“Sure do.”
Like a display model, he showed me his wares. “We have sugar cookies and chocolate cookies and all sorts of goodies to put on top.”
“I’m making Oreos,” a freckle-faced boy with a lisp said at full volume. “With the sprinkles on the inside. When I’m done, I’m going to dip them in a glass of milk, right, Mom?”
His equally freckly mother hushed him.
“I’m not being loud,” he said.
She clucked at him. “Yes, you are.” He sulked but settled down.
A woman in a lemon-yellow shift and matching hairband standing across the table with a peanut-sized girl, who was also clad in yellow, said, “Aren’t kids cute?”
“Not always,” the boy’s mother replied.
Jo glanced at Tyson—he had wandered to the far side of the garden and was holding a cell phone to his ear—and then she whispered to me, “Psst.” She mouthed the word kids and waggled a hand in Nash’s direction. What was she asking, whether he wanted children? Whether I did? Could I handle the mercurial whims of a child? Yes, of course I could, but was I too old to start trying? And how might having a child alter my career plans?
I chose not to respond and said, “What’s up with Tyson?”
“Duty calls. A three-car pileup.”
Tyson returned, pecked Jo on the cheek, and said, “I’ve got to leave. I’ll speak to you later.” He hustled out of the garden.
“Hey,” Nash said to the freckle-faced boy, “how about adding chocolate chips to the inside of those Oreos, too?”
His mother sighed. “Don’t encourage him.”
“Sugar is sugar.” Nash grinned. “Might as well eat it all in one rush. Besides, your donation is for a good cause.”
“Yeah, the dentist,” the mother joked and ruffled the boy’s hair. “Go on. It’s okay. This once.”
The child squealed with delight.
As I was selecting cups of vanilla icing and pink sprinkles—my cookie might as well match my jewelry—the aroma of honey and roses wafted over my shoulder. I recognized the scent and turned. Willow was sashaying toward us in a gold, body-hugging wraparound dress and ultrahigh heels. A slight breeze whipped her hair off her face. A film star couldn’t have made a more dramatic entrance. I felt immediately underdressed and unattractive.
Nash ran a finger along my neck. He must have picked up on my unease. She was not a threat, I reminded myself. He had ended his marriage; he liked me.
Walking alongside Willow was a lean man with a shaved head and a twinkle in his dark eyes. Though he wore a simple white short-sleeved shirt and jeans, his aqua-colored Christian Louboutin sneakers and Rolex Daytona watch gave away how wealthy he was. He looked about ten years younger than Willow. If my guess was right, this was Bennett, who lived in Camille’s neighborhood.
“Mimi, how are you?” Willow gave me a cursory hug. “Let me introduce you to Bennett Jones.”
“Hi.” I jutted a hand in his direction.
He pumped it eagerly. “Pleasure.”
Nash shook his hand as well. “So, Bennett, I hear you’re in real estate.”
“You might say that.” He had a mellow voice and a winning smile.
“Bennett owns hotels,” Willow gushed. “Lots and lots of them. In New York, London, and Singapore.”
“Bennett,” I said, “I heard you live near my chef, Camille Chabot.”
“I do,” he replied.
“It’s his third home,” Willow said.
“What a shame about Camille’s sister,” Bennett added.
“The other day a few of us were discussing something, Bennett,” I said. “Maybe you could clear it up. Councilman Price has been seen in your neighborhood a few times.”
“Parker? Yes, he has. Good man.” Bennett glanced over his shoulder and back at us. “Can you keep a secret?”
Willow’s gaze swung between him and me. “Well, don’t leave us hanging. Of course we can all keep a secret.”
“Parker is taking piano lessons from Betty. She said he’s going to play a special song for his wife at their upcoming anniversary.”
I balked. Did that prove that Parker hadn’t had an affair with Renee? Was Felicity totally off-base in her assumption that he was having an affair at all? Which song? Maybe he was learning “So Long, Farewell,” so he could break the news about being in love with Louvain. Bad Mimi. Cynical Mimi.
