A Deadly Éclair

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  Willow perched on the stool to Nash’s right and reached for his wineglass. “What are you drinking?” She didn’t wait for an answer. She sniffed and took a sip. “Mmm.”

  Heather appeared at my side. “Mimi, Chef C needs to see you. She’s getting nervous about tonight.”

  “What’s going on this evening?” Nash asked.

  “Thanks to Heather’s powers of deduction, she figured out that a food critic is dining with us. I’ll just be a minute.”

  At the door leading to the kitchen, I glanced over my shoulder at Nash and Willow. She was leaning into him and laughing, her hand on his shoulder. Her eyes glistened with excitement. A pang of jealousy shot through me. Was it a mistake to like this guy? He said he was officially divorced, but would Willow ever let him go?

  As I entered the kitchen, my jealous thoughts made me think of Paula Ives. On the night of the out-of-towners’ dinner, she had flirted with Bryan. I was sure of it. Granted, she could have been doing so purely to get him to sponsor her new project, or she might have been doing so to rankle her father because he had brought up the memory of her mother in such an awkward way. On the other hand, what if Paula really had been into Bryan? When he rejected her, had it made her feel as jealous as I was feeling now? I wasn’t ready to kill Willow or claw her pretty eyes out, but I was definitely edgy. Later that night, when Paula had texted Bryan and asked to meet and he had shunned her a second time, had that sent her over the edge?

  I shook my head. No, if she were the one who had swiped my cell phone, she would have had to plot her murderous plan earlier, before their confrontation.

  Think, Mimi. Why would Paula stuff Bryan’s mouth with the éclair? Because she was fed up with coddling the rich. Did the éclairs represent the rich? Did the jewels signify her career?

  Raucous laughter cut through the kitchen. I searched for the noise. Of all people, David Ives was standing with Chef C near the pastry table. She was wielding a silicone spatula like a sword and relating some story that was sending David into hysterics. What had gotten into her? I couldn’t remember her ever acting so frivolously. Had someone spiked her tea? I knew she was nervous about the food critic’s visit, but fencing in the kitchen?

  I strode toward them.

  Chef C thrust the spatula in David’s direction. “It is true,” she said with a French accent. “He fathered his own grandchild.”

  Okay, she wasn’t fencing; she was making a point.

  “No way,” David exclaimed.

  “What’s going on, Camille?” I asked.

  She reined in her spatula. Her face flushed. With no accent, she said, “I was merely telling Mr. Ives—”

  “David,” he said, still chuckling. “She was telling me the story of Napoleon. It seems he went behind Josephine’s back to father a grandchild with their daughter.”

  “He what?” I blurted.

  Chef C beamed, the story giving her great pleasure. “He wanted a male heir.”

  “I didn’t want to believe her,” David said, “but she made the story so colorful.” He burst into more laughter.

  “It is the French accent,” Chef C said, employing an even broader French accent. “The French are always good at storytelling. You should hear my sister tell a story. She is the best.” Her sister owned a local chicken and egg farm with her husband. “She gets bawdy.” Chef C winked at David.

  Honestly, I had never seen her so flirty. Had David’s visit the other night when he had come into the kitchen to compliment her cooking won her over? Maybe he hadn’t sneaked in to filch my cell phone. Maybe he wasn’t the man in the blue shoes who had threatened me in the mobile restroom. He did seem to have a reasonable alibi. Maybe I should write him off my suspect list. If not for the tension I’d felt at the end of our tête-à-tête in front of the jewelry store, I would.

  “Back to business,” Chef C said. “Shoo!”

  “Aw!” David pouted. “But you promised to show me how you create a Napoleon.”

  The makings for a Napoleon lay on the pastry counter: flaky dough, pastry cream, and three squeeze bottles filled with Chef C’s decorative sauces. Beyond them lay a dozen caramel-iced éclairs on a tray.

  “You have to swear you will not distract me,” she said. “I must get this right for tonight’s guest.”

