A Deadly Éclair

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A Deadly Éclair Page 12

by Daryl Wood Gerber


  I took the next bite a little too hastily. Hollandaise sauce dribbled down my chin. “Slob,” I muttered as I swiped it with a fingertip and licked it off.

  Cagney, who was a common, or feeder, goldfish—orange in tone and fairly bug-eyed—seemed to be saying something. Her mouth was moving.

  “What?” I asked as if she could speak.

  More mouth movement.

  I knew she wasn’t talking to me—I wasn’t crazy—but I sensed that she wanted me to focus on the investigation into Bryan’s death. I kid you not. If cats and dogs could persuade their humans to do things, why not fish?

  I set my fork down. “You think I should write down everything I know.”

  Cagney’s mouth opened and closed, as if agreeing with me.

  “Okay,” I murmured. “When I’m done eating.” I savored every bite of my dinner. The trouble with eggs Benedict was that it was gone too soon, and I instantly wanted more. But I wasn’t going to splurge, and I knew it was time to face the demons in my mind.

  If I didn’t kill Bryan, who did?

  I set my dish in the sink, soaked it with water, and moved to the dry-erase board that stood on an easel in the corner of the kitchen. I regularly used it to brainstorm new menus. I picked up the marker.

  “Okay, let’s start with Paula Ives.”

  Cagney wiggled her tail as if telling me to go for it, so I wrote down Paula’s name and scribbled her father’s name below. I added what I suspected would be their motives. For Paula, Rejected; for David, Vengeance.

  Seeing their names paired together made me think of Paula’s mother. She had fallen to her death. Was it really an accident? Paula was the only one home at the time. Had she deliberately pushed her mother, or had David sneaked in while Paula was sleeping, murdered his wife, and claimed he was nowhere in the vicinity? I scribbled Paula’s mother/David’s wife on the board and drew arrows between the phrase and Paula and David’s names.

  I recalled my theory at the restaurant earlier. Whoever killed Bryan had used my cell phone to lure him out. Who could have swiped it? David Ives sprang to mind. Right after dessert was served, he went in to pay his compliments to the chef. Camille loathed intruders and had booted him out, of course, but before she had, he could have taken the phone. The cubby where I stored it was right near the entrance. I jotted the note by his name.

  What about Paula? I couldn’t recall seeing her enter the kitchen, but I hadn’t kept a strict eye on her. I wrote Access to cell? by her name and moved on.

  “Who else could be a suspect?” I asked the fish.

  Lacey, who was a slim matte goldfish, meaning she lacked any reflective pigments and the pink of her muscle showed through her white scales, became more animated. She flicked her tail and swam in a quick circle. For some reason, her eagerness reminded me of Angelica on the morning of the murder, dressed in her pink running outfit and hyped up on fear.

  “Yes,” I sighed. “Angelica should go on the list.” I recalled her entering the kitchen to check on her father. She could have nabbed my cell phone then. She stood to inherit. Plus, if my notion about Tyson cutting me slack because the murder had happened a lot earlier was correct, Angelica’s running alibi might not hold up. Reluctantly I wrote down her name and the words motive = money beside it. I really liked Angelica. I didn’t want her to be the killer. I wondered whether there were speed cameras in Napa that would register if a person—say, Angelica—was running around the area before dawn. I made a mental note to ask Tyson.

  Right below Angelica’s name, I scribbled Edison’s name. I couldn’t rule him out. I had seated him in the bistro kitchen at the table with the cubbyholes. If he had learned that his half-brother was planning to leave his money to Angelica and not to him, he could have grown incensed. Also he might have feared that Angelica would begin to favor Bryan over him because Bryan was more stable and hadn’t gambled away his fortune—if indeed Edison had blown through his savings. That was still an assumption on my part.

  I revisited Angelica’s name and added Inheritance, when might she have learned of it? I recalled her speaking with Bryan at the out-of-towners’ dinner, out of earshot of the others. Had he revealed that he was leaving everything to her?

  “Don’t be silly,” I murmured. A celebratory dinner was not the place to talk about death and wills and life-altering matters. But if Angelica was to be a true suspect, she had to have known about the inheritance. Otherwise, she had no motive that I knew of.

