A Deadly Éclair

by Daryl Wood Gerber

“You two,” Chef C chided. “Stefan, you cannot keep us on tenterhooks forever.”

  “Yes, I can. I am a master!” He shot a hand into the air.

  Heather persisted. “I’m going to find out who your parents are. I’m determined. Is your mother a famous singer or a movie star? Is your father a drug lord or a mob guy or a—”

  “Enough!” I shouted. “We’re here to celebrate.”

  Something went clack in the kitchen.

  “Who heard that?” I asked.

  Chef C and Heather raised tentative hands.

  Stefan guffawed. “Relax. It’s the wind. The back door is loose. I’ll fix the hinge in the morning. And yes, I’ll lock the door.”

  Our glee settled into something more sober.

  Heather said, “Not to dampen our spirits, but will Mr. Dubois’s review matter in the long run? I mean, it’s not like he reviews for, you know, the big guns.”

  I smiled. “Of course it will. The magazine is well respected. Granted, a good review from Pierre isn’t like earning a star from Michelin, but it’s a beginning. One good review breeds another.” Thankfully, I hadn’t seen nor expected to see a review—good, bad, or indifferent—from the dissatisfied diner who wrote for the Napa Culinary Circle.

  An hour later, once the bistro was spotless and ready for tomorrow’s lunch crowd, I slogged to my cottage. On the way to the bedroom, I scanned the dry-erase board and spotted Angelica’s motive: Money. I picked up the marker and added High-risk investor—gold.

  Something niggled me as I wrote the words. I tapped the capped end of the marker against my chin. Was Angelica’s story about investing in gold true? If she was lying about that and she was actually in debt, how might that alter her motive?

  I scribbled When did she learn about inheritance? and circled the words. If she was in debt, knowledge of her inheritance did matter. I then drew a line from that cluster of words to Lyle’s name. If Angelica had learned about the inheritance before Bryan died, she might have revealed as much to Lyle. If only I knew what Lyle had discussed with Kaya Hill. Had he met with her to exonerate himself or Angelica? Was he worried because Angelica had told him she’d caught me theorizing? Or had Kent told him to protect himself after challenging me in the garden?

  As I set the pen down and took a step back, I heard a creak. By the front door. I whipped around. “Who’s there?” I yelled.

  No one said a word.

  My breath snagged in my chest. I grabbed the hand-forged iron poker from the stand of tools by the fireplace and tiptoed to the door. I heard a faint meow. I jerked the door open and in vaulted Scoundrel. He yowled at the top of his lungs. I slammed the door and locked it and scooped him into my arms. “What’s up, buddy?”

  His heart pounded like a sledgehammer. Something had given him a fright.

  I peeked through the curtains. I couldn’t make out any figures. No one was peeping from behind a tree. No squirrels were dashing about like they had at my mother’s house pretending to be ghosts. I set Scoundrel on the floor. Like an eager scout, he scampered through the cottage, checking corners and closets. A minute later, he returned to me, circled me once, and then headed to the door leading to the patio. When I didn’t open the door, he glanced back at me, his tail hooked in a question mark.

  “Time to leave?” I asked.

  He mewled.

  “Not hungry?” I had a can of tuna in the cupboard.

  He didn’t respond.

  “Okay, fine.” I opened the door.

  He tore off, bounded over the rear wall, and disappeared into the night.

  Nervous laughter bubbled out of me as I replayed his sudden arrival. The mouse he had preyed upon must have turned out to be more vicious than anticipated.

  Water gurgled inside the aquarium. I swooped around, still on alert. Cagney and Lacey goggled me from within. Did they care whether I was okay, or were they worried that I was losing my mind? Maybe they knew I was slaphappy and were trying to convince me to go to sleep.

  I waved to them. “Yeah, yeah. Bedtime.”

  Just as I was about to enter the bedroom, I heard another sound at the front door. Not a creak. A clatter. “Scoundrel, stop it!”

  I stomped to the door and whipped it open. Scoundrel wasn’t there, but on the doorstep was a white plate with a caramel-iced éclair set atop a paper doily. I glanced right and left but didn’t see any movement. I didn’t hear retreating footsteps, either. I flashed on the sound I’d heard at the bistro. Had someone stolen into the kitchen while we were celebrating and taken an éclair from the walk-in refrigerator? Who? And why leave it for me? I peered at the éclair again and saw a corner of a folded piece of paper peaking from beneath the pastry.

