A Deadly Éclair

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  With plenty of sunlight left before dusk fell and being out in the open where any passerby could see us, I felt emboldened and approached him. “Hi, Lyle. How are you?”

  He peered up at me. “All right, I guess.”

  “What did you do today?”

  “Nothing much. Checked in on business. Read. Took a nap. I’m drinking in a moment of sun before I return these books to the library.” All his selections were mysteries.

  “Where’s Angelica?”

  “Posting more flyers. So far, no one has contacted her about seeing her running. She’s obsessed with finding one person who can corroborate her alibi.” He stopped attacking the sole of his shoe and raked his hair with his fingers. “I feel awful that I didn’t hear her knocking that morning.”

  “Because you were sleeping.”

  He nodded.

  I said, “Do you know if she asked the sheriff if there are speed cameras that might have captured her run?”

  “I don’t. I’ll remind her.” He rubbed his neck and sighed. “I can’t believe they think she’s guilty. She didn’t have a clue about the inheritance she was going to receive.”

  “Your sister seems to think she did.”

  “Paula?” Lyle grunted. “Man, she doesn’t know what end is up most of the time.”

  I tilted my head. “Do I sense hostility?”

  He fanned the air.

  “The two of you sure had a tiff yesterday,” I said.

  “When?”

  “At the restaurant. You left in a hurry.”

  “Mimi!” a man called.

  I swung around.

  Raymond was pedaling past in his eco-friendly gardening cart. His tools clattered in the rear container. “I saw Tyson in the parking lot. He’s looking for you.”

  “Thanks.”

  As Raymond rode off, a flurry of red-breasted birds twittered overhead. They made a beeline for Lyle. He flapped his arms to shoo them away. Many flew into nearby trees; two settled on the back of the bench. Lyle swatted the air around them. They didn’t budge.

  “Dumb birds,” Lyle muttered.

  “Cheeky, Kent would say.” I helped bat them away. “Oh, my, one got you.” I pulled a tissue from my pocket. “May I?”

  Lyle grumbled.

  As I wiped the bird poop off his shoulder, I said, “Don’t you like nature?”

  “In Los Angeles, we don’t have nature. We have concrete.”

  A friend of mine who lived in Los Angeles boasted about the vast assortment of nature the area had to offer. She loved to surf or go on bird-watching hikes. The palm trees were, to use her word, mind-blowing, and the variety of flowers cohabitating with cacti were downright out of this world.

  Lyle dropped his right leg to the ground with a smack.

  The sound made me look down. Around his feet lay remnants of decaying basil. “That’s a nice little mess,” I said.

  His gaze flitted to the debris and up to me. “I went walking in the vegetable garden.”

  “That’s odd. There isn’t any basil in the garden. It’s solely in the pots on the bistro patio.”

  He jutted his chin. “Oh, yeah, that’s right. I was sitting on the patio yesterday. I must have tracked the leaves from there.”

  “Uh, Lyle, sorry, but you were nowhere near the pots of basil. They’re only in the right corner of the patio where Bryan was found.”

  “I don’t have to stand for this.” He leaped to his feet.

  “And yet you did.” I chuckled, trying to be as friendly as possible. “Stand, that is.”

  He glowered at me and worked his tongue along the inside of his cheek. “What do you want?”

  “Are you going to let your fiancée get dragged to prison for murder?”

  “I didn’t do it! I was in my hotel room. Sleeping.”

  “If you were sleeping, then why did Angelica see a light beneath the door?”

  “I fell asleep with the light on.”

  I frowned. “She mentioned to me that you usually go online at that hour to see what the commodity markets are doing.”

  He heaved a sigh. “Okay, yeah, I was up, but I didn’t respond when she knocked because I was on the phone and knew I would see her when she returned. She always goes running for an hour.”

  “Why didn’t you tell Sergeant Daly that you heard her knock?”

  “Because . . .” He shifted feet.

  “Because you weren’t in your room, and you weren’t on the phone. You were on the bistro patio.”

  He splayed his hands. “It’s not what you think.”

  “Try me.”

