“Finally finished fking about, have you?” White Heat snapped as Dupon and Turing returned to the ballroom.

“Yes, and we do apologize about making you wait, Chef,” Dupon said, tipping his hat. “But I assure you it was an important step in our investigation.”

“Maybe so, but there’s also such a thing as courtesy,” White Heat growled as he stormed over to them.

Now that he was closer, they both got a look at him. Age lines crossed his features, and they especially formed deep grooves around his small eyes, which only intensified that stone-cold gaze he was giving them.

Again Turing noted that Dupon’s heart was beginning to race again, and yet he wore something resembling a smile.

“I apologize if this is improper, Dupon, but am I correct in guessing that you are a fan of White Heat?” Turing asked.

At this, Dupon nearly lost his composure as his eyes darted between Turing and the supremely unamused chef now staring them down. “Ah… I suppose you’ve caught me up a bit, Minister Turing,” he chuckled. “Well, yes, in fact I am. I quite enjoy fine food and never had the chance to dine at Mr. White’s establishment in Trottingham before his retirement.”

White Heat clicked his tongue again. “You might have had the chance before somepony fcked up this whole evening,” he said. “All these police around, couldn’t do a fcking thing about it.”

“Apologies, sir,” Turing said, “but I ask you to watch your language. Bad language makes for bad feelings.”

Turing had never considered the concept of staring contests much before, and when she did, she reasonably assumed she would handily win against any other creature in Equestria.

But the endlessly icy cold stare White Heat was giving her then made her wonder if she might have met her match. She suspected White Heat could turn a basilisk to stone with that gaze. Fluttershy wouldn’t square up with a stare like his (probably).

“It’s a matter of respect, Minister,” White Heat said, never taking his eyes off of her. “I’m not one to swear needlessly when I’m shown respect. And you haven’t.”

“Again, we apologize if—”

“Not the both of you,” he said, poking her in the chest. “You. You specifically, Minister.”

Turing’s eyes shifted, her ears twitching. “Have I offended you, Chef?” she asked.

“One of the staff mentioned that bloke who got sick earlier during dinner service. Ran out just before the lights went dark. And you apparently made some little joke about the cause being the food.” His expression darkened. “My food.”

Turing nodded slowly. “Affirmative. I stated that I was 100% certain that the guests would enjoy the meal and then made a joke about a slightly lower percentage - 94.7% to be exact - in an attempt to lighten any distress and continue the momentum of my speech. It was not intended to directly blame your efforts.”

“Well, that’s not how I see it,” he said. “I work hard at my craft. I didn’t just take this job for Vanderbull’s money only to half-arse the whole business or sign autographs for every fangirl who barges into my kitchen. No.” He shook his head solemnly. “Every meal, every ingredient, every service, I always deliver my absolute best, Minister, without exception. If it’s not perfect, it doesn’t leave my kitchen. And my staff knows that. Isn’t that right, lads?”

“Yes, Chef!!” came the instant, cacophonous response from the staff.

White Heat gave a nod. “So I won’t have my work denigrated by a walking dustbin who can’t even properly enjoy food,” he said.

Turing was quiet for a moment. Then she bowed deeply, a hoof solemnly placed on her chest. “I see. My statement, despite being made in jest, has clearly offended you. That was not my intention, Chef White Heat. As somepony who also takes her work very seriously, I understand why you are upset. I hope you will accept my sincerest apology.”

White Heat said nothing at first. Then a smile came to his lips. “Mm. Not so proud that you would refuse to apologize, I see,” he said. “Good. I’ve dealt with too many government pinheads and self-important aristocrats who don’t appreciate my efforts and come into my restaurants making all sorts of demands, clapping their hooves, and ordering us about like trained monkeys. I’m glad to see you aren’t like that. All right, I accept your apology.”

“However,” Turing said abruptly, “I do take exception to being called a ‘dustbin.’”

White Heat raised an eyebrow.

“...I am not filled with dust, after all. I am filled with mechanical components. It would be more accurate to call me a walking ‘junk drawer,’” she said, her LED eye winking at him.

He blinked a few times, but then broke into a smile and even managed a chuckle.

“All right then, fair enough, Minister. I apologize for my remark.” He shook her hoof. He then turned to Dupon. “And I’ll tell you what: you solve this case before we all go back to the mainland and catch the bastard who ruined my dinner service, I’ll fix you that meal, Inspector.”

“Oh my! Well, we certainly intended to do our utmost regardless, but it is nice to have an extra bit of motivation!” Dupon said, tipping his hat to him.

Neighstrad cleared his throat as he came over. “Well, glad we’ve got that sorted out,” he said. “Now, unless you’ve got anything to share, Inspector Dupon, we’ll let you and the Minister get back to your investigation.”

