by Meera Lester
Abby slid into the driver’s seat of her Jeep.
“Choir practice later?” Kat called out.
Kat had used their secret code for “drink after work.” Abby knew that if Otto overheard their plans for a drink, he would insist on joining them. She didn’t mind Otto so much. He seemed starved for company, in spite of being married. His wife was the West Coast regional director of an ambulance company and was gone more than she was home. Otto hung out mostly with Bernie, the annoying skirt chaser who worked in the evidence room. When those guys swilled more than a couple of beers, they turned into Village Idiot One and Two. They unabashedly flirted with the usual barflies and the more respectable ladies, who would just laugh at them as the men one-upped each other with stupid pickup lines.
Abby cringed as she recalled one Saint Patrick’s Day when some of her fellow officers had finished their shifts and met up at the Black Witch for green beer. Bernie and Otto had shown up, too. She had let Bernie convince her to join him for a new dance step he’d learned. She only had to hold out her arm straight and steady, with her fingers locked with his. Abby hadn’t been too sure she believed Bernie’s story about recently taking Argentine tango lessons, but she’d reluctantly complied. More like a teenager instead of a fourteen-year veteran of the police force, Bernie had awkwardly twirled himself in, blocked her leg, lost his balance, and crashed, taking her down with him.
Disentangling her legs from his beefy body and searching for the shoe that had flow off her foot when she hit the floor, Abby had winced at the laughter of the patrons and had hissed at Bernie, “Never again.” Never.
“So whaddya say?” Kat asked.
“You buying?”
“My turn?” Kat grinned.
“Yep,” Abby replied, handing her a sprig of lavender from the tied bunch lying on the passenger seat. “It clears the nose when you’ve had to smell something unpleasant, like a dead body.”
“Why, thank you. So about tonight . . . my shift ends at seven . . . half hour to get to the cottage. What say we review the crime-scene images after we eat? I’ll make sandwiches.”
“Sounds good.” Abby turned the key in the ignition. “Oh, and I’ll be interested in what you find on the surveillance camera behind the faux ivy that was on the baker’s rack. The plastic cup that fell off the rack is still there. Smells of booze.”
Pulling away, Abby glanced in the rearview mirror to see Kat racing back into the pastry shop. She hoped that the video had the killer’s mug on it or something else that could point the investigation in the right direction.
Honey-Almond Madeleines
Ingredients:
3 large egg whites, at room temperature
1 cup powdered sugar, sifted
½ cup unbleached all-purpose flour, sifted
cup finely ground blanched almonds
6 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened (almost melted),
plus extra for greasing 2 madeleine baking tins
1 tablespoon honey
Directions:
Preheat the oven to 400°F. Grease 2 madeleine baking tins with butter.
In a large stainless-steel or copper bowl, beat the egg whites to soft peaks. Add the powdered sugar and beat the whites to stiff peaks. Gently fold the flour and almonds into the whites in 4 additions.
In a small bowl, combine the butter and honey and mix well. Gently fold the honey butter into the almond–egg white mixture.
Spoon the batter into the prepared molds, filling them about two-thirds full. Bake for 8 to 10 minutes, or until the outer edges of the madeleines are golden brown.
Remove the madeleines from the oven and allow them to cool in the tins for 5 minutes. Then remove them from the molds and arrange them on a wire rack to cool completely.
Makes 3 dozen cookies
Chapter 3
To get stronger eggshells, feed your chickens extra calcium.
—Henny Penny Farmette Almanac
Kat’s cottage squatted behind a three-story Victorian with ornate gingerbread trim and a large wraparound porch with a swing. Unlatching the iron side gate, Abby swung it open and followed the gray stone walkway through drifts of silver maiden grass leaning over a low-growing row of mounding native violets. The scent of wild hedge roses and eucalyptus tinged the air with a spicy pungency that Abby loved.
