â€œYou think it matters who I cook for? You think I walk out into my dining room and say, ‘Oh, these people, they won’t appreciate my food. I will serve them crap’?” Actually, Amy had been to Paris bistros that made this scenario sound plausible. “Americans come in, and they ask, ‘How is this cooked?’ ‘What vegetable comes with that?’ ‘Can I have this instead?’”
    â€œWell, they are the ones eating.”
    â€œThey get the vegetable I decide goes best. It is part of the whole.”
    â€œEmil.” Amy pushed her glasses back up on her nose. “If it were up to me, I would love green beans. But these are my instructions. People must sit in certain places and do certain things. I don’t know why. Will this be a clue? I don’t know. Will something be poisoned?”
    â€œPoison?” Emil gaped in mock horror.
    â€œYou know what I mean.”
    â€œYou are going to poison my food?”
    â€œEmil, please.”
    â€œI call the police.”
    How do you say ‘get off it’? “I have told you over and over. This dinner is part of a murder mystery game. I can’t change a thing.”
    â€œEven pretend poison, I will not allow. . . . That thing that tastes of bitter almonds?”
    â€œCyanide. No. No pretend cyanide.”
    Emil huffed. “You should not play games with food.”
    For Amy, the ensuing compromise felt like a victory. At least she hadn’t caved completely. The haricots verts, they agreed, would be a side dish, in addition to the broccoli. She just hoped that Otto Ingo’s entire mystery didn’t hinge on the absence of green beans at the opening night banquet.
    Â 
    It was a few minutes past noon on a cloudless day in mid-September. Amy Abel had changed into a crisp white blouse, lime-green clam diggers, and her favorite white and green espadrilles. Taking a deep breath of sea air, she strolled down the front steps and turned left onto avenue Saint-Martin.
    The small luxury hotel had been hard to find. According to Otto’s specifications, it had to possess a terrace opening directly onto the dining room and should, as much as possible, resemble a private home. Deluxe accommodations in Monaco tended to be large affairs. The smaller, homey hotels were generally of a lower grade, something that might have been all right with Otto but that would not have suited Amy’s clients.
    Salvation had come in the form of the Hotel Grimaldi, an eighteenth-century mansion on the spit of land known as Monaco-Ville. Halfway between the oceanographic museum and the cathedral, the Grimaldi was in a district filled with ancient squares and serpentine alleys, hardly the center of jet-set action. But this tiny gem was positioned right next to the seaside cliffs. And the view from the terrace was as good as you’d find at the Fairmont Monte Carlo.
    Amy had left her to-do list back in her room. This was meant to be a break. Perhaps lunch at an outdoor café, she thought as she wandered away from the crashing waves. Emil was in his kitchen; the guests were all checked in; the actors would be needing her for the rehearsal in the dining