by J. C. Eaton
Shirley got up and walked down the hallway to what I imagined was her spare bedroom. A few seconds later, she came back carrying a huge rubber tub.
I shoved my chair back and started to stand. “Can I give you a hand with that?”
“Oh no. This is really light. Sit down and let me show you a few of my designs.”
One by one, Shirley took out the hats and modeled them for me, explaining each style as she went along. Porkpie hats, cloche hats, boater hats, down-brim hats, and swinger hats. I’d never realized there were so many varieties. The one thing I couldn’t miss was how the colors stood out beautifully against Shirley’s flawless skin. I wasn’t so sure they’d have the same effect on my aunt Ina.
Shirley put the last hat back in the tub. “You know, I tried to talk your aunt into wearing some flowers or perhaps a long ribbon instead of a hat, but she refused, and who was I to argue with the bride-to-be?”
For a second I envisioned that god-awful TV show Bridezillas and burst out laughing. Then I had a sobering thought: I hope my daughter, Kalese, doesn’t get like this when she becomes a bride.
“Yeah, I know. My aunt can be a handful. I love the boater and down-brim styles, but they seem too formal for her and won’t go with that long gown she selected.”
“I know. I know. I’ve seen the photo of that gown, too. Believe you me, honey, this is a challenge.”
“It’s not only the gown, it’s those braids of hers. Do you know if she’s planning to leave them hanging or wrap them on top of her head?”
“She wasn’t sure. Lordy, I’ve never walked into something so complicated.”
“Wait a minute. I have an idea. What about a fascinator? You know, that combination thing between a hat and a headband. I’ve seen them in those vintage photos and it might just work.”
“Oh, Phee, darling, you’re a genius. I could kick myself for not thinking of it. A fascinator would be perfect. I could design one that blends perfectly with the gown. And it would work no matter what she decides to do about her hair. Care for some more tea?”
Shirley reached over to grab the pitcher, but I held out the palm of my hand as if I was stopping traffic. “No thanks. I really should get going.”
Just then, Shirley’s phone rang and she turned to excuse herself. I felt as if it would be rude if I simply left, so I continued to sit at her table while she spoke. Judging from her end of the conversation, the word about the suspicious death on the golf course was spreading like malaria in a jungle.
“Oh Lordy, you don’t say! Uh-huh. Go on. Really? Yes, I heard about it. All of us in the club did. Was it a heart attack or a stroke? If you find out, let me know. Uh-huh. You, too. Have a nice evening.”
As soon as she hung up the phone, I stood and walked toward her. “Sorry, Shirley. I couldn’t help but overhear you.”
“That’s okay, sweetie. Nothing you won’t hear on the evening news. A dead man was found on the rocks by the side of the Grandview Golf Course. Across the street from your mother’s house. That poor, unfortunate man must have had a coronary and fell out of the golf cart while it was still moving.”
Instinctively I groaned.
Shirley continued as if she hadn’t heard me. “A sheriff’s deputy showed up along with the fire department and every emergency vehicle in the area. It was only when Herb Garrett . . . You know Herb, don’t you? He’s your mother’s neighbor.... Well, anyway, it was when Herb saw the coroner’s van he knew the poor man was dead. That’s what the phone call was about. Louise Munson ran into Herb at the post office and he told her all about it. I guess the flashing lights from all the emergency vehicles woke him.”
I must have looked half dead, because Shirley took me by the arm and led me back to a chair. I couldn’t let on that the man might not have died from natural causes.
“Oh, honey. We’ve got dead people cropping up all the time in these senior citizen communities. You pick up the paper and under the crime reports, what do you see? Not vandalism. Not theft. What you see is ‘deceased person found in house.’ This one was just found on the golf course.”
“Does Herb know who discovered the body?”
“He thinks it might have been the workers who check the greens in the morning. I mean, who else would be up that early? It was before sunrise. The golf course wasn’t even open yet. Of course, that doesn’t prevent anyone from driving all over it. Did you know that last year they found a couple in a very compromising situation on the seventh hole at the Hillcrest Golf Course?”