  My cell phone rang. I glanced at the readout. My mother was calling. She always went to bed at ten. Worry spiraled up my neck as I answered the call.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Darling, I’m . . .” She hesitated. “I hate to bother you, but . . .” She stopped herself again.

  “Mom, what is it?”

  “You’ll think I’m overreacting, but I think there’s a ghost in the house.”

  I didn’t believe in ghosts, although one time after Derrick’s death, the bedroom had grown incredibly chilly, as if he had entered. I’d noted the event in my diary to be sure I hadn’t fallen asleep and dreamed the scenario. But nothing happened. Derrick hadn’t materialized. We didn’t have a chat.

  “Can you come over?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

  Lightly I said, “Is it a scary ghost or a Casper the Friendly Ghost–type ghost?”

  “Don’t make fun.”

  I squelched a giggle and took her seriously. She never let spooky things get to her. She was one of the few people I knew who adored scary films.

  “Do you want me to spend the night?” I asked.

  “No. Just come check things out. The house is so big without . . .”

  Without my father. “I’ll be there in a few.”

  I promised the goldfish I would return soon and sped to Nouvelle Vie Vineyards.

  The tires of my Jeep skidded on the gravel driveway. I didn’t bother locking the doors. I raced up the path leading to the house, a beautiful farmhouse-style home in moss green with cream trim. My love of a wine-colored motif came from my mother. Low lights cast a warm glow along the path and the abundant red roses bordering it. Exterior lights highlighted the columns and the blooming crape myrtles.

  A dog barked as I trotted up the stairs to the porch, and the aroma of freshly baked bread wafted through the screen door. Riesling, my mother’s fluffy white midsized Goldendoodle, stood sentry. As I entered, he nearly tackled me with love.

  “Four on the floor,” I ordered.

  Riesling planted his feet, but his rear end wagged as hard as his tail as he waited for my caresses.

  “Mom?”

  My mother rushed toward me. Flour from late-night baking dusted her black cotton flannel pajamas, which were decorated with multicolored wineglasses and wine bottles.

  I drew her into a hug. “Mom, you’re trembling.”

  “I am not.”

  “Okay, you’re not,” I said, feeling like the parent trying to calm the quaking child. “Show me the ghosts. ‘I ain’t afraid of no ghosts,’” I chanted. Bill Murray couldn’t have delivered the line better.

  “I feel so foolish,” she said as she climbed the stairs to the second floor.

  I followed. Riesling trailed me.

  “Maintaining the vineyard has become so daunting. Maybe . . .” My mother stopped outside a room that used to be my father’s study. When he wasn’t working or playing piano around town, he loved to read. “In there.”

  I gulped. I hadn’t been inside the room since we had sorted through things the week after Dad died. Emotions raced through me. Would I cry? I hoped I wouldn’t. I needed to be strong.

  I tried the doorknob. It was locked. “Do you have a key?”

  My mother plucked a key from above the doorjamb and handed it to me.

  “Tell me what you saw,” I said as I inserted the key and twisted.

  “Nothing.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I haven’t gone in. I heard things.”

  “Wo
o-woo things?”

  “Clattering. But not typical clattering.”

  “Typical?”

  “You know, not like a thief rooting through your father’s treasures. It was specific clattering.”

  I raised an eyebrow. Specific clattering. For a woman whose business required being precise—just the right amount of this grape paired with just the right amount of that grape—she was being pretty darned vague.

  “I’m going in. Want to hide in your room?”

  “No.”

  “All right. I’m going—”

  “Wait! What if—”

  “Don’t say it!” I held up a warning finger as a frisson of fear crawled up my spine. “There is a perfectly good explanation for whatever you heard.” My father was not floating around this house causing a ruckus, and no ghosts from previous owners were, either. “No what-ifs,” I said. “Only what is. Let’s solve this.”

  I unlocked the door. My mother sucked in her breath and pressed herself against the hallway wall as if she wanted to become one with the plaster. Riesling snuggled against her legs. I pushed the door open and flicked on the light switch. The overhead light flickered and popped.

  My mother screamed. Riesling yelped.