  David twisted an imaginary key on his lips.

  “Chef,” I said. “Heather told me you needed to see me.”

  “I did?” She turned to face me, her lips pursed in concentration, and then realization hit. “Aha! I did! I want your approval of tonight’s menu.” She flicked a finger at the menu posted on the wall.

  “I already gave it to you.”

  “I have revised it slightly. Check out the appetizers.”

  I moved closer to the menu board and scanned the list. The only thing she had added was a vegetarian pâté served with toast points. “Looks good, Chef,” I called.

  “Merci beaucoup,” she responded.

  At the same time, Jo rushed in so fast, the door banged the wall before swinging into place. “Mimi, I was hoping you were here. I wanted to give you an update on how Tyson took the news regarding David—”

  I shot a warning finger.

  Jo cut a look across the room and beckoned me with her index finger. I followed her to the dishwashing area. Lowering her voice, she said, “Tyson is following up with the jeweler in Israel to confirm what I already learned—not that he doesn’t believe me, but he wants to have all the facts—”

  “He doesn’t need to.” I told her about my conversation with David outside the jewelry shop and how I’d called Tyson and brought him up to date.

  “David played the recording for you?”

  “Readily. He also told me how his wife died.” I explained in brief detail.

  “Well, doesn’t that beat all? An inner ear infection made her lose her balance and plunge to her death? Poor thing. And how sad that Paula felt responsible.” She clucked her tongue. “Now I feel awful for having assumed the worst.” She glanced at David, who was still toying with Chef C. “So he’s actually a nice guy?”

  “Camille seems to think so. She’s as giddy as a schoolgirl. I, on the other hand, am still reserving judgment.”

  “Why?”

  I recapped the chat in front of the jewelry store.

  “Mimi”—Jo gripped my arm—“you’ve got to watch out. David Ives—”

  “Is a wily one,” Stefan said as he swept past us. “A real charmer. He brought Chef a single rose from the garden.” He pointed to a wine bottle–style vase, which was standing by the posted menu.

  “The devil,” Jo said. “Raymond won’t be happy to know guests are stealing roses.”

  “I won’t tell.” Stefan grinned. “I’ve never seen Chef C so animated. It’s like she’s never had a man pay her attention.”

  What is David up to? I wondered. “Let him watch you make one Napoleon and boot him out.”

  “You got it, boss.”

  “And tell Chef C that I love the idea of a vegetarian pâté. She is brilliant.”

  He saluted and made a beeline for her.

  “Also,” Jo said to me, “Tyson is following up on Paula’s and Lyle’s alibis. I’m not sure why, but he leaked that to me.”

  Maybe because I had given him guff earlier.

  “By the way”—Jo rocked back and forth on her heels, looking quite girlish—“Tyson asked me out.”

  “He did?”

  “Be honest. Did you goad him into it?”

  “Me? No!” Well, maybe I had when I’d questioned him about the woman he was with at the jazz festival—his cousin—but I wouldn’t admit it to my pal. I could see Tyson and her living happily ever after. They matched in energy. They both liked the outdoors. He was smart; she liked bright men. “I told you he was into you. I’m glad he finally found the courage. Did you say yes?”

  Jo bobbed her head. “Because I know you would give me grief if I didn’t at least go out with him once.”

  “Whe
n are you going? What will you do?”

  “After the sheriff’s investigation is concluded, we’re going hiking.”

  “When will that be? Next year?”

  “Be nice. I think he’s homing in on someone.”

  “Who?”

  “As if he would reveal that to me. You know him. He doesn’t like to tip his hand. By the way, when we do go on that date, he’s fixing us a picnic. He claims he makes a mean deli sandwich.”

  “You love deli!”

  “Almost as much as French food.” She giggled and then gasped. “Is that the time?” She stared at the kitchen wall clock. “I’ve got to run. A busload of people are checking in this afternoon, and they’ve all been wine tasting. Wish me luck.” She held up crossed fingers.