Willow said, “Enough about him.” She gave Bennett’s arm a squeeze. “Mimi, how are you holding up? Eli told me someone tossed a flowerpot at you.”
Nash’s eyes widened. “Who’s Eli, and why did someone throw a flowerpot at you?”
“Eli’s an old friend of Mimi’s,” Willow crooned. “Quite the charmer, if I do say so myself. He just moved back to town.”
Nash eyed me.
“He was visiting the festival,” I explained. “We ran into each other.”
“Mimi,” Willow continued, “I also heard someone was creeping around your place the other night.”
Nash gazed at me again, worry in his eyes.
“That’s not exactly what happened.” I patted Nash on the arm to reassure him.
“It’s not?” Willow gestured between herself and Bennett. “We saw Raymond on the way in. He said you were spooked.”
I needed to have a chat with Raymond. My business was private. “Nothing to be concerned about.” I offered a confident smile.
“I’m glad it was nothing,” Willow said. “A single woman can’t be too careful.”
“A married woman, either,” the woman in yellow said.
“Women in general,” the freckle-faced mother added.
Willow nudged Bennett to move along. “Nash, could I have a word? It’s about—” She twirled a finger.
Nash appeared torn, as if he wanted to grill me about the incidents—maybe even about Eli—but he obviously needed to respond to whatever Willow required first. A money matter, I imagined. He paid her alimony. “I’ll touch base with you later,” he said and hurried after his ex.
“Wow,” the mother in yellow said. “She is a force, isn’t she?”
“That she is.” I grinned. “But I like her. She owns Fruit of the Vine Artworks in Yountville.”
“I know it well. I’ve been there many times. Recently I needed to purchase a cookie platter for Felicity Price.”
“As a gift?”
“Felicity’s gift to another woman. I’m her personal shopper. My older daughter is in theater with Philomena.”
“Is she performing in Cats?”
“Yes. She’s loving it.”
The younger daughter in yellow said, “I love my sister’s costume. She has lots of sequins and ears and a tail. Mama made it. She made them all.”
The mother blushed. “I’m handy with a needle. My name is Sally Somers, by the way.”
“Mimi Rousseau.” I brushed the vanilla icing on a sugar cookie and scattered the pink sprinkles on top.
“You own the inn and bistro.”
“I do.”
“They’re both so lovely,” she said. “I’ve eaten lunch at the bistro once. I adore what you’ve done with it. All the mirrors and that beautiful antique bar. Exquisite. And you’re putting on this festival, too?” Sally pressed a hand to her chest. “How do you manage?”
“I’m not putting on the festival. The festival coordinator rented the space.”
A cloud of doubt crossed Sally’s face. “It’s a shame what happened to her, isn’t it? Does the sheriff have a suspect?”
“He’s looking into it.” I regarded Sally for a long moment. “If you’re in charge of costumes, then you must have seen Felicity on the night of the murder. She said she was at the theater for a rehearsal.”
“I did indeed. Poor thing.” Sally clucked her tongue. “She was sicker than a dog and in the restroom the whole night. Must have been something she ate.”
Curious, I thought. Why hadn’t Felicity mentioned that she was sick? Maybe she had been embarrassed. Or maybe she�
��d lied to Sally to give herself an alibi and, conveniently out of sight, had slipped out.
Chapter 18
By the time I arrived at the bistro, way before we were due to open, the place was teeming with guests. Why? Because Heather had allowed a group of thirty educators to come in for an early lunch. They weren’t dining yet—they were drinking iced tea—but the chatter about how the local schools were going to benefit from the festival’s fundraiser was intense.
One of the female attendees, who was wearing a white togalike sheath with gold trim, clinked a glass with a spoon. As the noise died down, the woman began to sing to the tune of “Put a Little Love in Your Heart,” adding her own lyrics which extolled the virtues of giving. Though her pitch was slightly off-key, nobody seemed to mind, not even Red, which surprised me. She played in a band on her days off and could be hypercritical of musicians and singers, and yet there she was behind the bar dancing to the beat as she opened bottles of wine.
