A Deadly Éclair

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  I sighed. Bryan and his old-fashioned beliefs. “Yasmine, I don’t know much about Mr. Baker. You worked for him for, what, ten years?”

  “Eleven.” Her tone was filled with regret.

  “Was he a good boss?”

  “The best. Generous. Good hours. He didn’t mind if I worked three hours or eight hours, as long as I got the work done.”

  “Was he ever married?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Was he being sued by anyone?”

  “Not to my knowledge. He has been, of course. Our society has become quite litigious. But he always settled matters quickly and fairly.”

  “Has anyone ever threatened him?”

  “Once. A while ago, a man came into the office. Distinguished looking, though he had a peculiar way of staring at me, as if I were a specimen. His name was David—”

  “Ives,” I cut in.

  “That’s the one. He and Bryan yelled for quite a while, but when he left, he seemed, what is the word”—she hummed—“mollified. I told Sergeant Daly about him.”

  I thanked her and, unable to come up with any more questions, ended the call.

  As I opened the door to my Jeep, a man behind me said, “Hello, Mimi.”

  I turned. Edison was walking my way, looking quite put together in a wine-toned plaid shirt tucked into jeans.

  Beyond him, I spotted Paula Ives idling in a dark-blue BMW. She was staring at me while drumming the steering wheel. She seemed conflicted. Was she upset that I had stared at her in the restaurant when she was acting cagey with the legal pad, or was she still fuming that I had questioned her about stealing my cell phone? Maybe Kent had told her that I was theorizing about the murder. He had warned me to be careful. A shudder ran up my spine. Was she the one who had taunted me at the festival and put the éclair and note outside my door?

  “Is Angelica inside?” Edison asked. “I heard she was having breakfast with you. I need to talk to her.”

  “We didn’t meet for breakfast. My mother and I did. Angelica asked me to stop by her mother’s art studio afterward. I’m headed there now. Want to come along?” I asked. Having him by my side might thwart whatever dastardly plan Paula was hatching.

  He shook his head. “I’ve got to swing by the bank. Tell her I’ll catch up with her later.”

  “But if you need to talk to her—”

  “No, no, no.” He wagged his head and grinned. “I won’t intrude on girl time. If my wife taught me one thing, it’s that women like their privacy.” He turned to leave.

  “Edison . . .” I hesitated.

  He spun around. “What’s on your mind?”

  “One of Bryan’s Fabergé eggs has gone missing, the one that held a carousel. I was going to ask Angelica—”

  “Ask her what?” he snapped. His face turned cold. “If she stole it?”

  “No, I—”

  “What on earth would she want with a stupid egg?”

  “That’s not—”

  “Do you think she killed her uncle to cover up the theft? Are you out of your mind?” He jutted a finger at me. “Angelica is innocent, do you hear me? She is just like her mother, beyond reproach.”

  “Sir, please.” I held up two hands to placate him. “All I wanted to ask her was whether she had any idea who might have taken it, but since you’re here, I thought I’d ask you.”

  “I’m s-sorry,” Edison spluttered and then blanched. “I can be overprotective.”

  “Can’t we all?” I smiled, trying to smooth over my misstep. “I was thinking that whoever took the egg must have known about it, seeing as Bryan had more valuable collectibles. Why single out—”

  Paula revved the engine of her car as if to let me know she was nearby. Through the windshield, I saw her grinning. Was she trying to scare me? It was working.

  Edison said, “Hey, isn’t that Lyle’s sister?”

  “It is.”

  Paula’s face drew tight. Seconds later, she ground the car into gear and tore off.

  “What’s her problem?” Edison asked.

  “Where do I begin?”

  He laughed. “Back to the matter at hand. Where did my brother keep this Fabergé egg? I don’t remember seeing it at the house.”

  “In his office. He had a collection.”

  Edison shook his head. “I’m sorry. I can’t be of any help. I don’t know any of Bryan’s clients. He had an assistant, didn’t he? Did the sheriff question her?”

  “They did. You know what puzzled both of us? Bryan told us that he’d acquired the egg because it had reminded him of the time when he’d met the love of his life. Do you know who that might have been?”

