A Soufflé of Suspicion

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  “I’ll keep my eye on her, okay?” I patted Heather’s shoulder. “Relax. Go to the dining room and finish preparing the new menus for the evening.”

  At the same time Heather exited, my mother texted me: THE EAGLE HAS LANDED SAFELY. I smiled at the spy language.

  Stefan joined me, a boning knife in his hand. “Um, boss, can we talk?” He jerked his head to the left, away from Allie.

  I followed him to the corner. “Problem?”

  “There’s gossip about Miss O’Malley, like, you know, she might’ve…” He mimed picking up a heavy object and swinging it in a downward motion.

  “I don’t think she did, and she has an alibi.” I didn’t reveal how tenuous it was. “I’m going with my intuition, okay? Like I did when I hired you and everyone else.” Bryan had encouraged me to take risks. I had reminded him that taking a risk had made me marry my late husband, but he’d said that because I’d invited Derrick into my life and because of Derrick’s duplicity, I had become stronger and sharper. “We’re two staff short,” I went on, “so I can’t draw from your pool of talent. I need someone to assist me.”

  “Got it.” Though, from the frown that linked his eyebrows, I could tell he didn’t.

  A shiver of angst skittered down my spine. First Heather was wary, now Stefan.

  “She’ll be right next to me at all times,” I said.

  Stefan started whistling “Another One Bites the Dust” by Queen.

  I jabbed him in the ribs. “Not funny.”

  He chuckled and, twirling the boning knife, returned to his station, where he began to cut up whole chickens.

  “Allie, grab a chef’s coat from the locker”—I hitched a thumb toward the rear of the kitchen—“and hurry back to me.”

  When she saluted and scurried away, I gave Stefan a reassuring look. We were in sync. This would work out. He crossed his fingers and made a U-turn.

  Allie proved to be even better than I’d hoped. She reacted quickly, which was a plus in a busy kitchen. Working as a short-order cook had honed that skill. And she was keen to detail. Rather than limit her to boiling water and fetching items, as planned, I gave her the chore of plating a specialty hamburger—I’d decided a simple choice on the menu would be a great addition. The task came naturally to her. Assembling the burger with Roquefort and crisp bacon was not an easy feat. She had to set the top of the brioche bun at a tilt and make the accompanying butter lettuce, beefsteak tomato, and house dill pickles look appetizing, all of which she did with flair.

  For the first seating, we plated over two hundred items. As we were gearing up for the second seating, Heather poked her head into the kitchen.

  “Chef Mimi?” she called. “Do you have a minute?” She beckoned me.

  I hoped no one wanted to complain about the hamburgers or anything else. Allie would be crushed. She had worked her tail off. Even Stefan, after the last table had been served, had thrown her a supportive smile. I said, “Allie, I’ll be right back. Take a breather.”

  “Sure,” she said, but she didn’t look like she needed a rest. She appeared energized and glowing, as if working for me had taken her mind off losing the festival and had given her the emotional boost she’d needed.

  Heather guided me through the main dining room toward the office.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  “A diner has come forward.”

  “Come forward for what?”

  “To tell you what she saw on the night of the murder.”

  “Why talk to me? Why not contact the sheriff?”

  “Because she’s here now, and she loves your food, and she adores Chef C, and, well, I overheard her confiding to her dinner companion that…” She prodded me into the office. “You’ll see.”

  Standing beside the shabby chic chairs was a woman in a sleek aqua sheath. I’d seen her once or twice at the bistro but hadn’t yet introduced myself. I made a mental note to pay more attention in the future. She had thin but muscular arms, prominent cheekbones, and long butterscotch-blonde hair. Runner or tennis player? I wondered. She was somewhere in her forties, but her sun-tanned skin made her look a tad older. A couple of weeks ago, I had seen her walking her French bulldogs on one of my midafternoon strolls; she hadn’t worn a visor or hat.

  “Mimi”—Heather stopped inside the doorway—“this is Ursula Drake.”

  I extended my arm. Ursula took my hand and squeezed hard. Tennis player, I determined.

  “It’s so good to meet you,” she said. “I adore Bistro Rousseau. It is fast becoming my go-to place.”

  I liked hearing that.

