“Hello, Mimi,” a woman said.
I turned and saw Angelica entering the bistro with her father. Dressed in a sheer black blouse, gray cigarette pants, and low-slung black heels, with her hair swept off her face and secured in a hairband, she appeared sedate and solemn. Edison’s attire, however, surprised me. He was wearing a yellow plaid shirt tucked into jeans. Don’t get me wrong. I knew the world had changed. A mourner no longer had to wear black for a year, but his yellow shirt seemed a bit too cheery a mere two days after his brother died. Was I being prickly?
I scooted around Heather and met them at the door. “Let me take you to your table.”
Heather handed me two menus.
“How are you holding up, sir?” I said to Edison.
“I’m okay. Thanks for asking.”
Angelica said, “Dad and I are trying to fill the hours until the chief deputy coroner signs off on the cause of death and releases the body. Then we can have a proper funeral.”
“Has anyone given you a clue as to when that will be?” I asked.
“No. A few days, they said. They did toxicology reports but promised the results of those wouldn’t delay the release of his body.” She sighed. “Neither of us is really hungry.”
“I understand.” I guided them to a table near the door leading to the patio.
Angelica grew pale. “Can we sit elsewhere? I don’t want to look out—”
“Of course,” I said hastily. What an insensitive dolt I was. “This way.” I showed them to a table nearer the kitchen. “How’s this?”
“Perfect.”
Once seated, they immediately opened their menus. I told them about one of the specials, a leek-and-Fontina quiche with a side garden salad—all herbs and vegetables picked from our garden. “If you wish to go light, why don’t you have French onion soup?” I offered them a glass of Prosecco on the house. Both declined.
Before leaving the table, I said, “Angelica, I spotted you and Lyle walking last night. I imagine you mended fences if your kiss was any indication.”
Her cheeks reddened.
Edison gaped at his daughter. “Mimi knows that you and Lyle argued?”
“Uh-huh.” Angelica unfolded her napkin and placed it on her lap. “She’s the one who set me straight about California law.”
That seemed to placate Edison.
I said, “May I ask you a question about Lyle?”
Angelica tilted her chin up, her mouth slightly open and her eyes receptive.
Knowing what I knew about their previous argument and sensing that I could be treading on dangerous ground with what I intended to ask, I softened my pose and tried to look more like a friend than the Grand Inquisitor. “Kent mentioned that Lyle carries gems with him everywhere.”
Edison clucked his tongue. “I heard him say that. How reckless. Your young man is tempting fate.” He aimed a finger at his daughter. “Thieves are lurking everywhere.”
Angelica threw him a dismissive look. “Lyle locks them up in a portable safe, Dad.” She said to me, “It’s actually a gun safe with a steel security cable and everything. No one could remove it from the room.”
“Well, then,” Edison said, “that certainly points a finger at him as the murderer, doesn’t it?”
“Why?” I asked.
Edison splayed his hands. “A gemstone was stuffed into Bryan’s mouth, correct?”
All who had watched the crime scene crew collect evidence had picked up on that tidbit.
“B-but,” Angelica sputtered, “Lyle isn’t the only one with the code to the safe. Kent has it and so do I.”
I would bet David Ives had it, too. He owned the business.
“You couldn’t possibly be the murderer,” Edison said.
“How can you be sure?” Angelica said. “I’ve got the best motive. I’m Uncle Bryan’s sole heir.”
“What?” Edison’s mouth fell open.
Aha! So he knew about the argument but not about the will. Had Angelica planned to tell him during lunch?
“Bryan claimed he didn’t write a will,” Edison said.
“Well, he did.” Angelica’s eyes sparkled with defiance.
“Who told you so?”
“Sergeant Daly.”
“Really?” I said. “I thought Bryan might have told you when the two of you had your private chat at the out-of-towners’ dinner.”
Angelica clapped a hand to her chest. “How horrible that would have been! Can you imagine? As if he’d foreseen his murder?” She took a sip of water and blotted her lips.
