A Deadly Éclair

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  She flinched. “I can’t think about that now.”

  “Of course not.” I put a reassuring hand on her arm. “I simply wanted to say that I’m sorry you had to postpone it. However, whenever you’re ready, we are. Even if that’s next year.”

  “A year.” She sighed.

  “Were you able to change your honeymoon plans?”

  “Yes.” She sounded dejected. “They allowed for special circumstances, plus we had trip insurance.”

  “That’s good.” I removed my hand from her arm. “I’m also sorry that the sheriff asked you to stick around.”

  “It’s okay.” She swept a lock of hair over her shoulder. “At least he’s being cool about it. He’s a nice guy.”

  “Tell that to my friend Jo.”

  “Is he interested in her?”

  “Big time, but she has no interest in him. Zero.”

  “Love is never easy, is it?” Angelica glanced wistfully at the room next door, where Lyle was staying.

  “Are you two doing all right?” I asked. “Lyle seemed quite attentive yesterday morning.”

  “He was, but he’s been keeping his distance ever since.”

  “I was wondering about that. I saw him dining alone at the bistro. You know, he might still be there. You could probably catch—”

  “I won’t disturb him. I’ll give him his space.” She ran her free hand along her neck. “This is all so unsettling. When I spoke to Sergeant Daly, he asked for a detailed account of my alibi, as I expected he would.”

  “You told him, as you had before, that you were out running, and then you went to peek at the cake, saw Bryan, and came to find me?”

  “I did. However, there’s one more thing.” She eyed the neighboring room again. “At five AM, I knocked on Lyle’s door to tell him I was going running. I always let him know because he worries about me, it being so dark, but he didn’t respond.”

  “Perhaps he was sleeping.”

  “That’s just it.” She lowered her voice. “He doesn’t sleep past five. He goes online to see what the commodity markets are doing. I saw a glimmer of light beneath the lower rim of his door. He had to be awake.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “What if he wasn’t in his room?” A shudder rippled through her. She laid a single arm across her chest as if to keep her emotions in check, the antique key dangling from one finger. “He argued with Bryan last night. I know you know because I saw you watching them.”

  Oops. Guess I wasn’t very subtle. “Do you think he might have killed Bryan?”

  “No!” Angelica’s jaw ticked with tension. “All I’m saying is, maybe he went for a walk to blow off steam.”

  “At five in the morning?”

  “He’s not a good sleeper. He never has been. He says it’s because he has an overactive mind.” She chewed on her lip and dropped her arm to her side. “But if he can’t corroborate my alibi, then I’ll be under suspicion.”

  “So will he, if he wasn’t sleeping.”

  “No, that wasn’t why I—” Angelica inhaled sharply. “I’m not trying to point the finger at Lyle.”

  “Of course not,” I said and once again contemplated the plusses and minuses of an early morning crime. Witnesses were hard to come by, and alibis were impossible to establish, but a murderer, as Tyson had pointed out, could move around quite freely.

  “Angelica,” I said gently, “why would you be a suspect?”

  “Because I’m family. The authorities always suspect family first.”

  Not in my case. “No other reason?”

  “How could there be? I adored my uncle.”

  “Do you know what Bryan and Lyle argued about?”

  Angelica pressed her lips together and then exhaled. “Lyle and I had a heated discussion about it later, in the garden, right before we went to bed. Everyone must have heard us arguing.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Bryan told Lyle that he was looking into Lyle’s finances. Lyle was outraged. Bryan told him that he was simply trying to protect me.” She shifted her weight. “It seems my fiancé’s business had a slow period this past year, and he took out a number of bridge loans. Bryan found out and decided to dig deeper.”

  “Is that what Bryan talked to you about at the out-of-towners’ dinner?”

  Confusion crossed her face.

  “You two chatted,” I said, “right after the set-to with Lyle. Bryan escorted you to a corner. Before you broke apart, you had tears in your eyes.”

  “Oh, that.” She flitted a hand. “It was nothing.” I wanted to believe her, but the snag in her voice told me maybe I shouldn’t. “Back to Lyle,” she went on, ignoring my question. “As we walked to the inn, he told me about his fight with Bryan. Silly me, I defended Bryan and not—”

  “You didn’t know about Lyle’s situation?”

