Éclair Case of Murder: A Culinary Cozy Mystery (A Rosie Kale Culinary Cozy Mystery Book 2)

by Leigh Selfman

  To my untrained eye it appeared to be the same as in the photo: a sea of black fabric that made up the lower half of Helen’s dress, against a dark blue background.

  Just to be sure, while Mrs. Pond’s back was turned, I quickly snapped a shot of the entire painting with my cell phone. Then I followed her into the kitchen.

  “Ah here it is,” she said as she searched through one of the lower kitchen cabinets for the cupcake tray. She turned around with a pleased expression on her face and handed it to me. “Thank you again for bringing the cupcakes by. Everyone loved them.”

  “I’m so glad to hear it. How are you all doing?”

  “Holding up,” she sighed. “As well as can be expected, I suppose. It’s very hard on Sammy. He’ll be staying home instead of returning to boarding school for awhile.”

  “I guess it’s important for him to be with his father at this time,” I said.

  She nodded sadly. “Well, thank you again for the cupcakes.”

  We both started walking back out towards the front door and as we passed the living room, I again let my eyes wander to the painting over the mantle.

  “It’s such a striking painting,” I said, stopping to stare. I was hoping that my comment would be enough to elicit more information from her.

  “Isn’t it though?” Mrs. Pond answered, looking sadly at the painting. “I’m just so glad Helen got to see it that evening before the party. It was so thoughtful of Chuck to have had it painted. Such a lovely gift.”

  “It is,” I nodded. “I remember you said that he commissioned it for her, for their anniversary? And that it was only delivered the day of the anniversary party?”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Pond said. “And believe you me, it was a close call. Helen had an appointment for “the works” at the spa at 10:30 that morning but she was running late. And I knew the painting was going to be delivered at 10:45 or so as well, so I was trying to hurry her out of the house, but she kept forgetting things. First she forgot her water bottle. Then she forgot her phone…”

  “Must’ve been nerve-wracking for you,” I smiled.

  “It was. It really was.” Mrs. Pond smiled to herself. “I finally I got her out of here at 10:27—by reminding her how upset Greta gets when she’s late.”

  “Greta?”

  “Her masseuse at the Blue Ocean Spa—believe it or not, she’s actually fired her clients who arrived late. Helen finally left not ten minutes before the painting arrived—thank goodness.”

  “Wow, close call,” I said.

  She nodded. “I had the men hang it up, then I quickly prepared the smoothie and put it in the fridge before I left. I had my own hair appointment to get to for the party that night, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  I nodded sympathetically but inside my nerves were all tingly, so I quickly said my goodbyes and hurried out to my car.

  Once inside the car, I compared the photo I’d just taken at the Wright’s house to the photo on the art gallery website. To me, the bottom section of both of the paintings looked the same—both showed black folds of fabric against a blue background.

  I smiled to myself, pretty sure I’d just uncovered Violet’s lie. It was now clear that Violet’s selfie couldn’t have been taken last year. It had to have been taken the day of the anniversary party or sometime thereafter.

  If only there were some way to narrow it down…

  I started the car and drove off, excited to tell Nana and Birdie what I’d learned, when it hit me.

  Of course!

  In Violet’s selfie, it was raining outside—and the only day in the last month that we’ve had any rain was the morning of the anniversary party. Which meant that the photo had been taken the same day.

  All of which meant that Violet had been in the house with Chuck Wright after Mrs. Pond had left. After Mrs. Pond had already put the smoothie in the fridge.

  Was Violet the one who crushed up Helen’s pills and added them into the smoothie? She could easily have dropped them into the blender, knowing that Helen would drink it down the next morning?

  And if so, was Chuck in on it with her?

  I forced myself to calm down as I thought about it again. After all, Violet’s visit to the house that day could have been perfectly innocent.

  But in that case, why lie about it?

  My guess was that Violet wanted Chuck for herself. And maybe she was willing to do anything in order to get him.