She hadn’t done a whole lot of socializing after leaving the force, that is, until Clay entered her life. But even he preferred nights in—cooking together and dancing through the unfinished kitchen—to dining out. After he left, friends had accused Abby of becoming a hermit. Tonight, it felt rather nice to slip into a girly dress and stylish heels for a change. But each precarious step on the gray paving stones tested Abby’s ability to steer the two-inch silver pencil heels of her taupe-colored Anne Kleins away from the cracks.
After limping to the red door with the brass kick plate and antique Victorian knocker, Abby leaned against it and removed her high heels. Holding them with two fingers of one hand, she tucked her clutch bag under her arm and raised the fist-shaped striker. The knocker was one of Kat’s prized flea market finds.
She banged the striker twice.
“I’m in the kitchen,” Kat called out.
Abby pushed open the heavy oak door, then entered the living room and dropped her heels next to Kat’s steel-toed duty boots. The cottage’s cozy interior, its biscuit-colored walls and soft furnishings in muted hues, offered a warm—and eclectic—charm. Though she was a twenty-eight-year-old, Kat surrounded herself with old things found at white elephant sales, antique and consignment shops, architectural salvage yards, and, of course, flea markets. Finding unusual items from bygone eras was an interest that she and Abby shared.
Sinking into a cushion of Kat’s saddleback couch, Abby opened her clutch to remove the thumb drive containing the crime-scene photos. She stood, dropped her clutch on the couch, slipped the thumb drive into her pocket, and maneuvered through the cramped space between an accent chair, covered in needlepoint embroidery depicting young lovers surrounded by turtledoves, and a mahogany tea table, its doily-covered surface crowded with assorted china pieces. Passing the ornate floor lamp with way too much fringe hanging from its rose silk shade, she quickly gazed beyond the arched doorway and trained her eyes on the modest-size kitchen, where Kat was busily arranging sandwiches on a platter.
“Something smells good.”
“French onion soup,” Kat replied, grabbing a spoon to stir the steaming pot on the back burner. “Nothing fancy . . . just takeout from Whole Eats. I didn’t have time to make the real deal.” After putting down the spoon, Kat reached for the lid of the deli mustard jar and screwed it in place. She opened the refrigerator, and placed the jar on a shelf of the door. “Iced tea okay?” she asked, removing the pitcher.
“Sure,” Abby replied, lifting up one small square of crustless bread on a sandwich from the platter on the table and examining the spread under it.
“Chicken salad with cucumber,” Kat said, refilling her own tall glass with cubes of ice and tea and pouring one for Abby.
“I can see that. My favorite.”
After returning the pitcher to the fridge and closing the door, Kat turned to face Abby and quickly scrutinized her attire. “Jeez, I haven’t seen you dressed up this much since when Clay was around. Looking pretty good for a farm girl. Forget the shoes?”
“No. Left them by the front door. Seemed like a good idea when I put them on, but I think I’ve forgotten how to walk in heels.”
Kat smiled. “I know what you mean,” she said, sipping tea and motioning for Abby to sit. “My two cents . . . the lower the heel, the better. Who says women look best on stilts? I’m all about comfort.”
Abby nodded. She slid into one of the mismatched chairs at the cherrywood table. “I doubt this little black dress would look as lovely paired with my ladybug clodhoppers,” Abby deadpanned.
“Uh, no, you didn’t say that! But I get what you’re saying about comfort.” Kat set her te
a glass on the table and fetched the one for Abby. “This pantsuit is a relic, but it’s so easy to move in, and I got it for a great price. You think it looks dated? I could change.”
“Nah. The retro look suits your figure, and the apple-green color is nice on you. Lots of blondes wear that shade.”
“Tell the truth now. You just like it because it reminds you of that organic lettuce you grow.”
“Okay. Maybe it’s that, too. Speaking of vegetables, I’ve got a thing for onions. Is that soup ready? I’m famished.” Abby reached for the empty tureen on the table and admired the flow blue iris pattern for a moment before handing it to Kat.
Pouring the soup from the stainless-steel pot into her prized china tureen, Kat turned her head away from the vapor cloud, which threatened to steam off her makeup. She ladled a generous helping into Abby’s bowl before filling her own dish. After fastidiously wiping the edge of the tureen with a tea towel and placing it on the white Battenberg lace tablecloth, she dropped into the chair that Abby had pushed out for her. “You know that surveillance video from the pastry shop?” Kat asked. “Didn’t have anything on it.”