  I did the same and then we tapped fingertips, the way we had done for years. She dashed out.

  Stefan swung past me carrying a tray of Napoleons ready for the walk-in refrigerator. “Lately that woman is always in a hurry.”

  “She is a multitasker, which is why I love her.” I spied the desserts and a thought occurred to me. “Stefan, were there any leftover éclairs after the out-of-towners’ dinner?”

  “A few. Not many. Can’t run a successful business with waste, my father always says.”

  I grinned. His father would say something like that. Bryan had said something similar. I sighed just thinking about him and wondered how he would have felt about his brother’s gambling habit. Had he known about it? How would he have reacted if he had learned that Angelica had the same weakness? What exactly was high-risk investing?

  Following Stefan to the refrigerator, I said, “You told me Paula Ives came into the kitchen that night asking for a recipe.”

  “Yep.”

  “Which you gave her.”

  “I did. You told us to be nice to everyone in the wedding party.”

  “I appreciate all you did.”

  “Should I expect a bonus?” he quipped.

  “At Christmas and not before.”

  “Hey, did you know Christmas comes early this year? Fa-la-la-la-la,” he crooned.

  “You wish.”

  He barked his rowdy laugh and disappeared into the refrigerator.

  I was a good boss, and I gave decent bonuses. When I’d worked as a chef in San Francisco, my boss was a bit of a miser. Bryan said—

  I curbed the thought. When would I stop remembering everything he’d said?

  Focus, I told myself and surveyed the kitchen, thinking back to that night. While Stefan retrieved the recipe, Paula could have easily stolen my cell phone and filched one of the remaining éclairs. She could have hidden both in a napkin and stuffed them into that flashy tote of hers when she returned to the table.

  But then I saw the flaw in my theory. Anyone who had ventured into the kitchen could have done the same. Both David and Lyle had pockets in their jackets, and either Angelica’s or Francine’s totes would have been able to hold the loot, just like Paula’s.

  Which meant anyone could be guilty. Anyone.

  Chapter 21

  I hurried back to the bar to chat a bit more with Nash, but he was on his feet, ready to take off. Willow stood across the room, talking animatedly to one of our customers. The vases that she had brought rested at the end of the bar. Sunlight hit them and made them sparkle.

  “I’m sorry,” I said when I reached Nash. “Business—”

  Willow laughed loudly, drawing my attention. Her arms were spread wide, and she was flapping them, as if pretending to be a bird.

  “Forget her.” Nash clasped my elbow and drew me close. “She likes to make a display.”

  I scanned the bistro. The customers around her seemed to be amused. I decided not to rein her in unless she went on too much longer.

  Nash placed a warm, gentle kiss on my lips. Desire shot through me. “I’ve got to get going,” he whispered. “I’ll call you and we’ll set another date. How about going ballooning? I’ve never done it. Have you?”

  “Never. Sounds great.”

  “Not afraid of heights?”

  “Only steep mountaintops without rappelling equipment.”

  “Is that how your husband—”

  “Yeah. He decided to freestyle in Ama Dablam, one of the most challenging regions in the Himalayas. He fell and died instantly.”

  “Wow. You’ll never catch me doing that.”

  “Dying?” I teased. “Good to know.”

  He allowed a moment of silence to end that topic and then gestured to the bottle of Cabernet. “Cork that up. Have a sip after work and think of me.” He offered a cocky grin and headed off.

  As the door swung shut, I let out a sigh, realizing how much I liked him, but it was all first glance. I needed to learn more about him. One date at a time, I told myself. I would not rush headlong into a relationship like I had with Derrick.

  Willow let out a whoop. I was about to shush her when I spotted Paula sitting at a table beyond her. She was on her cell phone, mouth moving rapidly. Who was she talking to? Lyle? Was he filling her in on his meeting with the attorney? Was he recommending that she do the same? Maybe she was talking to her father. Perhaps he had alerted her that I’d run into him outside the jewelry store. In a conspiratorial way, she jotted notes on a yellow legal pad. She glanced over her shoulder as if she felt someone spying on her from behind. When she caught me staring, she covered her pad like a student not willing to share answers on a test.

