A Deadly Éclair

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  Lyle joined her and slipped a comforting arm around her, his financial worries far less important than her current situation. “Babe, we’ll figure it out. Family is drama, and drama is family,” he said glibly. He knew from firsthand experience.

  Leaving Angelica and her beloved to determine their next move, I returned to the bistro. You would have thought I was a hero with the welcome I received. Heather did some kind of goofy cheerleading leap. Where had she learned that? From one of the kids she used to teach, I decided. Stefan whooped like a crane. Our bartender Red tapped a wine bottle with a spoon. Oakley and the rest of the waitstaff applauded. Even Chef C came to the front of the restaurant to give me a two-kitchen-mitt thumbs-up.

  Within minutes, Jo arrived, looking as intense as the neon-blue blouse she was wearing. “I’m so glad you’re okay,” she gushed. She couldn’t have hugged me harder if she were a mama bear.

  “Tyson is upset with me,” I whispered.

  She fanned the air. “Don’t worry about him. I’ll fix that.”

  I breathed easier. If anyone could pacify Tyson Daly, it was my pal Jo.

  *

  On Saturday, though Angelica was bereft over the incarceration of her father, she held a memorial for Bryan in the Bazille Garden. The sky was blue. A gentle breeze wafted through the trees and roses. Birds chirped merrily. Jo had arranged a lovely tea-style spread, with lemon scones, orange cardamom madeleines, and of course, éclairs—Bryan’s favorite. Lyle and his family attended. Francine and Kent had hung around to support Lyle and Angelica.

  I joined Paula Ives by the buffet as she was refilling her teacup. Her hair was coiffed, and she was wearing a pretty dark-green ensemble.

  “Darn it all,” she hissed. The lacy cuff of her blouse was ready to dunk itself in the hot water urn’s drip basin.

  “Let me help you.” After I rescued the sleeve, I said, “Could you spare a minute?”

  “Sure,” she murmured, though her shoulders visibly tensed. What did she think I was going to do, strike her?

  “The other day, you and I exchanged a glance at the bistro.”

  Her jaw ticked. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You were on your cell phone and making notes on a legal pad. We locked gazes.”

  “Oh, that.”

  “An hour later, I caught you following me in Yountville.”

  “I wasn’t following you. I—”

  “You revved the engine of your BMW and glowered at me.”

  Paula tittered. “My, what an active imagination you have. I wasn’t glowering. I was surprised and excited to see you. I had concluded a transaction with my realtor—that was who I was on the phone with at the bistro—and I wanted to tell you about what I bought and about, well, something else, but then Angelica’s father showed up.”

  “Why did you rev your engine?”

  She laughed again. “Because the heel of my pump snagged on the floor mat, and I accidentally jammed the accelerator trying to loosen it.”

  That all sounded reasonable. Maybe I did have an active imagination. “So what property did you purchase?”

  “A precious bed-and-breakfast not far from your mother’s vineyard. It’s six rooms, which is the perfect size for me. It needs a little work, but I’m not afraid to paint a few walls and pound a few nails. And the garden? Did I mention the garden?”

  I smiled. Exactly when would she have mentioned it?

  “It needs a total overhaul, but it’s going to be perfect,” she said, waxing rhapsodic. “We’ll serve breakfast. There’s nothing better than omelets with fresh herbs, don’t you think?”

  How could I not agree? She was glowing.

  “I hired the most adorable omelet chef. She’s young and eager, plus—” She halted.

  I waited. When she didn’t add anything more, I said, “Is there something else you want to tell me?”

  She peeked over her shoulder. At her father. “Move. That way.” She prodded me toward a corner, away from him. “I’m seeing Raymond, and I don’t want you to tell me I can’t.”

  “I would never consider your love life or his my business. However, what I really think is that you don’t want your father to have a say.”

  “Daddy”—she sniffed—“can be overbearing.”

  That was an understatement. I smiled. “Look, you are strong. You are making a huge break from the family and the family business. Tell him what you want to do, and don’t let him bulldoze you. Believe in yourself.”

  She squeezed my arm in thanks.

