by Trent, Gayle
I walked over to the seating area and called Ben. “Where are you?” I asked when he answered.
“I’m still with Mark and Myra in the snack area,” he said. “Where are you?”
“I’m in the lobby,” I said.
“Great.” He lowered his voice. “I’ll head on up to our room and be there when you get there.”
“Wait,” I said. “Why don’t we have dinner with Mark and Myra? We can eat in the inn’s dining room and go over this case one last time.”
He sighed. “But I was really looking forward to some alone time with you.”
“We’ll still have it, I promise,” I said. “I just feel that we all need to put our heads together on this investigation one last time before we completely give up. Pauline is fairly sure that Gavin Conroy killed Jordan Richards, but she doesn’t have any proof and doesn’t know how to get it. Maybe Mark can help us figure that out.”
“All right,” Ben said. “The three of us will meet you in the dining room.”
“I’m on my way.” He sounded really disappointed that he and I weren’t having dinner alone in our room. I wondered if that was a good sign or a bad one. Maybe he was going to tell me his decision about Kentucky. If he was staying, I’d like to know that right this minute. If he was going, I’d prefer to delay his announcement for as long as possible.
I was walking in the direction of the dining room when I met Gavin Conroy in the hallway. I thought, Speak of the devil . . .
“Hi, Gavin,” I said. “Are you going to dinner?”
“Just finished up,” he said. “I’m ready to go up to my room and rest awhile. It’s been a trying day.”
“Well, if I don’t see you before you check out, have a safe trip home.”
He smiled. “You take care, Daphne.”
I continued on to the dining room, wondering why Gavin Conroy had suddenly seemed nicer than he ever had. Was it because he knew he was this close to getting away with murder? Or was he simply glad to have the competition behind him?
I stood to the right of the maître d’s podium and waited for Ben, Myra, and Mark to join me.
Kimmie Compton and Pauline Wilson entered the dining room.
“Hello, Daphne,” said Ms. Compton. “I’m treating Pauline to dinner this evening. She’s had such an awful ordeal. Would you care to join us?”
“I’d like to, but I’m waiting for friends,” I said. “I appreciate the offer, though.”
“Maybe next time, then. By the way, Pauline told me about that man skulking about the hospital,” Ms. Compton said. “If he shows up here again, I think we should have security throw him out.”
“I don’t believe he meant her any harm,” I said. “As I explained to Pauline, he told me that he wanted to make sure she understood why he’d been arguing with Chef Richards.”
“And I told Daphne that everybody argued with Chef Richards,” said Pauline.
Ms. Compton smiled as she lifted and dropped one shoulder in a semishrug. “Maybe his death was our own little version of Murder on the Orient Express.”
The hostess arrived and took Ms. Compton and Pauline to their table. I didn’t express my wish to the maître d’, of course, but I hoped Ben, Myra, Mark, and I got a table far enough away from Pauline Wilson and Kimmie Compton that we wouldn’t have to worry about them overhearing our conversation.
When Ben, Myra, and Mark did arrive, the maître d’ informed us that the only table for four that he currently had was in the back but that if we’d like to wait at the bar until another table became available, we shouldn’t have long to wait. I quickly told him that the table in the back would suit us fine.
“I hope you guys don’t mind,” I said once we’d been seated. “But Kimmie Compton and Pauline Wilson are here too, and I don’t want them overhearing what we have to say.”
“I don’t think anyone will overhear us here,” said Myra. “We might need a bullhorn to get the attention of our waiter.” She noticed my disapproving glare. “Which is completely all right with me.”
“It’s fine with me too,” Ben said. “I’m ready to put this entire episode behind us.” He had an edge to his voice that told me he was still put out over the fact that we weren’t having dinner alone in our room.
“I’m more ready than you are,” I told him. “I’m one of the suspects in the murder. Remember?”
“Of course I remember,” he said. “It’s just that we’ve been over and over and over this, and we can’t come up with anything new.”
“Then let’s take it from the top and review what we know one last time,” I said.