  Heart pounding, I snatched the plate, backed into the cottage, and slammed and bolted the door. I withdrew the paper and unfolded it. Written in what looked like red lipstick were the words Back off! The same words David Ives had said to me. My insides knotted as I recalled the recent turn of events: the encounter at the festival, the warnings from Kent and the others, the mirror breaking, the run-in with David outside the jewelry store . . . and now this.

  Someone pounded on the door. I jolted. Would a killer knock?

  “Who is it?” I asked tentatively.

  “Raymond.”

  Relief coursed through me. I set the plate with the éclair and note on the kitchen counter, raced to the door, and peeked through the peephole. My wonderful master gardener was standing there holding a lit flashlight.

  I threw the bolt and opened the door. “I’m so happy to see you. Come in. Have you been snail hunting?”

  “It’s slug night.” The knees of his coveralls were filthy. “Are you okay? You slammed your door.”

  “I’m fine.” I tugged his sleeve, drew him inside, and then closed the door and locked it. “Okay, that’s a lie. I’m not fine. Did you see anybody running from my cottage?”

  “No.”

  “Someone left that for me.” I pointed to the éclair and the note.

  Raymond strode to the counter and inspected the note. “We should call Tyson.”

  “And tell him what, that I’m freaked out? He already wants me to butt out of his investigation.”

  “You should.”

  “I have.”

  Raymond eyed the dry-erase board. “Uh, no, you haven’t, if that’s any indication.” He ran his hand through his thick dark hair. “Mimi, get real. This note is serious.”

  “It’s nothing more than a bully trying to strong-arm me, and I refuse to be manipulated.”

  Raymond barked out a laugh. “Ha! Yeah, that sounds like you. I remember a time in high school when you took the same stance. You were running for class treasurer. You had the best slogan: ‘Chocolate bar—$3, class T-shirts—$12. Mimi for treasurer: Priceless.’”

  “My father came up with that.”

  “You were running against Erika, remember? She was always in your face, telling you how you weren’t pretty enough, and you were . . . pretty enough”—self-consciously, he licked his lips—“which all your friends kept reminding you, so you retaliated and said she wasn’t smart enough to be treasurer. Then you posted a sign that said ‘Erika makes no cents.’” He thrust a finger like a sword. “Score! Everyone laughed. She cried. Bully conquered.”

  “So what do you think I should do?” I glanced at the éclair. The murderer had stuffed one in Bryan’s mouth. Was this him or her saying he or she would shut me up, too?

  Raymond shoved a hand in his pocket. “You look tired. Go to sleep. I’ll be glad to keep watch outside. In the morning, you can come up with a plan.”

  Sleep. Right. As if that was going to happen.

  Chapter 23

  I slept fitfully. When I woke, I showered and dressed, and after my morning cup of coffee, I felt bold and clearheaded. Whoever had left that éclair had run off. It was a warning, that was all, like all the other warnings. I didn’t need to tell Tyson. Yet. I didn’t relish an early morning lecture from him. I would face the d
ay the same way I had since starting my new venture with Bryan as my benefactor—with confidence. Later, when and if Tyson touched base with me about Bryan’s collectibles, I would give him a full recap.

  My mother and I always met for a weekly breakfast at Chocolate, the café where Bryan and I used to talk business. Mom had gone there regularly with my father, so it held a special place in both our hearts. A terrific jazz club called Dizzy G’s and Forever, a bridal shop that carried some of the most gorgeous and whimsical gowns I had ever seen, flanked the café on either side.

  At eight thirty, Mom and I greeted each other in front of the café. She had taught me from an early age to be prompt to all occasions.

  Chocolate was an adorable, light-filled place, decorated with white coffee-cup-shaped chairs seated around rich walnut-topped tables. The white-toned granite counter was fitted with six white stools that were invariably filled. Crystal pendant lights hung over a second counter, upon which sat glass-topped cake plates filled with delectable goodies.

