“That would mean malice aforethought,” Jo chimed. She loved reading mysteries. So did I, but I wouldn’t presume to talk about malice or motive to Tyson.
He glowered at her. “I’ll consider it.”
Jo shot me a look of triumph. I sighed, but the sigh wasn’t one of relief. I was far from in the clear.
Chapter 5
Luckily Tyson didn’t haul me into jail. He said he didn’t have enough evidence that I was the killer . . . yet. The word yet clanged in my head like a death knell. I shuddered. He added that I was free to go, but I shouldn’t leave town. As if I would. All I could hope was that he would find something on Paula Ives, which of course made me feel awful. I shouldn’t wish someone to be guilty. But someone was, and it wasn’t me!
All day Saturday, the sheriff’s team investigated the crime scene. My mother called numerous times to check up on me. She had heard the news. I promised her I was fine. I wasn’t, but I didn’t want her to worry.
Around eight PM, Tyson told me I was permitted to open for business the next morning. Although that was the last thing I wanted to do, I knew I had to—to honor Bryan. He had guided me to success. I couldn’t let him down. Dang, but I missed him. He had been such a powerful figure in my life. Of course, Angelica didn’t want to hold the wedding on Sunday; I couldn’t blame her. She said she would reschedule, but when?
However, when Tyson advised her and the rest of her party to stay in town, all agreed, so it turned out that I wouldn’t lose a dime on hotel fees, and they had to eat, so food wouldn’t go to waste. As for the wedding cake? Chef C said it wouldn’t be discarded, either. She had come up with a delectable way to serve it to our diners, topping each piece with a swirl of whipped cream, a sliver of strawberry, and a sprig of mint. I approved the idea.
After the sheriff and his deputies left, I spent hours in the kitchen checking the food supplies and throwing out anything that didn’t look fresh, which were mostly vegetables. Before leaving for the night, I rang up the local vegetable grower and begged her to drop off a dozen heads of romaine lettuce in the morning, plus numerous other items. We had lots of goodies in our garden, but twice a week we needed to purchase from other local growers. Sundays seemed to draw the most diners who requested our special Caesar salad, although I didn’t believe we would sell one salad this particular Sunday. People would stay away, despite the fact that tomorrow was Father’s Day and people had booked reservations more than a month ago.
When I finally trudged home, I couldn’t settle down. I mopped the floor, cleaned the counters, and scrubbed the sink. None of it needed to be done, but I needed to be busy. An hour or so later, I nestled into the rocker on the porch, swathed myself in a patchwork quilt my grandmother had made me, and listened to the sounds of night: frogs croaking, crickets chirping, and the wind whistling through the trees. Every sound made me miss Bryan more than I could imagine. His mentorship and his confidence in me had meant so much. I wouldn’t be living in this cottage, sitting on this porch, and enjoying nature without his help.
I fell asleep in the chair and woke when a neighboring rooster crowed. Quickly I washed up; fed the fish; downed a piece of French bread topped with a slice of Brie and fig jam; threw on my uniform of white shirt, tan trousers, and clogs; and headed to the bistro to meet the vegetable grower.
After she came and went, I put on a pot of coffee, opened the windows, and set the kitchen’s music system to a preset list that I had arranged for Father’s Day: “Daddy” by Beyoncé, “Dance With My Father” by Luther Vandross, and “My Father’s House” by Bruce Springsteen, among others.
While cracking eggs into a large bowl, I sang along with the music. My eyes brimmed with tears as I remembered my father and the fun guy he was—always ready with a joke, always ready with a hug.
When Chef C, Stefan, and the rest of the staff showed up a half hour later, I was wailing to Harry Chapin’s iconic “Cat’s in the Cradle.”
“Should we consider submitting your name to America’s Got Talent?” Chef C teased.
“You’re a riot, Chef,” Stefan said and faked one of his goofy laughs.
“And you, sweet boy, are not. Get those shallots sliced and chop the garlic,” she commanded.
Stefan saluted.
