Dial M for Mousse

by Laura Bradford

  “It?”

  “Whatever is going on with you right now. You’re being weirder than normal.”

  “‘Weirder than normal’?” Winnie sat back in an effort to put a little distance between her nose and Renee’s finger. “I think I should be offended.”

  “No, you should talk. Why were you on the computer all night?” Renee guzzled down the juice before sheepishly pulling the cake container back into reasonable reach-zone. “You weren’t cyberstalking Didi, were you? Because if you remove the Botox and the fake boobs, she’s really not all that wonderful.”

  “Cyberstalking Didi? No!” Winnie pinched off a piece of Renee’s cake and popped it on her tongue. Yup. Too dry. “I’m well aware of what Jay’s ex looks like. I wouldn’t even try to compete with that. I am what I am.”

  “Which is pretty darn amazing, thankyouverymuch.”

  Winnie smiled across the table at her friend, grateful for the woman’s unwavering loyalty. “You’re biased, and we both know this, but I love you anyway.”

  “I love you, too.” Renee pointed a chunk of cake at Winnie. “Now, spill! If you weren’t cyberstalking the ex, what were you doing on the computer all night long?”

  “Figuring out a motive.” Winnie stretched her arms above her head and gave in to another yawn. “Think I found it, too.”

  “I’ve been telling you this all along, Winnie,” Renee said between nibbles. “Scream Queen wants you out of Daddy’s life—that’s the motive.”

  Swinging her leg over the bench, Winnie stood, only this time, instead of heading for the window, she motioned for Renee to follow her into the living room. “No, a motive for Sally Dearfield.”

  “You figured out why she was murdered?”

  “Not specific enough to know who just yet, but I’m pretty sure blackmail led to her demise.” With little more than a glance at the computer, Winnie sat down on the couch and propped her feet on the ottoman.

  Renee abandoned her empty juice glass and headed straight for the overstuffed armchair that doubled as one of Lovey’s favorite sleeping spots. “You think someone was blackmailing her?”

  “No. I think she was blackmailing them. All of them.”

  Throwing her leg over the armrest of the chair, Renee pinned Winnie with an inquisitive stare. “Because . . .”

  “Because of all the former alumni with special mention on the Charlton website, these five were the only ones who didn’t point to her as a reason for their success. And I do mean the only ones.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No. The alumni page highlights graduates who have gone on to work in their chosen art. Each one of those graduates has a pretty extensive bio on that page. There are probably thirty of them. And everyone but the five people who were in that room when Sally was murdered lavished praise on Sally in their bio—she encouraged them, she believed in them, she gave them confidence, et cetera, et cetera. But Ned, Abby, Colin, Todd, and George? Not so much as a word about Sally. And they’ve been successful. Quite successful, actually.”

  “Okay, so they slighted her. Big deal. Can’t she be happy about the other twenty-five people who did mention her? I mean twenty-five public attagirls sounds pretty good to me.”

  Winnie rested her head against the back of the couch and studied the tired-looking ceiling. As much as she hated to admit it, she needed to paint. Soon.

  “Winnie?”

  “Oh, sorry. The twenty-five-people thing . . .” She dipped her chin down until Renee was in her sight line once again. “I thought the same thing when I first figured out what was going on. But those five are likely the reason Sally didn’t win the Unsung Hero award this past spring.”

  “So?”

  “Apparently, it’s a pretty big deal. Like a national big deal.” Grabbing the throw pillow to her left, she hiked it onto her lap and hugged it to her chest. “Sally was actually one of two finalists who were flown to California for a big ceremony in March, I think. She lost to a custodian from an all-boys school in Oregon or someplace like that.”

  “That doesn’t mean she lost because those five didn’t mention her in their bios,” Renee protested across her impromptu fingernail inspection.

  “Maybe, maybe not. The school newspaper affiliated with the winner’s place of employment specifically called out the man’s unanimous mention by their alumni.” Aware of a brewing headache, Winnie kneaded at the area above her eyes and forced herself to take long, deep breaths. “And the reporter was right. Every single graduate featured on their noted alumni page mentioned this custodian. Every single one.”

