A Deadly Éclair

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  As it turned out, Tyson wasn’t on the job. He had taken the morning off to help his mother at her ranch. Learning that he wasn’t out drumming up new evidence and investigating Bryan’s murder sort of ticked me off. On the other hand, the fact that he was helping his mother highlighted how caring he was. Give the guy two brownie points.

  “Isn’t that sweet, Jo?” I said as we climbed back into my SUV and sped north on the Silverado Trail. “I’m telling you, he’s a keeper.”

  “I can fix my own place, and you know it.” She could. She was adept at using any power tool you threw at her, including power saws and sanders. “Plus I am independent and self-reliant.”

  “Whoop-de-doo.”

  “Besides, he’s not into me. He’s never asked me out.”

  “Keep putting up emotional roadblocks, and he won’t.”

  She shot me a sour look. “Can it. Today isn’t about me. Let’s keep focused. We’re getting you off the hook. Repeat after me: ‘I am not guilty.’”

  “I don’t have to repeat it. I know it.”

  Tyson’s mother’s ranch was a one-story rustic up in the hills east of the Silverado Trail. She raised goats and made artisanal chèvre that she supplied to a few of the local restaurants. The goats kept the weeds and grass at bay. A variety of succulents, like red-tipped panda plants, spiral grass, jade, and burgundy-toned hens and chicks, thrived along the driveway and filled wine-barrel planters in front of the house.

  We found Tyson replacing steps leading to the front porch. The sound of his hammering kept him from hearing us drive up, slam the car doors, and call his name.

  Seeing as I was scaring pretty much everyone today, I approached from the side, waving my arms broadly, hopeful that he wouldn’t be shocked by my unexpected arrival and accidentally whack his thumb. My plan worked.

  “Hey, you guys.” Tyson stood and stretched. Sweat drenched his face, neck, and armpits. Sunlight beamed into his eyes, and he held a free hand above them to block the glare. “What brings you here on such a lovely day?” He offered a special grin to Jo. If I wasn’t so nervous about our meeting, I might have elbowed her and whispered, See?

  “Raymond saw Mimi!” Jo blurted.

  “Huh?” Tyson’s face pinched with confusion.

  Showing more pluck than he had earlier, Raymond said, “I’ll tell him, Jorianne. Sir”—he faced Tyson—“on the morning of the murder, I saw Mimi on her patio.” He explained how he was out snail hunting with a flashlight.

  Throughout the account, Tyson batted the hammer against his thigh. Did he believe Raymond? Was he trying to decide whether my amiable gardener would lie to protect me?

  When Raymond finished, Tyson slotted the hammer, head first, into the back pocket of his jeans. “Why didn’t you mention this before, Ray? One of my deputies had a conversation with you.”

  Raymond explained that he had been disinclined to come forward for fear of being considered a Peeping Tom.

  Tyson bobbed his head in understanding. “Snails, you say.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “They’re that big a problem?”

  “It’s a perception thing. We don’t want customers at the inn to see them or encounter them. Snails are, simply put, the sign of an untended garden.” Raymond’s attention to detail and his willingness, after hours, to help the team was starting to amaze me. Talk about a keeper. “That’s what Mr. Baker always told me,” he added. “‘Maintain appearances at all cost,’ he said.”

  My breath caught in my chest as, once again, I realized how much I was going to miss Bryan. He had always considered me the owner of the property, but he had never failed to offer his two cents. He saw the big picture. He was vital to the success of both the inn and the bistro. And me.

  “Mimi was there the whole time?” Tyson asked.

  “Pacing and mumbling to herself,” Raymond replied. “I wondered if I should check on her because she was talking nonstop. Sometimes that’s a sign of mental illness, folks say. But, well, the staff gossips, and a few have reminded me that she mutters when she’s working through issues, so I kept my distance.”

  “A sign of mental illness?” I exclaimed.

  “I didn’t believe them,” he said as if that pardoned the staff for rumormongering. “But then when I saw it happening . . .” He splayed his hands.

  Tyson grinned. “I assure you, Mimi is not mentally ill.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I did, in fact, talk to myself—to clear out extra thoughts that were cluttering my mind—but I was a far cry from schizophrenic. How could I get that across to my staff without letting on that Raymond had blabbed? Forget about it, a little voice chimed in my head.