“You mean it didn’t show the murder or the killer’s face?”
“No, I mean there was nothing on it. It’s like Chef Jean-Louis hooked the camera up to test it and never turned it on again.”
“Really?” Abby shook her head in disbelief. “With the heated arguments going on in that kitchen, you’d think he would have wanted to capture them. You know, in case he ever needed to prove a point. But why even buy a camera if you are not going to use it?”
“Who knows? Las Flores might be a stone’s throw from Silicon Valley, but it might surprise you to learn that not everyone is into technology,” Kat said. “Anyway, if you are in a state to end your life, you probably aren’t thinking about turning on a camera.”
“So you think it was suicide?” Abby lifted a sandwich from the platter and placed it on her plate.
“Not necessarily. You know we have to rule out the possibility it was murder.”
Abby nodded, pinched off a portion of her chicken sandwich, and placed it in her mouth. Slowly chewing, she pondered what she really knew about the pastry chef. She soon realized it wasn’t much. “You think you know people,” she murmured.
Kat nodded and sipped the broth on her soup spoon. Looking up, she said, “I don’t get it. Hanging yourself isn’t exactly easy. And if someone else took his life, wouldn’t it be even more difficult? I mean, he would fight back. Why not just shoot him?”
Abby swallowed a mouthful of iced tea and wiped the bottom of the sweating glass with a napkin before setting it back on the tablecloth. “Well, hanging tells us two things. It’s so hands on, it’s personal, and it’s unlikely to have been done by a woman, unless she had a lot of strength. I could see a woman using a gun, a knife, or a blunt object—”
“Let’s not forget poison,” said Kat.
“Or poison. And statistics bear that out. So I’m betting that if Jean-Louis did not do this to himself, our killer is a guy.” Dabbing her lips with the napkin, Abby added, “Makes you wonder who has a motive for murder besides those loan sharks and the landlord.”
“We’ve cleared the loan sharks. They were attending a convention in Sacramento.”
“Really? Since when do loan sharks attend conventions?”
“When they are investment counselors, too. They have hotel receipts and time-stamped tickets from the parking garage,” Kat said. “We’re taking a close look at his lovers, family members, disgruntled employees, the usual suspects,” she added after a moment.
Abby finished eating her sandwich in silence, staring absentmindedly past Kat at a poster on the wall depicting various breads and pastries. She pictured in her mind Chef Jean-Louis standing in his pastry shop kitchen, dusting mini Bundt cakes with powdered sugar, and singing along with a CD of Maria Callas belting out Puccini’s “O mio babbino caro.” That image seemed so incongruous with the image of the chef with a rope around his neck.
Kat’s voice intruded. “Apparently, he took that video camera out of the box and stuck it up there on the shelf, behind the ivy, but never used it.”
“What about the decorative box that was up there, too? Find anything in that?”
“Just personal items. Mainly recipes that looked like they’d been copied . . . some on napkins and paper towels. The paperwork for that award he won last year . . . You remember that televised bake-off in Las Vegas, don’t you?”
Abby nodded. “Watched it on TV, like everyone else. Quite an honor for Jean-Louis and Las Flores . . . but he clearly had created a spectacular dessert, and that sugar embellishment was the crowning touch. That plaque hangs on the wall in his shop.”
“You’d think with all the hoopla, and it being Las Vegas and all, the award could have been a little nicer, maybe a crystal bowl or an eggbeater with a jewel-studded handle or something like that,” said Kat. “But for all his creative genius, fabulous recipes, and hard work, they gave him an ugly little plaque with his name and the title ‘Best Pastry Chef.’ ”
“It’s the honor, not the plaque,” said Abby.
“I know, but, Abby, in that box I got a look at some of his amazing handwritten recipes. Well, technically, the handwriting appears to be his, but we are taking a closer look.”
Abby sipped a spoonful of broth before posing another question. “Anything else in that box?”
