Mystery: The Cook's Comeuppance: A Duncan Dewar Mystery of Murder and Romantic Suspense (Duncan Dewar Mysteries Book 3) Read online

  The

  Cook's

  Comeuppance

  By

  Victoria Benchley

  Copyright

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form without prior written consent of the copyright holder. This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Although some locations and businesses named may be real, any events involving them are fictional.

  Copyright © 2015 by Victoria Benchley

  About the Author

  Victoria Benchley lives with her husband of over twenty years and their two children on the West Coast of the United States. She grew up reading the classics and counts Dickens and the Bronte Sisters as her favorite authors. After a career in corporate America, spanning public accounting, cash management, and real estate investments, at national and international firms, she chose to become a stay-at-home mom and full time taxi cab driver for her children. She is a Christian and enjoys quilting, cooking, and traveling (road trips included!), as well as reading and writing.

  Table of Contents

  1 Landing

  2 Sunny With a Chance of Storms

  3 Mi Casa es Tus Casa

  4 Breakfast, Beethoven, & A Beautiful Bronze

  5 Tea with Armando

  6 A Peasant Meets the Police

  7 Saved By a Vespa Brigade

  8 Cannon Balls & Paella

  9 Origami & Prose

  10 A Kiss From a Lamb

  11 A Surprise & A Sous Chef

  12 Dinner Dates & Declarations

  13 New Alliances

  14 Jet Set

  15 The Temmple of Wisdom & Knowledge

  16 A Chef's Intentions

  17 Discoveries

  18 Revelations

  19 End of a Spanish Holiday

  - 1-

  Landing

  Duncan braced himself for landing. He didn't enjoy flying, but when summoned by the Tormes Foundation for the Arts he did not have a choice. The president of the foundation had met with him in Edinburgh last week, requesting his services. Since then, everything had moved at light speed, resulting in the foundation's jet whisking him out of Scotland earlier that morning.

  His stomach dropped to his knees as the small jet took a sudden plunge. Was that wind shear? He glanced out his window in time to see the plane's left wing dip alarmingly close to the ground before jolting back up towards the sun. The jet threw him sideways towards the aisle and back into an upright position before dropping again in altitude. Duncan slipped a quick prayer to God, pleading for a safe landing. Why hadn't the plane touched down already? After a moment of more severe jostling, he opened his eyes, surprised to see the plane diving into a crevasse-like narrow valley. The wings bobbled several more times before the landing gear slammed into terra firma, plastering him back into his seat. When the plane finally came to a stop he was not ready to move, feeling ripe in the gills.

  "Are you all right?" asked the lone steward. "You look a little pale. The landings here do that sometimes," he added.

  He wondered if the steward meant they turned the passengers mint green.

  "I'm fine," he replied, unbuckling his seat belt.

  As he stepped from the plane, apprehension hit him right in the gut. This was not Madrid, and it was not Toledo. He found himself on what must have been a private airstrip in a tapered basin surrounded by cliffs. He had assumed he would land in a major city. On the tarmac sat a black stretch limousine complete with door held open by a man in uniform. The steward scampered down the stairs behind Duncan, carrying his suitcase. He watched as the chauffeur lifted the luggage and placed it in the boot, then returned for his briefcase.

  "Where are we headed?" he asked the driver.

  The older man directed his gaze with the palm of his gloved hand towards a small fortress in the distance. Great, he thought, that makes me feel better. At first, this job sounded like an ideal opportunity. Duncan was beginning to wonder about that now. He needed the work, and this promised to pay well. Since his career as vice president in charge of forensic investigations derailed, he had spent all his time starting a consulting firm. The Tormes Foundation for the Arts was the first paying customer to come his way.

  The ride to his destination took all of five minutes. Upon closer examination, he realized the fortress was a medieval castle built of yellow sandstone with a pink cast. A hexagon-shaped turret topped each corner of the structure. The turrets all had battlements but the crenels and merlons were narrower and taller than Duncan saw in Scotland. Large stone studs, equidistant from each other, protruded from the walls of the four towers, giving the building an armored appearance. No windows graced the front of the structure, but he did see numerous carved arches. He assumed Moorish architecture influenced the builder. Its style, stark surroundings, and isolated location lent the building a sinister air.

  The limousine drove through a lancet arch and parked in a courtyard. Before he could unfasten his seat belt, the spry driver had opened the door. Duncan emerged from the vehicle and shaded his eyes from the harsh sun. This furnace was a far cry from the cool temperatures of Edinburgh. He made out another staff member standing in front of tall carved doors and headed his way.

  "Welcome, Mr. Dewar. Please follow me," the man directed.

  He entered into a cool foyer. The lighting was dim and as his eyes adjusted, he made out dark stone floors, opulent tapestries, and a working fountain. He followed the servant through a large rounded doorway where he was announced, "Mr. Duncan Dewar." The man then disappeared through a side door. It seemed Duncan's name, along with splashes from the water feature, echoed through the cavernous area, bouncing off rock walls and wood beamed ceiling to the stone floors beneath. Grand scaled furnishings, arranged in only a few areas, made the space appear almost empty. A colonnade of arches lined each side of the grand hall. At the other end of the room stood several sizeable upholstered red chairs. The seats faced away from him towards a massive fireplace. Hidden from view until now, a woman emerged from one of these chairs. She beckoned Duncan to approach, even as she moved towards him.