“Hi, Mimi.” Heather’s face was aglow with good energy. “It does my soul proud to know that I had something to do with this.”
“You?” I strode into the office.
“Yep.” She followed while toying with the ruffled collar of her pink silk dress. “Raymond thought it would be a great idea, but he was too shy to mention it to Rusty, so I did.”
“Well, I’ll be.”
As I flitted around the room from desk to file cabinet, checking orders and reviewing balances—why hadn’t Bryan warned me how much paperwork was involved in running a business?—Heather propped herself on the corner of a chair and demurely crossed her ankles.
“By the way,” she said, “Chef C is delighted that we have Allie.”
“Really?”
“She’s taken to her like a mother hen, and Allie seems to be soaking up the praise. I heard through the grapevine that she’s an orphan. If she weren’t so old, I’d adopt her myself.”
“Get out of here.” I pulled a check register from the desk drawer. “Do you want kids?”
Heather was in her forties. Not many women started families that late, though nowadays with all the advances in medicine, women were having babies into their fifties. I questioned my qualms regarding starting a family. I wasn’t too old. Yet.
“I did. Once. But I couldn’t.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me, too. My sister told me I should’ve adopted.”
“You have a sister?” I flipped the register open. It slapped the desk as if echoing my astonishment. “Does everybody have a sister except me?”
Heather giggled. “Maybe you do.”
“No. I’d know if I did. My mother couldn’t keep that kind of secret, and my father was as faithful as the sun.” I endorsed three checks to vendors and stuffed them into the appropriate envelopes. “How would your husband feel about adopting?”
“He’d hate it since he works at home. Writers need peace and quiet.”
“Boring.” I mimed a yawn.
“I know!” She bounded to her feet and headed for the door. Before exiting, she pivoted and said, “Mimi, I don’t know if I should say anything.”
“About?”
“I’m still getting vibes.”
“Come back here.” I gestured for her to return. “Vibes about a woman in white?”
“Yes.”
The fleeting concern I’d had about Allie in her white chef’s jacket popped into my mind. I shoved it aside. “Go on.”
She lowered her voice. “I went to see my hypnotherapist about it, and he put me under to see if he could dredge up anything more, you know, to help you with Camille.”
“Camille is off the hook.”
“Even so, she’s mourning and you’re still wondering who did it.”
I set my pen down. “What are you, psychic?”
“I’m empathic.”
“Did your therapist tell you that?”
“Hypnotherapist,” she corrected. “And yes.”
I groaned inwardly. Was this guy on the up-and-up? Maybe I should schedule a session with him to check him out. I worried about how impressionable my sweet assistant was. I motioned for her to continue. “Go on. What did your doctor discover?”
“He corroborated that I did have a dream about a woman in white. He said I couldn’t make out her features, but she’s definitely real.”
“In your dreams.”
Heather tittered. “I know it’s not much to go on, but I’m telling you because I care about you.”
Holy moly. Did I have three mothers now? What was the world coming to? Maybe Camille and Heather were my sisters, or rather, sisters-in-arms. Yes, that sounded better.
Feeling frisky, I started to drum up names of women I should be careful around: my mother in command mode, Camille in worry mode, Jo in a panicked no-children-for-me mode—
“Boss?” Oakley hurried into the office and skidded to a stop. Her braids flopped forward over her shoulders. “Sorry to intrude, but we have a situation. Come quick!”
I raced from the office and tore across the dining room. Heather followed.
Oakley said over her shoulder, “The diva accidentally swallowed a lemon wedge.”
“The diva?” I asked.
Oakley pointed.
The operatic wannabe was sitting in a chair, arms raised overhead. Her lips were blue and her eyes pinpoints of fear. Two of her fellow fundraisers were standing astride her looking flummoxed.
“Step aside,” I said. “I’ll take over.”
When I was a girl, my father had saved a boy who was drowning in a lake. Four families had gone for a day picnic. My father dove in, brought the boy to the surface, and stuck his finger down the boy’s throat to dislodge his tongue, which he’d swallowed. I would never forget that moment. To save a life was a powerful skill. The very next day, I’d begged my father to enroll me in a CPR class.
