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

by Susan Gillard

  Amy nodded absently, then pointed to a small white, object resting by the door. “Hey, what’s that?”

  They walked to it, and Heather picked it up. “It’s a bottle,” she said.

  A plastic one, shaped the same as a regular bottle of eye drops.

  “What is that?” Amy asked, taking it from her and shaking it between her thumb and forefinger.

  Heather looked from the gardens and down the long hall of the hotel, then to the spot where they’d found it.

  “Fake tears,” she whispered.

  “What did you say?”

  Heather hesitated, working the scenarios in her mind, over and over again. Checking if it was a possibility. If she was wrong. “They’re fake tears, Ames. They’re Lori’s fake tears.”

  Chapter 10

  “I can’t confront her or break into her room, and I can’t do the same for Bear either. I don’t have enough evidence. I need to interview more people,” Heather said, rubbing at her temples with two fingers on each hand. “And I’ve never not baked a donut for this length of time in my entire life.”

  Ryan nodded along and held out a hand. “Then let’s ask some questions.”

  The gardens had emptied an hour ago, and the memorial dinner had left everyone feeling slightly sad but uplifted. Amy had gone to bed to work things out in her head – apparently, she wanted to help Heather free Angelica with all she had.

  Heather checked that the coast was clear of nosy Frenchmen or Bear Trapp, who had the hearing of a fox and a sly attitude to match.

  All that met her was the vista of the trees, grass, and the white and black wrought iron tables.

  “I bet we could sneak past that hotel manager guy and get into the kitchens. Have a look around.”

  “I’m sure the police would’ve cleared the kitchen of all evidence,” Heather replied.

  “If that’s the case, why do they still have Angelica in custody?”

  Ryan had a good point. They couldn’t exactly rule out any lead in the case, and if the kitchen was all they could get to…

  “Wait a second,” Heather whispered, “I bet we could find out what room she was in from someone in there.” The Saint James hotel was exceptionally stuffy about which rooms they placed their guests in, to protect their privacy, of course.

  And now, because it could interfere with a police investigation.

  “Let’s do it,” Ryan whispered. “Besides, it’s getting chilly out here.” He rose and slipped off his coat, then placed it around her shoulders. “Let’s go, beautiful.”

  Heather giggled. She’d forgotten all about the romance with the murder case and Angelica’s impending court case at stake. Just today, they’d heard she wouldn’t be eligible for bail and would have to wait in a holding cell for her trial.

  They’d tried to visit, but the officers had been less than accommodating.

  Heather and Ryan walked down the long hall which led to the kitchen, tiptoed actually, because Augustin Pepe Lepeu’s cheesy cologne was in the air.

  They reached the kitchen door, knocked once and slipped inside.

  Organized chaos greeted them. The kitchen of the hotel was run clean and smart, the chefs yelled at each other in French, made jokes Heather could barely decipher and didn’t notice the new additions to their atmosphere.

  “I have no idea who to talk to,” Heather whispered.

  “Me neither, but we’ve got to start somewhere,” Ryan replied. He grasped the sleeve of one of the chef’s jackets and dragged him closer.

  The man jerked the sleeve out of Ryan’s grasp and shouted something in French, his face purpling.

  “I’m Ryan Shepherd. I’m an external consultant for the French Police Force, and I’m here to ask some questions. Direct me to the head chef.” He spoke with such confidence that Heather had to remind herself that he wasn’t a consultant, and that they could get into a lot of sticky trouble for this.

  Stickier than lemon chiffon icing.

  The French chef narrowed his eyes. “Oui,” he said, at last, “follow me.” And then he marched between the steel tables and sizzling pans.

  He led them to an overweight man with a bald head and a sweaty upper lip. “Who are you?” He asked, immediately, patting down his white chef get up. “And what are you doing in my kitchen.”

  “You sound British,” Heather remarked.

  “That’s because I am British. I studied French cuisine under Michel Guerard, if you must know. Dan’s the name, by the by. What can I do you for?” He brushed off his hands and stuck out one to shake Ryan’s. Then took Heather’s and brushed that sweaty lip across it.