  The owner, Irene, was as adorable as her café. She had eyes the color of Hershey’s kisses and invariably wore her pink-highlighted hair in a loose braid. She had never married, and she didn’t have children, but she loved dogs with a passion and kept a contribution jar on the counter to help strays. Her own rescue dog, a chocolate Labrador named Chip—get it, chocolate chip—played all day long in a tarp-covered yard behind the café. Diners who brought their dogs were invited to let their pets play with Chip as long as the canines were friendly and had the appropriate vaccinations.

  Always positive, Irene hung signs with wonderful sayings on the wall by the register. Today’s was When the plan fails, change the plan.

  My mother, who looked quite chic in leggings, lacy sandals, and a loose-fitting gauze top, strode to a table by the window. Irene kept it reserved for us. Ragtime music was playing through the speakers. My foot tapped beneath my chair as I peered at the chalkboard that held the day’s specials, wondering whether I would eat something other than my usual.

  Seconds later, Irene, in a white smock dress and brown apron, brought us two glasses of ice water, two hot chocolates, and two croissants. So much for choosing something different, I mused. How well she knew us. Her croissants were so flaky and buttery that neither my mother nor I could resist.

  “Morning, ladies. Hot enough for you?” The temperature outside was barely seventy degrees, but Irene liked it cool. She had grown up by the ocean but had moved inland when her aging parents retired in Napa. “Let me know if you need anything else.” She sashayed back to the counter.

  “How are the ghosts, Mom?” I teased.

  “You’re a laugh a minute.”

  “Maybe it’s time to start dating and rediscover that plucky spirit of yours. Think of how many squirrels you could tackle.”

  “Not yet.” She grew quiet and sipped her chocolate. When she peered up at me, her eyes brimmed with tears. “Every time I come here, I miss your father.”

  “Then let’s stop coming here.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “I miss him, too.” I caressed the tourmaline stone on my necklace. “I bet he would help me solve Bryan’s murder.”

  “You?” My mother dabbed her mouth with a chocolate-brown cloth napkin. “Darling, I’m sure Tyson will solve the case. He’s so handsome.”

  “Mom, c’mon. Really? Handsome doesn’t make him smart.”

  “It doesn’t hurt.” She winked at me. “Speaking of handsome, I really like your new man, Nash.”

  “He’s not my new man.”

  “You went on a date, didn’t you? When was the last time you did that? Not since—”

  “I know.” Since Derrick died. I had been busy starting a business and healing a broken heart.

  “By the way, you looked charming in that outfit you wore with your hair loose and that cute hat. Why don’t you—”

  I gave her the evil eye. She bit back the rest of her critique. She didn’t need to say it out loud. She was never happy with my self-dictated uniform, but after our visit, I was going to Angelica’s to see her mother’s art and then straight to work.

  Using a knife, she cut her croissant into eight equal bites. “Nash is charming and a bit of a rogue, if you ask me. That smile and those dimples. Mmm.” She blew a kiss.

  “I heard you hired him.”

  “I know a good salesman when I meet one. I’ve been waiting for someone like him to come along.” My mother swallowed a bite of croissant and tilted her head. “What’s with the face?” She mimicked me, and I laughed. In that regard, we were quite alike. She could match the way I screwed up my nose better than anyone. “Are you worried about something?”

  “You said he’s a bit of a rogue. Someone else mentioned he might be a rover.”

  “A rover? What an out-of-date word. Darling, don’t even go there.” She plopped another croissant bite into her mouth.

  Irene, who was taking an order at a nearby table, whirled around. In three quick strides she was on us. “Are you talking about Nash Hawke?”

  “You know him?” my mother said.

  “Everyone in town knows Nash. Sweetest guy around.”

  “But does he play around?” my mother asked.

  Irene chuckled. “Doesn’t every man?”

  “No,” Mom said. “Mimi’s father didn’t.”

  “Has someone told you he’s a player, Mimi?” Irene asked.

  “His ex-wife, Willow, hinted that he wasn’t to be trusted.”

  Irene laughed. “She’s cagey, that one. Imagine her calling the kettle black. Ha!” She leaned forward and put both palms on our table. “Willow can’t help herself.”