  Renee picked at the third finger on her left hand and then dropped it back down to her lap. “So you think she lured them all here because she was ticked off?”

  “I do. And I think she used that whole ruse about the reality talent show as the way to get them here.”

  “Okay, so let me get this straight. You think one of them killed her because they realized she’d lied?” Renee asked. “Doesn’t that seem . . . I don’t know . . . excessive?”

  Winnie pulled her fingertips from her temples and shook her head. “The reality show was how she got them here. Whatever she was using to blackmail them with is how she got them to stay. Or, at least, that’s what makes the most sense so far.”

  “I must admit, I’m intrigued.” Renee clicked her tongue against the back of her teeth and, sure enough, Lovey’s head popped up. “I have a lap for you to sit on, Lovey.”

  “Let her sleep, Renee. We could get a rescue call any minute and then she’ll just be all cranky when you have to get up.”

  Renee stopped clicking and, instead, crinkled her left nostril at Winnie. “Okay, Miss Stick in the Mud, tell me your theory. What did she have on them—besides, of course, not pledging their undying love to her in a public forum?”

  “I don’t know. I still have to figure that part out.” She traced the piping around the edge of the pillow and then tossed it back onto the vacant cushion. “At least now I have a direction to go in, though.”

  “You do realize she’d have to have something pretty good on them to make them stay, right? I mean, why else wouldn’t they just get up and leave when the reason they came here in the first place turned out to be completely bogus?”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  Renee dropped her legs back down to the ground and rubbed her hands together in blatant anticipation. “So when do we start?”

  “Start? Start what?”

  “Digging.”

  Winnie grinned in spite of the headache that showed no sign of letting up. “How about tomorrow? At Ty’s party?”

  “You want to start with my mime?” Renee asked.

  “I’m game if you are.”

  The sudden yet insistent vibration of Winnie’s phone atop the kitchen table propelled Renee off the chair. A few feet from her destination, she turned and winked at Winnie. “You bring the desserts and I’ll supply the shovels.”

  Chapter 20

  With one eye on the clock and the other on the rolled dough she’d just set in the bottom of the tart tin, Winnie did her best to keep up with the volleying conversation between Renee and Mr. Nelson. But somewhere between the eyelash batting (Renee), bow tie straightening (Mr. Nelson), and eye rolling (Bridget), she was pretty sure she’d missed a few tidbits.

  Part of her wanted to request a rewind, but the other part of her—the part that had agreed to one more rescue before the end of the day—knew there would be time to get the skinny on Cornelia Wright and Harold Jenkins at a later time.

  For now, she just needed to finish the egg custard tartlets before four o’clock so she could be back in the kitchen preparing for Ty’s just-because party by five. If she was, she was confident the treat menu she and Renee had drafted during lunch would come together flawlessly.

  “Hey, I’m sorry, Winnie. I’m over here g
abbing away and you’re baking.” Renee took in her lower-than-normal neckline and hiked her summer top up just enough to shield her impressive cleavage from Mr. Nelson’s carefully manipulated vantage point. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “You could brush this egg I just beat onto the pastry and then put the tin in the fridge for a few minutes while I make the filling.” When Renee stood, Winnie moved on to the bowl with more waiting eggs and egg yolks. Flipping the hand mixer to its lowest setting, she added a bit of sugar while talking out the next few steps. “I need to warm the cream, pour it over this mixture, beat again, and then add a little vanilla.”

  Bridget tilted her chin toward the notepad she’d been writing in off and on all afternoon and peeked at Winnie across the top edge of her glasses. “My mother used to make egg custard. It was my father’s favorite treat.”

  “Did you enjoy it?” Winnie asked as she moved on to warming the cream.

  “My favorites always seemed to reflect theirs,” Bridget replied, tapping her pen atop the notepad as she did. “Do you put grated nutmeg on top of yours?”

  “I do.”

