“Don’t you love it?” Willow swept her hand in a grand gesture. “Look, there’s Venus.” A long-limbed woman draped in a silver one-shouldered gown glided into the center of the garden. “Climb on, darling!” Willow gestured with a flick of the wrist. “I brought a pedestal for her,” she said to us and motioned to the center of the garden, where a preset foot-high white column with ionic lines stood.
The model climbed onto the base and swept her long black hair over her shoulders. She struck a pose, one hand on her hip.
“I hope she’s wearing sunblock,” Jo teased.
Willow said, “Mimi, when the artists are finished, you’ll get to pick one of their pieces for the inn.”
I gulped, not sure what to say. What if the artists were terrible? What if the art turned out to look like a mash-up of a Picasso and a Jackson Pollock?
Jo said, “It’ll look nice in the library.”
“That’s great,” I murmured tepidly. “Um, Willow, sorry, but Jo and I have work to do, so we’ll leave you to it. Nice to see you.”
“You, too. And don’t forget to stop by Fruit of the Vine Artworks. I’ll show you those vases I mentioned.”
As I hustled Jo out of the garden, I whispered, “Willow is Nash Hawke’s wife.”
“Nash as in hunky, gorgeous Nash?”
I bobbed my head. “They’re getting a divorce. Or I think they are. I’m not sure. They met at the bistro for dinner yesterday to sign papers. Before he left, he asked me out. On a date.”
“Ooh,” she said, realization dawning in her eyes.
“But Willow doesn’t want to divorce.”
“O-o-oh,” Jo said, in a much more ominous tone. “So you think she went to all this trouble to get under your skin?”
“I don’t think she knows about us. Heck, I don’t know about us.” I waved a hand. “It doesn’t matter. I can’t think about it. Not with everything else that’s going on. I need to eat. Come with me to my place.”
I jogged toward the cottage, the to-go bag rustling loudly.
Jo hustled to keep pace. “Speaking of everything else, have you heard anything from Tyson?”
“Nothing.”
As I reached the front door, Scoundrel darted across my feet and disappeared into the bushes. I shrieked. So did Jo.
“That cat,” she muttered.
I giggled. “He keeps us on our toes.”
“Found any, um, gifts lately?”
“Nope.”
Scoundrel was a successful mouser. He loved bringing heads or tails of mice and other rodents to the bistro’s kitchen door—his gifts to us for feeding him. Luckily I wasn’t the one who had to dispose of the body parts. I let Heather take care of that lovely duty.
I unlocked the cottage door, slung the to-go bag on the kitchen counter, and unpacked its contents. Chef C had packed enough food to feed an army. The aroma from the quiche made me salivate. “Hungry?” I asked my pal.
“Starved.”
I set the kitchen table with two decorative green-and-gold-paisley placemats, matching napkins, and two Forsyth by Royal Doulton plates, their green-and-gold pattern going well with the paisley. I asked Jo to fill a pair of crystal goblets with ice water.
“What’s with the notes on the dry-erase board?” she asked.
“I couldn’t sleep. Even though I’m no longer a suspect, I care about who killed Bryan, so I—” My voice cracked. I started to shake. I gripped the kitchen counter to keep from sinking to my knees.
Jo raced to me and slung an arm around my back. “Are you okay?”
“Yes. No. I—”
“You haven’t cried yet, have you?” She clucked her tongue. “Just like with Derrick. You held it in for weeks, remember? You silly goose. Let it out.”
“I . . .”
“C’mon. I’m here. You’re safe.”
I sank into her arms. Tears gushed out of me.
“Talk it out,” she coaxed.
“Oh, Jo. Losing my dad”—I hiccupped—“ripped me to pieces. And then to lose Derrick?”
“I know. I know.”
“And now to lose Bryan? He . . .” I could barely breathe. “He believed in me. He instilled me with such confidence. He . . .” I sniffed and pushed away. “I feel so robbed. So cheated. It’s like all the men in my life are vanishing. One by one. I don’t want to . . . to . . .” I drew in a deep breath and let it out.