  “We don’t talk finances. What’s mine is mine; what’s his is his. I’m sure everything will be fine. Lyle is a very savvy businessman.”

  Visions of Derrick and the way his surprising debt had bankrupted me ran roughshod through my mind. “Do you have a prenuptial agreement?” I asked.

  “Bryan and my father both wanted me to have one, but I told them Lyle and I understand that our assets are separate.”

  “That’s not necessarily true.” I explained how finances got muddled if a couple paid rent together or held a joint bank account. “California’s laws are quite stringent.”

  Angelica blanched. “Is that why my father raged out of here? He said I was blind to the truth. He said I didn’t understand that a marriage was a partnership in all aspects of the word.” She started to tremble. “I’m sorry. I have to go. I have to let him know that I understand now.” She flew down the hallway.

  I didn’t budge as I pondered what else Bryan might have said to Lyle. Had he threatened him? Did Lyle lure Bryan to the patio and bash him over the head? If so, why tell Angelica about the bridge loan issue? Why not keep it a secret? I felt like I was missing something.

  A door to my right opened, and Francine, wearing a body-hugging blue warm-up suit and carrying a laptop under her arm, slipped out. She closed the door quietly. When she caught sight of me, she gasped. “You!”

  Apparently I was pretty fright-worthy today. If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought my mascara had run or I had donned last year’s Halloween mask—it was pretty ghoulish. “I didn’t mean to scare you,” I said.

  Francine tried the doorknob but had locked herself out. She pressed her back to the wood. Did she hope she could melt through it and evade me? Why was she being so cagey?

  “The front desk can give you another key,” I suggested.

  “Of course.”

  “Are you off to write one of your columns?”

  She nodded.

  “The Bazille Garden is my favorite,” I suggested. “It’s completely shaded, and the pink tea roses smell divine at this time of day.” Bazille, a good friend of Claude Monet, became a painter after failing his medical exam. His work The Pink Dress had inspired the garden. “You can get a specialty coffee at the minicafé near the concierge and take it out there. You’ll find plenty of wicker tables and chairs.”

  “Thanks. I’ll check it out.” She wiggled the knob of the door. Did she think she could pop the lock? She abandoned the prospect. “I thought I heard Angelica in the hall.”

  “You did. She ran off to speak to her father.”

  “Really? That takes guts. Me? I’d let him calm down. They were arguing something fierce.” She thumbed toward Angelica’s room. “I’m not saying the walls are paper thin, but”—she fanned herself with a hand—“whew! I had no idea Angelica had that kind of vocabulary. She’s always so proper on TV.”

  I happened to know that the walls weren’t thin, which meant Angelica and Edison must have really gone at it or Francine had held a glass to the wall. What could Edison have said to elicit such colorful language from his daughter?

  “By the way, between you and me, I�
�ve seen things in her readings,” Francine said. “Money is not fluid in her future. I spoke to her about minding her finances, but she pooh-poohed me.”

  I rolled my eyes. I doubted anyone could see that information in any kind of reading other than a financial statement produced by a trusted business manager. Did Angelica have a business manager? She ought to. At the very least, she needed to consult an attorney.

  “Speaking of arguing,” I said, “did you hear Lyle and Angelica argue after the out-of-towners’ dinner?”

  Francine fiddled with the zipper of her warm-up suit. It stuck. She tugged harder as she tried to edge past me. “I don’t, um, recall.”

  Her gaze flickered up to the right, a sign that she might be lying, according to neurolinguistic programming. I might not have gone to college, but in addition to devouring mysteries, I liked to read psychology magazines. To that end, if Francine was right-handed, her glance upward could merely mean she was trying to visualize an event.

  “I can’t, um, remember seeing them at all,” she added and then hesitated and flipped a hand at me.

  I tilted my head. According to some research, verbal hesitations or excessive hand gestures might provide better indications as to whether a person was telling a lie. “Angelica claimed she and Lyle were pretty loud. She wouldn’t have been surprised if the whole inn had heard their spat.”

