“Ah. Intimidation looks good on you, my petal!”
“Go home, Cassie. To you husband and children,” I hissed before hitching my thumb toward the door.
While everyone in the café sat stock-still in shock in their chairs, Cassie narrowed her eyes at me and lifted her haughty chin before she stomped off, no longer the graceful gazelle she’d been when we’d first sat down.
Satisfied she was gone, I rushed to Petula, who’d crumpled in a chair next to Chester. He eyed her with concern, his warm gaze riddled with sympathy. “Ya okay there, Petula? Lemme get you some coffee and we’ll fix this right up. Got peppermint sticks, too. That’ll make it better.” He patted her hand and went off in search of peppermint sticks.
That’s when she began to cry in earnest, tears pouring down her face and dropping on the table in salty splashes.
“Tell me what happened, Petula. Please. What’s going on?”
Of course, I already knew what was going on. Somehow, I guess Petula had gotten wind of the fact that Cassie Haverstock was messing around with Pascal. Gosh, I don’t know if I could have felt any worse for Petula. She’d been so crazy about the chef and he was nothing more than a full-on rake.
“She’s been lying to me, Stevie! Lying to me all this time. All while I helped her plan her big New Year’s Eve party—all this time!” she whimpered, gasping for air.
“Oh, Petula, I’m sorry. Tell me what I can do to make this better,” I asked, stroking her arm.
“You can go give that Taryn Johnson a piece of your mind, that’s what! All this time Cassie knew Pascal was playing around with that woman and she never said a word! I thought we were friends. How could she let me look like such a fool?”
Taryn Johnson?
“Taryn Johnson?” Win’s words mirrored my thoughts. “Bloody hell, Stevie. He was a jolly old cad, wasn’t he? Poor sweet Petula.”
“Pascal was fooling around with Taryn Johnson?”
“That dirty bird!” she fairly shouted on a renewed breath of air. “And Cassie knew! I know she knew because the police talked to two witnesses who told them so!”
Chester came back with the coffee and promised peppermint stick, setting them in front of Petula with a squeeze to her shoulder. Her hands shook as she gathered the cup in her chubby hands and held it close to her chest.
“Who told the police about Taryn, Petula?” And why hadn’t she heard Cassie had also been doing the do with Pascal?
“Merrill Mathers, that’s who! Everyone’s talking about it and laughing at me behind my back.”
Oh, boy. Pascal had made his way around the cul-de-sac and back again, hadn’t he? I’d bet my eyeteeth Merrill wasn’t entirely innocent in this either.
“Now, now, P. That ain’t true. If anything, they’re all thinking what a fool he was to mess around with a married woman when he had a good woman like you,” Chester soothed.
But Petula wasn’t hearing anyone or anything at this point. She set the coffee away from her, the liquid sloshing out of the cup and onto the table. She’d very clearly realized everyone was trying not to stare as she pushed back her chair, keeping her voice low.
“I have to go. I have to go now! I just came to get some coffee for everyone because we’re all so tired. I—I didn’t expect to see that woman is all. She caught me off guard, but I can’t stay. We still can’t find Edmund and we all need some coffee to keep us going so we can continue to search for him.”
I hopped out of my chair along with Petula. “You still haven’t found Edmund?” My concern ratcheted up ten notches.
Pushing her mussed hair from her eyes, she tightened her sweater around her waist and shook her head. “No. No one can find him anywhere. He never made it to the mayor’s house, and we still don’t know why Pascal was at your house instead of him. When Edmund left the shop, he said he was going to your house. That’s the last anyone saw or heard from him, Stevie. I told you that last night.”
The worry in Petula’s voice matched my internal anxiety. Where was Edmund? But I didn’t press the issue because just as I was preparing to help Petula get back to her shop, one of her employees breezed in the door, her eyes full of concern when she directed her gaze at Petula.
“Oh, thank goodness you’re all right, Petula!” Elise Timmons called out. “We were getting worried. C’mon. Let’s get those coffees and get you back to the shop. You need to rest,” she chastised, wrapping her arm around Petula and guiding her toward the counter.
