by Patti Larsen
She looked up as I knocked, pale brown eyes red and bloodshot, her tinted hair obvious from the thin, new line of white at the roots of her dark blonde. The head chef surged to her feet, her name clear on her badge so I knew I had the right person, and glared at me while she hitched a breath past her continuing tears.
“The kitchen’s closed,” she said, voice gruff, deep and belying her petite body, her vulnerable trembling.
“Fiona Fleming,” I said, “working with Sheriff Turner and former Sheriff Fleming while we wait for the deputies to arrive.” She relented when I finished, sinking back into her seat. “Can I ask you some questions, Chef?”
She tossed her scarred and muscular hands. Not a big woman by any means, like most people in her profession she had powerful fingers and palms, covered in old knife cuts and burns from the perils of her job. “I don’t know what else I can tell you,” she said. “Your father was already here.” She frowned. “Told me it was my cake that killed Mason. Something about peanuts.” The chef seemed almost offended by that. “As if I’m inexperienced enough to allow such contamination in my kitchen.” She sagged then, shook her head. “He was very thorough.”
As I suspected. Though, like Crew, Dad had a rougher side to him that might not get him what he needed. Instead of diving into asking her personal questions, I started elsewhere, letting her see my empathy as I spoke. “I’m looking for Ethan Perry.”
She squinted up at me, trust building slowly. Why, because she put things together and thought I suspected him and that she was off the hook? Better for her to think she was helping me find the killer instead of defending herself. “One of the waiters? I don’t know where he is. Why?”
“So you don’t know him very well?” Her answer could go one of two ways, depending. Some chefs made it their mission to know everyone in their establishment intimately. Others treated them like the help. Her response would tell me what kind of boss Carol was.
“No,” she said. “But not for lack of trying.” Door number one, then. “The kid has a giant chip on his shoulder that no one’s been able to shift.” I wondered why. Sarcasm. “Do you think he had something to do with this?”
“I’m wondering if you keep peanut oil in the kitchen.” Carol’s face stilled and she seemed hesitant. I stepped aside as she stood then, nodding, wiping at her nose with her black sleeve, heading for the main cooking area. She scooped up a matching bandana, tying it around her bob, as if resuming the full uniform of her profession gave her strength. For all I knew, being Chef gave her superpowers. Though, Mom didn’t seem to think that applied to her cooking skills.
Bad Fee. Stay focused.
“Of course,” Carol said, pulling me back from my wandering thought tangent that had her dressed in tights and a cape instead of her black coat and bandana. “I stock it, but I’ve never used it. Not after Lucas told me about Mason’s allergy. And honestly I’ve been cutting it out of recipes for years because of the trend toward nut issues. I only keep it for specific requests and it’s never allowed out unsupervised.” Like the bottle itself was an errant child requiring babysitting. She stopped at a tall cupboard, pulling it open. Crowded spices nonetheless had a kind of order I sorted through mentally as she shifted a few things around before grunting softly and leaning away. “It’s not here.”
Da-da-da-dunnnn.
Hands shaking, she turned to me. “I always keep it in a plastic bag to ensure it doesn’t touch anything else. But the bag and bottle are gone. I have no idea for how long.” Obviously upset by her loss, she turned to stare into the cupboard as if the oil would reappear out of nowhere.
“Carol, did you make tonight’s dessert, or was that a staff effort?” I glanced over at the serving area where a few cakes and slices still remained. Reminded me I didn’t get to eat mine. Fee, chocolate at a time like this? Well, actually, yeah.
“I did,” she said, voice lowering. “I know that makes me look guilty.”
“Actually,” I said, “we think the peanut oil was added after Mason’s piece was cut. I noticed he had a candle but no one else did?”
Carol went to the dessert counter and leaned against it, staring down at her cakes with a lost and forlorn expression. “His father—Lucas—it was his idea. Mason missed his birthday last week and Lucas wanted to make an effort.”
