Mousse, Moscato & Murder

by Jamie Lee Scott

  Mousse Moscato & Murder

  A Willa Friday Food & Wine Cozy Mystery

  Jamie Lee Scott

  Novels & Coffee

  MOUSSE MOSCATO & MURDER

  Copyright © 2017 by Jamie Lee Scott

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, Novels & Coffee, 1106 Hwy 69 N, Forest City, IA 50436.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Scott, Jamie Lee, 09-28-17. Mousse Moscato & Murder. LBB Company.

  Contents

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  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Willa Friday Valentine’s Day Recipes

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  About the Author

  Also by Jamie Lee Scott

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  Chapter One

  Working from home seems like a great idea until you’re working from home. You think you’re going to have so much more time. No commute, no trying to find parking, no packing a lunch, and no office gossip. All of those things are true, but what I didn’t consider was the distractions. If I had an urgent photo shoot or a deadline looming for a blog article, suddenly I felt compelled to clean my house, go through my closets and drawers and start tossing old items, or redecorate the bathroom. In short, anything but set up, take the photos, and write the dang article.

  I used to be so dedicated, efficient, and able to use my time wisely when I was working for clients only on location. I had meetings, photo shoots, and sometimes I just had to show up and make the food look nice for the camera. The key was that I always had appointments to keep. Since I’d stopped traveling to see clients, my work as a food stylist and photographer was different. I did things on my own time, but with a set due date. Now, I found myself always pushing my deadlines.

  I’m Willa Friday, and the blog I write is called A Dish in Thyme. It started out as a blog about meal planning, then I decided to add wine pairings because I lived in wine country and it was a good fit. I wanted people to know that the rules for pairing food and wine aren’t set in stone, and they could work with their own tastes. I liked to describe how a wine worked with a certain food to enhance the flavor, or how food could enhance the flavor of a wine. The writing wasn’t as easy as I thought it would be.

  On top of all of the above-mentioned distractions that suddenly loomed like monsters in the shadows, I also felt stifled and stale. I had no reason to get dressed in the morning. No one was going to see me, other than my assistant Jacob Jackson, who was too young for me to care what he thought of my looks. And he was too cute to be in my league anyway. Not to mention, he was dating my daughter. No reason to get dressed had morphed into no reason to shower if my armpits didn’t stink.

  Sniffing my armpits to decide if I needed a shower was the final straw. Or maybe it was when our Bengal cat, Lucy, started coming around me and sniffing like I was roadkill. I realized I needed to find a reason to shower, shave, and get dressed every morning. I wasn’t the kind of woman who let herself go. Or I hadn’t been anyway.

  I wondered if it was a sort of depression. But what did I have to be depressed about? Not that it mattered when you had a chemical imbalance. Did I have a chemical imbalance? No, I thought maybe I had a procrastination imbalance, and that bled over to my hygiene.

  I’d been surprised that my best friend, Saylor Griffin, hadn’t said anything. Then again, we’d both been busy through the holiday season and hadn’t seen each other as much as usual. Saylor wasn’t the type to let things like this slide. If we’d been seeing each other regularly instead of texting and talking on the phone, maybe she’d have slapped me out of my funk months ago.

  Saylor had been having family issues, which meant lots of traveling, since her family lived in Southern California. She’d invited me to come along, but it had been too close to Christmas, which is a busy time at the restaurant, vineyard and B&B.

  My ex-husband’s family owned Vendredi LLC, which included Vendredi Winery, Vendredi Restaurant, and Hats Off Bed & Breakfast and Bistro. Their businesses depended on the tourists. During the winter holidays, they catered to corporations, often hosting dinner parties for fifty to a hundred people several nights a week in the banquet room of the restaurant.

  On top of everything, my ex, Peter, and I had decided to give our relationship another try. The plan had been to start by dating. But dating took time, and from the time we’d decided to get back together in November, we’d barely seen each other, much less dated. Peter was busy all the time. Through the holidays he’d been a stress monster, even though he’d done this seasonal thing for twenty years. Every year was like the first; he acted as if he didn’t know what to expect or how to run a successful kitchen. I’d made it a point to avoid him until after the huge New Year’s bash the winery threw every year. Vendredi Winery made the best sparkling wines in the valley, and New Year’s was a time to show them off.

  Usually my daughter, Tomorrow (affectionately called Tommy), helped out during the holidays, but she’d decided to stay at UC Davis for winter break to work on a viticulture project for the school. This obligated her to be there to take part in the nurturing of their grapes, or whatever it was they were doing. This meant Peter and his mom, Hattie, didn’t have the extra help. And Tommy had been quite handy to have around on the weekends and holidays.

