Lemon Chiffon Murder: A Donut Hole Cozy Mystery - Book 8

by Susan Gillard

  “Maybe,” she replied, but her gaze was doubtful. Dave barked and wriggled in her arms.

  The two women looked up at Piti Brodoteau. A droplet of sweat leaked down the side of his face and splattered the tabletop. If Augustin had been there to witness it, he would’ve had an aneurysm on the spot.

  “Put zis doggie away. You come wiz us now.”

  Angelica’s eyes went as round as donuts. She waited a moment longer, then rose and handed Dave to Heather.

  The dog growled at Piti throughout his hand over trajectory.

  “Shush, it’s okay,” Heather whispered to him, stroking the velvety softness between his ears. It really wasn’t okay, but Dave didn’t need the extra stress, right now.

  Angelica reached across the table and pulled Heather into a hug. “I see you soon.”

  “Yes,” Heather replied, “you will.”

  And then Angelica was gone, escorted out of the hotel by the rigid French officers. Brodoteau paused in the doorway and looked back at Heather. He raised two fingers, jabbed them towards his own eyes, then at her.

  “Likewise,” she whispered.

  Chapter 7

  Heather stood outside the hotel, staring blankly at the cars filing past in the road. Dave sniffed around at her feet, on a leash, of course, and wagged his tail at passersby. He didn’t mind people, he just didn’t like the ones who tried to hurt his friends.

  Dave was the epitome of loyal and eccentric.

  Heather suited him perfectly.

  She checked her watch and sighed. Amy was supposed to meet her for coffee but she was five minutes late.

  “Well, Dave, I guess we’ll have to get our caffeine fix back at the hotel bar. No, no coffee for you, but how about a bowl of milk?”

  Dave stared up at her, his doggy brows wiggling.

  A bowl of milk for a dog. Heather chuckled. “I suppose you’re right. Milk isn’t really your thing.”

  “Sorry I’m late!” Amy called, hurrying into view around the corner. “Kent and I went exploring, the Arc De Triomphe again. I tell you, I can’t get enough of this place.” She patted her hair into place and flicked the front of her blouse. “Hot isn’t it?”

  “Only because you’ve been running around Paris, having a romantic adventure,” Heather replied.

  “Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do in this city? I heard there was a bridge full of locks around here but I can’t find it.”

  “I’m not sure that was in Paris,” Heather said, “but I know wherever it was, they’re tearing it down now.”

  “Oh no,” Amy said, and pouted. “I wanted to lock a couple on there. You know to symbolize my romance with Kent.”

  “It’s getting serious then?” Heather asked, and nudged Amy for the details.

  Her best friend blushed and scraped her heel on the sidewalk. “He’s wonderful. And he’s decided to expand his business into Hillside.”

  “What does he do for a living?” Amy had definitely told her, but she couldn’t remember what it was for the life of her. Her mind had been clogged with wedding details at the time, and after that, with news of Jane’s murder.

  “He’s a –”

  “Miss Janke,” a man said, popping out of the pavement like a rat. All right, not literally, but he appeared as if from nowhere. “Miss Janke, care to answer a few questions?”

  “What on earth?” Heather and Amy exchanged incredulous looks. “About what?”

  The man wore a bow tie and a short-sleeved buttoned shirt. His eyebrows were two dark strikes against his skin, and his nose was hooked above an almost non-existent mouth.

  “About the arrest of your friend, of course.” He was definitely French, but his accent and English were impeccable.

  Amy’s blushing turned from shy to angry in two seconds flat. “You have no right to ask her any questions about that.”

  The reporter whistled and a chubby guy in shorts and a sleeveless vest ran over, carting a camera on his shoulder. He trained it on Amy, who was now the center of his news world.

  “What are you – don’t –” Amy lifted a hand and tried to block out his view, but the chubby guy dodged around her, belly rolls wobbling from the action. He didn’t even break a sweat. The consummate professional.

  “Leave her alone,” Heather said, loudly. “Right this minute.”

  Chubby Boy spun on the spot and focused on Heather instead. “Oh yes,” he murmured, “she will give the answers. Interview her, Gaston.”

