by Maymee Bell
“If you don’t mind to step over there.” He pointed to the corner where Charlotte and Jane, the waitress who had found Emile, were standing. “Our homicide detective will be here shortly to ask you a few questions.”
I nodded and wiped back the tears that’d fallen silently down my cheek. The thought and care it appeared Emile had put into his menus was meticulous, and as a baker, it hurt to know his creations hadn’t come to life. Poor Emile.
The three of us sat there mindlessly eating the entire bag of cookies I’d pulled out of my bag. We watched several men in brown uniforms come in and out of the kitchen as we waited for the detective to show up.
They were collecting evidence, taking pictures, jotting down all sorts of notes. Everything and everyone stopped when Carter from the café entered the kitchen. A few words were murmured to him before he slid his eyes toward me.
I overheard one of them say something about bride and baker and an upcoming wedding that would probably need to be canceled.
I was beginning to think Charlotte’s wedding was cursed and she wasn’t going to have her fairytale wedding after all. Over my dead body, I glared back at Carter.
I was trying to be the strong one and put on a brave face. My stomach was in knots.
“Listen to me.” I bent down and got real close to Charlotte, forcing her to look at me. “You are going to have that fairytale wedding and that cake I drew for you,” I said. Charlotte nodded as if she absolutely believed me; then her eyes filled with tears. “Do you hear me? Even if I have to figure out who whacked Emile.”
I put the bag in her hand, and she looked up at me with mascara streaks down her cheeks and nodded, clutching the baggie to her chest.
“Did I hear you correctly? You know who, as you put it, whacked Emile?” Carter had walked up without me noticing. “Me?” I blushed. “Of course I don’t. I was just saying to my friend here that no matter what, I was going to make sure she had her dream wedding.”
“Like your wedding?” He arched a sly brow.
Was he trying to get personal information about me? I wondered because it was a very odd time to be asking such questions.
“She’s not married.” Charlotte sucked back some air. “She was just cheated on.”
I looked up to the ceiling and rolled my eyes. Did we have to talk about this now?
“And she’s talking about me and my wedding, Carter. This … this will make all the headlines on all the social pages.” Her arms curled around her waist.
“No, it won’t,” I assured her. Not that I knew it for sure, but it was what she needed to hear right this very moment. “We are going to have the most spectacular wedding that will make everyone forget about Emile as soon as they see you and this reception.” My eyes slid past Carter and over to Emile’s body. I started to feel queasy.
There were several people standing over him and squatting near him. Some of them were taking photos while others were writing in notebooks and on their phones. A couple of people were taking an interest in the cast iron skillet. Some of the deputies were dusting for fingerprints. At least it appeared that way, given the little brush and black powder in their hands that they swiped along the door, the skillet, and other places around the kitchen.
Jane, the waitress who’d found Emile, had been moved away from us and was tucked in the furthest corner of the kitchen surrounded by men in suits. Her five-foot-four-inch frame slumped against the wall. She chewed on her fingernails, her blue eyes focused on Emile. “I would never wish anything bad upon anyone,” Jane said calmly in a voice loud enough for us to hear. She pushed her blonde bangs out of her face off to the side. “But he wasn’t the nicest person to work for. Especially to women. He had no respect for any of us, including Evelyn. He was the nastiest to her.”
Carter raked his fingers through his hair and turned his attention back to me. I cocked a brow. It seemed to me that he should be spending his time on someone who knew Emile instead of wasting his time on us.
“Unfortunately, I’m going to have to ask you a few questions.” Carter bent down to Charlotte; there was eagerness in his eyes.
“Now?” I interrupted. He turned his head over his shoulder to look at me. I gulped. “Can’t you see she’s beside herself?”
With a slow ease, he planted his hands on his thighs and pushed himself to standing. He was a good four inches taller than me. His nearness shot a dizzy current through me, making me unsteady on my feet. He reached out and took me by the arm.
“Are you okay, Ms. Cummings?” He remembered who I was.