“Has anyone attempted the Heimlich maneuver yet?” I asked.
No one responded.
“She tried to cough it up,” Oakley said.
“And sucked it further down her throat.” I pointed to her two comrades. “Help her to a standing position.”
They obeyed. I slipped behind the woman, wrapped my arms around her ribcage, and, clutching my left wrist with my right hand, gave a firm abdominal thrust. The exerted pressure to the woman’s diaphragm made her moan.
“I’m going to do it again, ma’am.” I repeated the effort.
She heaved, and suddenly a yellow piece of fruit burst from her mouth. She gulped in air and swung around to face me. Tears streamed down her cheeks. “Thank you,” she rasped.
The woman’s friends helped her to her chair. The crowd breathed a sigh of relief. Crisis averted.
Oakley offered the woman some water. “Ma’am, sip slowly,” she cautioned.
I said to Heather, “Maybe she was the woman in white.”
Heather gawked. “You could be right. Yes! That’s it! Phew. What a load off my mind.”
Full voice, I announced, “Ladies and gentleman, the wine is on us.” I signaled Red, who nodded in understanding. My cell phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out and scanned the screen: Nash was calling.
Heather said, “Our next wave of customers is due any moment.”
“Alert the kitchen that I’ll be right there. I’ve got to answer this.” I hurried to my office and pressed SEND. “What’s up?”
Quickly he apologized for running off to chat with his ex-wife.
Willow, I mused. Maybe she was the woman in white that I had to be careful around, although she rarely wore anything pale; she adored color. I chuckled at the gall it had taken for her to mention Eli in front of Nash. Honestly!
Nash continued to explain. As I’d suspected, Willow had a money issue. She’d asked for an advance on her alimony because of a hiccup in accounting at the shop. He’d gone there to review her books, found the glitch, and the problem was solved. When he finished his tale, he said, “How are you?”
“Busy!” I told
him about the choking incident.
“You’re encountering one disaster after another. Tell me about the flowerpot thing and the stranger hanging outside your cottage.”
“I will, soon, but I can’t talk right now. We’re getting slammed in about thirty seconds. Two seatings again for lunch.”
“Sorry. Bad timing. I’ll catch you later. Be safe. I—” He hesitated, then said, “Bye.”
I could only guess what he’d wanted to say after the word I. I love you? I miss you? I wish I could hold you in my arms and smother you with kisses?
Yeah, a career as a romance novelist was definitely not in my future.
* * *
When the kitchen staff were heading out for the afternoon break and I saw Allie exiting last, for some reason the hackles on my neck rose. Why? She didn’t look particularly suspicious. She wasn’t wearing her white chef’s jacket. She was walking normally. Maybe I sensed something was up because one of her hands was worrying an object in her pants pocket and the other was clutching the strap of her purse in a death grip.
Was I getting vibes like Heather all of a sudden? Allie was working out well in the kitchen. Everyone had warmed to her. Surely I didn’t need to be fearful of her.
Even so, I grabbed my purse and discreetly followed her to the parking lot, where she slipped into a silver VW Beetle, lowered the convertible top, and sped out of the lot. I climbed into my Jeep and zipped after her, keeping a reasonable distance away. If she was simply grabbing a breath of fresh air, then I would do the same.
As we turned north onto St. Helena Highway, traffic slowed to a crawl. Throngs of people wearing Crush Week paraphernalia were strolling along the sides of the road. Many were carrying two- and four-packs of wine.
At Spring Street, Allie veered left. I made the turn and inhaled sharply. We were entering Camille’s neighborhood. Two blocks farther, she veered onto Camille’s street. She drove past a number of contemporary houses, a rustic barn–style house, and three Victorians. Maybe she was house hunting. Maybe she lived nearby. I hadn’t paid attention to the temporary employment record she had filled out. I didn’t know her address.
A Soufflé of Suspicion Page 19