  “What is even happening right now?” Amy asked, shuffling closer to Heather and leeching onto her arm.

  “I don’t know, but I suggest we cancel the coffee and retreat to the safety of the Saint James instead.”

  “Oh ho! The Saint James. The safety?” Gaston, the hook-nosed reporter crooned. “The safety? How can you say that it is safe after the untimely murder of Jane Duvall?”

  “Merde,” the cameraman echoed, in a spooky tones.

  Dave lost his marbles at that. He barked and ran around in circles, twisting the long leash this way and that.

  Gaston swept one hand into the air and brought it down in an expressive swishing movement. “Perhaps it is because you know who the killer was and that the killer is behind bars.”

  “You’re ridiculous. And your accusations are ridiculous,” Amy growled.

  “Don’t talk to him, Ames, you’re just giving him more ammo.” Heather spun her friend around and marched her back towards the entrance of the hotel.

  “Ah ha! The friend’s name is Ames,” Gaston said, then snapped his fingers, “Claude, pay attention. Are you getting this?”

  “Yes, boss,” Claude replied, in a low simper.

  “Very well, follow the women. Do not let them escape!”

  Heather and Amy strode under the arch of the Saint James, clutching each other. “He’s like a cartoon or something,” Amy whispered.

  “I’m beginning to think all Frenchmen are caricatures. I’ve seen no evidence to prove otherwise,” Heather replied, speaking just as low as Amy.

  “Do you not have a comment, huh?” Gaston appeared in front of them, running backwards on the spot, with his fluffy-tipped mic extended. “No defense for the friend who has been taken into custody? We have it on good authority that this Madame Angelique poisoned Jane Duvall in a fit of jealousy.”

  “No comment,” Heather said, keeping her expression blank. The chubby Claude hissed his disappointment.

  “What of the news that it was your donut which destroyed Jane’s innocent life. Oh my, taken so soon from us all,” Gaston said, then broke to camera, “And she was a reporter too Claude. For shame. For shameeeee!”

  “No comment,” Heather repeated, woodenly. Dave had many comments, thankfully all of them were barks.

  They were almost at the front steps of the Saint James anyway.

  Gaston continued backpedalling along the gravel. “And what of the –”

  His back slammed into the very solid chest of Augustin Pepe Lepeu. The reporter turned on the spot, with a theatrical frown – made that way by those caterpillar eyebrows – then froze and turned pale as flour.

  “Leave,” Augustin said. An English word, with a French accent, which had more power over Gaston and his cameraman than anything Heather and Amy, and Dave, could have said or barked.

  Gaston’s non-lips trembled. He swallowed and licked at them. Then he turned, clicking his fingers at Claude, and disappeared down the driveway.

  “Thank you,” Heather said.

  Augustin ignored her and charged back into his beloved hotel.

  Chapter 8

  Amy and Heather shuffled into the dining area and made for the bar, with Dave on the end of the leash, wriggling with latent anger. Her dog didn’t forgive interruptions to his daily walk kindly.

  Gaston was in line for a vicious ankle chewing after that stunt.

  They trudged to the bar and seated themselves at it, then asked for two coffees, black.

  “These are to clear our heads,” Amy sai
d, “we can have the cappuccinos to sweeten the deal after.”

  Heather yawned and nodded. “Being in the public eye is exhausting. I can’t stop thinking about Angelica, either, I’m worried that they’ll mistreat her. I don’t even know what the procedure is for a foreign arrest.”

  “Ryan will know,” Amy replied. “And Kent’s pulling all the strings he has, trying to get her extradited back to the US.”

  Heather sighed and unhooked Dave from his leash. He was allowed to wander, as long as he stayed close. The glory of a pet friendly hotel.

  “I doubt they’ll allow that. They have to keep her here for a trial. It’s been an entire day since she was arrested and I still haven’t made any head way into my investigation,” Heather said, then cleared her throat. “It’s really quite frustrating, I –”

  Amy nudged her and she snapped her mouth closed.

  Another guest had joined them at the bar, and ordered a martini, dry, with one olive. It was Bear Trapp, with his hair fluffed to perfection. The picture of a popular man, not a slimy paparazzo.

