Chef Maurice and the Bunny-Boiler Bake Off (Chef Maurice Cotswold Mysteries Book 3) by J.A. Lang

kitchens in quite a while. And I have to admit, I did have another reason for coming down here.” She turned to smile at Patrick, who felt a surge of sudden alarm. The Merlands were not a family given to overt displays of familial affection. Either the years had finally begun to soften his mother’s no-nonsense approach to parenting, or something was afoot . . .
    Mrs Merland laid her hands flat on the table. “I’ll get straight to the point, no use beating around the bush in these circumstances.”
    An icy chill grasped Patrick’s chest. There had been a throwaway remark the other day about a routine health check-up, but surely—
    “I’ve found a manor house up in the North Lakes, just outside Buttermere. Georgian build, in good repair, superb views, and the best thing is that it’s already being run as a restaurant, so no problems with the local council there. I’m proposing to do the place up, turn the upstairs floors into guest bedrooms, and reopen it as a hotel and restaurant.”
    “Sounds lovely,” said Dorothy.
    “ Oui , but much work,” said Chef Maurice, who had firm views on the notion of combining gastronomy and the garrisoning of the guests afterwards—in short, that the whole endeavour was more trouble than it ever could possibly be worth. For one thing, it involved waking up at unseemly hours in order to provide said guests with breakfast, which was an insult in itself, as any sensible person knew that the best way to appreciate an evening of fine dining was to sleep it off until at least midday the day after.
    “And,” said Mrs Merland, “I want Patrick to join me up there as head chef.”
    A blanket of silence thudded down, like thick snow off a cabin roof.
    Chef Maurice was the first to recover. “But that is impossible ! Patrick is already my sous-chef here. I will not allow it!”
    Mrs Merland turned to Patrick. “If you accept, you’ll be an equity holder, along with myself and your father. You choose your team, of course. I’ll head up the pastry side, as well as overseeing the hotel management. I need to sign the lease in five days’ time.”
    Patrick opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
    “I know this is all a bit irregular,” continued Mrs Merland, “but I thought Maurice deserved to know exactly what offer I’m putting on the table. Take your time to think it over, of course.”
    “Time? To think ?” Chef Maurice leapt up from the table. “This is incroyable ! To come here into my kitchen and attempt to steal my sous-chef—”
    “He’s my son, too, you know,” said Mrs Merland mildly.
    “Bah!” came the reply, in tones that suggested the miracle of childbirth held nothing in comparison to the task of training up a competent sous-chef. “Patrick, what is it that you say to all this?”
    “Whuh?” Patrick looked up. “You don’t expect me to give you an answer right here and now, do you?”
    “Of course not, dear,” said Mrs Merland, touching his hand, while Chef Maurice spluttered as he struggled to breathe in and swear loudly in French at the same time. “I’d better be getting back to my B&B. The hazelnut dacquoise cake is chilling in the walk-in. It just needs slicing. I’ll pop by tomorrow to say goodbye before my train.”
    Then she was gone.
    “That woman!” Chef Maurice waved his fist at the door. “She is a . . . a . . .”
    “Now, now, there, we don’t want to be saying anything we’ll be regretting later,” said Dorothy, rolling up her sleeves just in case she’d need to jujitsu armlock her boss if things went downhill.
    “Humph! Then she has thrown down the metal glove. And I accept her challenge!” With that, Chef Maurice grabbed his hat and stormed out of the back door.
    “Cor, a job as head chef. Not bad, eh?” said Alf, with a nervous look at Patrick.
    “It’s like they don’t think I even get a say in the matter,” said Patrick, staring at the back door.
    “I thought your mum said—”
    “Sure, she says things