Lemon Chiffon Murder: A Donut Hole Cozy Mystery - Book 8

by Susan Gillard

  “Oh mon Dieu!” A man spoke loudly behind her.

  Heather jumped and scrambled to her feet. She spun on the spot, re-arranging her blouse and blushing furiously. “Sorry, I, uh, I dropped my contact lens, right here by the door. Can’t find it,” she said, and risked a sheepish grin.

  The maître d’hôtel didn’t buy that at all. He twirled his moustache with his index finger, his gaze sharp as a hawk’s.

  Augustin Pepe Lepeu stared at her as if she had personally offended him. Then again, there was a huge range of things which could offend the man, as she’d discovered upon check-in when he’d berated her for putting her handbag on the counter.

  Heaven forbid she touch his beloved polished walnut counter.

  “Monsieur Lepeu,” Heather said, “is there something I can help you with?”

  “Oui. You can stop lurking around my kitchen.”

  Heather nodded and forced a smile. She stepped around the horrible guy and made for the end of the hall, then stopped, turned back. “Monsieur Lepeu?”

  “What is it?” He asked, narrowing those beady eyes.

  “Did you hear or see anything strange in the hotel yesterday afternoon? You know, prior to the incident?”

  “Aller se faire cuire un oeuf,” he snapped.

  “I don’t understand? Why would I cook an egg? I’d much rather make a donut,” Heather said, and chuckled.

  “Un donut? Merde,” the wicked man said, shaking his head. “It is a saying. It means to leave me alone. Keep your nose where it belongs, Madame, before it is lost.” And with that, the hotel manager spun on his heel and strode down the hall.

  Chapter 4

  The Musee Dapper was one of Paris’ best kept secrets, for artists at least. The glass cases displayed African masks and art pieces, and the main room was small, if not stuffy.

  Heather walked arm-in-arm with Ryan, her thoughts on Augustin Pepe Lepeu, rather than the fantastic Arc De Triomphe which they’d just come from.

  “Heather,” Ryan whispered, pointing at another mask behind a thick pane of glass. “Isn’t this fantastic? I bet no one ever comes here.”

  “Yes,” she replied, “fantastic.”

  “You don’t seem particularly wowed by anything in here. Or out there for that matter.” Her fiancé gestured towards the front of the store, where windows looked out on a typical Parisian street.

  “I know,” she said. She couldn’t bring herself to be ashamed of her distraction. “This is supposed to be a special time for us, but I just can’t stop thinking about Jane and what happened at the hotel. I want to be back there, solve it and then carry on with our celebration.”

  Ryan drew in a breath and released it slowly. “I understand. What do you say we catch a bite to eat, and then we head back to the hotel? I’ll help you out. Discreetly, of course. There’s not much I can do here, anyway, I’m as far out of my jurisdiction as you are out of Donut Delights.”

  Five minutes later, they were seated on orange couches with their backs to a grey weaved wall, studying the menus at Les tablettes Jean Louis Nomicos.

  Amy shifted and smiled at Kent, and he squeezed her hand on top of the white table cloth.

  “Can you believe the wonder of this place?” Amy asked, breaking eye contact with her new boyfriend and turning to Heather.

  “It is gorgeous,” she said, at last. She sipped from a crystal glass of water.

  Kent brought out his cellphone, Ryan bent over the menu, trying and failing to decipher the French, and they descended into easy silence again.

  Why had Augustin been rude? It seemed entirely unnecessary. Then, he had been furious when she’d asked for permission to use the kitchen. What if he’d decided to take matters into his own hands and get rid of her by…

  No, it didn’t make sense. Jane Duvall was an innocent, and she surely couldn’t have controlled her sudden craving for sweets in the middle of the engagement party.

  “Wow,” Kent said, “oh wow, you guys should see this.” The blond man slid the phone across the table and presented it to them. “I’m highly active on social media, particularly in the Hillside region? Look what just went live of Facebook. No, Twitter. Everywhere.”

  Heather, Amy and Ryan bent over the phone, knocking heads but ignoring the pain.

  An article lit the screen on Kent’s iPhone.

