A Soufflé of Suspicion

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  “A reporter.”

  “By your tone, I take it he’s not your favorite person.”

  “I’m not sure what he was after. If he wanted gossip about the case, he didn’t get it.”

  “Which case would that be?” Tyson jammed his hands into his jeans pockets.

  “You know which case.”

  “You mean my case, not yours? The one you shouldn’t be commenting on? That case?”

  If he weren’t such a good friend, I’d have clocked him. “Why are you here?” I asked.

  “We didn’t finish our conversation.”

  “Right. Are you hungry? I’ll get us a couple of croque-monsieur sandwiches.”

  “Not hungry, thanks. I ate with Jo. That’s where I was when you called.”

  “Having breakfast?” I batted my eyelashes. “At her place?”

  “At the inn. We met for breakfast. She’s…” He heaved a sigh. “That’s why I’m here. I need your advice.”

  “You need my help?” I placed my fingertips on my chest.

  He scowled. “You’re her best friend.”

  I escorted him into the office and closed the door. “I’ll tell no tales.”

  He stood in the center of the room. “Explain why she’s keeping her distance.”

  How to phrase it? I perched on the edge of my desk. “She doesn’t want to be boxed in. She’s afraid you’ll want her to have children the moment you get hitched.”

  “Doesn’t she like kids?”

  “She’s … not sure. I think she’s afraid she’ll do the same thing her mother did.”

  “Run?”

  I nodded.

  “Get real.” He scrubbed his hair with his hands. “Her mom was a kook.”

  “Jo has always wondered whether wanderlust is lurking in her genes. I think she’s afraid it might trigger at the age of thirty-eight or forty.”

  He barked out a laugh. “You’re pulling my leg.”

  “No, I’m not.” For years after her mother split, Jo and I had discussed the gene thing. We hadn’t kicked the theory around lately, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t cycling through her overactive imagination. I said, “Give her love and plenty of kisses, and most importantly, give her space.”

  “Yeah, okay. You know her best.”

  “And you will, too. Soon. Listen, about our earlier conversation…”

  He settled onto one of the shabby chic chairs and propped his elbows on his knees. “Your turn. Your news.”

  “It isn’t news; it’s a guess.”

  “About the case?” He stressed the word and smirked.

  “Don’t give me guff, Sergeant. I’m allowed to inform you if someone confides in me.”

  “Who confided in you this time?”

  “Camille and I were chatting about the guy with the limp that Ursula Drake saw, and we theorized that maybe the guy was in the neighborhood having a clandestine affair with a married woman. Or—”

  “Or he was married and the woman was single.”

  I slapped my thigh. “You and I”—I waggled my finger between the two of us—“think alike.”

  “We’re nothing alike,” Tyson said and twirled his hand. “Go on.”

  I strolled to him and perched on the chair beside his. “We wondered whether Renee saw him and he saw her, and maybe he was desperate to keep the affair secret, so he stole into the house and killed her.”

  “Pretty brutal thing to do to hide an affair.”

  “Parker has a limp.”

  “As do many people in town, and I told you, I’ve cleared him. Look, Mimi”—Tyson splayed a hand—“I appreciate your help. You’ve got a good brain and decent reasoning powers, but I’m on top of this. I’ve been conducting plenty of interviews. Looking at all the angles. Camille is off the hook.” He stood and headed for the door. “Relax. You don’t have to keep thinking it through. Neither does she. Focus on the bistro and on growing your business.”

  I bounded to my feet and caught up with him. “What if Parker was having an affair with Renee?”

  “He wasn’t. He barely knew her.”

  “Okay, then, is he having an affair with Louvain Cook? Does she live in the neighborhood? Irene has seen Parker in the neighborhood.”

  Tyson seared me with a look. “Don’t go spreading rumors.”

  “I noticed orange lipstick on Parker’s collar the other day.” I remembered the conversation I’d had a few days before with Felicity and Parker’s daughter. Philomena had been upset to hear her parents arguing about love this and love that. Had Felicity referred to Louvain as Love?