“Um . . . no. Shirley, does my mother know about this?”
“Why, I imagine so. Like I said, these things happen. I wouldn’t fret about it if I were you. You have enough to worry about, what with your aunt Ina’s wedding and all.”
And a suspicious death just a few yards from my mother’s house.
“Thanks, Shirley. I appreciate everything you’re doing for my aunt. When you’ve settled on a design for that fascinator, give a call.”
“Sure will, honey.”
I glanced again at her teddy bears and the way in which they made her house seem so inviting. When I reached the door, she touched me lightly on my wrist.
“Phee, honey, you’re an angel. I sincerely hope that aunt of yours appreciates what you’re doing. And don’t you go worrying yourself about that dead man. We all have to meet our maker one of these days. Maybe I’m just getting jaded, but when you get to be my age, you read the obituaries and say to yourself, ‘Ha! I outlived that one!’ Anyway, you have a good night.”
“I will. And you, too, Shirley.”
As I drove home, the dead man on the golf course rocks was all I thought about. Well, that and Aunt Ina. As far as anyone knew, the death was due to natural causes. That was about to change. I mean, why else would the sheriff’s office call Nate in to investigate?
By the time I pulled into my garage, I was mentally preparing a response for my mother in the event one of the news channels broke the story of a “suspicious death” in Sun City West. Thankfully, I didn’t have to use it. No mention on the news that night about the incident. Still, I wasn’t taking any chances. In the days that followed, I checked the news app on my phone periodically. Nothing to report. But I wasn’t off the hook yet. It was only a matter of time for the sword of Damocles to knock me over the head. And it did. On Thursday.
My aunt’s wedding, from her hat to the fancy French desserts, had practically consumed all of my waking thoughts right up until the moment I was getting ready to head to Glendale that Thursday afternoon. I had to meet with Julien from La Petite Pâtisserie to select the pastries. And while I considered myself an expert when it came to differentiating between a Devil Dog and a Little Debbie, I was way out of my league. That turned out to be the least of my problems, because that afternoon Channel Five splashed a spectacular heading across the screen—GOLF COURSE DEATH RULED A HOMICIDE.
Augusta had just returned from lunch and informed me that my boss’s newest case was all over the news. “No wonder that man is out all the time,” she said. “Got a full-blown murder on his hands.”
I didn’t even give the poor woman a chance to sit. “What do you mean ‘full-blown murder’ and ‘all over the news,’ Augusta?”
“I mean, the large-screen TV at the deli was tuned to Channel Five and they identified the victim as Theodore Sizemore and said he was murdered.”
“Did they say how? Gunshot wound to the head? To the heart? Nate hasn’t breathed a word of it.”
“Sorry, they didn’t say. But trust me, it’ll be on the nightly news.”
And trust me, the next phone call we get will be my mother’s.
“Thanks, Augusta. I’ve got to make a call.”
Reaching for the phone across my desk, I bit my lip and took a deep breath. Then I dialed my mother. All and all, the conversation went better than I had expected.
“Mom, remember that man they found dead at the golf course by your house?”
“Of course. It was all Herb could ta
lk about for days. About how the flashing emergency lights woke him. Why?”
“Well, um . . . it wasn’t a heart attack or anything like that.”
“I knew it! I knew it. Was the man attacked by coyotes on the golf course? Everyone tells us coyotes don’t go attacking people, but animals will do anything when they’re hungry. I once heard about a woman who was eaten by her cats.”
“Oh, for God’s sakes, Mother. No one wants to think about those things. And no, the man was not attacked by coyotes. Or cats, for that matter.”
“How do you know all of this?”
“Because it was on Channel Five at noon. I’m sure you can catch it on the evening news.”
“Why is this on the news? That happened days ago.”
“Um . . . well . . . because they believe it was a homicide.”
“OH MY GOD! MURDERED! HE WAS MURDERED?”
For a brief second, the line went quiet.
Then my mother continued to speak. “Don’t they know I live a few yards from that spot? Who did it? Who killed him? And who was that man? We never did find out.”
