Jill called out. After Mme Poutine’s shocking statement Craig had run to the phone at the front desk to call for an ambulance and the police. I’d decided to see for myself if Chef Bertrand were indeed dead or if his paramour was exaggerating. “He may have suffered a heart attack,” I said. “Perhaps there’s still time to help.” “No. No. He is dead.” Mme Poutine moaned, dropping her head into her hands and sobbing. I rushed across the atrium, hoping he was still breathing. As I reached the entrance to the stairwell, the elevator door opened across the hall, and René Bonassé stepped out. I ran past him into the elevator and took it to the lower floor. The table where we’d eaten lunch had been partially cleared, but the large serving plate was still there, the sauce congealed around the leftover rabbit. There was no sound from the hotel kitchen and no sign of the sous chef, but the lights in the cooking classroom still blazed. I could see Mallory’s backpack leaning against the wall, and while I’d taken my handbag with me, I’d left my jacket, which still hung on the back of my chair.