“What did you discuss, then, if it wasn’t about his estate or what he and Lyle argued about on the patio? You told me the other day that it was nothing.”
Angelica blushed. “Bryan simply wanted to tell me how beautiful I looked. Like my mother, he said. He admired the necklace I was wearing and said it suited me.” She eyed her father, who was working his tongue inside his mouth. “Dad, about the inheritance, I guess he left it to me because he thought you had plenty of money.” She reached for his hand.
Edison pulled away and smashed his lips together. Was he upset because his gambling addiction had emptied his coffers, as I suspected, and he was going to be financially ruined? If Bryan had died intestate, Edison, as his brother, would have inherited. Had he counted on that? Or maybe he was ticked off because Bryan had chosen Angelica over him?
Abruptly he rose to his feet, tossed his napkin down, and headed toward the restroom.
Angelica blanched. “Poor Dad. I should—”
“Don’t go after him. He’ll return.” I placed a hand on her shoulder. “Let’s focus on you for a bit. You need to pin down your alibi. You said you were out running. Are you sure no one saw you?”
“There weren’t any other runners. Most people like to run when there’s sunlight. They feel safer. Me? I like the anonymity of darkness. In Los Angeles, I hate running when everyone else is out and about. Plus the paparazzi can be incredibly cruel. I do not want a picture of my derriere in jogging pants plastered in the National Enquirer.”
I smiled. I wouldn’t want that, either, even though Derrick had once told me that I had an attractive derriere. “Did you see any cars on the road?”
“A few passed by, but I doubt anyone would have recognized me.”
“What if you took out an ad in the local papers or posted flyers on the road and in some of the food stores?” I suggested.
“Good idea.”
“Have you asked Sergeant Daly if there are speed cameras on the main roads that might have captured an image of you?” I had yet to touch base with Tyson on that.
“No, I haven’t—”
“She doesn’t need to.” Edison returned and took his seat. His face looked moist, as if he’d splashed it with water. “She’s innocent.”
“Mimi’s right, Dad. I might need proof. I’m going to put up flyers to see if a witness might come forward.”
“Take a picture of yourself in your running clothes,” I suggested. “Your pink top was pretty distinctive. And remember your hair was in a ponytail.”
“Right.” Angelica gazed pleadingly at her father. “Do you mind if I go, Dad? You stay, have lunch. Mimi, put the check on my hotel bill, please.” She rose and kissed her father on the cheek and petted his shoulder fondly. “I’m sorry if the news about the inheritance upset you. You know I’ll split whatever Uncle Bryan gave me with you.”
“I don’t need his money,” Edison snarled. “I don’t want his money.”
“We’ll talk.” Angelica tore out of the restaurant.
As the door whooshed closed, Edison’s shoulders sagged. “Well, write me up as father of the year. I sure handled that wrong. But I meant what I said. I don’t need the money. She worries too much about me.”
I offered a supportive smile. “Disregard how quickly she left. She’s on a mission.”
He reset his silverware—the knife next to the oversized dessert spoon and the smaller spoon next to that.
I perched
on Angelica’s chair and leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Sir, forgive me, but I sensed tension between you and Bryan.”
“Yep, you did. Brothers fight. We went at it as kids. We argued as adults. But we also liked one another. He was one of the few people I could talk to about anything. Granted, he didn’t appreciate my lifestyle.”
“The gambling,” I murmured.
He regarded me with caution.
“When we met Friday night, I heard Angelica chastise you.”
“Not my finest hour.” Edison screwed up his mouth. “That’s probably why Bryan cut me out. He didn’t want me to run through his estate like water. He worked hard for it. He gave up a lot to be wealthy and carefree.”
A gloom seemed to consume him. His shoulders curved forward. He set his napkin back on his lap and smoothed it repeatedly.
“Were you jealous of Bryan because he was paying for Angelica’s wedding?”
“Jealous? No. I was annoyed. There’s a whole world of difference. It’s emasculating, what he did. He knew I didn’t have the cash. Sure, I’m in hock, but I’ll get out of it. I always bounce back. I’ve refinanced the winery many times. It’s profitable as long as I don’t run it into the ground. The grapes are good. The product sells. I’m resilient.”