Creating the perfect signal for the killer to use for identifying the right dessert. But there was something else here to prod her about, now that I had a modicum of her trust. “You say Lucas like you know him well?” The way she flinched confirmed my suspicions.
“We… we’ve been seeing each other since Marie died.” Of course they had.
“So Mason’s father, your boyfriend, asked you to single out a slice of cake and make it very obvious it was Mason’s. Is that correct?” I didn’t mean to sound so harsh and softened the words at the end with a touch to her shoulder. “Could Lucas be responsible?” I’d already ruled him out, but between the two of them, could they have made this work? Or even Lucas and Ethan...
Carol’s quick sob stopped me. “They had their differences,” she said, “but Lucas was trying so hard. For the sake of the lodge. And because he really, really cared about the boy he remembered when he and Marie first met. Couldn’t let go of that boy, actually.” She sounded like she disagreed with such a choice. “Gave that kid more chances than anyone deserved.”
“Did Mason know about your relationship with Lucas?” Not that it mattered. My mind spun, tried to sort all the relationships, a task quickly giving me a headache. Or maybe it was the champagne residuals from earlier.
“He did. And he didn’t like it. But there wasn’t anything Mason could do, short of firing me.” She paused. “Before you ask, no. It was never brought up. If Mason intended to cut me loose because of his stepfather I never heard about it.”
“Mason’s control of the lodge had to rankle.” I stuck a finger in the icing of the nearest slice and was surprised when Carol copied me with her own piece. We took turns devouring chunks of cake and chocolate buttercream while we spoke.
“The thing is,” Carol said, “he didn’t have full control. If Lucas and James had just worked together, I know they could have figured it out. Yes, Mason and those horrible Pattersons were at 51%.” She grunted then, stabbing her index finger into the soft and moist delicousness. “They didn’t even have the courtesy to show up, did you know that? Of course you do.” She shook her head. “They let Mason be their mouthpiece.”
“And Aundrea,” I said.
Carol didn’t comment on the widowed Mrs. Wilkins. “My point is, the other forty-nine is a huge power to fight against. But James has been so absorbed by his daughter’s disappearance. I’m not blaming him. Elizabeth’s death hit him hard, hit Lucas hard too, knowing how James blamed Mason. But he’s been distracted since she was declared dead last year and Lucas has been fighting the family alone.” She sadly licked one finger clean of crumbs. “If James doesn’t step up now that Mason is gone, the Patterson family will push them both out in a matter of months. And this place has been their dream for so long I can’t imagine either of them—or their friendship—recovering from the loss.”
***
Chapter Thirteen
I ate the last bite of the piece of cake I hadn’t intended to ingest, thinking as I did. “Carol,” I said at last, the two of us lost in silence for a long time, so long when I finally broke that quiet we both jumped a little. “I know you cut Mason’s piece. But where were you when he died?” I had to ask, surely she understood that.
She nodded to me, grim. “You know already, Fiona. He was one of the first to receive his dessert thanks to Lucas. So I was here, in the kitchen, of course. Cutting more cake for the servers.”
“Isn’t that a job for a less experienced staffer?” She was the head chef and surely had other tasks to complete.
“Lucas asked me to make sure Mason’s birthday was acknowledged,” she said. “And everything was under control so I took the dessert station.”
Mom would have disagreed with that. Carol gasped then, eyes huge, one hand pressed to her black chef coat, fingers dark with chocolate. “I might not have killed him, but I was part of his murder, wasn’t I?”
“You had no way of knowing the murderer would single out his cake,” I said, feeling terribly for her but thinking the exact same thing I’d been accusing her of mentally all along, sad to see she’d just made the connection.
She sagged, face falling, faint jowls showing despite her slender features and lines pulling at the corners of her mouth aging her while her skin paled out. I grasped her upper arm to make sure she didn’t keel over on me while she shook her head, hand now over her mouth.
