A Deadly Éclair

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  My ears pricked at that information. “Who told you that?”

  “I overheard a conversation.” Paula waved the check presenter again.

  “Does she gamble on cards or bet on the ponies?”

  “Let’s simply say she’s high-risk.” Paula tilted her head and stubbornly pursed her mouth. Either she was spreading a nasty rumor or she didn’t want whomever she had overheard to know that she had eavesdropped. Daddy, perhaps? “I heard Angelica and Bryan talking privately at the out-of-towners’ dinner. They pulled off to one side after my father and Bryan had an argument on the patio.”

  “You were nowhere near that conversation. You were seated at the head table, as was I.”

  Her nose flared and her eyelids fluttered. “So?”

  “Admit it. You didn’t actually hear them.”

  She shimmied her shoulders. “I can read lips.”

  “Can you really?” I had the impulse to mouth something silly to test her ability but curbed it.

  “Bryan told her he was leaving everything to her. She knew.”

  “He said those words exactly?”

  She bobbed her head.

  “Funny,” I said. “Angelica told me their conversation was about Bryan telling her how pretty she looked.”

  “He did, but he also said he would always take care of her.”

  Okay, I’ll grant that if Paula could read lips and she had picked up those words, she could interpret them to mean Bryan was leaving everything to Angelica. Still, I continued to have a gut feeling about Angelica being innocent, even if she had prior knowledge of the will. I said, “Your father held a grudge against Bryan.”

  “That was years ago.”

  “Grudges have a tendency to hang around.”

  “Daddy told you his alibi. He was on a call to a broker in Israel at the time.”

  “Speaking of which, do you happen to have Mr. Abrams’s telephone number?” I jutted my chin in the direction of Tyson. “I think the sheriff might like to follow up with him.”

  “Of all the nerve. Keep your nose out of our business.” Paula huffed, slapped the check presenter on the table, and marched out of the restaurant without finalizing her bill. No matter. I would make sure the charge plus gratuity showed up on her hotel account, and I would return her credit card in a pretty envelope.

  “Mimi!” Heather raced up to me and clasped my elbow. Quickly she told me about a gentleman in the main dining room who was complaining that his steak au poivre was overdone. Steak au poivre, pronounced “oh-pwahv,” was a classic French recipe featuring a steak crusted with cracked peppercorns and served in a creamy Cognac sauce. Needless to say, Chef C was peeking out from the kitchen and watching my exchange with Heather. She seemed ready to go to war.

  I sidled up to her. “It’s okay. I’ve got this. Go back to your post.”

  “I never overcook my steaks. Never.”

  “I’ll handle it.”

  “The nerve.” She disappeared into the kitchen muttering a string of French curse words.

  I approached the diner and drew up short when I recognized him. He had come into the bistro the first week it was open and had ordered the same meal. He had complained then, too.

  “Sir,” I said with as much graciousness as I could muster. “How are you?” I acknowledged his fluffy-haired female companion with a nod. She smiled at me but didn’t say a word. She was too busy eating the french fries that accompanied her rotisserie chicken. “Why don’t I get you another dish, sir? You don’t seem to like the way our chef cooks steak au poivre, although I have to say, I think she cooks it to perfection.”

  I reached for the plate.

  He put a hand on the rim. “Don’t take it.”

  “What do you want me to do?” I asked solicitously.

  “Bring another properly done.”

  “Fine, but I’ll remove this one.” I reached for the plate again. He flicked my wrist with his fork. I flinched. “Sir, I’m not letting you have two meals for the price of one. Either this one returns to the kitchen or I’ll ask you and your guest to leave.”

  He gaped at me. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “I would.”

  He spanked the table with his palm. “I’ll ruin your reputation.”

  I lasered him with a glare. “I highly doubt that.”

  Haughtily, he raised his pudgy chin. “I write for the Napa Culinary Circle.”

  “What is that? I’ve never heard of it.”

  “An online group of gourmets.”

  “How big is your following?” I asked, trying to calculate the possible negative impact. “More than one thousand?”

  He balked.

