I set Scooter on the floor—yes, I was getting used to having a cat in the house—and thought again about the identity of the limping man. What if Rusty Wells had worn a disguise to make people think he was Parker? He could have parked his truck around the block and stolen back.
But Parker’s name kept sticking in my craw. My theory that he and Renee had been involved could be wide of the mark, but what if he’d had a beef against her for some other reason? He was a councilman. What if she’d had some dirt on him? What if she had threatened his career? Would that have been enough to drive him to murder?
Chapter 13
Every Thursday my mother and I met for an early morning catch-up session at Chocolate. I arrived before she did and secured a table by the window. I caught her eye as she bustled past and waved. She breezed into the café, the tails of her pumpkin-toned poncho kicking up behind her. She slid into her chair and signaled Irene.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said to me.
“It’s okay. I caught up on a few things.” The email from Nash asking how I was doing had sent a thrill through me because he’d ended it with an XO—a kiss and a hug. I’d replied with a quick update and an impulsive XO of my own. I had yet to respond to the voicemail message from Eli asking me for coffee on his next day off. I wasn’t quite sure how to handle the invitation. “How’s Camille?” I asked.
“She’s doing fine. Eating. Listening to music. Reading Agatha Christie. Riesling is excited to have her around.”
Irene arrived with two mugs of hot chocolate, heavy on the whipped cream.
I took a sip of my chocolate. Excellent, as always.
“Two warm croissants coming right up,” Irene added. “But before I go, did I hear you mention Camille, Ginette? Do you know where she is? I’ve missed her.” Camille often visited Chocolate during her afternoon break. She enjoyed the chatter and clatter.
“She’s staying with me”—my mother put a finger to her lips—“but it’s a secret.”
“Why?” Irene asked.
“Because Mimi thinks Camille might be in danger.”
“I never said that, Mom.”
“You didn’t want her staying alone.”
“Because—” I huffed, unwilling to say more.
“Camille said you saw someone lurking outside your cottage.”
“I overreacted.”
“And a stranger tried to wrangle his way into her hotel room.”
“A journalist.”
“Gracious me.” Irene placed a hand on the bib of her apron. “I’ve always said, ‘Better to be cautious.’ Mum’s the word. Your secret is my secret. Please give her my love.” She sauntered away and cozied up to two customers seated at a nearby table.
Mom took a sip of her chocolate, hummed her approval, and set the mug down. She ran a thumb along the rim to remove a tinge of her lipstick. “Camille wants to defy the therapist. She thinks work would be good for her. She wants to return.”
“That would be great, but—”
“She doesn’t believe the killer is after her.”
“What if she’s wrong?”
“She’s mumbling to herself, sweetheart. She needs to be busy. She can continue to stay at my place as long as she wants to, of course, but I believe work will stimulate her and give her a reason to move forward. You know how bad dwelling on the negative can be.”
A month after Derrick died, my mother had shown up on my doorstep. Within a minute, she’d found all the candy paper cups that had once held bonbons. Thirty minutes later, she had ushered me into a therapist’s office. Three hours and fifteen minutes after that, I’d moved home. My mother hadn’t manhandled me; she’d shown how much she cared.
“If you say so,” I murmured.
Mom twirled a finger at my outfit. “You look nice.”
“Thanks.” Usually I wore my work clothes to our dates, but knowing how much she hated the neutral ensemble and seeing as I had a spare in the office, I’d decided to dress up for a change. I had thrown on a pretty peach-colored knit sweater and cigarette-style ecru pants. My hair hung loosely on my shoulders. I’d even donned single-pearl, French-wire earrings.
“Nash is a good influence on you,” she said.
“He had nothing to do with my choice of clothing. He and I … We haven’t … We aren’t—”
“TMI. Too much information.” My mother batted the air. “All I can say is, despite the crisis with Camille, there is something fresh about you. Your color is good and your eyes are bright. I believe that’s Nash’s doing.” She sipped her hot chocolate and eyed me over the rim. “Yummy.”