  Jane Duvall, Consummate Liar and Adulterer, Meets Sticky Sweet End at Paris Hotel

  “That’s abhorrent,” Heather said, twisting her mouth to the side. “Who would write something like this? Who would be that cruel?”

  Amy scrolled down the screen, speed reading, and her mouth moving as she did. She stopped at the bottom and gasped.

  “What is it?”

  “Bear Trapp. The author of this article is Bear Trapp. And look,” she said, spinning the phone around on the table, so Heather could get a better view, “he’s illustrated it with pictures from inside the Saint James Hotel. There’s even one with you and Ryan in the background.”

  “Bear Trapp,” Heather said, tapping her chin with two fingers. “Bear Trapp.”

  Kent chuckled then straightened out his expression. “Sorry, it’s just a funny name.”

  “I can tell you what’s not funny, babe,” Amy said, “He’s published salacious lies about Jane. He claims she faked her way through most of her reports and that she cheated on her husband on multiple occasions.”

  “That’s heartless,” Ryan said. “So soon after her death? It’s been a day.”

  “The media never sleeps,” Heather replied, sagely, “and neither does a greedy man’s need for power or publicity. This is clearly a stunt. But it begs the question, what was Bear doing at our engagement party in the first place?”

  They shared a wary glance over their water glasses.

  “Right, I’ve lost my appetite,” Heather said.

  “Me too.” Amy sighed. “I say we get back to the hotel and take a rest. We can carry on sightseeing.”

  Ryan nodded reluctantly and shut his menu. “I’m on board with that, but I won’t pretend for a second that Heather’s going to rest when we get back to the Saint James.”

  “Ah, you know me too well,” she said, and flashed him a grin.

  They thanked the waiter, tipped him for his trouble and made their way back to the hotel, taking a scenic route through the streets, walking rather than catching a taxi. The fresh air worked wonders for Heather’s constitution.

  She had to find out more about Bear Trapp, and why he had a vendetta against Jane Duvall, if indeed, he had one and this wasn’t another publicity stunt to pad out his career and resume.

  Heather and the gang rounded the corner and strode through the arch which led up to the fountain and the front entrance of the Saint James.

  A lonely figure stood beside the flowing water, tossing pebbles into the basin.

  Heather frowned, and squinted. A sudden realization struck her, right between the eyes. She halted and Ryan faltered beside her.

  “You guys go head,” she said. “I need to catch up with an old friend out here.” Heather nodded towards the fountain.

  The woman beside it turned towards them, jolted as if she’d been shocked, took a step to the side as if she’d run, then halted.

  Heather waved. “Hi there, Lori, It’s nice to see you again.” She strode towards Jane Duvall’s assistant, questions dancing on the tip of her tongue.

  Chapter 5

  Lori Lisalot wasn’t exactly an old friend. They’d been acquaintances in high school, years ago, and hadn’t spent more than five minutes in conversation. Heather was about to break that record.

  “I didn’t expect to see you, but it is nice,” Heather said, breaking the ice by smiling.

  Lori chewed the corner of her bottom lip, then ran a hand through her slicked back, short brown hair. “Yes, I came with a colleague.”

  “Oh? Who?” Heather knew exactly who, but she wanted to hear it from Lori, and see the reaction when the other woman said the ex-beauty queen�
�s name.

  “Jane Duvall.”

  “Oh right, of course. You were her assistant, is that right? I had no idea she’d brought you with, but I’m glad you’re here now,” Heather said, rambling on. She had to work her way around to asking questions, and even though Lori was officially a suspect, she was also in mourning for her boss.

  Investigation was a delicate line to walk.

  “I’m not glad to be here,” Lori replied, and fumbled around in her jean pockets. “No offense or anything, but I came here to help Jane report on your wedding and now I’ve been dropped in the mud. I mean, what am I supposed to do? Write the article myself?”

  “Maybe, I –”

  Lori fumbled a cigarette and a lighter out of her pocket. She clicked the flint, inserted the smoke between her lips, and lit it. She inhaled deeply and puffed out a cloud of smog.

  Heather took a step back to avoid it.