  “Looks like you’ve got your chance to get ahead with the case,” Amy whispered, then slurped at her bitter coffee and grimaced afterwards.

  Heather turned and smiled at the newcomer, turning on whatever charm she had left after the run-in with Gaston and his nose.

  “You’re Bear Trapp, aren’t you?”

  He swigged his martini and looked over at her. “That’s right. And you’re the bride. Heather Janke.”

  “That’s right,” she said, and reached over to shake his hand. “I didn’t expect to see you at my wedding, Bear.”

  “Of course you didn’t. Anonymity, subtlety is what I do best.”

  Amy snorted into her empty coffee cup and covered it with a fake coughing fit.

  Heather shifted to block her from view. “I see. It’s unfortunate how things turned out. I would’ve preferred a peaceful week in France, to the absolute insanity that’s gone on the past few days.”

  “Can I quote you on that?” Bear flashed a cheesy smile.

  Amy snorted again, and this time Heather nudged her gently to get her to behave.

  “I think I’ll take Dave for his walk,” Amy said, slipping off the chair and grabbing the leash from Heather’s lap. “He wouldn’t want to miss out on it.”

  Dave hopped over, pranced actually, at the mention of his walk.

  Heather waited until Amy was out of earshot. “As I was saying, it’s a real pity about Jane Duvall, don’t you think?”

  “Hmm, I know what you’re up to Ms. Janke. Can’t say I care to talk about Jane or the murder,” Bear replied.

  “Oh come on, you? Didn’t you just publish a tell-all on Jane? A day after her murder.” Heather accepted a cappuccino from the bartender, and thanked him with a smile. She kept her calm exterior up, but her nerves bubbled away in the pit of her stomach.

  “Ah, I didn’t know you’d read it,” Bear replied. “One of my best pieces. I’ve been researching that article for quite some time. It was the reason I followed Jane to Paris. I had my suspicions about her, believed she’d meet with her ‘boyfriend’ here, out from under the watchful eye of the Hillside press.”

  “And did you find him?” Heather asked.

  “You could say that. I found evidence of him, let’s put it that way.”

  “What evidence?”

  Bear finished off his martini and ordered another with a swish of his hand. “That’s really none of your business, Ms. Janke.”

  He sure had nerve, crashing her engagement party and wedding celebrations to follow a lead, and then refusing her information about it, after the lead he’d been following had dropped dead.

  “You didn’t care much for Jane, did you?” Heather asked, and lifted a silver spoon from her saucer. She scooped cream off the cappuccino and gobbled it down.

  “Jane? We didn’t talk often. I had no relationship with her, but I also didn’t have professional respect for her,” he said, then removed a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.

  The bartender slipped an ashtray onto the table.

  Bear Trapp lit up and puffed away on his cigarette. “Better not let that frou-frou hotel guy catch me. He’s been moaning for the past two days about the smoke smell. Never mind smoking in public areas is permitted here.” He rolled his eyes.

  Heather didn’t register the derision. Bear Trapp had to be lying.

  Augustin had seen Bear and Jane fighting prior to her death, but Bear claimed that he had no relationship with her? That they hardly ever spoke?

  Something smelled about his story and it wasn’t the nicotine and tar.

  “Are you done sleuthing out your questions? Nothing else to add? A murder accusation perhaps?” Bear asked, with a sly grin. He tapped the ash off the end of his cigarette and into the ashtray.

  Heather stared at him for a moment, the calm demeanor, and the cigarette. She definitely wasn’t a fan of him or his work.

  “Have a good day, Mr. Trapp,” Heather said, at last. She rose, leaving her cappuccino on the bar, and walked for the door.

  “Yeah,” the paparazzo said, behind her, “that’s what I thought.”

  Chapter 9

  They held a memorial dinner for Jane Duvall in the gardens at the Saint James.

  Honestly, in the rush of Angelica’s arrest, the questions, the sleuthin’, Heather hadn’t had time to grieve for the loss of another of Hillside’s finest. They’d decided that there was no time like the present, even if Jane’s body had been flown back to Texas for a proper funeral in the meantime.

  The gathering was quiet.

  Heather rose from her seat, and clinked her fork against the side of her glass, which was filled with water.

