by Laura Durham
I pulled my phone out. “Wouldn’t I?”
“You’re evil,” Richard grumbled. “I’m starting to think you may be the murderer after all.”
Chapter 20
“I’m surprised you didn’t leave Butterscotch with Leatrice. They seemed to take to each other,” I said as we made our way up Wisconsin Avenue towards Pastries by Philippe. As one of two main arteries running through Georgetown, the street was a long series of row houses that held boutique businesses and restaurants. Everything from trendy day spas that filled the air with the scent of eucalyptus to shops selling shiny men’s suits with even shinier salesmen standing out front dispensing compliments and slick smiles to lure in customers.
Richard dodged a salesman in a double-breasted suit. “Are you out of your mind?” Butterscotch’s brown-and-black head poked out the front corner of the bag and bobbed along with every step, his tiny black nose sniffing the air. “You’ve seen the way she dresses. She would have dressed the dog up in some sort of ridiculous costume, and then he would have refused to take it off.”
Leatrice had insisted on taking Butterscotch out of his bag and rubbing his belly while Richard and I had discussed our strategy for visiting Philippe. We hadn’t come up with much beyond asking the baker questions—my suggested questions were more pointed than Richard’s—but Leatrice and Butterscotch had bonded.
I glanced at Richard out of the side of my eye. “You do know this is a dog, not a toddler.”
Richard flicked a strand of hair off his forehead. “He requires constant supervision, he isn’t toilet trained, and he drools when he sleeps. I fail to see the difference.”
I reached back and rubbed my finger under Butterscotch’s chin, and he licked my hand appreciatively. “I think he suits you. I’ve always thought the one accessory you were missing was a purse dog and now you have one.”
Richard glanced down at the dog, muttered something unintelligible under his breath, and took a couple of long strides to pass me.
“Here it is.” I stopped in front of a brick townhouse tucked between a nail salon and a custom seamstress with a dusty mannequin in the window. Pastries by Philippe boasted a bright yellow door and black-wire window boxes spilling forth with brightly colored flowers. A towering croquembouche, a pyramid of profiteroles held together with a cage of pink spun sugar, took center stage in the picture window, flanked by two small wedding cakes.
Richard gestured to the tower of cream puffs. “And there are the profiteroles that your bride panned online. Front and center.”
“Ready?” I asked, squaring my shoulders and tugging the front of my pink button-down shirt to straighten it. Even though I wasn’t in a suit, my slim-fit black pants and silk shirt were freshly dry-cleaned and unwrinkled, so I considered the outfit a win.
Richard looked at Butterscotch and held up a finger. “Best behavior, young man.” The dog gave Richard’s finger a quick lick and disappeared into the bag. Richard sighed and reached for his antibacterial gel while I watched and waited, tapping my foot on the sidewalk.
When Richard had sufficiently disinfected himself, I pushed open the door to the shop and a bell rang above us. The scent of sugar and butter surrounded me, giving me a slight head rush and prompting my stomach to growl. The shop was as yellow as its door and boasted bright walls, a glass pastry case that spanned the length of the right side, and white cafe tables with matching wire chairs dotting the rest of the room.
“Hello,” I called out.
A man emerged from the back in a pair of black jeans and a baggy white linen shirt; the sleeves were rolled up to reveal arms roped with muscles and covered in a swirl of dark tattoos. His brown hair curled down past the collar of his shirt, and it was easy to imagine him on the cover of a romance novel with said shirt ripped open. “Bonjour.”
“He-llo,” Richard said under his breath, and I elbowed him. At least Kate wasn’t with me. She would have been completely useless in the presence of such an attractive man.
“Are you Philippe?” I asked.
The man nodded as he gave us the once-over, probably trying to determine if we were an engaged couple or not.
“I’m Annabelle Archer, and this is Richard Gerard.”
Philippe’s eyes registered recognition, and he looked at Richard. “The caterer?”
