Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 151, Nos. 1 & 2. Whole Nos. 916 & 917, January/February 2018

Murder on Rue Royal by Angela Crider Neary

Angela Crider Neary is an attorney, an avid mystery reader, and, since 2015 when her children’s mystery Li’l Tom and the Pussyfoot Detective Bureau: The Case of the Parrots Desaparecidos was published, a mystery writer. This is her EQMM debut, but part of her name will be familiar to regular EQMM readers. Her father, Bill Crider, reviews as well as writes fiction for EQMM.

Cafe Alcide, New Orleans, LA—

The height of the dinner hour

The infamous food critic, his peculiarly gaunt frame led by his pompous, upturned nose, paraded into Cafe Alcide through its ornate foyer as if he owned the place. And in a way, he did. If his review was in the least bit sour, the flourishing business ran the risk of its forward momentum screeching to a halt and reversing course, possibly plunking into the abyss of bankruptcy. His every sense pulsated with the power this gave him. It was a thrill like no other, the way he held someone’s career in his palm, ready to crush it, or, on the other hand, the way he could elevate someone’s reputation to the stars, making that person forever in his debt.

They had to know how to play the game for things to go their way, however, and it was surprising how many of them were clueless, especially in this city with its history of graft and corruption. To his chagrin, much of the bribery and crookedness he was used to benefiting from was fading into the past. No matter. He had milked the system for so long that he could retire a wealthy man, but, of course, he would continue to snatch what he could get until the nefarious opportunities dried up.

“Reservation for Niles Breaux,” he said, leering at the pretty young hostess with what he hoped was a come-hither look. From her expression of shocked repugnance, he felt he might have missed the mark.

He thrummed his fingers on the reception counter and heaved a loud sigh while the hostess fumbled to locate his reservation. They knew he was coming, so why weren’t they ready for him? So disrespectful! They weren’t starting off on the right foot. And this chef was in desperate need of redemption after his last review. He had put the unfortunate man straight into the poorhouse with the stroke of a pen. As if it weren’t enough that the chef had failed to slide him his expected “gratuity,” the food was not fit for the rats that roamed the Quarter’s restaurant Dumpsters, seeking discarded delicacies on which to feast — at least in his opinion — or maybe he was just in a bad mood that night. Whichever. It had better be spectacular this time, and a kickback wouldn’t hurt, although he was due to give a good review — he couldn’t condemn every place he dined at or he would lose credibility — so the chef might just get lucky if he served him an extraordinary meal.

“Right this way, Mr. Breaux,” said the timid hostess.

She led him to his table, the best in the house, with a view of the entire dining room, its exquisite white tablecloths glowing warmly in the dim light from the twinkling crystal chandeliers, and provided him with a wine list and the menu. She then scampered away from him as if making an escape, before he could even ask for her phone number. Lacking self-awareness, as narcissists are prone to be, he wondered why he always had that effect on people. He didn’t linger on this thought, however, and turned his attention to the menu.

“I’ll have the chef’s special, the Redfish Court-Bouillon,” he told the waiter, “and a bottle of your lightest Pinot Noir.”

“Aye-aye, sir! I mean, excellent choice, sir!” said the waiter, and scuttled into the kitchen.

What is wrong with all these people? Niles wondered.

While the waiter served the wine, the main dish arrived at Niles’s table on an elegant silver tray, with the chef himself attached to it.

“Bonsoir, Mr. Breaux, and welcome to Cafe Alcide,” said the chef through a clench-teethed smile, as he placed the court-bouillon before the critic. “I hope this is to your liking.”

You better hope it is, thought Niles, as he raised his spoon high into the air for drama’s sake. He was aware that all eyes in the restaurant were on him, and he reveled in it. With his spoon still lifted, he took an ample whiff of the luscious stew. He had to admit, he liked what he smelled. He just had to decide whether he would let anyone else know this.

“Not too fishy,” he said, “and do I detect a hint of soy sauce and ginger in the roux? Kind of heavy on the celery... but I do like my roughage.”

The chef stood before him with a fixed smile on his face, awaiting the verdict.