  Faces turned to look at them, most of them somber, some of them blank. Dave had been tucked away upstairs for the event. Heather didn’t trust he wouldn’t overturn a table in search of baked goods.

  “Thank you all for coming, this evening,” she said.

  The lamps along the path clicked on behind her. The sun had only begun to set, but the purple of dusk would soon follow and the hotel ran like clockwork.

  “I invited you all here to celebrate our wedding, but things have turned out different to what we expected, as I’m sure you all know. Now, with a time of joy sometimes comes a great time of sadness.” Heather looked around the gardens, at the people gathered.

  Bear Trapp stifled a yawn behind his fist.

  “I never dreamed that Jane would lose her life in this manner, and especially not an event which was meant to bring happiness. She lived a full life, and connected with a lot of you on a very personal level. So, here’s to Jane,” she said, raising her glass.

  Everyone followed suite, and murmured, “To Jane.”

  They drank, and Heather lowered herself to her chair. Soon enough, waiters streamed out of the doors of the hotel, bringing plates of gourmet cuisine for the guests to enjoy.

  Amy gave Heather a wan smile. “Well, this is nice,” she said.

  “Yeah, I know, but it’s the best way to celebrate Jane. I made some extra lemon chiffon donuts to –”

  A sob broke the dull chatter.

  Lori Lisalot stood in front of the group, holding a lit candle.

  She sniffled. “I just wanted to say – excuse me. I just wanted to say that Jane was a fantastic mentor and reporter. A journalist. I learned everything I know from her and I don’t know what I would’ve done without her.” Lori, wiped at the tears beneath her eyes. “I don’t know what I will do without her now.”

  And then she blew out the candle, tres dramatique, and rushed between the tables, past Heather, Amy, Ryan and Kent, up the stairs and into the hotel.

  “Well,” Heather said. “I guess grief affects people in different ways.”

  An awkward silence fell between the tables, but the hum of talk returned again, after a few minutes.

  “She seemed a little over the top,” Amy said, at last.

  “Ames, that’s not fair.
Jane was her boss,” Heather replied. But deep down, she got the same feeling as her bestie. Lori had been anything but distraught a few days before. Had the grief kicked in?

  “Jane wasn’t technically her boss,” Ryan said. “Jane and Lori both worked at the station, but Jane kinda beat her to the anchor position? She asked for an assistant and she got Lori. She could boss her around, sure, but she couldn’t fire her.”

  Amy and Heather both looked at Detective Shepherd.

  “What?” He asked, shrugging and spooning soup into his mouth. “I’m a detective, it’s what I do.”

  “That changes things,” Heather said, and pushed back in her chair. She didn’t want to discuss the murder case at Jane’s memorial dinner, but she had to brainstorm this with somebody. “Care to go for a walk, Ames?”

  “You betcha. This soup kinda tastes like dishwater anyways,” she said, dropping her spoon.

  A man sniffed behind their table and they turned to meet Augustin’s disapproving glare. Amy looked as if she wanted the ground to open up and swallow her.

  “We were just going to –”

  But Augustin didn’t wait for their ‘excuse’, he turned and strode back into the hotel, his hair flapping in the breeze of his own making.

  “Guess that’s our cue,” Amy said, and slipped her arm through Heather’s. They walked down the side of the hotel and stopped beside one of the lanterns. “What’s up?” Amy asked.

  “Think about it, for a second. Lori was working for Jane, but not actually employed by her specifically. She was technically a competitor prior to become an assistant.”

  “Yeah, that sounds like a pretty solid motive to me,” Amy said.

  Heather wriggled her nose. “I don’t know about solid, but there’s something there. There’s definitely a lead, if I can just work out what it is. And she smokes, by the way.”

  “She does?” Amy’s jaw dropped. “Not that it’s scandalous or anything, but I had no idea.”

  “Yeah, she lit up a cigarette by the fountain and Augustin lost his mind,” Heather said, and her tone dropped lower and lower until it was a whisper at the end of the sentence. “Augustin is the missing link in this. If I could just get him to talk, if I could just get past his horrible demeanor, I’d be able to get some real information.”