  My little girl was growing up. When she’d first gone to college, she came home every weekend. Then she started dating my assistant, so she started coming home earlier on Fridays and not leaving until the wee hours of Monday morning. But after Thanksgiving, things changed. She didn’t come home the next weekend, and then she took on the viticulture project.

  I wondered if it had something to do with the body that had been found on the Vendredi property right before Thanksgiving. Maybe being home reminded her of the horrible incident.

  Lucy had taken to sleeping on Tommy’s pillow when she was gone. And I had to make sure I changed it before she slept, so her allergies wouldn’t make her miserable. Hers weren’t as bad as Hattie’s, though. Which is how we ended up with the snooty cat to begin with.

  I thought about all of this as I drove into Pear to have breakfast at a bakery called The Bent Fork. I’d made it my daily routine for almost a month. I’d hoped getting out of the house every morning would change up my routine and make me more producti
ve. It did make me take a shower and get dressed. So far, so good. I felt the old me coming back gradually. Heck, I’d even taken to putting on makeup again.

  I tried the makeup one morning and had run into Peter on my way out. The look on his face told me I should wear makeup more often. He didn’t say as much, but his lingering kiss was the icing to the expression on his face. And it was also one of the few times we’d kissed since deciding to date each other again. Chalk it up to bad timing on the dating front.

  It was a good thing I knew his schedule and had experienced the life of a restaurant chef, so I understood. If Peter had been dating someone who didn’t know the business, they resented the amount of time it took, and how distracted he was even when he wasn’t at the restaurant. It wasn’t the kind of career where you left the job behind when you walked out the door at the end of your shift.

  I pulled into the parking lot at The Bent Fork, and drove around the entire lot looking for a parking space. I hated parking on the street because that would mean I’d have to feed the meter. Even though feeding the meter these days really just meant flashing my credit card in front of the meter’s chip reader, it was still money out of my pocket.

  Loath to pay the extra money, which I needed to feed my coffee and cupcake habit, I put my car in park and waited a few minutes to see if anyone came out of the bakery and got into their car to drive away.

  I sent Saylor a text message.

  Want to meet for breakfast?

  I sent this at least twice a week, but lately, even though she hadn’t been traveling, she’d declined. She always had a good excuse, and I had no reason to doubt her.

  I’m showing a house. Rain check?

  If I had a dollar for every time she texted rain check, I’d be…let’s be honest, I’d be eating more cupcakes.

  I dropped my phone in my purse and decided to stop being so cheap. I put my car in drive and went around to the front of The Bent Fork, planning to park on the street right out front. Not happening. I had to drive almost a block away. I think fate was telling me to get more exercise.

  I maneuvered my car into the space, parallel parking the old-fashioned way even though the new car Hattie had bought me after I wrecked my Lexus had parking assist. I gathered up my laptop bag, purse, and keys, and got out of the car. I stepped up on the sidewalk and fumbled around in my purse for a credit card.

  I nearly dropped my laptop bag, and did drop my car keys as I dug in my purse for my little wallet. Why hadn’t I just pulled the credit card out while I was in the car? Because that would have been too easy. Frustrated with myself, I bent over and put my computer bag on the sidewalk, then my keys in my purse and used two hands to dig inside to find my wallet.

  I left everything on the sidewalk and pulled the credit card out of my wallet. When I looked up at the meter to find the place to swipe my card, it still had two hours left on it from the previous person who’d parked there. Well, dang, all that for nothing.

  I looked at myself in the passenger window of my car before gathering up my belongings. I’d cleaned up nice. I wore a floral print stretch fabric pencil skirt with a pale green cotton blouse. I’d rolled the sleeves up to my elbows and added a few bracelets to my wrist. I thought the rose gold looked great against my pale skin and my red hair as I reached up to push a stray lock of hair behind my ear.

  Even though I’d been trying to clean up my act, my hair always ended up in a ponytail or a messy bun at the top of my head. I didn’t even want to take the time to blow-dry and style the coppery mess.

  After my narcissistic approval of myself, I situated my bags on my shoulder before walking along the sidewalk, window shopping as I headed back to The Bent Fork.

  I smiled, thinking about the paid meter, and said, “My lucky day, I guess.”

  Even though the main road into Pear had great gift shopping and lots of tourist traps, I’d been good at avoiding most of them. I only shopped there when I had friends or family in town. But there was an art gallery that always caught my eye. It was new, and the paintings in the windows were still life, all with some variation on the wine theme. I had to force myself not to go inside and look around. I had a soft spot for art, but a wallet that could only afford to window shop.

  Parking in the lot behind the bakery was easier on my willpower. It was a direct shot to the bakery, no distractions. The bakery was on the corner, having had to expand by renovating the store next to them in order to accommodate all of their endeavors. You couldn’t miss the brown awnings with aqua print and scallops. I finally reached the front door of The Bent Fork and opened it to the aroma of fresh coffee beans mixed with baking cupcakes.