  Dang, but I wished I knew what she was up to. Talk about secretive.

  Heather nudged me. “Hey, can you give me a little help?” She was holding tablecloths and numerous place settings. “I’ve got to clear off three tables pronto. We’re one waitress short and booked until two thirty.”

  “What happened?”

  “That new girl had to pick up her sick daughter from school. This way.”

  I followed her to the first table. She put the linens and settings on a chair and, like a magician, whisked away soiled dessert plates and coffee cups in an instant. I moved the vase to a chair and collected the wineglasses and water glasses. By the time I returned from the bussing station, the tablecloth was on, and the napkins were folded and set in place. I arranged the silverware and fetched fresh glasses.

  “How many do we have coming for dinner tonight?” I asked.

  “Three early-bird foursomes at six thirty. Four duos at seven. The house is full by eight, and then we have a large group at nine to take the tables of the early birds.”

  I loved how she could keep the list straight in her head. Prior to working for me, she had taught high school math, which was one of the reasons she was so good at memorization. However, she had given up teaching after her third alien abduction because the Glonkirks convinced her that she really didn’t like teenagers. I figured the real reason she walked away was because her hypnotherapist had suggested she find a job more geared to adults. Math had played a part in my hiring decision, since she did most of the preorders.

  “Chef C seems pretty calm about tonight’s visitor,” I said.

  “She should be. She’s put a lot of work into the meal.” Heather moved to the second table that we needed to reset. I trailed along. “By the way,” she said as she removed the linens, “you made me curious about Pierre Dubois, so I did some digging on the Internet. He’s a food critic by night, but did you know he’s a data warehousing specialist by day?”

  “What is that?”

  “Data warehouses are storehouses of integrated data from one or more sources. You know, they stockpile info to create analytical reports.”

  “Boring.”

  “But necessary. He’s all buttoned up during the day. At night, he lets his hair down and visits restaurants. He’s been married once and has two grown children. He’s originally from France, but he now lives in San Francisco. FYI, I read a few of his reviews. He’s a fair critic.”

  “Good to know.”

  “And get this. On his bucket list, he wants to visit every three-star Michel
in restaurant in the world.”

  “Yet he decided to visit us?”

  “Our reputation is growing because of—” She balked.

  “Bryan’s murder.” Thank heavens I was no longer a suspect, or else earning notoriety for my business might prove to be a convincing motive.

  As we tackled the last table makeover, Heather said, “Say, did I tell you my husband got an agent? He’s very excited. I’m trying to keep him realistic and not get his hopes up. He’s had an agent before, but the guy was a loser. He charged all sorts of fees and didn’t submit the novel to anyone. I’ve heard authors shouldn’t pay an agent a fee.”

  “I believe most work on spec.”

  The door to the bistro opened, and Angelica breezed in. In white trousers and a shimmering white silk blouse, she looked like an angel. She headed straight for me. “Mimi, we did it. Lyle and I got married.”

  “I heard.”

  “I’m sorry we won’t be having the official wedding at the inn. I hope you don’t mind. Maybe we’ll do an impromptu celebration. Would that work?” Words were speeding out of her. The joy on her face was beyond ecstasy.

  I smiled. “Whatever you need, we can accommodate.” I set the last two water glasses to the right of the place settings.

  “Want to see my ring?”

  “Of course.”

  “Me, too,” Heather chimed.

  “Lyle didn’t give me an engagement ring because he was superstitious.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “He got engaged a few years ago, and she jilted him. She was an actress with a fragile ego.”

  “My husband was superstitious about the engagement ring,” Heather said. “Supposedly, a secondhand engagement ring from a family member will pass down the joy or suffering of the previous marriage. Well, he had his heart set on giving me his grandmother’s ring, but when he found out his grandfather, whom he had never known, was a ridiculously mean man, he decided to skip it.”