A Deadly Éclair

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  How could I stay mad at him with that mischievous twinkle in his eye? Wow, but I was going to be toast if I didn’t watch out. Derrick had charm; Nash had mind-blowing charisma.

  I polished off the wine. “Why didn’t you and Willow, um, make it—if you don’t mind me asking? She seems so nice.”

  “She is, but we weren’t a good match.”

  “You met in college.”

  “We did. We married right after we graduated and moved here for my career, but a few years into the marriage, we realized it wasn’t working out.”

  “How come?”

  Nash hesitated.

  “I’m sorry.” I ran my finger along the rim of the wineglass. “I have a bad habit of being curious.”

  “Let’s just say there was no physical attraction on my part. There never was, but since we got along so well, I figured we should get married.”

  “You married even though you weren’t in love?”

  He winced. “I was young and inexperienced.” He took a sip of wine and savored it for a few seconds. “If you must know, Willow spends too freely on clothes and such, and she was always maxing out our credit cards. When I discovered she had a few secret credit cards that I didn’t know about, that was the beginning of the end.” He swirled the wine and took another sip. “I like to pay for things in cash. I hate paying the banks a dime of interest. It became a bone of contention. You’ve probably noticed by the tally sheets I keep that I appreciate orderliness.”

  I had. He never made a sale without opening his computer and logging the details of the order into his Excel program.

  “I’m not a perfectionist, but the way I do things, I guess you can chalk that up to my upbringing. My father was always borrowing money with no consideration for my needs or the needs of my mother.” He tilted his head. “Why so much interest in my ex?”

  “She held an art class at the inn yesterday.”

  “Did she?” He seemed surprised to hear that. “Spur of the moment?”

  “Yep.”

  He offered another sly grin. “She’s keeping an eye on you. She must be jealous.”

  “Should I be worried? Does she have any Fatal Attraction tendencies?” I teased, wondering for a fleeting moment whether Willow had been the intruder in the blue tennis shoes. No way. She would never be caught in something so pedestrian.

  Nash laughed. It was a glorious laugh, filled with a love of life. “Nah. She’s complicated, but she’s not lethal.” He stood and offered a hand to me. “Let’s walk.”

  What the heck does complicated mean? I wondered. There was something he wasn’t telling me. Dare I ask?

  He continued to hold my hand as we weaved around tables and back to the aisle filled with artists’ tents. As we walked, he regaled me with the story of the start of his career. At first he had attended UC Davis to become a veterinarian, but in his sophomore year, he fell in love with wine and the dream of owning a winery. He then moved to Napa and landed his first job—a tour guide at a winery. He claimed he stunk at that. I couldn’t imagine him stinking at anything. Luckily, he had a good palate and could pitch quality. A couple months later, he landed a job as salesman for a large vineyard. A year after that, he chose to go independent so he could represent a variety of vineyards. At one point, he had hoped to become a vintner, but that hadn’t materialized. He hadn’t been able to find backers.

  “What about you?” he said. “What’s your story? Bryan told me a bit about your husband.”

  Bryan. Hearing his name cut me to the quick. My shoulders tightened. My stomach did a nosedive.

  Nash squeezed my hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. You must miss him.”

  “More than you know. My father passed away a few years ago. He was my rock. Bryan sort of filled that void.” I hastened to add, “They were nothing alike. My father was a small man with a quiet demeanor and a gentle soul. Bryan, as you know, was a larger-than-life, take-charge kind of guy. But they both encouraged me to be the best I could be. Bryan instilled confidence in me after it had been stripped away.”

  “By your husband.”

  I frowned. “Bryan believed in me when no one else did, including me. He never let me doubt myself.” I sighed. “How I wish I could find his killer.”

  “You?”

  “I’ve been wracking my brain to see if I might have noticed something, like a clue I could give the sheriff.”

  Nash’s eyes narrowed.

  I elbowed him. “As I already told you, I’m plagued by curiosity and a sense of justice because—” I stopped myself, not willing to add because of Derrick’s deceit.