  “Calm down, both of you,” I cried. “Lightbulbs often blow because of loose connections or a slack light switch. The electricity causes an arc, which produces heat. It happened all the time while we were sprucing up Bistro Rousseau.” I assessed my mother, who was shivering. “It doesn’t help that adrenaline is rushing through us as well as the dog at warp speed. Stay here. That means you, too, Riesling.” I flattened my hand, signaling for him to stay. Obediently he sat on his haunches, but he didn’t stop whimpering.

  I tiptoed into the room. It was cold. I tried not to think about that. A chill did not signify the eerie presence of a ghost. I switched on a light by the desk. A warm low-level glow filled the room. My father’s desk appeared untouched. He had been methodical. All his files stood in neat piles. The file cabinet was intact. No drawers hung open. His reading chair, where he had read me many a book growing up, was in the proper place. I turned on the floor lamp beside it and pivoted to take in the entire room. A book lay on the floor by the bookshelf. I bent to inspect it and suddenly felt a whoosh of air and heard a clatter.

  A bust of Edgar Allen Poe fell off the bookshelf, nearly hitting me on the head.

  I leaped to my feet.

  Something skittered. Then the drapes began to flutter.

  I tore to the window and pulled back the curtains. The window was slightly ajar. In the glimmer of what little moonlight there was, I spotted a squirrel making its escape down the tree outside the room.

  “I see you, you varmint!” I yelled. “Mom, come in. It’s not a ghost. You left the window open, and a squirrel was taking a tour of Dad’s things.”

  She entered, her face white with fear. It turned pink with embarrassment pretty quickly. “I had the windows washed last week,” she murmured. “One of the crew must have left the window open. Silly me for not checking.”

  “For your information, the squirrel had good taste. It was attempting to read The Fall of the House of Usher.” One of my father’s favorite stories.

  My mother laughed, which elicited a happy yip from Riesling.

  I returned the book to the shelf and picked up the bust of Poe. The tumble had nicked the base but not the face. Dad would be relieved. Then I secured the window and followed my mother downstairs. She put on some music—Chopin to relax us both—and set a teakettle on the stove. When the water was boiling, she made us each a cup of soothing chamomile tea and offered me warm bread slathered in butter. How could I refuse? We ate in companionable silence. She didn’t ask me about the investigation. I didn’t press her about her emotional state. She had been my rock before; she would be my rock again.

  An hour later, she told me to leave. I assured her I would do so when she was soundly asleep.

  Around midnight, I returned home. Too wound up to rest my weary brain, I slipped out to the patio to drink in the night air and stare at the stars. Thinking about what lay beyond the stars always calmed me. A few minutes after I was nestled in my chair, I heard a rustle.

  “Scoundrel?” I whispered. The cat didn’t emerge.

  I scrambled to my feet and peered into the dark. Off to the left, a couple walked along a path. I could barely make them out in the light of the waxing crescent moon, what my mother liked to call God’s thumbnail, but on closer inspection, I realized it was Angelica and Lyle. They were holding hands. Angelica was talking, but I couldn’t make out anything she was saying. Suddenly she turned to Lyle and jabbed her finger into his chest. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her close. He planted a kiss on her mouth. For a moment, she struggled to get free, but then she melted into him.

  “Lyle,” I whispered, realizing I had forgotten to add his name to my list. I raced inside to the dry-erase board and jotted down his name plus his possible motive: Money trouble. Bryan had investigated Lyle and had found his finances in shambles. Lyle had challenged Bryan. What if he knew ahead of time that Angelica would come into money? She had plenty of her own, of course; she was a well-paid celebrity. But what if Lyle was banking on paying off his debt with his bride’s inheritance?

  If Angelica had learned about the inheritance from Bryan or otherwise, had she told Lyle? I circled his name, believing he had the strongest motive. Then I stepped away and paced the floor. My goldfish studied me as if I was a specimen in their human experiment.

  I muttered, “Bug off,” and returned to the board. I tapped the marker on Lyle’s name. Was he really the most likely suspect? If Bryan had intended to break up Lyle and Angelica, why had he thrown an out-of-towners’ dinner and planned an elaborate wedding? Had he hoped to embarrass Lyle at the wedding by speaking up when the pastor asked if anyone wanted to protest the happy union? Had he told Lyle as much? Had Lyle blown a gasket?