  She did her best not to snatch it out of his grasp.

  “We’re here as consultants with the French police. I have some questions about Jane Duvall, her recent meals and so on. Standard stuff,” Ryan said, waving his hand imperiously.

  Dan the chef snorted. “Right, you are. Whatever you need.”

  “Great,” Ryan said, readjusting his shirt. He certainly didn’t look the part of a consultant, but Dan wasn’t worried about it. “Thank you for your cooperation. I wanted to find out whether Jane ordered any meals the night prior to her death, and the morning of it most specifically.”

  Heather let Ryan lead. He would know what to ask and why.

  “She ordered, let’s see if I remember,” Dan tapped his chin with a hotdog-like finger. “Oh yes, that’s right. She ordered two burgers, I remember because most of the chefs in here were disgusted that anyone would order the good old American hamburger rather than the coq au vin.” He chuckled. “They don’t have the best temperaments.”

  “I’m sorry, did you say two hamburgers?” Heather asked.

  “That’s right. One for her and one for her friend. He was the one that ordered on the phone. Got pretty snotty with the front desk too, when it took longer than, oh, say five minutes. Monsieur Lepeu was not impressed.”

  “He?” Ryan asked.

  “Yeah, some guy, I don’t know his name. Didn’t see him either. We do our jobs down here. Make the food, send it out, that’s all.”

  Ryan nodded and brought out a pen and a notepad – apparently, he carried them everywhere he went – and scratched down a few notes. “And those were for room…?”

  “Room 212, of course,” Dan said, narrowing his eyes.

  “We have to make sure of all the facts. Now, that we know which room, we can correlate with Jane’s actual room number,” Heather put in, quickly.

  “Thank you for your time, Dan.” Ryan tipped and invisible cap, then escorted Heather towards the door, with the chef’s gaze hot on their backs.

  “He doesn’t believe our cover,” Heather whispered.

  “Doesn’t matter. We got what we came for.”

  Chapter 11

  Heather and Ryan bashed the kitchen door open and hurried into the hall, glancing back again and again to make sure that the anomaly of a British chef in the French hotel’s kitchen didn’t follow them.

  Heather collided into a wall and stopped dead, gripping at her head. She looked up and gasp.

  It wasn’t a wall, it was Monsieur Augustin Pepe Lepeu.

  The maître d’hôtel inhaled giant breaths through his nostrils, which were flared and hairy. Seriously, it was like a forest in there, if forests were black, spiky and covered in a thin sheen of –

  “What are you doing!?” Augustin thundered, he grabbed Ryan by the arm, then Heather by the shoulder. The movement spread his cologne through the air.

  Heather stifled a gag. Ryan’s eyes watered from the smell.

  “We wanted a late night snack,” Ryan said.

  “I wanted to make donuts,” Heather put in.

  They looked at each other and winced. They probably should’ve discussed their excuse before they’d trotted into the kitchen, questions blazing.

  “That’s right, I was hungry for a snack, and Heather hasn’t made donuts in a while, so, uh, yeah, we thought we’d –”

  “You take me for a fool, do yo
u?” Augustin asked, his iron grip tightening. His sharp nails pinched her through Ryan’s jacket and her blouse.

  “Is this how you treat your guests?” Heather asked. “Accusations and assault?” She tried to shrug him off, but Lepeu’s hands were hard as rock candy, if not as brittle.

  “This is how I treat guests who snoop around, crawl on the floors and bring guests to get murdered in my hotel,” Augustin replied, then let go of them and clutched at his forehead. “Oh mon Dieu, my beloved hotel.”

  “We didn’t meant to upset anyone,” Ryan said.

  “Yes, we just want to, uh, I just want to be able to bake again.”

  Lepeu snapped his hand from his face and waved it at them instead, wafting more of that cheese scent at them. “Yes, you want to bake your disgusting donuts. The donuts that killed an innocent in my hotel. I will not allow it.”

  Heather pulled herself up straight. The whole donut baking thing was a lie, but the fact remained, she had missed out on baking and creating in the past week and it drove her a little crazy.

