The cookies in various shapes and sizes, hand-painted with some sort of fancy technique, were there, too, along with ten dainty coffee cups, one for each judge.
But right now, with Bel missing, all those fancy confections were nothing more than possible clues to the circumstances surrounding Chef Le June’s death and my familiar’s disappearance.
That made me spring back into action. I placed a light, supportive hand on Petula’s shoulder and gripped. “Can I get you anything, Petula? Coffee? Tea, maybe?”
She turned to me, her rounded cheeks red as she smoothed her wiry hair back from her face. “I can’t believe he’s dead, Stevie. If it wasn’t his wife, who would do this?”
Reaching for her hand, I gripped it and shook my head in compassion. “I don’t know, Petula. What made you think it was murder?”
Her lips thinned into a smeared red line of lipstick. “Because his wife threatened to kill him, Stevie! I heard her on the phone with him one night. I know I shouldn’t have been eavesdropping, but I…”
Aha. He was a cheater. That was definitely a motive for murder. Affairs of the heart always were. “But you were in love with him, right?”
Petula nodded, letting her chin fall to her chest. “Yes, and he was in love with me. He told me so,” she stated, defiance in her tone.
“Did you know Pascal had a wife, Petula?” I’ll admit, I waited with bated breath to hear the answer. I’d be upset if she’d begun an affair with a married man, but I also understood the power of a man’s appeal all too well.
Her grip on my hand tightened as her lips quivered. “I didn’t. I swear I had no idea. When I found out and confronted him, he swore to me they’d been separated for over a year and once he met me, he’d asked her for a divorce. That was exactly why she threatened to kill him. He told me he didn’t tell me about her because he was ashamed he’d ever married her.”
I didn’t like what I was hearing. I didn’t like it one bit that Chef Le June hadn’t told Petula he was otherwise bound legally to another. Nothing good ever came of beginning a relationship with a lie. Not to mention, it was dang suspicious.
“Did he tell you she was actually threatening him because he told her about the two of you, or are you just putting two and two together? Did you discuss the phone call he had with his wife?”
Now she looked disgusted, as though I’d asked her a ridiculous question. Her cheeks went crimson and her eyes narrowed at me. “Of course we did! I’m not an idiot!”
Instantly I gripped her hand harder while we moved up in the line of people waiting to speak to the detectives. “No, Petula. I would never think that. I’m just trying to help. Promise.”
Then she crumpled against me and began to sob. “I know, Stevie. I’m sorry. I’m just on edge is all. I don’t even understand why he was here at your house to begin with.”
My Spidey senses—you know, the ones I lacked where my cheating ex was concerned—stood at attention. “I wondered that, too. I thought one of your staff was coming to set up?”
“That was the plan. Edmund was supposed to bring everything by, set it all up, then move on to the mayor’s Christmas party directly after.”
“And where’s Edmund now? Did you try to contact him?”
“I’ve tried and tried, just like Detective Kaepernick asked, but his phone just rings and rings. It doesn’t even go to voice mail, and he’s not at the mayor’s party. No one’s seen him since he left the shop this afternoon.”
How odd. “Did he leave with my pastries in hand?”
Pulling a tissue from the pocket of her oversized sweater, she sniffled into it and shook her head. “I can’t get any confirmation one way or the other, Stevie. So far, no one remembers Edmund even leaving, but the pastries that were in the cooler labeled yours are definitely gone. I swear, I don’t know what’s going on!”
Her voice began to rise, which was my cue to ease up. Tucking her arm under mine, I stroked her wrist. “It’s okay, Petula. Take some deep breaths.”
“Will you stay with me when the detective questions me?” she asked, her voice trembling.
I smiled in sympathy, pulling her even closer. “Of course I will. I’ll stay right here. That’s a promise.” I rested my chin atop her head and sighed, still trying to keep my misery over Belfry in check and in perspective.
That’s when I saw something tucked under the platter holding the pastries. Something that looked like a note. “Hang on one second, Petula. I’ll be right back.”
Setting her from me, I picked my way through the judges, their eyes flaring with accusation as I excused myself toward the table by the fireplace hearth and cocked my head.