The lanky critic plunged the spoon into the steaming stew and placed a generous taste into his mouth. He savored it for a moment, then swallowed. The patrons in the cafe drew in a collective gasp, holding their breaths.

Niles shut his eyes for a moment as if in thoughtful reverie.

“Not bad,” said the critic, and the room burst into applause.

The chef nodded his head in appreciation and returned to the kitchen without a word to the critic. Niles continued to shovel in the delicious stew while enjoying the wine. But as he was preparing to finish his last sips and bites and anticipating the dessert menu, he began to experience a sharp discomfort in his abdomen. He bent over in pain, salivating profusely, and vomited onto the floor. The guests seated nearest the critic leapt out of their chairs and began shouting. Hearing the disturbance, the chef raced out of the kitchen into the dining room.

As the chef approached, Niles drew in a sharp breath and threw back his head with a wide-eyed stare. His face blossomed into a bright purple, and he began to convulse and grasp at the tablecloth, clattering glass and silverware all about. He panted, hyperventilating, and lurched back and forth in his chair as if on a crazed rocking horse. Several waiters attempted to restrain him, but he shook them off as he continued his apoplectic spasms.

“Somebody call nine-one-one!” yelled one of the restaurant guests.

“Do the Heimlich!” yelled another.

Heeding this latter advice, the sommelier attempted to grab the slight man from behind, but not before the poor critic’s paroxysms ended with a sardonic grin at the chef and a face-plant right into what was left of the court-bouillon.

“Glad I ordered the étouffée,” whispered another patron to his dining companion as the sound of ambulance sirens fused and collided in disharmony with the music of the brass band outside on the street corner.

The French Quarter—

Earlier that day

Clouds of steamy, foglike moisture, mixed with the aromas of discarded cigarets, spilled Hurricanes, soapy suds, and whatever else the morning street cleaning had left behind, twisted and swirled around Jean-Claude’s ankles as he strolled down Royal Street in the early-morning dawn. This was his favorite time of day in the French Quarter, before the locals ventured out to their jobs and the tourists awoke with their debauchery-induced hangovers to begin another day of sightseeing and revelry. The day was quiet as the sun made its languid rise over the Mississippi River, and he and a handful of other early risers had the Quarter to themselves, in stark contrast to the crowded cacophony and madness that the Quarter boasted at other times of the day or night.

Jean-Claude made a slight detour over to Decatur to peruse the fresh-vegetable stalls at the French Market and see what looked good today. He ordered a plethora of tomatoes, mushrooms, and leafy greens for pickup later by his staff. He then swung by for his favorite breakfast — three sugar-coated, greasy, and piping-hot beignets and a cafe au lait made with chicory coffee and whole milk from Cafe Du Monde. And he wondered why he was getting so round!

“Why do you go to that touristy place, Jean-Claude?” his food-snob friends would ask. They all touted Cafe Beignet or even the gourmet beignets made in many of the high-end restaurants that clamored for space and significance in this food-centric city. These were all good options, but Cafe Du Monde remained his favorite. Maybe it was because he remembered what a treat it had been when his granny used to take him there after church if he was good in Sunday School. The beignets tasted the same now as they had way back then.

Jean-Claude Alcide was a native son of New Orleans. His ancestors had immigrated to New Orleans from Haiti in the 1700s, soon after the Haitian revolution, and many of them had remained there ever since. Although he had lived in the Crescent City all his life, Jean-Claude never took for granted its history, mystery, and traditions. These were the things about the city that kept his spirit alive, and also kept him in business. For Jean-Claude was a chef, and a lauded chef, at that. At least, at one time he had been lauded, he recalled with a smile that quickly faded, until that filthy prick of a critic had panned his restaurant. Business had slowed almost to a dead halt after that. It had picked up a little bit after the initial fuss, but nothing like it had been, and he’d eventually had to shutter the once successful enterprise.

But after a brief period of wallowing in self-pity, he had pulled himself up by his bootstraps and begun the arduous process of starting a new venture. His strenuous efforts had paid off, and his new restaurant, Cafe Alcide, his namesake, had become more popular than his first endeavor had ever been, with locals and tourists alike.