  I doubted that the police even knew she’d been in the house that day. Or that they knew about her affair with Mr. Wright at all.

  It certainly seemed like something I ought to tell them, as soon as possible.

  Chapter 21

  “Miss Kale, to what do I owe this pleasure?" Detective Sanders was standing near the front desk of the police station, speaking in a tone that betrayed not the slightest hint of pleasure. In fact, beneath his usual dour monotone and walrus moustache, I sensed only irritation.

  Steve Logan, who was sitting at the desk, gave me a smile and a friendly wink. I half-smiled back, and then turned back to Sanders.

  “Detective, I was wondering if we could talk. About the Helen Wright case.”

  Sanders looked at me impassively, stroking his handlebar moustache. Then he grunted and abruptly turned to walk back through the door towards his office.

  I watched him go, unsure of what to do.

  “I guess you should go back there," Stevie said looking back.

  “You think so? I thought that grunt might mean ‘stay away.’”

  “It might,” Stevie nodded. “Then again it might not. Only way to know for sure is to go on back. Worst he could do is arrest you for causing an annoyance or something.” Stevie’s smile implied that he was joking. Or so I hoped.

  I took a deep breath and headed back.

  The door to Sanders' office was ajar, which I took as a good sign. After all, if he really didn’t want me to follow, he would have closed it all the way. Or so I thought. I told myself that he definitely would have, as I pushed it open further.

  “Detective?" I said, peering in.

  He sighed and looked up at me through hooded eyes. “Miss Kale. I know you're here to discuss the Wright case. But you seemed determined to ignore the fact that there is no Wright case.” He leaned back in the chair and studied me as I came into the room. "I’m sorry that you feel some kind of guilt for your part in her suicide but perhaps you should be talking to another kind of professional about it. A psychologist or..."

  I walked over and stood in front of his desk. “Detective, did you realize that Violet Vane was at the Wright’s house on the day of the anniversary party? That she was there with Chuck Wright, alone, after the housekeeper had left?"

  He didn’t respond.

  “And did you know that Violet used to be the Wright’s nanny and that Helen Wright fired her because she was having an affair with Chuck?"

  Sanders appeared to study the top of his desk. Then he looked back at me, with his usual, emotionless gaze. “Well if all that’s true, it seems to me it’s all the more reason for Helen to have killed herself. You yourself said that when Mrs. Wright called the crisis line that day, she was upset about her husband having an affair. Maybe this Violet situation is the thing that set her off.”

  “But we don’t know for sure that she did kill herself!” I said more loudly than I’d intended. Something about Sanders’ complacency always tended to rile me up and I couldn’t even try to contain my frustration.

  “Detective, Violet was in the house after the housekeeper, Mrs. Pond, had already prepared the smoothie and left it in the fridge!” I said. “Isn’t it possible that Violet was the one that crushed up pills? Then she put them into the smoothie mix for Helen to drink the next morning?”

  “It’s possible,” Sanders said, seeming to think it over.

  I looked at him, shocked. Was he actually listening to me for once and taking what I had to say seriously?

  “It’s possible, Miss Kale," he said,
standing up, leaning his knuckles on the desk. “Except for the fact that Helen Wright told you about the exact suicide method she intended to use, right there on the phone. Do you suppose she also told her husband’s mistress about it? Did YOU tell her husband’s mistress about it? How else would this Violet person have known that Helen planned to grind the antidepressants into Mrs. Wright’s smoothie?”

  I was about to protest that it could have been a coincidence, but Sanders didn’t give me the chance.

  “No, Miss Kale. Helen Wright did just what she told you she was going to. She crushed her pills into her smoothie and drank them down."

  I stared at him, too frustrated to speak. Then without saying a word, I stormed out and hurried to my car trying to catch my breath. I was reeling with anger and frustration and had to get out of there before I said something to get myself arrested.

  As I drove back to the bakery, I calmed down but was still unable to shake my bad mood. I told myself that it was because Detective Sanders was just being his usual complacent self and was refusing to look at all the evidence.