“What’s yummy? Nash?” I joked.
“I happen to think so. Don’t you?”
“Yes, I do.” Our kiss the other night had floored me in a good way.
“Have you two talked about … your future?”
“Mother, it’s way too soon for that,” I said, reluctant to mention that he had actually broached the subject. We should talk about us, he’d said. When would we do that? Our next date? Sooner?
“Talking is important. Your father and I always made time to chat. It was one of the great blessings of our relationship. Remember that.”
“Here you go.” Irene returned with our croissants as well as a plate of Irish butter and sashayed away.
“By the way…” My mother tore her croissant into two pieces, swiped soft butter on one half, and downed it in two bites. “Nash is very good at his job. He has great business sense and a terrific work ethic. I’ve never seen the winery run so smoothly.” She propped both elbows on the table and leaned forward. “Did he tell you about the new plot of land we’re purchasing?”
“For Merlot grapes.”
“I’m very excited.”
I loved how she was bubbling over with good energy. “If I remember correctly, a few months ago, you were talking about getting rid of the winery and selling it. To him.”
“Yes, but now I’m thinking of making him a partner. I never knew running the winery could be so much fun. Your father didn’t want to be bothered. It all fell on my shoulders. Nash is a wonder.”
I smiled to hide a twinge of regret. Her partnership with Nash might complicate our relationship. What if, one day, they had a falling out? “How does Anthony feel about your revived interest?” I asked.
“He thinks it’s marvelous. Because of Nash, I can travel and do whatever I please. Even get married.”
Luckily I hadn’t been sipping my hot chocolate or I would have spit it across the table. “Married? You’re not talking about marriage, are you?”
She gave me the evil eye, the one I’d hated since I was old enough to know it meant she was the parent and my opinion had no merit. “Why shouldn’t we?”
“Why should you is the better question? You’re not going to have children. You’re travel companions.”
“We are way more than that, sweetheart.”
“TMI, Mom,” I blathered, my cheeks heating like a pot of boiling water.
She chuckled and winked.
I leaned back in my chair and folded my arms. Why was I so shaken? I recalled my conversation with Jo about her father. I’d advised her to get to know the woman he was falling for, but this was different, wasn’t it? Wasn’t it? I drew in a deep breath. “Do you love him?”
Before she could answer, my cell phone vibrated on the table. I read Tyson’s name on the screen. I picked up my phone and answered. “Hello, Sergeant Daly.”
My mother whispered, “I never got the chance to speak with him. If he needs to talk to me—”
I motioned for her to hold that thought.
“Miss Rousseau,” Tyson said.
“Cut the attitude. Are you returning my call?”
“Yours and your mother’s. How many others in your posse have contacted the department?”
I pictured him grinning like a goon while stroking that goatee of his. “You’re a laugh riot,” I said. Not, I thought.
He snorted. “What’s up?”
&n
bsp; “Did you talk with Ursula Drake?”
“We connected finally. Because she sought you out, which means you weren’t snooping, I won’t hold it against you.”
I bit back a retort. I didn’t snoop. I listened. I cared. I was loyal to my friends and family, all of which were qualities I admired in my heroes. Didn’t he?
“Any more sightings?” he asked.
“Sightings.”
“Of people outside your cottage.”
“How did you know about that?”
“I ran into Raymond this morning.” Tyson and Raymond had played soccer together in high school. Tyson had played forward; Raymond, center back. Both could run like sprinters. “He said you were pretty skittish last night. You aren’t the kind to be on edge, Mimi, so what’s going on?”
I filled him in about the person I’d glimpsed watching the cottage and added that a reporter had attempted to wrangle Camille at the inn. I added that when I’d seen Raymond hobbling, it had made me think of Ursula Drake’s testimony about seeing a limping man in her neighborhood. “My two cents, Tyson? The limping man could have been Rusty Wells pretending to be Parker Price.”