He was now at a crossroads in his career and poised to be the next big chef in the cooking community. In several weeks, he would be entering a dish in a special cooking contest to be held during French Quarter Fest and to be hosted and judged by some of the top restaurateurs in the nation, which, if he won, could skyrocket him into fame and fortune. The competition for this contest was cutthroat, and he had been surprised at the stories he had heard of chefs’ attempts to sabotage each other in order to win the top prize in years past. In fact, a fellow chef he thought of as a friend had recently been taunting him about the contest — almost as if he were trying to intimidate him into not entering. Chef Alistair Bitterman owned a popular oyster house in the Quarter, just down the street from Cafe Alcide, where Jean-Claude would often drop in for a soothing post-work cocktail. He didn’t understand Alistair’s animosity, as there were plenty of business opportunities and accolades to go around in a city like this where eating and drinking were the name of the game.

Alistair, however, had been going through some hard times, he had confided to Jean-Claude, both professionally and personally. “My wife has left me for my Cuban busboy, run off to the Keys to raise chickens and drink mojitos,” he had told Jean-Claude one night after a few too many Pimm’s Cups. Also, Alistair’s oyster-house business had slowed due to the closing of many of the major oyster beds he relied upon for his supply. A “red tide” algae bloom in the Gulf had halted the harvesting of oysters. “And aside from all that, people now think the oysters will make them sick!” he had said.

These things had caused Alistair to fall into a deep funk. Jean-Claude knew that Alistair had always struggled with depression, but it was now worse than ever. Alistair had resorted to buying imported Chinese herbal-medicine balls from a shady character in the Quarter, and made them into tea to treat his condition. He used them sparingly, however, as they were rumored to contain trace amounts of arsenic, although he couldn’t be sure of what the ingredients were. Perhaps they were working to lift his spirits, but Jean-Claude couldn’t tell much of a difference. “If I could win that cooking contest,” Alistair had said, “that would be my ticket out of depression and into the big time.”

As Jean-Claude continued his walk through the Quarter, he dismissed thoughts of the cooking contest and focused on making it through tonight’s dinner service, when that dirty, rotten critic would make his second appearance in one of his establishments for a rematch. His blood boiled just thinking about it, but he had to remain calm and concentrate on the task at hand. And what a task it would be. But he knew he was up for it. He was prepared.

Jean-Claude had been trained in classic French techniques but, being from New Orleans, threw in a Cajun flair to spice things up. His sous-chef, Jimmy Lee, originally hailed from Japan, and together, they were experimenting at fusing the culinary cultures of France, Japan, and New Orleans. So far, they had been successful and had a large group of loyal customers.

Most of Jimmy Lee’s culinary training had occurred in Japan, and he had even completed a three-year apprenticeship in the art of preparing fugu — the poisonous pufferfish that many consider a delicacy. He had passed the onerous written and practical examinations needed to obtain a coveted license to prepare fugu, and he’d been pressuring Jean-Claude to obtain a fugu license for Cafe Alcide.

“When are you going to apply for that license, boss?” he had asked Jean-Claude just the other day. “I’m getting out of practice, for God’s sake. You never listen to my suggestions. I guess I’ll always just be your underling — never equal to the great Jean-Claude.”

Jimmy’s constant nagging and tantrum-throwing got to Jean-Claude, but only a few restaurants in the United States had managed to obtain such a license.

“I don’t see the need to risk serving poisonous fish when there are so many other delectable fish dishes the restaurant can offer,” he had told Jimmy. “Don’t get so worked up about it.”

“I could have some freeze-flown in and work my magic on it for our customers,” Jimmy had said. “Let me try, or I’ll leave this place and start my own restaurant. I’ll give you some real competition.”

Jean-Claude had just smiled. He thought Jimmy lacked the maturity to run his own restaurant, but he might get there someday, if he grew up a little and learned to control his hotheadedness.