“Yes. I’m fine.” I swallowed hard and put a thin smile on my lips. He returned it with a great big toothy grin. His deep dimples nearly pushed me over the edge.
“I don’t think you’re fine.” He snapped his fingers at a deputy and pointed to Charlotte.
The deputy rushed over to Charlotte. Carter walked me over to the island workstation just a few feet from Emile. He pulled a stool out from underneath it and patted for me to sit down. With my elbows firmly planted on the island, I rested my head in my hands.
Carter motioned for another deputy to bring over a bottle of water for me. He stood between me and the body. I couldn’t help but think he was doing it on purpose.
“Drink this.” He twisted off the cap and handed it to me. “It’s very difficult to see a dead body,” he spoke with a whisper.
A warm shiver sailed through me by the mere touch of our hands when he handed me the bottle of water. I brushed it off as a comforting gesture since he was trying so hard to make sure I was okay.
“Thank you.” My voice cracked.
“You seem a little bit more together than Charlotte, so maybe you can answer some questions for me.” His eyes were sharp and assessing.
My mind swirled with thoughts of the crime television shows I’ve seen where the detective was trying to read the body language of suspects. My heart started to race. Did Carter think Charlotte or I did this?
“I’ll try,” I choked out, not eager to discuss what was going on.
“How well did you know the victim?” He asked.
“Not at all. I’d never laid eyes on him until this.” He couldn’t possibly think I did this. “I never met him.”
“What were you doing before you found Emile’s body?” he asked, pulling out one of those little notebooks you’d see on TV.
“We didn’t find him.” I shook my head. I was quick to point that out. “Jane did.” I looked at Jane, who was still huddled in the corner.
“Go through the motions,” he encouraged me. “Tell me everything from the time you got here until now.”
“Well…” I thought back to the creative streak I’d been having, but Emile’s dead body had seemed to suck that right out of me. “I was drawing Charlotte’s cake in the ballroom. She wanted me to meet Emile.”
“Draw a cake?” His brows rose in confusion.
“Yes.” I unzipped my purse and took out my notebook, flipping to the design. I handed it to him.
“You drew this?” he asked. His big brown eyes looking at me. I gnawed on the corner of my lip and slowly nodded. “Impressive.”
He handed my notebook back to me. I slipped it back in my purse.
“Thank you. I take a lot of pride in my work,” I said. There was one bag of crunchies left in my purse. I took them out and offered the open bag to Carter.
“What exactly is your work?” he asked as he eyed the cookies.
“I’m a pastry chef. Charlotte’s baker can’t bake her wedding cake. Since I’m in town for a visit, I agreed to bake it for her.” He didn’t need to know my life story and why I was really here.
“Visit?” he asked with a deadpan expression.
“I’m here to visit my parents,” I said, wondering why he’d asked me about why I was in town. “What does this have to do with Emile?” I kept my eye contact but my gaze became glazed.
“I like to know exactly who is in my crime scene and why. Standard procedure.” He looked down
at his notebook, then back up to me. “You are baking Charlotte’s cake today and that’s why you’re here?” he questioned and wrote something down in that little notebook of his.
“No. Not today. I was just taking a look around to see what I’m going to need to bake her cakes.” I offered a weak smile before taking another drink of the water. Not that I was thirsty—I had to avoid his stare. “We are longtime friends. Take one. I promise they will make you feel better.”
Not that I was thirsty. I had to avoid his stare.
“You and Charlotte?” he asked. He stuck his hand in the bag and looked around the kitchen before he took a bite. “You made these?”
“Yes, Charlotte and I are high school friends,” I said, screwing the cap back on the bottle and setting it on the island. I continued while he took another cookie, “Anyway, we heard a loud scream and bang on our way to the kitchen for her to introduce me to Emile and for me to see the kitchen. That’s when Jane ran out of the swinging door and we called you.”
About that time the swinging door swooshed opened, smacking the wall.