“I might as well have painted a target on his back,” she said in a voice so choked and hoarse I could barely make her out. “That candle told his killer exactly what piece of cake to dose.”
I let her have her moment while my head whirled and demanded I keep pressing for answers. But my compassion won. Instead of pushing on, I stood there and held her arm and waited for her shaking to subside, her retreat into guilt making her knees wobbly. When she finally looked up again, tears streamed down her cheeks.
“Lucas will never forgive me,” she said.
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” I told her in as firm a tone as I could manage. “In fact, you only did exactly what he asked you to do.” Which meant these two were on shaky ground anyway. Because her blaming herself for what she’d done per his request and him blaming himself for painting a target on Mason’s cake? Not the best recipe for a healthy continuing relationship. I sadly hoped I was off the mark but I doubted it.
Carol just stared at me.
“Tell me about Ethan Perry.” I needed to distract her and ask questions and this seemed like ideal timing. If anything was ideal at the moment.
She gulped and rubbed at the tears on her cheeks. I let go of my supportive grip on her arm and waited for her to pull herself together.
“He’s a decent enough server,” she said. “I’m aware, though, he’s unhappy to be behind the scenes. Something about Mason not following through on his promise for a job teaching skiing or snowboarding or something.”
So that was common knowledge. “Did he ever complain to you about Mason? Or do so in your hearing?”
“If he had,” she said, “I’d have let him go immediately. No negativity about guests or owners, not in my kitchen. You’re either happy to be here or you’re out.”
I liked her management style already. “Carol, this is important and I hope you remember.”
Her grim expression had returned, eyes tight and no longer leaking tears. If anything, she’d reached for anger to help her regain control, though I wasn’t sure that was the best choice for her. Not my call. “I already know what you’re going to ask me,” she said, “and yes. It was Ethan who took possession of Mason’s dessert. Lucas insisted on it.”
“Why?” Was Lucas part of this? If he made sure Ethan delivered it and Ethan was the killer…
“Because they were friends,” she said, shrugging. “Lucas almost delivered it himself but I put an end to that. There was no need for him to grovel for that boy.”
And now I knew what she really thought of Mason. Did that put her back on my suspect list? She could have been in collusion with Ethan, given him the oil. Still possible, yes, though I didn’t buy her involvement. From the sound of things she wasn’t willing to do anything to risk her relationship with Lucas and killing his son was a huge risk to take.
“Thank you for talking to me,” I said. “I know the sheriff will have more questions when he gets to you.” I wrinkled my nose at her as fair warning of Crew’s pending interrogation. Though if he kept his typical rate of questioning—I’d been in his office almost two hours before Dad rescued me and Crew wasn’t near done—the storm would be over, the plows through and spring arrived before he got to Carol.
She hugged me quickly as if she weren’t sure her embrace would be welcome. I returned her squeeze with one of my own, heart in my throat.
“I’ll be here,” she said.
“One last thing,” I said, turning to go. “Any idea where I might find Ethan now?”
She nodded crisply, clearly back under full Chef persona, at least for the moment. “I sent all of my staff to their quarters to wait for the sheriff,” she said. “He’ll likely be there.”
Good to know. I exited the kitchen and headed down the hall to the foyer, pausing as I realized I had no idea how to access the staff quarters. Yes, I could have gone back and asked Carol, but when I spotted the front desk clerk crossing the foyer toward me, I nabbed her instead. At least this way I didn’t have to feel like an idiot for forgetting.
“Miss Fleming,” she smiled at me, her dark brown eyes glancing at the kitchen door and back to me while she paused at my request.
Wow, she remembered me. Great service. “I didn’t get your name,” I said, smiling back.
“Paisley Delaine,” she said, shaking my hand with her own slim one, grasp firm but not too firm. Practiced and professional. I had a moment’s thought she’d be perfect if I could poach her for the front desk of Petunia’s before I shook off my traitor thought about the likelihood Daisy was leaving me and pressed on.