  “Bryan? In love?” Edison chuffed. “My brother never gave his heart to anyone. He wasn’t cold, mind you—simply too busy building his empire. His father . . .” He worked his lower lip between his teeth. “The man roamed the world without ever making a dime or putting down roots. That’s why our mother left him and married my father. Bryan was out to prove to the world that he was a better man. As a consolation for never giving in to love, he sponsored entrepreneurs like you.”

  “You must miss him.”

  “More than I can say.” Edison stroked his chin. “Did his assistant tell you how the thief got into the office?”

  “The lock was picked. Bryan wasn’t keen on high-tech security. He liked to believe in humankind’s good nature.”

  “The idiot,” Edison muttered. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think it was my daughter’s new husband. Lyle had his eye on the brass ring from the very beginning.”

  “The brass ring?”

  “I was using the carousel metaphor. Don’t you go for the brass ring on a carousel ride?” He stretched his arm, miming the gesture. “Angelica is the brass ring. She earns a good living.”

  “You presumed that Lyle was after Angelica’s fortune?”

  “Let’s just say, I don’t trust him. I might gamble, but he lies.”

  Chapter 24

  On my way to meet Angelica, I used the hands-free system in my Jeep and called Tyson again. Still no answer. What was up with him? Was he doing anything to solve Bryan’s murder? House hunting, honestly? I waited through his message and this time left one of my own: “Call me or come find me. I heard about the missing Fabergé egg. I have an idea. I’m meeting Angelica at her mother’s studio, then I’ll be back at the bistro. Plus, I have to tell you about a few warnings—”

  The call ended abruptly; no cell reception.

  “Shoot,” I muttered, instantly regretting my message. I should have been nicer. I should have said please. How I wished I could erase it and start over. Tyson didn’t deserve my wrath.

  As I made the turn onto St. Helena Highway, sunshine glinted through the windshield, making me blink. Luckily traffic was better than normal. No workmen fixing potholes. No tourists stopping in the middle of the road for a less-than-ideal photo op. No llamas. Yes, one time there had been a forty-five-minute delay because a llama had escaped from its farm and was taking in the sights while walking down the median.

  Halfway to Barrington Vineyards, my cell phone rang. I pressed the telephone icon on the steering wheel. “Tyson?”

  “It’s Nash. Should I be jealous that you were hoping to hear from another man?”

  I smiled. “Not a whit. What’s up?”

  “I was wondering whether you thought about me while you drank the rest of the wine last night.”

  I gulped. I was so tired that I had forgotten to take the wine to the cottage. Then I saw the dry-erase board, got spooked by Scoundrel, found the éclair and the note, shared my fears with Raymond and, well, all thoughts of Nash went out the window. What to do? Lie?

  “Mimi?”

  In the rearview mirror, I caught sight of a dark-colored car speeding around another car. From this distance, I couldn’t tell the make. Was it Paula in her BMW?

  “Mimi? Are you all right? Did I lose you?”

  “I got distracted. Traffic is sketchy.�
� I continued to watch the car behind me. It didn’t make another pass. There was too much traffic heading south. “I did think of you in my dreams,” I said. That wasn’t a total lie. I had been dreaming about him with regularity.

  He chuckled. “You forgot the wine.”

  “I was so exhausted.”

  “How did the evening go with the food critic?”

  “Terrific.”

  “And my ex-wife. Did she behave herself after I left?”

  “She did.”

  “Listen, about Willow—”

  I cut him off. “Nash, can we talk about her another time? I’m on my way to a meeting.”

  “Sure, of course.”

  We ended the call right as I arrived at the entrance to Barrington Vineyards.

  Like Nouvelle Vie Vineyards, the property was modest in size, but the sweeping driveway leading to the estate at the top of the hill offered incredible views to the north and south. Pinkish roses grew at the end of each row of vines. They had been planted to attract bugs that might destroy the grapes.

