Crème Brûlée To Slay

by CeeCee James

  I heard the plates banging on the table and snickered again.

  “That boy, I swear,” Cecelia whispered, a dishcloth in her hands. She used it to pull a casserole from the oven and set it on the stovetop. The scent of garlic parmesan filled the air.

  “Good grief, what’s that? I’m drooling,” I said.

  “Creamy garlic-parmesan chicken wings. They asked for finger food.” She fished out another dish, this one with rolls, and set it down next to the first with a clank. “And these are ham and cheese sliders. Now, how’s the salad looking?”

  “Good,” I said. I reached into the freezer where Cecelia’s glass salad bowl had been chilling. Quickly, I assembled the hearts of romaine, radish, cucumbers, carrots, and sliced cherry tomatoes. Then I retrieved the carafes of fresh ranch, olive oil, and wine vinegar.

  “Just going to take these out to the tables now.” My hands were full.

  “Good. And would you set out extra napkins? And the water pitchers with lemon?”

  “You got it.” I brought the salad out to the table where Frank was sullenly rolling the linen napkins.

  “Get a move on it,” I said. “Keep those napkin edges together. It’s got to look classy.”

  “Oh, like you’d know classy. Apparently, you measure it by how many bowls of peanuts are on the bar.”

  “Ha, ha.”

  “Hey, you’re the one who said you go there a lot.”

  “I meant, I go to—”

  “Yeah, yeah. Change your story now.” He smiled a bit, seemingly happy to be the one teasing me.

  “Fine. You win,” I said. I was rewarded with a full smile.

  “What did you say?” His eyes twinkled.

  “I said, you win. I don’t really go there all the time. You caught me.”

  “Wow. I never thought I’d actually hear you say those words.”

  “That’s because 90 percent of the time, I’m right. So enjoy it.”

  He folded another napkin. “Well, for your humbleness, I have a reward.”

  I grinned, “Tell me, tell me!”

  “We got the ballistic report on the bullet.”

  “Really! What did they find?”

  “They studied the riflings. It did come from a Winchester Special model 94. We checked with the county’s gun registry, and Steve Miquel has a Winchester Special rifle registered to him. We’re getting a search warrant for the rifle. He’s under our microscope now, especially since his house is on the other side of the forest service land.”

  “You’re kidding me. Are you saying Mr. Miquel shot at me? But why?”

  “I’m not saying that, exactly. We don’t have a motive. Like, nothing at all.”

  I rubbed my neck, feeling shook to the core. “That doesn’t even make sense. I saw him leave before me that day.”

  “Did you actually see him leave?”

  I frowned. “Well, I saw him with his car keys. He said he was on his way to the golf course.”

  “Why would he be golfing when the ground’s soggy and wet?”

  That was true. I shrugged. “I have no idea.”

  “I can’t wait to get my hands on that rifle.”

  “What do they check?”

  “They’ll be looking for striations on a fired bullet from his weapon to see if they match the bullet you recovered. They’ll also be looking for firing-pin impressions to see if they’re identical. But, in the meantime, they’re still doing tests to see if there are any hidden fingerprints left on the bullet.”

  “Are you serious? A fingerprint? How is that even possible?”

  “When the gun is loaded, it can leave a tiny bit of sweat from the fingertip. When the bullet is fired, the heat transfers the fingerprint by setting the salts into the metal.”

  “Wow, that’s crazy.”

  He nodded.

  “You slowpokes ready?” Cecelia appeared in the doorway, holding a casserole dish with a towel as a pot holder. “Can I get a hand here?”

  I made a couple more trips for the water, napkins, and the other dish, while Cecelia called the guests to the dining room.

  Lunch for us wasn’t nearly so fancy—cold ham sandwiches eaten at the kitchen table. Frank left soon after we finished eating, but not before he gave me a hug.

  “I thought you were grumpy with me,” I said, snuggling into his shoulder.

  “I’m always grumpy,” he said, kissing the top of my head. I looked up at him and he bent down to kiss my lips.