  Lori didn’t notice. “I mean, let’s be honest here, Jane was great. She was a master at what she did, right?” She took another drag, exhaled. There wasn’t too much of a breeze that morning, so the smoke kinda hovered.

  “Yes, I hear she was a fantas –”

  “Yeah, right. So she was great, everybody loved her, bla, bla, friggin’ bla,” Lori said, waving the cigarette around. “But where does that leave me?”

  “I, uh,” Heather stammered.

  “In the lurch. It leaves me in the lurch,” she said, then suckled more of the cancerous fumes into her lungs, “because we came here to do a job and the station is going to expect a report. You know they wanted her to write up an article and do a live feed?”

  “I didn’t approve a live feed.”

  “Exactly. Jane was probably going to ask your permission before she went ahead and kicked the darn bucket,” Lori replied, bitter as a year old almond. She kicked the loose stones around the fountain and rolled her eyes. “Now, it’s all up to Lori. Lori do this, Lori do that. Like I want to do ‘this’ and ‘that’. And I’ll tell you, if I had my way, Jane wouldn’t have been in charge of –” Lori cut off, her eyes grew wide and she jammed her mouth shut.

  “What? She wouldn’t have been in charge of what?”

  “Nothing, nothing,” the other woman replied, sucking on the filter again. “It’s the grief, you know? It’s makin’ me talk all crazy and stuff. Listen, Heather, I’m happy for you. I hope you have a great wedding.” Lori shuffled sideways through the pebbles, spraying them this way and that.

  “Lori, wait.”

  “Americans!” A man yelled from the front of the hotel.

  They both turned. Augustin Pepe Lepeu marched down the front stairs of the Saint James, his suit flapping open at the front, to reveal a creaseless cotton button up. His usually pallid cheeks were dotted pink.

  “Uh ok, here comes the stiff,” Lori said, then dropped her cigarette and crunched it out with her heel.

  “That’s right, you put out that stinky thing. Plouc Americain!” Augustin halted in front of them and rammed his fists onto his hips. “There is no smoking in the front of these ‘otel! If you want to practice this, this –”

  “Habit?” Heather said, helpfully.

  “Oh, oui? It’s you again,” Augustin said, turning on Heather. “You and your questions, and the scarping, the crawling around.”

  “Crawling?” Lori asked, arching both eyebrows. The hotel manager turned his razor gaze and she jumped, then bustled off towards the front door.

  Augustin watched her go with his lips pursed and his already lined forehead wrinkled. “Disgusting.”

  “I, uh, Monsieur Lepeu, how are you this afternoon?”

  “How do I look, Madame? Ripe as the fresh plucked chicken?” He asked, and this time his mouth became a thin line. “You are full of useless questions.”

  “And you’re rather rude,” Heather replied, because for heaven’s sake, this was truly out of hand. Couldn’t the man converse normally? Did he have to throw his arms in the air and lament the world?

  Typical drama queen. Or king.

  “Rude? I’m rude? I am not the one who has ruined the ‘otel with the fighting and the screaming –” The manager cut off and straightened his jacket.

  “I haven’t fought with anyone.”

  “No? Well every other Americain has done such. That horrible newsman, the woman who died.”

  Heather’s heart skipped beat. “They argued? Jane and Bear Trapp argued?”

  Augustin snapped his fingers. “Nosy woman! Occupe-toi de tes oignons.” And then he marched off, his heels flattening the stones, never kicking them up, of course.

  If Heather wasn’t mistaken, he’d just told her to mind her own onions. But that couldn’t be right, could it?

  She shook her head to clear it.

  Firstly, Lori had freaked out about Jane’s death, but not because she was sad. She was angry and she’d been hesitant to tell Heather the full story. And now this?

  Bear Trapp, who’d published the scathing article about Jane, had argued with her before her death?

  Two leads and no answers. Heather patted her heeled pump on the gravel.

  The front door to the hotel swung open again, and this time, Ryan stepped onto the stairs. “Honey? We’ve got a problem. I think you’d better come inside. Now.”

  “What is it?” Heather asked, already crunching across the driveway to get to him.

  “It’s Angelica.”