  “Hooray,” Jo knuckled my arm. “This means she’s off the hook, right, Tyson?”

  I looked at him expectantly. “Do I still need an attorney?”

  “I think you’re good.”

  Jo did a fist pump. “Tyson, we’ll leave you in peace to finish your duties. Happy hammering. Nice work, by the way.”

  In response to the compliment, he grew a little taller.

  Jo grabbed my elbow and steered me toward my Jeep. “Tonight after we close the bistro, we’re celebrating.”

  Raymond didn’t budge. “Sir, I don’t know if it matters . . .”

  Jo and I turned back. Sheer panic flooded her face. Mine warmed with alarm. What more did he have to say?

  “Ray, stop calling me sir,” Tyson ordered. “We’ve known each other too long. Heck, we played on the same soccer team.”

  I recalled sitting in the stands and watching them. Raymond played center back; Tyson played forward. Raymond had thwarted numerous goals, and Tyson, with his long legs and incredible speed, had scored plenty.

  Raymond shrugged a shoulder. “Sure. If you say so.”

  “What’s up?” Tyson asked. “Out with it.”

  “I don’t know if it matters, but I think I saw someone running from the restaurant around a quarter to six.”

  Tyson cleared his throat. “Didn’t you say you were snail hunting by Mimi’s cottage at that time?”

  “Yes, sir . . . I mean, yes. But, actually, I quit around half past five.”

  Uh-oh. My insides tensed. Did that mean I needed a lawyer after all? Quickly I said, “That’s about when I went back to bed, Tyson. Remember? I told you that.”

  Raymond studied his fingernails. “I heard Mr. Baker died before five thirty, so I didn’t think anything of it when your deputy interviewed me.”

  Tyson scrubbed the side of his head with his fingertips and then held a hand out to Raymond, palm up. “Can you describe this person?”

  “I’m not sure if it was a man or a woman. The sun hadn’t crested the mountains. I heard the gate on the patio bang. That was what caught my attention. Whoever it was ran fast.”

  I moved back toward the porch. “Maybe Raymond saw Angelica,” I offered. “After she found Bryan, she fetched me.”

  “I can’t believe she killed him,” Raymond said. “She’s so nice.”

  “I remember seeing her on her TV show,” Jo said, “with a celebrity chef.”

  “I saw that,” I said. “Could she ever wield a frying pan!”

  Jo concurred. “Her arms are supertoned.”

  I eyed Tyson. “Anyone could have swung that patio chair at Bryan. Isn’t that what you told me? The significant items are the éclair and the aquamarine. Why stuff them in Bryan’s mouth?”

  Raymond gagged. Apparently he hadn’t known the details of the crime scene.

  “What if it was Lyle running away?” I said.

  Tyson frowned. “Why make that assumption?”

  “Lyle and Bryan argued the night before, and according to Angelica, Lyle might not have a verifiable alibi. Mind you”—I aimed a finger at him—“she was quick to say that she didn’t think her fiancé killed Bryan. She was simply concerned that he wouldn’t be able to back up her alibi.”

  “And he can’t,” Tyson admitted. “I spoke with him. He was sleeping.”


  Jo said, “Being asleep isn’t a very compelling alibi.”

  I tilted my head. “If he was even in the room.”

  Tyson moaned. “Let’s get out of the sun. It’s hot.” He climbed onto the porch and beckoned us to follow. He sat on the cedar swing. The chains holding it creaked beneath his weight. He gestured to the cedar Adirondack chairs.

  I remained standing and leaned against the railing. Tentatively, Jo joined me and settled in close, making us metaphorically connected at the hip. Whatever hurt me, hurt her. Raymond held back and inspected the succulents, automatically plucking dead leaves off a few and turning the soil with his fingertips. Once a gardener, always a gardener.

  Tyson leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and tented his fingers. “Go on, Mimi, regarding Lyle. What do you know that I don’t?”

  “I ran into Angelica at the inn earlier, and she said she was concerned because before she went running Saturday morning, she knocked on his door to let him know she was on her way out. She said she always tells him because he worries about her running in the dark. Except he didn’t respond.”

