One dead body, two dozen suspects and nearly all of them had a seemingly solid alibi. That was the daunting task facing detective Wanda Dinklage on a typically gloomy Friday afternoon in Anchorage, Alaska.
The victim was Gerald Ottenburgh, renowned for showing up at restaurants, ordering the pricy five course menu, eating it and then leaving before the bill hit the table. He was the most hated person in the local restaurateur business and therefore it was no big surprise to find him in a pool of his own blood, a meat cleaver adorning his chest.
Detective Dinklage had questioned every restaurant owner in the greater Anchorage area. Raymond Blancneige, the explosive Michelin-starred chef at Pure, but also fish-and-chips honcho Simon Codd and Zhara Wong, the Asian fusion cook who had taken Alaska by storm. But the detective was most suspicious about Calvin Pront, who had a known temper and had only last week been the victim of an Ottenburgh visit.
“Here,” the chef said, ignoring detective Dinklage’s questions on her visit to the restaurant and shoving a plate her way. “Tell me what you think.”
Detective Dinklage had a bite. It tasted divine. Better than anything she’d ever eaten, actually.
“Amazing”, was all she could utter, before taking another spoonful. “What is it?”
At the morgue, the coroner picked up the phone to tell detective Dinklage that Gerald Ottenburgh’s body no longer contained a liver.
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