Chef Maurice and a Spot of Truffle (Chef Maurice Mysteries Book 1) by J.A. Lang

back in his seat and closed his eyes. “Go on. Tell me why a dog.”
    “It is not obvious?”
    “No, it is not obvious.”
    “Think about it, mon ami . We know that Monsieur Ollie found truffles. Now we ask: did he get down on his knees and dig for them? Non! He must have a dog. Or a pig. But I think most likely a dog, as we would hear if he had a pig. Do you see now?”
    When Arthur remained silent, Chef Maurice continued, “We found Monsieur Ollie, but we have not found his dog. Therefore, we go to find his dog. Think, mon ami . A trained truffle dog! Think what treasures we will find with this dog!”
    There was another indignant squeal from the back of the car.
    “And we can use le chien to train Hamilton, of course.”
    “Hmm,” said Arthur. “If you’re right, the police are bound to be looking for Ollie’s dog too. Evidence and whatnot. Might have got a good bite out of the murderer, you never know.”
    “Ah.” Chef Maurice looked momentarily deflated. “Perhaps they will then allow me to borrow the dog?”
    “I don’t think you’re on their list of favourites at the moment, especially not with PC Gavistone.”
    “I made some most helpful suggestions.”
    “No doubt.”
    They left Hamilton in the car with the windows cracked open and a handful of sow nuts to keep him busy. He turned up his nose and gave a meaningful stare towards the glove compartment.
    The spotty-faced youth from yesterday was mending a fence in the outdoor kennel yard.
    “Can I help?” he said, eyes fixed on the task.
    “We are looking for a truffle dog,” said Chef Maurice importantly.
    The youth looked up. “Look, I already told you, dogs and chocolate don’t—”
    Arthur decided it was time to employ some tact—otherwise known as stopping Chef Maurice from talking.
    “What my friend means,” he said hurriedly, “is that we’re looking for a dog called Truffles. He belongs to a friend. He went missing”—it was Wednesday today, and Ollie had last been seen on Saturday—“at least seventy-two hours ago.”
    The youth frowned. “That’s two days ago, right?”
    “Um, possibly more like three . . . ”
    “Right. What kind of dog is it?”
    “Um.” Arthur hadn’t thought this far. He shot a look at Chef Maurice, who shrugged. He recalled seeing Ollie out and about in the village with a dog. And there’d been a dog basket in the cottage. But it had clearly been a particularly nondescript dog.
    “Not a big dog,” he hazarded. “But not too small either. Medium, perhaps.”
    “Right. And colour?”
    “Um. Brown?”
    “O- kay , a medium maybe-brown dog,” said the youth, giving him an odd look. “In the last three days. I’ll go see what I can do.”
    “It might be black, actually,” called Arthur, as the door swung closed.
    In the kennel opposite them, an old basset hound gave them an unimpressed look.
    Eventually, Tara appeared through the doors, a broad smile on her face as she bore down on them.
    “How lovely to see you both again! How’s Hamilton settling into his new home?”
    “Very well, madame ,” said Chef Maurice. “But it is not about Hamilton we come to speak to you today. Your collègue has mentioned our friend’s missing dog?”
    “Yes, but I’m afraid your friend has stolen a march on you. I’m surprised he didn’t already tell you, really. He turned up on Sunday, poor little thing—the dog, I mean. He’d been lost in the woods, absolutely covered in mud, and a nice couple found him and brought him in. We’d just got him cleaned up when your friend turned up.”
    “This was Sunday too?” Chef Maurice looked in confusion at Arthur.
    “Yes, I remember because we didn’t even have time to set up a file for him. We took a picture, though.” She held up a Polaroid of a medium-sized scruffy brown dog of indeterminate breed. “Is this him?”
    Arthur nodded. That was definitely Ollie’s dog. He remembered the mutt now, a well-behaved little fellow by all accounts. But