  Tyson unfolded his hands. “Like I said, he was asleep.”

  “That’s just it. Angelica said he always conducts business at that time. He looks at what the commodity markets are doing. She saw a glimmer of light beneath his door.”

  Tyson leaned back and scratched his chin. “I’m not happy that you’re questioning witnesses.”

  “I wasn’t questioning anyone, Tyson.” I let my arms hang neutrally at my sides; I didn’t want to appear defensive. “I was conversing. There’s a difference. And Angelica was offering. By the way, she and Lyle quarreled the night before, too. It seems Bryan was investigating Lyle, and Lyle wasn’t happy about it.”

  “Investigating him about . . . ?”

  “His financial situation. Lyle—his jewelry business—has taken out some bridge loans.”

  “He didn’t mention that.”

  Recalling how many times Derrick and I had talked about things and he simply hadn’t told me the truth, I said, “Some people don’t offer the whole story if the question doesn’t prompt them to.”

  Tyson frowned.

  “Angelica took Bryan’s side,” I went on. “Lyle stormed off. But, like I said before, Angelica was quick to add that she didn’t think the bridge loan thing was an issue or that Lyle was angry enough to lash out at Bryan, although she did admit that she and Lyle don’t have a prenuptial agreement.”

  “What’s your point? Lots of people get married without one.”

  I stepped closer to Tyson. “Bryan wanted her to have one. What if Lyle got sick of Bryan sticking his nose into their affairs? At the out-of-towners’ dinner, Angelica said how much she liked éclairs, and Bryan said they were his favorites, too. Maybe all that buddy-buddy relationship between uncle and niece irked Lyle and pushed him over the edge. ‘It’s him or me,’ he thought. When he plotted to kill Bryan, éclairs came to mind. He stuffed one in Bryan’s mouth to make a point.”

  “Don’t forget the gems lying about,” Jo said. “Lyle would have access to loose stones.”

  “Exactly.” I lowered my voice, imitating Lyle. “‘I’ll show you, Bryan. Don’t mess with me. I’m plenty rich.’”

  “‘Choke on this!’” Jo intoned.

  Tyson suppressed a grin. “You two should write a soap opera.”

  Jo gave him a dirty look.

  “How about the ones found on the ground?” Tyson asked. “Why would Lyle leave those behind?”

  “Because he heard something and thought he might be caught, so he raced away.” Jo sat in the Adirondack chair to the right of the swing. “I repeat: being asleep isn’t a very good alibi.”

  I said, “David and Paula Ives’s alibis aren’t much better.”

  Tyson cut me a stern look. “What did you do, interrogate them, too?”

  “No, I did not,” I said. “We were chatting. It came up in conversation.” I told him how I had run into them in the garden, and each had pressed the other for an alibi. “It wasn’t my fault. I merely happened to be present.”

  Tyson scoffed. “Give me a break. You were a reporter on the Vintage High School newspaper.”

  I chuckled. “I wasn’t a reporter. I wrote a food column. Big difference! I shared tips on how to make the perfect piecrust or how to bake soft, gooey cookies.”

  “Go on.” He folded his arms, resigned to listen.

  I relayed what I believed Paula’s and David’s motives were and recounted their alibis—Paula being so overly distraught at Bryan’s snub that she couldn’t sleep and went to the library and David claiming he was on the phone to a gem dealer in Israel.

  “Apparently that’s where much of the gem trade takes place,” I said. “There’s a ten-hour time difference, so calling him at four in the morning makes sense, except . . .” My voice trailed off.

  “Except . . .” Tyson echoed.

  “I’m not sure I believe him.”

  “Why not?”

  “It seemed like he was trying to convince his daughter of his actions so she would corroborate them later on, yet she was asleep in the library.”

  “With the candlestick,” Jo teased.

  I giggled. “That’s what Paula said, riffing on Clue.”

  “I love that game,” Jo cried.

  I added, “Both of them could have had access to loose gems, too.”

  “Okay, I’ll follow up.” Tyson stood, putting an end to our interview.

  As I moved toward the steps, I said, “One more thing.” I glanced over my shoulder. Tyson had put his hand at the small of Jo’s back to guide her. I suppressed a smile and continued. “You haven’t seen Bryan’s will yet, have you?”