  But what he’d said was eating away at me. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that he could actually have been right.

  After all, how would Violet have known about the method Helen intended to use to kill herself? She wouldn’t have. And it was too much of a coincidence otherwise.

  I supposed it was possible that Chuck knew and that he told Purple Streak. But it was just as possible that Helen actually did kill herself and that I’d been too guilt-ridden to accept it.

  All this time, I’d been so focused on trying to prove that she was murdered and maybe I was ignoring what was so obvious to everyone else: that Helen Wright really did exactly what she told me she was going to do. Helen Wright had killed herself.

  Chapter 22

  I must’ve looked a sight, because from the moment I set foot inside the bakery, both Nana and Birdie seemed to be stepping delicately around me. No one made any comments about my hair or my lateness. In fact, no one said a thing as I came inside and went straight to the kitchen to begin whipping up a batch of white chocolate and praline éclairs. I was hoping that the energy I expended there would take away some of my irritation at Sanders. And at myself.

  I poured some milk into a saucepan to heat up, then I mixed the egg yolks together with the sugar, flour and salt for the pastry cream. As I worked silently, Birdie came in to pull a batch of cupcakes out of the oven.

  “Honey, I’m walking on eggshells here,” she said, looking at me and making a tsk tsk sound. “This is not good.”

  “I’m sorry,” I sighed. “I really am. But can’t I just be in a bad mood without everyone making a federal case out of it?”

  She looked at me then looked down at the floor. Then she bent down to pick something up. “Eggshells, you see?” she said, holding it up. “You must’ve dropped some on the floor while you were baking.”

  “Oh,” I said with a stunned laugh. “I’m sorry, Birdie. I guess I’m just in a bad mood.”

  I picked up a wet cloth and went over to mop the broken pieces of the shell up.

  “So what is this bad mood all about anyway? Not that we all need to make a federal case out of it,” Nana said, giving me a look as she came into the back to join us. She poured a steaming cup of coffee with cream and handed it to me.

  “Thanks,” I said as I took a sip of the rich, hazelnut coffee. “It’s no big deal. I just went to talk to Detective Sanders—and I’m afraid he might be right about Helen Wright having killed herself.”

  “Oh?” Nana said, “That would be a first.”

  I laughed. “Yeah. But as he wisely pointed out, Violet couldn’t have known the method Helen planned to use to kill herself, so it’s unlikely that she killed her.”

  Nana and Birdie looked at one another.

  I shrugged. “Maybe…I just wanted so much to believe that she was murdered that I read all the evidence wrong. Maybe Helen came home early from the spa and was so upset at finding out that her husband was cheating on her that she just wanted to end it all. Maybe she just didn’t care about anything else at that point, not even the fact that her young son would be the one to find her body.”

  “It seems unlikely,” Birdie said. “The thing about the son, I mean.

  “Why did she leave the spa early?” Nana asked, her eyes narrowed in thought.

  I looked at her as I thought about it. “I don’t have a clue. To be honest, I don’t even know for sure that she did leave early. But the housekeeper said Helen left the house at 10:30 and went into the spa for ‘the works’. I just assumed that would take longer than two and a half hours.”

  “You mean from 10:30 until the time she called you at the hotline at 1:00pm?” Birdie asked.

  I nodded.

  “That certainly doesn’t seem like enough time for ‘the works’ to me,” Nana said. “Maybe you should find out about her spa schedule for sure. And who knows? Maybe someone at the spa will have some idea about was going on with Helen that day.”

  “Absolutely,” Birdie chimed in. “Women tell their hairdressers everything these days. They treat them more like therapists than beauticians.” She looked at me with a raised eyebrow. “You’d know that yourself, if you stayed for more than half an appointment.”

  “Ha ha.” I rolled my eyes, pushing my uneven hair behind my ear. “Don’t worry, I’m going to this fixed.” I held out the wooden spoon to Nana. “Could you stir this for a sec?”