I enjoyed the way the two of them sparred. It did my heart proud knowing that I had hired talented team players. Within minutes of their arrival, the kitchen smelled heavenly.
Chef C eyed me as she moved around the kitchen gathering items she intended to use for today’s menu. “I think those are enough eggs, Mimi. How about dicing celery?”
“On it.”
“How are you holding up?”
“I’m fine.”
“Do not kid a kidder. My daughter can lie better than you.” From what I’d heard, she and her daughter, Chantalle, had locked horns during Chantalle’s teen years. Time and distance had softened the contentious relationship. Chantalle was now a sous chef in New York, and they talked frequently. “Relax your forehead.” She brandished a wooden spoon in my direction.
“Will do, Chef.” I gestured like Stefan had.
Chef C frowned, but then I caught her smiling. She was all bark and no bite.
Close to ten AM, as I was polishing the mahogany bar, the front door of the bistro opened. Nash Hawke strolled in looking like a sight for sore eyes in jeans, a crisp white shirt, and a leather jacket; it was his standard ruggedly handsome yet casual outfit. His wavy dark hair framed his face, and he offered an easy smile. “Hey, Mimi.”
“Hey, yourself.” I loved how comfortable he always seemed in his own skin. It was a real turn-on.
He tugged the strap of his brown leather satchel higher on his shoulder and switched the pack of wine he was carrying to his other hand. As he drew near and set the pack on the bar and his satchel on a stool, I wished I could lean into him. He seemed as sturdy as an oak yet as easygoing as an aspen willing to bend with the breeze.
“I heard about the murder,” he said. “What a shame. Bryan was such a good guy. How are you holding up?”
“Not well. I’m dragging, even though I’m OD’ing on caffeine. And I’m afraid bags under my eyes don’t suit me.”
“You look beautiful, as always.”
The compliment made me shiver, but not from delight. Bryan had said the same thing Friday night.
Nash pulled his laptop from the satchel and flipped it open to reveal an Excel-based order form. “Thought you might like to taste this wine before the place fills up.”
“Fills up? Yeah, right,” I grumbled. “I’m sure the story is spreading. People will stay far away. I’m betting in a matter of weeks, the bistro will go under.”
“Ha! Haven’t you peeked outside? You’re going to be packed. Curiosity breeds intimacy, as the saying goes. You’ve got a lot of people who want the inside scoop.”
I skirted around the bar and peeked out the front window. He wasn’t kidding. The line appeared to be fifty strong. Men, women, old, young. Opening on Father’s Day was going to pay off after all.
“Before you officially unlock that door, care to have a glass of this fine specimen and tell me what happened?” Nash removed two bottles of wine from his pack, both of them Grgich Hills Estate Fume Blanc. He expertly opened one using a wine tool he kept in his pocket.
“A sip,” I said. I needed to keep my head about me today.
He poured the wine into a Riedel Bordeaux glass I provided, and as he swirled the wine in the glass to open the aromas, he said, “Fermented in oak casks. Fruit and lemongrass flavors. With a hint of minerality.” Whenever he described his wines, he spoke as if he were writing the descriptions for the bottles himself. He handed me the glass. “It’ll go great with seafood, particularly that coquilles Saint-Jacques gratin you make.”
I loved that particular dish. Rich with cream and Cognac and Gruyère cheese. We made the entrées ahead of time. According to Ina Garten, a lot of dishes tasted better after they sat for a while.
I sipped t
he wine.
“Well?” Nash asked.
“It’s got a long finish.”
“That’s my girl,” he said. “You’re getting the lingo.”
I offered a wry smile. “How quickly you forget that my mother taught me about wine years ago.”
“Right.” He winked, knowing full well I had good taste buds. “Will your mom like me?”
“Will she—” I stopped short.
“Uh-oh,” Nash teased. “You’re frowning.”
After Derrick died and I moved home from San Francisco, the first words out of my mother’s mouth were I told you so. She had never liked him. She had sensed there was something off about him, but she had never been able to put her finger on it.
“We’ll have to see,” I said cryptically.
“She will. I’ll praise her wine, and it will be well deserved.” He winked again.