  “Ursula is a caterer,” Heather offered.

  Aha! Maybe her toned muscles came from lifting heavy trays of food.

  “We call our business Feed Your Dreams,” Ursula said. “Our office is down the street. Heard of us?”

  I hadn’t, but I didn’t know every catering company in the area.

  “We’ve been in business for two years. We specialize in fantasy events. No dark fantasies,” she added. “More like princesses and fairy tales and such. My business partner is dining with me. He and I are taking a night off from the Crush Week crowds. Boy, have we been busy!” She widened her eyes to make her point. “We’ve been telling everyone we know about Bistro Rousseau. We love the menu, by the way. We’ve pored over it to get ideas.”

  “Are you planning to steal a recipe?” I asked.

  “What? No. We…” She giggled when she realized I was joking. “I’ve been remiss by not introducing myself to you. I’m shy that way.”

  I doubted Ursula had ever been shy in her life. I pegged her as a mover and shaker. In a way she reminded me of a classier version of Felicity Price. I said, “I should’ve introduced myself.”

  She fanned a hand.

  “Ursula, I don’t mean to be rude,” I said, “but I have to hurry to the kitchen. I have a cook in training.”

  “Of course. You want me to get to the point. Well, you see, my partner and I were discussing Camille. She’s been an inspiration to me. That’s what Heather heard us talking about.”

  Heather shifted feet, uncomfortable at having been caught eavesdropping.

  “And?” I coaxed.

  “Camille is a friend,” Ursula said. “We live in the same neighborhood. She’s given me lots of catering ideas. She’s the one who told me about your restaurant. I haven’t seen her since that dreadful night. Is she all right? Did the sheriff take her into custody?”

  “No, he didn’t,” I said. “She’s fine.”

  “I heard she might be guilty of—”

  “She’s not. The sheriff hasn’t allowed her to return home because it’s a crime scene.”

  “Where is she staying?”

  I hesitated. Gee, Ursula was asking a lot of questions. “With a friend.” I glanced at my watch. “I really must return to—”

  “Ursula”—Heather twirled a hand—“tell Mimi what you saw.”

  Ursula inched toward me and lowered her voice. “On the night of the murder, I spied Camille’s brother-in-law driving through the neighborhood.”

  “Rusty Wells?” I asked.

  “That’s right. I’d come home after catering a party. About ten PM. I was walking my dogs. The headlights were off on his truck. At the time I figured maybe the headlights being switched off was an oversight, but now, after learning of the murder, I’ve got to wonder whether he was tailing his wife. I heard a rumor that she was having an affair.”

  “She wasn’t having an affair,” I stated, although I couldn’t be certain. Camille had been so vague when I’d questioned her about that.

  “Really?” Ursula sounded skeptical.

  “Not all rumors are true.”

  “No, of course not, but I overheard the sheriff talking about a love letter and assumed—”

  “How did you know it was Rusty in the truck?” I pressed.

  “Well, I can’t be certain, but his green truck with that license plate is unmistakable. Who else would be driving it
? I saw lights on in the house, but Camille wasn’t home yet. At least I don’t think so. I didn’t see her car in the driveway. It’s very distinctive. She drives an Italian import that’s so teeny. Me? I wouldn’t be caught…” She balked.

  Heather gasped. I did, too, knowing Ursula was about to say caught dead.

  Ursula pressed on. “That car of hers would get crushed in an accident, you know? Anyway, I saw movement inside. That must have been Renee, right?”

  Or it was the killer cleaning up, I thought. Except nothing had been cleaned up. The floor was a mess and the fixings for soufflé were assembled on the counter.

  I paused. No, that wasn’t true. One thing had been cleaned up—the mixer. It had been wiped free of fingerprints. Had the killer left the other things in a mess to throw off the authorities?

  “Why haven’t you spoken with the sheriff?” I asked.

  “I called. We’ve been playing phone tag. They must be overrun with activity, it being Crush Week.”

  Perhaps that was why Tyson hadn’t responded to my text.

  “Boy, Crush takes its toll on the locals’ patience,” Ursula added.

  Nash had said the same thing as we’d driven home from our wine tasting.