I wanted to ask Petula a million questions about Edmund and the gorgeous pastry Pascal allegedly left for me, but her being so frazzled, on top of publicly humiliated, made me decide to wait.
“What a dog,” Chester said with disgust, his eyes full of anger. “Feel bad for the old girl. She’s a good woman, and he hoodwinked her six ways to Sunday.”
I nodded my sympathy and sighed. “Me, too. He hoodwinked me for sure. I had no idea Pascal was so—er, busy. He has a wife, too, you know, and a bunch of women he’s been fooling around with, and I never even suspected.”
Chester winked and grinned, driving a thumb under his red and white Christmas-themed suspenders. “That’s because you’re too busy talking to dead people.”
I forced a smile before dropping a kiss on top of Chester’s balding head. “I have to go, Chester. But I’ll see you for the Christmas Eve party at church, right?”
“You betcha.” As I turned to leave, he grabbed my hand, his warm fingers enveloping mine. “Hey, can I ask ya somethin’?”
I cocked my head in question due to his tone, so solemn and serious. “Anytime.”
“We can still be friends even if you and the kid don’t work out, can’t we?”
My heart tightened in my chest and those tears I’d been fighting all day long threatened to fall. “Always, Chester. That’s a promise,” I whispered, making my escape from Strange Brew before I openly sobbed.
As I gulped in the fresh air of the chilly day, I beeped my car and opened the door.
“Are you all right, Dove?”
Sighing, I slid inside and turned the heat up, pressing my forehead to the steering wheel. “Jolly good.”
“I’m sorry about Forrest.”
“You heard?”
“No, no. I would never eavesdrop on something so private. That is our agreement and always will be. But Chester’s question tipped me off.”
I couldn’t talk to Win about Forrest. Not because he wouldn’t listen, even if Forrest wasn’t his favorite person, but because it felt like I should keep my feelings about him to myself.
“How about we review what we’ve learned so far and where to go from here?” I asked, changing the subject. “Arkady, you in?”
“Dah, malutka. I am always in. Should we go talk to the naughty cul-de-sac women next? This Merrill who spilled her jellybeans at the police station?”
Biting my cheek, I shook my head. “I don’t know. Okay, so Merrill threw her friend under the bus. Lots of people apparently had affairs with Chef Le June. Cassie made it sound as though breaking it off with him after smelling, and I quote, ‘a French tart’s perfume,’ was about as painful as having a hangnail. She didn’t appear at all emotional about it. Did you get the sense she was broken up over Pascal fooling around?”
“Only that he had the audacity to do so mere moments before he was with her. I’d say it was more ego than heartbreak,” Win answered.
Arkady mock-shivered in my ear. “Brrr. She is cold like fish in icy pond in Krakow.”
“That’s how I felt, too. Cassie certainly didn’t scream murderer. Though, not wanting her husband to find out about the affair would surely give her motive to kill him. But then if Pascal were fooling around with a bunch of women, he wouldn’t want their husbands to know either. It isn’t like he’d tell anyone. So what about Taryn? Is she the jealous type? Maybe, unlike Cassie, she was angry she wasn’t the only woman Pascal was seeing?”
“Maybe,” Win drawled. “And what about the husbands themselves? They’re
certainly large enough to drag Pascal outside. A jealous husband is an unpredictable beast. Have they all been accounted for?”
I poked a finger in the air. “Good point. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that.” I actually did know why I didn’t think of it. Because I wasn’t thinking clearly. I was too close to this case, or whatever we were calling it. “I’ll poke around and see what I can see.
“And that still leaves Edmund. There’s foul play there for sure, but by bloody whom? Edmund was the most unassuming, gentle young man in the history of gentle young men. So why? Why would someone harm him? Unless he knew something he shouldn’t.”
Win’s words made my chest tighten uncomfortably. But then dread filled my stomach when I had a terrible thought. “Maybe Edmund caught the person who messed with our decorations and they wanted to shut him up? Oh, Win. That would be awful. If magic really is involved… Poor Edmund.”
“But then that still doesn’t explain Chef Le June showing up. And if it was magic, no one had to physically change the decorations, Dove. Isn’t it just a snap of some fingers? The wave of a wand?”
