“I’m so sorry,” Angelica said.
“I’m not. I got this cute little diamond-studded band.” She wiggled her fourth finger.
I laughed. “It’s lovely.” To Angelica I said, “C’mon, show us yours.”
She flashed her ring, which featured a beautiful aquamarine stone in a diamond halo setting. “An aquamarine is believed to encourage a long and happy marriage.”
“So is a sapphire,” Heather said.
“Well, it’s gorgeous,” I said, trying to mask the bittersweet tug on my heart.
“What’s wrong?” Angelica asked. “You look like you’re in pain.”
“I . . .” I shook my head. “The killer put an aquamarine in Bryan’s mouth. I can’t seem to shake the memory, and I can’t make sense of it.”
Heather said, “That sure didn’t encourage a long and happy anything.”
Angelica’s eyes grew teary.
“The ring goes nicely with your mother’s necklace,” I said, trying to lighten the mood.
Instinctively, she touched the pendant.
“May I ask why you eloped?”
“Lyle said he didn’t want to wait any longer, and I agreed. It’s horrible that Uncle Bryan died, but he would have wanted us to be together. He would have wanted us to share a happy moment, despite the tragedy. He always said, ‘Life is too short to wait for anything.’”
“He said that to me, too.” I smiled, the memory fresh.
“He also said, ‘No matter what, follow your heart. I didn’t, and I’m sorry.’ I’m not sure what he meant, but those words hit me right here.” She knuckled the left side of her chest.
Heather cleared her throat. “May I ask a question? Just you and Lyle went to the courthouse. Why didn’t you include his father and sister in the ceremony?”
“Lyle figured Paula would object, and his father, well, he doesn’t hold me in high regard. We wanted good vibes around us.”
“What about your father?” I asked. “Did he attend?”
Angelica shrugged. “I called him so he could give me away, but I couldn’t reach him. He was probably . . .” She mimed dealing cards.
“Does he gamble every day?”
She shrugged.
I patted her arm in encouragement and then centered the vase with the white rose and headed back to the bar. Heather left to attend to business at the hostess podium. Angelica followed me and settled onto a stool.
I sat on one beside her. “Angelica, this might be indelicate, but are you sure Lyle isn’t marrying you for your money?”
She laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous. He loves me. And for your information, we wrote up a prenuptial agreement.”
“I’m glad to hear that. You did that before you got married?”
She nodded. “We had it notarized at the courthouse.”
“Lyle wasn’t resistant?”
“Not in the least. In fact, he was so furious that his father had investigated me like Bryan investigated him, he wanted to get married just to show David that he was his own man.”
I gawped. “You know what David did?”
“Do I ever! Doesn’t anyone trust anybody nowadays?” She hissed in righteous indignation. “I suppose he and Bryan were being protective because they cared about us, but Lyle and I are adults with thriving careers. Plus we can handle anything that comes at us. We’re in love.”
“Sometimes love is blind.” I raised my hand. “Been there, done that.”
Angelica set her purse on the bar beside the miniature vases. “I’m expecting Lyle to join me. He had some business errands to run.”
Like meeting with a defense attorney, I mused.
“Is it okay if I wait here?” she asked.
“Of course.” I drummed the bar with my fingertips. “So, um, I heard what David Ives discovered.”
“You did?”
“He and I were chatting, and he let on that you’re a gambler like your father.”
“What? No, I’m not!” Angelica exclaimed.
“He said you were high-risk.”
She clucked her tongue. “Sure, I have a few high-risk investments, but that’s not considered gambling.”
“What is it then?”
“It’s speculative.” She explained how she used the barbell approach to investing, meaning the big portion of her estate was placed in index funds and value plays. She had a few smaller investments in rip-roaring trades that she hoped would pay out as soon as possible. She was a collector, as well—she had acquired a few art pieces that she was particularly proud of. Lastly, she invested a small portion of her income in high-risk investments like gold because although those investments might pay off big if gold prices rose, if the value of gold plummeted for some reason, she would lose big. Not to mention that the initial buy-in cost was steep, and gold didn’t pay dividends or earn profits. “It’s not considered gambling. My mother always advised me to invest in gold. She said that’s what my father would say to do.”
