A Deadly Éclair

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  “For dessert, a gateau mille-feuilles.” Heather snapped her fingers, looking for the typically known term.

  “Napoleon?”

  “That’s it.”

  Mille-feuille translated to a “million leaves” and was created by layering puff pastry and pastry cream. It melted in the mouth. Chef C iced her creation with fondant and brown chocolate stripes. Divine.

  “That sounds terrific.” I yelled across the room, “I like the menu, Chef!”

  “Of course you do. It is magnifique.” She twirled a long-handled spoon at me and continued making her soup. Steam rose in big billowy clouds nearby.

  “Heather”—I beckoned to her and then guided her toward the main dining room—“if Sergeant Daly calls for me, please track me down. I’ll be in the office. I want to talk to him.”

  She frowned. “Is everything all right?”

  “I hope so. He was trying to find me yesterday. We didn’t hook up.”

  “Do I need to contact that lawyer for you after all?”

  “Gosh, I hope not. Raymond can corroborate my whereabouts, even at four AM.”

  “Four?”

  “It turns out Bryan died earlier than we thought.”

  Heather shook her head. “The reality of him being gone still makes me cry.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Remember how he bustled around here during that last month of construction?”

  “Wearing that ridiculous tool belt.”

  “Packed with seven different hammers.” Heather giggled.

  Bryan had wanted to make sure every nail was tapped into place. The week after, he had followed the painters around. At one point, the supervisory painter pleaded with me to teach Bryan to cook so he would get out of their hair. Bryan had proven to be pretty adept at making piecrust and was an expert with a mandolin slicer.

  I smiled and squeezed Heather’s arm. “Let’s hold onto those fond memories.” I left her to manage the dining staff and headed for the office.

  Before I reached it, the front door flew open and Jo rushed in, the flaps of her royal-blue jacket catching the breeze, the ruffle lapel fluttering like it might take flight. When had she started moving so quickly? She used to be the epitome of calm.

  “Mimi! You’ll never guess what happened.” She steered me into the office and closed the door. “Lyle and Angelica got married!”

  “What?”

  “They had the license, of course, so they went to the county clerk.”

  “When?”

  “This morning.”

  “Wow.” I crossed to my desk and set my purse in a drawer, my cell phone tucked safely inside. I was never going to leave it in the kitchen cubby again. “That seems rash.”

  “And suspicious.” Jo braced her arms on the desk, palms flat. “Think about it. Maybe they got married so they can claim spousal privilege when questioned by the sheriff.”

  I wondered if Angelica had married him because, after seeing the board in my living room, this was her way of showing me how much she believed he was innocent. “Does that law apply if they weren’t married at the time of the crime?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t go to law school, remember?” After giving up on her modeling idea, she had considered law for about a New York minute but decided she understood money better than rules. “We should let Tyson know.” She picked up the receiver to my landline telephone and offered it to me.

  I set it back in the cradle. “I would, except he hasn’t returned my call. He must be busy.”

  “Why did you call him?”

  “Because he came looking for me yesterday when the bistro was closed. We didn’t touch base.”

  “Are you in trouble?”

  “I can’t be. Maybe he wants to ask me something about Bryan’s business or . . . I don’t know.” I threw up my hands and slumped into the desk chair. Since yesterday, I had come up with dozens of reasons Tyson would need to see me, none of them good. My stomach felt raw with the acid that kept churning inside it. “Whatever it is, I’ve got so much more to tell him.”

  “Like what?” She pulled one of the grain-sack chairs closer and perched on it.

  “Yesterday, after the jazz festival, I ran into Lyle and—”

  “The festival. O-M-G, I forgot to ask you about it.” She reached across the desk for my hands. “How was your date with Nash?”

  “Nice.”

  “That’s it? Nice?” She released me with a sigh.

  “We’re—” I paused, realizing I hadn’t told her about the intruder in the blue tennis shoes. Why worry her now? I decided. It was water under the bridge.

  “Go on.” She motioned for me to hurry up with my story.

  “We’re getting to know each other.”

  “Has he . . .” She rubbed her ring finger.