  “No. His attorney is still on the high seas.”

  I descended the steps and headed toward my car. “I assume Edison Barrington will inherit. Bryan had no children, no spouse. If he died intestate, Edison should get everything, correct?”

  “Probably,” Tyson said, “although I’ll bet Mr. Baker included Angelica in his will. She’s his niece. He obviously adored her. He was putting on her wedding. Besides, Edison Barrington has plenty of money. He wouldn’t need it.”

  Jo gazed at him with admiration. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “That’s why I get paid the big bucks.” Tyson flicked her arm with a finger. He didn’t make a huge salary, but he didn’t need much. He was a man of the earth. His pleasures included fishing and hiking, same as Jo.

  “Edison might need the inheritance,” I said. “He could be in debt.”

  Like a gentleman, Tyson opened the driver’s door for me. “In debt?”

  “He’s a gambler, and Angelica is worried about his habits. She did her best to hide her concern at the out-of-towners’ dinner, but I heard them exchanging words. He had arrived a little worse for wear, and she grilled him about whether he had been at a card game.”

  “Mimi, I’ll say it again: let me do the conjecturing, okay?”

  Jo sashayed around the front of the car and said over the hood, “Tyson, it won’t make you any less macho if you accept help. Promise.” She winked.

  Tyson’s face flamed red, but Jo, who was climbing into the passenger seat, missed his reaction entirely.

  Chapter 10

  Back at Bistro Rousseau following the conversation with Tyson, I felt hollow as I delivered the evening’s specialty menu to a few diners. Many guests asked for the raspberry tart, which made me miss Bryan something fierce. How I craved his sage advice. As smart as he was, he would have solved his murder in a matter of minutes. What was I missing?

  Deciding I needed fortification to think, I went to the kitchen and fixed myself a cup of strong Earl Grey tea. When I returned to the dining room, I spotted Lyle sitting with Kent and Francine. Lyle and Kent were dressed casually in button-down shirts and khaki trousers. Francine had gone to town, styling her hair into an updo, applying a trowel’s worth of makeup, and donning an expensive-looking silk dress.
A fourth place setting was made up but untouched. Maybe Angelica was still consoling her father. Was Edison making plans for his brother’s funeral? Would Tyson release his body soon?

  I sipped my tea and scanned the rest of the room. Paula and David Ives were seated at a separate table. Both seemed as blue as the outfits they wore. They were talking, and Paula’s gaze perused the room whenever her father spoke. I wouldn’t presume to ask why they weren’t dining with Lyle and friends. Relationships were strained, I imagined.

  Heather waltzed toward me, the skirt of her chiffon dress swinging in a bell-like motion. “How are you holding up?”

  “I’m fine.” Liar, liar.

  “Need honey?”

  “No thanks.” I preferred my tea unsweetened.

  “I’m happy the sheriff let you off.”

  “Me, too.” As we drove away from the ranch, I determined Tyson must have had a firmer time of death, which was why he had cut me some slack, given Raymond’s iffy timeline. Had Bryan died before Angelica went for her run? Would that change the list of suspects?

  “By the way”—Heather leaned in close—“my husband said he’s getting vibes and Tyson should check into all of Bryan’s business contacts.”

  I threw her a look. “Your husband is getting vibes, or they are?” The aliens.

  She mock-scowled. “I have a husband.”

  “I’d like to meet him.”

  “He’s private.”

  I winked. “I can keep a secret.”

  “Someday you’ll meet him.”

  I frowned. What was up with the guy? Was he for real? Why hadn’t he stopped by his wife’s place of business for even a nanosecond? I bit back a smile as I paired up the words nanosecond and aliens. An image of Robin Williams giving his Mork & Mindy greeting—“Nanu, nanu”—flitted through my mind. I had to hold myself back from offering a Spock-like salute to Heather.

  “What’s so funny?” she asked.

  “Nothing.” I didn’t want to tease her. There was only so much ribbing a person could handle, and I was not mean-spirited. Besides, the fanciful thoughts of aliens had perked me up. I handed her a pair of menus. “Take these to David and Paula Ives, will you? See if you can hear what they’re talking about.”