  Donuts were her passion. If she could’ve slept on a donut bed each night and snuggled up to a donut-shaped pillow, she would’ve.

  “Now, now, there’s no need to get personal,” Ryan said. “Why don’t we discuss this in your office?”

  Augustin growled.

  “Yes,” Heather said, catching on quick. “Let’s talk in your office. I demand it. I insist.”

  Augustin looked from the bride to the groom, then let out a weighty – this time it smelled of Gruyere – sigh. “Fine,” he snapped. “This way.” He clapped once, turned, then marched down the hall.

  They hurried after him, sharing dubious glances. Actually, Ryan’s were determined, his jaw was set. He was in on the case fully now, and if any information got back to the Hillside Police Department, he stood to lose his job.

  They wouldn’t take kindly to him interfering in a French investigation.

  Augustin stopped in front of a door at the reception desk in the lobby, he brought out a small bronze key, inserted it and turned it with a resounding ‘clack’.

  The door swung inwards and they stepped into his office.

  It was the size of a closet and it smelled like one too – mothballs and dust.

  Heather sneezed and pressed her fist to her nose. Ryan circled the desk, pretending to admire the space.

  “Lovely room, you’ve got here. Pity there’s no window.”

  “Oui,” Augustin replied, narrowing his eyes.

  A board was nailed to the wall above Augustin’s tiny brown desk. Hundreds of room keys hung on hooks nailed to the cork, and number 212 was conspicuously present. Ryan glanced at Heather and she winked behind Lepeu’s back.

  “Monsieur Lepeu,” she said, loudly.

  The hotel manager faced her, unable to keep both Ryan and Heather in his sights at the same time.

  “I can’t express to you how much I need to be able to bake. Donuts are my passion.”

  “That is a nasty little passion,” Augustin replied. “They are not real food.”

  “Ah, but I think you might change your mind when you find out what type of donuts I want to make,” she replied.

  “It matters not. This interference into the hotel kitchen is unprecedented. I did not want to give you this opportunity the first time you presented it and now a woman has died from your food and you want me to open my kitchen to you a second time?” Augustin’s fingers fluttered to his chest. He checked the buttons of his shirt, once, twice.

  Ryan moved quickly behind his back. He lifted the key from hook 212 as quietly as possible. It tinkled slightly and he froze.

  Lepeu moved to turn.

  “Yes,” Heather said, quickly, “I understand your concerns, but I was under the impression that the Saint James would be more accommodating towards its guests.”

  Augustin gasped. Insulting the hotel was a slap to his face. He actually grasped at his cheek. A long moment passed.

  Ryan slipped the key into his pocket, his shoulders relaxed. Then he walked around the desk and back into Augustin’s view.

  “Be reasonable, Mr. Lepeu.”

  Augustin’s lips thinned. “Fine!” He threw his hands up into the air. “You can use it tomorrow. Now, out of my office, the both of you. Out, out!” He flapped his arms and bathed them in Danish Swiss.

  Heather grabbed Ryan’s hand and pulled him to the door. She banged into it, groaned, then wrenched it open and rushed into the lobby.

  “Got it,” Ryan whispered, with a low chuckle. “Let’s go find out the truth.”

  Chapter 12

  They picked up two stragglers on their route to Jane Duvall’s room.

  Amy and dog buddy Dave, who had been in a sulk the past few days because of the lack of walks and donuts. He barked at Heather, and she shushed him, then lifted him into her arms for a hug and a pat.

  He didn’t stop sulking. If anything, the attention made it worse. Heather had never known a dog that could push out its bottom lip to express its disappointment until dearest Dave.

  She plopped him back on the leopard print carpet and handed Amy the leash.

  “Where are we going?” Amy asked.

  “To infinity and beyond.” Ryan chuckled at his lame joke, and both women rolled their eyes.

  “Jane Duvall’s room,” Heather whispered, and they set off walking. “Room 212.”

  “Why, though? Surely the hotel has had it cleaned up, already?” Amy lead Dave easily. He didn’t have the pouts with her, oh no, her grip on the leash made him gambol around like a newborn puppy.