“My husband used to say he was resilient. I believed him, until I didn’t.”
Edison leveled me with his gaze. “Again with the innuendoes.”
“No, I—”
“Do you really think I could kill my own brother? You’re wrong. I loved him. Besides, where would I have gotten those gems? I suppose Bryan could have been carrying them, but why? That makes no sense.” He leaned forward and folded his arms on the table. “As for my daughter, she couldn’t have killed him. She’s the sweetest, gentlest person I know. Like her mother.” His eyes brimmed with tears. “My money is on Lyle. I don’t trust him or his family.”
“Sir, you stormed out of the dinner that night. Where did you go afterward?”
“Are you asking for my alibi?”
“No, I—”
“It’s all right. I don’t mind. I’m just yanking your chain.” He sat back in his chair. “I went home. I was dog-tired. I fell into bed. I woke early. It’s one of the hazards of being a vintner. There was no frost, of course, not at this time of year, so I didn’t need to check on the vines. Even so, I stayed up and read a book.” He held up a warning hand. “And don’t—”
A waiter added fresh water to both glasses on the table and departed.
“Don’t go asking me which book,” Edison finished. “I don’t remember. A wine primer, probably. I have a pile of them next to my bed.” He rasped out a laugh. “I know it’s a weak alibi, but it’s all I’ve got.” He picked up his menu and perused it.
I tilted my head. Was he avoiding my gaze because he was lying? Did he go out gambling after the out-of-towners’ dinner? Was he afraid I might tell Angelica and she would lower the boom on him? Or was he telling me this so I would corroborate his alibi? Maybe he believed I would put in a good word for him with Tyson. What if Edison knew before that night that Angelica would inherit from her uncle? He claimed that he and Bryan talked about everything. Had Bryan given him a heads-up about what he intended to do in the event of his death? Maybe they had discussed it when Bryan told him he was footing the bill for the wedding.
No—that didn’t make sense. Edison wouldn’t have killed Bryan in that case; he would have tried to persuade him to change the will back.
On the other hand, what if he knew his daughter would freely offer half the inheritance to him? He said she was the kindest, gentlest soul he knew. Except she planned to marry Lyle, the love of her life, and if Lyle’s business was in trouble, Angelica would be hard-pressed to choose between helping her father and helping her beloved.
“I’ll take the French onion soup.” Edison handed his menu to me, dismissing me.
As I moved away from the table, a gruesome thought hit me. Would Bryan’s estate revert to Edison if Angelica were out of the picture?
Chapter 13
A while later, I was in the restaurant office reviewing the orders for the upcoming week’s supplies when Jo entered, a flush to her cheeks, her black leather notebook opened wide.
“Everything okay?” I asked.
“Busy.” She unbuttoned the single button on her stylish peacock-blue jacket and consulted her notebook. “Lots of guests checking out today.” She gestured with her thumb. “Say, I saw Angelica Barrington pinning flyers on telephone poles. What’s up with that?”
“She’s intent on finding a witness to corroborate that she was running on the morning Bryan was killed.”
“Who put her up to that, her father?”
“Me. I don’t think she killed Bryan, in spite of how it looks with the inheritance.”
“Right, the inheritance.” Jo flipped her notebook closed, her curiosity piqued.
“Angelica said she’ll split the money with her father no matter what.”
“Unless that fiancé of hers has something to say about it. I don’t like him very much. He’s sort of arrogant, you know what I mean? Nose in the air. Giving orders to the staff.”
“I’m not sure if he’s arrogant or simply thrown off course by what happened.” I signed the order form and handed it to Jo. “Will you see that this gets handled?”
“Sure. Speaking of business, I’ve booked the inn for a number of events. I didn’t consult with you. I hope you don’t mind.”
“As if I would.” I steered her out of the office and into the bistro. “What did you agree to?”