“The one and only.” Richard gave a mock bow.
The baker picked up a pad of paper from the nearby counter. “You want to order for your parties?”
“Maybe.” Richard glanced at the contents of the long glass case. Perfect éclairs sat in rows beside tiny fruit tartlets that glistened in the light, and French macarons in a rainbow of colors were arranged on ceramic cake stands. “Can you do miniature palmiers?”
I cleared my throat and gave Richard a pointed look. We were not here to shop, even though the display of pastries looked and smelled heavenly. “Do you make all the wedding cakes for the Hay-Adams Hotel?
Philippe shrugged as if it was a matter barely worth mentioning. “Oui.” He looked at the two of us again, studying us closely for a moment. “You two get married there?”
I waved my hands in front of me, laughing nervously. “No, no, no, no, no. We’re not getting married there. We’re not getting married at all. What I mean is we’re not together.” I realized I was babbling. “We’re just friends.”
Richard let out a huff. “You could do a lot worse, you know.”
Great. Now I’d hurt his feelings. I saw Philippe’s eyebrows dart up as he put the pad of paper back on the counter. He’d probably witnessed his share of lovers’ spats but maybe not one quite like this.
“You know I didn’t mean it like that,” I whispered to Richard to mollify him. “If I had to pick anyone right now, it would be you.”
Come to think of it, Richard was the most consistent and loyal man in my life. Not to mention the fact that he was a successful business owner, a sharp dresser, and a great cook. He was right. I could do a lot worse.
Richard darted a glance at me then reached out and squeezed my arm. “You’re forgiven.”
“Do you want to order a wedding cake or no?” Philippe asked. He’d taken a seat at one of the bistro tables and crossed his legs, looking extremely bored with us.
“Actually, no,” I said. “We wanted to ask you about a wedding cake you made this past weekend.” Philippe’s face didn’t change expression so I continued. “For a wedding at the Hay-Adams. You designed it to look like the Eiffel Tower. But a smaller version.”
“I think that’s a given,” Richard said.
I ignored his comment and made a mental decision not to marry him after all.
“I remember,” Philippe said. “The tower lattice I made in gold.”
“Exactly,” I said. We’d decided that doing a cake in the actual color of the Eiffel Tower—gunmetal-gray—would be hideous. “Do you happen to remember who the cake was for?”
Philippe leaned back in his chair. “The names of the bride and groom? No. I don’t need to know names to create a masterpiece.”
Oh, boy. “But the names are on the order you get from the hotel, right?” I pressed.
“Maybe. But it doesn’t matter to me. I’m not making a birthday cake.” He waved one hand in the air. “I don’t write the names on the top in blue icing.”
I could see Richard nodding out of the corner of my eye, but I wasn’t ready to give up yet. “So you had no idea that the bride was Tricia Toker?”
“No,” he answered without missing a beat.
“Do you happen to have the cake order from last weekend?” I asked.
He sighed loudly, rose, and went to the counter, reaching underneath and pulling out a stack of papers. He flipped through them and found the one he’d been searching for then walked back and handed it to me before sitting down. I scanned the paper, ignoring the cake description and sketch at the bottom, and saw the bride’s name as well as the groom’s in a box in the top corner with their billing address directly below. So he did
know where they lived and, conveniently, it was only a few blocks away from his bakery.
Richard peered over my shoulder. “I need to get the name of his sketch artist.”
“The sketches, they are mine.” Philippe flipped his hair off his shoulder.
“Really?” Richard took the paper from me. “You’re very good.”
I snatched the paper from Richard and scowled at him.
“What?” He gave me a sheepish look.
I turned back to Philippe. “The name Tricia Toker doesn’t ring a bell? Or, should I say, username?” I focused on the baker’s face for any flicker of recognition, but there was none. I decided to go for broke. “Would you be surprised to know that the bride from last weekend was the same person who trolled you online last year for your profiteroles?”
Philippe sat up. “The one who said they were dry and tasteless?”