“You don’t want to risk giving your heart to anyone ever again.”
“Yes. No. I don’t know.” I shuffled to the counter and grabbed a couple of tissues from a box. “All I know is I want to find the killer. I want this to end. I want—”
“Closure.”
I nodded and then blew my nose and wiped the tears off my cheeks. After a long quiet moment, I said, “Whoa. That took me by surprise. I must look a mess.”
“You look fine.”
“Liar.”
“I hear the red, splotchy look is in.” She twirled a finger near my face.
I stuck out my tongue; she blew me a kiss.
“If it makes you feel any better, I miss him, too.”
I sighed. Of course she did. She had known him all her life. “Jo, what are we going to do?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve heard that if a murder doesn’t get solved in the first forty-eight hours, it often never gets solved.”
“Where did you hear that? On TV? Maybe that’s true in a big city where they have to abandon cases and move on to new ones, but not here.” She petted my shoulder. “Don’t worry. Tyson will crack this.”
“What if he can’t?”
“He will.”
I tossed the tissues in the garbage beneath the sink, sanitized my hands, plated the quiche and salad, and took a seat at the table. Eating a meal suddenly didn’t sound as good as it had minutes before, but I knew I needed to refuel.
Jo joined me and waved at the dry-erase board. “Okay, I’m game. Explain what your thinking is.”
I shrugged. “I know it looks like a bunch of mindless scribbles.”
“Actually, it looks pretty organized for you. Remember, I’ve seen some of your menus before they’re finalized.” She shot her hands in every direction.
I laughed. She was right. I was pretty good at using arrows and indicators when I was in “create mode.”
“It all started when . . .” I recapped seeing Paula and David Ives in the garden. “I told you about that at Tyson’s mother’s ranch.”
Jo nodded. “David said he was on a long-distance telephone call to his diamond broker in Israel. You suggested to Tyson that he follow up. Did he?”
“I don’t know.”
“If he didn’t, we could help. If David used the hotel telephone to make the call, we could review the records and get the guy’s number.”
“Given the scope of his business, David probably has an international cell phone.”
“You’re right.” Jo ate a few bites of quiche, hummed her approval, and reexamined the notes on the board. “You know, I’ve got a jeweler friend I can touch base with. Maybe she knows this Abrams guy. What does the spilled water note next to Lyle’s name mean?”
“Whoever killed Bryan used my cell phone to lure him to the patio. I’ve been wracking my brain trying to figure out who had access to it and when. I forgot to take it home that night. I often leave it because I know it will be there in the morning. Lyle knocked over a glass of water and rushed to the kitchen to get something to mop up the mess. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but looking back, he could have tipped the glass on purpose.”
Jo read what I’d written on the board aloud: “‘David Ives entered the kitchen to pay his compliments to the chef.’”
“He did. Chef C booted him out.”
Jo guffawed. “I can just picture that scene, with Chef waving a wooden spoon and verbally reducing him to mush.”
“Close. She pounded a metal spoon on a twelve-quart pot.”
“Ouch! The noise. She hate
s when a stranger enters her domain.”
“Even so, he might have had time to spot my phone and swipe it.”
“I suppose.”
“Angelica went into the kitchen, too, because her father was there, seated at the table with the cubbies. He arrived slightly inebriated, so I fixed him an Alka-Seltzer, trying to sober him up.”
Jo folded her hands on the table. “How about Paula Ives?”
“I never saw her enter, but that doesn’t mean she didn’t.”
Another thought came to me. I rose and wrote a note at the top of the board: Who had the code to the safe?
“What safe?” Jo exclaimed. “And when did you get so good at this sleuthing stuff?”