She stopped beside the hostess podium and opened her notebook to a specific page. “Vanessa Marshall’s fiftieth birthday bash.”
“Vanessa Marshall of Vanessa’s Vineyard? She’s the most flamboyant woman in Napa. How big will the bash be?”
“She has fifty friends coming in from all fifty states”—Jo rubbed her fingers together, signifying big money—“and they’re going to do fifty outings, all of which we’re to book for her.”
“Whew. We had enough rooms available?”
“It’s a year away.”
“Maybe we should hire a concierge after all.” I had been putting off creating that official position, believing that Jo could handle everything, but if our little enterprise continued to blossom, we might need a full-fledged employee. “What else?”
“We have an anniversary for a pair of ninety-year-olds. They’re calling it their one hundred and eightieth birthday. They want to go hot-air ballooning.”
“How romantic. May they both survive the thrill.”
Jo winked. “I’m sure any balloon company will require them to sign waivers.”
I pointed toward the window with the view of the inn. “What’s going on?” People in colorful smocks with easels slung over their shoulders and canvases hooked under their arms were streaming up the front path.
“Because of the wedding—it being our first—I didn’t book any additional events over the weekend. I didn’t want the staff overextended. However, since the wedding was postponed, I jumped all over a spur-of-the-moment art affair this gal pitched to me. I figured we could recoup some of the lost revenue. You and I both know that groups rarely schedule events on a Monday. We’re setting up in the Sisley Garden. Each artist has paid a handsome fee to participate. It’s for charity to buy art supplies for local schools.” Jo tucked her notebook under her arm. “Can you take a break? Come see.”
“Sure. Just a sec.” I hurried to Heather. She was involved in a lively conversation with two of our regular patrons, telling them what she had planned for her day off. I said, “I’m heading to the inn with Jo.”
“Hang on.” Heather excused herself from our diners, dashed to the kitchen, and quickly returned with a to-go bag. “I told Chef C you hadn’t eaten, so she made you lunch.”
I grinned. “My mother was never this conscientious.”
Heather patted my arm. “You need someone to look out for you.”<
br />
Maybe Chef C was right; two mothers were better than one. Losing Bryan had left me off-kilter.
As Jo and I strolled to Maison Rousseau, the sun blazed overhead, but a gentle breeze cooled the air. Chatter abounded as we rounded the bend toward the Sisley Garden, which was rife with white roses.
“This way,” a woman said in a booming, authoritative voice. I couldn’t see her. She was hidden among the throng of artists. “Right over here. That’s it. Set up and we’ll bring out the model.”
“Model?” I glanced at Jo.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “A clothed model. She’ll be dressed like Venus—with arms.” She waved as she proceeded toward the woman in charge. “Willow! Over here.”
I clutched Jo’s arm. “Willow Hawke organized this?”
“Is there a problem?”
Willow forged through the crowd, looking as exquisite as she had at our first meeting—hair flowing, floral dress fitting her like a glove. How she could walk on the gravel path in four-inch spike heels was beyond me. She extended both arms. “Jo, darling. Isn’t this fab? The wine tasting is set up over there. The harpist is almost ready to begin.” She turned a keen eye on me. “Mimi, you never change.”
Okay, that stung. Like I said, I wore the same work outfit daily. I centered the gem of my necklace in the hollow of my neck and lifted my chin. Sticks and stones . . .
Idly I wondered if Nash and Willow had severed the knot or if she had changed his mind about the divorce. He hadn’t called to cancel our date. No matter what, I would not—not—date a married man. And I refused to be jealous of Willow if they stayed married. My father always said that jealousy undermined confidence. All my life, I had worked hard not to be green with envy if a girlfriend liked someone I did, and I had tried not to be resentful of those who wished to follow my same career path. The world had plenty of room for terrific chefs and entrepreneurs. I would not be envious of Willow. I was attractive, I could probably cook rings around her, and besides, she seemed nice. Truly nice. Maybe the clothing comment wasn’t meant to be a barb.
A Deadly Éclair Page 13