Upon inspection, there was a note scrawled on what looked like Petula’s letterhead from her store. I wrapped a cloth napkin around my fingers and lifted the platter.
I bit back my gasp of shock when I read:
Dear Stevie, I made this opera cake especially for you. I hope you will take a moment to enjoy your hard work before your esteemed guests arrive.
Bon appetite!
Chef Pascal Le June
Dropping the platter back into place, I noted a foreign-looking pastry with a bite missing, on the very top of the mound. One I was sure I hadn’t ordered from the chef. Cut into a rectangle, the treat had layer upon layer of chocolate and some sort of puff pastry. A sprinkle of sugar completed the package of perfection.
It truly was beautiful, a feast for the eyes. In fact, I couldn’t take my eyes off it, the sugar sprinkled over the top virtually danced across the surface, mesmerizing me.
The sugar.
Hadn’t Chef Le June had something around his mouth—something I’d thought was crumbs from his pastries—or had I been seeing things? Why would he make a pastry just for me? In fact, why would he care if I relaxed before the judges arrived?
Sure, I’d made it clear I needed everything to be perfect, but Chef Le June wasn’t exactly aware of much but himself. He’d barely spoken to me when I’d placed the order other than to tout his many accomplishments, before he’d whisked off to Petula’s kitchen in flagrant fashion.
Yet, now he was making me special pastries and telling me to put my feet up? And who’d taken a bite out of my dang pastry?
Just then, Ralph Acres sidled up to me and gave me a nudge with his shoulder. “These look delicious and I’m starving. Your decorating might stink to high heaven, Stevie, but your food looks pretty darn good. Too bad it doesn’t count for your overall score,” he said, reaching for the opera cake.
I froze, my mind a whir of buzzing thoughts.
What had looked like crumbs on Chef Le June’s mouth, plus a specially made pastry just for me from one of the most self-absorbed men I’d ever met, plus a sugary-sweet note, plus a dead chef out on my lawn, equaled…
“Mr. Acres, nooooo!” I shouted, knocking the pastry from his hands and startling him.
Ralph fumbled trying to keep his hold on the cake, his pudgy hands reaching out as he began to back away and instead tripped over my artfully placed carved reindeer.
He lost his balance then, a slow motion sort of thing where I grappled to reach for him, to keep him from falling, and couldn’t seem to get a good grasp. Ralph wide-eyed with surprise, his body in a constant fumbling-backward motion.
“Ralph! Look out, old man!” Frank Morrison yelped from across the room where he stood with Detective Kaepernick.
But it was a little too late. Just as I managed to get my hand around his wrist, he jerked it backward and toppled all the way, his bulky body a blur of judge’s blazer and orthopedic shoes, felled as though cut down by a lumberjack.
Right into the Christmas tree.
Branches flopped and twisted, the lights I’d spent four hours stringing in a teardrop pattern ripped from their comfortable nest of pine, and ornaments rained down everywhere, crashing to the floor in unison with Ralph.
I crashed, too. Directly on top of him like some sumo wrestler with a clunky body-slam move.
; Chapter 5
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Acres!” I repeated for the millionth time as the paramedics loaded him onto a gurney, tucking him safely into place.
He lifted his double chin and looked up at me with watery eyes. “I just wanted something to eat, Stevie. We’ve been here forever and I missed supper,” he moaned out, his misery etched in the lines on his face. “Now look what happened.”
As Ralph had fallen backward, I’d grabbed for him, but he’d tried to shake me off, and we’d ended up colliding in the worst of ways. In fact, I’d probably helped tip him backward. Add to that, I certainly hadn’t made anything better by landing on top of him.
He’d made for a great cushion for me. However, the reverse wasn’t true for him. Ralph had somehow twisted his leg in such a way that he’d fallen on it at an awkward angle. Just thinking about that visual, when I’d scrambled off him and looked down at his crumpled form, made me want to cry.
Oh, this was so bad. So, so bad. Yet, I plowed onward with my apologies and reassurances as everyone continued to mill about my parlor, stepping over broken branches and shattered ornaments.
