A Soufflé of Suspicion

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  “You big tease,” I said.

  “That’s me.” He hitched his head toward Renee and Allie. “What’s going on with those two?”

  “The former festival owner—the shorter one with the wild hair—is upset with the deal she made with Renee. There’s something in the fine print of her contract.”

  “No fun. I’ve learned the hard way that it pays to have an attorney look over everything.” Nash had divorced his ex-wife over the summer. The settlement was amicable, but he’d lost a few prized possessions because he hadn’t hired a lawyer. He hadn’t wanted to make waves. “Why, I’ve learned so well that I’ve engaged an attorney to read over a lease-option to purchase a vineyard, even though everyone in town knows that I could trust the seller with my firstborn child.”

  I grinned. The vineyard owner was my mother. After meeting Nash and learning he hoped to own a vineyard one day, she had offered him the chance to do so in the form of a lease-option to buy Nouvelle Vie Vineyards. Though my mother was only in her sixties and could continue to pour every ounce of herself into the family business, she wanted to gallivant while she could. She and my father had never traveled. When he’d died three years ago, she’d had no desire to strike out on her own. Now, with a dashing new man by her side—Stefan’s father—she hoped to see the world. Nash was deliberating on whether he liked the challenge of running a vineyard. So far, so good. He continued to pitch the vineyard’s wine at the bistro, which meant I was able to relish those weekly moments of taste-testing wine at the bar with him in addition to our occasional date.

  “The contract dispute seems to have calmed,” Nash said.

  Renee was on her feet doing all the talking. Allie sat hunched forward on the bench. She bobbed her head, as if in agreement with whatever Renee was explaining. Renee stopped talking and patted Allie’s shoulder. Then she held out her hand. Allie delivered the envelope holding the offensive contract. Renee pulled out the single sheet of paper, scribbled something on it using a pen she plucked from her rear pocket, slotted the contract into the envelope, and handed it to Allie. Maybe she had agreed to honor whatever deal Allie had assumed was their verbal contract—or maybe not. Renee blew Allie a kiss, but Allie didn’t smile. She rose to her feet, swiped tears off her cheeks, and slinked out of the garden through the rear archway.

  “Renee, we have to talk!” A tan, ginger-haired man marched toward her, the lapels of his denim jacket flicking as he walked. The plaid shirt he had on beneath the jacket was partially tucked into his jeans. He wore his baseball cap backward, a look I’d never understood. Per the description Chef C had provided, I guessed he was Rusty Wells, Renee’s husband. He reminded me of a rooster—beady eyes, beak nose, and a small pointy mouth.

  Nash leaned into me. “Do you know who that is?”

  “Renee’s husband.”

  “This is turning into a soap opera.”

  “You’re telling me.”

  Renee met Rusty halfway.

  He grasped her by the shoulders. “I love you.” An actor overplaying his part couldn’t have emoted better. “I want you to give up this baloney and come home.”

  “Rusty, sweetie, you know I can’t do that. I’m done with you and farming and chicken feed and the stench.” She flapped her hand in front of her nose.

  “You didn’t mind it before.”

  “I do now.”

  “But I love you. Didn’t you hear me?”

  We could all hear him.

  Renee wrenched free. “I don’t love you anymore. I’m moving on. I’m sorry, Rusty. We’re through. I am not cut out to be a farmer’s wife. I never was. Please leave. I’ve got work to do.” She strode past him and clapped her hands. “Listen up, everyone. Back to work. I have to make a few phone calls and check on the bake-off contestant entries. I’ll be back in twenty. As you know, the vendors are arriving in shifts. The last wave will be here in an hour to set up their sites. Let’s show them we’re on top of things!”

  She walked toward the inn while her husband stood immobile, his face as red as a coxcomb.

  Chapter 3

  Friday night’s first seating at the bistro was boisterous. Usually I could roam my intimate restaurant and talk to patrons, but I couldn’t get a word in edgewise because every stool at the hand-carved, pub-style mahogany bar and every chair at the white cloth-covered tables was filled. The second seating wasn’t any quieter. Each conversation concerned Crush Week or the Sweet Treats Festival. Some diners were discussing the bake-off. Others were planning which foods or beverages they would sample at the festival. Two groups were chatting nonstop about taking vineyard tours at midnight. In total, the kitchen served over one hundred appetizers or salads, plus an equal amount of dinners. The salted caramel soufflé—one of my favorites—was the most popular dessert. When we closed at eleven, my voice was hoarse, but I didn’t head home until I’d eaten a bowl of the night’s special soup, a savory French lentil soup—French because of the added splash of champagne. Heavenly.

