“You – you –” Dan seethed, “you loosened the bolts on purpose to trick me!”
“I had to,” Stella stated blandly. “I needed to see your reaction when you realized that you may have left behind incriminating evidence.”
“Well, you got it alright. So what now? I suppose you’re going to hand that key over to the police.”
“Not if you tell me what you were doing in Morehouse’s room.”
“I don’t get it. What’s your angle?”
“No angle. Meagan asked me to look into the circumstances surrounding Philip’s and Arthur’s deaths. She and I both believe that they are somehow connected.”
“I would tend to agree, but why not leave it to the police?”
“We are allowing the police to do their job while running our own concurrent private investigation. I think we can all agree that the Cavalcade’s reputation must be protected.”
Dan had calmed down significantly since his prior outburst. “Yes, of course. Especially now that it’s a legacy for Mark and Meagan to inherit. Arthur’s murder has already caused enough damage.”
“Precisely. And, although the local police appear to be honest and thorough, we can’t expect them to always have the Cavalcade’s best interest at heart,” she added. “With that said, would you care to tell me what happened last night?”
“I went to bed, like everyone else. I slept scarcely a wink last night – first because of that racket outside your bedroom, and then because I was agonizing over what to do. As I said earlier, I wasn’t angry with Philip, but I was disappointed. Bitterly disappointed. I had known Phil all my life and I never received one ounce of his or Cavalcade support for my endeavors. It was almost as if he used our lifelong friendship as an excuse for reverse nepotism. Whenever I asked for assistance, Phil would often tell me that he needed to be seen as ‘fair’ by the other Creators.”
“That’s why his dedication to the HALLE project hurt so much,” Dan continued. “Not only was Phil consumed by the project and poured Cavalcade money into it, but I found out from Mark Rousseau that Phil had contributed his own money to it as well.”
“That must have hurt,” Stella noted.
“It did. That’s why I couldn’t sleep last night. I kept playing over and over in my mind all the times Phil could have stepped in to help bring my act nationwide, but didn’t. By five thirty this morning, I couldn’t take it any more. I figured Phil would be awake since he rarely slept the morning of the first day of Cavalcade, so I put on my clothes and went down the hall to his quarters. When I arrived, I was surprised to find that the door was slightly ajar.”
“The door to his bedroom or the main door to his quarters?”
“The main door that separated Phil’s quarters from the rest of the house. The one with the keypad lock. I didn’t have the code, of course, so I’d always do the first part of the cheesy ‘shave-and-a-haircut’ knock, Phil would answer with the second part and then let me in. But not this morning,” Dan frowned.
“When you saw the door was open, did it signify to you that either you or Philip might be in danger?”
“Danger? No. I admit that my mind did briefly travel to last night’s tent-slashing incident, and, for a moment, I was scared. But I dismissed that thought pretty quick. It seemed more likely that Phil had fallen ill in the middle of the night and had tried to summon help from someone in the household. I worried that I might find him in his office, collapsed, or lying nearby gasping for air. I didn’t think about danger; I just knew I had to check on Phil.”
“And you did,” Stella spurred the monologue.
“I did and Phil wasn’t in his office. He wasn’t lying on the floor collapsed,” Dan began to sob. “He was in bed, the covers pulled to his chin, and I… I leaned down to make sure he was breathing. He wasn’t.”
Stella leaned forward and leaned her head upon her hands. “And that’s when the Allen key fell out of your pocket. But why did you leave Morehouse there and say nothing at all? Why did you pretend it never happened?”
Dan leaned back in his chair, tears streaming from his eyes. “Because after the scene I made at dinner last night, I’m not sure anyone would believe I didn’t kill him.”
“I appear to be missing something, because the police seem to put Philip’s death down to a heart attack, not murder.”
“But it was murder,” Dan affirmed. “It had to be. It’s the only explanation. If Phil had any say-so in the matter, he would never have died the morning of the Cavalcade. Not without a fight. But he didn’t fight; his blankets were pristine. Pristine. That wasn’t Phil. It simply wasn’t Phil.”