“The very same,” I said. “You were pretty upset when she wrote those reviews and called her some choice names in your response.”
“Because she doesn’t know the first thing about French pastry. Not that it is surprising for an American.” His eyes flicked to us. “No offense.”
“None taken,” Richard said. Butterscotch wedged his head out the back end of the messenger bag, and Richard angled the bag behind him so it remained out of Philippe’s view.
Philippe stood, his chair scraping loudly against the floor and nearly toppling over. “What? Now does she want to say my cake was dry?”
“Well, no,” I said. “She didn’t mention the cake.”
“Then why are you here? You ask about the cake. I tell you. You want to discuss old reviews? Fine. We discuss.”
I took a breath and plowed forward. “Did you want to get revenge on Tricia Toker for those bad reviews?”
“Revenge?” Philippe laughed. “I don’t understand. By making her a gorgeous wedding cake?”
“By killing her,” I said.
Philippe backed away from me. “Killing her?”
“She was shot at her home not far from here.” I held up the paper. “And you knew her address.”
The baker slashed his hands through the air in front of himself. “That is absurd. I never met the woman. And to kill a person over a review? No. I am an artist. I create, not destroy.” He stalked to the back of the shop, and I heard a door slam.
“Do you think he’s telling the truth?” I asked Richard.
Richard drummed his fingers across his lips. “I can’t tell. He could be covering up the fact that he did it, or it could just be that he’s French. The accent’s throwing me off.”
“And the fact that he looks like Fabio?”
“Oh, girl,” Richard slid his bag around so Butterscotch faced front, his glossy nose twitching as he took in the rich scent of French pastry. “He’s much better looking than Fabio.”
“Very helpful,” I said, my tone telling Richard that it was not. I felt my phone vibrating through my purse and took it out.
“Hi, Leatrice,” I said. “What’s up?”
“I had to tell you as soon as I found out.” She sounded out of breath but it could have been excitement. “My hacker team did a little research on the neighbor, Effing Frank. His real name is Ferguson, and he works in security for a big company in Virginia.”
“Okay,” I said, wondering what was so earth shattering about this.
“And the bride’s friend was right. He is a gun guy. He’s a member of the NRA and has been for twenty years.”
“Interesting,” I said.
“Even more interesting?” Leatrice said. “When your detective went to talk to him earlier, he was gone.”
“Gone?” I asked, feeling a tingle of excitement.
“Not at home and not at work. He called in sick. He’s been out since the day of Tricia’s murder. Reese filed a report that said so.”
I felt a twinge of regret that Leatrice’s hackers were still hacking into the police system, but I also felt pleased that Reese had followed up on the lead I gave him so quickly. “Good work, Leatrice. If this guy had something to do with shooting Tricia and Dave, he may be lying low or on the run. Did Reese’s report mention how they’re following up on him? Are they staking out his house in case he returns?”
“The report doesn’t mention anything.”
I heard the beep that indicated someone else was calling in, and I held the phone away from my ear so I could read the name on the screen. I blinked a few times, not quite believing my eyes.
“I’ve got to go, Leatrice. Someone is calling me on the other line.”
Leatrice hung up, but I didn’t switch over to the new call right away.
Richard glanced at my face then at my phone. “Who is it?”
“You’re not going to believe this, but it’s the groom.”
“The one who got shot?”
“The very same,” I said. I’d asked him to call me if he remembered anything about the attack, but I hadn’t actually thought he’d contact me. I wondered if he’d remembered something or if he was calling to tell me off for spilling the beans about his wife being shot. I stared down at the phone, too nervous to answer.
Chapter 21
“Why is the groom calling you?” Richard asked as we stepped out of the bakery and onto the sidewalk, the scent of sugar dissipating into the air as we shut the glass door behind us. Both he and Butterscotch stared at me intently.