  So this was the chairwoman of the Tormes Foundation for the Arts. Sunny Bentwell Esperanza Carlyle Tormes, et cetera, moved towards Duncan. Clad head to toe in Chanel, she carried herself with a fluidity he had never seen before. Nigel Carlyle, the foundation's president, had warned him about Sunny. Nigel had been subtle, but he could read between the lines.

  * * * * * *

  He had been summoned to the Balmoral's business center last week. He hated to enter the old hotel. It hurt him to stand in the lobby where he had spent time with Caroline. Six months had done nothing to lessen the pain he felt, to heal his heart. He hurried to the hotel conference room, hoping no one recognized him as he blended with a group of tourists just arrived from the train station across the street.

  Nigel Carlyle appeared to be in his mid to late fifties. He was handsome and trim, dressed in a bespoke dark navy Savile Row suit. His smile exuded warmth as he held out his hand to Duncan. Nigel's thick salt and pepper hair gave away his age. His face appeared young, in spite of the wrinkles furrowed there by long days spent in the sun during his youth, and his blue eyes twinkled giving the impression that he knew how to enjoy life.

  "Pleas
ed to make your acquaintance. May I call you Duncan?" asked Nigel, shaking hands.

  His manner revealed a sophistication that money cannot buy.

  "Yes, please, very happy to meet you, Mr. Carlyle," Duncan responded, taking note of the older man's firm handshake.

  "Do call me Nigel," the president of the foundation said before gesturing for Duncan to have a seat.

  Somehow, he felt honored Nigel had invited him to use his Christian name.

  He continued, "So glad you're willing to help. As I stated before, we want to keep this all quiet. The local police have investigated and ruled it an accident, but we'd like our own investigation to head off any rumors or unfavorable publicity. Also, our board members want assurances that nothing untoward went on. Our campus houses some of the top creative minds in the world. Cultivating an environment where their work can flourish, along with their privacy and safety, is our top aim. As a private foundation, we keep everything we do, well, private. That's also one of our main priorities. Needless to say, this tragedy shook some of our artists."

  Nigel pushed an accordion folder across the conference table towards Duncan.

  "Inside you will find a flash drive containing all the local police reports and a biography of our cook, poor lady. Heading the academy's kitchen would have been a brilliant career move for her." He added after a pause, "There's also a history of the academy you'll want to read and a copy of the wire for your retainer. The balance of your fee will be paid upon receipt, and review by our board, of your report."

  The fee Nigel had promised Dewar and Associates was 50,000 pounds. He could put off selling his London flat with these earnings. Maybe he could even hire the associates mentioned in his company's name.

  Duncan thumbed through the file and saw the wire receipt for 25,000 pounds. He tried to act nonchalant, but earning money again came as a huge relief. He took a breath and asked the question that had been on his mind since Nigel first contacted him.

  "Thank you. May I ask why you considered Dewar and Associates for this case, instead of someone more local?"

  The older man paused before answering. his instincts told him Nigel was weighing exactly what to say. Duncan was learning to trust his gut. Finally, the man spoke.

  "Our chairwoman insisted we use you. She's the driving force behind the foundation." Nigel took a deep breath before continuing, "Sunny is my ex-wife. She's generous to the extreme, but also shrewd. She'll want to meet you at some point, I'm guessing sooner rather than later."

  A hotel employee entered the conference room with a tray of tea sandwiches and beverages. Nigel asked for a scotch, neat, while Duncan said he was fine with tea. Both men took some food and this break gave him time to think. After initial contact with Nigel, he had tried to find out about the Tormes Foundation for the Arts and its board. Not much was available on the internet and a chairwoman was never mentioned.

  "Would you mind sharing some background information regarding your ex-wife, the board, and the foundation? It might be helpful when I meet Sunny and as you must know, there isn't much to be had on the internet about the foundation or its board."

  Duncan decided to take the direct approach with Nigel. He judged the president a straight shooter and hoped he would appreciate his own honest manner. Nigel allowed a faint smile to play across his face.

  "I met Sunny after my accident at Le Mans. You're too young to remember, but I was an up and coming driver when I wiped out there, my first and last Le Mans." Nigel's face grew pensive and he sighed before continuing, "Sunny admired me. She was the first person at the hospital after my accident and saw that I got the best medical attention."

  Nigel pointed to a scar on the left side of his face that Duncan had not noticed.

