glass roof high above, the Kasbah nestled in a bath of natural sunlight—diffused and filtered for the perfect ambience, of course. Water burbled from the fountains and foliage lined the stream that pooled and meandered through the complex of separate bungalows. With private swimming pools, floor plans larger than most homes in the Valley, and a staff-to-guest ratio of five to one, our very private, très chic bungalows were the most sought after prizes in Vegas.
And we’d put a pig in one of them.
Bracing myself, I pulled the heavy cord hanging by the door to Bungalow 7. Chimes echoed inside and footfalls quickened to the door. Contemplating the pressed images on the door, which was a smaller replica of the large doors bracketing the entrance to the Kasbah, I half-expected a Nubian to swing the door open and usher me inside with a bow. Instead, a member of our solicitous staff greeted me with a nod and a pained expression.
Before I could say anything, he was muscled aside by the person I came to do battle with, Chef Gregor. With a pasty complexion flushed with exertion and misted with sweat, jowls that folded his skin like a venetian blind, beady dark eyes, and thin, mean lips, he looked one pat of butter shy of a heart attack. At just over six feet, he could almost carry the extra hundred pounds or so, but his stomach oozed over his belt, and his sleeves stretched over the flesh of his arms like casing around sausages. To add insult to injury, he wore his thin black hair greased back—completing the disgusting picture—which his personality perfectly complemented.
The chef pointed a thick forefinger at me. “You! What have you done with my truffle?”
“What truffle?” I stammered, blindsided once again—a recurring theme today. “I heard you have a problem with a pig.”
He waved his hand as if shooing flies, then leveled a pitying look. “You are misinformed.”
I felt like saying, Honey, that’s where I live , but instead, I summoned years of practice to keep my voice steady and asked, “How so?”
“The problem is not with the pig. It is with the truffle.” Turning on his heel, he stalked into the bowels of Bungalow 7.I had no alternative but to follow him.
The smell hit me first. Musty and ripe, it wasn’t the normal potpourri of blended spices and exotic unguents used to fragrance the bungalows. As I entered the great room, the scene in front of me left me speechless—a rare and somewhat dangerous occurrence. The hand-knotted silk carpet had been casually rolled back, exposing the rough-cut oak flooring. Burnished to a dark, rich sheen, it was a work of art. I’d personally supervised the men on their hands and knees as they’d polished the wood with their little steel wool pads, then stained it so many times I’d lost count.
My eyes got all slitty.
Like some life-sized Erector set, a metal fenced enclosure grew from the middle of the wooden expanse. A puffy bedding of straw filled the pen. A metal trough completed the bucolic picture . . . well, the trough and the huge black-and-white pig that stared into the filled feed bin, but didn’t eat.
Chef Gregor stopped in front of the pig and turned to face me. With a superior look, he reached into a burlap sack on the floor and extracted a large, bulbous object that looked curiously like a white truffle. But it couldn’t be, could it? Hadn’t Miss P. said she had the thing under lock and key? After all, it was worth a small fortune to the proper culinary expert.
“Where did you get that?” I was getting a real bad feeling.
I watched him struggle with himself for a moment, then he looked me in the eye. “Fiona had it.”
“Fiona Richards?” I tried to keep the shock off my face and out of my voice. If he knew she was dead, he hid it well. “Where did she get it?”
“She made a delivery to Burger Palais. She saw the box. When no one was watching, she took a look. When she saw the truffle, she pocketed it and brought it to me. She
And we’d put a pig in one of them.
Bracing myself, I pulled the heavy cord hanging by the door to Bungalow 7. Chimes echoed inside and footfalls quickened to the door. Contemplating the pressed images on the door, which was a smaller replica of the large doors bracketing the entrance to the Kasbah, I half-expected a Nubian to swing the door open and usher me inside with a bow. Instead, a member of our solicitous staff greeted me with a nod and a pained expression.
Before I could say anything, he was muscled aside by the person I came to do battle with, Chef Gregor. With a pasty complexion flushed with exertion and misted with sweat, jowls that folded his skin like a venetian blind, beady dark eyes, and thin, mean lips, he looked one pat of butter shy of a heart attack. At just over six feet, he could almost carry the extra hundred pounds or so, but his stomach oozed over his belt, and his sleeves stretched over the flesh of his arms like casing around sausages. To add insult to injury, he wore his thin black hair greased back—completing the disgusting picture—which his personality perfectly complemented.
The chef pointed a thick forefinger at me. “You! What have you done with my truffle?”
“What truffle?” I stammered, blindsided once again—a recurring theme today. “I heard you have a problem with a pig.”
He waved his hand as if shooing flies, then leveled a pitying look. “You are misinformed.”
I felt like saying, Honey, that’s where I live , but instead, I summoned years of practice to keep my voice steady and asked, “How so?”
“The problem is not with the pig. It is with the truffle.” Turning on his heel, he stalked into the bowels of Bungalow 7.I had no alternative but to follow him.
The smell hit me first. Musty and ripe, it wasn’t the normal potpourri of blended spices and exotic unguents used to fragrance the bungalows. As I entered the great room, the scene in front of me left me speechless—a rare and somewhat dangerous occurrence. The hand-knotted silk carpet had been casually rolled back, exposing the rough-cut oak flooring. Burnished to a dark, rich sheen, it was a work of art. I’d personally supervised the men on their hands and knees as they’d polished the wood with their little steel wool pads, then stained it so many times I’d lost count.
My eyes got all slitty.
Like some life-sized Erector set, a metal fenced enclosure grew from the middle of the wooden expanse. A puffy bedding of straw filled the pen. A metal trough completed the bucolic picture . . . well, the trough and the huge black-and-white pig that stared into the filled feed bin, but didn’t eat.
Chef Gregor stopped in front of the pig and turned to face me. With a superior look, he reached into a burlap sack on the floor and extracted a large, bulbous object that looked curiously like a white truffle. But it couldn’t be, could it? Hadn’t Miss P. said she had the thing under lock and key? After all, it was worth a small fortune to the proper culinary expert.
“Where did you get that?” I was getting a real bad feeling.
I watched him struggle with himself for a moment, then he looked me in the eye. “Fiona had it.”
“Fiona Richards?” I tried to keep the shock off my face and out of my voice. If he knew she was dead, he hid it well. “Where did she get it?”
“She made a delivery to Burger Palais. She saw the box. When no one was watching, she took a look. When she saw the truffle, she pocketed it and brought it to me. She
Similar Books