  The Bent Fork started life as a gift store and a few years later, they added the small restaurant, serving only a breakfast menu. Then, just a couple of years ago, they’d joined the coffee and cupcake craze. It was a booming business. Locals and tourists alike flocked to The Bent Fork like it was the only place in town.

  The restaurant was light and airy, with a checkerboard tile pattern on the floors, and light and airy pastel colors on the walls. The bakery and restaurant shared the dining area, and the owners had been smart to design the floor plan so the gift shop was in plain view. The bakery was set up to serve from the counter with its glass case full of delightful goodies, or the guest could sit at a table and be served by one of the wonderful wait staff.

  I waited at the front of the store for someone to seat me. As usual, Becca Roundhouse, a full-time server and crew leader for the company, greeted me.

  “Willa, so good to see your smiling face this morning.” She beamed as she spoke.

  Her grin was infectious and I smiled, even though I was a bit frustrated. “Busy today,” I observed.

  Becca shrugged with one shoulder. “What’s new, right?” She waved me over with her hand. “I have a booth near the window for you.”

  I followed her to the booth, which had chocolate brown upholstery with aqua piping. The table top was gray granite with pink and aqua specs. They’d remodeled and redecorated when they added the bakery and they’d done it right, with happy and friendly décor.

  “Thanks.” I tossed my purse and computer bag onto the seat and slid in.

  She looked adorable in her pale pink short sleeved shirt and black skirt. Her apron was also aqua, but with brown piping. The color theme should have been garish, but it wasn’t. It rode the line just this side of subtle.

  Becca was a smidgen taller than me, standing around five-eight. She had beautiful brown hair with expensive looking highlights that I’d never seen out of a ponytail. Her skin was pale, but had a rosy hue, and her smile was infectious. The thing that stood out the most to me was that she was always pushing up her glasses, like they didn’t quite fit, or they were new to her. And her glasses were fashionable, with Rayban Wayfarer style tortoise shell frames. So cute and so nerdy at the same time.

  “Are you going to be ordering from the menu, or just a cupcake and coffee today?”

  I didn’t even have to think about it. “Cupcake and coffee.”

  She placed a laminated cupcake into the metal stand on the table. This let everyone who was working know that I wasn’t ordering from the kitchen. I wasn’t sure why they did this, other than the server could probably take more tables if a lot of them were just cupcake customers.

  I gave her my order, even though I’d planned to walk over to the bakery case and look at the delicacies on display and maybe try something new. I’d grown fond of the champagne cupcakes and peanut butter cup cupcakes. I wimped out and decided to go with what I knew I liked, peanut butter cup.

  Becca scribbled on her pad and moved two tables over to check one of her other customers.

  A few tables past that one, I looked to see the same guy I’d seen almost every day for the last two weeks. Even though I didn’t always come into town on the weekend, I’d bet he’d been in that seat on Saturday and Sunday, too. It was always the same booth, he was always there before I arrived, and was still sitting w
hen I left. And I sometimes stayed for a couple of hours as I drank coffee and wrote articles for the blog.

  I allowed myself to indulge on the days when Jacob wasn’t working. I’d worked out a schedule so I was only making recipes and photographing on the days he worked. That way we had a regular schedule he could plan on and I could stay on track. I did make recipes and set up photo shoots without him, though. My fault for getting off schedule, then having to do the more time intensive work by myself some days. On the days he didn’t work, I wrote. And on those days, I drank way too much caffeine.

  Jacob had begun working for Peter at Vendredi in the fall, and I’d cut his hours to accommodate. Peter promised he wouldn’t make me find a new assistant, but I knew Jacob thrived on the stress of working in a busy restaurant kitchen, so I acquiesced. At least he still worked a good number of hours a week for me. And he seemed to love both jobs.

  I watched the man, who I named Bob, in his booth as Becca walked away from him. I didn’t want to be too obvious, so I unzipped my laptop bag and pulled my MacBook out. I noticed the man also worked on a MacBook. Sometimes he had a book in front of him, but he never seemed to be reading it. He was always watching Becca’s every move.

  I wondered if he made Becca uncomfortable and if she knew he’d been gawking at her the moment she walked away, following her every move. She had to be aware.

  At first, I thought it was weird that he was there every day for so long, and always the same booth. My imagination ran rampant on who he might be and what he was doing. Then I had to revisit my thinking, since I ate there nearly every day, too. And many times, Becca was my server. I wasn’t some crazy person. Although I guess that depended on who you asked. Because I was sure the local sheriff thought I was nuts.