  “Well, I . . .” Francine ran a finger along an eyebrow. Not to steer an errant hair into place; I was pretty sure her eyebrows were tattooed on.

  The door to her room abruptly pulled open from the inside. When Kent Clarke emerged in boxer shorts and bare feet, I understood why Francine was acting so weird.

  “Snookums, bring me back some—” He caught sight of me and grinned. “Hello, love. Guess you caught us shagging.”

  “I’m glad I didn’t.”

  He let out a rip-roaring laugh. “Good thing you didn’t catch me completely starkers.”

  “Well, now you know,” Francine said and wagged a finger between the two of them. “We hooked up after the dinner.”

  Kent snickered. “To the moon and back.”

  Francine blushed. “That’s probably why we didn’t hear Lyle and Angelica arguing.”

  “Arguing? Poor sods. Who could argue in an idyllic spot like this?” Kent wrapped an arm around Francine’s waist and pulled her close. She giggled. He whispered, “Coffee,” and patted her rear end. She giggled again.

  Spare me.

  I left, realizing that they had just provided a solid alibi for each other. I hadn’t truly considered them suspects. Neither of them had met Bryan before this weekend.

  As I returned to the inn and entered the high-ceilinged foyer, Jo raced toward me, jacket unbuttoned, skirt straining at her thighs.

  “Mimi! Come quick!”

  “What’s wrong? Is there a fire?” My heart chugged. I did not need more bad news.

  “It’s Raymond.”

  “Oh, no,” I said. “Is he hurt? Do we need paramedics?”

  Jo clutched my hand and tugged me through the entrance and out to the garden. Raymond, wearing jeans, a work shirt, and work boots, lay facedown on the ground near a stand of hydrangea bushes, his arms stretched above his head.

  “Did he pass out?” I squawked. “Raymond!” I rushed to help him.

  “He’s fine.” Jo yelled, “Raymond, stand up!”

  Lickety-split, he scrambled to his feet. In his hands he held dead leaves. He tossed them into his portable trash can and brushed off his shirt. He grabbed his straw hat from the ground, batted it against his thigh, and then jammed it on his head. “Sorry, Mimi, I look a wreck.”

  “You’re supposed to if you’re doing your job.”

  He tucked his shears into his tool belt. “Yeah, if you work with the earth, you look and smell like it.”

  “Tell her,” Jo commanded.

  “Tell me what?” I faced Raymond.

  “He saw you,” Jo chimed.

  I flinched. Saw me where? In the shower? Getting dressed? Egad. I had sheer drapes at the cottage. Did I need to install blackout curtains?

  “On your patio,” Jo added.

  I shook my head. “I’m not following.”

  Jo thumped Raymond on the arm. “Tell her.”

  “You seem to be doing a fine job for me.” He chuckled.

  Jo buttoned her jacket while tapping her foot.

  “Okay, then,” Raymond said. “Mimi, I saw you on your patio the morning Mr. Baker died. You were walking about, muttering to yourself.”

  “You saw me?”

  “Yep.”

  “Why didn’t you tell the sheriff?”

  He rubbed the underside of his nose with his index finger. “Well, in the first place, I didn’t know I needed to. I had no idea you were in trouble. In the second place . . .” He dragged a toe across the dirt.

  “You didn’t want me to think you were a Peeping Tom.”

  “Yep.”

  Jo grinned. “Remember back in high school? He had a bit of a”—she cleared her throat—“reputation.”

  “Did not,” Raymond said.

  “Did too. You liked that long-distance runner, and you made a point of being there whenever she finished her run around the oval.” Jo elbowed me. “She would peel off her T-shirt before heading for the showers.”

  Raymond’s face flushed bright red.

  “Jo, cut it out,” I said. “I know lots of boys who peeked at Erika. She was an exhibitionist. By the way, did you know she became an ecdysiast?”

  “A what?” Jo asked.

  “A strip artist. She’s also a pole dancer. Over in Oakland.” I turned my attention back to Raymond. “Go on.”

  “That’s not why I didn’t speak up, Mimi.” His voice was packed with raw emotion. “It’s because we’ve got snails.”

  “Snails?”