Running my fingers over my temples, I squeezed. “You’d think so. I mean, it’s certainly easier to cast a spell than do all that manual labor. Believe me, if I still had my powers, I might have considered cheating a little. Hauling Santa up to the roof was more work than spy training ever was. And then there’s the note allegedly left for me by the chef. That’s a complete sham. We all know Pascal was too self-absorbed to care whether I relaxed or not. He’d never leave a note like that. I should have asked Petula if she knew anything about the opera cake, but she was so upset and frazzled… I think our next move is we go back and ask about the cake. I’m willing to lay bets that’s what killed our chef. Maybe one of the women made it and poisoned him? Maybe the pastry had nothing to do with Adam or me at all?”
“So you think one of those spandex-clad, long-limbed, empathy-less gazelles could actually make an opera cake, Stevie? Bah,” my Spy Guy groused.
Win had a point.
“Did you see the delicate layers of pastry? Witness how perfectly cut and aligned they were? How beautiful that single confection’s shape was? Those women wouldn’t spend that much time on a pastry they’d never eat unless it were infused with kale and the elusive tears of a Dutch maiden, Stevie. Imagine how much time they’d miss shopping and applying their makeup. No. I’m sorry. I don’t buy the theory those women had anything to do with Chef Foo-Foo’s murder. They’re as self-absorbed as he was.”
“This is dilemma, my friends. We have too many questions, not enough answers. We must see police and ask questions. Does big officer with stiff lips still owe you favor?”
“You mean Officer Nelson? The one with the stiff upper lip?” I shrugged, watching the rain batter the windshield. “I don’t like to look at it as owing me anything, Arkady. I know that’s not how you guys do things, and I’ll admit, some of your tactics really work, as in the case of Cassie. But Dana’s sort of my friend, too. I don’t want to take advantage of him.”
“That’s because your heart is good like gold,” Arkady said with a chuckle.
A sharp rap of knuckles on my window startled me, making me sit up straight to find Sandwich eyeing me as rain dripped from his plastic raincoat.
I pressed the button and rolled down the window to find him in a rather sour mood. “Talking to yourself again, Stevie?”
“Nope. Just the dead people,” I joked.
But Sandwich didn’t respond to my teasing. “You’re in a loading zone, Stevie. If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times, you can’t park here.”
Oh dear. Someone was awfully terse today. “Has it been a thousand?” I teased. “I thought last count was only like eight hundred and twelve.”
“Move it or I’m going to ticket you, Stevie,” he said from tightly compressed teeth.
“Sardine’s having a bad day. Look out, Dove.”
My eyes flew open wide in surprise. “Why so cranky?”
He planted his palms on the roof of my car and scowled down at me. “I’m not cranky. I’m just trying to do my job, and I can’t do that if you’re always giving me guff.”
I smiled with sympathy. “Long night?”
“Very. Now are you gonna move or am I gonna have to call Jim and have you towed?”
“Jim Levine’s towing now? I thought it was Benny June?” I looked up at him thoughtfully, waiting for an answer.
“Nope. Benny moved to Tampa to be closer to his daughter. Jim’s our official guy now.”
“Bet he was happy to see Benny leave. He rooted out the competition and he didn’t even have to try, huh?”
Sandwich nodded his plastic-covered head, water from the rain spraying me in the face. “He wasn’t sad, that’s all I’ll say. Now move along, please.”
“When did this become a loading zone, anyway? I feel like you guys are always changing the rules on me when I’m not looking just to keep me out of your way.”
“Stevie, stop arguing with me and get a move on already. It’s not enough I got the boss breathing down my neck about that chef’s murder, but you gotta hassle me, too? Give a guy a break!”
And there it was. The official label.
Murder.
Chapter 10
“Murder? Chef Le June was murdered?”
“I called it!” Win cheered.
Sandwich’s chin dropped to his chest as he let out a ragged sigh of defeat. “Dang it, Stevie, stop tripping me up all the time! You’re always distracting me with your questions and your fancy interrogation tactics.”
