Ganache and Fondant and Murder

by Patti Larsen

  Malcolm shrugged, gestured to his boys who turned to go. Damn it, the side gate. I had to fix it. Would fix it. Today. Right after I solved world hunger and got my pug a pedicure.

  “Fiona.” Malcolm paused, then sighed as he seemed to deflate somewhat. “I know you’re protecting your da, or think you are, avoiding the truth. But there’s that which you need to know.” He nodded to me. “Look her up. And call me when you do.”

  I let him go, hugging myself, wishing I’d never heard of Malcolm Murray. When I finally headed for the house I was shivering from the cold, from standing there in the crisp wind, unwinding all the possible scenarios that I might uncover, from the most ridiculous—I was an heiress to some amazing Irish throne or something—to the horrific—Dad was a murderer, a serial killer—to the desperately heartbreaking—Dad cheated on Mom with this Siobhan woman. I was so distracted by my own fear I almost collided with Bonnie who clutched at me when I entered the kitchen door, hugging me abruptly.

  “I have no idea what that horrible man wanted.” She shook me a little, pushing me away while Daisy made a face over Bonnie’s shoulder like she wanted to rescue me.

  Instead, I seated the shaking woman and confronted her. “Ron was gambling. He borrowed money from the mob. And now he’s dead and you owe what he owed.”

  She gaped at me like I’d grown three heads and told her aliens landed next door. But it wasn’t her response that caught my attention. At that very moment, Joyce slipped into the kitchen. Stopped. Stared, and blanched. Then scurried out again.

  Which told me my answers to this particular bit of the mystery had nothing to do with Bonnie.

  ***

  Chapter Eighteen

  I left the shaken widow with Daisy, following Joyce upstairs and catching her before she could close her door behind her. From the guarded look in her eyes she knew exactly why I was there, so I didn’t bother to pretend I was offering fresh towels.

  “You know why Don owed money he couldn’t repay,” I said.

  She exhaled like she’d been holding her breath, cheeks pink from either the exertion of her climb up the stairs to the second floor or just from nervousness, but she nodded in agreement and opened her door. An invitation I wasn’t about to question, slipping inside and turning to face her in the quiet of the softly flowered interior of the Lavender Room.

  “I didn’t kill Ron.” Joyce had caught the blurting disease too, apparently. Her hands flapped at me, between us, as if desperate for me to believe her sincerity just by their negating motions. “I swear, I didn’t. Yes, I was upset.” She turned and paced into the pale purple of the flowery suite, her feet swishing on the thick carpeting before she sank to the delicately quilted coverlet, the gauze curtain over the four poster wafting from the motion of her descent. “I loved him once.” She snuffled and I fetched another tissue, this one for the mistress instead of the wife, sitting next to her as she went on. “I was so sure he loved me, too. He told me he did, that he was going to leave that horrible woman for me.” She blew her nose with a faint honking sound before sagging, shoulders rounding so far forward I was afraid she might fold in half at some point. “When Janet started to win, he dropped me like I’d caught some disease. And he was right there with her, at her side, when she cheated her way to victory.” She frowned at me before patting my hand in my lap. “I feel so badly for your mother. That tart is a menace and I’m so glad Molly won today. Serves Janet right.”

  “Not to mention while you were second, you still got to defeat her.” I accepted her little nod as agreement. “She accused you of sabotaging her like she did to you. Did you?”

  Joyce’s eyes narrowed. “I wish,” she said. “Thing is, she’s a great baker. She didn’t need to cheat. But she’s also a horrible person.” She seemed happy to be vindicated, though. “I snuck a taste of her last bake. It was definitely off. Hard as a rock.”

  So someone gave Janet a taste of her own medicine. The same person who killed Ron?