  Ursula continued. “When Heather said you’d want to hear what I had to say, I thought now was the perfect opportunity. I’d meet you and give my account to boot. I know you have Sergeant Daly’s ear. You must have him on speed dial after…” She sputtered.

  “After what happened in June,” I finished.

  “Yes. I’m so sorry. Your hand in solving Mr. Baker’s murder was covered in all the newspapers.”

  And on TV and radio chat shows. For weeks after his murder, newshounds had wanted to interview me. I’d refused them all. That hadn’t stopped others from talking.

  “It’s okay,” I said, smiling to assure her that her blunder hadn’t upset me. “What did Rusty do next?”

  Ursula worked a kink out of her neck. “That’s the thing. He didn’t stop, and he didn’t park or get out of his truck, as far as I know. I took my dogs inside to get them settled, so I might have missed that. However, I do think”—she paused for effect—“he might have shown up later. On foot.”

  Heather smirked and eyed me pointedly, as if to say now we were getting to the good stuff.

  “As I was closing my drapes for the evening,” Ursula said, “I noticed a man in an earflap hat and heavy wool coat walking along the street. He seemed cagey, you know? His head was moving right and left”—she mimed the action—“as if he was trying to spot a tail.”

  “Did you see his face?”

  “No. There are no streetlamps in our neighborhood, but the moon was bright enough that I could tell he had a noticeable limp.”

  “Rusty Wells doesn’t limp.”

  Ursula bobbed her head. “Maybe he was acting injured to, you know, throw a witness like me off the scent.”

  “That’s what I think,” Heather said.

  I thanked Ursula for doing her citizenly duty, told her I’d contact Sergeant Daly on her behalf, and instructed Heather to bring Ursula and her partner a glass of Prosecco on the house. Ursula gushed her appreciation and hurried to her table. Her partner waved to me. I returned the greeting.

  Before I could retreat to the kitchen, Heather gripped my elbow and tugged me into the office. “Mimi, I’ve been getting more vibes. This time about Rusty Wells. I saw him walking across the parking lot. He was strutting and looking smug. I feel like there’s something evil in him. Right here.” She thumped her chest, over her heart. “You need to tell Tyson.”

  “Tyson won’t buy into your vibes, but I’ll mention it.” My dear friend Sergeant Daly, like his father and grandfather before him, liked black-and-white facts.

  I started to leave, but she grabbed hold of my arm again. “Also, beware of a woman in white. She might cause you trouble.”

  “Which woman?”

  “I don’t know. I saw her in a dream.”

  “Hmm. Sounds like an angel.”

  “Don’t make fun.” She swatted the air.

  “Maybe it was one of your Glonkirks making a visit.”

  She threw me an exasperated look.

  I pointed to the door. “Get to work. I’ll keep on the alert.”

  Before leaving the office, I called Tyson, but he wasn’t in. Where was he? With Jo? Were they hashing out their future? Was she digging in her heels about children and freedom and whatnot? Or was Tyson doing his job and trying to find Renee’s killer? I left a message, putting him on alert to contact me as well as Ursula Drake, and returned to work.

  After dinner, exhausted from the number of meals we had prepared but thankful that Allie had been such a capable assistant, I headed home.

  When I entered the cottage, I was revved up. I greeted Cagney and Lacey with a tap on their tank and fed them. They flipped their fins: Human home; all is right with the world.

  As I kicked off my shoes and pulled the band from my hair, I caught a glimpse of the dry-erase board. I stared at the suspects’ names I’d scrawled on it: Rusty, Parker, Allie, and Felicity. I wanted to erase Allie’s name. Not once during the course of preparing the evening’s meals had I felt that I’d made a bad decision to hire her temporarily. And she had an alibi. But I left her name there.

  I studied the motives I had written down for Rusty and Parker. They made sense. Below Felicity’s name, I added a blank line for a new suspect. On the line I scribbled a question mark to represent the man Ursula Drake had seen. Had it been Rusty or someone else?

  My cell phone vibrated in my pocket. I scanned the screen. My mother had texted me that Camille was tucked into bed. She added that Riesling was acting like the nursemaid dog in Peter Pan. He was lying on the carpet beside Camille’s slippers. If an intruder attempted to break in, the vigilant Goldendoodle would sound the alert. I wrote a THANK YOU text and then scrolled through my other texts, emails, and voicemails but didn’t see any message from Tyson. Drat.

