A Soufflé of Suspicion

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  “Girl, was it you I heard out there?” I slammed and locked the door. “No?”

  She looked as frightened as I did. I raced for my cell phone and dialed Nash. He didn’t answer. I called Raymond next. Nada.

  Scoundrel nuzzled my ankle. Her tail, which often curled into a question mark, whisked my bare leg and sent a shiver through me. Like an alert bodyguard, she made the rounds of the cottage. She peered out the windows and the sliding glass door leading to the patio.

  “Is somebody out there?” I asked her, as if expecting an answer. “What spooked you?”

  She meowed.

  “Not a great help, cat,” I groused. Following her lead, I double-checked all the locks. I even peeked out the windows looking for a telltale sign of a prowler. Everything seemed normal.

  Until something went snap!

  Chapter 10

  “What was that?” I rasped.

  Scoundrel stared at me, her eyes wide.

  “It was nothing,” I assured her. “A critter. That’s all. A rodent or a raccoon frolicking in the vineyard or the orchard.”

  Frolicking? Yeah, right. More like snap-crackle-popping.

  I peeked out the glass door leading to the patio again and stifled a gasp. A person with a flashlight was standing in the adjacent vineyard. Who was it? Someone I knew? I swallowed hard as another thought occurred to me. Maybe Renee hadn’t been the killer’s intended target. Maybe Camille was. Maybe whoever was lurking outside my cottage believed Camille was still staying with me and had come to hurt her. When whoever it was realized I was home and knowing two would be harder to knock off than one, he … or she … had decided to flee through the vineyard. Except the person wasn’t fleeing.

  He … or she … started moving away from the cottage. Slowly. Not in a hurry. I urged myself to relax. Maybe it was a late-night workman or gardener, like Raymond, picking bugs off the vines. Or maybe it was a Crush Week fan that had gotten separated from their group. Midnight vineyard walks during Crush Week were common. People loved to drink in the aroma.

  When the stranger disappeared from sight, I said to Scoundrel, “We’re safe, girl.”

  Over the course of the next hour, I continued to repeat those words: We’re safe. No bogeyman or ax-wielding slasher or murderer was loitering outside. No thief was trying to break in. Safe.

  Even so, for the first time ever, I allowed Scoundrel to sleep inside. Acting like she had always been my cat, she nestled on top of my comforter and curled into a ball. Around two AM, her rhythmic breathing lulled me to sleep.

  * * *

  Thanks to the calming force of the cat’s presence, I awoke Wednesday morning feeling rested and ready for the day …

  Until I entered the bistro and Heather informed me that we were two waitstaff and one cook short. Red, our redheaded bartender—a woman I adored for her wine knowledge, her mixology talent, and sassy wit—was grumbling because she had to not only stock the bar but also set the rear patio tables. Oakley, who was typically effervescent, was carping that she had been assigned floor-mopping duty last week and didn’t deserve it this week. Even so, she plowed ahead, her ponytail swishing right and left along with the mop. Oh, how she wanted the opportunity to do something more substantial, she told me confidentially. She even offered to serve as the concierge at the inn on her days off. We didn’t have a concierge yet. I assured her I would consider the possibility, but floor mopping was the task for now.

  To make matters worse, when I entered the kitchen, I met Victor Richard and realized in an instant that I’d underestimated the pomposity I’d sensed during our telephone conversation.

  “Bonjour, Mimi.” He pumped my hand. “I am Victor Richard. You may call me Chef.” In a way, he reminded me of Peter Sellers in the zany, bumbling role of Inspector Clouseau, complete with the thick mustache and thicker French accent. “I look forward to commanding the kitchen.”

  “Um, Victor—Chef—I’ll be in command. You’re here to assist.”

  “No, no. That is not my way. I command.”

  “You don’t know the kitchen.”

  “What is to know? It is tiny. Small. Less than small.” He swept an arm to indicate the area. “In fact, it is cramped, but have no fear, I will manage.”

  I gawped at him. Was he for real? Dismissing me in front of my staff? Stefan and the others were staring at him, mouths agape.

