He Tasted One Dish and Stopped the Guards

CHAPTER 1 - THE TASTE OF THE PAST

"Who made this dish?"

The question cut through the long dining room like a knife.

Edgar Whitmore sat at the head of the table beneath the crystal chandelier, one hand still resting beside his plate. He had just taken a bite of the braised veal. Now he stared at it as if it had spoken.

At the side of the table, the maid lowered her eyes. She was young, maybe thirty, wearing the stiff black-and-white uniform Mrs. Dalrymple, the housekeeper, insisted on.

"I did, sir," she said.

Her voice shook. Her hands were folded over her apron so tightly her knuckles had gone pale.

Edgar's expression darkened. He leaned forward and pressed one palm against the polished wood.

"Don't lie to me."

At once, the two security men standing near the doorway moved in. They came up behind her, each taking an arm. She gasped, tears already bright in her eyes.

Then Edgar lifted his hand.

"Stop."

The men froze but did not step away.

Edgar looked at the maid again, more sharply now, as if trying to see through her face to someone standing behind it.

"Where did you learn to make this?"

She swallowed.

From somewhere in the house, a clock ticked. Warm yellow light rested on the silverware, the old portraits, the untouched wine.

Edgar's gaze fell back to the plate. His lips moved before sound came.

"I only know one person who could make this."

The maid drew in a shaky breath. Her eyes lifted to his.

"My mother taught me."

Edgar's fingers tightened around his napkin. For a second, he looked less like a powerful old man in a grand house and more like someone who had just heard the dead answer him.

"What is your mother's name?" he asked.

The maid hesitated.

Then the housekeeper spoke from the doorway, her face drained white.

"Sir," Mrs. Dalrymple whispered, "I told her never to mention Elena Marquez in this house."