“Why would he pretend to be Parker?”
“Because he doesn’t like him and wanted to implicate him. Of course, the limping man could have been Parker himself.”
“Because?”
“He knew Renee, and he and she might have—”
“It wasn’t Parker, Mimi. He and I have spoken.”
“Why did you question him?”
“Don’t think any more about it.” He sounded terse. “I’m on it.”
“Also—”
He ended the call.
I glared at my cell phone and growled. Tyson couldn’t have sounded more patronizing than if he’d said, Don’t worry your pretty little head, sweet pea. “Dang it.” I set my cell phone facedown on the table. “What does Jo see in him?”
“What everyone else does,” my mother said. “A capable, intuitive man.”
“He hung up before I could tell him about the argument between Rusty and Parker or about Rusty lying—”
“Calm down.” My mother laid her hand on mine. “Tyson will get to the bottom of this.”
“But there might be angles he isn’t considering.”
“I don’t mean to interrupt, ladies.” Irene arrived at the table and topped off our hot chocolate. “I’m sorry if I have alert ears—it’s a bad habit that I’ve picked up in this place—but did I hear you mention Ursula and Camille in the same sentence?”
My mother said, “You did. Mimi’s investigating Renee’s murder.”
“I am not investigating, Mother. C’mon.” Was she trying to tick me off? When I was in high school, she and I had had a few rows. We always made up, but my friends and I often pondered whether our mothers pushed our buttons on purpose, simply to get a reaction. Would I do the same when—if—I had kids?
“Tell Irene what you learned,” my mother said. “She and Camille are neighbors.”
“So I heard.”
“Ursula is quite on top of neighborhood news,” Irene said. “When she’s not working, she’s walking those bulldogs of hers or doing something to improve her house’s curb appeal. She’s very handy with a hammer, a skill acquired from years of helping Habitat for Humanity.”
My mother nudged my arm. “Go on, Mimi, tell her.”
I cupped my mug in my hands. “On the night of the murder, Ursula saw a man with a limp in the neighborhood. She thought it might have been Renee’s husband, putting on an act, but I wondered whether Parker Price might have been the man she’d seen. Parker knew Renee. Ursula couldn’t make out a face.”
Irene tsked. “It might have been Parker. I’ve seen him in the area once or twice. Come to think of it, his visits started about the time Renee moved into Camille’s house.”
I gasped. “If Felicity found out—”
“That would give her motive,” my mother and Irene said in unison.
Irene knuckled my mother’s shoulder. “Jinx.”
“What’s jinx, Irene?” Willow appeared out of nowhere—I hadn’t seen her enter the café—and sidled up to Irene, a to-go cup of coffee in hand. She coiled a bare arm over Irene’s shoulder and gave her a playful squeeze. They were good friends. A few months ago, Irene had confided that they both suffered from mood swings that affected their buying habits. They had met in a doctor’s office and had bonded instantly.
Irene eased from beneath Willow’s arm and said, “Butt out. We’re having a private chat.”
“Not anymore. I’m here.” Willow fetched an empty chair from a nearby table and, without asking, wedged it between my mother and me. She settled onto it, adjusted the skirt of her marmalade-colored sheath, and popped the lid on her coffee. “C’mon, let me in on the gossip.”
Irene snorted. “You are incorrigible.”
“Yes, I am. Now spill.” Willow blew on her coffee and took a sip.
I bit back a smile. Despite the fact that Willow was trying to throw a wrench between Nash and me by reintroducing Eli into my life—I truly believed that was her aim—I liked her.
Irene said, “We were talking about Parker Price being in the neighborhood the night Camille’s sister was murdered.”
“Hmm.” Willow took another sip of coffee. “I didn’t see him, but I did catch sight of Camille that night, about the time she told the sheriff she arrived home—eleven thirty. I’ve met with Sergeant Daly and verified her alibi.”
I gaped. “You spoke with Tyson?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Ahem, Willow.” Irene cleared her throat. “My dear sweet friend, excuse me, but you don’t live in the neighborhood.”