  Even from Winnie’s position at the island, there was no mistaking the slight fogging of her next-door neighbor’s glasses as the woman’s chin dipped still farther.

  “Bridget?”

  A handful of seconds ticked away before Bridget cleared her throat, removed her glasses from the bridge of her nose, and polished them with the hem of her floral housecoat. When the glasses passed inspection, they were returned to her face. “Yes, dear?”

  “Assuming the tartlets all come out of the oven the way they should, you can have the extra one.”

  Mr. Nelson leaned back in an attempt to catch another peek at Renee’s chest. When his efforts proved futile, he furrowed his brows at Winnie. “I thought I was your taste tester, Winnie Girl.”

  “You are, Mr. Nelson. But this is a recipe you approved last summer.”

  “It is?”

  “It sure is.” When the filling was ready, she took the tin back out of the refrigerator, sieved it onto the waiting pastry crust, and sprinkled grated nutmeg across the top. When it was ready, she slipped it onto the center rack of the preheated oven. “You had me make a whole new batch for you the next day.”

  “Then if I like ’em that much, why are you giving the extra to Bridget?”

  She pulled the towel from her apron’s waistband and wiped her hands free of all trace of residual flour. “You got to have some potato candy earlier, yes?”

  “What’s that got to do with it?” he groused.

  “Someone has to keep an eye on your sugar intake, and besides, it’s a connection to Bridget’s past. Let her have it.”

  Ever the peacemaker, Renee headed off any subsequent grousing by taking control of the conversation (with the help of her upper half). “Did you tell them what the name is?”

  “Name?” Winnie asked.

  “Of this rescue dessert.”

  “Oh. Right.” She gathered up the dirty bowls and flour board and passed them to Renee, who was standing by the sink with a sponge and dish soap in hand. “The caller wanted something for an employee at the hardware store who always smiles at him when he walks by the shop on the way to work each morning. He said that employee’s smile always helps start his day off right.”

  Bridget capped up her pen and pointed it at Winnie. “Wait. I think I can guess this one. Something about being a good egg, yes?”

  Winnie grinned. “Yup. You’re a Good Egg Custard Tartlets, to be exact.”

  “You’re so clever, dear.” Bridget tucked her notepad inside her purse and then turned her attention to the lemonade she’d requested upon arrival yet had failed to drink in any measurable fashion. “Someone calls with a problem and—poof!—you make a dessert perfect for the occasion. It’s quite magical, actually.”

  Mr. Nelson craned his neck until he was sure Renee was busy at the sink and then quietly removed his clip-on bow tie. Then, hooking his finger in Bridget’s direction, he winked at Winnie.

  Uh-oh.

  “You know that magic lesson I had yesterday, Winnie Girl? The one with that fella out at the retreat center?”

  She looked around wildly for a way to divert the joke grenade Mr. Nelson was obviously getting ready to toss at the eighty-year-old quietly sipping her lemonade, but there was nothing. Even Lovey wasn’t in her usual spot at the window. Before she could go hunting, though, Mr. Nelson broke out his infamous pot-stirring grin.

  Bracing herself for the moment of impact, Winnie sucked in her breath and waited.

  Mr. Nelson, of course, didn’t disappoint.

  “I asked him if he could teach me how to make someone disappear but, seeing as how Bridget is still sitting here, I think it’s safe to say I need a follow-up lesson.”

  Bridget lowered her lemonade glass back to the table, pursed her lips, and turned her best death glare in Mr. Nelson’s direction. “You need a lot more than a follow-up lesson in magic, Parker.”

  Sizzle . . .

  A snort of laughter from the sink sent Winnie scrambling for a diversion before Bridget could turn her angst on Renee. Before she could settle on a topic change though, Mr. Nelson cleared his throat and quietly put the pin back in the grenade. “Todd said something interesting yesterday when I asked him about his knowledge of magic.”

  “Oh?” Winnie noted the remaining time on the tartlets and took a moment to prepare the cooling racks atop the island. “And what was that?”