  “I didn’t think so.” I offered a tight smile. “Sir, do what you like, but I won’t bring you another steak unless you surrender this one.”

  “Fine.” He tossed his napkin on the table and stood, fully expecting his companion to join him. She didn’t. “Get on your feet!” he commanded. “We’re leaving.”

  “For heaven’s sake, you old codger,” she hissed between bites, “don’t be a pill. Stop making a fool of yourself. Sit down and eat.” She gazed at me. “Pay him no mind. Everything is divine. He’s a cheapskate.”

  The man huffed. His companion threw him a baleful look. He resumed his seat. Deciding to let the two of them hash it out, I moved away. A minute or two later, I peeked over. He had finished his steak. She was ordering dessert. Crisis averted.

  I returned to the patio to chat with Tyson and Jo’s father, but to my surprise, they had split. Rats.

  The rest of the day disappeared in a flash. The afternoon crowd kept us hopping. The dinner crowd was even busier. We ran out of every special. We had to make an extra assortment of desserts. Even our most expensive wines were selling off the rack. Was the spate of activity simply because a murder had occurred on the premises, or was word getting around that Bistro Rousseau was delivering quality meals? I couldn’t be sure. I hoped the latter.

  Around ten PM, I settled on a stool in the kitchen at my favorite table. Stefan brought me a plateful of mini–onion quiches.

  “I’ve got to feed you, boss. Chef’s orders. And you know I never disobey orders.”

  “Unless they come from your father.”

  “Shh.” He held a finger to his mouth and grinned.

  I downed a miniquiche and hummed. It was melt-in-your-mouth delectable. Stefan fetched a plate of peasant-style chicken kebabs made with olives and fennel, set it beside the quiches, and went back to work. I dove in. The combination of the orange juice marinade and the whole-grain mustard gave the kebabs an assertive French personality.

  Chef C settled onto a stool beside me. “Are you doing okay?”

  “As well as can be expected. How about you?”

  Her skin glistened with perspiration. Her eyes gleamed with pride. “Now that the rude man has departed, much better. In fact, I am wonderful. It was a very successful day.” I adored her passion. “Heather has become quite the pit bull. She does not take guff from anyone. She is a great hire.”

  “Yes, she is.”

  “By the way, she made a few suggestions for tomorrow’s menu.”

  “Did she really?” Until now, Heather had been reluctant to offer her two cents regarding the food we served because she wasn’t trained as a chef, but she was an admitted foodie. “Like what?”

  “She suggested chicken cordon bleu roll-ups. She said they are not fussy, and they would make a nice compliment to a simple green salad, for the lighter eaters. I agreed.” Chef C gestured to the dry-erase board.

  As I took in the menu, my mind flew to the suspect list and the unanswered questions I had written on the board in my living room. “Camille, on the night of the out-of-towners’ dinner, do you remember if Paula Ives entered the kitchen at any point?”

  “I do not remember seeing her, but I was fully focused on the meal. Mr. Baker”—she sighed and shook her head—“had made it very clear that nothing could go amiss. Stefan might recall.”
r />   “Stefan!” I yelled.

  He was standing at the dessert station, handing two plates of chocolate soufflé—decorated with white chocolate shavings and sprigs of mint, all set within a chain of white and dark chocolate hearts—to Oakley. He glanced up.

  I beckoned to him.

  He loped toward me while tugging on the collar of the white shirt he wore beneath his chef’s coat.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt your artwork.”

  “No problem, boss. A gifted artist can always pick up his brush and start anew.” He offered a self-assured smile. “What’s up?”

  “On the night of the out-of-towners’ dinner, do you remember if Paula Ives entered the kitchen?”

  He scrubbed his chin. “Matter of fact, she did. She was keen on getting the recipe for the fig-and-olive tapenade.”

  “She asked for a recipe?”

  “Yep. She wanted to make it for her father.”

  “Huh. According to him, she doesn’t cook.”

  He barked out a laugh. “Well, she fooled me, because in the course of our conversation, I learned she had attended an all-female college, had considered a career in the medical field, and had even dabbled with the idea of going to culinary school. I would bet her father nixed the culinary idea and steered her toward the family business. Fathers can be mighty persuasive.”