  “Tyson will solve this.”

  “I know,” I murmured, but I wasn’t so sure.

  We walked for a long time, peering into the artists’ tents without speaking. Our strides matched. It was beyond nice. A sense of calm filled me again. Wouldn’t a life where I felt this good all the time be wonderful!

  But then I sensed something . . . off.

  I turned and saw a person in blue jeans, a blue hoodie, and blue tennis shoes trailing us. Was it the person who had warned me in the restroom? His hands were in his pockets. I was pretty sure it was a he. He walked like a guy, but I couldn’t tell for sure with the hoodie drawn tightly around his face. Abruptly he turned his head to the side as if to avoid my appraisal.

  “What’s wrong?” Nash asked.

  “Nothing.” I slipped my hand around the crook of his elbow and told myself the person in blue wasn’t a threat. If he were, he would have hurt me when he’d had the chance. I did not need to chase after him.

  “Are you sure?”

  I peeked over my shoulder. My stalker was gone. “Yes. I’m certain.”

  The music on the main stage kicked into high gear again, the fusion-style sound reminiscent of my mother’s favorite jazz violinist, Didier Lockwood, who was known for his experimentation on electric violins. Someone turned up the amplifiers. Cheers from the crowd ensued.

  When the music died down, Nash picked up an earlier thread. “Your husband’s name was Derrick, right?”

  I looked sideways at him. He gazed into my eyes, and I realized he wasn’t making small talk. He really wanted the scoop.

  “Mm-hmm.” For the next few minutes, I shared my story: how Derrick and I met, where we traveled, what we liked about each other. “We were totally in love, but when he died suddenly . . .” I shared the one-minute version of his exorbitant debt and how he had let me down. “At his burial, his mother sobbed. I didn’t shed a tear. My love for him fizzled the instant I found out the truth. My mother never liked him. She couldn’t put her finger on why, but she—”

  “Mimi!”

  I whipped around. Speak of the devil.

  “Darling, wait up.” Mom hustled toward us, her ecru vintage Bohemian lace dress flouncing around her calves as she moved. When she reached us, she was out of breath. “Whew! What a beautiful day, isn’t it?” She peered at Nash, and her eyes lit up with interest. “Who is this?”

  “Mom, meet Nash Hawke. Nash, this is my mother, Ginette Rousseau.”

  “Enchanté.” Nash extended a hand.

  My mother giggled and allowed him to take her hand. He lifted it to his lips and gallantly kissed the back. She giggled again. I gawked at her. Never in all my years had I seen her act so girlishly. Maybe the live jazz was making her feel like a free spirit, or maybe she’d had a few more sips of wine than she usually permitted herself.

  “What do you do, Nash?” she asked as she looped her hand around the crook of his arm and guided him forward. I kept in step.

  “I sell wine.”

  “Do you really?”

  “I’ve tasted yours. It’s incredible.”

  My mother gave me a knowing look.

  “Mom, are you here alone?” I asked.

  “I came with a group of women.” She chuckled. “Heaven knows where they are.”

  “How long have you been here?” I asked, wondering again about how much she might have imb
ibed. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes sparkled with impishness.

  “Since the opening. Don’t you love it? These festivals bring back such lovely memories of your father and me when we were young and unfettered by—” She hesitated.

  “Me?”

  “No, darling, not you. Never you. Obligations. You were never an obligation. You were the fulfillment of my dreams and will always be the light of my life. But enough of this sappy talk. Nash”—she thwacked his arm—“tell me all about you.”

  He gave her a longer version of what he had shared with me. He had grown up in Berkeley. He worked small jobs throughout high school. His family wasn’t well-to-do. They lived paycheck to paycheck. His father drove a semi and delivered tires all over the West Coast. Because his father hated his job, he spent his off hours racing motorcycles. Nash had no taste for fast bikes or fast cars. However, he did like animals, which was how he had ended up at UC Davis. Its veterinarian program was renowned. I listened, fascinated by how my mother could coax people to talk. At various private tastings at the winery, I had seen her wheedle information out of guests. A therapist couldn’t have done a better job. She had never tried with Derrick, or if she had, she had kept whatever she had learned close to her chest.