Chapter Eleven
Chef Durand welcomed Stella with a warm greeting and ushered her into the sitting area of his oversized bedroom. A man of propriety, he quickly added, “Unless, Madame Buckley, you’d feel more comfortable downstairs in the parlor or the dining room.”
“No, this is fine. The more privacy, the better. So, no Cavalcade for you today, Chef?”
“No, the ice cream is not very popular in this weather. I also wanted to stick close to Mademoiselle McArdle should she need anything. Please, have a seat.”
Stella selected a carved walnut Bergere chair and perched precariously upon the dark blue needlepoint cushion, taking care not to allow the damp portions of her jeans and sweater to come in contact with the delicate upholstery. As if sensing his guest’s discomfort, Durand immediately appeared from the other end of the room bearing both a towel and a small glass of cognac.
“Thank you,” Stella said graciously as she stood up, wrapped the towel around her shoulders and torso, and politely passed on the cognac. “It’s a bit early in the day for me, I think.”
“Too early? Madame Buckley, your statement makes me very glad to be French for we do not have such rules and regulations governing our intake of wine, cream, coffee, cheese, and exceptionally fine cognac, especially on a cold wet day spent outdoors investigating the discovery of not one, but two, corpses.”
“Point well taken, Chef Durand,” Stella accepted the cognac with a grin. As the chef returned to the bar cart to pour himself a glass, Stella eased back into the Bergere chair and admired her surroundings. With its chalk white moldings, black marble fireplace mantel, silk window draperies, rows of French paintings, and color palette of gray, taupe, and smoky blue, the room would have been just as at home on the Left Bank of the Seine as it was in a nineteenth century mansion in the mountains. “So, given your comment about my investigation, someone must have filled you in about my detective activities this weekend.”
“Yes,” Durand answered as he took up residence on the silver damask settee adjacent to Stella’s chair, “Meagan told me that she believes Philip was murdered and that you have agreed to help her prove that her theory is correct.”
“Not entirely. I’ll also prove her theory incorrect, should that happen to be the case.”
“I am relieved to hear this, since I am not sure that Mademoiselle McArdle realizes the trouble she might be causing for herself.”
“Trouble? Are you saying that you don’t believe Philip Morehouse was murdered?”
“This is a difficult question for me,” Durand sighed. “As a chef, I create food which both provides for and enhances human life. It is, therefore, extremely difficult for me to believe that anyone would or could take actions to extinguish that human life, whether it be their own or that of another.”
“So you’re saying that no one here at the Cavalcade could have sunk as low as to murder another human being.”
“No, what I said is that I cannot imagine it. However, the world has shown me many things in my lifetime that I, alas, could not imagine happening,” he frowned. “And there are some here who had, as you Americans would say, an axe to grind with how Philip handled the business affairs of the Cavalcade. Those are the people who make me worry for Mademoiselle McArdle should she start casting allegations. With poor Philip gone, there will be no buffer between she and those Creators, s
hould they decide to act… like something less than Creators.”
With this remark, Durand got up and, grabbing Stella’s glass, poured them both another glass of cognac.
“I thought I was only drinking it to ward off a chill,” Stella noted.
“The first glass was medicinal,” Durand advised. “The second is so that you can savor the cognac.”
“And possibly forget about the investigation?” she asked, half-joking.
“I would not object if such an event were to occur,” he chuckled. “However, that was not my intent.”
“Thank you,” she murmured as Durand passed her a full snifter of cognac and returned to his spot on the settee. “These ‘people’ who may react badly to Meagan’s investigation – would you care to share their names?”
“I am not one to point the accusatory finger, Madame, but I believe you can name one of them yourself.”
“Aurora Marici,” she guessed.