Jean-Claude strolled through Jackson Square on his way back to Royal Street as he took the first few sweet bites of his breakfast, washing it down with a gulp of the strong coffee. The shadow of the magnificent St. Louis Cathedral spires loomed over him and cooled his shoulders as he continued on his path. He always felt a little anxious walking down Pere Antoine Alley, as folklore held that it was haunted by Father Antoine, a former priest at the church whose body was buried there. Jean-Claude didn’t believe in ghosts, but he couldn’t ignore his granny’s superstitions, with which he was bombarded his entire childhood, and every once in a while he would hear footsteps behind him, only to turn around and find that he was all alone in the alley. But it was better than walking down Pirate Alley on the other side of the cathedral, where he ran the risk of running into the ghost of the pirate Jean Lafitte. Only if you believed in that sort of thing, of course.

He turned down Royal to walk the few short blocks toward his restaurant. As he neared the cafe, he noticed Zelma Laveau, the proprietress of the voodoo shop next door to his cafe, standing in her doorway, staring at him. The story she propagated was that she was a distant relative of the infamous voodoo queen, Marie Laveau, but Jean-Claude thought this was just a pretense to attract business. He didn’t believe that she was a legitimate practitioner of the ancient voodoo rites. Although a bit on the strange side, she was nice enough, and he liked to maintain a good relationship with his neighbors. However, if he had been the superstitious sort, which he wasn’t, he might have thought she was giving him the evil eye that morning.

“Bonjour, Zelma!” he said, raising a beignet-filled hand in greeting.

Zelma didn’t wave back, as her hands seemed to be occupied twisting something between them. She merely maintained her sinister glare at him.

As Jean-Claude stepped off the curb to cross the street toward her, his ankle bent under him and he almost took a spill onto the pavement, just before righting himself. “Aye-yee!” he yelped, bending over to rub his ankle. It wasn’t badly sprained, he thought, but it was a bit tender to the touch. When he recovered and started to limp across the street, Zelma had already disappeared into her shop.

Although there were many faux voodoo practitioners in New Orleans, Zelma thought of herself as the real deal, and she had built up quite a cadre of loyal followers. No, her name wasn’t really Laveau, but she thought it gave her a certain sense of authenticity, especially to the non-believers who found themselves desiring to believe. Her shop was candlelit, the odor of incense heavy in the air, and crowded with her wares. In addition to the touristy trinkets that kept her in business, her shelves were also crammed with herbs, nuts, seeds, weeds, roots — you name it — that she or her customers could use for gris-gris, spells, healing... and who knows what else.

Zelma didn’t like Jean-Claude one bit. He had barged into the neighborhood with his new restaurant, which on many lunch and dinner hours had a line out its door that looped in front of her store, blocking the view and entryway of passersby who might have wandered in to buy a candle, mask, or even a voodoo doll. Her business had suffered since Jean-Claude had moved in. But he would get his, she thought, as she walked into her shop, fiercely twisting the ankle of the corpulent little doll she held in her hands. Karma always makes its way around. And didn’t he know better than to mess with a genuine voodoo priestess?

In spite of his swollen ankle, which had gradually begun to turn green and yellow, Jean-Claude didn’t leave his feet the entire day, working and overseeing the preparation for the evening’s dinner service — pristine dining room, immaculate kitchen, and, of course, impeccable food. Jimmy was sullen that day and not of much help, but Jean-Claude didn’t have time for Jimmy’s moods and so paid him no mind. He had been readying himself for this night for days, hand-picking the ingredients for the evening’s specials himself. He stood in his silent kitchen once all his tasks were completed and the staff was on a break until the hectic dinner service began. He was alone for the moment, and let out a heavy, purging sigh. He thought he was ready. But was that dastardly critic?