  Chapter 6

  “No,” Heather said, and stepped in front of Piti Brodoteau, the rude detective they’d met only one day prior. “No, no, no. You don’t have enough evidence to take Angelica away.”

  “Madame, you have not a leg to stand with. I am the lead detective in ze case of murder. I will take zis woman, and whoever else is responsible into ze custody. Comprenez vous?”

  “No, I don’t understand,” she replied, folding her arms. “I don’t understand at all. Where’s your warrant for her arrest?”

  Piti rolled his eyes, then brought out a handkerchief and mopped it across his sweaty forehead. “You have not ze authority for zis request.” His accent was almost unintelligible.

  At least the hotel manager tried to master English. This man spoke in broken fits and starts, his beady eyes darting left and right all the while.

  “Excuse me,” Ryan said, stepping around Heather. “I’m an officer from Hillside, Texas, and I’d like to know what this woman has done to deserve this kind of treatment.”

  Piti grunted and pinched the bridge of his nose, then stared around at the décor in the dining room.

  Angelica was seated at one of the glass topped, dark wood tables, clutching Dave to her chest and blinking back tears. She trembled, and every time an officer got to close – to close for Dave’s liking anyway – the doggie would bark and growl.

  “Monsieur,” Ryan said, pronouncing the word worse than Piti pronounced ‘authority’, “I want answers and I want them now.”

  “You deserve not ze answer. You are, how you say, you are out of jurisdiction.”

  That he pronounced perfectly and with the twang of an American accent. Apparently, Piti Brodoteau was a fan of American cop shows.

  “Oh for heaven’s sake. This is ridiculous,” Heather muttered. She couldn’t allow the police to take her assistant away. Angelica had never been out of the country before this, she’d practically begged to be chosen as the assistant to accompany Heather, while the rest of her employees stayed at Donut Delights.

  This didn’t set a great first impression for her.

  “Sir, I will contact Interpol if you hinder me, and they will get to the bottom of this,” Ryan said. “Now you’d best leave that girl alone or –”

  “Stop,” Heather said, and placed her hand on his arm. She squeezed gently. “You’re going to get yourself in trouble and put your career in jeopardy.”

  The truth of the matter was, they didn’t have any right to hinder an open investigation, and it wasn’t like Detective Shepherd was in charge here. All he could do
was make empty promises and hope they were enough to stop the French from carting off their friend.

  And that wasn’t a good idea at all.

  Piti Brodoteau was the kinda man who would drag them off to prison with Angelica if they put up too much of a fuss.

  “Who cares about my career?” Ryan hissed. “This is your assistant we’re talking about here. We can’t leave her with these frogs.”

  Piti Brodoteau grunted and marched off. He stopped at the door and spoke with several other officers, relaying whatever commands he’d come up with in the midst of their conversation.

  “If we make a scene we’ll end up in the prison with the frogs too. Think about it, they’ll lock us up and then we won’t be able to get to the bottom of the crime and free her.” Heather hated to admit it, but this was the only way.

  Ryan didn’t seem as convinced, but he didn’t argue back.

  “I’ll be right back,” Heather said.

  She strode to the table where Angelica was seated, and lowered herself into one of the leather padded chairs.

  Her assistant met her gaze, bottom lip trembling. “I’m afraid.”

  “I know, but I promise you, I will find out who the real killer is and see you freed before this week is out.” Heather grasped her assistant’s hand. “Do you believe me?”

  “Yes, I do,” Angelica replied, and some of the tension in her shoulders disappeared.

  “It’s very important that you tell me if you saw anything else, anything at all. Did you taste the icing before you put it on the donuts?” Heather asked. She needed as much information as possible, even if it was a bad time to ask.

  Angelica closed her eyes, she pulled her lips up, towards her nose, and nodded slowly. “Yes, I tasted the frosting. Lemony and light. Good. Delicious. But when I got to the check the noise, there nothing there. I came back and ice donuts. Then I lock them away. Both doors.”

  “That’s right! There are two doors into that kitchen.” Heather gasped. “Ang, is it possible that someone could’ve snuck into the kitchen behind your back, and poisoned the icing while you looked for the source of the commotion.”