  “Angelica and I argued the night of the out-of-towners’ dinner. I hate fighting with her. We’re in love. We shouldn’t quarrel. Not the night before our wedding.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I didn’t sleep at all. I tossed and turned. Around four AM, I took a walk. At first I strolled through the inn, hoping to find another night owl who I could bum a cigarette from. Except the place was as quiet as a tomb. So I went to the library, thinking that reading a book might help me fall asleep.”

  “Did you see your sister there?”

  “Yeah. She was knocked out in a chair.”

  Was he making that up to corroborate her alibi or to give himself one of his own?

  “Then I remembered that I’d tossed a half-smoked cigarette on the bistro patio, so I moseyed over there. I should quit. I know. It’s a disgusting habit.”

  I had seen him stub the cigarette out during his disagreement with Bryan, but something didn’t ring true. “Lyle, it was dark,” I argued. “Plus it was a new moon.” In Napa, when there was no visible moon, the valley could be pitch black. “How did you intend to find that cigarette?”

  “A single light was on by the kitchen door, which gave enough illumination.”

  He was correct. We had security lights lining the perimeter of the parking lot and installed in front of the restaurant, as well.

  “Plus I had my cell phone. If I needed to, I could use the built-in flashlight. When I got there, the gate to the patio was ajar. I was halfway across the patio when I saw Bryan. He . . .” Lyle began to twist an ornate ring on his hand.

  Emotions clogged my throat. I whispered, “Go on.”

  Lyle met my gaze. “He was lying there. Out cold. I ran to him.”

  “Did you feel his pulse?”

  “Are you kidding? I didn’t touch him. Up close, I could tell he was dead. I’m not stupid enough to mess with a crime scene. I abandoned the cigarette and charged to my room. I locked myself inside and ignored Angelica’s knock because I could barely control my breathing. I felt so vulnerable. That must be where I picked up the—what is that junk called?” He pointed to the debris on the ground.

  “Basil.”

  “Right.” He continued to fiddle with the ring.

  “Angelica said Bryan was looking into your business practices. She said you were furious.”

  “I was. That’s why she and I argued, but I wasn’t angry enough to kill him. I’m being straight with you. I’m almost out of the hole. I told Bryan as much. He said he didn’t trust me. I told him, in no uncertain terms, that he could trust me, and I would prove it to him.” Lyle sighed. “Liquey . . . I mean Angelica . . . was furious that I would quarrel with him, but she trusted that I would do the right thing in the end.”

  “Lyle,” I said softly, “do you think Angelica could have killed Bryan?”

  “Are you nuts? She adored her uncle. He was good to her. He helped pay for college. He paid for her move to Los Angeles. He gave her money for rent when she was getting started.”

  “Didn’t her father support her?”

  “Sure, when he could, but Edison has a gambling problem.” Lyle dropped his hands to his sides. “He runs short every once in a while.”

  “Does Angelica gamble, too?”

  “No way! She never spends a dime she doesn’t have.”

  “Paula thinks Angelica is a high-risk gambler.”

  Lyle moaned. “Like I
said before, my sister doesn’t know what end is up. She really shouldn’t be in the jewelry business. She doesn’t understand finance. Don’t get me wrong. She’s a great saleswoman, and she has a good eye for what looks pretty on someone, but she doesn’t get the numbers part of business, and she can’t stand the uppity-ups.”

  That was pretty much what Paula had told her father. She wanted out.

  “Does she have a good eye for which gems are the better ones?” I asked.

  “Sure.”

  “Does she have the code to your portable safe?”

  Lyle squared his shoulders and raised his chin. “What are you hinting at?”

  “A couple of gems were found next to Bryan. Didn’t you see the crime techs pick them up?”

  “I must have missed that.”

  “You carry jewels with you at all times. Are any missing?”

  He sputtered. “I . . . I don’t know.”

  How could he not know? Didn’t he check them daily? I would.

  I said, “Did you mention to Sergeant Daly that you travel with them?”

  “He didn’t ask.”

  That seemed like a gross oversight on Tyson’s part, but I wouldn’t point fingers. “You might want to take account.”

  “I will.”

  “And contact the sheriff.”

  “Will do. What else?”