Carter looked under his brows at a deputy who was staring at him. With his pen in his hand, he pointed to Evelyn Moss. The deputy immediately rushed over to Evelyn.
“He’s dead?” Evelyn’s voice escalated as she dropped down onto a stool, her mouth gaped open.
“What happened after you called me?” Carter didn’t miss a beat. He turned my attention back to him.
“All this. We waited right outside the kitchen door until y’all showed up.” I gestured around me. Everything and everyone was still buzzing around, in and out of the kitchen.
“Charlotte?” A man in a blue business suit walked into the kitchen. His dark eyes darted from underneath his heavy brows around the room, and when he saw her huddled in the corner, he ran over to her as if she was the only thing that mattered to him in the entire world. It had to be Brett Ponder, her fiancé.
“Brett!” She jumped into his arms, burying her head in the nape of his neck. He stroked her hair and whispered something in her ear. She nodded against his suit coat.
“What exactly did you hear that made you rush to the kitchen?” Carter drew me back to his questioning.
I let out a deep breath as my thoughts went back to that terrible moment when we’d heard Jane shriek.
“I told you. There was a gut-wrenching scream that came from the kitchen. Charlotte and I ran in that direction, and that’s when Jane ran out.” The image of seeing Emile after we walked into the kitchen was something I couldn’t un-see. “I touched the door,” I gasped when I realized my fingerprints were on the door.
“You’re not a suspect, but we will need your prints to rule yours out. Or we can pull them from the criminal database.” He eyes raked over me.
“I’m not a criminal.” My eyes popped open, my back straightened.
“I’m joking, Ms. Cummings.” He smiled, showing me those dimples again, making my heart go pitter-patter.
“Oh.” My shoulders slumped. “Sophia. My name is Sophia.”
“Sophia Cummings.” His lips formed another grin. “Sophia the cookie baker.”
For a second too long, we held a gaze. There was a familiarity about him that I shrugged off because I would have remembered those dimples.
“Sir.” A deputy came over, pulling Carter’s eyes away from mine. “Do you want to talk to Ms. Moss before we let her go?”
“Yep. Give me a minute with Ms. Cummings.” Carter looked back at me. “Sophia,” his soft voice nudged me.
“Yes?” I answered. He looked as if he wanted to tell me something. He continued to hesitate.
“I’ve got to go, but I’d like to stop by and question you when you’ve had time to calm down.” His southern drawl was music to my ears—a far cry from the accent of the northern men I’d dated over the past ten years. Noah’s was the worst. “Sometimes in these situations, our mind has a tendency to settle down and we remember things that we can’t when adrenaline takes over our bodies. Say tomorrow?”
Maybe it was just the adrenaline from seeing a dead body that was making my heart hammer in my chest.
“Sure.” I nodded.
His smile drew up to his eyes. He kept them on me as he pulled something out of his shirt pocket.
“Here is my card.” He held his card out between two fingers. “Call me.”
“You already gave me one this morning.” I patted my purse. “Take the cookies. I think you’re going to need them to get through the day.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Charlotte and Brett walking toward us.
“Hey, man.” Brett shook his head. He had short black hair with a little bit of a curl on the edges. I could see why Charlotte had fallen in love with him. He had her curled in his arm as if he were shielding her from the world. My jealous streak kicked in and I couldn’t help but be envious of the love between them. “This is crazy.”
Carter and Brett shook hands.
“Crazy? We are cursed.” Charlotte’s eyes were red around the edges. Much brighter than her hair color. She sniffled, bringing her finger up under her nose. “The baker? And now the chef?” Little eeps came out of her body as she tried to breathe through her nose.
“Oh, honey. We aren’t cursed.” He curled her tighter against his chest, making her sob all over again. “This is crazy,” Brett said again.
“Yeah. You can take your bride home, but you know I’m going to have to ask you some questions.” Carter looked at Brett first before directing his words to Charlotte.
They both nodded. Charlotte dragged her face off the poor guy’s suit coat, leaving a trail of tears and black streaks of mascara on it.