  Out of nowhere, Scoundrel bolted across the patio and stopped at Paula’s feet. He gazed up, his tail curling in his characteristic question mark. She bent to pet him. “Hey, girl, how are you?”

  “Girl?” I squawked.

  “Didn’t you know?”

  “He’s . . . she’s Heather’s responsibility.” I had stroked him and picked him up. I hadn’t inspected him. “He’s a she, really?”

  “Indeed she is.” Paula giggled again. I was truly enjoying her happiness. She was an entirely different woman than the one who had shown up a week ago. “And she’s pregnant!”

  I burst into laughter. We were going to have six or seven mousers? Gee, I couldn’t wait for them to come prowling around my cottage, bringing me trophies. Ack. “I’ll see you later. I’ve got to find my sweet assistant and give her a piece of my mind.”

  *

  An entire week passed before things totally settled down at Bistro Rousseau. Large crowds continued to flock to the place, which pleased me, but they were no longer gossipmongers hoping for a story; they were customers hungry for delicious food. The Gourmet’s Delight review had been a rave, which had prompted two more wily food critics to show up unannounced.

  Knowing the bistro was now a target for more surprise guests, I stepped up our game by increasing our three specials a day to five. Today’s menu was on the dry-erase board in my living room; I had been eager to write a new project on it after I had erased my theories about Bryan’s murder.

  Appetizers would include individual fondues made with Gruyère cheese and white wine, each served with small baguettes of bread so the diner could tear off portions to dip. We would also offer my take on Jacques Pepin’s choucroute garnie, with a base of sauerkraut and pork ribs, and featuring bacon, ham, three different sausages, boiled potatoes, and herbs. For the entrées, we would have Chef C’s specialty, coq au Riesling, which meant “chicken in Riesling”—a nice tweak to coq au vin, which was usually made with Burgundy—as well as matelote, a scrumptious fish stew cooked in cider. I opted for a floating island dessert, which consisted of poached meringue set atop crème anglaise. In my opinion, it was downright incredible.

  As I was standing at the hostess podium, watching Heather dash to the kitchen to deliver the menu I had scribbled for Chef C, the door whisked open, and a very distinguished black man entered with my mother.

  “Darling,” my mother cooed. Dressed in a wine-colored top over a flouncy skirt and strappy sandals, she looked as vivacious as a vineyard hostess. She bustled to me and kissed me on each cheek. “You won’t guess who this is.”

  I whispered, “I know exactly who he is, Mother.”

  “You do?”

  I nodded. Anthony Alston. Stefan’s father. A renowned financier in the US government. Had he made the suggestion to dine at the bistro in an effort to touch base with his estranged son, or had my mother unwittingly made the invitation? She didn’t know Stefan’s last name. Luckily, my adorable sous chef was in the kitchen. I didn’t need sparks flying.

  “How did you two meet?” I asked.

  “He came to San Francisco for a conference—a very private conference—and decided to spend his day off in Napa. We bumped into one another at the jazz festival, literally. My fault. His wineglass went flying. I bought him a refill.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me you’d met someone when we had breakfast at Chocolate last week?”

  “We hadn’t reconnected yet. Doesn’t he rem
ind you of Johnny Mathis with his boyish good looks?”

  Upon further inspection, he did. So did Stefan, come to think of it. The broad smile, the intense, romantic eyes.

  “We had such a good time that I mentioned he should come back for another visit. I didn’t think he would take me up on it, but”—my mother bumped her hip against his—“he did.”

  I about choked. Was she flirting with him? Had she taken what I had said about dating to heart? He was definitely dating material, but was she ready to date someone with such a high profile? My father had been very low-key.

  “Nice to meet you, sir,” I said.

  “Call me Anthony.” His voice was so melodious, I wondered if he was in fact channeling Johnny Mathis. No wonder he had swept my mother off her feet.

  “Between us”—she winked at me—“Anthony recently decided to step down from his position because he’s not a fan of the current administration. He wants to run for Congress, so he’s thinking about resettling here.”

  “Here?” I gulped. “In Napa?”