“The man is, or should I say was, Theodore Sizemore. Does that name ring a bell?”
“No. But I’ll find out. Right now, I have to place a call to the sheriff’s posse office. I want to know what protection they’re giving us. Murdered! And right in Herb Garrett’s backyard. That sheriff’s office better have a plan for our safety. Not everyone is as fortunate as me to have Streetman. Sure, he’s less than ten pounds, but he barks. When he’s not hiding under the couch. Call me as soon as you get home, Phee.”
My mother ended the call and I immediately felt badly for the deputy on duty at the sheriff’s posse office. Oddly enough, I also felt badly for Streetman, her neurotic Chiweenie, who would now be expected to rise to the occasion like a well-trained Doberman.
In my haste to break the news about the incident to my mother, I’d neglected to tell her I’d be home late due to my meeting with Scottsdale’s most prestigious pastry chef. She was bound to find out, one way or the other. I thought about calling her back but I would only get a busy signal. I did the next best thing. I sent her an e-mail. Along with playing solitaire, e-mail was the only other computer function my mother utilized.
Chapter 4
The Renaissance Hotel in Glendale, where my aunt’s pastry chef was participating in some sort of exhibition, was a short drive from Nate’s office. I could see the University of Phoenix Stadium across the highway as I headed to Westgate, the complex that housed the hotel, not to mention an outlet mall, boutique shops, and a number of upscale restaurants and bars. Next to the stadium stood the luxury hotel and spa with its commanding view of the West Valley.
Elegant palm trees lined the long driveway leading to the hotel entrance and, for a brief second, I wished I was checking in for a “staycation” instead of a meeting with my aunt’s “baker extraordinaire.”
An ornate courtyard with fountains and small date palms led into an even more elegant lobby. A spectacular stained glass chandelier illuminated the entire room. Smaller fountains against the walls, leather couches, more date palms, and a mosaic-tiled floor completed the design. It practically screamed, “You need a spa vacation now!”
Inside the lobby, a hand-painted sign directed people to the ballroom where “An Afternoon of Decadent Pastry Delights” had ended a little while ago.
As soon as I approached the sign, a woman from the reception area called out, “I’m sorry. That event ended a little while ago. We haven’t taken the sign down yet.”
“I know. I’m meeting one of the chefs.”
The woman, who appeared to be my age, pointed to the ballroom entrance. I gave her a quick nod and proceeded. It looked as if most of the tables had been cleared, and the hotel staff was busy moving some ice sculptures from the center of the room to the kitchen. Here and there, a few people were in the process of taking down signage and props from their stations. Most of the signs remained, so I started to look for the one that said “La Petite Pâtisserie.”
Having no luck, I stopped at TASTE OF TUSCANY and asked if they knew where Julien’s booth was located. A heavyset man with dark curly hair simply lifted his head toward the corner of the room across from where I was standing.
“They always request the corner booth for this event. You can’t miss it. I believe that’s the owner over there, Julien Rossier. I’ve never met him, but everyone’s heard of him.”
Everyone except me, apparently. And Aunt Ina didn’t even give me his last name.
Thanking the man, I walked briskly across the room and straight toward the booth. Other than a white tablecloth and skirt, everything had been removed. Julien appeared to be having an animated conversation with a tall brunette in her late twenties or early thirties, but I only caught the tail end.
“Then have Antoine do it if your schedule is too full. C’est bon?”
The woman uttered something and then took off behind the booth and out one of the side doors that led to the parking lot. I was in front of La Petite Pâtisserie’s booth by the time the door closed.
“Excuse me, you must be Julien. I’m Phee Kimball, Ina Stangler’s niece. You asked me to meet you here to discuss the pastries for her wedding.”
“Yes. Certainly. We can sit right here at the table. They’ll be cleaning up this room for the next hour at least.”
From a distance, Julien appeared to be in his thirties, but up close small furrows and crow’s-feet seemed to shout middle age—forties. He was well built, on the thin side, and his salt-and-pepper hair gave him a distinguished look. As I took a seat, he placed a large portfolio on the table and inched his chair closer to mine.