  The Barringtons’ main house, which abutted the building where salesmen would be received, was a traditional two-story farmhouse, all white with a wraparound porch and plenty of dormer windows. Angelica, dressed in a summery white halter dress, met me at the front door and gave me a hug. She smelled like lilacs.

  “I’m so glad you came. I’m making some tea that we can take to the studio. Follow me.”

  She led me through the foyer into the kitchen. On the way, I peeked into the adjoining rooms. Each was decorated with an artist’s touch. There weren’t any works by famous artists on the walls—no Picassos or Mirós like at Bryan’s—but the art that hung there was colorful.

  “Your mother’s work?” I asked.

  Angelica smiled. “She painted it during her red period.”

  Even the kitchen, though mainly white—white counters, white floors, white cabinets—was accented with red: red pots, red utensils, red trivets. Through the windowed cupboards, I spied red plates and mugs.

  “Dad hasn’t seen fit to change anything. He hates the color red. He prefers blue. But he lives with it. I don’t think he has the heart to remove anything.”

  On the counter was a tray set with two stunning red floral china cups on saucers, a matching teapot, two silver spoons, and a tiny bowl filled with sugar cubes.

  “My mother treasured this set. It’s antique French Limoges hand-painted china. She bought it when she was twenty-one. She was lucky enough to travel to Paris, and she found it at an antique fair. She fell in love with it.”

  My mother collected tea sets. This one reminded me of a Limoges set she had.

  A teakettle on the stove whistled. Angelica turned off the burner and poured the hot water into the teapot. “I hope French vanilla tea is all right with you.”

  I didn’t have room for anything after my croissant at Chocolate, but I said yes.

  “This way.” Carrying the tray, Angelica guided me through the foyer, down the front stairs, and around to the right. Her hair fluttered in the breeze. “The studio is in the back. My mother wanted it situated where she would receive the best afternoon light. Artists can be very particular about light.”

  She escorted me to a building that was separated from the rest of the house. When we entered the one-room studio, I felt as if I had been transported in time. It was an airy room that would have made Monet proud, with a wall of windows and two skylights overhead. Each bulb in an array of running lights attached to the pitched ceiling was aimed at a piece of art hanging on the walls.

  I was amazed by the amount of furniture: a practical oak work desk fitted with architectural-type tools like pencils, drawing paper, and X-ACTO knives stood next to the far wall; two easels—one modern, one antique—were set on the multicolored area rug; a cart carrying paints stood beside the desk; and an eight-drawer cabinet, to store canvases, was tucked into the corner.

  Against the opposing wall, directly to our left, stood a workbench. I set my purse down and examined the tools, which were similar to the ones I had seen at Willow’s shop: palette knives, paintbrushes, a couple of blowtorches, glasscutters, and more. Beyond the bench, rustic shelving held empty wine bottles and assorted sheets of metal. Past that, a Jenkins kiln.

  Along the wall of windows was a grouping of glass garden ornaments, each dangling from wires inserted into a Styrofoam planter. Beside the ornaments stood a wrought-iron bistro-style table with two wrought-iron chairs. Angelica set the tea service on the table.

  “Pour you a cup?”

  “Sure. Two sugars.”

  Using the sugar tongs, she dropped the cubes into the hot liquid and handed me a cup. As I stirred it, I noticed the scrolling on the miniature spoons. “These remind me of spoons Bryan owned.” I had shared tea with him a couple of times, which is how I had become familiar with the art he had in his home.

  “You’re right. He gave these to Mom. They’re French. He knew how much she had enjoyed that trip. How could he not? She talked about it all the time. They were a little token, he said.” Her smile was bittersweet.

  With teacup and saucer in hand, I roamed the studio. “Wow, your mother’s artwork is incredible and so varied. I particularly like the impressionist French carnival piece.” It was an oil painting that made me remember a time when Derrick and I had traveled to Paris and taken in a ridiculously brutal Punch and Judy show. We’d laughed until our sides hurt.

  “That’s one of my favorites. Mom always wanted to go back. Dad wasn’t much of a traveler. I think the farthest they traveled was to Chicago for a wedding.”