  “In Nouvelle Vie. There’s a nice place up the road. Jorianne’s father showed it to him.”

  I gulped again. How would Stefan feel about his father living in his backyard? He had worked so hard to keep his distance.

  “By the by, I’ve been thinking about selling the vineyard.”

  “What?” I squealed. “Mom, you’re making my head spin with all the news. Why?”

  “It’s daunting running a vineyard at my age. And with the possibility of ghosts—”

  “There are no ghosts.”

  She giggled. “I know. But I should live a little, don’t you think? Travel a bit. Your father and I didn’t because I was tied to the vineyard.” She tweaked Anthony’s arm. “Anthony thinks it’s a great idea. We both want to take a cruise or two. Maybe visit France. He’s never been. Think of the sites I could show him.”

  “But Nouvelle Vie Vineyards is our history, our home.”

  “Then you buy it. You run it.”

  “Ha! Like I don’t have enough on my plate.” I caressed her arm. “We’ll figure it out.”

  Anthony said, “Is Stefan here?”

  I nodded. “He’s working hard.”

  “Could I see him for a moment?”

  I sighed. No sense putting off the inevitable. I went and fetched Stefan without telling him what was up. He emerged from the kitchen, spotted his father, and did an immediate about-face.

  Anthony said, “I’ll handle this.” He pushed past me and strode toward the kitchen. So much for asking permission. I would imagine a man in his position didn’t have to do so often.

  Heather waltzed up to us. “Hey, Mimi,” she said coyly, “there’s someone on the patio who wants to see you—” She balked. “Wait a sec! Who is that guy?” She pointed at Stefan’s father just as he disappeared into the kitchen. “I know him.” She snapped her fingers. “It’s on the tip of my tongue. He’s—”

  Seconds later, Stefan blew through the kitchen door, his father hot on his heels. He dodged me, my mother, and Heather and made a beeline for my office. His father followed him inside. As the door closed, Stefan yelled, “I can’t believe you’re dating my boss’s mother!”

  “Anthony Alston!” Heather shouted. “The moneyman for the United States of America. Yipes! Stefan is his son? No wonder he didn’t want us to know. He’s only a few feet from the seat of power. Knowing Stefan, I’d think he would have treasured an introduction to the White House chef. He’s got big dreams.”

  He might have high aspirations, I mused, but he wanted to achieve them on his own terms, without any help from his father.

  I headed toward the office.

  “On the other hand,” Heather continued, trailing me, “he probably didn’t want anyone to know that he, a left-wing radical, was related to a centrist.”

  “Mother,” I said over my shoulder, “did you know when you met Anthony that he was Stefan’s father?”

  “I figured it out. The eyes. The nose. The mention that his son was a sous chef. Like my daughter, I’m pretty good at deciphering clues.” She snickered. “By the way, I believe Anthony’s political views might be heading more in Stefan’s direction, hence the career change.”

  I inched closer to the office door. Heather and my mother followed.

  “I don’t want to be hounded by the secret service,” Stefan said loudly enough for us to hear.

  “You won’t need secret service,” his father retorted. “I’m not running for president.”

  “You say Congress now, but I know your aspirations, Dad.”

  “Fine. Change your name.”

  I gulped. We didn’t need to hear the rest of Stefan’s angst. He and his father would work it out. At least I hoped they would.

  “Heather, you said someone wants to see me on the patio?” I asked.

  “Right this way.”

  I lifted a menu and beckoned my mother to follow me in that direction. I trailed Heather, hoping her surprise was Nash, but he wasn’t there, and my heart sank. I hadn’t heard from him since before Edison was captured. Even though he’d mentioned taking me ballooning, I knew I shouldn’t have counted on having another date with him. Willow had probably cajoled her way back into his heart. She was clever and beautiful, and they had history. And yet I had held out hope because of Bryan. He always said, “If you don’t wish for something, you might not get it. So dream big.” Oh, how I missed him.

  “This isn’t some kind of blind date setup, is it, Heather?” I did not need her to be my matchmaker.

  “Hardly.” She strolled ahead of me, her blue sheath hugging every curve and showing off her trim figure. “C’mon. It’ll be fun.”

