Crimson Shore

He stepped out of the passage into the restaurant proper, then into the kitchen. Usually a bustle of activity, the place was now almost still. The dishwasher, the two waitresses, the line cook, and Reggie all stood in a huddle, watching the man named Pendergast as he wandered around the food preparation area, opening drawers, picking up various utensils and examining them before replacing them. Then he turned his attention to Reggie.

“You are the cook, I presume?” Pendergast asked.

Reggie nodded.

“And what, pray tell, are your qualifications?”

Reggie looked as surprised as the rest. “Four years as a mess specialist in the Navy.”

“Of course. Well, perhaps we are not completely without hope.” Pendergast lifted his lunch plate and handed it to Reggie. “To begin with, one simply cannot get good catfish this far north. And I assume this was frozen to begin with — right?”

Reggie’s expression began growing defensive. “So?”

“Well, for heaven’s sake, man, we’re on the ocean! Surely you have access to fresh fish — lingcod, pollack, flounder, rockfish?”

“There’s the catch Wait hauled in last night,” Reggie said after a long pause.

This was too much. Adderly stepped forward to intervene. He didn’t want to lose his best cook. “Mr. Pendergast,” he said, “is there a problem?”

“I am going to cook myself lunch. Reggie, here, is welcome to act as sous-chef.”

Adderly wondered if this Pendergast was not just eccentric, but perhaps a little crazy. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but we can’t have customers in the kitchen, disturbing the peace—”

“The only peace that has been disturbed is that of my gastrointestinal tract. But if this will reassure you… ” And the man reached into the pocket of his suit, pulled out a shield of gold and blue, and showed it to Adderly. It read FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION.

So Lake hadn’t been kidding, after all. Adderly took a step back and Pendergast continued. “Tell me about this catch of Wait’s?”

Reggie exchanged glances with Adderly. The innkeeper nodded. Just play along

, he mouthed. Reggie nodded back, stepped over to the walk-in fridge, opened the door, then stopped abruptly.

“What is it?” asked Pendergast.

“I could’ve sworn I bought a dozen whole sole from Wait. But there’s only ten.”

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you all about that,” Adderly said, still trying to overcome his surprise. “I’ve been noticing a regular shortfall on orders versus covers. I think we’ve got ourselves a food thief. You’d better spread the word that I’m not going to be happy about it.”

While Adderly spoke, the FBI agent had stepped into the refrigerator, briefly vanishing from sight. “Aha!” He emerged a moment later, a large, gutted sole in his hands. “Not Dover sole, of course, but it will do. Now, may I have a skillet, please? Cast-iron, well-seasoned?”

Reggie produced one.

“Excellent. Ah, Reggie, what is your last name?”

“Sheraton.”

“Thank you. Mr. Sheraton, how would you go about cooking this?”

“I’d fillet it first.”

“Be my guest.” He laid the fish down on the butcher block and watched with approval as Reggie expertly filleted it.

“Beautifully done,” Pendergast said. “This fills me with hope. Now tell me: How would you cook it?”

“In lard, of course.”

Pendergast shuddered. “Not clarified butter?”

“Clarified?”

There was a moment of silence. “Very well. We will confine ourselves to the simplest of preparations. Would you mind placing that skillet on a high flame?”

Reggie walked over to the commercial stove, turned up one burner, and placed the skillet on it.

“Now add some butter, please. Not too much, just enough to coat the bottom of the pan… Wait, wait, that’s more than sufficient!”

Reggie stepped back from what looked like an impossibly small tab of butter. The rest of the kitchen continued looking on in silent surprise.

Pendergast stood there, holding the fish. “Now, Mr. Sheraton, if you wouldn’t mind assembling the rest of the mise en place—mushrooms, garlic, white wine, flour, salt, pepper, parsley, half a lemon, and cream?”

As Reggie moved around the kitchen, gathering the ingredients in increasingly resentful silence, Pendergast kept an eye on the heating pan. Adderly watched the cooking lesson with increasing amusement and curiosity.

Pendergast salted the fish on both sides and set it aside. “Chef’s knife?”

Stu, the line cook, handed him one.

Pendergast examined it. “This isn’t sharp enough! Don’t you know a dull knife is more dangerous than a sharp one? Where’s your steel?”

A sharpening steel was produced, and Pendergast whetted the knife against it with a few expert strokes. Then he turned to the mushrooms, quartering one of them in a quick, deft motion. He handed the knife to Reggie, who cut up the other mushrooms and minced a clove of garlic and some parsley as Pendergast looked on.