  I smiled. His father and Paula’s, maybe. Mine had been a pussycat; he had granted me his blessing for whatever I had wanted to do. “Did you give her the recipe?”

  “Sure. I figured you wouldn’t mind. There’s no mystery to that one. No secret ingredient.”

  “Where did she wait while you fetched it?”

  He pointed exactly where I expected, to the stool upon which I now sat. Right next to the cubbies.

  Chapter 15

  When I arrived home, my cell phone held a text message from Nash: Are we still on for tomorrow? Don’t bail on me. Pick you up at ten.

  Bail on him? Was he nuts? I was thrilled we were going on our date, but I would make it clear that if he was not getting divorced, we would be friends, and that would be that.

  I rose Tuesday morning with a spring in my step. Because the day was going to be sunny, I applied sunblock and dressed in white capris, a floral tank top, and comfy sandals. I left my hair loose and donned my adorable pink-and-white-striped sunhat.

  Nash arrived at ten on the dot, which pleased me to no end. I liked a man who was reliable. He appeared relaxed in a white polo shirt and khaki shorts, his wavy dark hair tucked beneath a Giants baseball cap. And he smelled good, like warm honey and vanilla. I didn’t launch into the question of his availability right off the bat. I decided to let the day unfold. Later on, I would pin him down. I blew good-bye kisses to my goldfish, and we were off.

  Jazz in the Valley was in full swing when we arrived at Alston Park. Hordes of people walked in streams toward the balloon-festooned archway. The strains of a sizeable jazz band rang out from inside the gated-off area.

  The parking lot was jam-packed, so we drove to the alternate parking and took an open-air shuttle bus back. Everyone on the bus seemed as eager as we were to enjoy the day.

  We paused at the entrance to the festival beneath the green and white balloons and planned our route. To the right stood white tents filled with artists peddling their wares. To the left was the food court. The aroma of barbecue, freshly baked bread, and numerous other delectables made me hungry. A protein shake for breakfast hadn’t quite nipped my appetite.

  The musical stages were directly ahead of us, including a large venue and two smaller ones. In between and surrounding them, vintners were offering wine tastings.

  Nash said, “According to the official online program, every two hours, a large band will occupy the main stage. In between, individual artists can play to their hearts’ content on the smaller stages. Let’s browse the shops and get a bite before your guitarist goes on.”

  On the way over, I had mentioned that I wanted to hear the guy that my customer had recommended. As it turned out, he had an early slot.

  Nash steered me to the right. Barkers dressed in green festival T-shirts and jeans roamed the crowd announcing the next musical events and locations.

  “Hey, Nash,” a freckle-faced woman selling jewelry called.

  He waved.

  “Who’s that?” I asked.

  “She’s the daughter of a vintner whose wines I sell. She makes nice stuff. All silver and natural stones. We should check it out later.”

  Beyond her tent stood another in which a pretty redhead was selling leather items. On the table by the entrance, I spotted a bejeweled wallet like Angelica’s and tugged Nash closer so I could take a peek.

  “Hey, Nash,” the redhead said.

  I shot him a look. “Don’t tell me. Another daughter of a vintner?”

  “Nope. She’s the sister of the woman who sold me my house. Part-time, she answers phones at the real estate office.” He addressed her. “How’s business?”

  “Jazzy.” She giggled at her own play on words. “If you see anything you want to purchase, let me know.”

  A couple carrying stemless wineglasses decorated with glazed confetti passed us. “Where did you get those?” I asked. They were adorable and would be a perfect birthday gift for Jo. In a little more than a month, she would turn thirty-five, like me.

  The woman jerked a thumb. “Three tents down.”

  We continued on, passing an art booth filled with paintings and a woodworker’s booth featuring chessboards, and found the tent with hand-blown glasswork.

  “Mimi, how about we come back to this one?” Nash said. “It’s nearly eleven. You don’t want to miss your guy.”

  “You’re right.” I took the glasswork artist’s business card and promised to get in touch.