  How would he have gotten his hands on my cell phone? I pondered his movements and had an “aha moment.” Lyle had spilled a glass of water and hurried to the kitchen for extra napkins. Had he spilled the water on purpose? Had he known that my cell phone was in the kitchen, or had taking it been an impulsive decision? He saw it, decided he could use it to further his plot, and grabbed it.

  Then he returned to his hotel room, remembered his stash of loose gems, and thought exactly what Jo and I had said to Tyson: I’ll show you, Bryan. Choke on this.

  Chapter 12

  At my usual predawn time, I woke, showered, and dressed. I drank my coffee, fed the fish, scanned the dry-erase board to give myself a mental picture that I could work on throughout the day, and zipped to the restaurant. I skipped breakfast because, as we did every Monday, Chef C and I spent the early morning hours preparing specialties for the coming week that we would taste-test with the staff. I loved working in tandem with her. We moved about the kitchen with the same tempo. She whistled; I hummed.

  Around nine AM, we assembled our crew at a rectangular table in the bistro. The table was preset with place settings, multiple wineglasses, and menus. Stefan and Oakley worked in tandem to serve the dishes.

  Meanwhile, Heather, who had taken charge of pairing each course with an appropriate wine—another job at which she excelled—was moving around the table and pouring a swallow of white wine into Bordeaux-style glasses. “This week,” she said, “Mimi is serving chicken roulade stuffed with brussels sprouts, pine nuts, and pecorino.”

  A roulade was rolled meat or pastry filled with a stuffing. The dish’s name originated from the French word rouler, which meant “to roll.”

  The staff murmured its appreciation.

  “I’m pairing that with a crisp Cakebread Sauvignon Blanc,” Heather continued. “As you all know, they’re some of the best around because Dolores Cakebread loved her Sauvignon Blancs. Take a sip.” Everyone obeyed. “I know you taste the citrus and the melon. What other flavors do you detect?” She eyed me. “Mimi?”

  I frown
ed. All I was getting was citrus. Stress, I decided, was doing a number on my palate. I could usually rattle off three or four flavors. “Tell me.”

  “Guava?” Heather asked. “Peach?”

  I swirled the wine over and under my tongue. “Um, okay. No matter what, I like it.”

  Chef C agreed. “It will go nicely with the savory cheese and pine nuts.”

  Next up was one of her specialties, Boursin-stuffed chicken. I happened to love Boursin cheese. A man named Philippe Boursin had created it in France in the 1950s. A long-standing traditional dish called fromage frais, which translated to “fresh cheese,” had inspired him. Ages ago, guests could season their fresh cheese using herbs provided by the host. Boursin made it a household product.

  Heather said, “I like a Chardonnay with this dish. I’ve chosen the Flora Springs Family Select, which has been sourced entirely from the family’s estate-owned vineyards.”

  Chef C grinned. “Love it.”

  Heather went on, “It opens with mango. After that, you get the flavor of Asian pear.”

  Stefan snorted. “Really? Asian pear?”

  Heather scowled at him. “And notes of caramel.”

  “If you say so.” Stefan didn’t drink alcohol and loved to tease Heather.

  We carried on for an hour, with Chef C occasionally challenging Heather’s selection and Heather holding her own. As I sipped moderately—I needed to keep my wits about me—I thought of Bryan. He had joined in many of these taste-testing sessions. His frank opinion and his passion for food would be greatly missed.

  When the time drew near to get things into gear for the lunch crowd, I stood and said, “Thank you, everyone. Let’s all have a positive day. No gossip about Mr. Baker—or anybody, for that matter. Make our menu shine. Encourage every customer to have the best dining experience ever.”

  My staff saluted like career soldiers and marched off to do what they did best while chatting among themselves about which dishes they liked and which words they would use to describe them, like succulent, creamy, or heavenly. I coveted their lightheartedness.

  At noon, I stood near the hostess podium, where Heather was welcoming guests, and I drank in the good vibes. People were entering with smiles. Laughter abounded in the bistro. With the sun directly overhead outside, a golden glow emanated through the windows. Many of the hotel’s guests had come in for lunch. I heard a few say that they intended to load up on rich food because they were going wine tasting afterward. Fats helped keep alcohol from being absorbed into the system. One diner said she had heard that the duck confit, which was essentially duck preserved and baked to a crisp in lard, would be the perfect pretasting dish. I wholeheartedly agreed.

 

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