  “Felicity wears lipstick,” he countered.

  “She told me she would rather die than wear the color orange. That day, I saw Parker chatting with Louvain, who loves the color orange. Does she live in Camille’s neighborhood?”

  He tilted his head but kept mum.

  “Why did you question Parker?” I asked.

  “I wanted to know about his and Felicity’s involvement with Renee as fundraisers.” He moved toward the exit.

  “That’s not all I’ve got to tell you,” I hurried to add before he vanished. “Rusty Wells lied about going to Chocolate on the night of the murder. No one saw him there, so where was he? If he—”

  “Stop. Mimi. I’ve questioned Rusty Wells twice—yes, since hearing he was driving in the neighborhood—but in order to get to the bottom of why he lied about being at Chocolate, I’ll interview him again. Happy? In addition”—he ticked his list off on his fingertips—“I’ve questioned the festival’s staff to see if anyone held a grudge against Renee or knew someone who held a grudge. Now, to appease you, I’ll recanvass Camille’s neighborhood.”

  “You already did?”

  “Once. It bears repeating. Please. Relax. I’ve got this.”

  “I know your tech didn’t find fingerprints on the murder weapon, but did she find them anywhere else? Did any of the stuff on the floor provide a clue? Are you sure Renee wrote the love letter?”

  “Yes, yes, and yes. Don’t underestimate me, Mimi.”

  “Don’t dismiss me. My heart is in the right place. All I ask is that if I call you with a theory, you consider it. You’re going to marry my best friend. We’ve got to stay friends, too.”

  “Do we?”

  “Yes!”

  “At this rate, don’t get your hopes up.”

  * * *

  On my way to the kitchen to check on Camille and see how she was faring with the lunch menu on her first day back, my cell phone rang. The screen read JO. I stabbed ACCEPT.

  “Problem in the Bazille Garden,” she said before I could say hello. She sounded out of breath. “Can you help? Raymond needs you. The wind has blown all sorts of debris around. A trellis toppled. One tent’s pegs came loose, and the tent soared into the air. Plus, balloons are popping, and they’re frightening the festival attendees who are out in droves to see the cooking demonstrations. There’s so much electricity in the air, it’s scary. But the show must go on, so Raymond wants your two cents. My two cents aren’t worth a plug nickel.”

  “Where’s Rusty?”

  “Out and about. We need you, boss.”

  “On my way.”

  I cornered Heather and told her where I was going. She assured me everything was hunky-dory at the restaurant. The list of customers coming in for lunch was confirmed, and she had recently visited the kitchen.

  “Get this?” she added. “Chef C and Stefan are singing duets.”

  “Duets?”

  “Love duets like ‘You’re the One That I Want’ and ‘I Got You Babe.’ Who knew Stefan was so gifted?”

  “Who knew Camille would sing along?” I elbowed her.

  As I hustled toward the inn, the love song “My Heart Will Go On,” from the movie Titanic, popped into my mind. The lyrics sent a shudder down my spine. Was thinking of the Titanic prophetic? Was something disastrous about to happen?

  To rid my mind of the fateful tune, I mentally chanted Rain, rain, go away—and don’t co
me back another day. Everything was going to be fine. So what if wind was gusting through the festival?

  On my way, I clicked the weather app on my cell phone. According to online predictions, the wind was due to die down in a half hour. Phew!

  When I arrived at the Bazille Garden, Jo and Raymond, assisted by two khaki-clad employees, were hoisting a trellis of pink roses that had collapsed. The tents in the Bazille Garden were Giverny pink to match the inn’s theme colors.

  “Thank heavens,” Jo said. “Raymond, Mimi is here.”

  “I have eyes,” he sniped.

  Jo stood on tiptoe, her black pencil skirt clinging to her thighs, her tangerine cropped cardigan rising above her midriff. A sizable black tote bag lay at her feet.

  “It looks like you have things under control,” I said.

  Jo threw me a baleful look.