  Near midnight I slogged into the cottage and fed my goldfish. Cagney was orange in tone and bug-eyed and Lacey was a slim matte, meaning she lacked any reflective pigments and the pink of her muscle showed through her white scales. I’d given them those names because, although I wasn’t much of a TV watcher, hunkering down with popcorn and watching reruns of Cagney and Lacey had gotten me through a dark time after my husband’s death. Right before I retreated to my bedroom, I sang two verses of “Rock-a-Bye Baby” to them—yes, I spoiled them. They wiggled their fins with joy.

  Throughout the night, I struggled to sleep. I worried about how our first festival would go. Would there be any snags? Would Renee be, as she promised, on top of things? Would a festival give us the press and word-of-mouth marketing we needed to expand our clientele? We were doing fine, but we could do better. We served lunch and dinner six days a week, taking Tuesdays off because that seemed to work well with the tourist crowd. Dinners performed the best; we could use a boost with the lunch crowds.

  When my alarm chimed, I awoke shaking because my last dream had involved a black cat chasing Rusty Wells, who looked as mad as a wet rooster.

  I threw on my chenille robe and Ugg slippers, fixed myself a rich cup of black coffee, and made a quickie breakfast of an English muffin with toasted Brie and homemade blackberry jam. I took my meal to the patio behind the cottage and nestled into my bentwood hickory rocker. I donned a ski hat that I kept at the ready—the breeze had kicked up again—and enjoyed the flavors of my breakfast while drinking in the view of the vineyard and fruit tree orchard that abutted my place. I noticed that workers at the neighboring vineyard had recently planted evergreen wisteria as well as pale pink roses at the ends of each row. Both were intended to lure bugs away from the grapes.

  Around seven AM, I threw on my work outfit, said good-bye to my aquatic pets, and hurried to the bistro to attend to the menus for lunch and dinner. After confirming we had all the provisions, I tossed on my jacket and pink scarf and hustled to the inn to take in the first hour of the festival.

  Renee had designated day one as Family Day. The Sisley Garden was packed with parents accompanied by children of all ages, from infants in ergonomic baby carriers and strollers to teenagers who didn’t seem upset to have to accompany their parents. Would wonders never cease? Sweets were a unifying force.

  I checked out the names of the various vendors: TUTTI FRUTTI was dishing up homemade ice cream; SHAKE YOUR BOOTY was serving malts and milkshakes; RAMEKIN was offering pudding, custard, and soufflés; SWEETLY SORBET was doling out exactly what it advertised. I made a mental note to stop by. It didn’t matter what time of the day it was—I could always eat sorbet.

  “Mimi!” a woman called.

  Felicity Price, the councilman’s wife, hurried up the gravel pathway toward me. Felicity’s teenage daughter, Philomena—accent on the second-to-last syllable—trailed behind. I knew the girl’s name because a month ago, when Felicity had visited the bistro, she had told me its origin. In Greek my
th, Philomena was a princess transformed by the gods into a nightingale. It was a mouthful of a name for a kid, I thought, vowing never to name my children hard-to-pronounce or hard-to-spell names—if I had kids. Time was ticking, and my career demanded my full-time attention.

  “Mimi, darling.” Felicity’s lily-of-the-valley perfume reached me first. She threw her arms around me like we were old friends; we weren’t. Truth be told, she wanted everyone to adore her and to tell her she was hotter than hot. To her credit, she did have perfectly dyed blonde hair, which she must have spent a fortune on, and she had becoming features—big eyes, full lips—but she invariably wore clothing that made her look like she was trying too hard. The cherry-red, low-cut and backless sweater dress she was wearing clung to her pear-shaped frame. If I’d attempted that style, I would always have been tugging up the neckline. I imagined she donned revealing dresses so everyone could see the exquisite infinity sign tattoo inked at the nape of her neck. “You remember my daughter.”