  “You have to admit it looks bad, Joyce.” It really did, especially if Janet’s baking was deliberately tampered with. That screamed revenge and no one had more to hate her for and want payback than the woman sitting in front of me. At least, that I’d uncovered so far. “The sheriff is going to want to know everything. It could really help your case if you get it all sorted out in your head. With someone who knows him.” Okay, so I wasn’t above pretending I might be able to cut her a deal of some kind if it got me somewhere. No need for her to know I’d likely get her deeper in trouble was there? Sure, I felt for her, but then again, she knowingly had an affair with a married man. Considering my own past and my ex-boyfriend’s cheating ways? Sympathy was a bit thin in this instance.

  Joyce seemed to buy my ploy, though, eagerness returning to her expression, her tears drying up as she leaned closer. “I just wanted to talk to Ron, that’s all. That’s the only reason I was here.” She snuffled, staring down at the tissue in her hands. “There’s so much security around the show’s normal location and his house, too. Not to mention his wife.” She made that sound like she still cared about him and that Bonnie wasn’t worth smearing her shoe over. Since I’d come to understand the victim’s partner wasn’t an angel herself, I guess I could let it go in favor of some answers. “I figured this location shoot offered me the best chance to see him in person. To get him alone.”

  “And what? Change his mind?” I almost scoffed, this close to laughing in her face. She had no idea and really needed to get some self-respect. And hadn’t she met the fact he’d died with an expression of relief? I checked my surge of anger, knew it came from deep hurts and Ryan’s betrayal and had nothing to do with what was going on here and now. Didn’t help much, though.

  At least Joyce didn’t seem to notice. “Maybe,” she said. “He had to have seen through Janet by now. Or dumped her in favor of the new girl.” Did that mean she wasn’t lying to herself? That she understood Ron’s game and still pined for him? Seriously? I wanted to get up and go wash my hands or shower or something to get the greasy feeling off me. Trouble was, it wasn’t on the surface and I had no idea how to scrub my brain. Believe me, I’d tried.

  “I didn’t know Bonnie had come to stay here,” she said. “I wouldn’t have, if I’d known. I swear.” She sighed then, a giant gust of air escaping her, with the barest tremor at the end. Waking my empathy, damn it.

  “Ron’s death gave you a chance to get back on the show.” That was better. Not delivered as a jab, though, just as truth.

  Joyce finally reacted, her face twisting in anger before she shrugged. “Dale spotted me,” she said. “Told Clara I was here. When she approached me, how could I say no? For a chance to redeem myself?”

  I understood that motivation, at least. Just wished Mom had the same opportunity. And again felt myself despising this woman, this time for removing my mother’s chance to show the world she was great at what she did.

  If Joyce had been able to see inside my head right then? She wouldn’t have said another word. Instead, she stared out the window, the faint light from the bathroom creating shadows over both of us, streetlights catching glints as snow began to fall.

  “I know how your mother feels,” she said. “The exact same thing happened to me that last episode. What happened to her yesterday. Janet messed with my ingredients. It was my fault, though. I didn’t taste my batter.” The now familiar litany of a blaming baker. Kind of crushing she had the nerve to sound just like Mom. “Not that it would have mattered. By the time I could have, I wouldn’t have been able to make a fresh batch anyway.”

  There was that. The timelines were so tight… I wondered if telling Mom that would help?

  “Janet won because she cheated. But the worst part?” She turned back, met my eyes with her own full of hurt. “No one cared. Not Ron, not Clara. No one, Fee. After a season thinking these people gave a crap about me? That hurt most of all.”

  “What happened that Ron chose Janet over you?” The cheating?

  Joyc
e winced. “I gave him an ultimatum,” she said, voice tiny. “I wanted him to commit to me, like he said he was going to.” Wow, how long had they known each other? Sure, the guy cheated, but surely she had to know a short season of TV wasn’t the kind of fling that led to long-term relationships? “The next night Janet won because of him. She cheated her way to the finish line from then on without being challenged.” She choked on a sob, the tissue crumpling in her fingers pressed to her lips. “I should have won the show and Ron.”

  This time I had to get up, to stride away a step and catch my breath as my stomach turned over. Sure, Bonnie was a piece of work who only held on to Ron for his money. But this woman? How despicable could you get?

  “Ron ruined me,” she whispered. “Janet, too.”