  “With men?” my mother asked.

  “No, Mom, with money,” I said. “Nash confided they got divorced because Willow overspent.”

  Irene chortled again. “That’s a nice way of saying she’s reckless, but not merely with money.” She lowered her voice. “Look, I know it’s not nice to spread rumors, but this isn’t a rumor. You should take what Willow says with a grain of salt because, well, she has mood swings that trigger the buying sprees.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because Willow and I are friends.”

  My mother muttered, “You won’t be after she learns you told Mimi her secret.”

  Irene laughed again. “Sure she will, because she can say the same thing about me. I really have to watch my spending. Why, I often freeze my credit cards in a cup of ice so I can’t get to them until the ice melts. That seems to nip the urge.”

  My mother said, “Why would Willow lie and hint that Nash was a playboy?”

  “I have no idea. Mind you, she has a heart of gold, but she’s capricious.”

  As Irene ambled away, a series of thoughts ran together in my mind. Not of Willow or Nash but of Angelica. Not because of her investments in gold—although Irene saying the word gold was what had made me think of her—but because Angelica had mentioned that she was an art collector, which steered my thoughts to Bryan and Tyson. I opened my e-mail on my cell phone. Tyson hadn’t responded yet to my query about accounting for the valuable items in Bryan’s home or office. Drat. I set my phone faceup by my mug in case he did.

  For the next half hour, my mother and I tabled the conversation about Nash and discussed life in general. She remarked how pretty Napa was at this time of year and how she was planning to take a trip to New York to see a few musicals in the winter. Would I like to join her? I told her I would love to, but I would have to see how my schedule turned out. I mentioned that she looked tired, but she pooh-poohed the thought.

  When we finished our meal and she and I parted, I called Tyson. He wasn’t at the station. He was out viewing real estate properties. “Really?” I muttered, irked that he wasn’t devoting 100 percent of his time to solving Bryan’s case. I dialed his cell phone number, but he didn’t answer. I groaned and ended the call without leaving a message. It wasn’t like he was obligated to tell me anything. If I wanted inform
ation, I would have to get it another way.

  And get it I would. My curiosity was at an all-time high. On my way to my Jeep, I rang Bryan’s assistant. She answered on the first ring.

  “Yasmine, hi, it’s Mimi Rousseau.”

  “Hello, Mimi.” Yasmine was an Indian woman from New Delhi with the most beautiful accent and the most glorious black curly hair. We had met on numerous occasions. Once she’d asked if I wanted to learn to belly dance. Before moving to the States and marrying her American-born husband, she had performed in a Bollywood-style movie. I passed on the private lessons. If I didn’t feel comfortable in a bikini, I certainly wouldn’t feel comfortable in a belly-dancing outfit.

  “I am sorry about Mr. Baker,” she said. “I know you were close.”

  “Thank you.”

  “It is terrible, the injustice. What is this world coming to?”

  “I don’t know.” I truly didn’t. “Did you speak with Sergeant Daly?”

  “I did. He asked me about Mr. Baker’s business associates. I couldn’t think of anyone who would want to hurt him. All his recent deals were going amazingly well.”

  “Did the sergeant ask you for a list of Bryan’s art collection?”

  “Yes.” Yasmine was all business all the time. She dotted her i’s and crossed her t’s. Accounting sheets were never incorrect. And she had been instrumental in getting all the permits in place when we were undergoing construction—not an easy task.

  “Was anything missing?” I asked.

  “One of the Fabergé eggs.”

  “Which one?”

  “The one with the carousel inside. I mentioned it to him. He said he would follow up.” Yasmine clucked her tongue. “Isn’t it odd, Mimi? Why did the thief take that one? I know it was your favorite.”

  I sputtered. “I didn’t take it.”

  Yasmine’s laughter came out in little spurts. “Of course you didn’t. Did you know it was Mr. Baker’s favorite, as well?” She repeated the egg’s history, which I already knew. “It is sad, is it not?” She sighed. “The office lock was picked, so anyone could have taken the egg, I suppose. A deputy dusted for prints, but I don’t think they found anything. I warned Mr. Baker he needed better security, but he didn’t listen to me. He said in Napa Valley, people were to be trusted.”