  I gazed hard at him. Suddenly he was being so compliant. “Could someone have slipped into your room and accessed your travel safe without your knowledge?”

  He scratched his head. “Man, I guess it’s possible. That night, I fetched my cufflinks from the safe, but they wouldn’t insert into the cufflink holes. I was so ticked and running late, so I smacked the safe closed. But I’m sure I spun the lock. I must have. I always do.”

  “You have the code to that safe. I assume Kent and your father do, as well. Does Paula have it?”

  He blinked, which I took as a yes.

  I said, “Angelica told me she has it, too.”

  “Ha!” Lyle chuckled. “She does, but she can never remember it.”

  “So basically, any one of them could have picked the lock to your room and taken the gems, either before the out-of-towners’ dinner or afterward, while you and Angelica were arguing.”

  He moaned.

  “When you found Bryan, you say he was dead. If you’re telling the truth, that sets the time of murder before five AM, which means Paula could have killed him and fled to the library and feigned sleep as you passed by.”

  Lyle’s mouth fell open. “Paula? A killer? I can’t picture that. She—”

  “Doesn’t know which end is up?” I said, finishing his dismissal.

  He winced.

  Of course there was also their father. Had Paula told David about the conversation she supposedly lip-read, when Bryan promised to always take care of his niece? Like Kent, David could have figured that Angelica’s inheritance would bail Lyle out of his financial problem. Plus there was the matter of avenging his brother-in-law’s honor.

  As I left, I glanced back at Lyle. He looked pale, though whether from guilt or worry, I couldn’t decide.

  Chapter 17

  I jogged to the parking lot near the bistro in search of Tyson, but I couldn’t find him anywhere. I raced to the entrance of the bistro, but he wasn’t there, either. Maybe he realized we were closed on Tuesdays and had driven away. Why hadn’t he called me on my cell phone? Didn’t he have my number? I had his. I dialed him. He didn’t answer. I left a voice mail for him and then, too wound up to do the bills I knew I should be doing, I returned to my cottage, showered, and ate a light dinner—an omelet filled with bay shrimp, avocado, and French herbs.

  Following the dishes, I moved to the dry-erase board to make additional notes about Lyle’s alibi. Cagney and Lacey studied me as I paced in front of the board.

  After an hour of frustration, not knowing what I was missing, I went to bed. I tried to wait up for Tyson’s call, reading a mystery, but my eyes wouldn’t stay open. Not because the mystery wasn’t good; it was, but the method of murder—death by blunt instrument—made me think of Bryan, and I didn’t want to fall asleep crying again.

  At ten o’clock, Nash sent me a text message that brought a smile to my face: I enjoyed the day. Hope you did, too. Sleep tight.

  I texted back that I had and fell asleep thinking of our long, delicious kiss.

  Wednesday morning arrived quickly. I sped through my routine and was ready to leave to meet our local fishmonger when there was a knock on my door. I peeked through the peephole. Angelica was standing outside in an aqua-blue running outfit, arms hanging limply at her sides. My heart skipped a beat. I hoped no one else had died.

  Cautiously, I opened the door. “Is something wrong?”

  She swept past me. “I saw the light on. I hoped we could talk. I was—” She halted and scanned the dry-erase board.

  I hustled over and gave the leg of the easel a nudge, enough to turn the board from view. How much had she seen?

  “What is that?” She aimed a finger at the board.

  “Tomorrow’s menu,” I said quickly.

  “I saw my name.”

  The aquarium tank burped. I glanced at my fish.

  Angelica took the opportunity to skirt around me. She gawked at the board. “Motive? Are you trying to . . .” She shook her finger. “Kent said you were investigating. Why? Don’t you trust the sheriff and his deputies to do their jobs?”

  “I do,” I sighed. “But I really cared about Bryan, and I can’t sit by—”

  “I didn’t do it.” Angelica’s eyes brimmed with tears.

  “I don’t think you did.”

  “Then why is my name there?” She whacked the board with the back of her hand.

  “Because I was trying to theorize the way the sheriff might. I wrote down things I knew, as well as things I’d like to know.”

  Like what clue was missing! Something niggled at the back of my brain, but I couldn’t bring it forward.