New Orleans Police Department, 8th District—

The wee hours next morning

“I swear I didn’t do it. It wasn’t me, I tell ya,” said Jean-Claude for what seemed like the millionth time, dropping his haggard face into his hands in a vain attempt to rub away the horror of the last six or so hours. He had been sequestered at the Eighth District NOPD station since the gruesome incident at his restaurant earlier that evening. He had always admired the beauty of the historic building that, strolling by, you would never know was a police station, with its stately white columns and overhanging magnolia trees. The lobby area was more like a museum than a police department, displaying antique badges and guns in glass cases — it even had a T-shirt machine. But Jean-Claude was in no mood for kitschy souvenirs. And he could now attest that the place was not nearly as charming back in the interview-room area.

Detective Charles Rousseau, his grizzled, grayish-black hair protruding from his skull at all angles with the force of his constant rubbing and yanking, had grown weary of the chef’s denials. As a longtime veteran of the police force, the detective prided himself on his ability to read a suspect, and he was convinced that Jean-Claude was telling him the truth. And if he wasn’t telling the truth, he sure was a good liar. He had stuck to his story throughout the entire drawn-out interview, and didn’t seem close to cracking. The detective couldn’t let him off too easily and without a thorough interrogation, however. After all, a local celebrity critic had died at his restaurant by what appeared to be dubious means. They wouldn’t know for a few weeks, until the toxicology report was completed, but it looked like a classic case of poisoning to him. And Chef Alcide had the perfect motive.

“Look, Alcide,” said the detective, “what are we supposed to think? This guy dies at your restaurant after eating the food you personally serve him — and after he put you out of business a few years back. Who had more motive or opportunity to kill him than you?”

“That’s what I keep trying to tell ya,” said Jean-Claude. “There’s plenty of people who wanted that nasty bastard dead. And if I was gonna kill him, why would I do it at my own restaurant in front of dozens of people?”

“You’re not helping your case by calling him names,” said the detective. “Why would anyone else want him dead?”

“Well, there are hundreds of chefs and restaurant owners who have suffered after his destructive reviews. Not to mention the folks who would like to see me go down for this,” said Jean-Claude.

“What do you mean by that?” asked the detective. “What kind of enemies could a jolly chef in the Quarter have?” Now maybe they were getting somewhere.

“What do you mean by ‘jolly’? Are you referring to my full-figured physique, because that’s just uncalled for.”

“Just answer the question and quit stalling.”

“Well... how about that Chef Bitterman down the street?” asked Jean-Claude. “He’s jealous of my talents as a chef and has been pressuring me not to enter the French Quarter Fest cooking contest. I wouldn’t be surprised if he killed the guy just to make it look like I did it so he could win that stupid contest.”

“That’s stretching it a little thin, don’t you think?” asked Rousseau.

“Or how about my sous-chef, Jimmy Lee? He’s jealous of me as well and I don’t doubt he would like to see me go down so he could take over my business.”

“Wow, Alcide,” said Rousseau. “Way to throw your fellow chefs under the bus.”

“Okay,” said Jean-Claude, his eyes darting around the room as if he were attempting to pluck a suspect out of thin air, “then how about that wacky voodoo witch next door?”

“What about her? Why would she have anything to do with it?”

“I don’t know, but every time I see her I get a bad feeling in my gut. Come to think of it,” said Jean-Claude, “every time she’s around, I either get sick or injured somehow. I think she’s working her voodoo magic to get rid of me!”

Detective Rousseau gazed at Jean-Claude with red-rimmed eyes and decided that this night needed to be over. He didn’t have the heart or the will power to continue any further with the interrogation. “All right, Alcide, you can go. For now. We’ll look into your crazy allegations and you can bet we’ll be thorough in our investigation, but at this point, you’re our number-one suspect. As they say on TV, don’t leave the parish.”

Cafe Alcide—

Several weeks later

Jean-Claude had been on pins and needles for weeks, unable to concentrate on boiling an egg, much less on running his restaurant. He had arrived at the cafe this day at his usual hour, but under quite unusual circumstances. Detective Rousseau had asked to meet him there. Jean-Claude wasn’t sure whether to be worried since he wasn’t asked to report to the police station. Maybe that was a good sign.

When he arrived, things got even weirder. Jimmy Lee, Zelma Laveau, and Alistair Bitterman were there as well, at the detective’s request. They had all endured extensive questioning by the police, and even searches of their homes and places of business. The mood was less than festive, and they all stood around giving each other sceptical looks while waiting for the detective.