Over the past year, Bryan had said the same to me, although I didn’t have any wealth to invest. Yet.
“I’m not rich,” Angelica said, “but as a talk-show host, I make a good enough income that I don’t want for anything.”
“So you’re not in debt like your father?”
“Heavens, no. Sure, I have a pretty hefty mortgage and I use my credit cards, but I pay those off every month. Dad, on the other hand, plays cards and loses regularly. He’s had to refinance the vineyard seven ways from Sunday.”
“Didn’t you say he invested in gold?”
“If he did, it’s long gone. He stays afloat because, luckily, his product is excellent. Someday he might not be so lucky, but until then . . .” She trailed off.
During her silence, I reflected on what I’d just learned. Angelica had her own fortune. She didn’t need her uncle’s. Would that alone exonerate her?
“Angelica, someone heard Bryan on the night of the out-of-towners’ dinner saying he would take care of you.”
She smiled. “Of course he would. He always took care of me. He helped me get into college. Got me my first job. Helped me meet Lyle.”
“Meeting Lyle wasn’t an accident?”
“Well, it was.” She blushed. “He wasn’t supposed to be working that day, but I happened to go to that particular jeweler because Uncle Bryan had said it was a well-known and well-respected establishment.”
Interesting. Despite the feud between Bryan and David, Bryan had still recommended Ives Jewelers. Out of guilt or out of honor?
“Was his promise to take care of you what made you cry?” I asked.
“No. I . . .” Fresh tears sprang to her eyes. She seized a cocktail napkin and dabbed at the moisture. “I cried because he mentioned the necklace I was wearing. I told him its history. He said how proud my mother would have felt about the way I had turned out.”
A cool breeze wafted in. I turned toward the front of the bistro. Lyle, wearing a jaunty fedora, linen shirt, linen slacks, and sandals, entered with Francine and Kent. Francine appeared rested and less made up than usual. Kent’s grin was a mile wide. They were holding hands, his thumb caressing hers. Love was definitely in the air.
Lyle strode to Angelica, kissed her cheek, and plopped an envelope on the counter. “Take a peek.”
“What’s inside?” she asked.
Kent said, “Out-of-towners’ dinner and wedding photos, love.”
“Not the real photos,” Lyle said. “Only the proofs.”
“The dinner ones were delivered to the inn,” Francine crooned. “Jorianne gave them to us. We’ve peeked at them. They’re great.”
“Lyle sent me to the courthouse for the others,” Kent said. “They’re a little grainy, if I do say. They must have been printed on a subpar computer.”
“They’ll do for now,” Lyle said. He turned to me. “Mimi, something smells remarkable. Do you have a table for four?”
“Absolutely.” I beckoned Heather and held up four fingers.
“O
n it,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”
“Before you go to your table, Angelica, may I look at the proofs?” I asked. Seeing as we had hired the out-of-towners’ dinner photographer, for future reference, I wanted to make sure the quality was up to par.
Lyle slipped the photograph proofs from the envelope and handed them to Angelica, who handed them to me.
The quality of the wedding photos taken at the courthouse was definitely inferior, as if the assistant had used an ancient iPhone in the dark, but Angelica and Lyle seemed blissful, and ten years from now, they would laugh about their elopement and hopefully not recall with bitterness why they hadn’t waited to have a formal ceremony.
“Aw, look at this one,” Angelica said, displaying a picture of her, her father, and Bryan. I remembered when our photographer had finally corralled them.
“Blimey, the three of you look alike,” Kent said.
“It’s the eyes,” Angelica said. “Grandma had the same eyes, too.”
“My father and I had the same eyes,” I said.
“Huh.” Francine tilted her head as she regarded the photograph. “Angelica, I always thought you looked more like your mother, with your dark hair and the shape of your face, but now—”
“Dad, through and through,” Angelica said.