  “My father shouldn’t be on there. Neither should Lyle.”

  “Angelica, I’m—”

  “Whatever!” She turned on her heel. When she reached the door, she reeled around and said, “I’d be careful if I were you.”

  My insides snagged as the door slammed. Kent had given me the same warning. So had the blue-shoed creep at the festival.

  By the time I entered the bistro, everything and everyone was in motion. The windows were open. A cool, refreshing breeze wafted inside. The kitchen door was ajar. I loved the sounds coming from within: chopping, whirring, and happy chatter.

  “Where’s Heather?” I asked Oakley, who was inserting the day’s specials into the menus.

  “Hounding Stefan. As always. Those two.” She snickered.

  I crossed the kitchen threshold and spotted my lanky hostess tailing my sous chef as he moved from the walk-in refrigerator to his station.

  “Rossi?” Heather asked.

  “Nope,” Stefan replied.

  “Ferrari?”

  “Uh-uh.”

  “Bianchi?”

  For the past three months, Heather had been trying to coerce Stefan into spilling his last name.

  He cocked his head. “Heather, you yo-yo, have you checked out the color of my skin? I’m not Italian.”

  “Maybe your mother was.”

  “Last names usually come from the father,” he retorted as he set celery hearts on the counter and began to dice.

  “Beaulieu? Belrose? Bertrand?”

  Stefan barked out his rollicking laugh. “Not French, either. Give it up.”

  “Acosta? Aguado? Alvarado?”

  Where had she collected all the ethnic names? I wondered. Did she intend to go through the entire alphabet? She could be relentless.

  “Let the boy be and get out of my kitchen!” Chef C cried.

  “I’ll figure it out, you scamp.” Heather wagged a finger at Stefan. “I always do. I have a knack.”

  I happened to know that s
he had started her quest by testing dozens of African names, thinking maybe Stefan came from African royalty and thus needed to keep his name a secret. A month later, she turned to Middle Eastern surnames. When I mentioned that Stefan had no accent whatsoever, she reminded me that our country was beautiful and strong because of our colorful immigrant population.

  “Morning, everyone,” I sang.

  Chef C offered me a cockeyed look. Clearly Heather and Stefan were driving her nuts. I stifled a laugh.

  “Mimi!” Heather approached me. “Did you hear? A food critic is coming to dinner tonight.” She pinched my arm fondly.

  “How do you know? Food critics don’t usually reveal that they’re visiting a restaurant. They show up in secret, unannounced.”

  “I know that, but I’m such a good sleuth, I figured it out.” She buffed her nails on her dress. “See, I happen to be friends with a hostess at a restaurant in Yountville, and she told me how food critics often make reservations under an assumed name, and then she shared some of the real names and who went with which name. Well, I memorized them—you know how I like to memorize facts and figures—and, voilà, I now know which critic goes by the name John Dough. Get it, D-o-u-g-h?”

  “Clever. So what’s his real name?”

  “Pierre Dubois.”

  I gawped. “You’re kidding. From Gourmet’s Delight?”

  “You’ve heard of him?”

  “Have I ever! Oh, I know many critics like to remain anonymous, to the point of never allowing a picture of themselves to surface, but Pierre is a big guy with a big appetite and a wee bit of an ego.” I pinched two fingers together.

  Heather laughed.

  “He brags about how he has built up or taken down a few restaurants with his spicy reviews. We have to talk to Chef C,” I said. “We have to get cracking.”

  “Don’t worry. She’s already on board. Just to be sneaky, she’s preparing a set menu for everyone tonight so Mr. Dough will have to choose what she offers.”

  “Brilliant. What’s on the agenda?”

  “She’s cooking bouillabaisse as the appetizer.”

  “Perfect. One of her specialties.”

  “The entrée will be la clapassade d’agneau.” Heather stumbled over the word clapassade, which, loosely translated, meant “cup of stones.” I wasn’t sure why the word went with the dish. It wasn’t like it had rocks in it. The recipe that Chef C would use was my recipe—actually, my grandmother’s recipe—and one of my favorite dishes, made with lambs’ necks, carrots, honey, and licorice root. The latter gave the dish real character.