  Rusty appeared and rushed to help.

  “Where have you been?” Jo cried.

  “Assisting in the other gardens. They were both suffering the same fate, but we got them under control.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “The wind is going to stop soon.” I flashed my cell phone to show them the good news about the weather. “Raymond, I’ll get the festivalgoers out of the way so you can double-check all the tent pegs and clean up debris. Rusty, may I use the loudspeaker system for an announcement?”

  “Sure. It’s located at the information table outside the cooking demonstration tent. Edna is manning the tent. Tell her I sent you.”

  “And do you have a wheel of raffle tickets handy?”

  “That’d be Edna, too.”

  I hustled to a lean, sour-faced woman in a slim khaki-colored dress standing behind the information table. She reminded me of a severe camp counselor. All rules, all the time. Although the pink tablecloth was being whipped into a frenzy, the wind didn’t seem to be affecting the woman. Not one steel-gray hair on her narrow head was blowing out of place. Helmet hair, my mother would’ve called it.

  “Hi, Edna, I’m Mimi Rousseau, the owner of the inn. Rusty said I could use the speaker system.”

  “Go ahead.” She handed me the microphone and switched it on. “Don’t yell. Speak normally.”

  “He said you would have raffle tickets, too.” The festival was offering a Sweet Treats Basket and Wine Tasting Package to one lucky festival attendee. The Sweet Treats Basket would be filled with tasty delights baked by the twin judges. Nouvelle Vie Vineyards was supplying the wine. The raffle money would go to the education fund. That had been Renee’s idea, as well. Thinking of her and how much her sister and others would miss her made me choke with emotion. Buck up, Mimi.

  Edna reached under the table and withdrew a wheel of blue tickets.

  I raised the microphone to my mouth and said, “Ladies and gentlemen.” The words popped.

  Edna scrunched her nose in disapproval. “You’re holding it too close.”

  I inched the microphone away from my mouth and continued. “The weather forecast says the wind will ease up in less than an hour. Why don’t you go into the demonstration tent and enjoy the baking finals for—”

  “Muffins,” Edna said.

  “For muffins,” I repeated. “Yum! Stay inside until—”

  “It all blows over?” a portly man in the crowd joked.

  I smiled and gave him a thumbs-up sign.

  “We had the pie baking finals earlier,” Edna offered. “Louvain Cook won. She’s a marvel with pie crusts.”

  “So I heard.” I addressed the crowd. “Folks, we’ll be giving free raffle tickets to each of you as you enter.” I flourished the wheel of tickets. “Vendors, please don’t worry. Volunteers are making the rounds to ensure that all of your tent pegs hold tight. Step right up!”

  I handed the microphone to Edna and positioned myself at the entrance to the demonstration tent. People passed me in an orderly fashion, their hands extended. In a matter of minutes, I delivered over one hundred raffle tickets.

  When I entered the tent, I spotted Felicity Price on stage looking confident in a sapphire-blue dress with cap sleeves. She was one of three finalists. Apparently she hadn’t needed Renee’s help to rise in the ranks.

  The competition area was divided into three sections. Each woman controlled a preparation and presentation station as well as a set of ovens. Construction paper name plates identified the contestants’ entries. Overhead, slanted mirrors provided a view for the audience of each presentation station. The contest must have started over forty-five minutes ago because Felicity was pulling muffins from the oven. She placed a lime-green silicone muffin pan on the counter and, using a thin spatula, removed the muffins one by one. She set them on a wire rack to cool. A sign at her station read CHOCOLATE COMFORT. I wondered whether these were the paleo muffins she had raved about.