  Near the guitarist’s stage stood dozens of bar-style tables, each fitted with an umbrella and wooden stools. Nash sat. I excused myself and headed to the restroom.

  The upscale mobile restrooms, which were trailer-sized and seated three, were situated near the front of the venue. When I arrived, there wasn’t a line. As I entered a stall and closed the door, I heard another patron enter. The person shuffled toward my stall and stopped. I saw blue tennis shoes appear beneath the rim of the door.

  The person tapped on my door.

  “Occupied,” I said.

  “I know,” the person replied in a Wicked Witch–style voice. Was it a man or woman? I couldn’t tell. “If I were you, lady,” the intruder continued, “I’d be careful. You should stick to what you do best—running a restaurant. You’ll be safer that way. Understand?”

  Safer? What the heck! My breathing constricted. I felt so vulnerable sitting in such a compromising position. “Who are you?” I stammered.

  No answer. Whoever it was exited, and the door to the trailer banged shut.

  Hurriedly, I pulled myself together and raced back to Nash.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, his face concerned.

  “Yes, I . . .” I swiveled my head, looking for someone I could identify. Someone in blue tennis shoes.

  “Mimi?” Nash clasped my hand.

  At the same time, a perky blonde server appeared. She set down a Plexiglas menu. “Hey, Nash.”

  I recognized her. She was a tour guide at Cakebread Cellars, though this particular venue featured a smaller vineyard more on the scale of my mother’s.

  “Two flights?” she asked. “One red, one white?”

  Though I was tighter than a top after the exchange in the restroom, I said, “Let’s start slow. How about we share one flight of white? We don’t want to get plowed.”

  “Sounds good,” Nash said. He also ordered a charcuterie platter and a cheese platter. When our server left, he said, “Want to tell me what happened? Did you see a mouse by the restrooms?” His gaze held a hint of humor.

  “More like a rat,” I said, refusing to let the incident ruin my day. I had been hassled twice when I’d lived in San Francisco. Knowing that t
hose kinds of freaks thrived on attention, I’d learned to ignore them and hadn’t gone running to Derrick or even my father to solve the problem. I wouldn’t start now.

  The blonde returned with four small wineglasses, each holding two ounces of a different wine. She suggested we start with the Pinot Grigio, which was the lightest and fruitiest; the Chardonnay was supposed to be buttery and rich with oak-toasted scents. The platter of charcuterie—charcuterie was a French term referring to prepared meat products (chair meaning “flesh” and cuit meaning “cooked”)—turned out to be a variety of gourmet salami. My mouth started to water. Nash paid in cash, and our server glided to the next table.

  The guitarist, a hunk from Sweden, was as good as promised. His fingers flew up and down the neck of his guitar. His long hair flopped as he swayed his head in rhythm to the music. I listened wide-eyed as he took us on a journey through what he called jazz with a Nordic flare. Incredible. While my father had introduced me to Broadway musicals, my mother was the one who had introduced me to jazz. She regularly played CDs of a wide variety of jazz guitarists with names like Lenny Breau, Joe Pass, and Wes Montgomery. Keeping to her French roots, she also liked the chanteuse Edith Piaf, a far cry from jazz. I knew plenty of her songs by heart.

  When the Swede ended his set, I took a sip from our final tasting glass and leaned forward on my elbows. “Okay, Nash, I’ve got a question, and don’t be evasive. Promise?”

  He crossed his heart.

  “Willow and you. If you two are going to stay married, then I can’t—”

  He put a finger to my lips to quiet me. It tasted salty. It took all my willpower not to lick my lips . . . and his finger.

  “I knew you’d ask,” he said. “I was waiting to see how long it would take you.”

  “You rascal.” I swatted him and then sat back and folded my arms across my chest. “Well?”

  “Don’t worry. Everything is done. I’m officially divorced.”

  Something zinged inside me. Relief? Excitement? “Really? Willow let slip that she was hoping to make it work between you two.”

  “Hoping and doing are two entirely different things.” He reached forward and looped his fingers over my arm. “Don’t be mad at me for not telling you at the outset.”