  “Bit of a stretch, isn’t it?” I turned back to her, cleared my throat when she jerked in response. “It’s just a cooking show, Joyce.”

  She started to shake, face tightening in anger as she sat there and trembled in response. “You have no idea.” She shook her head, a quick, sharp gesture. “Thanks to the constant demands of the show, film timing, my public catastrophic failure in the final episode? I lost everything. My husband.” Should have thought about that before she cheated, huh? “My business.” Honestly, I needed to get a grip and stop being so hard on her. “My reputation.” Deep breath.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, really meaning it. “I didn’t know.”

  “I didn’t kill Ron Williams,” Joyce said, “but I meant what I said earlier. Despite still loving him, I’m glad that bastard is dead.”

  ***

  Chapter Nineteen

  Did she know she just jumped her way to #1 on my suspect list? She must have, because Joyce surged to her feet and came at me with a desperate expression and a gooey tissue outstretched, both of which made me flinch.

  “I know what that sounds like.” She dropped her hands suddenly to her sides again, stopping her forward motion so abruptly I was breathless from not knowing if I should keep backpedaling or hold my ground. “Tell the sheriff whatever suits you. But I didn’t do it.”

  Not much to say, except, of course, as I was about to leave I paused with an internal take to task for forgetting the reason I came up here in the first place.

  “Ron’s debt?” I waited, hoping for an answer.

  Disappointment wasn’t my favorite emotion, but that’s all I got out of her when she turned away, head down.

  “I don’t know specifics,” she said, “but he was in financial trouble when I was with him. That was six months ago. Then, suddenly he seemed to have money again, just before he traded me in for Janet.” Interesting.

  I left her then, slowly descending to the foyer, mind spinning. Knowing I needed to call Crew, wondering how that conversation would go over while hating that I hesitated. I caught sight of Daisy exiting the kitchen, headed my way, and took a leap as I hurried the rest of the way downstairs, reaching for the coat rack and my wool jacket, not pausing to go to the kitchen for my warmer one. I wasn’t going far or planning to take long.

  “Can you stay?” I was already out the door, waving while she nodded and smiled and waved back, mournful Petunia hovering at her heels. The pug would punish me later for leaving her behind. So be it. This trip I needed to take on my own.

  It was a short walk to Crew’s little house, just two streets over from Mom and Dad. Convenient, how small the interior of Reading was, how easy it could be to get around. The faint fall of fresh snow was just enough to add a tiny squeak under my boots, the air chill but still again. A perfect evening for a brisk march to my doom at the hands of Crew Turner.

  Hey, I had an excuse, right? He was supposed to come see me tonight and he hadn’t. So it was up to me to make the first move.

  Sure, Fee. Keep spinning those lies if it makes you feel better about yourself.

  It took a lot not to slow as I neared his front door, to push myself physically up his walkway, past the short shrubs lining his entry, up the two concrete steps and to raise my mitten and knock. Almost more than I had in me. Why was I here again? My phone from the privacy of my basement apartment seemed much more logical even as I tapped on the glass and waited.

  And waited. This was dumb, he probably wasn’t even home. Right, that’s why there were lights on inside and his truck was parked in the driveway. Because he wasn’t home. I waffled, wavering as I half turned to leave, knocking more forcefully and holding my breath while I silently berated myself for being a nervous nelly because he was just a person for goodness sakes and for coming here in the first place since, honestly, what was I hoping to achieve?

  I’ve never felt time hold its breath the way it seemed to that long few seconds I hovered, indecision creating a whirling vortex of growing anxiety in my tummy while I thought about what my real reasons for coming to Crew’s house might be. Refused to accept I just wanted to see him in his natural habitat, hoped maybe the softness I’d seen in him might come out again if we weren’t in a murderous setting. There had been enough flickers of who I figured he really was over the last eighteen months I just couldn’t let go of the possibility. His request to speak privately only fed my meager hopes. Hormones didn’t play a part or anything, did they? Though I couldn’t get past thinking, in the final breath I took as a shadow passed between the interior light and the door’s glass that this could be construed as a desperate single woman’s attempt to nab her a man, gosh darn it.