  He continued, "I had some bad burns. She stuck by me. We married the day I left the hospital. The marriage only lasted two years, but we remain friends. She is generous and loyal. I included a short biography of Sunny and the rest of our board on the flash drive. You'll want to take a look at it before you meet her. As to the foundation, Sunny decided artists needed a place to create away from everything, in the right environment. She started the foundation for that purpose years ago, and our campus in Manchiego is our only facility. We grant artists a chance to stay and be pampered, free of charge, for as long as they like. We believe their talents flourish and reach new heights when the everyday concerns and distractions of the world are removed. They sign a confidentiality agreement, so we are not well known outside of artistic circles. But all aspects of the arts are represented. We have painters, poets, musicians, and sculptors there right now. It is a highly sought after honor to receive one of our grants."

  Nigel stood, indicating their meeting was over.

  "Please, study the information I have given you. Be ready to leave in two days. We will call when we are ready for you. It was a pleasure to meet you, Duncan. Good luck."

  With that the two men shook hands and Duncan made his way out of the hotel. He kept his gaze down, not wanting to look at the surroundings which reminded him so much of Caroline.

  - 2 -

  Sunny With a Chance of Storms

  Duncan fought the urge to bolt. The chairwoman of the Tormes Foundation for the Arts approached him like a leopard stalking its prey. He took in the details of her attire and general physique, although the dim lighting of the hall shrouded her face.

  Sunny was statuesque, with shoulder length, straight jet black hair, and rail thin. She wore a Chanel haute couture suit from the Paris Spring Show. She chose this particular ensemble because its high collar hid most of the wrinkles on her neck. The designer cut the sleeves below the elbow just for Sunny, and the hem of her tailored skirt had been altered to hit across her knees. She was a favorite client of the design house, and they tried to please her any way they could. Two large, square flat pockets were sewn to the front of the skirt and the jacket hid a front zipper. The color was a unique cool pink that lit up the dark room. Everything else faded away as if Sunny were in a spotlight. The lady knew how to dress.

  She held her hand out to Duncan as if she expected him to kiss it. Instead, he shook her hand and steadied himself. He still felt like he was some kind of quarry.

  "Hallo, you must be Sunny."

  He had already been announced and saw no reason to repeat that introduction.

  "Of course, I'm so glad you could join me. We're looking forward to working with you," Sunny said in a husky voice that revealed she had been a smoker at one time.

  Her rasp also divulged something about her age, which plastic surgery had aimed to belie. Her eyes grazed over Duncan, adding to his discomfort.

  "Geraldo has prepared luncheon for us on the terrace," she gestured towards an arched doorway and took Duncan's arm.

  He felt trapped, but the idea of getting outside offered some relief. As they walked, he recalled the sparse biography of Sunny furnished by Nigel. Like those of the other board members, it listed only current positions held and honors received from various causes. She sat on several boards, both in private industry and for charitable institutions. Whenever Duncan saw her name in print, he noted that there was no rhyme or reason to the order of her surnames.

  Beyond the building, a roof covered the terrace, providing shade. Vines covered trefoil arches with profuse hot pink blooms and framed the view of a water feature. In the distance, two swans floated on an oval pond surrounded by emerald green grass. No expense had been spared on these grounds or the irrigation required to maintain the lush landscape. From the surrounding desert terrain, no one would guess this oasis existed. Fans overhead kept cool air circulating. The peaceful setting was in stark contrast to the growing anxiety he felt.

  Sunny's manservant pulled a chair for her from the table, prompting her to release her grasp on Duncan. As she sat, he got a good look at her face. Was she in her late forties or mid-sixties? He couldn't tell. He saw that her hands were almost skeletal. He took his seat and noted luncheon consisted of poached salmon and asparagus. Su
nny smiled at him. When she did, her lips parted, revealing a hint of sharp white teeth. Did she just lick her lips at me? Duncan examined his salmon with great interest.

  "I'm certain you have questions about the foundation and the tragedy. Let me start by telling you about my husband, Vizconde Eugenio Felipe Tormes. The Vizconde was the love of my life," she paused and grinned before continuing, "well, at least one of them. He was a great patron of the arts," she said, her eyes flashing. "His will stipulated that a foundation be formed to encourage artists and provide a place where they could focus on their art, here in Spain. We decided Manchiego would be the perfect location, far enough away from Madrid but still close enough. His family home," she lifted her arms to signify their current location, "nearby, so I could oversee things now and then, when I'm in residence. Frogo is in charge of the day to day running of the academy and you will meet him shortly. My car will take you to Manchiego after lunch. You'll be staying in one of the Vizconde's casas."

  While she spoke, Duncan observed her regal posture and commanding presence. He guessed Sunny's Vizconde had died while they were still married, but he wasn't sure. He knew her current spouse's name was Castillo. She didn't have a problem finding husbands. When she paused to take a bite of salmon, he took the opportunity to ask a question.

  "What can you tell me about Ms. Peña's death?"

  Sunny discretely finished chewing her bite before answering.

  "Not much beyond what Nigel has already told you," she replied.

  "Other than information from the policía municipal reports, Nigel hasn't told me anything. I'd like to hear what you know."

  She smiled and leaned back in her chair, crossing her hands in her lap. Her dark gaze disturbed Duncan and he had a hard time not looking away. He guessed she was quite lovely in her younger days, but he found her unnerving now. Something about Sunny did not sit well with him.