24
AFTER THE waiter brought us drinks and took our orders, I removed a small notebook and pen from my purse.
“Mark, do you or Ben want to do the honors of laying out what we already know?” I asked.
“Ben, you go ahead,” said Mark.
“Fine. I’ll set out what I know, and you guys jump in when you have something to add,” Ben said. “Will that work?”
We all agreed that it would.
“Chef Jordan Richards arrived in Brea Ridge on Wednesday afternoon,” said Ben. “He gave a workshop here in the Brea Ridge Inn ballroom early Thursday morning. Sometime Thursday night, he was found suffocated in a large bowl of cake batter with a head injury.”
“Vanilla cake batter,” I said, mostly to myself as I wrote.
“How do you know it was vanilla?” Mark asked.
I raised my eyes to his. How did I know? I’d heard it somewhere . . . very recently. “Oh, I remember. It was Chris . . . Alex’s uncle . . . he mentioned it. Why? Is that important?”
“It’s important that he knew the flavor,” said Mark.
“That’s not common knowledge?” I asked.
Mark shook his head. “The police never mentioned what flavor of cake batter Chef Richards was found drowned in. It wasn’t in any of the records. They omitted it on purpose. Chris knows the flavor because he was there.”
“Yes, he admitted that,” I said. “He was afraid it was he that Pauline overheard arguing with Chef Richards in the kitchen.”
“But Pauline didn’t hear anyone arguing in the kitchen with Chef Richards,” said Ben. “She heard them arguing in the ballroom following Thursday’s class.”
I frowned. “That’s right.”
“Chris either did something or he knows something,” Myra said. “We need to find out which.”
“I don’t have his number, but Molly gave me hers,” I said, as I took my phone from my purse. “Should I call her?”
“Yeah,” Mark said. “Call and ask for Chris’s number.”
“Okay.” I took out my phone.
Before I could call, the waiter brought our food. I thanked him and then, to be courteous, I went into the hallway to call Molly.
She answered on the first ring. “Hey, this is Molly.”
“Hi, Molly. This is Daphne Martin.”
“Oh, hi, Daphne. I’m using my hands-free device since I’m driving, so I couldn’t see who was calling,” she said. “I didn’t forget anything, did I? I’m the world’s worst for doing that.”
“No,” I said with a little laugh. “I was just wondering if Chris is with you. I think he might know something that could help the police solve Jordan Richards’s murder.”
“I told him not to go to the inn Thursday night,” she said. “I’ve been heartsick ever since I heard what happened to Chef Richards. I told Chris that two wrongs don’t make a right.”
“What do you mean?” I asked. “You don’t think Chris had anything to do with Chef Richards’s death, do you?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I hope and pray that he didn’t. I told him that bullying that man wouldn’t solve a thing, and now here he is a suspect in the man’s murder.”
“He isn’t a suspect,” I assured her. “We just think he might’ve seen someone or something that would help the police figure this whole mess out.”
“Okay. He’s not with us, though
. We brought separate vehicles because he and I didn’t get off work at the same time on Thursday. He’s following us in his truck.” She gave me Chris’s cell number. “I should’ve never let him come with us. I knew that temper of his would get him in trouble.”
“It’ll be fine,” I said. “You don’t know that Chris did anything wrong. Besides, it’s obvious Chris is crazy about Alex . . . and I don’t think Alex would have done the demonstration if Chris hadn’t encouraged him to do it. He’s a good influence on Alex, and I don’t think he’d do anything that would ultimately damage his relationship with his nephew.”
“You’re probably right,” she said. “Alex is napping in the backseat, so I can tell you Chris has been the only father figure in Alex’s life for the past ten years. Alex’s dad just couldn’t take Alex being—as he put it—different.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me too,” she said. “I hope you find the answers you’re searching for . . . but I pray that they don’t involve my brother.”
“So do I, Molly.” We said our goodbyes, and I returned to the table instead of calling Chris. I didn’t want everyone to wonder where I’d gone, and I didn’t quite know how to approach Chris. I preferred to get the others’ input before doing so.