  “Let’s begin,” Victor said. Like a health inspector, he orbited the kitchen, checking out the countertops with his fingertip. His nose wrinkled and nostrils flared, depending on what he detected. He scrutinized the foods set on the sous-chef counter. Without donning sanitary gloves, he dipped his fingers into a plate of sesame seeds and muttered, “Chicken feed. What a mess.”

  When he passed by, I signaled to Stefan to toss the seeds.

  I tolerated Victor Richard through lunch. Afterward, I paid him a full day’s salary and asked him to leave. He blustered and protested, but in the end, he exited.

  A minute later, I nestled on my stool by the farmhouse table and dug into a bowl of onion soup. The cheesy bread topping was crisp and the onions cooked al dente. In a word, it was divine.

  “Thank heaven he’s gone.” Stefan perched on the neighboring stool. “How could Camille have recommended him?”

  “She’s off her game,” I said. “Besides, she knew him a long time ago. Perhaps all his successes have changed him.”

  Stefan clucked his tongue. “Uh-uh. Wrong-o.” He wiggled his cell phone. “I checked out his bio online while you were giving him the boot. He hasn’t had any successes. In fact, he hasn’t worked at any of the places he cited to Camille. He lied through his teeth.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “He’s a fraud. A phony. He hoodwinked her. Everyone, listen up.” Stefan grabbed a wooden spoon and leaped onto an upside-down milk crate. Flailing the wooden spoon like a conductor and using a snooty French accent, he regaled the staff. “This salad is pedantic.” He pointed to an imaginary dish on the counter. “This is mundane.” He bounded off the milk crate and toured the kitchen, his chin high, his nostrils flared. “Tedious,” he shouted. “Tiresome. Monotonous. Boring.”

  At one point, I had wondered whether Victor had consulted a thesaurus before arriving. The fish entrée and all of the appetizers were common. The soufflés were ordinary. The crème brûlée merely tolerable.

  “And you are all lazy!” Stefan remounted the milk crate. “We need the food served tout de suite. Do you hear me?”

  In chorus they yelled: “We hear you!”

  Stefan chortled. “As if Victor had ever used a soft voice in his life!”

  Perhaps Victor thought a chef needed to bellow. He had repeatedly reminded me and everyone else that he and he alone was in command.

  “Repeat after me,” Stefan said. “You are lazy.”

  “We are lazy.”

  “You are ruthless swine.”

  “We are ruthless swine,” the staff said in unison, and then, to a person, doubled over laughing.

  At that moment, Heather breezed through the kitchen door, the skirt of her honey-colored chiffon dress ruffling from her brisk pace. “What the heck is going on?”

  “Stefan is entertaining the troops. Okay”—I rose to my feet and clapped twice—“that’s enough, you guys. I’m going to see if Jo can find us another replacement. You take a break, too.” I bussed my bowl of onion soup to the sink. “See you here in one hour to prep for dinner.”

  Stefan bounded off the milk crate, hung his spoon baton on its hook, and offered Yukiko his arm. “Grab a sunhat, Twinkletoes. Let’s catch some rays.”

  My stomach did a flip-flop. Twinkletoes? Was a relationship budding between the two of them? Hadn’t they been at each other’s throats just the other day?

  Heather walked with me to the front entrance and said, “Mimi, if you see Camille while you’re at the inn, please tell her we miss her.”

  * * *

  Jo wasn’t in her office. Her assistant advised me to l
ook in the Renoir Retreat, adding that Jo had needed a breath of fresh air after speaking with her father on the telephone.

  Minutes later I crossed through an archway trimmed with chili-red bougainvillea and searched for Jo among the crowd. The line at SWEETIE PIES was lengthy. I didn’t see a frowning face in the bunch. The line at DONOVAN’S DELIGHTS was longer. Donovan, who looked energized, was handing out free samples. Had Rusty met him yet? I could only imagine how that encounter might have gone.

  I found Jo near COLORFUL COOKIES. In her scarlet wrap dress, she blended in with the red tents, the vast array of red balloons, and the various red-themed plantings. As I drew near, I noticed her face was tear-stained. I hurried to her and slipped my arm through hers.

