Chef Maurice and a Spot of Truffle (Chef Maurice Mysteries Book 1) Read Online Free PDF Page A

been unmoved by the scented handkerchief shoved under his nose. So, with great reluctance, Chef Maurice had carved off a sliver of truffle, placed it on a dog biscuit, and offered up this canine canapé for Horace’s inspection.
    Horace appeared to enjoy this gourmet treat just fine, and now his breath smelt of Great Dane mixed with Base Notes of Forest Floor. Unfortunately, he still could not be persuaded to get up and follow them into the garden for the next step in the Maurice Manchot Truffle Dog Programme.
    “Out of interest, what was the next step going to be?” asked Arthur, as he made them another cup of tea.
    “I bury small pieces of truffle around the garden, and Horace, he digs them up.”
    “Given the number of bones he’s already buried and lost out there, I wouldn’t give that idea much hope, old chap. It’s no good. You’re just going to have to find another dog.”
    He’d expected Chef Maurice to throw in the towel at this point. His friend was not, to put it lightly, an animal person. When pressed by, say, a young child to name his favourite animal, his usual reply was ‘Beef’.
    But Arthur had underestimated the lure of la grande mystique , as the French referred to the mysterious draw of the truffle.
    Chef Maurice bent down and offered Horace one last truffle-covered biscuit. Horace shuffled round and placed a paw over his nose. Message: I’m out.
    “Very well,” said Chef Maurice, standing up and brushing himself off. “We must find another chien . Perhaps one”—he threw a glance at Horace—“of a slightly younger vintage.”
    * * *
    It was a pleasant, sunny drive over to the Helping Paws Pet Sanctuary in Cowton, the nearest decent-sized town to Beakley. The sky was clear and open, the leaves were slowly turning russet, and the local pheasants were too busy hiding from game hunters to bother running out in front of Chef Maurice’s car.
    Still, Arthur was not entirely happy with this turn of events.
    “Maurice, you do understand that a dog is for life, not just for truffle hunting?”
    Chef Maurice turned around in his seat, a hurt look on his face. “ Mon ami , I assure you, any chien who comes into my home will be treated like fam—”
    Horns blared as a truck, bearing down on them from the opposite direction, swerved at the last minute to avoid Chef Maurice’s little red Citroën.
    “Eyes on the road, please,” said Arthur, after he’d caught his breath and released his knuckles from their death grip on the side of the car.
    “Me and my truffle dog, we will form a team formidable . You will see. We will work day and night to find the most delicious truffles. There will be a Cochon Rouge autumn truffle menu.” Chef Maurice sighed. “It will be superbe .”
    The Helping Paws Pet Sanctuary was a low-slung brick building on the outskirts of Cowton, surrounded by unkempt fields.
    Cheery, if slightly desperate, posters lined the windows, reminding visitors that dogs, cats, budgies, guinea pigs, rabbits and all other small furry friends were for life, not just for Christmas.
    By the look of the busy pens inside, it seemed that some people hadn’t got the memo.
    They pushed open the front door.
    “Can I help you?” A spotty-faced youth, wearing a T-shirt proclaiming him ‘Barking Mad for Beagles’, appeared from around a corner, carrying a large bucket of dried dog food.
    Chef Maurice waved his bulging handkerchief. “I am in search of a dog who enjoys the scent of truffles.” A thought appeared to occur to him, and he lowered his voice. “Do not tell anyone I said that. This is a secret, comprends ?”
    The youth looked disapprovingly at him. “Chocolate is extremely bad for dogs. It gives them heart trouble.” He looked Chef Maurice up and down. “Have you had a dog before? Done any training?”
    Chef Maurice looked at Arthur. “Does training a commis chef count?”
    “No, commis chefs don’t count.”
    “ Non , I have not trained a dog before.”
    “Okay. Well, we