  My stomach growled. Oftentimes, even after a hearty meal—I’d downed one of the specialty burgers before leaving the bistro—I craved dessert, but what could I fix? I didn’t want cookies. I was out of chocolate. I found oranges and eggs in the refrigerator, and my creative juices kicked into gear. Give me an orange, an egg, and sugar, and I could make soufflé. Granted, I needed a few other items, like cornstarch and a small dash of orange-flavored liqueur, but within thirty minutes, I would have my treat.

  I got to work, humming as I went.

  After eating the soufflé, I regretted the decision—not because it wasn’t great; it was scrumptious—but the sugar rush was shocking. What had I been thinking eating sweets so late? In desperate need of a walk to clear my head and settle my jangling insides, I threw on a pair of Uggs and strode to the front door. The aquarium tank burped as I reached for the doorknob. The fish were eyeing me with a look that could only mean our human is nuts.

  “That was not an enemy last night,” I said, believing I was right. It had been a worker or Crush Week fan. And a sneaky reporter had caused today’s scare outside Camille’s room at the inn. “It’s safe.”

  The moment I stepped outside, a gentle breeze nipped my nose and tousled my hair. The full moon was high in the sky. Stars glistened across the cloudless expanse. I drank in a lungful of air and let it out. At moments like these, I often felt at one with the universe. If not for Renee’s death, I might even have felt joyful. Instead my mind rehashed what Ursula had said. What if Rusty had been tailing Renee? What if—

  A blur of black cut across the path in front of me. My heart snagged. I stamped my foot. “Scooter, stop it! You’re going to be the death of me.” The moment the words left my mouth, I winced. My mother would say, Bite your tongue.

  The cat slinked from a bush, his tail dragging behind him. The moon reflected in his sorrowful eyes. Could cats cry?

  “Hey, buddy, what’s wrong?”

  I scooped him up. His heart was chugging like he’d been running fo
r miles. Had something frightened him? I heard a rustle and whipped around. A hulking person was lumbering up the walkway toward me. Lumbering and limping. My pulse zipped into high gear.

  I pivoted, ready to race into the cottage, when the hulk said, “Evening, Mimi.” It was Raymond.

  Breathing easier, I spun around.

  “Are you okay? You’re pretty jumpy.” As Raymond drew near, I realized why I hadn’t recognized him. He was wearing a raincoat and a red-and-black-checked hat, and he was carrying a small ladder over his shoulder.

  “Last night I saw someone in the vineyard. It put me on edge. And now, with you creeping up on me…”

  “I wasn’t creeping.”

  “Why the getup?” I asked. It wasn’t raining; it wasn’t even cold.

  “I’m removing wasp nests.”

  I chuckled. “Do they come out at night like snails and slugs?”

  “No, they sleep. They’re much easier to catch when they’re snoring.”

  “You’re one funny guy. You should take your act on the road.”

  He guffawed. “Is the cat okay?” He removed a heavy leather glove from his hand and scratched Scooter under the chin.

  “He’s spooked. By you.”

  “I’m pretty scary.” He cooed sweet nothings to Scooter and then said to me, “Get a good sleep.” He tapped the brim of his hat and headed away.

  “Hey, Raymond,” I called after him. “Why are you limping?”

  “Old soccer injury. It acts up around this time of year. Even more so when I do a lot of ladder climbing. G’night.”

  I reentered the cottage and bolted the door and deliberated about the man Ursula had spotted in Camille’s neighborhood. It sure as heck hadn’t been Raymond; he was one of the kindest people in the world and would have had no reason to be there. Parker Price suffered from an old football injury. Could it have been him and not Rusty in the area? The other day, I’d seen him carrying an overcoat and earflap hat. Of course, there had to be tons of people in Napa Valley who owned similar clothing and were suffering from a leg injury, but Parker had known Renee, even if he denied the extent of their relationship. I wondered again about his cagey response to Rusty. Had he and Renee had an affair? Had she threatened to ruin his marriage by revealing their affair to his wife?