“Oh, baloney. If asking about Jim is interrogating you, there’s much you need to learn about the art of interrogation, Grasshopper,” I teased.
But Sandwich wasn’t in a jokey mood. His lips clamped shut, making an angry line across his usually cheerful face. “You know what I mean, Stevie. You get to talkin’, and I forget I’m an officer of the law and you’re a nosy civilian and it’s just like we’re friends back in high school, jabberjawin’ about gym class. Now leave it alone. That information’s confidential.”
Leaning into the window, I ignored the splashes of rainwater and smiled up at Sandwich, trying to keep my tone carefree. “How was he murdered?”
“Aw, heck no, Cartwright. You’re not gettin’ anything else outta me. Didn’t I just say it was confidential?”
I gave him a nonchalant shrug even though my stomach was turning itself inside out. “Well, yeah, but it’s always confidential, Sandwich. Yet somehow I manage to find out anyway. So you might as well tell me how he was murdered and save us all the aggravation of Stevie Cartwright poking her nose in where it doesn’t belong with her fancy interrogation tactics.”
“I’m not telling you anything,” he reaffirmed before slapping the roof of my car and backing up. “Now move it or lose it, Cartwright!” He bellowed the order, sputtering rainwater everywhere.
I rolled up the window with a huff and a frown and put my car in drive, pulling out of the space and moving up two to park in front of The Spice Shop so I could think in peace. We were on a fast train to nowhere here. Nothing was coming together.
“Steeviiee!”
I froze. Belfry!
My eyes instantly scanned the horizon for his tiny portly body, half expecting him to piston from the sky and land on my windshield. “Bel? Bel! Where are you?”
“Dove? You can hear him again?” The alarm in Win’s voice served only to heighten my anxiety.
Both relief and terror rushed through me in a wave as I peered into the cloudy, rain-swollen sky. “Yes! Do you see him? I can’t see anything!”
“Stevie! It’s…cold! Help us!” Bel’s cries for help were choppy, full of static and broken. But then he called out again, “Steeeeviieee! Help Us!”
I sat back in the driver’s seat and fought for breath. “Help us? Us?”
“Precious dumpling, what is happening? Talk to Arkady!”
Adrenaline sped the cras
h of my heart, leaving me shaky. “Bel said ‘us’. He said ‘help us’!” Tears filled my eyes again. “Who is us, Bel? Tell me where you are!”
There was more static and then he blurted out, “Cake, Stevie! Don’t … the cake!”
“Argh!” I screamed my frustration into the interior of the car. “The cake? What does that mean, Bel?” I listened again, listened so hard I thought my ears would fall off for the listening, but he was gone once more, leaving me with the image of him shaking and cold—an image I almost couldn’t bear.
“Stephania! What’s happening?” Win persisted, his tone jostling me from my worries.
“I don’t know. He keeps fading in and out—like a static-filled radio, you know? He said ‘help us’ and ‘don’t the cake’. What does this all mean? Where could he be if he can still contact me?”
“While you sleep like small baby last night, I look all over these planes with Zero, malutka. He is not here. He must still be somewhere on your plane. That’s good, yes?”
Do not cry. Do not cry. Do not cry, Stevie Cartwright. All hope’s not lost if you can still hear him. I gritted my teeth together to keep from turning into a puddle of tears, more determined than ever to find Belfry.
“I think so. I mean, I don’t know, Arkady. Who would take Bel? If it’s you-know-who, using his magic, how are we going to fight something we can’t see or who refuses to appear?”
I know my panic came through loud and clear in my tone, but the more I tried to beat it into submission, the deeper it burrowed inside me.
“Cake…” Win murmured, and I could hear he was working something out in his head. “Maybe he meant don’t eat the cake? The pastries Chef Le June brought? As in, you shouldn’t eat the cake? Maybe it truly is as you suspected, and the crumbs around his mouth were from his own pastries, and that’s what killed him? I don’t understand the connection between the two, but surely we need to question Petula, Stevie. I know you don’t want to upset her any further, but we must speak to her. We can’t afford to be delicate with Bel at stake.”
How the Witch Stole Christmas (Witchless In Seattle Book 5) Page 11