A flush of desire rose within me, but I tamped it down. I couldn’t become mush every time he winked at me. What kind of signal would that send?
“So what happened to Bryan?” Nash rested the heel of his boot on the stool’s footrail and took a sip of wine from the glass he’d poured. He let the wine roll around on his tongue.
I watched, transfixed for a moment, but quickly reclaimed my wits and told him how Angelica had found Bryan and fetched me, and together we had contacted the sheriff. I also told him about the message on Bryan’s cell phone that had been sent from mine.
“I heard something about that,” he said.
“You did? From whom?”
“The owner at Chocolate.”
“How did she hear?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Well, I didn’t contact Bryan. Someone stole my phone, used it to text him, and ditched it in a pot of herbs.”
“Sneaky.”
I couldn’t help wondering who had told the owner of Chocolate. Not any of the sheriff’s people. That meant it had to have been one of Angelica’s entourage. Maybe Francine or Kent. They had come to the scene of the crime carrying to-go cups of coffee. Tyson would be ticked when he found out.
“How do you like the wine?” Nash asked.
“It’s great. I’ll take two cases.”
“Terrific. The second bottle is on the house.” He typed the order into his Excel spreadsheet and saved it and then reinserted the computer into his satchel and hoisted it onto his shoulder. “I’ll see you soon. Keep your chin up.” He tapped my chin with his fingertip and then circled his finger underneath and let it rest there. “It’s such a pretty chin.”
Desire swept through me again, but I kept my cool. He wasn’t interested in me; he was simply being charming. “Thanks for stopping in.”
He strode out of the bistro, letting the front door close with a clack.
Heather glided up. “Mimi, you’re drooling.”
“Am not.”
“Handsome is as handsome does. And Nash is about as good-looking as they come.”
“You’re telling me.”
“We’re opening in twenty. Are you ready?”
“If Chef C is.”
“Is she ever! She saw the crowd. The kitchen is in high gear. Reba McIntire’s ‘The Greatest Man I Ever Knew’ is playing full blast. She’s even singing to it.” That song was another Father’s Day special that I had selected. “She’ll tone it down, of course, the moment we open. More coffee?”
I shook my head. “How about a plate of deviled eggs? I could use some protein.” One of the items on the lunch menu was a selection of French-inspired deviled eggs, rich with ham and bread crumbs, set atop a luscious pile of butter lettuce and served with toast points and a small ramekin of to-die-for chicken liver pâté.
Within minutes, Heather returned with my request, and I quickly downed my meal. Fueled and steeled, I opened the door for the crowd, which included lots of families honoring fathers.
Around two PM, as business died down, Tyson entered the bistro, his face stoic, his eyes tired. Like a process server, he was tapping a white envelope in his hand. I cringed. Was it a warrant for my arrest?
Perspiration broke out above my lip. I swiped it with a knuckle. “Hey, Sergeant.” I offered a broad smile. A forced smile was still a smile, wasn’t it? “What’s up?”
“Can we speak in private?”
My heart sank. The smile melted away. “Yeah, sure. In my office.”
The office for the bistro was small and cramped, but I loved it. I had decorated it in shabby-chic style with a French flair: cream-colored rustic file cabinets, a couple of green-tinted industrial barnwood side tables, and a gray, kidney-shaped French desk with scrolled legs. Silk flowers in tin vases stood on the desk and cabinets. Impressionistic Monet-like paintings of flowers hung on the walls.
I entered first, and Tyson followed. I cleared one of the cream-colored grain-sack chairs for him to sit on. “Please.” I gestured.
He remained standing.
I did, as well. How could I sit? Adrenaline was zinging through me like pinballs. Bad news, bad news kept ringing in my ears. Years ago, I had felt the same way when I had opened the door of my San Francisco apartment and seen a creditor standing there.
“Mimi, I’m sorry, but my people found something in Bryan Baker’s office.”
“Okay.”
“And it doesn’t look good for you.”
“May I see it?”
“I can’t let you touch it.” He removed a letter from the white envelope and unfolded it. He held it out for my inspection.