I decided not to tell Richard that the two of them had the same expression. I didn’t think my friend was one of those people who would welcome the fact that he shared certain characteristics with his dog. Or, in this case, his boyfriend’s dog. I glanced back at the phone as the voice mail notification window popped up then vanished. “No idea but he left a message.”
Richard arranged the flap of his black bag so it nearly covered Butterscotch’s head, but the dog wiggled his head out again. “I don’t like this one bit.”
“Which part?” I asked, pressing the icon on my phone to listen to the message. “Being a dog nanny or being sucked into this murder investigation.”
Richard glared at me. “I’m going to let the first one slide. But regarding this investigation, I have not been sucked into it. I’ve been dragged kicking and screaming.”
I held up one finger and pressed the other to my ear to try to block out the noise of the passing traffic while I listened to the groom’s message. Then I dropped the phone back into my purse. “He wants me to come to the hospital. He says he has some new information that might be connected to Tricia’s murder.”
“Why is he calling you?” Richard tucked his bag under his arm as we walked down Wisconsin Avenue, Butterscotch leaning out the front of the bag as he tried to sniff the passing pedestrians. “Shouldn’t he tell this to the police? Why doesn’t anyone I know ever go to the police?”
“Maybe he finds me more trustworthy than the police,” I said. “I did ask him to contact me if he thought of anything. Maybe it isn’t a big thing, and he feels silly bothering the detective.”
Richard ignored a pair of preteen girls making googly eyes at the dog in his bag. “Didn’t you accidentally spill the beans about his wife being shot?”
“Accidentally being the operative word. I’m sure he’s over that by now but, of course, I’ll tell him how awful I feel that I was the one to let it slip.”
“Wait a second.” Richard clutched my arm and brought us both to a full stop. “You’re aren’t seriously considering going to see him, are you?”
I shook Richard’s hand off and kept walking. “It would be rude to ignore a client who’s asking for help.”
Richard ran a few steps to catch up. “A former client. And it is not considered rude to follow the directives of the DC police department and stop meddling in this case.”
“I think you’re being overdramatic.”
When am I ever dramatic?” Richard shifted his grip on the black bag and Butterscotch gave his hand a lick. “Oh, for the love of God, it’s licked me again. Where�
�s my antibacterial hand gel?”
“Dog saliva won’t hurt you.” I paused at the corner while Richard tried to rummage through the outside pocket of his bag without getting licked again. I rubbed Butterscotch’s head. “Just ignore him. He’s harmless.”
Richard squirted some pale pink gel in his hands and sighed. “I’m trying.”
“I was talking to the dog.” I raised my hand to flag down a cab.
Richard eyed the yellow cab as it slowed in front of us. “You really can’t make it the few blocks back to your apartment building?”
“I’m not going to my apartment. I thought we’d go to Georgetown Hospital since we’re out already and only a few blocks away.” I opened the taxi door. “Are you coming?”
“I still say you should let Detective Reese handle this.” Richard shook his head.
“So that’s a yes?” I got in the cab and leaned my head out.
Richard motioned for me to slide over and put his bag with Butterscotch on the car seat next to me before he got in. “Only to make sure you don’t get in even bigger trouble.”
I gave the cab driver our destination then turned to watch Richard holding the black bag up to the window, the little dog letting his tongue hang out as the car accelerated and the wind blew in his face. “Does Butterscotch need a view?”
“The dog gets car sick if he can’t look out the window.”
“Have you and Butterscotch taken a lot of car trips together?” I asked.
Richard made a face at me. “I was given a list.”
“A list?”
“Of things to remember about the dog. As if I’d forget to feed him without written instructions.”
I thought there was a decent chance Richard would forget to feed him if he wasn’t reminded. Or that he’d try to feed him tarragon chicken salad cups and individual carrot soufflés. We drove through the narrow streets of Georgetown and around double-parked cars until we arrived at the entrance to the redbrick hospital. The square building had been expanded with more modern buildings that spread out behind it, but the main entrance still had an old-school feel.