“Oui,” Durand confirmed. “Madame Marici already treats Mademoiselle McArdle in the most disrespectful manner. Should this investigation cast the shadow of suspicion on Madame Marici, I think it is safe to say that she would become even more acrimonious.”
“This hostility of hers, what’s the cause of it? Why does Aurora seem to have it in for Meagan?”
“The sexual jealousy, I think. Philip met Aurora in Milan a few years back. What transpired there between them, I do not know, nor do I wish to, but the result was that Aurora joined the Cavalcade. All was fine at first and she and Meagan became fast friends, but all that changed once Meagan and Philip began their romance.”
“Do you think that sexual jealousy could have been a motive for murder?”
“You are asking me to look into the heart and soul of another human being and tell you what evil might lurk there.” Durand shook his head and took a sip of brandy, “I am not sure I can do that. What I can tell you is that Madame Marici can have a very bad temper at times, especially if things do not go just the way she wants. Apart from that, I cannot say.”
“Philip’s reluctance to serve on Marici’s Board of Directors could be viewed as ‘not going just the way she wanted,’ couldn’t it?” Stella pondered aloud.
“Yes, I suppose it could. But again, we are speculating about the end results.”
“Can you think of anyone else who may have had reason to want either Philip Morehouse or Arthur Bauersfeld dead?”
“No. Bauersfeld was quiet, kept to himself. He was a man devoted to his work and his wife. As for Philip, he had made some interesting decisions regarding Cavalcade funding recently, but I don’t think that would be a motive.”
“What sort of decisions?” Stella sipped her cognac and pretended that she had not discussed the same subject with the Salvage Guy minutes earlier.
Durand drew a large sip of cognac from his glass and considered his reply. “Life is like a good diet: balance is needed for all functions of the body to work properly. Philip had recently fallen out of balance. He had adopted a steady diet of robotics while ignoring the other nutritious offerings growing right under his own roof.”
“Would these ‘nutritious offerings’ have included a recipe of yours?”
“Oui, a restaurant that combined molecular gastronomy with the culinary heritage of my homeland, but everyone here has their projects and ideas.”
Recalling that the Salvage Guy had an occasion to procure some of Durand’s old pots and pans, Stella asked: “What happened to the restaurant?”
“I found some other backers for the project and we opened for a time, but we could not sustain and, alors, eventually we closed.”
“If Philip had given you his backing –” Stella began, but the chef quickly interrupted.
“Would we still be open? I cannot answer that, but it would have made it more likely, yes,” Durand answered impatiently. “However, that was not my reason for saying that Philip’s life was out of balance. He was focused on HALLE to the exclusion of everything else, including his relationship with Mademoiselle Meagan.”
Stella took a slow sip of her cognac before speaking again; she did not wish to anger the Frenchman. “Forgive me for saying so, but you seem to possess a great deal of tenderness for Meagan McArdle.”
“She is a friend. That is all. I admire and respect her dedication to the Cavalcade and its Creators,” he quickly defended.
“And before Philip entered the scene you never entertained the possibility of there being something more?”
“Evidently, you have been speaking with some of my fellow Creators,” Durand flashed a subtle smile.
“I have. But, like you, I prefer not to mention names.” Stella mirrored Durand’s smile.
“Then there is no use disputing it. Yes, for a while I did – how do you say? – ‘fancy’ Mademoiselle Meagan. It was just a fantasy caused by the imagination of an old man. A pipe dream.”
“I don’t know that I’d call it a pipe dream. Philip Morehouse was the same age as you are, if not older. If Meagan fell for him, who’s to say she wouldn’t or couldn’t have fallen for you. If Philip were out of the way, that is.”
“I understand what you are implying, Madame Buckley. Although my countrymen have a certain reputation, especially here in the States, I assure you that I did not kill one of my dearest friends for the sake of l’amour. Be it l’amour for a woman, a restaurant, or otherwise.” Durand swigged back the last of his cognac and placed his glass on a nearby end table with a loud clank. “Now, will there be anything else?”