I returned to the table. I felt a little guilty when I saw that they’d waited for me before beginning to eat.
“Thank you for waiting,” I said. “It wasn’t necessary, though.”
“Now she tells us,” said Myra, digging into her chicken breast. “I’m starved.”
“Did you talk with Chris?” Ben asked.
“No.” I explained to them what Molly had told me. “Based on what she said, I’m really scared that Chris could be the one who killed Jordan Richards. I told Molly that I didn’t think Chris would do anything that would jeopardize his relationship with Alex. And I honestly don’t think he would . . . on purpose. But we all saw this weekend how quickly he can fly off the handle.”
“You definitely need to call him, Daph,” said Mark. “You just have to be careful in how you go about it.”
“Maybe I could ask if he saw anyone else in or around the kitchen when he was there . . . or if there might’ve been someone heading in that direction after he left,” I said.
“That would work,” Ben said. “You’d be asking him to give you the information without actually coming out and accusing Chris of anything.”
“That sounds good,” I said. “Let’s finish our dinner, and then we can go up to our room, put the phone on speaker, and talk with Chris.”
Mark and Ben shared a look I couldn’t decipher, and then Ben said, “Okay.”
What did Mark know that I didn’t?
WHEN WE ALL got to the hallway outside our room, Ben looked at us with resignation. Mark shrugged. Myra grinned. I tilted my head like a confused puppy dog.
Myra knew too? Even Myra? And she hadn’t told me whatever it was that she knew and I didn’t?
Then Ben opened the door.
Red rose petals had been strewn from the doorway to the table for two by the window.
“Oh, Ben,” I said, my mouth gaping open.
“It’s all right,” he said.
“It’s not all right,” I whispered. “You planned a lovely, romantic dinner for us, and I spoiled it.”
“You didn’t spoil anything,” said Ben. “You were right. We need to get the issue of Chef Richards’s murder resolved so we can move on past it.”
“When this is over, I promise you the best dinner in the world,” I said. “Or, at least, in Brea Ridge . . . and the most passionate—”
He smiled and placed his index finger over my lips before I could share any more intimate details in front of Mark and Myra. “Deal. Let’s call Chris.”
I dialed Chris’s cell phone number and put my phone on speaker.
“Hi, Chris. This is Daphne Martin,” I said when he answered. “I have Ben, Mark, and Myra here with me, so I have you on speaker.”
“Okay. I’m driving, and I think I’d better pull over for this conversation. Hold on a second.”
We waited for Chris to find a good place to stop. Then he came back on the line.
“I’ve kinda been expecting this call,” he said. “I figured I’d messed up somehow. What did I do?”
Ben, Myra, Mark, and I exchanged glances. I shrugged, figuring it was better to simply tell him the truth. We wanted him to be honest with us. We should offer Chris the same courtesy.
“You told us about the vanilla cake batter,” I said. “The police didn’t reveal what kind of batter Chef Richards was found lying in.”
“I swear to you, I didn’t kill that man,” said Chris. “I’ll turn around tonight and come back to Brea Ridge and make a statement to the police. It’s what I should’ve done in the first place, but I didn’t think anybody would believe me.”
“Tell us what happened,” Ben said.
“Well, it’s like I told Daphne. Molly and Alex got to Brea Ridge before me on Thursday. They went to the hotel and checked in and then went to Bristol and did some shopping and stuff. When I got into town, the three of us met up at that steakhouse there in Brea Ridge. We had dinner, and the more I thought about how Jordan Richards had done Alex, the madder I got. I blew up and said I was going over to that inn and hunt him down.” He expelled a breath. “Molly warned me not to go. I should’ve listened to her.”
“You found Chef Richards in the kitchen?” I prodded.
“Yeah,” he said. “I asked them at the front desk. They told me he was in the kitchen and that he had asked not to be disturbed. I told them I’d talk with him later, then. I pretended I was going to one of the guest rooms, but I found the kitchen, and there he was.”