“True. I don’t.” She took another languid sip. The corners of her mouth twitched.
Irene planted a fist on one hip. “Then might I ask how you happened to see Camille?”
“I saw her because”—Willow dragged out the word, baiting us—“I was next door.”
“At Betty’s house?”
Willow swiped her hand. “Other side.”
“At Bennett’s place?” Irene gawped. “But he’s—”
“Single.”
“And your junior by ten years.”
“Shh. It’s our secret. He thinks we’re the same age.” Willow knuckled her friend on the arm. “What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”
I said, “Is he the one you were talking about the other day?”
“One and the same.” She threw Irene a look. “This is not a forever thing. I don’t think I will ever want a forever romance again. I had that. It’s over.” She eyeballed me.
I flinched. She didn’t blame me for Nash leaving her, did she? I was not the reason. According to him, she spent way above her means and that capriciousness plus her other personality quirks had ended their marriage. “Willow, did you see Parker Price or someone in an earflap hat and overcoat earlier that evening?”
“I did not, but, as previously mentioned, I was otherwise occupied. The chemistry was—” She flicked her fingers as she had the other day, indicating their chemistry was explosive.
“Are you sure you saw Camille enter the house at eleven thirty?” I asked.
“I did. After Bennett and I tripped the light fantastic, I walked onto the porch to study the stars, and there she was, heading into her house, a single grocery bag in her arms. The porch light illuminated her. She had junk in her hair.” Willow wriggled her fingers above her head. “I heard a rumor that she’d gone walking in the woods. I can’t imagine. It was so windy that night. But if it’s true, it’s a good thing she did. Otherwise, she might be dead.”
I doubted Camille felt the same. If she’d come straight home from work, maybe her sister would be alive.
Chapter 14
I paid for our treats and followed my mother to her house in my Jeep. I couldn’t wait to see Camille and tell her the good news. She was free. Exonerated. She had a solid alibi and a witness to verify it. As I drove, I used the h
ands-free cell phone feature on the steering wheel and called Heather to tell her I was running late. She assured me she would get the kitchen staff cracking.
As I drove up my mother’s driveway, I was struck again by how beautiful the house was. As a child, I’d never paid attention to the lines or style. I’d romped through the gardens and catapulted over the patio railing without a care. Now, the sunlight was making the cream trim glimmer around the moss green siding. Sunlight highlighted the Mr. Lincoln tea roses bordering the path to the porch. My mother loved tending her roses.
She pulled her Toyota Corolla into the garage. I parked by the roses and climbed the steps to the porch. The front door was open. The aroma of cinnamon wafted through the screen door.
“Camille must be baking,” my mother said as she entered.
I trailed her.
Riesling bounded to us for hugs and kisses. Then, as if he sensed we had come to greet Camille and not him, he barked at us, made a quick U-turn, and bolted upstairs to the guest room.
“You lead,” my mother said.
The door to the guest room was ajar. Camille’s overnight case lay open on the bed. The vine-themed drapes hung open. The double-sash window was ajar and allowed a cool breeze into the room. I heard the shower in the guest bathroom crank off.
“Camille?” I rapped on the doorjamb.
“Come in,” she trilled. “I will be out in a second.”
I entered. My mother followed me. Riesling dashed past both of us and nudged the bathroom door open.
Camille emerged, wrapped in an ecru bathrobe, her feet tucked into sea-grass slippers. My mother liked her guests to feel pampered. “Did you hear the news, Mimi? Sergeant Daly called my cell phone.” Her face glowed with energy as she bent to scratch Riesling under the chin. “I recognized his number, so I answered. He said Willow—”
“Exonerated you.”
“Is it not wonderful? I may return to work. But first, I must go home to get fresh clothes. In a rush to pack to stay at your cottage, I did not include a white blouse or a second pair of trousers.”
A Soufflé of Suspicion Page 14