  “Walk with me,” I ordered. She didn’t resist. “Is everything okay?” I asked as we meandered through the boisterous throng.

  “It’s Dad.”

  “Is he sick?”

  “No. He’s healthier than an ox and”—her voice snagged—“he’s dating.”

  During the summer, I’d heard a rumor that her father was seeing someone. I didn’t believe the buzz because, after Jo’s mother had walked out, he had sworn off women. “Who?”

  “The same woman.”

  “Same?”

  Jo broke free of me and jammed a fist against her hip. “As in they’re going steady.”

  “How long have they been dating?”

  “Two months.”

  “Wow, that’s quick.”

  “I know.”

  I knuckled her arm. “Don’t you want him to be happy?”

  “Yes, but…” She nibbled her lip.

  “Look, I’ll admit I was concerned when my mother started seeing Stefan’s father.”

  “You were?”

  “Don’t get me wrong. I like Anthony.” Anthony Alton was a former financier for the government. He had stepped down because he didn’t agree with the current political climate and decided to run for Congress, where he thought he might do more good. “However, knowing my mom was seeing him on a regular basis felt like a betrayal, like she was going to forget my dad. I confronted her. She assured me she would never forget my father. He was and would always be the love of her life, but she was lonely. She didn’t want to sit home all the time or simply hang out with girlfriends. I think she was starved for affection and yearned for an occasional kiss, you know?”

  Jo bobbed her head.

  “Meet the woman,” I said. “Get to know her. Your dad deserves the best. Does your sister know?”

  “What do you think? Of course she does! She knows everything before I do.”

  I smirked.

  Jo pouted on purpose. “I sound like I’m five years old.”

  “Maybe six,” I teased.

  She shimmied her shoulders and fluffed her hair with her fingertips. “Did you need to see me about something?”

  “Yes.” I told her about the fiasco known as Victor Richard. I begged her to find me another temporary chef, pronto.

  “On it.”

  “Before you go, have you seen Camille since she secured a room at the inn?”

  “No. She’s a hermit, but I hear she’s eating. She ordered room service.”

  “Which room?”

  Jo lifted her chin and looked disdainfully down her nose. “We at Maison Rousseau ensure that each guest’s privacy is sacred.”

  “Give me a break.”

  She giggled. “Fine. West Wing, room 104. It was the only room available. We are fully booked.”

  “Mimi,” a woman called.

  Jo gave me a quick hug and hurried off as Felicity Price approached in a revealing getup, this one an emerald green cocktail dress that didn’t quite fit the casual vibe of the festival.

  “What a surprise to see you,” I said. “Why are you attending today?”

  “How could I stay away? This party is the talk of the town.” She air-kissed me on both cheeks. “Parker is using the opportunity to get to know folks. He’s been moving from garden to garden. A politician’s glad-handing is never done. Now, where is he? I lost him a bit ago.” She scanned the crowd. “There he is. See him? He’s so handsome. So engaging.” She wiggled a polished finger.

  Parker was standing with a group of women between the tents for SUGAR BLISS CAKE BOUTIQUE and PURELY FROSTING. He was twirling a jaunty fedora on a finger and telling a story. Two of the women were nibbling oversized iced cookies. Two others were peeling the wrappers off cupcakes. All were paying rapt attention to Parker. A forty-something woman in orange joined the group. She was licking an overly long spoon that I assumed she’d purchased at the frosting booth.

  A glint of concern crossed Felicity’s face, but she quickly slapped on a smile and refocused on me. “It’s such a shame about Renee. She would have loved to see how successful her little venture was, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, she would have.” I cocked my head. “May I ask how well you knew her? You seemed pretty chummy.”

  “Chummy? Heavens, no.”

  “You invited her to tea.”

  “Darling”—Felicity peeled a loose strand of hair off her face and tucked it behind her ear—“I invite everyone with whom we do a fundraising drive to tea. Between us girls, I think Renee wanted to hobnob with me so she could brag about it in her pitches for future festivals, and who was I to call foul because”—she leaned in—“I’ll admit I had an ulterior motive, too. I thought she would hold sway with the competition judges.” She straightened. “It turns out she didn’t.”