I grinned, accepting the compliment. “A chef is always trying to figure out what’s in a recipe. Investigating comes naturally to me. As for the safe . . .” I explained how Lyle traveled with gems and kept them in a portable safe. “He and Angelica knew the code.” I wrote their names under the question. “So did Kent, but I’ve ruled him out as a suspect because he hooked up with Francine for the night, and why would either of them have a reason to kill Bryan?”
“How did you find out that they hooked up?”
“I caught them sort of cohabitating in one of the rooms.”
“Aha.” She skimmed the board again. “Wouldn’t David Ives have the code? He’s the boss.”
I grinned. “You and I think alike.” I added that note.
Jo tapped her lips with her forefinger. “My money is on him.”
“Minutes ago, your money was on Lyle.”
“Okay, so I like to cover my bets.” She grinned.
“The one snag is that stealing the gems required sneaking into Lyle’s room.”
“That wouldn’t be hard.” Jo polished off her quiche and dabbed her mouth with a napkin. “I know you went for quaint when you designed the inn, but the old-style key locks are definitely not high-end security. A novice could pick them.”
I sighed. “I said as much to Bryan and argued for magnetic strip–style keys, but he believed in the beneficence of man. Plus he believed using antique keys would make guests feel like they were living in a gentler time.”
“Murder definitely isn’t a gentler time,” Jo quipped. She let that sink in and then said, “I imagine knowing the safe’s code rules out Angelica’s father.”
“Possibly, although he knew that Lyle traveled with gems. He said it was reckless.”
Jo checked her watch. “Yipes. I’ve got to run. The art class should be winding down, and I’ve got to get the staff prepared for our next event.”
“You booked another one for today?”
“Yep. We have the Agatha Christie Society coming tonight for a reading under the stars. Tonight’s book is And Then There Were None.”
“We’re certainly busy.”
“Never a dull moment. I want us to be a success so I can stick it to my big sister. How dare she say I’m not achieving my potential!” Jo gave me a fierce hug. “Are you going to be okay?”
“Only one pity party allowed per day.”
When she left, I felt empty down to my toes. I ate my quiche faster than I should have. Cagney and Lacey stared at me as if trying to figure out why I was in such a rush. I couldn’t give them an answer.
All I knew was that I was feeling anxious because something was missing on the dry-erase board. But what?
Chapter 14
Heading back to the bistro, I glimpsed Tyson and Joshua James, Jo’s father, sitting at a table on the dining patio. I entered through the patio gate and went straight to their table. Joshua was a striking man in his early sixties with a square jaw, bright-blue eyes like Jo, and salt-and-pepper hair. After Jo’s mother ran out, he dedicated himself to his girls and his career, though I’d heard that he’d recently started to date again.
Menus were set in front of them as well as glasses of ice water. Joshua was slathering butter on a slice of bread. Tyson was jotting notes on a pocket-sized spiral notepad.
I strolled to their table. “What are you two doing here?” I asked. “If Jo sees you, she’s going to think you’re conspiring.”
“Conspiring about what?” her father asked.
“Yeah, about what?” Tyson echoed.
“Oh, I don’t know. Her hand in marriage?”
“Ha ha, very funny,” Tyson said. “As if.”
“Gee, Sergeant, that’s one of Jo’s favorite sayings,” I teased.
He blushed and cut a quick look at Joshua, who was smirking.
Quickly, Tyson waggled his finger between himself and Joshua. “We’re talking business.”
“It’s true. Tyson wants to purchase a property.” Joshua had a good reputation as a real estate broker. His firm managed a number of business parks, a half dozen outlet malls, and most of the retail properties in Nouvelle Vie. In addition, his company listed houses, ranches, and wineries.
“A house built for two?” I teased.
Tyson glowered at me. “A small ranch.”
“Are you going to retire and raise goats like your mother?”
“Maybe. Not yet. For now, I want someplace where I can kick up my feet when I’m not hunting murderers.” He lifted his glass of water and took a sip.