  When we completed the circuit of the festival grounds, winding up by the food court, Nash suggested we get another bite to eat. He asked my mother to join us. She bowed out and said that although she’d had an absolutely wonderful time getting to know Nash, she had to hook up with her friends again. She didn’t want them thinking she had been swept off by some exotic stranger.

  Before she left, I asked quietly if she had experienced any more ghost sightings. She swatted me playfully and, in singsong fashion, said, “Have a fun time!”

  Not ten feet from us, she ran headlong into Edison Barrington, who was wearing a white linen shirt, cargo shorts, and sandals. He steadied her by the shoulders and smiled. He said something. My mother bobbed her head. He released her and they continued talking. He appeared flushed. His shirt was stained with perspiration. Could he have been the man in blue? Had he changed clothes and ditched the others to appear innocent?

  Honestly, Mimi, I chided. You have a fertile imagination.

  In response to something my mother said, Edison motioned broadly to his right. The action made me gaze in that direction, and I gasped.

  “What?” Nash asked me.

  Tyson Daly was sitting at one of the food court tables with a woman. Not Jo.

  “Are you okay?” Nash asked.

  “Yes, I thought a bee was after me,” I lied and swatted an imaginary pest while continuing to stare at Tyson, irritation nicking my insides. Not because he wasn’t with Jo—maybe I had picked up the wrong signals and he wasn’t interested in her—and not because he and the woman seemed to be having a great time. She was laughing hysterically while he told what was obviously a hilarious story. No, my peeve came from the fact that he was idling away the day and not hunting down a killer. How dare he have fun while Bryan lay in the morgue, his case unsolved.

  On the other hand, maybe Tyson was here on business. Maybe he had just questioned Edison, which was why Edison had gesticulated in that direction to my mother. If so, what had Tyson grilled him about?

  Chapter 16

  For another hour, Nash and I roamed the festival. Along the way, I purchased two of the multicolored wineglasses for Jo and a bedazzled wallet similar to Angelica’s for myself. The one I carried was plain and ordinary, and a girl could always use a little glitz.

  On the drive back to my cottage, we listened to jazz on the radio. When Nash walked me to the door, he drew near, cupped my face with one hand, and gave me a pristine but lovely kiss on the lips.

  “I had a terrific time,” he murmured.

  “Me, too.”

  “We’ll do it again soon.”

  “Wait!” I grabbed his hand. “Um, would you like to come in and—” And what, Mimi? See your etchings? I grinned. “Meet my fish.”

  He laughed wholeheartedly. “Sure.”

  I gave him the grand two-minute tour. At the aquarium, nose to the glass, he made eyes at Cagney and Lacey, who became instantly fascinated by him. After their introduction, I guided him to the patio to show off the view.

  “Nice,” he said and then slipped his arms around me. “May I kiss you properly now?”

  I didn’t object.

  The kiss lasted a good minute before he ended it and held me at arms’ length. “I had a great time, but I’m going to take off.”

  “But—”

  He put a finger to my lips and then clutched my hand and walked me to my door. Before leaving, he whispered, “For your information, I am completely smitten.”

  After he exited, I closed the door and leaned against it. He had been the perfect gentleman. Why? Had I scared him off?

  Get real, I berated myself. He didn’t run away because he feared I would take advantage of him in front of the goldfish. He left because the timing wasn’t right merely days after Bryan died—not to mention it was a split second after his divorce was finalized as well as our first date. Plus he did say he was smitten. It was such an old-fashioned word, but it had sounded authentic and made me grin from ear to ear.

  I sped to the inn to tell Jo about the date. To my disappointment, she wasn’t there. She was in town doing errands. I made a U-turn to head back to my place but paused when I spotted Paula Ives in the Sisley Garden. She was sitting on a wrought-iron bench, texting on her cell phone using both thumbs.

  A notion occurred to me, something I wanted to clear up with her. I drew near. The aroma of white roses wafted on the air. I drank it in. “Hi, Paula.”