“Actually,” Turing Test said, drawing their attention, “I believe that White Heat and the staff may be able to assist us, since we are already here, correct?”

“Yes, I suppose now is as good a time as any,” Dupon said. “Though, ah… there is a rather difficult question we must ask, Chef.”

“Perhaps I should do so,” Turing said. “West Walnut, the gentlecolt who was sick, believes it had something to do with the food he was served.”

White Heat’s scowl returned. “Now see here, Minister, I just said—”

But Turing held up a hoof. “I am not accusing you or the kitchen staff of being at fault,” she said. “Rather, I wish to learn the true cause of Mr. Walnut’s illness.”

“Oi, hang on, is this even related to the murder case?!” Neighstrad demanded.

“It may be,” Dupon said. He stroked his chin. “But let’s get to the bottom of this, and then we can decide if it’s of any relevance.”

Neighstrad sniffed. “I still say we’ve got our mare,” he grumbled. “And it’s the bird with the glasses.”

“If you are mistaking Gadget for a gryphon or other avian, then I must call your observational skills into question, Neighstrad.”

Neighstrad sputtered out a protest as Dupon hid a chuckle behind his hoof when he noticed Turing’s conspiratorial wink.

“Chef, do you recall what West Walnut ordered?” she asked, ignoring Neighstrad’s attempted explanation.

White Heat pursed his lips. “Let’s see, he shared a table with Mr. Vanderbull, yes?” When Turing nodded, he continued. “The entrees hadn’t come yet, but he ordered the tomato bisque as an appetizer.”

“And for the salad?” Dupon asked.

White Heat blinked. “What salad?”

“West Walnut stated that the salad he had tasted ‘a bit off,’” Turing explained.

“He didn’t order any salad,” he said flatly. “As you’ll recall, attendees could fill out their orders in advance, and the appetizer was a simple choice: soup or salad.”

Turing recalled mentioning that to Maud before the symposium, remembering that she’d asked, “What’s a Super Salad?”

She put that out of mind and pressed on.

“Then why did he state that his salad tasted strangely?” she asked.

“No idea, but he didn’t order the salad,” White Heat insisted. “It was one or the other, not both. No no no, it was Vanderbull who ordered the salad.”

“Mr. Vanderbull?” Dupon echoed.

“Yes, he ordered the Waldorf Salad as I recall,” he said, “and somepony apparently forgot to mention that he wanted it without walnuts.”

A waiter blushed, bowing his head. “I said I was sorry, Chef,” he muttered.

“Wait, you there,” Dupon said, pointing at the abashed waiter, “you brought that salad to the table, correct?”

“What? O-oh, yes,” he said. “Mr. Vanderbull was not happy that his salad had walnuts, so I had to request another for him.”

“And he sent the salad back?” Dupon asked.

“Well… actually, now that I think about it,” the waiter said, scratching his head, “West Walnut said that he liked walnuts - no big surprise there - and that he’d be glad to eat it so it wouldn’t go to waste. And so I went back to the kitchen and requested a new one for Mr. Vanderbull. I’d just left the kitchen when the lights went out. Still, I decided I ought to bring it anyway and was on my way back when that girl, Miss Gadget, ran into me, and I dropped the whole mess on the floor. I was cleaning it up when you ran by, Minister.”

“That corroborates part of Gadget’s story as well as my own observation,” Turing remarked. “Still, in that case, it is certainly fortunate for Mr. Vanderbull that he gave that first salad away, or else it might have made him sick instead.”

“Oi, I told you, the salad had nothing to do with it!” White Heat snapped. “We used the same ingredients for that salad for several other attendees and none of them were ill!”

“How very puzzling,” Dupon said, rubbing his chin.

Neighstrad scoffed. “Tch. Not really. Just means the old boy had a stomach bug of some kind. Maybe still seasick from the ride over. Bloody salad had nothing to do with it!”

“Perhaps so,” Turing said.

“Well, there is one more thing that comes to mind,” Dupon said. He turned to face the rest of the staff gathered at their tables. “During the blackout earlier, were there any staff members who were unaccounted for?”

One by one, each of the staff members gave their account and the Concierge confirmed it. That was until…

“Actually, as I recall, two staff members were on the upper floor of the hotel,” the Concierge said. “Mr. Mon Signor and Ms. Feather Duster were checking the rooms one last time to assure that all the guests' requests were honored and their rooms were cleaned to perfection.”

Mon Signor, an earth pony butler in a fine tuxedo with a popped collar, and Feather Duster, a petite pegasus maid, both stood at the sound of their names.

And Turing noticed instantly that their hearts began to beat rapidly.

“Would you two please step forward?” she asked.

The two glanced at each other and then did as she asked.