I took a quick breath. “Thanks for meeting me here. I’m not really sure what I’m supposed to be selecting and I’ve never—”
“Ah! Let me stop you right there.” Julien clasped his palms together, placed them across his mouth, and shook his head.
“Your aunt was very specific about what she wanted. All you will need to do is decide on the fillings for each pastry.”
“Each?”
I kind of envisioned Dunkin’ Donuts, where the assortment was pretty obvious—lemon cream, Bavarian cream, jelly, and chocolate. And they didn’t do it by the “each.”
Julien opened the portfolio and pointed to the first picture. It looked like tree branches with multicolored birds sitting, pruning, fluffing their feathers, and doing the kinds of things one would expect birds to do. I shrugged my shoulders and waited for him to speak.
“Look carefully, Miss Kimball. Our creations are one of a kind. Your aunt requested the Aviary Atop the Tree. Each bird pastry will be individually sculpted with a unique filling. That is where you come in.”
I was astonished. No. Flabbergasted. I couldn’t even begin to fathom the cost of each tiny bird.
“So, um . . . you bake these pastries and then set them on those wooden branches?”
Julien shot me a look as if I had referred to his creations as “Twinkies.”
“Those are not wooden branches. Take a closer look and you’ll see the tree is sculpted from the finest Belgian chocolate. We blend dark, milk, and white to create the branches. Then we fuse quinoa and buckwheat to give it the texture.”
Oh my God! These damn birds probably cost more than my first car!
Before I could open my mouth again, Julien turned the page. This time it was a close-up of the birds.
“Your aunt was very specific about the colors. Muted rainbow shades giving way to darker hues.”
I went completely blank and took another look.
“You see, Miss Kimball, your aunt’s birds will meld from the mauves to the magentas, from cerulean to cobalt, not to mention that tricky little masterpiece of alizarin crimson to brown ochre.”
My mouth dropped open and I actually caught myself putting my hand over it. “I see. I . . . er . . . I get it. Lots of multicolored birds.”
“Indeed.”
Julien
looked at me as if it was Helen Keller’s breakthrough. “And what I need you to do, Miss Kimball, is to select the filling flavor for each bird. Now, keep in mind, the colors must be compatible. You cannot, and I repeat, cannot, select, let’s say, a chocolate to go inside the brown ochre. That would be absolutely gauche. And one more thing.”
Oh, dear God, no. What can it possibly be?
“What’s that?” I tried to sound interested.
“Your aunt requested that we create specific flavor blends for the larger birds. So you will need to work with Rochelle and Antoine, my assistants, to come up with those epicurean delights. ”
The muscles in the back of my neck tightened and my fingers trembled. “I am so sorry, Mr. . . . Mr. . . .” Oh my God, I’ve forgotten his name.
“Rossier. My apologies. We were not properly introduced. Now, what is it you are sorry about?”
Stepping into this ballroom to begin with . . .
“I simply do not have the time to work with your assistants for specialized flavors, let alone any of the other ones. Look, I’m perfectly happy leaving all of this to your judgment. You’re the expert. I can’t even tell the difference between custard or cream donuts.”
Julien closed the portfolio and pushed his chair back from the table. I didn’t want to ruin this for Aunt Ina and, for a second, I was afraid he was going to cancel her contract.
“Miss Kimball, we will be more than pleased to accommodate you if you trust my staff to select the appropriate fillings.”
“Oh, I do. I do. I really do!”
“Then all I will need for you to do is to sign off on this contract and allow us to work our pastry magic. You will, of course, have the final say when we have completed our recipes. May Rochelle or Antoine contact you should they have any questions?”
“Of course. Sure.”
I fumbled in my bag for a business card and handed it to him.
“Hmm,” Julien responded. “Williams Investigations. Sophie Kimball, accountant.”
“That’s me. Phee.”
“I see. You work for a detective agency. I do hope that, in the foreseeable and non-foreseeable future, I have no need for a private investigator, but one never knows, does one?”