  “Not the edible kind. Real snails. They eat the plants. I didn’t want you to think I wasn’t doing my job, but if they take hold, they can do real damage.”

  “Why were you out at night?”

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “Because they slither out in the dark. That’s the best time to catch them, one by one. I don’t want to spread snail bait because metaldehyde pellets are useless. Only ten percent of snails or slugs die when they’re used. Methiocarb is better, but it’s about ten times more poisonous, so it poses a greater danger to animals, and because it breaks down more slowly, it’s an environmental hazard. Plus it’s an insecticide, which means it will kill off insects, including the slug-eating beetle and the—”

  “We got it, Raymond,” Jo cut in. “You were snail hunting.”

  “How long?” I asked.

  “About four hours. I got out there around two AM, I guess, and I finished up right at dawn. I do small patches at a time. The schedule for that night was alongside your cottage. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Mind? Raymond, I’ve never been so happy to know there were snails near my place! And I hate snails.”

  “You like escargot,” Jo teased.

  “That’s different, and they had better be drenched in garlic butter.” I threw my arms around Raymond and gave him a firm hug. “Thank you.”

  He didn’t reciprocate. I wasn’t sure if it was because I was his boss or because he was still embarrassed about the snails. I released him.

  “We have to tell Tyson,” I said. “Raymond, go wash up and meet us by my car. I’ll drive.” I owned a well-loved Jeep Grand Cherokee, an SUV with good handling and seats that fitted me perfectly. I liked to sit high in the saddle, as the saying goes, plus the car was great for transporting large orders of food. “Jo, I’ll be right back. I’ve got to tell Heather where I’m headed.” I whooped with glee as I ran to the bistro.

  Chapter 9

  When I arrived at the restaurant, Heather grabbed my hand and dragged me to the kitchen. “About time you returned,” she said. “Chef C is in a tizzy.”

  “But—”

  “No buts. You have to handle this.�
�� She pushed me through the kitchen door.

  Chef C was at the menu board scribbling. She caught sight of me and thrust a marker pen in my direction. “Thank heavens. We are out of desserts. The wedding cake sold très vite.”

  Very fast!

  “I am scouring my brain for a brilliant idea, and nothing will gel.” She tapped her temple. “Do your magic.”

  “My magic? You’re the magician.”

  “Not today. My mind is mush. I stayed up too late last night watching season one of Downton Abbey.”

  “Haven’t you seen it before?”

  “Of course, but my wily daughter challenged me to watch every show again before August, and if I do, she will come visit. I agreed. I miss her like crazy. Now go.” She brandished the marker pen. “Be brilliant!”

  With all eyes on me, I toured the kitchen. I started by looking at our baking supplies. Next I reviewed what we had in the walk-in refrigerator. A chill gripped me as I circled the space. My breath turned frosty. When I noticed a crate of raspberries, tubs of sour cream, and a dozen premade pie shells, six regular and six gluten-free—every morning one of the sous chefs prepared them—I landed on an idea.

  I emerged with a smile. “Let’s make that raspberry sour cream tart you’re so fond of.” It was one of the first desserts I had made for Bryan and one of the reasons he had decided to back my venture. “Anything raspberry,” he’d said. The crumble topping gave it a tasty finish. “Add crushed walnuts to the toppings of pies that aren’t gluten-free,” I added, “and make sure you prepare the tarts separately. We don’t want any patrons getting sick because of cross-contamination.”

  Chef C beamed, clearly thrilled with the suggestion, and instantly returned to being a general, commanding her troops with flair.

  I headed toward the exit, telling Heather my intention, but she wouldn’t let me leave without taking something along for the road. I could miss breakfast, she said, but I couldn’t skip lunch, too. She collected a few bottles of Perrier and foil-wrapped three croque monsieur sandwiches that Stefan had prepared for diners—one each for Jo, Raymond, and me. The diners could wait another few minutes, she assured me.

  While we sped to the sheriff’s station in my Jeep, I downed my gooey, luscious sandwich, rich with Gruyère cheese, ham, and warmth. Yum. Heather had even tossed in a paper cone of crispy pommes frites. Perfection. For some reason, I was craving salt.