  “Of course. Hi, Philomena.”

  The girl, a gawky freshman who even in flats stood a head taller than her mother in heels, stopped a few feet behind Felicity. She toyed with her lackluster hair and tugged on the hem of her short-shorts. Her bare legs were dimpled with goose bumps. The pink sequined words THEATER JUNKIE on her T-shirt caught the sunlight and sparkled.

  If only her sad eyes would glisten half as much, I mused.

  “Mimi, isn’t this luscious?” Felicity gushed. “I don’t eat anything but paleo, of course. In fact, that’s what I’ll be entering in the muffin competition.”

  There were to be three separate competitions: muffins, pies, and soufflés. The semifinals were being run off-site in the kitchen of the twin judges. The muffin and pie final competitions would take place on Thursday. The soufflé battle would occur on Saturday morning. Saturday evening, the finalists from all three contests would vie for the big prize—a Sweet Treats Festival personalized wine trip hosted by a tour guide.

  “Paleo gluten-free chocolate zucchini muffins,” Felicity went on.

  “Wow,” I said, trying not to grimace. Not that I didn’t like gluten-free muffins or chocolate muffins or even zucchini muffins, but all three in one? And paleo to boot? Why bother?

  “I’ll indulge today, though,” Felicity went on. “One must sacrifice for the betterment of our beautiful valley’s educational facilities, don’t you think?”

  I nodded. Let’s hear it for people who like to give, give, give.

  “I almost forgot.” Felicity reached into her red patent leather tote bag and withdrew a cream-colored envelope. “For you.” She handed it to me. “I painted pictures of flowers in my garden and imprinted notecards with the art.”

  I removed the notecard from the envelope and opened it. It was a thank-you note. “Um, what’s this for?”

  “For sponsoring the festival.”

  “I’m not the sponsor. I’m getting paid.”

  “Yes, of course, darling, but you provided the property when no other hotel would. You’re golden in my book.” Felicity wiggled her red fingernails at the note. “Read it and bask in the glow.”

  In sprawling handwriting, Felicity thanked me for being an open-minded and forward-thinking individual. I acknowledged her with a smile, murmured, “Lovely,” and turned to her daughter. “Philomena, I heard you’ve taken up guitar.”

  She hummed a yes.

  “And you got a cat. A big calico.”

  She hummed a second yes.

  Giving up trying to engage the girl in conversation, I said to Felicity, “Renee Wells has done a bang-up job, don’t you think? All three of the gardens are filled with tents and bustling with activity. Frozen desserts, puddings, soufflés, and beverages here. Cookies, cakes, and pies in the Renoir Retreat. And all the demonstration and souvenir tents are in the Bazille Garden.”

  “Renee does have energy and enthusiasm,” Felicity said, but I could see she was distracted because her eyes widened at something she spied over my shoulder. “Philomena, go tell your father I need to see him. Immediately.”

  Parker Price, a former pro football player and our current councilman—which was why he was wearing a suit and tie to a casual event—was standing near TUTTI FRUTTI with a flashy brunette and a distinguished gentleman I recognized from last year’s political posters. He had run against Parker and lost. An overcoat hung over Parker’s arm and a duck hunter–style cap dangled from his finger. The trio were enjoying ice cream cones and laughing at some joke Parker must have just told. He had a great sense of humor, which for some unknown reason ticked off Felicity, his bride of twenty-two years. I also happened to know that he trimmed his salt-and-pepper hair just to rile her. One night at the bistro, Heather had overheard Felicity griping about the fact that the back of Parker’s hair looked like he’d used pinking shears to trim it.

  “Hey, sweetie!” Renee bounded up to us in a candy-apple red–striped dress and white espadrilles. She embraced Felicity and gave her a warm hug, making the white bakery bag she was holding crackle. “Thanks so much for making me tea yesterday afternoon. Boy, did I get an education looking at your book collection.”

  Felicity shrugged her off. Her gaze wasn’t filled with warmth. Didn’t she like to be hugged and appreciated? Maybe she was concerned that Parker was still talking to his pals and Philomena had vanished.