“Family pictures and a letter of agreement between the chef and a guy named Etienne. The contract had a secrecy clause that forbade Etienne from revealing or exploiting the recipes the chef created, and threatened legal action if he did.”
“No kidding. So only Etienne? Were there similar contracts with others?” asked Abby.
“Nope.”
“So why had the chef singled out Etienne?”
“Apparently, Chef Jean-Louis was mentoring him,” explained Kat. “That is, until he fired him two weeks ago. According to Otto, who questioned him, Etienne went from liking his boss to thinking he was a master manipulator who exploited people and circumstances to get what he wanted in life.”
“Well, that’s not a very nice thing to say. Let me guess. Etienne has felt the brunt of the chef’s hot temper?”
“Pretty much. Etienne said he quit, but Talullah says Etienne was fired.”
“Could be a motive.”
“Yes, but Etienne has an alibi.”
A frown creased Abby’s forehead. “Okay, let’s back up. The chef was working. His kitchen light was on. No signs of forced entry. Someone walked in.”
Kat rubbed her temple. “Whoever went into the kitchen area must have entered through the back door, somehow subdued the chef, and killed him.”
Abby voiced her thoughts. “I found him on the floor without his apron and with twine on the pantry door. The ovens were on, and cakes were burning. It was daylight, for goodness’ sake, and the back door stood ajar, yet no one, apparently, knew he was lying there in his kitchen, dead.” She inhaled deeply. What she needed was more oxygen to her own brain. She was beginning to feel incapable of clear and logical thinking. “Okay, that means we have to put together a timeline, find someone who saw the chef come to work, locate folks who might recall seeing the chef during the last twenty-four hours.”
Kat nodded. “And we’ve already started working on that.” She polished off the last of her soup. Wiping her mouth with the edge of her napkin, she said, “There was an opportunity for a robbery. The killer could have grabbed the money out of the cash register but didn’t. We did a walk-through with Tallulah, who makes the bank deposits on Wednesdays and Fridays, and she said that although they didn’t keep much money in the cash drawer, it didn’t appear as though any had been taken.”
Abby bit into another chicken salad sandwich square. “So if robbery wasn’t the motive, was it a crime of opportunity? One in which the killer used as a murder weapon anything close at hand, maybe the strings of the apron? But then why take the apron? Doe
sn’t make a lot of sense, unless that is really what happened and the killer was concerned about his or her epithelials still on the apron ties.”
Kat ran a finger through the film of moisture that had formed at the top of her tea glass.
Straightening in her chair, Abby closed her eyes for a moment to collect her thoughts. Then, looking straight at Kat, she said, “Okay, so what if the killer wanted something else . . . something they could steal and sell for drugs or whatever? Maybe it was a burglary.”
Kat looked at her. “What if the scene was just made to look like a burglary, but the motive was personal vengeance?”
“That works, too,” said Abby. “Although,” she added, “when murder is payback, it’s usually for something really egregious. What could Chef Jean-Louis have done to anyone that would rise to that level?”
Kat chewed her lip. “Good question.”
Abby wiped her fingers on her napkin while she considered other options. “So who would want to exact revenge and for what? An ex-lover, maybe?”
“Possibly,” said Kat. “But who hasn’t been dumped? You get over it. You don’t kill the other person.”
“Not if you’re in your right mind. But love makes you crazy.” Abby folded the napkin and set it back on the table. She pushed her fingers through her hair, absentmindedly adjusting the comb above her right ear. “Tallulah said Chef Jean-Louis argued with his landlord over the lease renewal.”
“And the landlord’s motive for murder would be what? When you want a tenant out, you evict.”
“True,” Abby replied. “I don’t know. . . . Maybe it wasn’t the landlord but someone who wanted to humiliate the chef. Or maybe he took his own life. People do hang themselves. But then, as I think about it, that doesn’t work, either. . . . He put cakes in the ovens and hid his apron and then hung himself.”
“Good point.” Kat leaned back and laced her fingers together at the back of her neck. A stumped expression crossed her face.