I latched onto his hand and held it tight. “I’ll pay for everything. I promise. You won’t have to worry about a penny of your hospital bill. Not a single one.”
“You broke his leg, Twinkle Toes. How about you let him get that taken care of before you break something else?” Detective Moore muttered in my ear, his sarcasm burning my already testy britches.
My temper flared with a white-hot spike. “Oh, you hush, Starsky. It was an accident! Why don’t you go do your job and get those pastries to a lab to have them tested and don’t let anyone touch them, because I’m going to bet those devilish morsels are the culprit in Chef Le June’s death!”
Everyone still in the room stopped what they were doing and gasped, staring at me with distaste for a moment before they clearly realized it was just Stevie Cartwright theorizing, and returned to gathering their things to make their way out.
Detective Kaepernick plucked a piece of tree from my hair and held it up with an interested glance. “What do you mean the pastries are the culprit? We don’t even know what happened to the chef yet. How do you know what happened?”
As she asked me the question, her eyes never left my face, but they weren’t hard and accusatory. They were thoughtful and inquisitive.
I could certainly see why she might have great success getting people to trust her. Her openness, as opposed to Detective Moore’s snarling, growling act, was undoubtedly refreshing.
Running a hand through my mud-flecked hair, I sighed. “Call it a hunch. Call it intuition. Call it whatever you like, but when I saw Chef Le June…er, in my garden, I caught a glimpse of something around the corner of his mouth. Something I thought looked like crumbs—which made sense. He always taste-tested his food. But as you already know, he wasn’t even supposed to be here today. That alone is suspicious to me. In hindsight, and after reading that note he allegedly left me, whatever was at the corner of his mouth looked exactly like what was on top of that opera cake. Which is why I tried to prevent Ralph from eating it. So, it only makes sense to consider the pastry could be involved in this, don’t you think? The hitch in this giddyup is what’s got me stumped. Why would he make a pastry for me then eat it himself? If he didn’t bite into it, who did? Then there’s this to consider—if it turns out the pastry is poisoned, who wants to poison me?” I shivered a little. Did someone want to poison me?
Melba held up her hand. “Don’t get too far ahead of yourself just yet, Miss Cartwright. Those are all valid theories, but we don’t even know what happened to the chef at this point. Sure, I don’t know why he’d take a bite out of a cake he made for you, there could be a ton o’ reasons. But we can’t jump to any conclusions before we have some evidence. You know that better than anyone, right?”
That was fair. I did know that. But I had a bad feeling anyway. Still, I went along with her by smiling and nodding. “I’m just doing what I do and theorizing. It’s a habit I can’t seem to break.”
Detective Kaepernick leaned into me as though we were sharing a secret. “Yep-yep. Gotcha.” She scribbled on her small notepad and nodded.
“Don’t forget to note the particularly unusual nature of Chef Foo-Foo Wahoo’s generous gift and his charming letter,” Win encouraged. Clearly, he’d noted how odd the letter from the chef was, too.
There was that to take into consideration, too.
“Also, something to think about while you’re writing things down. Chef Le June was…” I paused, hoping to keep my voice low and my next statement diplomatic, in light of Petula’s apparent love for Pascal. “Well, he was a little self-absorbed. For him to leave me a note as warm as that, and a specially made pastry on top of it is…unlikely. I’d have the note not just tested for fingerprints, but I’d also have the handwriting analyzed and compared to Chef Le June’s. And don’t forget the bite out of the pastry. It should be compared to the chef’s dental records.”
Sean Moore made his stern face at me. I’d seen it before. It was the expression he used when reprimanding me and my penchant for supposition and interference. “Well, look at our fledgling detective throw around orders, would ya? I know exactly where you’re going, but this hasn’t been labeled anything yet, Miss Cartwright. You don’t even know if it’s a crime scene yet. Right now, it’s just a death. So, I’m warning you to tread lightly and let us do our job.”
Wrinkling my nose, I sighed. Always with the resistance to my theorizing. I just don’t get it. “I’m only trying to help, Detective Moore. I have been right a time or four.”
“Four?” Melba Kaepernick crowed. She held up her fist to me. “Niiice! Girl power, right?”