Heather reappeared with menus. “Follow me.”
Angelica hung back, and Lyle returned to the bar to fetch her.
She eyed the vases Willow had brought. “Those are pretty, Mimi. Where are you going to put them?”
They were pretty, and I was warming to them. “I’m not sure.”
“My mother made stuff like this. Each piece is unique.”
“She was an artist?”
“Yep. She worked out of a studio at the house.”
“Liquey’s father hasn’t touched the place since her mom died,” Lyle said.
“Mother made so many beautiful things with glass and clay. She even did a few oil paintings. She never sold any of it. She said it wasn’t good enough. I would beg to differ.” She knuckled my arm. “You might even like some of it for the bistro. She made a mirror or two. Do you want to see her work?”
“I’d love to.”
“How about tomorrow morning?”
“I have a standing breakfast with my mother every week.”
“Let’s meet after that. Please? It would make me happy to see someone else appreciate her art.” Her voice grew faint and almost needy. Had Francine and Kent’s hookup deprived her of a confidante?
Heather returned to fetch Lyle and Angelica and, overhearing the conversation, gave me a thumbs-up sign. “Go. See her mother’s stuff. I’ll cover for you in the morning.”
“Ten AM?” I said to Angelica.
“Perfect.”
Before moving toward their table, Lyle said, “Hey, Mimi, have you talked to Sergeant Daly? He’s a friend, right? Has he learned anything new about, you know . . .”
“Bryan’s murder?”
He cleared his throat. “Yeah.”
I hesitated. Had Lyle come into the bistro to show photographs or to get a bead on the situation? Had he come into Fruit of the Vine Artworks earlier to look at the items in the shop or to intimidate me?
“I don’t know anything new,” I said coolly. “I have a call into him.” I turned to Angelica. “By the way, did you ever find out if there are speed cameras in the area that might have captured you on film?”
“I forgot to ask.”
Lyle nudged her. “I reminded you.”
“And then you hustled me to court to get married.”
“Babe, you really need to firm up your alibi.”
“I’ll do it after lunch. Promise.” She petted his cheek.
I gazed at Lyle curiously. “Say, Lyle, forgive me, but did you ever tell Angelica your, um, real alibi?”
His bride’s eyes went wide. “Lyle, what is she talking about?”
He threw me a dark look and, without another word, guided her by the elbow to their table. His mouth was moving the whole time.
Oh, how I would have loved to listen in on the conversation.
Chapter 22
Later that night, as Pierre Dubois, the food critic from Gourmet’s Delight, ate, I felt like I was watching a scene from Who Is Killing the Great Chefs of Europe?, one of my family’s all-time favorite movies. My mother adored George Segal. My father was particularly fond of Jacqueline Bisset. I loved Robert Morley, the overweight foodie who needed to kill the chefs because they made such fabulous creations that he couldn’t resist and therefore was morbidly fat.
Pierre, a portly man of sixty with a shock of dark hair that kept falling down the middle of his forehead, was definitely into food. He relished every mouthful. As he oohed and aahed over the bouillabaisse, I heard Heather snicker. I shooed her away. We did not want our guest to feel intimidated about his verbal expressions of obvious delight. Besides, she had already made a big gaffe by revealing to Pierre, when he first arrived at the bistro, that we knew who he was. She had stumbled over the name Dough by saying Dubois and correcting herself. Oops. Luckily Pierre had laughed heartily, adding that he wasn’t very good at subterfuge.
The assistant Pierre had brought along was as thin as a rail—the tank top she was wearing didn’t do her bony shoulders any favors—and she ate like a bird. One teensy bite of the soup was all she tasted. She murmured her appreciation, but I doubted she had savored it. Hers was a job, not a calling. When she set aside her spoon, she added Pierre’s whispered notes onto an iPad.
Neither of them was drinking wine. Flat water was all they had requested. They didn’t want to dull the flavors with liquor.
After he finished his soup, Pierre said, “Might I see the chef?”