  “Ended it with his wife? Yes. We listened to fabulous jazz. The guitarist was amazing. And we drank wine and chatted about a range of topics until . . .” I intentionally didn’t finish to lead her on.

  Jo moaned. “Until what?”

  “We ran into my mother.”

  “Of course she would be there. Do you know how many times she asked me over for dinner when you were living in San Francisco so she could play some new jazz artist for me?” Jo laughed. “Did she, you know”—she flapped a hand—“throw cold water on things?”

  “No. Get this: they hit it off.”

  “Yay! A first.”

  “I know. It didn’t hurt that Nash knew his wine.”

  Jo clapped her hands. “Okay. At least you won’t get any friction from her this time. Cool. Back to Lyle.”

  I told her how I’d met up with him in front of the inn and how he was digging basil out of the bottom of his shoes.

  “The only place where it grows is in the pots on the rear patio,” she said.

  “Exactly. I mentioned as much. Ultimately he caved and told me his entire alibi.”

  “He wasn’t sleeping?”

  “Nope. He said he was edgy after the argument with Angelica and needed a smoke.” I replayed the conversation. I finished by saying he locked himself inside his room and lied about being asleep because he didn’t want Angelica to see him trembling.

  Jo raised a skeptical eyebrow. “I’m sorry, but wouldn’t you want to see your fiancée at a time like that?”

  “He claimed he felt too vulnerable.”

  Jo coughed and mumbled, “Bull,” into her fist.

  I folded my arms. “I think so, too. But if it’s the truth, that puts Angelica in the clear.”

  “Does it? Maybe she went to the patio before five AM, killed Bryan, and afterward, knocked on Lyle’s door to give herself an alibi, hoping the sheriff would think he was killed between five and six.”

  “Wow, I hadn’t thought about that.”

  “Because you want her to be innocent.”

  “I do.”

  “Call me a skeptic, but she’s inheriting Bryan’s entire estate.”

  “And she knew it,” I whispered.

  “She did?”

  I bounded to my feet and paced while telling Jo about the conversation Paula claimed to have lip-read—if Paula could be trusted. When I was through, I smacked my hands together. “What if David Ives counted on that?” I applied my earlier rationale regarding Kent to David. “Let’s say Paula told him about the inheritance, and he thought the money would help his son avoid financial ruin.”

  “Did he know Lyle was struggling?”

  “I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. There’s something about David Ives I don’t trust. I still feel he’s lying about his alibi. A two-hour phone call to Israel? C’mon. How convenient.”

  Someone knocked on the office door and opened it. I spun around. Tyson strolled in, hair groomed, shoulders square. He greeted Jo and me.

  She popped to her feet and took his hand. “Boy, do we have a lot to tell you.” She guided him to the chair she had vacated and made him sit. Watching her manipulate him made me laugh. “Lyle Ives wasn’t sleeping
when he said he was.” She repeated all I had told her, not missing a detail. When she concluded, she said, “That means Bryan died before five AM.”

  “Unless Lyle killed him and wants us to believe that,” Tyson argued.

  “According to Paula Ives”—Jo gave me a confirming look—“Angelica knew about the inheritance she would receive. Paula lip-read a conversation.”

  Tyson rose to his feet. “Okay, that’s enough, ladies. I want you to stay out of my investigation.”

  “I’m not doing anything,” Jo countered. “Mimi is. She’s the one writing theories on a dry-erase board.”

  Tyson wheeled on me. I flinched and glowered at Jo with a very distinct message: Thanks for throwing me under the bus, pal.

  She splayed her hands and mouthed, Sorry.

  “Is that why you called me, Mimi?” Tyson asked.

  I squared my shoulders. “Raymond said you were looking for me.”

  “Right. I was. I wanted your opinion on the ranch property next to your mother’s winery. It’s for sale.”

  “The Lincoln estate?”

  Jo gawped. “You’re buying an estate?”

  Tyson frowned. “Hardly. Not every piece of land around here is estate-sized, but people like to call their properties estates. The place is modest at best. It’s all I can afford.”