  “What’s this?” Cecelia said, walking into the kitchen and catching us.

  “Oh, you know,” Frank said releasing me.

  “I noticed you’ve been smiling more,” she said. “Been good to see it.”

  He harrumphed. “She’s already changing me,” he said, before slamming the door.

  Cecelia eyed the closed doorway before turning to me. “Good luck with that one.”

  “Thanks, I’m going to need it,” I answered with a laugh. We started washing dishes, her washing and me drying.

  “I have a question,” I said, taking the pan from her hand. “Have you ever heard of GreenLeaf corporation?”

  “Why are you asking?”

  “I was trying to find out who owned a bar downtown. It said GreenLeaf did. But I thought that all the businesses were either independently owned, or leased by Marshall Incorporations. You know, Gayle and her husband’s business?”

  Cecelia handed me a plate. She sighed, which immediately perked my interest. Cecelia did know something!

  “GreenLeaf is a secret,” she finally admitted.

  “Okay.” I waited, my hand out for the next dish, nearly dancing in excitement.

  She glanced at me and her lips puckered. “You aren’t known for keeping secrets, GiGi.”

  My mouth dropped. “I certainly am!”

  “No. No, you aren’t. Remember that time I had that bike repainted for Frank, and you ran out to meet him, singing, ‘What’s red and blue and black all over?’”

  I blushed. Grandma had brought me over to Cecelia’s that day and I’d been fascinated watching the two women spray painting the bike the same colors as a bruise. I thought it would be a great joke to tease him. “To be fair, I was only about nine at the time.”

  Her near hairless eyebrows lifted. “Still…”

  “Just tell me. Please.” I made puppy dog eyes at her. Heck, if she was going to draw back on memories from over twenty years ago, so would I.

  “GiGi Tanner, that will not work on me.” She watched me for a second and then let out a deep breath. “Fine, but it goes no further than this room. GreenLeaf is a company that Gayle started for herself when their original company got into trouble for organizing a monopoly. It was a way to fly under the radar, so to speak. She slipped it out one night during Bingo. She was bragging about owning one of the state’s last pay phones.”

  “During Bingo?” I was confused. That was a pretty big secret to let slip during such an innocuous game.

  “Well, we were playing shot bingo.” Cecelia laughed.

  “You didn’t!” I laughed.

  “What? You think you young things have all the fun? We know how to whoop it up. Especially at Bingo.” Her eyes twinkled.

  Okay, then. That made me rethink all of her game nights. No wonder Cecelia was so eager to go.

  I left that evening with my thoughts in a whirl. GreenLeaf belonged to Gayle Marshall. But what did that mean?

  I felt like another visit to Gayle was in order.

  Chapter 20

  It had been as simple as getting Gayle’s phone number from Cecelia and then calling her. Cecelia had grumbled while giving me the number, but I told her I wasn’t going to mention GreenLeaf, but rather a conversation that I’d overheard her having with Mrs. Vanderton on the night of the charity dinner.

  Gayle Marshall had been pleasant on the phone, and invited me to stop by the next morning at around eleven. She sounded quite cooperative, affirming she’d be happy to speak with me. I may or may not have pretended I h
ad the authority to ask her questions about Veronica Vanderton.

  So, at eleven o’clock, I trotted up her walkway, noting the purple crocuses dotting along the bordering flowerbed. I couldn’t help but smile as my eyes caught a few rebellious flowers poking their heads up randomly in the lawn. The gardener was going to have a field day when he saw those.

  Gayle’s house was a gorgeous manor built in the 1800s, and her porch was pristine on that cold morning, with the sunlight reflecting off of white railings and awning trim. I shifted a plate of muffins that I’d baked earlier to my other arm and firmly knocked.

  As I waited, I glanced back behind me. A sluggish bee hovered over one of the first dandelions I’d seen this season before landing on the yellow bloom.

  Firm footsteps came from inside the house and then the door opened. Gayle Marshall, wearing a silk eternity scarf and jacket, stood in the doorway.

  “Hello,” I said. “Did I catch you on your way out?”