“Brett, this is my friend Sophia I was telling you about.” She forced a smile on her face. Her eyes dipped with sadness.
“It’s so nice to meet you.” I held my hand out and shook it. “Though not under these circumstances.”
“It’s really nice to meet you.” He offered the best smile he could under Charlotte’s duress. “I can’t wait to taste your cakes. Charlotte hasn’t stopped talking about it until now.”
Charlotte glared at him and turned back to me.
“I’ll give you a call later.” Charlotte’s voice cracked.
“Come by for a beer tonight and see if she’s calmed down; then maybe she can give her statement,” Brett said to Carter.
“Sounds good, because I might need a couple after today,” Carter said before Brett led Charlotte out of the kitchen.
There seemed to be a friendship between the two men. It wasn’t uncommon for people in Rumford to know everyone. I guessed I’d been gone for so long that I barely knew anyone anymore.
“Sir.” The deputy who was talking to Evelyn came back over to Carter. “She had an appointment this morning so she took off, but she said to call her anytime.”
“I told you I wanted you to keep her here.” Carter’s jaw tensed. The deputy shuffled his feet before he walked off.
Carter’s lips curled together. He turned back to me. “Sophia, it was nice to meet you this morning and see you again here. I look forward to your call.” He held the bag of cookies in the air. “Thanks for the sweet treat.”
“One thing.” I reached out and touched his arm to stop him from walking away.
“Yes.” Amusement lurked in his eyes.
“That skillet.” I pointed to it. “That can’t be Emile’s.”
“Why?” His eyes hooded. “Do you know who it belongs to? Because I’m pretty sure that’s what did the job, even though there’s no evidence of blood on it.”
“No, but any skilled southern chef doesn’t cook or bake or even have something so new in their kitchen.” I sucked in a deep breath. Carter wasn’t following me. Why should he? He wasn’t a pastry chef. “I’m a southern baker. Emile was making southern dishes here at the RCC. That’s the only thing Evelyn Moss likes to serve in her kitchen. He’d have a seasoned skillet. Even before you cook on a new skillet, you season it. Bu
t why would he even have out a skillet if he was preparing a French menu for tonight?” I looked up and over Carter’s shoulder in deep thought, talking to myself. “Which doesn’t make sense if he was preparing for supper here.”
“Excuse me?” Carter asked, bringing me back to reality.
“I was just thinking about that menu Emile was working on before—you know.” I made a gesture as if I were banging my head with something, like the skillet. “There was a menu next to his body, and it looked like a French menu for supper. I just assumed that it was for here, but Evelyn doesn’t allow French cuisine. It’s all southern food, all the time.”
“And you knew it was French how?” His cute dimples were long gone.
“Being a pastry chef, I’m around a lot of French people and desserts.” I’d leave out all the details. “And I can read some French.”
He pulled out his notepad again and jotted down what I was saying.
“Back to the skillet and seasoning?” He appeared to be very interested in my knowledge, and I wondered how it was going to help his investigation.
“Seasoned skillets give extra flavor to dishes and desserts. When I get a new skillet, I rub olive oil all around it, inside and out. Then I put it in a very hot oven and bake it. This is repeated several times until the skillet looks very old, but the oil’s been baked into the cast iron before you cook or bake in it,” I said.
“Oh. So whoever did this might not have been a chef?” he asked.
I agreed.
“You mean Evelyn Moss?” he asked.
My stomach dropped. I reached into his bag of cookies and took one out.
“Evelyn?” I questioned with surprise, taking a bite of the cookie. “No way. I worked for her here when I was in high school.”
Evelyn was a hardball, but she’d been in charge of the kitchen when I was there. She was just being the boss.
“According to the few people here from the kitchen staff, she and Emile had a very volatile relationship.” He looked at Jane. Some of the kitchen staff had arrived. They were putting their chef ’s jackets with the RCC logo on the chest pocket over their street clothes and had gathered around Jane. She started to get upset all over again.