I bumped her fist in return and smiled. “Well, the first time was just a brush with death. I didn’t actually figure that one out. So I guess it’s only three and a half. He did try to kill me, though. That should count for something on my resume, don’t you think?”
Of course, I was referring to Winterbottom’s cousin Sal. Shortly after Spy Guy and I met and made that crazy pact to find Madam Zoltar’s killer, we’d discovered Sal thought he was going to inherit all Win’s riches—not some lowly, unemployed ex-witch like me. When he found out otherwise, well, let’s just say he tried to kill me.
Gosh, that felt like such a long time ago. Yet, it had only happened in the beginning of February. Here we are, ten months gone by, one house renovation, a rescue dog, more bumps and bruises than a prizefighter, and four murders later, and I couldn’t imagine my life without Win.
Detective Moore rolled his eyes and sucked at his teeth. “Where’d we be if you weren’t giving us direction, Miss Cartwright? Lost. That’s where. Like little lambs in the big scary woods. Hey, when did you graduate from the academy again?”
“Lay off her, Moore,” Sandwich said, his beefy arms tucking an escaped turkey to his side. “Chief sent word to wrap this up. So let’s do it. You have any more questions for Stevie? Or can we call this a done deal? She’s got a heck of a mess to clean up and we have a ton of reports to file.”
Sean Moore flapped a hand at me in a dismissive gesture, tucking his notepad into the inner pocket of his blazer. “Yeah, yeah. We’re done here. But don’t fly the coop,” he ordered then laughed at his joke.
“Coops are for chickens, Starsky. You’d know that if you read a book instead of watching all that Naked and Afraid! Just because it’s on The Discovery Channel doesn’t mean you can label it educational!” I yelled at his retreating back, infuriated.
Sandwich stroked the turkey’s head in a soothing manner and gave me his apologetic face. “Sorry, Stevie. I don’t know how this little guy got out. They’re gettin’ a little stir-crazy up there.”
“It’s okay, Sandwich. I don’t even know why I have turkeys to begin with.” This still puzzled me no end.
“I was afraid to ask. In fact, I’m not going to ask because that’s a whole can o’ worms I’m just not up to tonight. B
ut listen, I can take at least three of them if you want. I know a guy who owns a farm down the way a bit. Gave him a call after I herded them upstairs. His granddaughter loves the little buggers. Believe it or not, they make good pets. Anyway, he said he’d take ’em in for sure. At least until you figure out where they belong. But he can only take the females. One in your group is male, and their mating season’s right around the corner.”
I wasn’t sure I wanted to know how Sandwich knew a turkey’s gender or its mating rituals, but then terror struck my heart. I know this comes off as completely crazy, but it’s one thing to see a turkey in the frozen food section of your grocery store, quite another to look at their little faces and realize they’re destined for someone’s holiday table.
My love for animals and my love for turkey smothered in rich gravy with some stuffing on the side are always at war with one another. I stroked the back of the turkey’s head and winced.
“He won’t… I mean, I know it’s silly, but this farmer friend, he doesn’t raise them to…”
Sandwich grinned, his round face going cheerful. “Eat ’em? Aw, heck no. Promise. They’ll be safe and sound. He’s got lots of land where they can roam free. He actually grows corn, so no worries.”
I patted his arm in gratitude. “Thanks, Sandwich. I appreciate this. I owe you one, and thanks for saving me from Detective Moore.”
“Now if only you could save me,” Detective Kaepernick muttered with a frown before her face filled with guilt. “Sorry. That was inappropriate.”
I began using the toe of my shoe to push ornament fragments into a pile. “Hah! Don’t be silly. You’re entitled to not like your new partner. He’s still bruised from his last one and all his secret mob dealings. That makes him cranky, I’m sure. I think he’s pretty upset because he never once caught on. No one did. The fact that I did was pure luck.”
“Yeahhh,” Melba drawled. “He mighta mentioned that. Hey, maybe if you gave us a funny name? Maybe that’ll help him lighten up. You know, like Beckett and Castle—Caskett?”
How the Witch Stole Christmas (Witchless In Seattle Book 5) Page 6