  “Hi there,” she said. “No, I just felt like dressing up a bit today.” She stepped back. “Come in.”

  I walked in as the sunshine flooded the entryway, washing out the paint color so it all appeared white. As she led me further into her house, I noticed it was a pale pink.

  “So, what’s that?” she asked, indicating the plate in my hand.

  “Oh, these.” I held them out. “I made some muffins. I hope you like them. I’m not a baking expert, but I was pretty pleased with this batch. Blueberry.”

  “How nice of you,” she said, accepting them. She pulled back the wrapping and peeked inside. “They look delicious. Did you ever find out about the pin?”

  She seemed so sincere. My doubts about her started to evaporate. So what if she owned the bar where the phone calls came from? Honestly, I was seeing suspects everywhere now.

  “No, it’s still a mystery,” I admitted.

  “The police actually came to see me.” She raised her arm and I noticed a chunky bracelet on her arm. One in greens and purples, like the peacock pin. I swallowed hard.

  “Oh, really?” I tried to act surprised.

  “Yes. They found out that we’d made a bid on her house.”

  “Who’s house? Mrs. Vanderton’s?”

  “Well, our corporation had. I suppose it will be the town gossip now.”

  “Did Mrs. Vanderton know?” I asked.

  “It’s possible. It was under…” here she hesitated. “Another offshoot of our division.”

  “Was it GreenLeaf?”

  Her eyes sharpened like two points of obsidian as she stared at me. “How did you know?” The rich tone of her voice held a veiled threat.

  Idiot! I yelled at myself. Think fast. “Uh, I thought I overheard it. Maybe at the grocery store?”

  “What exactly did you hear?”

  “Oh, just that the Marshall Corporation had branched out. That’s very exciting. Good for you!” I gave her my brightest smile.

  She studied me for a second and then seemed to soften. “Thank you. Not everyone understands. We’re lucky to have such a successful company.”

  “It’s quite an accomplishment,” I agreed.

  “So what was it you wanted to know?” She smiled, her friendly persona back in full force.

  “I was curious about something I saw that night. I’d walked in on you two having a rather heated discussion.”

  “Oh, that poor woman.” Gayle’s forehead puckered as if in sorrow. “Unfortunately, she’d over heard a conversation Denise and I were having at the women’s luncheon a couple weeks ago. It was about Veronica’s foreclosure. Sadly, she didn’t like what she heard.”

  I nodded. “I see, and I can imagine so.” My mind was drawing a blank on the next thing to ask. “Well, that was really all I had. I’m sorry to have taken your time. I suppose I could have just asked over the phone. But then I would have missed an amazing chance to see your lovely home.”

  “Don’t you love it?” She glanced around the giant entryway with a smile. “It truly is a dream come true. And no worries. I’m glad you stopped by. This way I get to try some of your yummy treats!” She lifted the plate in emphasis.

  We said our goodbyes, and then I was back outside heading to my van.

  As I shifted Old Bella into reverse to leave the driveway, I replayed the conversation. That actually went much better than I’d expected. Gayle hadn’t thrown me out of her house, and she’d actually gave me quite a bit of information. I waved to the guard as I passed through the housing development’s gate.

  There was one thing that bothered me, though. What she had said about the house foreclosure rang true. From what I remembered, it really seemed to match Gayle’s response to Veronica that night. I could actually picture the ladies luncheon and imagine Gayle and Denise Miquel chatting with catty laughter and being overheard by Veronica.

  But there was one thing I had a problem with. When I’d visited her antique store, Gayle had insisted she hadn’t seen Veronica in nearly six months.

  So, why would she say that? It didn’t make sense that she’d say she hadn’t seen her since last August, and then today tell me that the argument I’d overheard was from a meeting a few weeks before.

  Gayle’s lie, coupled with the fact that her company owned the Jack Knife where the three phone calls came from, had moved her higher on my list of suspects. I might not know her motive, but I was starting to see her fingerprints all over the place.

  I was determined to figure out why.