  The door opened, Crew standing on the other side, the outer light coming on as he hit the switch. Chill air mixed with the warm exiting his front door past his wide chest and lean hips, longish dark hair still wet from the shower. The scent of him and the soap he’d used, the dampness clinging to him washed over me in an intoxicating rush of overwhelm that almost knocked me off the top step.

  His eyebrows rose, startled expression turning serious as he reached out and caught me before I could stumble backward and brain myself on his shrubs.

  “Fee.” He smiled faintly, glanced over my shoulder, then stepped aside. He seemed surprised I was alone for some reason. “Come in.”

  I rushed inside before I could run away, heart pounding, finding it hard to swallow past the dryness in my now tight throat while he closed the door behind me, standing so close I could see the faint line across his cheek where he’d missed a bit of hair shaving. This was a terrible idea. I had to go before I did something stupid like grab him and throw him on the couch conveniently located just a few feet away—

  Fee. Get a grip, already.

  “Are you okay?” He leaned closer, concern clear while I backed away from him two steps, bumping gracefully into the small table he kept his keys and wallet on, sending them both tumbling to the tile floor. I spent the next thirty or so seconds stumbling through an apology jacked with stuttering and incoherency while he reassured me and righted the table, smiling when he was done. He straightened, holding out one hand, the other in his back pocket. “Can I take your coat?”

  “I’m not staying.” I had to just throw that at him like he’d offended me, right? Crew’s smile faded but he nodded, hand falling to his side. “Daisy. I left her. At Petunia’s. With Petunia.” Oh my god. There was something seriously wrong with me.

  Crew seemed to understand. “Did you need something?”

  Boy, did I. About a half hour of sexy time—

  “I have information for you.” Saved by the happy crushing truth of my snooping.

  Instead of reacting like he seemed accustomed to these days, Crew just nodded. “Did you want a beer?” He headed for the kitchen, leaving me at the entry of his small house while he crossed the tile on bare feet, a fire crackling in the hearth on the far side of the room, the smell of something resembling spaghetti sauce in the air. I’d interrupted his dinner, obviously, but when I turned to go, to just let the poor guy have time to unwind because this really had gone from a terrible idea to dismally pathetic, he cracked a bottle open and held it out to me.

  Traitor feet. They kicked o
ff my boots before I could stop them and carried me to the threshold of his kitchen, hand rising to take the chilled glass, condensation forming on the dark surface. He opened a second, leaning across the counter with his elbows on the surface, looking up at me while he sipped and waited.

  I don’t know what freaked me out more, his calm, unjudging attitude or the fact I was standing in his house having a beer and wondering what a date would feel like. Like this?

  The next several minutes felt surreal. The drink went down so fast I barely tasted it, grateful for the lubrication of my dry throat as I told him about Malcolm, Bonnie and Joyce. Crew opened another beer for me, then one for himself, the fridge humming softly to life when he closed the door again. He paused to stir a pot of sauce on the stove, nodding while I wrapped up my last conversation with Joyce, my suspicions and her confirmation Janet had been sabotaged herself, turning a knob down as he let the tomato based deliciousness simmer.

  “Can I ask you something?” His deep voice held none of the usual condemnation or disappointment or anger that it typically did in times like this. Just pure curiosity. Couldn’t he at least pretend he was mad at me so I could maintain the status quo and not shiver inside my wool coat, wondering what was going on here and what changed? He took my silence for agreement because he asked anyway. “Why do you bring what you learn to me? Why not just go to your dad? You know what I’m going to say. So why?”

  I gaped, fingers spasming on my beer.

  Crew went on like he didn’t know my brain was imploding. “You already know what I’m going to do, there’s more than enough precedence set. I’m going to yell at you for interfering or tell you to mind your own business or treat you like you’re a pain in my ass and you still bring me what I need to solve cases. You never, ever quit.” His blue eyes met mine then, softer than they’d ever seemed, not a trace of anger in him. Wait, was that respect? Hello, really? “Why, Fee? Why haven’t you given up on me?”