Chapter 399: Reasoning Belongs After Dinner
Chapter 399: Reasoning Belongs After Dinner
At that moment, the three men’s expressions shifted dramatically. Feng Bu Jue caught every flicker of change on their faces—the fleeting, almost imperceptible details hidden in their eyes.
“Hehehe,” Feng Bu Jue chuckled two seconds later. “Alright, I’m done. You’re all dismissed.”
“What?” The other four people in the room—excluding Feng Bu Jue—instinctively blurted out the same question in unison.
“Wait… What do you mean by ‘dismissed’?” Powell interjected. “You summon us here, claim one of us is the killer, then order us to leave?”
“Exactly,” Feng Bu Jue replied. “I’ll reveal the culprit in about… eight chapters. Oh, no—I mean around eight o’clock.”
“Er… Mr. Feng,” Scofield cut in, “may I ask… why wait until eight?”
“Ah, common wisdom dictates: Reasoning belongs after dinner,” Feng Bu Jue said with a grin.
“What kind of ‘wisdom’ is that…? I’ve never heard of it before… You totally made that up…” Scofield silently groaned, sweating profusely. But he dared not confront the detective openly—after all, he himself couldn’t pinpoint the killer, nor did he have evidence. For now, he could only rely on this eccentric investigator.
“Ha… Ha-ha… Fine… Fine,” Scofield continued, mopping his brow with a handkerchief. “We’ll follow your lead…”
“This is absurd!” Powell snapped. “If you know the killer’s identity, you should apprehend them immediately! Leaving a murderer in this room with us puts everyone in danger!”
“There are four officers here to ensure safety—who’s in danger?” Feng Bu Jue replied casually. “Besides, you’ve shared this room with the killer long before I declared, ‘One of you three is the murderer,’ haven’t you?”
“But now that you’ve said it aloud, the situation has changed—” Powell stammered, stealing glances at Barton from the corner of his eye.
Feng Bu Jue interrupted, “No need to explain further. I’ve seen that ‘innocence-for-sale’ act countless times.” He paused, fixing Powell with a smirk. “Doctor Powell, your exaggerated reaction—pretending to tremble in fear—are you trying to feign innocence to avoid suspicion?”
“This…!” Powell choked, momentarily speechless.
Henderson and Barton shot him suspicious looks, the atmosphere thickening with tension.
Feng Bu Jue merely chuckled coldly at their antics. Turning to Scofield, he said, “Detective, before dinner, please gather these three, along with the previous suspects—Carol, Kolsten, Jack, and Nancy—in the dining hall for easier monitoring.” As he spoke, he strode past the three men toward the door.
“Where are you going, Mr. Feng?” Scofield asked.
“To the kitchen,” Feng Bu Jue tossed over his shoulder before stepping out.
The four in the study room exchanged uneasy glances, the silence suffocating.
……
The villa’s kitchen was remarkably well-equipped—nearly rivaling a small Western dining hall.
The kitchen door, a double-sliding panel, opened easily with a push from hands, feet, or a serving cart, making food transport convenient. Feng Bu Jue entered to find a spacious, spotless environment.
For a private kitchen, the appliances were astonishingly complete—cabinets, griddles, broilers, ovens, barbecues, fryers, stoves, shelves, countertops, refrigerated prep tables, cold storage units, mixers, meat grinders, slicers, egg beaters, and more. Except for a stone-built wall oven, it had everything—one could even host a cooking competition here.
“Oh, Mr. Feng, why are you here in the kitchen?” Madam Odette, now in a long-sleeved, knee-length plain dress and apron, asked as she and Oliver Matron worked at the stove.
“To prevent you from poisoning everyone’s dinner,” Feng Bu Jue quipped.
Odette and Oliver froze mid-motion, their eyes widening in shock.
“Hahahah, I’m joking, ladies!” Feng Bu Jue laughed. “As a guest, I should lend a hand in the kitchen, shouldn’t I?”
“Oh, Mr. Feng, your jokes are far from amusing,” Oliver Matron, blunt as ever, resumed chopping at the counter. “We’re already swamped, and you’re spouting nonsense.”
Odette offered a polite smile. “Mr. Feng, are you sure you can help? Don’t strain yourself…”
“Worried I’ll be a nuisance, huh? Hmph…” Feng Bu Jue’s eyes darkened under his bangs, a glint of mischief flashing. “Naive… Far too naive… You won’t understand my magnificent skills unless I show them off…” His middle-schooler-like monologue faltered. “Wait, this line suits Jin Fugui better… Whatever! Anyway…” He grabbed a chef’s knife and hacked at a slab of red meat with dizzying speed. The blade danced, creating phantom-like trails, the rhythmic thunk-thunk-thunk echoing a typewriter’s cadence. “Hohoho! Let me savor this magnificent slaughter!”
The two women gawked, stunned by the spectacle.
Feng Bu Jue’s eccentricity had another facet—when cooking, his middle school syndrome (don’t ask what this means; even I’m fuzzy on the details) spiked from a normal 250 to a chaotic 9527-10086 range.
Habits, indeed, are terrifying…
After his parents’ death, living alone, Feng Bu Jue often cooked. He never indulged in luxuries or vanity, but when his finances allowed, he ensured a decent quality of life. Thus, his culinary skills sharpened over time—and so did his habit of chatting aloud and acting theatrically while cooking.
“First, coat the pan with oil,” he narrated, sizzling the pan. “Slice the beef thin, toss in a bowl with salt, pepper, soy sauce, mustard seeds, and rub it all in…” He lightning-chopped a celery stalk. “Stir-fry the beef, beef liver, and celery in the hot pan…” Within minutes, a fragrant, colorful dish emerged.
“Hmph. This mustard beef liver with celery proves my culinary prowess—surrender to my glory!” Feng Bu Jue wiped his hands with a rag, smugly declaring.
Madam Odette and Oliver Matron tentatively tasted a piece each. The flavor was absurdly delicious…
“Mr. Feng… Were you a chef before becoming a detective?” Odette gasped.
Feng Bu Jue sauntered to a wall, grabbed an apron, and tied it around his waist. Smirking, he said, “So, leave dinner prep to me. You two can assist.” He paused. “Meanwhile, answer a few questions.”
(End of Chapter)
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