  I said, “It’s about a sixth of the size of my mom’s property, and it’s never been properly tilled. In fact, it’s overgrown.”

  “Which is just fine with me,” Tyson said. “I don’t want to raise grapes.”

  “You want to raise goats.” I gave him the thumbs-up sign. “Perfect.”

  “Back to you two.” He drummed his fingers on his thigh. “All this theorizing. It’s got to stop.”

  “A chef is a natural-born sleuth,” I said.

  “Yeah,” Jo chimed. “She breaks down recipes on a regular basis.”

  “I notice little things, Tyson. It’s the details that matter, you know?”

  He huffed.

  So did I, mimicking him. “C’mon, cut me some slack. I really cared about Bryan. He was my mentor, my friend. And now I’m worried about Angelica, because she married Lyle—”

  “She what? When?”

  “This morning. They blew off a real wedding and went to the county clerk, and seeing as how Lyle is in bad financial straits, I’m wondering whether he might have married her to get his hands on her inheritance.”

  “They were planning to get married anyway,” Tyson reasoned.

  “That’s true, but couldn’t they have waited a bit longer? By the way, did I mention that Lyle’s mother fell down the stairs and died?”

  “When?”

  “When he and Paula were kids.”

  “Go on.” Tyson twirled his hand, urging me to continue. “What’s your point?”

  “What if her death wasn’t an accident? What if Paula, Lyle, or their father caused it?”

  Jo nodded. “It’s easier to kill a second time.”

  Tyson cracked a smile. “Doesn’t that sound a little melodramatic?”

  “I don’t know. Does it?” She cocked a hip.

  “I’ll check into it.” He headed for the exit.

  “Wait,” I called. “I almost forgot. The gems.”

  He pivoted. “What about them?”

  “I’m not sure Bryan was the one who was carrying them.” I explained how Lyle traveled with gems and how he claimed he hadn’t mentioned it to Tyson because Tyson never asked. I told him that Lyle was going to check to see if any were missing and added that it was a safe bet some were. “The inn’s locks would be easy to pick.” I explained why. “Therefore, anyone with the code to the safe could have stolen the gems and put one in Bryan’s mouth.”

  Jo said, “Speaking of gems, did you follow up on David Ives’s alibi about talking to that jeweler in Israel?”

  Tyson swung his gaze between us, his teeth clamped tightly.

  “No?” Jo said. “Well, I know a jeweler who might help. I’ll contact her.” Without asking his blessing, she dashed from the office.

  Tyson raised a hand to protest, but Jo was already gone. He sighed and turned to me, his eyes steely. Clearly he wasn’t pleased. I flinched.

  “E-mail me whatever you’ve written on that board of yours,” he ordered. “I’ll take a look.”

  “Will do,” I said and solicitously moved ahead of him to show him out. “Hey, before you go, who was that woman you were with at the jazz festival?”

  “Which woman?”

  “In the food court. She has a big laugh.”

  “That’s my cousin on my mother’s side. She’s thinking of moving to town.” His mouth twitched at the corners. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because—”

  “Because you thought she was a date?”

  “Yeah, and because I’m looking out for my pal. I think you’re interested in Jo, and I really do believe that was why you were meeting with her father. I think the real estate thing was a ruse.”

  He let out a low chuckle. “Nope. I am truly interested in purchasing the Lincoln estate.”

  “My bad. Sorry.”

  Softly he said, “But you’re not wrong about Jo.”

  I perked up. “I’m not?”

  “I am interested, but I find it hard to talk to her, and when I do, she’s always in my face, like she doesn’t trust me to do my job.”

  “She trusts you, Tyson, but like me, we both want the killer caught—sooner rather than later.”

  “Dang it, Mimi.” He stiffened.

  “What?”

  “Stay out of my investigation. You do not want me to slap you with an injunction.”

  His warning miffed me. I drew up taller and raised my chin. “I am not in your investigation, sir. I am theorizing. A citizen is allowed to theorize. And if that’s worthy of an injunction, then slap away.”

  “Whoa!” Tyson backed up a step and let out a low whistle. “When did you become so feisty? You were never like this back in school.”