“But of course.”
I strode into the kitchen and begged Camille to follow me to the table. She spruced her hair, smoothed her splattered white chef’s coat, and checked her face in the mirror beside the time clock before exiting.
“Chef”—Pierre rose halfway as a greeting and resumed sitting—“after a single dish, I am pleasantly delighted. The flavors are big and bold, and from such a petite woman.”
The compliment nearly made Chef C swoon. I doubt anyone had ever called her petite. “Wait until you taste our next appetizer,” she said. “It will delight and challenge you.”
“Challenge me? Ho-ho. I enjoy a good challenge.”
“As do I.” When given the opportunity, Chef C loved to tantalize customers. Chuckling, she exited and then returned a minute later to hand-deliver the plates of green-toned pâté with toast points to Pierre and his assistant.
Pierre scooped the pâté onto a toast point and bit into it. His eyes fluttered. “Turmeric?” he whispered.
Chef C nodded. Her mouth widened in a smile.
“And garlic. And sundried tomatoes. And”—he gazed into her eyes—“pumpkin seeds? It’s vegan?”
“Indeed.” She clapped her hands. “My word, you have an excellent palate.”
“You have an exquisite touch, madame. Next dish, please.”
As he finished his pâté, I caught Chef C peeking from the kitchen. She spotted me watching her and ducked back to her station.
When Oakley, who had been assigned to his table, brought out the la clapassade d’agneau and Pierre dug in, he exclaimed, after one bite, that it was exactly as he remembered from the Old Country. He beckoned me.
I hurried to his side.
“Mimi, my sweet girl, have you been spying on my mother? I swear this is her recipe.”
“No, sir. That is an old family recipe.”
“I adore the licorice root. It’s not overbearing.”
“My grandmother always told me to go lightly with it.”
“The crunch of the carrots is just right. I hate soggy carrots.”
“Me, too.”
“Scrumptious.” He tucked the napkin tighter beneath his chin and didn’t stop for a breath until he had finished the entire portion.
The pièce de résistance was, of course, dessert. Stefan delivered the gateau mille-feuilles—a.k.a. the Napoleon—and stood by to await Pierre’s approval.
Pierre gazed at Stefan and back at his dessert plate. His lower lip pushed out. Was he pouting?
I hurried over. “Sir, what’s wrong? Is it not to your liking?”
He swiveled his head and peered up at me. “It is beautiful, but it is not what you, my dear Mimi, are known for. I have heard exquisite remarks about your crème brûlée. I had hoped to enjoy that.”
“Don’t you worry.” I shot a finger at him. “I’m on it.”
Crème brûlée was, indeed, one of my specialties. I prided myself on finding the best vanilla beans available. We always had ramekins of the dessert on hand, and we invariably set one or two on the counter so they could warm to room temperature before applying the heat to the top.
I hurried to the kitchen, placed a ramekin on a pretty white plate, and added a thin layer of vanilla sugar to the top. Then I powered up the blowtorch. Yes, I kept a blowtorch in the bistro kitchen. There were plenty of fancy cooking torches you could purchase at a variety of culinary stores, but I was quite fond of the regular blowtorches found at your typical home improvement store. I switched it on and heated the sugar to a fine crisp.
When I presented the dish to Pierre, he was more than impressed. His assistant, to my surprise, finished her entire dessert.
By the time the two of them departed, the waitstaff, Chef C, Stefan, Heather, and I were as tense as the characters in a Hitchcock movie. The moment the door closed behind them—by then, the dining room had cleared completely—all of us let out deep sighs of relief. Then we shared high fives all around.
“Success!” I said to my chef and threw my arms around her. Her taut frame melted into me.
She broke free and said, “It is always a task, but I love it.”
Stefan said, “My mother would’ve adored that guy. She loves to cook, but she can’t get my father to eat more than the assistant did.”
“Who is your mother?” Heather said, sidling into Stefan and bumping her hip against his.
“My father’s ex-wife,” he countered.
A Deadly Éclair Page 22