When Chris fell silent again, Mark urged him to continue.
“I started out trying to be calm and reasonable,” said Chris. “But it didn’t take but a minute for my temper to get out of control. I mean, I tried to explain to Chef Richards how much he’d hurt Alex, and he didn’t even care! I told him about Alex’s condition and how he’d had to go on antidepressants after the episode at the cake show, and he said if Alex was that far gone, he’d have had to go on medication anyway. That’s when I lost it.”
“What did you do?” My voice emerged just above a whisper.
“I picked up that cake stand, and I hit him with it.” He quickly added, “But I didn’t kill him. I swear, I didn’t. Chef Richards was not dead when I left that kitchen. I felt his neck, and he had a pulse.”
“Why didn’t you call nine-one-one?” asked Mark.
“I’ve been arrested for assault and battery once before,” said Chris. “I was afraid that if I got charged again, I’d do jail time. Plus, the old man wasn’t hurt that badly. Yeah, the blow knocked him out, and he probably got a concussion; I knew he’d wake up with a bump on his head but otherwise be okay.”
“How could you possibly know that?” Myra asked.
“I’ve been a brawler all my life,” he said. “I know when somebody’s seriously hurt and when they’re not. He wasn’t.”
“So you’re saying that when you left, Chef Richards’s face was not planted in that bowl of cake batter,” Mark said.
“No, sir, it was not. That’s exactly what I’m telling you,” he said. “I knocked him out, but I didn’t drown him. Somebody else came along and took advantage of that situation.” He expelled a breath. “Let me talk with Molly at her house, and then I’ll turn around and come back to Brea Ridge and give a statement to the police. I didn’t tell Molly and Alex what I did. In fact, I’d planned to slip off from them on Friday and apologize to Chef Richards and beg him not to press charges. I didn’t figure that would do me any good, but I didn’t want Molly and Alex to suffer for what I’d done either.”
“Chris, did you wipe your fingerprints off the cake stand before you left?” I asked.
“No,” he answered.
“Someone must have,” I said. “The police didn’t mention there being any unid
entified prints on the stand. Were you wearing gloves?”
“In this weather?” Chris asked. “No, I didn’t have on any gloves.”
“Did you see anyone else near the kitchen . . . either when you were going into or coming out of there?” Ben asked.
“No.” Chris paused for several seconds. “Hey, wait, there was one thing. I saw a purse on the counter. After Myra said that Pauline Wilson had heard someone arguing with Chef Richards, I thought she was the one who had been there. I thought she knew what I’d done and would think I’d killed the guy.”
“Wait. You saw a purse on the counter?” I asked. “The woman wouldn’t have left without it. She must’ve still been there.”
“What did the purse look like?” Myra asked.
Myra was an expert on purses and shoes. She always noticed them.
“It was pink,” said Chris. “And it had a clasp at the top.”
“Was it a structured bag with small handles? Or was it a hobo with long straps?” Myra asked.
“Uh . . . I don’t know,” he said. “The bag was fairly small. It had handles rather than shoulder straps. Oh, and the clasp was undone. The purse was open part of the way, and there was a white glove sticking out of it.”
Myra and I said simultaneously: “Fiona.”
“Are you sure there was no one else in the kitchen while you were there?” I asked Chris. “You didn’t see anyone? In particular, you didn’t see anyone with cotton-candy-pink hair?”
“I’m positive,” he said. “I’d have remembered cotton-candy hair. But I’m positive about that pocketbook too. That’s why I thought Pauline could send me up the river.”
“Fiona must’ve stepped out for a minute before you went into the kitchen,” Ben said. “Maybe she heard the two of you arguing and decided not to go back into the kitchen until you were through.”
“And when she came back and found Jordan Richards unconscious, she might’ve seen an opportunity she simply couldn’t pass up,” I said.
OUR NEXT ORDER of business was to find Fiona. Well, I thought that should be our next order of business. Mark and Ben thought we should call the police. So we did that first. Like me, Myra was ready for action.