  “Bryan gave me the courage to stand up for what I believe in.” I pointed to a poster on the wall with the phrase A strong woman is one who is able to smile this morning like she didn’t cry last night. I added, “That’s me through and through. And don’t forget that I’m a Gemini, like you, which means I have a curious disposition.”

  “I’ll say you’re curious. Curious as in peculiar. Be careful.”

  I glowered at him and then decided to hit him with another zinger: “At the jazz festival, did you question Edison Barrington?”

  Tyson grinned but didn’t respond. As he stepped through the doorway, glass shattered in the main dining room.

  Chapter 18

  I whizzed past Tyson and darted to Heather, who was already sweeping up the remnants of a sunburst-shaped mirror. Diners were on their feet, gazing at the commotion. Waitstaff seemed to be reassuring them that everything was fine.

  Heather peered up at me, mortified. “It . . . fell. I’m not sure how.” She blew a hair off her face. “You know what this means? Seven years—”

  “Don’t say it!” I snapped. I was not superstitious, but a mirror falling for no reason sent a shiver down my spine. I didn’t want to hear the words bad luck.

  “Do you think Bryan’s spirit is hanging around?” she whispered.

  I shook my head, but if I didn’t believe that, why had I shuddered? Because a murder had occurred on my property—not to mention my mother and her nonexistent ghost had put me on edge. To lighten the mood I said, “Maybe it was one of your Glonkirks, Heather.”

  She clucked her tongue. “They’re not ghosts, Mimi.”

  “Are you sure?” I grinned.

  “Maybe the broken mirror is a warning to keep out of my investigation,” Tyson wisecracked.

  I threw him a caustic look.

  “Just saying.” He grinned. “There are stories about mirrors that go way back to when the first humans saw their reflections in a pool of water. They believed the image was their soul, an
d to endanger the image—you know, like roiling the water—would mean risking injury to the inner self. You don’t want your soul to suffer, do you? I repeat: be careful.” He winked and exited.

  As he left, another shiver coursed through me. What were the odds that multiple people would warn me to be careful in the same twenty-four-hour period? First the jerk at the festival, then Kent and Angelica, and now Tyson.

  No, the mirror falling to the floor was an accident, pure and simple. Picture hanger hooks gave out. A shift in the earth could make something topple, too. And I would argue that Glonkirks, if they were real, could make themselves invisible to toy with us mere mortals. Just to be sure, I inspected the hook on the wall. Oddly enough, it was a weak sawtooth style with teensy nails, not the hefty kind I typically used with a nail rated to hold one hundred pounds.

  Heather was on her way to the kitchen to discard the mess.

  I said, “Psst. Heather, c’mere.”

  She made a U-turn and scurried to me. “What’s up?”

  “Did you change out this hook?”

  “No. Why would I—” She glanced at the front door and back at me. A panicked look crossed her face.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “This morning, when I came in, the door was unlocked. I asked Chef C about it. She was the last to leave Monday night, but she said she exited through the rear door. I always lock doors. You know I do.” She was fastidious when it came to safety. “Do you think someone stole in on our day off and rigged the mirror to fall just to mess with you?”

  “To mess with me?”

  “To warn you because you’re sort of, you know, asking pointed questions about the murder.”

  “No,” I said hastily. “Of course not.” I fanned a hand. “Uh-uh.”

  She narrowed her gaze. To be honest, I didn’t believe me, either. I trembled as my thoughts flew back to the encounter at the festival and the person in blue who had put me on notice.

  Boldly I said, “I’m going to town to buy another mirror.” The incident was juvenile and most likely carried out by a prankster, I assured myself. Shopping would calm my nerves, and I knew the exact place to go: Fruit of the Vine Artworks. Willow said she carried one-of-a-kind mirrors. While I was there, I’d get to know her better and see if I could find out why Nash said she was complicated. A spendthrift wasn’t complicated, just reckless. “Make sure everyone remains upbeat,” I said as I fetched my purse. “We want tonight’s mood to be blissful when the food critic arrives.”