  Whoa! If it weren’t so warm out, Felicity’s last statement might have given me frostbite. I pictured the list of possible hookups that I’d written on the dry-erase board and wondered whether I had guessed right. What if Felicity had sensed there was something going on between her husband and Renee, despite Parker’s claim that they’d barely known one another? I recalled my chat with Felicity’s daughter, Philomena, who had overheard her parents arguing about love. Maybe Felicity had been accusing her husband of falling in love with Renee.

  Wanting to know more—I didn’t think I was imagining the hint of animosity—I said, “Come to think of it, when I saw the two of you together, you weren’t all that chummy with each other. You were rather cool.”

  Felicity smiled, but the sparkle didn’t reach her eyes. “Darling, we weren’t enemies, if that’s what you’re insinuating. You need to know someone well to be an enemy, or you need to be vying for the same prize. As manager of the festival, she couldn’t compete in the muffin competition.”

  Nice deflection, I mused and wondered about the tactic. I revisited the notion that Rusty and Felicity had hooked up. Had she cozied up to him to win the competition?

  “How well do you know Renee’s husband?” I asked.

  “Scarcely at all. Why do you ask?”

  “If your husband wants to win over constituents, he needs to work harder with Rusty.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I don’t think he likes him.”

  “Men.” Felicity flicked a hand. “You can never tell which way the wind blows with them.”

  “Is it possible Parker thinks Rusty likes you more than he should?”

  Felicity barked out a laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous, darling. Rusty’s a farmer. He wouldn’t dream of lusting after me.” She scanned the crowd, and her mouth turned downward again. The woman in orange was wiping something off Parker’s cheek. The others in the group had departed.

  “Who’s that with Parker?” I asked.

  “Whomever do you mean?” Felicity’s voice glided upward in a fake way.

  “The woman in orange.”

  “That’s Louvain Cook. Haven’t you met her? I could’ve sworn she’s eaten lunch at your bistro.”

  I had become familiar with each of our regular customers, but we had a lot of one-time diners. It was impossible to memorize every face or name, though I was determined to try.

  “Louvain and I grew up together,” Felicity went on. “She relocated from Atlanta whe
n she was a slip of a girl. We’re like sisters. She’s one of the finalists in the pie-baking competition. It turns out that she’s quite good with pie dough.” She placed a hand on her chest. “Did I know she could bake a pie, let alone crimp a perfect crust? No, I did not. Though she does have quite a gift for crimping a person’s style.”

  “Ouch.”

  Felicity snorted. “It was a joke. She and I are like this.” She crossed her fingers. “Tight.”

  I glanced at Parker and Louvain. They were still in conversation, but Louvain had stepped a respectable distance away from him.

  “Louvain’s never had much fashion sense,” Felicity went on. “Orange is not her color. It’s not mine, either, but I have the intelligence not to wear it. She should dress in jewel tones, like I do.”

  “Isn’t orange a jewel tone?” I asked. “There are orange garnets and opals.” I wasn’t the most educated person when it came to gems, but Jo had taken a geology class in college and had asked me to drive from San Francisco to Berkeley to quiz her when she was preparing for the final.

  “Well, yes, but they aren’t truly…” She trailed off and wiggled her fingers. “Parker, darling. Over here.”

  Parker made his way toward us. Louvain had disappeared. “Hey, Mimi, it’s nice to see you out and about.” His grin was infectious. “People are sure enjoying themselves at the festival. Sugar and spice and everything nice. Makes for happy hearts.”

  “And for deep pockets, I hope,” Felicity said.

  “Yes, hon, I’ve received a lot of promises for contributions, don’t worry.” He gazed at me. “One can never have too much money in the coffers. Politics is a pricey business.” He chortled. “Pricey. Ha! My last name’s Price. I didn’t mean to make the pun.”

  I would have bet he had. “Puns are the lowest form of humor,” I teased.

  Parker chuckled. “‘Unless you think of it first,’ Oscar Wilde said.”

  Felicity batted his arm. “Parker, darling, I wasn’t talking about political contributions. I was talking about the fundraising that the festival is achieving.” She addressed me. “Education needs so much additional cash to operate nowadays.”