“Just one thing: can you recount how you spent the time after dinner until the time Morehouse’s body was found?”
“Certainment. I went upstairs to get ready for bed. I share a bathroom with Dan and Monsieur Carlson and was fortunate enough to claim, how do you say, ‘first dibs’ on the facilities. So, I brushed my teeth, washed my face – all those things one does before retiring – and then went to my room. I heard nothing and did not awaken except for one time, when I believe your husband was investigating a loose shutter. Does this explanation satisfy you?”
“Yes, thank you, Chef.”
“Very well. And now, if that is all, I need to assess the kitchen. Helen will not step near the house since getting word of Arthur and Philip. And the police prohibited anyone to go out to purchase ingredients, so for tonight’s dinner, I am, in a sense, a contestant on a cooking channel game show. And so, I bid you adieu.”
Chapter Twelve
Stella left Chef Durand’s quarters and was surprised to immediately meet Nick, who was on the way to their room.
“What’s going on?” she asked. “Is the Cavalcade over already?”
“For today it is,” Nick replied. “Mark Rousseau shut us down. Not enough traffic he said.”
“What do you think? Was he right?”
“About the traffic, yes. I’ve had a just a handful of people in my tent all day. About closing up early, no. The Creators are already here, the tents in place, the Cavalcade pronounced as open – I think we should just go on with the show. To do otherwise makes it seem as if we’re either incapable of continuing Philip’s work or, worse, that the fair is no longer a safe family environment.”
“After all of Morehouse’s hard work, that would be a shame. I’m sure he would have wanted Meagan and Mark to run the Cavalcade together.”
“I’m sure he would have,” Nick agreed. “So, how’s the investigation going?”
“Productive. I’ve just finished talking to Chef Durand.”
“Oh yeah? Any new leads?”
“Let’s just say that I may have to limit myself to bread and water at dinner tonight.”
Nick raised a questioning eyebrow.
Stella glanced around the hallway nervously. “I’ll tell you later. Right now, I’m going to see Aurora.”
“Good luck with that. She’s in quite the mood. Last I saw her, she was furious that Mark cancelled her classes for the day.”
“Didn’t anyone show up for them?”
<
br /> “Yeah, they did. I’d say about two thirds of the kids enrolled backed out, but she still would have been left with one reasonably decent sized class. Still, when the kids got checked-in, Mark told their parents that, due to Philip’s death, all classes were being pushed to tomorrow. He offered a discount to the parents if they rescheduled. Needless to say, not everyone who enrolled for today is free tomorrow, so Aurora lost quite a few students.”
“Why would Rousseau do such a thing?”
“I don’t know. It doesn’t make sense. Parents pay a tidy sum to get their kids enrolled in Cavalcade specialty classes. To cancel them at the last minute is like… like flushing money down a drain.”
“That’s a pretty lousy metaphor,” Stella noted.
“That’s because the situation is so ridiculous, I can’t liken it to anything I’ve ever experienced. My mind just draws a blank.”
Stella’s mind, however, was anything but empty. The Salvage Guy mentioned that he suspected someone of sabotaging the Cavalcade. Was Mark Rousseau the source of these suspicions?
“Well, I’ll let you get back to the case, honey. I’m going to change out of these wet things.” Nick gave his wife a quick kiss before heading off to their room.
Stella made her way down the hall to Aurora Marici’s room where, upon finding the door wide open, she stuck her head inside to see the designer curled up on a tufted Turkish style settee before a roaring fire, a wool afghan draped over her legs.
A demitasse cup was in her right hand. In her left hand, a pen furiously jotted notes in a leather bound journal.
Stella cleared her throat loudly before tapping on the open door. “Beg pardon, Signora Marici. Are you free?”
Aurora bolted upright, nearly upsetting her coffee. “Si, Signora Buckley! So very happy to see you.” As she rose from the sofa, she placed her demitasse cup on an adjacent end table and extended her now-vacant right hand in welcome.
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