  I directed my mother to an empty table and handed her a menu. “I’ll be right back,” I said, and then I joined my quirky hostess at a table where a thickset, pale man sat hunched over a laptop. A hank of dark hair hung low on his forehead. Heather cleared her throat. The man peered up and smiled a toothy grin. He had the most beautiful blue eyes with thick long lashes, like Heather’s.

  He closed his laptop. “Hello? Who’s this?”

  “Henry,” Heather said, “this is Mimi. Mimi, this is my husband, Henry.”

  He was real? They didn’t quite match, but their eyes did. Interesting. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Nice to meet you.” He started to rise, but the table blocked his belly. Quickly he steadied the table with his palms and settled back on his chair. “Sorry about that. I always forget to scoot back.” He waved. “Thanks for hiring Heather. She loves it here.”

  “Mimi, you see?” Heather cocked a hip and gave me a sassy look. “I told you he was real. Henry is working on a sci-fi novel.”

  “About Glonkirks?” I teased.

  Henry’s eyes widened. “You know about them?”

  “Do I ever.”

  “They’re real.” He forced a conspiratorial wink.

  Heather punched him in the arm. “They’re real, mister.”

  “I believe.” He raised his hands. “Oh, lordie, I believe.”

  “Oh, you!” Heather eyed me and giggled. “Okay, they’re not real, Mimi. I admit it. But to tell the truth, I love the reactions I get whenever I share my stories. It’s like people want to believe.”

  Her Glonkirks and my mother’s ghosts. What next? I wondered.

  Laughing, I headed back to the office. Stefan and Anthony emerged. Stefan plodded toward the kitchen. Anthony offered a beatific smile worthy of a lifelong politician. “Don’t worry. We’ll be on good footing soon. Where is your lovely mother?”

  I gave him directions and he headed off. Before I could disappear into my office to find some much-needed breathing space, the front door of the bistro opened, and Jo entered on Tyson’s arm. I nearly fell over. As predicted, the two seemed perfect for one another. Both were tall and fit. He wasn’t in uniform but rather a crisp white shirt and chinos. She was wearing a pretty turquoise sundress and a cropped sweater.

  “Where have you
two been? You look spiffy.”

  “We gave up on taking a hike and toured the art galleries in Yountville instead. Afterward, we enjoyed a picnic.” Jo tilted her head in Tyson’s direction and batted her eyes at me. “Since it’s late in the afternoon, do you think we can simply come in for two cafés au lait?”

  “Sure. Pick a table. I’ll bring the coffees myself.”

  Jo gave Tyson a nudge and said, “Find us a good one.” As he set off, she turned to me and whispered, “Our first date was fabulous! He didn’t lie. Does he ever know deli.”

  I didn’t know if that was code for he was a good kisser, but I was ecstatic. Grinning, she hurried after him to a table by the window. I personally made their beverages, set a rock candy swizzle stick on each plate, and carried them over. They weren’t holding hands, but both were leaning forward, their gazes locked on each other. I cleared my throat. The two snapped to attention.

  “Here you go. Enjoy.” I turned to leave.

  Jo said, “Mimi, don’t leave. We specifically took a table for four so you could join us for a minute.” She stirred her coffee with the swizzle stick.

  I perched on a chair. “What’s up?”

  “Tyson told me Edison Barrington will stand trial. His daughter is hoping for a temporary insanity plea. Have you spoken to her since the memorial? How is she holding up?”

  “As well as can be expected.” I glanced at Tyson. “May I speak freely?”

  He aligned his cup on the saucer. “I’m not on duty.”

  “Angelica and Lyle went back to Los Angeles to start their new life, but she’s going to be coming up weekly to make sure Kaya Hill—that’s the attorney she hired—is doing everything she can for her father.”

  “And what about Paula Ives?” Jo asked.

  “She’s staying in Napa Valley. She quit her job at the family business and purchased a six-room bed-and-breakfast. Her father is not pleased about her choice to leave the business, though I know he would do anything to make her happy. He feels guilty about everything his children have suffered.”