“I can’t believe you would implicate me in a crime such as this,” said Alistair to Jean-Claude. “I thought we were friends.”

“Yeah, man. What’s up with that?” asked Jimmy.

Zelma just gave Jean-Claude the stink-eye.

Jean-Claude opened his mouth to defend himself, but was cut short by the detective’s arrival.

“Hello, everyone,” said the detective, removing his fedora with a flourish, a lot peppier than he had been during their previous meetings. He was flanked by two hulking uniformed officers, with a third following behind. “Please have a seat. You might be wondering why I have called you all here today.”

“Just cut the drama and get on with it,” said Jean-Claude.

Not one to be deterred, the detective continued. “I find that returning to the scene of a crime provides the perfect closure and ambiance for confronting the perpetrator. And yes, I believe the perpetrator is in this very room.” The detective pounded on the table in front of him with each of these last three words.

The detective’s audience looked aghast and began to sputter oohs, aahs, and denials of various sorts.

Detective Rousseau held up his hands to silence them and proceeded.

“We’ll start with you, Mr. Bitterman. When we searched your apartment we found some interesting herbal balls, which happened to contain arsenic.” The others in the room gasped, then breathed a sigh of relief, realizing they were off the hook. “We also happened to find all of the ingredients from these balls in Mr. Breaux’s system and in the remnants of his court-bouillon, including the arsenic.”

“That’s preposterous!” said Alistair. “I use those herbal balls to treat my depression. There’s no way they could have killed someone, or I would be dead myself. And how did they get into Breaux’s dinner? I sure as hell didn’t put them there.” Alistair stood up as if to leave, but one of the officers put a meaty hand on his shoulder and firmly settled him back into his chair.

“The rest of you shouldn’t look so relieved,” said Rousseau, dashing their hopes.

“Mr. Lee.” Jimmy’s head shot up and he faced the detective with the look of a caged animal. “I hear you’re interested in obtaining a fugu license, but you just couldn’t wait for that license, could you?”

“Hey, man, I just ordered some fish so I could practice, so I wouldn’t lose my touch, you know?”

“Well, how did some of that fish end up in Mr. Breaux’s stew?” asked the detective.

“I have no idea. I didn’t put it there — I hadn’t even unpacked it from the freezer yet,” said Jimmy.

Jean-Claude just looked at Jimmy, shaking his head in disappointment.

A second officer stood behind Jimmy, in case he had any thoughts of flight.

“And what am I doing here, may I ask, if you’ve already figured out that these two yahoos did the deed?” said Zelma.

“Well, Ms. Laveau, you carry water hemlock in your store, don’t you? It looks a lot like celery and was, in fact, substituted for celery in Mr. Breaux’s stew. What would you be doing with such a toxic substance?”

“I use if for spells and healing potions, not for feeding to folks. It’s organic. And how would I have gotten it into that stew, anyway? I don’t have access to that kitchen.” The third officer approached Zelma, handcuffs at the ready.

The detective pressed on. “Either one or a combination of these lethal substances killed Mr. Breaux. All three of you are under arrest for attempted murder. We’ll let the D.A. sort it out from there.”

The officers put the three of them in handcuffs as they protested and asked, “What about him?” indicating Jean-Claude, who looked like he wasn’t too sure he was off the hook yet.

“Although the crime occurred right under his nose, there’s no evidence that he was involved in it,” said Rousseau. “In fact, it looks a lot like he was being framed by each of you, who stood to benefit if he was out of the picture. Besides, it would be pretty stupid for him to kill someone in the middle of his own restaurant with food he served the man himself.”

The officers led the three culprits away, leaving Jean-Claude alone in his cafe to contemplate the enormity of what had just happened. Jean-Claude was shocked, although quite impressed with himself. In one fell swoop, he had eliminated his biggest rival, a back-stabbing employee, that witch who cast spells on him, and the asshole critic who had tried to destroy his career. Not bad for a day’s work.