Murder on the Ile Sordou Read Online Free PDF Page B

apprentice, using a deceptively simple shortbread crust that he laced with almond extract, an elixir unknown in France that an English sous-chef had once introduced him to. He carried the tiny glass bottles, as he did his knives, from kitchen to kitchen, and had friends who were going to London pick some up for him, along with sharp cheddar and oat cakes.
    This week had also brought another gift, that of Isnard Guyon, a friendly fisherman from Pointe Rouge in Marseille, who had not only been bringing Émile excellent fish throughout the spring, but had recently offered to bring the chef meat and other products—at a small commission, naturally—via a cousin who was a butcher, known for his fresh lamb from the hills of Provence and the dairy products he ordered from a farm in the Alps. Guyon had delivered the first batch the previous morning, as promised, pulling up to Sordou’s dock at 5 a.m. Villey tasted some of the cream as soon as he got back to the kitchen; it was richer and thicker than any cream he had ever tasted.
    Ã‰mile Villey turned away from watching the guests, put his thick, curly blond hair in a ponytail, adjusted his apron, and washed his hands. It was time to get to work on the evening’s menu: the guests could choose between cold zucchini soup with a dollop of Alpine crème fraîche, or a stacked vegetable terrine made with layers of phyllo dough and anchored down with a sprig of rosemary; for the main dish Isnard’s freshly caught sea bream braised in olive oil with cherry tomatoes, black olives, and artichokes, or lamb chops cooked over an open fire served with a wet polenta; and apricot tart for dessert, with the vanilla ice cream he had made before he went to bed. Villey had picked lavender and used it to make cookies, which he planned on serving with a delicate sweet wine from Beaumes-de-Venise in the Luberon.
    He didn’t mind not having kitchen help; the Le Bons had spared no cost in buying him the best appliances, and he had been taught to clean as he cooked. He almost preferred it that way, enjoying the silence and calm. If pressed, Serge had promised—or rather, Maxime had promised—Serge’s services in tidying up or helping chop vegetables. Marie-Thérèse had offered to help in the kitchen, and so far her enthusiasm outweighed her inexperience. Tonight would be their first dinner with clients, and Émile knew that how well it went off could predict the rest of the summer’s success, and even the future of Sordou.

Chapter Four

    Dinner for Ten
    M arine sat on their room’s private terrace, her bare feet resting on the wrought iron balcony. She wore a short, pink fitted cotton dress, and a large floppy beige sun hat trimmed in light blue. A cool wind was beginning to blow, and the sun would soon set, but she relished these few moments—outside, away from her computer and research. She looked out at the sparkling sea and wriggled her toes, which had just been subject to a poor pedicure. She inspected the spots where she had missed, and the red nail polish had leaked out onto her toes. She told herself that no one would notice, and if they did, they surely must be bored.
    â€œDid you put sunscreen on your legs?” Antoine Verlaque asked as he came out on the terrace to join her.
    Marine looked at her legs and then up at her boyfriend. “Not yet, but I will tomorrow, I promise,” she answered. “It’s just been so long since these white, freckled legs have seen any sun.” She turned her legs from right to left and frowned.
    Verlaque reached down and tapped on the brim of her hat. “I love your white, freckled legs,” he said. “They match all the polka dots in the bar downstairs.”
    â€œThanks,” Marine said, rolling her eyes.
    â€œAren’t you hungry?”
    Marine laughed. “No, but
you
are, I take it. Aren’t there any snacks in the minibar?”
    â€œThere was a small bag of