  She came over and relieved me of my pastry-making duties as I hurried over to my purse and grabbed my iPad. I turned it on and found the website for the Blue Ocean Spa and then proceeded to book us each an appointment.

  “Guess who’s having a girls’ day at the spa tomorrow?” I announced as I finished.

  “A girl’s day?” Laila squealed, coming into the back. “Yay! I can’t wait! I love spas! And talk about perfect timing! I could really use the relaxation, what with all the rehearsals and dancing…”

  Talk about perfect timing.

  Inviting Laila to the spa was the last thing I wanted to do. After all, I wanted to relax a little bit too and with Laila there it was unlikely to happen.

  Nana must have sensed my reluctance because she said, “Honey, book your cousin an appointment. We’ll all have a nice day together.”

  So I booked Laila an appointment, reassuring myself that it was a spa day after all—even Laila couldn’t make a ‘day of relaxation’ too stressful. Could she?

  At which point she came over to me and said, “Boy, you really need this, don’t you Rosie? The stress is REALLY showing in your skin…and in those dark, dark circles under your eyes.”

  Boom.

  Chapter 23

  “I just love spa days!” Laila chirped happily as she scooted into the backseat of Nana’s Lincoln, bumping right into me without seeming to notice. Birdie was in the front passenger seat and Nana, of course, was driving.

  “Well, I thought we could all use a day of beauty,” I said. I knew I certainly could. I had that party with Casey later that evening and after my relaxing day of beauty I was sure to be glowing and glamorous and in a great mood. Especially as Nana was lending me a vintage Givenchy gown from her glamorous socialite days.

  I figured that this appointment was actually the perfect way to kill two birds with one stone. Not only could I could get a relaxing massage, a mani/pedi and haircut, but I could also question Greta, the masseuse, about Helen Wright’s behavior on the day of the party.

  “You know, hon, you could have them even out your hair,” Birdie said, twisting around in her seat to look back at me.

  “Already booked the appointment,” I said. “I have to look good for that big party with Casey tonight.”

  “The baron,” Birdie nodded.

  “No, he’s a lord,” I corrected. “Or his father is anyway.”

  “I thought he was a count,” Nana frowned, looking at me in the rear view mirror.

  “Don’t be silly,
” Birdie sniffed. “He’s English, there’s no such thing as an English count. That’s a French thing.”

  I groaned inside, realizing I’d just opened the door to one of Birdie and Nana’s arguments that would now last the entire car ride.

  “Oh no?” Nana said, smugly. “What about Count Frankenstein? He’s not French. ”

  “Well he’s certainly not English,” Nana snorted.

  “Or count Chocula,” Laila chimed in, not even looking up from her phone as she texted away.

  Thankfully, before anyone had the chance to respond to that bit of wisdom, we arrived at the spa.

  As soon as we entered the Blue Ocean, we were bathed in a soothing, Zen-like atmosphere of serenity. We each took a seat on the white, raw linen sofas and studied the treatment menus which were printed on expensive-looking, creamy recycled paper.

  Laila chose a citrus scrub, while Nana wanted a seaweed wrap claiming she’d always wanted to know what it felt like to be a piece of sushi. Birdie thought a European body scrub with chamomile sounded ‘fancy’. And of course, I’d already booked my massage with Greta. Afterwards we would all meet up in the salon for our haircuts and mani/pedis.

  Before long, two twenty something girls, dressed in soothing sea-foam green uniforms— which I’m certain were both organic and sustainable—came out to lead the other ladies away. I got up to join them but I was waved off.

  “Greta will be out for you in a moment,” one of the attendants said.

  “Oh, okay, I’ll see you ladies after, I guess." I gave my companions a nervous wave and went to sit back down.

  “Enjoy!" Nana called out as she smiled and waved back.

  I nodded, feeling like I was missing out on all the girly fun—but then again, I knew that if a massage by Greta was good enough for Helen Wright, it was certainly good enough for me.