I scanned the contents. By the time I reached the bottom, my insides were as tightly knit as a potato basket. The letter stated that in the event of Bryan’s death, his estate was to forgive my debt. My entire debt. I would owe nothing.
Emotions caught in my chest. Relief paired with thankfulness. But they were quickly replaced by unnerving fear. This letter provided me with a motive. I owed Bryan a lot of money. “Where did you find it?”
“On his desk.”
“How? His desk is a mess.” I had visited Bryan in his office just a week ago. It was three times the size of my office with manly furniture and expensive art—not the thrift-shop variety I had hanging on my walls. He owned art by Picasso, Miró, and Degas. He had three paintings by Pissarro set in Paris. A green, fused glass heart hung near his desk. A couple of small bronze sculptures and a collection of Fabergé eggs sat on display shelves. My favorite egg was the red one with the miniature carousel inside. Bryan confided that it was his favorite, too, because he had met the love of his life on a carousel. He had no personal pictures in the office other than one of his half brother standing beside his wife and teenaged Angelica. Countless file folders were always stacked on his desk. He wanted them at his fingertips. The day I’d visited, he could barely find the blotter when he had to write a check for the out-of-towners’ dinner costs.
“The letter is dated last week,” Tyson said.
“You’ve got to believe me; I didn’t know about this.”
“But it doesn’t look good.”
“I did not kill Bryan Baker.” My eyes welled with tears and my throat grew thick. “There must be someone else who benefits more than I do,” I croaked. “He sponsored others, including an art gallery owner, a vintner, a cheesemaker, and a dress designer. Did he forgive their debts?”
“I didn’t find any letters to that effect.”
“Can you look again? There’s got to be something. There’s no reason for him to do this for me.”
“Was he in love with you?” Tyson asked.
“What?” I squawked. “He was old enough to be my father.”
Tyson raised an eyebrow.
“No, he was not in love with me. He believed in me. That’s all.” My face was flaming with embarrassment. “Did he have a will?”
“We’ve got a call in to his estate attorney, who is on a cruise. Reception on ships can be spotty.”
“What if someone killed Bryan, took his office keys, and went there to rob him?”
Tyson
pursed his lips as if considering the possibility.
“Was anything missing from his office? Maybe a piece of art? Was there an empty space on the walls? Or on the shelves?” I detailed the items I could remember. “He had treasures at home, too.”
“His office appeared to be intact as far as we could tell, but we don’t have an itemized list of his possessions.”
There wasn’t much space in my office to pace, but I paced nonetheless. “Bryan shares . . . shared,” I corrected, “an assistant with others in the building. She might have a record of his collectibles. You should get that from her.”
“Good idea.”
“He had to have enemies, Tyson, like people who were jealous of what he had accomplished. Plus he argued with a few of the guests Friday night. I told you about Paula Ives. I really don’t trust her. There’s something about her. Her brother, Lyle, had a heated discussion with Bryan, too. And David Ives—”
Tyson put up a hand. “Okay, I get it. Everyone is a suspect, but for right now, this”—he brandished the letter—“is evidence.”
“Are you sure Bryan wrote that letter? What if the person who stole my cell phone forged it to frame me?”
Tyson frowned. “Does someone hate you that much?”
I was beginning to think so.
Chapter 6
“Who hates you how much, Mimi?” Jo asked as she entered the office, head bowed, her gaze focused on the stack of mail she was sorting through. No doubt creditors were lining up to get paid in the event the bistro went under. She set the stack at the center of the desk. She never put mail anywhere else because of Bryan’s rule: good credit matters. Paying bills had to be my first priority.
I cleared my throat.
Jo peered up and locked eyes with Tyson. Like yesterday when she appeared, he drew taller and sort of puffed his chest. If I wasn’t in such distress, I might have laughed. He needed to find some courage around her if he ever wanted to win her heart.
“Not you again, Sergeant.” Jo cocked a hip. “What are you doing, giving my pal the runaround?”
A Deadly Éclair Page 6