  Like someone caught in the act, she flipped her cell phone facedown on her thigh.

  “I heard you like to cook,” I said.

  “No, I don’t.”

  “My sous chef told me you wanted to go to culinary school.”

  “Wanted to. In the past.”

  “What changed your mind?”

  “Circumstances.”

  Gee, she was being curt.

  “Why did you ask Stefan for a recipe, then?”

  “I want to make it for my father. He enjoyed it. I thought I might show him that I can do something other than sell jewelry.” Paula tilted her head. “Why are you snooping around?”

  “Snooping?”

  “Talking to your staff about me.”

  I grinned. “Talking to my staff isn’t snooping.”

  She narrowed her gaze. “Out with it. What do you want?”

  “I’d like to know if you swiped my cell phone from the cubbyhole in the bistro kitchen on the night of the out-of-towners’ dinner.”

  She sprang to her feet. “How dare you. I’ve never stolen anything in my life!” She palmed her cell phone and rushed into the inn without looking back.

  Slick, Mimi, I thought. You need to work on your subtlety.

  At the same time, Francine and Kent exited. He was looking over his shoulder at Paula. When he swiveled and saw me, he waved. Francine bussed him on the cheek and hurried past me, hotel key in her hand.

  Kent slowed as he neared me. “Oho,” he crooned. “What put our sweet Paula in a tizzy this time?”

  “I asked an extremely blunt question.”

  “About?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “I would wager it does. Paula likes to get her way. She despises it when someone mucks up the plan.”

  I pondered his choice of words. What was Paula’s plan? Had Bryan Baker mucked it up? “How long have you known her?”

  “Since she was in the third grade.”

  “That’s right. I forgot. At the out-of-towners’ dinner, Paula said you and Lyle were best friends. She hinted at a relationship.”

  “She did, did she? That’s her way. Sticking in a sword”—he mimed the action—“and twisting to the hilt.” He pulled the imaginary sword from his chest and slung it into an imaginary sheath. “I’m not gay and neither i
s her brother. Truth? Paula had a thing for me. I wasn’t interested. Ever since, she has tried to drive a wedge between Lyle and me. She is perpetually jealous of him. He got the brains and the looks, but in the end, she won Daddy’s heart, and let’s face it, that’s what counts, is it not?”

  Had she? I wondered. David seemed particularly hard on her. On the other hand, he did hang out with her. Some parents weren’t good at being affectionate, I supposed.

  “By the by, anything new from the sheriff in the matter of the murder?” Kent asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “That’s pure rot. I’ve heard you’re asking a lot of, um, blunt questions.”

  “I don’t mean to—”

  “I would be careful if I were you, love. Paula can be quite unpredictable, and David Ives will protect his family at all costs. Take heed.” He saluted with two fingers and moved on.

  I watched him leave, wondering what his angle was. To plant seeds of doubt in order to divert suspicion from Lyle to Paula? Or from himself? I revisited my assumption that he wasn’t guilty. If he knew, prior to Friday, that Lyle had taken out bridge loans, which affected his future as well, and if he learned that Angelica would inherit, then he had every reason to want Bryan dead. Simply because he had hooked up with Francine didn’t prove that he hadn’t found the opportunity to slip out in the wee hours of the morning, kill Bryan, and return. But when would he have swiped my cell phone?

  My brain ached from theorizing. I exited the garden and headed toward the bistro. It might have been my day off, but I could always take the time to pay a few bills and review sales.

  On the way, I spied Lyle sitting on a scrolled stone bench in front of Maison Rousseau. A trio of books and a briefcase sat stacked on the bench beside him. He appeared to be preoccupied—one leg bent at the knee, ankle resting atop the other leg. He was plucking at something on the bottom of his shoe. I flashed on two notes I had written on the dry-erase board about him. First, had he spilled the water at the out-of-towners’ dinner on purpose so he could steal into the kitchen and take my cell phone? Second, who else, besides him, had access to the gems he carried in his portable safe?