“I’m looking for the staff quarters,” I said. “And Ethan Perry.”
“Of course,” she said, gesturing down the hall on the other side of the kitchen door. “If you go to the end of the corridor there’s a white door on the left. You’ll need a pass code to enter, though.” She rattled off numbers so fast I laughed and shook my head. Paisley grinned with good nature, her long, blonde ponytail falling over one shoulder while she looked down and retrieved a pen from the inside pocket of her dark blue uniform jacket. I jotted the combination on the palm of my hand before handing the pen back to her.
“Thank you,” I said. Paused. “Might be a random question, but the staff of places like this tend to get to know each other really well.” She didn’t respond to that so I pressed on. “Do you have any idea who might have wanted to kill Mason Patterson?”
She shook her head, looking sad suddenly. “I just started here last week,” she said, tossing her hands a little, the palms softly slapping the cotton of her skirted thighs. “I’ve been working to learn all the systems and haven’t had much chance to get to know anyone yet. Though, Mr. Patterson’s presence was,” she glanced around before finishing in a more hushed tone, “hard to miss.”
“It was that.” Not a good thing. And how quaint of her to be so reluctant to talk about him. Loyal too, huh? Hmmm.
Paisley nodded to me and started walking away before stopping with a soft sound of annoyance. “I’m so sorry,” she said, turning to me once more, shaking her head. “I’ve been wrapped up in my work, my attention span is horrendous.” She pointed out into the foyer. “I think I saw Noah and Ethan going into the bar, but I’m not sure. You might check there first.”
That would save me a wasted trip to the staff quarters. “Thank you.”
“Anything I can do to help,” she said before hurrying off.
***
Chapter Fourteen
The bar felt quiet, bartender missing and likely sent to his own room to await Crew’s endless interviewing. I didn’t think I’d miss the soft strains of repurposed pop music that had filled the air, battling the sloshing waterfall of the feature that still spilled its endless wash down the far wall. I could only guess the stereo shut off when the power went out and needed to be reactivated, while the feature was on its own circuit. How special for it.
I quickly spotted the Perry brothers at the back of the room, huddled together talking at a table, a bottle of something they must have pinched from behind the bar between them. But only Noah had a glass, partially full, Ethan sitting back with his arms crossed over his chest and a furious look on his face.
Before I could interrupt, Ethan stood and stormed away from his brother, stomping past me. I left Noah staring after him and hurried to follo
w. That boy could hustle, my heels preventing me from running, so by the time I reached the foyer again he was disappearing around the corner toward the bathrooms. With a frustrated sigh I pursued him, almost tripping over the eager pug who came galloping toward me, promptly sitting on my feet the moment she reached me.
Not like Mom to lose sight of Petunia, but when my mother didn’t show up, the big doors to the dining room firmly closed, I shrugged.
“She’s not going to like the fact you escaped,” I said. “In fact, she’ll probably blame me.”
Petunia grunted at me before farting and grinning her pug grin up at me, tongue hanging out.
“Fine, you can use that sniffer to chase down Ethan for me,” I said, sliding my toes out from under her butt and heading for the side corridor. Petunia followed, waddling her way along and forcing me to slow down. I almost kept going, assuming Ethan had headed toward the staff quarters, only to hear the sound of a stall door slamming in the men’s room.
Had to be him. And while I wasn’t above just marching in and demanding answers, I did hesitate a moment. If he killed Mason, was it the best idea to just go in there and start ordering him to tell me what happened?
Petunia didn’t give me the chance to think much past that initial nervousness. As the door opened—swinging inward at Ethan’s angry hand—she darted between his legs and into the bathroom to his startled surprise. Knowing she’d just given me the perfect chance to question him, I laughed in embarrassment and forced him back into the bathroom with my body, wondering at my acting skills as I wrangled him almost expertly inside.
“I’m so sorry, she’s such a brat.” I slipped around him, the bathroom door closing behind him. “Would you please help me find her?”