  “They wouldn’t have been allowed. The French police are still investigating. From what I’ve heard, they’ve got the room locked up tight, and have given the hotel strict instructions to keep it that way,” Ryan replied, in hushed tones.

  “That’s ridiculous. They should’ve been in and out, and had the room cleaned for the next guests already,” Amy said.

  “I dunno, they work differently over here to what we do. Maybe they’re bringing in a forensics team from another town or a specialist or something. Whatever they’ve done, it’s afforded us the opportunity to do a little snooping of our own. Pretty lucky, I’d say,” Ryan whispered. “Is there any reason you’re complaining?”

  “Sorry, I’m just in a bad mood. Kent’s flown back to the US to get help for Angelica. It’s a wonderful thing for him to do, but I dunno, I miss him, and yeah, I know that’s really selfish but –”

  Heather tucked Amy into a one-armed hug while they walked. “I understand.”

  “Here we are,” Ryan hissed, stopping in front of a room with the bronze lettering 212 at the top and center of the door. He bent and fiddled with the keyhole. “Oh boy, they’ve got tape over the keyhole. We break this and they’re going to know someone tampered with the evidence.”

  “Do it,” Heather whispered.

  “Heather, I’m not sure that’s the best –”

  “Do it. If we don’t do this, Angelica’s going to rot in a French prison for a crime she didn’t commit. They’ve got enough evidence to keep her there until the trial and we don’t know how these foreign judges handle cases. They could take exception to her because she’s a tourist.”

  Amy nodded furiously. Dave sat on the carpet at their feet and blinked at them.

  “We all know that Angelica would never hurt a fly. I don’t care if they’ve got her fingerprints on the bowl, the spoon, and everything else. She wouldn’t do it and this is our shot to clear her name. Now, open that door.” Heather placed her fists on her hips.

  “You got it, boss,” Ryan replied, the corners of his mouth twitching into a smile.

  He broke the seal of plastic tape, inserted the key for room 212, turned it, then opened the door.

  They stepped inside and the mood dropped. They were in a dead woman’s hotel room. This had probably been the last place Jane had been before…

  “All right,” Heather said, “let’s shake off the creeps and get searching. L
ook for anything that could be a clue, anything at all.”

  They split up, Dave and Amy took the adjacent bathroom, Ryan took the room in general, and Heather had the bed and bedside tables. She fumbled the top drawer open, found a Bible and nothing else, then checked the middle drawer. Empty. She slid the final drawer open.

  A ball of paper sat at the bottom of it, scrunched tight. Heather took it out, opened it up and smoothed it on her lap.

  “I think I found something,” Heather said, reading the lines scrawled across the page.

  “What is it?” Ryan asked. He walked to her and bent to read the paper over her shoulder.

  You think you’re so much better than me. You’ll see. You’ll regret every time you shouted at me for getting you a mocha chino instead of a triple cream hazelnut supreme. I’m done with you.

  Lori.

  “Hmmm,” Ryan said, “I don’t know if that’s conclusive evidence.”

  “Why not?” Heather asked, holding the letter open in her lap. “Think about it. Lori was Jane’s colleague, and she ended up working for her. Judging from this letter, Jane wasn’t exactly the nicest boss.”

  Amy appeared out of the bathroom to listen. Dave’s leash trailed behind her, the dog himself still deep within the tiled room.

  “Yeah, and don’t forget, she dropped that bottle of fake tears after her big scene at the memorial dinner. I’ve still got it in my room.”

  “We don’t know those are fake tears,” Ryan replied.

  “But, look, Ryan, look,” Heather said, then scratched her head.

  “I’m looking.”

  “Right, well, I questioned Lori the day after Jane’s death and she didn’t seem sad at all. She spoke at length about how Jane left her with a huge burden of documenting the wedding, and then she just cut off. I think she was about to say something to incriminate herself.”

  “But if she wanted revenge, and Jane’s job, then why would she complain about having it after her death?” Ryan shook his head.

  “Boy, that’s a thinker,” Amy said, leaning one shoulder against the doorjamb.