“A few moments after the blackout began, I heard a loud thump from somewhere above the ballroom. Did either of you hear it?”

“No, Minister,” Mon Signor said.

“Non, Madame!” Feather Duster said.

“And you two were cleaning the rooms when the blackout hit?” Dupon asked.

“Zat is correct, Monsieur Dupon,” Feather Duster replied, drawing an emphatic nod from Mon Signor.

Turing and Dupon exchanged a glance. Turing shook her head, confirming what Dupon had already guessed: these two were lying.

“Pardon my indelicacy here,” Dupon sighed, “but the Minister and I think you are hiding something.”

The two exchanged a look. They both broke out into a sweat. The eyes of all the other staffers were on them now.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” Mon Signor said, brushing his mane behind his ear. As he did so, Dupon took note of a bruise on his left temple.

“Just a moment,” he said, narrowing his eyes as he trotted over to the butler. “Where did you get this bruise? It looks quite new.”

“I’m… not sure, sir,” Mon Signor said, refusing to meet his eyes.

Dupon looked him over. Then, quite suddenly, he reached over and yanked the butler’s collar down, revealing a small, but very clear bite mark on his neck.

“And what about this, sir?” Dupon asked.

“I… that is…”

“Well, you see, monsieur—” Feather Duster began, but stopped short when Mon Signor gave her a stern look and a shake of his head.

“Sir,” Dupon said, heaving a sigh, “are you aware that the deceased, Mr. Beacon Bomber, has signs of being in a struggle? You likewise have this bruise and this bite mark, possibly the signs of the victim fending off his attacker. Or…”

He then looked over at Feather Duster. “...perhaps it was more than one attacker. Mademoiselle, one of the feathers in your wing seems out of place.” He gestured toward her wing, which indeed had a bent feather poking out from her slender wings. “Perhaps it was damaged somehow?”

Feather Duster swallowed. “Ah… zat was… ah, how do you say…?”

Neighstrad smirked as he stepped over and clapped Dupon on the shoulder. “Well well, Dupon, seems our culprits may have been here this whole time! I’d bet this young pegasus tackled Beacon Bomber straight out of the air as he arrived, then this fellow here did the deed while—”

“Incorrect.”

They all gave a start at the sound of Turing Test’s voice.

“I am uncertain of the reason, but I have scanned the bite mark on Mon Signor’s neck,” she said, “and it does not match the dental pattern of Beacon Bomber’s contained in my visual memory. However, a quick scan has found a suitable match.”

At that, she pointed a hoof at Feather Duster.

“She is the one who bit him. You may check the pattern of her teeth to confirm they match the bite mark. Under such a circumstance, I believe it likely that the bruise and damaged feather were obtained concurrently. Perhaps they could explain the nature and cause of their fight?”

Mon Signor and Feather Duster’s faces went bright red. Feather Duster buried her face in her hooves and there was an audible groan from Neighstrad as Dupon shook his head, massaging his temple with a hoof. Several other staffers were blushing and a few had broken out into laughter.

“...Ah,” Turing said, her pupils contracting. “Understood. You were not fighting. You were attempting intercour—”

“We were just making out!” Mon Signor shouted. “I mean, there was nopony upstairs, we didn’t think anypony would notice if we were gone for a bit, so we were just fooling around a bit when the lights went dark and we fell over in the confusion! I hit my head and landed on her wing!”

“Ah. I see. That is a reasonable explanation for the noise I detected.”

“You idiots!” bellowed Neighstrad. “You two nearly got yourselves accused of murder just to cover up a tryst!”

“Ohhh, you beeg buffoon!” Feather Duster hissed, punching Mon Signor in the shoulder. “I told you eet was a terrible idea!”

“Aw come on, Feather, in the end there was no harm done!”

“Don’t be so sure about that,” the Concierge said flatly. “You two are going to have a long talk with me and Mr. Vanderbull once this investigation is over.”

“Pardon me,” Turing said. “But now that we have cleared that up, can you two tell us if you heard anything else upstairs? Did you see anypony else there, for instance, or see anything outside?”

But they both shook their heads.

“We made sure we were alone,” Mon Signor said. “And if there was anything to hear, we didn’t hear it before or after the blackout.”

“Then it seems we’re no closer to solving this case,” Neighstrad sighed. “All right, Dupon, you and the Minister best get back to the case. Unless you’re ready to throw in the towel and admit we’ve already got the right culprit?”

“Not just yet, Chief Inspector,” Dupon said. “Let’s be on our way, Turing.”

“Of course,” she said, bowing politely to the others as they departed.

She didn’t even have to ask where they were going next. They still had one more prime suspect in the case:

Rio Grand.

To be continued…

Author's Note

5 more chapters, and it’s time for more references! You can find another References List HERE for Chapters 6 through 10!