“We’re also discussing Bryan’s murder,” Joshua offered, his face growing somber. “Tyson’s trying to get a feel for other people who did business with him.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” I murmured. “I know you were close.” Joshua’s grief showed in the lines that pinched his face.
He nodded his thanks. “I was telling Tyson that Bryan couldn’t have had any enemies. He was as decent a guy as I’ve ever known.”
“He had enemies, all right,” I said. “David Ives, for one.”
“The man who owns Ives Jewelers?” Joshua asked. “How would they have known each other?” He took a bite of his bread and set the rest aside.
“David used to own a second home here, and he and Bryan ran in the same social circles. I would have assumed you ran in that same circle.”
“Me?” Joshua scoffed. “I’ve never been social. I’m a homebody. After a long day in the field, I like watching ESPN and catching up on the news. Maybe an occasional meal out at a nice restaurant.”
“Well, as it turns out, David and Bryan had a business deal that had nothing to do with jewelry.”
Tyson set his water glass down. “I know of the matter. It involved his brother-in-law.” He recapped what I knew. “I’ve spoken to him about it. He swears that it was water under the bridge, and he didn’t hold a grudge.”
“Could have fooled me,” I countered. “When I overheard them talking about it at the out-of-towners’ dinner—”
“Mimi”—Tyson tapped the notepad with his fingertip—“don’t worry. I’ve got this handled. Joshua has given me a list of other people to follow up with.”
“Speaking of following up,” I said, “I’ve been meaning to ask if you—”
I stopped midsentence, distracted by the sight of Lyle and Paula Ives on the patio, at a table close to the door leading inside. Lyle was rising. His face looked as ominous as his dark shirt. He threw his napkin down and shot a finger at his sister. Golly, he had a temper. What was going on? Lyle said something and beat a fast retreat through the bistro to the exit. Paula lowered her head and pulled a credit card from her purse.
“I’ll be right back,” I said and rushed across the patio. I would return in a minute to ask Tyson about David’s call to the jeweler in Israel. If their untouched menus were any indication, he and Joshua hadn’t ordered yet.
I reached Paula’s table as she was opening the check presenter that held her bill. She glanced up. Her cheeks were flushed pink, as if she had taken too much sun. “Hello, Paula.”
“Mimi.”
“Is Lyle okay?”
“Yes, why?”
“He left in a hurry.”
“He needed to walk. He’s”—she worked the credit card between her fingers—�
�Lyle. If things don’t go his way, he gets perturbed. Once, back in grade school, he upended a chessboard because he wasn’t winning. He likes to win and gets embarrassed when he doesn’t.”
“What isn’t going his way?”
“A high-end client decided to take his business to Tiffany’s. It happens all the time.”
Even though it seemed like a reasonable answer, I wasn’t sure I believed her. “Did you spend the day outdoors?” I asked.
“Not the whole day. Why?”
“You look”—I flicked my fingers near my face—“sunburned.”
She clapped the check presenter closed and held it up for her waitress to retrieve. “I like getting a little color.”
“Me, too.” I slipped into Lyle’s vacant seat and leaned forward, trying to act like one of her closest confidantes. “So what’s really going on with Lyle?”
“I told you—”
“He’s Lyle. Got it. He’s upset. But it’s not about losing an account, is it? Is he worried about Angelica? After all, she’s the heir to Bryan’s estate.”
Paula remained tight-lipped.
“That makes her the main suspect in Bryan’s murder,” I said.
Paula frowned. “I heard you were the main suspect.”
“I’ve been cleared.”
“By whom?”
“The gardener who works for me.”
“Raymond?”
“You know his name?”
“I make it a point to know the names of the help.”
The help. How I hated that term. All my staff were family.
Paula waved the check presenter in the air and said, “Psst,” to Oakley, but she missed the signal. “If you want my two cents, my brother never should have gotten engaged to Angelica.”
“Why not?”
“She’s a gambler and short on cash.”
A Deadly Éclair Page 14