  Chapter 21

  What could have motivated Gayle to kill Veronica? I literally twisted and turned in my bed for half the night, trying to figure out that puzzle. Gayle had to be guilty. It had to be her. She owned the bar where the phone calls came from. Sure, there was a phone booth, but the bartender also said there was an empty loft upstairs that the owners used. At the dinner, it was obvious the two women hated each other. And Gayle had lied about when she last saw Veronica. Plus, she’d admitted she was bidding on the widow’s foreclosed house.

  But what would make one rich person snap and kill another?

  I took off my sleep mask and sat up in bed with a gasp. There was only one thing. One real thing.

  Love.

  Was the town forum gossip I read earlier about someone getting a “new nest with a married man” actually talking about Gayle? I remembered the bitter look on her face when she said that her husband wasn’t her great love. It was a long shot, but Gayle had been the one to comfort Mr. Miquel the night of the charity dinner. And he’d called her love.

  I bet Veronica found out about it. Maybe she was trying to extort them!

  I jumped out of the covers and ran over to the computer. There had to be something, anything.

  The first ten minutes of my online search was pretty bleak. It turned out it wasn’t as simple as typing in the question, “Are Gayle Marshall and Steve Miguel having an affair?” That had to be it though. I remembered his ring finger, tan as the others as if he never wore a ring. My gut said that man was having an affair.

  Finally, my persistence paid off.

  It was on Gainesville’s golfing board, of all places. Nothing much, but on the forum that was labeled “Weekly Gab” was this little tidbit from three weeks ago. “Top winner winning.”

  I clicked the topic and read the first post. “Hey Gainesville two-over-par. Better be more discreet on where you put your tee because momma’s been hearing rumors.”

  I flipped back and read the tops scores for the week. Mr. Miquel was consistently a 108 putter.

  I pushed back the laptop with a smile of satisfaction. This was it. I knew it. Proof he was having an affair.

  I glanced at my phone. Two-thirty in the morning. Am I such a jerk that I’d message Frank right now with this news? No, I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t wake him up, knowing how hard it was for him to—

  The phone buzzed in my hand. It was from Frank. That little stinker! Texting me at two-thirty in the morning? Trying to wake me up?

  I opened it t
o read —Listen. I know you’re awake. We found the murder weapon. Want to talk?

  I wrote back —Yes!

  The phone rang a millisecond after I pushed send. I answered it with an abrupt, “How the heck did you get that text so fast?”

  “Huh? Oh I didn’t. I just knew you’d say yes.”

  “And how would you know that?”

  “Well, A. you’re a night owl. And B. You’re nosy.”

  I huffed into the phone, but knew he was right. “Well you got me up, so spill!”

  “You weren’t already awake?” He sounded unsure of himself.

  I wanted to say no, but I knew it wouldn’t be a clean win. I grudgingly admitted, “Yeah, I was.”

  He sighed in relief.

  “But only because I figured out who the killer is!” I insisted, raising my trump card. “I was going to text you but I didn’t want to wake you.”

  “Whatever. You should know by now I barely sleep,” he said dismissively. “Anyway, who’d you come up with?”

  “Gayle Marshall,” I announced triumphantly.

  “Really?” he asked, sounding surprised.

  “Yes. She’s the one who owns the building the phone calls came from. She was having an affair with Miguel.”

  “Well, who fired the rifle?”

  I had an idea about that. “She and her best friend used to be in competitive shooting in college. She has a ring from winning.”

  “This is sounding good. But how did she get Miquel’s rifle? Assuming that’s the one that was used.”

  “I guess I have to leave some of the detecting to you police guys.”

  He laughed. “Thanks so much. Anyway, you’ll be happy to know the peacock pin we found was covered in toxin.”

  “Toxin?”

  “It must have been soaking in that can of shrimp for a while. The coroner said a puncture from it was well enough to send someone into anaphylactic shock. And, interestingly enough, Veronica didn’t have her EpiPen in her purse.”

  I gasped. “So Mr. Miquel must have taken it! He’s in on it!”

  “Now why do you think those two are having an affair?”