  “He said he likes altering perception. That he gets a charge out of it.”

  Renee shut off the faucet and reached for the dishcloth next to the sink. “Bob and I went to a magic show early in our marriage. He liked to pretend he knew how the tricks were done. But he didn’t.”

  “I’ve never been.”

  “Never been what, dear?” Bridget asked.

  Winnie shrugged. “To a magic show.”

  Mr. Nelson braced the floor with his cane and slowly rose to his feet, his eyes shining with excitement. “I can fix that, you know.”

  “Fix what, Mr. Nelson?” Winnie mentally counted down the final twenty seconds on the timer and crossed to the oven door. A peek inside confirmed the tartlets were done and she transferred them to the waiting racks. “The magic show thing?”

  “I may not be as good as Todd, yet, but I learned a few things yesterday that you might enjoy seeing.” Mr. Nelson turned, caned his way over to the front door, and then paused momentarily before heading downstairs to his own apartment. “I just need to get a few things together, but I’ll be ready by seven—eight, at the latest.”

  “You mean eight tonight?”

  Nodding, he switched his cane to the opposite hand and reached for the stairwell railing with the other. “We’ll do it out on the porch.”

  Renee shoved the now-dry mixing bowls into the cabinet and spun around, her eyes wide, her whisper fierce. “You’re baking for Ty’s party tonight, remember?”

  Winnie pulled her gaze from Renee’s and fixed it, instead, on Mr. Nelson as he began his descent. “Wait. Mr. Nelson? Can we—”

  “Prepare to be amazed, Winnie Girl.” And then, “Now I just need to find my top hat.”

  “You do that, Mr. Nelson . . .”

  At the telltale click of the man’s front door from the vestibule below, Winnie lifted her hand in the air, crossing-guard style. “Don’t say it. Please. How was I supposed to crush that?”

  “Like a bug, dear.” Bridget looped her purse strap around her shoulder and stood, her impending exit leading her to the door, as well. “It’s really the only way to deal with that man, or any man, for that matter.”

  Winnie listened as the elderly woman made her way down the steps and onto the front porch before grabbing her rescue bag and flinging it onto the counter next to the tartlets. “I know. I know. But don’
t worry, I’ll make Ty’s treats, I promise.”

  Silence filled the space between Winnie and Renee as they readied the bag and the dessert for the last rescue of the week. Then, when it was ready to go, Renee crossed to the table and the order pad containing the recipient’s address. “It’s on the other side of town. Not far from the soccer fields.”

  “Soccer fields. Got it.” Winnie commandeered the slip of paper from her friend, wiggled into her uniform jacket, and hiked the rescue bag onto her shoulder. “Lock up and head home. I know you’ve got stuff to do before the big day tomorrow. I can clean up the rest of this stuff when I get back.”

  “You mean between the baking you still have to do and the magic show you’ll be attending later this evening?” Renee quipped.

  “I’ll get it all done. I always do.”

  “I know you will, and I know you do.” Renee followed her to the door and planted a kiss on her cheek. “But still, I’ll finish cleaning up before I head out.”

  Winnie started to argue but stopped as her phone vibrated atop the key table. A glance at the screen yielded Jay’s name.

  “Winnie, you’ve gotta go.”

  “I know. I’ll put him on speaker and talk to him as I drive, if necessary.” She pulled the woman in for a quick hug and then bounded down the stairs, her phone at her ear. “Jay? You still there?”

  “I am.”

  “Good, I was afraid voice mail had kicked in.” At the bottom of the stairs, she repositioned the bag on her shoulder and headed onto the porch, the screen door smacking against its frame in her wake.

  “You sound like you’re on the move.”

  “Last rescue of the day.” She made her way down the steps and over to the ambulance, the pitter-patter of feet on the walkway at her back letting her know she wasn’t alone. “You’re a Good Egg Custard Tartlets.”

  His laugh resonated in her ears and warmed her from the inside out. “That’s clever.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Guess what?”

  She walked around the back of the rig and deposited the bag and the tartlets inside. “What?”