  Angelica left her teacup on the service tray and wandered the studio, fondly touching items as she passed. The brush of her fingertips set off a tinkling of glass wind chimes. In a whisper she said, “It’s sad, isn’t it? Dad couldn’t part with any of this. Not a thing has been moved since she died. He, and only he, dusts it.”

  “Give him time,” I said.

  “It’s been fifteen years.”

  “Everyone handles grief differently.”

  Angelica sighed. “You’re right. After Grandpa died, Grandma wouldn’t get rid of his clothes for even longer than that.”

  The door to the studio whipped open, and Lyle strode in. “There you are.”

  I tensed. Something about him seemed off. It wasn’t just that he was wearing all black and reminded me of a bad guy in a B movie, but his eyes were beady, and he was sweating. He marched to Angelica and threw an arm around her shoulders, but he didn’t kiss her. He looked like he wanted to throttle her.

  “What’s up?” She freed herself from his grasp and discreetly inched away. She must have picked up on his distress, too.

  He stood there, hands clenching and unclenching. Out of the side of his mouth, he said, “Hi, Mimi.”

  “Hi, Lyle. Care for some tea?” I would gladly relinquish my cup and give it to him so his hands would be occupied and mine free.

  He waved me off and faced Angelica. “I’m sorry, but this couldn’t wait. The hotel manager, Jorianne, told me you two were meeting here.”

  How did Jo know where I was? Heather must have clued her in.

  “We need to talk,” Lyle went on.

  I said, “That reminds me, Angelica. I saw your father in town. He needs to talk to you. I’m not sure about what. He didn’t say. Maybe you should call him.”

  “It’ll wait.” She maintained eye contact with Lyle. Had being a talk show host taught her how to stay so composed? I was impressed. “Sweetheart, what’s wrong?”

  “Money,” Lyle hissed. “The bridge loans. The bank is calling them in, and I . . .” He scrubbed his hair and paced in a circle. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

  Here it comes, I thought. Her father and Bryan were right. He wanted her help financially. A theory scudded through my mind. Did Lyle steal the Fabergé egg so he could sell it and buy himself time with his loans? Did he hope to talk Angelica into selling off the rest of Bryan’s artwork straighta
way to bail out his company?

  Angelica said, “Mimi, give us a little space, would you?”

  “Sure.” I set down my teacup and circled the room, taking in the pieces of art while listening in.

  “We’ll call the banks and negotiate,” Angelica said, the voice of reason.

  “I tried that, don’t you see?”

  “We’ll try again. They haven’t dealt with me, and you know how I am with money people. Tough as nails.” She forced a laugh.

  Lyle moaned. “I never should have gotten into this mess. I’m so weak.”

  “Sweetheart, you’re not weak. You wanted to make sure the family business stayed afloat. You’re loyal. How much are we talking about?”

  “Three hundred thousand.”

  Angelica’s mouth dropped, but she didn’t gasp. She held herself together. I would imagine on her talk show she’d had to hide her shock numerous times. Celebrities could unload major zingers. “I’ve got half of that in savings. I’ll figure out how to get the rest.”

  “I need it ASAP!” Lyle slammed his right fist into the palm of his left. “I need cold, hard cash.”

  “Lyle, honey, stay cool.”

  “I talked to my father. He doesn’t have this kind of money. Paula laughed in my face. And Kent . . .” He whirled on her, his fists raised.

  I gasped. Would he hurt her if she didn’t comply? Did I need to tackle him?

  “Lyle, lower your arms,” Angelica ordered. “Take a deep breath. What did Kent do?”

  Lyle dropped his arms to his sides, but even so, I moved in the direction of the workbench, where I had set my purse. My cell phone was tucked inside. I would call Tyson and alert him. If he wasn’t available, I would call Edison for help. He wasn’t a big man, but if his outburst with me less than an hour ago was any indication, he would fiercely protect his daughter. On my way, I paused in front of a fused glass sculpture—a deep-green heart that reminded me of the one hanging in Bryan’s office. He told me once that a special lady had made it for him. Had Angelica’s mother given it to him?

  “What are you staring at, Mimi?” Lyle demanded.