  “I’ve got to say, Felicity, I had no idea how government worked.” Renee turned to me. “You might not know this, Mimi, but Parker Price is the absolute best at raising funds for our public schools, and Felicity is right there by his side, generous to a fault with her time.” She pulled an oversized Oreo-style cookie from the bakery bag and thrust it at Felicity. “Have one. These are scrumptious.”

  Felicity wrinkled her nose. “I don’t eat sweets.”

  “I beg to differ,” Renee said in singsong fashion. “I happen to know you love dipping your cookies into skim milk. But I understand if you want to pass. We’ve got to watch our figures, don’t we?”

  Felicity swiveled to take in the crowd. Her foot tapped a rat-a-tat on the gravel.

  “Hey, girlfriend.” Renee flicked a finger. “I didn’t know you had that tattoo.”

  How could she not? Felicity was brazen about making sure everyone saw it. Maybe that was why she had turned her back on Renee, to flaunt her art.

  “What does it represent?” Renee bit into a cookie and hummed her approval.

  Felicity spun around. “My endless bond with my husband. I had it inked the day after we met in high school.”

  “Hmm.” Renee cocked a hip. “Does Parker have a matching infinity tattoo?”

  “No, I don’t,” Parker said, walking up to us with a distinctive limp, which I’d heard was due to an old sports injury. He was using a napkin to mop melted ice cream off his hand. “I didn’t need to tattoo myself to show the world I loved you. Right, hon?” When he smiled, his crooked nose looked even more crooked.

  “He has a tattoo of a football,” Felicity said.

  “Well, sure.” His laugh reminded me of a truck trying to rev up. “Here, you look cold.” Clumsily, trying not to topple his ice cream, he offered his overcoat to Felicity. The hem scraped the ground.

  “You keep it.” Felicity shoved it at him, playfully swatted his arm, and took a lick of his ice cream cone.

  So much for eating paleo, I mused. Maybe it was her contribution to the cause. Maybe the Oreo she’d shunned had whet her appetite for sugar.

  Renee said, “Mr. Price—”

  “Call me Parker. Everybody does.”

  “Parker”—Renee smiled—“I was telling Felicity how nice it was to have tea with her and receive a personal tour of your home. She’s so proud of everything you do. She says you’re a whiz of a councilman.”

  Parker beamed. “She should have been the one to run for office. She’s so bright.”

  “She sure is,” Renee said. “Wicked smart.”

  “She’s wicked all right.” Parker grinned, his eyes fill
ed with mischief. I would have bet that devilish look had flustered many a defensive linesman. “Hey, hon, let’s chat for a second.” He looped a hand around his wife’s elbow and guided her to a spot near the archway leading into the inn. Felicity, who seconds ago had bid her daughter to fetch her husband, now tried to wrench free from his grasp. Parker held on, his impish gaze replaced with outright annoyance. They stopped ten feet from us, their voices hushed.

  “Well, that was, um, awkward,” Renee wisecracked.

  “I agree.”

  “Time for me to make the rounds,” she said. “Make sure you taste the sorbet. Jorianne told me it’s your favorite.”

  How well my pal knew me.

  Philomena, who reappeared with a paper cup of ice cream, drew near to her parents. Parker waved for her to skedaddle. She tripped over her feet as she hastened away. I beckoned her to rejoin me. She seemed relieved to have someplace to go.

  “Is the ice cream good?” I asked.

  She hummed a yes.

  “You’re into theater, right?” I pointed to her T-shirt.

  “Mm-hm.” She twisted so I could see the words on the back of her shirt: ST. MARY’S HS LOVES THE ARTS.

  “I hear St. Mary’s is excellent. What play are you doing?” That should require more than a single-syllable answer, I mused.

  “Cats.”

  “Are you playing a calico cat?” I made the reference because of her new pet.

  “No. I’m the Glamour Cat.”

  “You’re Grizabella?” I gawped. “That means you must have a terrific voice.” Grizabella was the cat that crooned the spectacular song “Memory.”

  She mumbled, “Yeah, I guess,” then added, “It’s tech week.”

  “That’s fun.” I remembered doing a few plays and looking forward to tech week, which was the week before the show opened when the technical crew had to hammer out any problems with the lights, sound, and props. We had treated it as goof-off time because we stopped and started so often. I hadn’t starred in the plays; I liked being in the chorus. “Do you—”