  It was no surprise to see Oscar Orsini standing in front of Felicity’s area. He stuffed a notepad and pencil into one of the pockets of his jacket and started taking photos with his digital camera. Felicity flirtatiously wiggled her fingertips at him, then faced her opponents. The middle contestant faltered and cursed as she inserted a toothpick into her DOUBLE CHOCOLATE muffins. The contestant on the far left was standing with her finished muffins. She reminded me of a Barbie doll version of Martha Stewart. The ruffled white apron that protected her simple black dress was spotless, her hair was coiffed, and she had the ideal 36–24–36 figure. Did the woman eat anything she baked? She gazed straight ahead, her radiant smile frozen in place. Her muffins were called SINFULLY CHOCOLATE. Somehow I doubted she had ever sinned in her life.

  The moderator for the contest, an elderly woman who owned a bakery in Yountville, signaled thirty seconds. As Felicity and Barbie Martha began to plate their cooled muffins, the middle contestant moaned. She slapped down her muffin pan, bare-fingered the muffin out of the hot pan onto a plate, and raised her hand signaling she was done.

  The moderator blew a whistle.

  A pair of middle-aged twin judges, also local bakers who were clad in matching blue frocks—although one wore her brunette hair down and the other wore hers in a French twist—ascended the stage. They studied the muffins at length. They tasted the middle contestant’s muffin and, as expected, dismissed her. The poor woman left the stage whimpering. The twins ambled to Barbie Martha and tasted. The one with the French twist licked her thumb and index finger. The other twin tilted her head, deliberating.

  The audience, which was packed thanks to the prevailing wind outside, collectively held its breath as the judges strolled to the other end of the stage and tasted Felicity’s entry. The one with the French twist pursed her lips. The other’s eyes lit up. She licked her lips and took another bite.

  Felicity tugged on the cap sleeves of her dress. Barbie Martha didn’t blink an eye.

  The judges conferred for a brief moment before moving to the center stage. The one with the French twist produced a blue scalloped first-place ribbon; the other hoisted a portable microphone. Through it, she announced, “Felicity Price, you”—she hesitated for dramatic effect—“are the winner.”

  The crowd applauded.

  Barbie Martha’s demeanor crumpled. She gazed at Felicity with outright jealousy before turning away from the audience. As fast as she could, she packed up the items at her baking station and departed.

  Felicity beamed as she received her blue ribbon. “Whee!” she shouted and did a twirl, showing off the low-cut back of her dress. After she packed up her kitchenware, she pranced down the stairs with a plate of muffins in hand.

  Oscar met her and smooched her on both cheeks. “Congratulations!” He took a muffin, bit into it, and moaned his delight.

  Felicity spotted me and beckoned me to join her. “Mimi, taste one.”

  “You must,” Oscar said. “They’re great.”

  I wavered. “Are these the paleo muffins you were bragging about, Felicity?”

  “Don’t be a ninny!” Her laughter sounded like tittering gone awry. “I would never enter those in a contes
t.”

  “But you said—”

  “I was teasing you. Paleo-schmaleo. I eat that to keep my figure. I wouldn’t serve it to my worst enemy.” She elbowed Oscar, who seemed enthralled by her coyness. “Oscar, darling, say hello.”

  He did.

  “Do you know Oscar, Mimi?”

  “I do.”

  “Then you know he’s a reporter. He’s doing a piece on the winner, which is me!” She wriggled with delight and thrust the muffins toward me. “C’mon, taste one. If you like it, I’ll give you the recipe.”

  I took a muffin and bit into it. I was astonished by how scrumptious it was—sweet, moist, and definitely bakery-worthy.

  Felicity leaned in. “FYI, it’s Alton Brown’s recipe number seven. The buttermilk and the extra chocolate chips make all the difference. The rules didn’t state that the recipe had to be mine. It’ll be our little secret.” She winked at me. “I love secrets.”

  “Darling, you look cold,” Oscar said.

  He removed his cell phone from his pocket, and then, without asking permission, shrugged off his jacket and slung it over Felicity’s shoulders, which she accepted. Why? Was she cozying up to him so he would write something sensational about her in his article? She had to be warm after baking. Over the years, I’d participated in a few contests, and I was never cold afterward. Adrenaline worked like an internal heater. Also, what was with all the darlings being slung around?

  Oscar pressed the RECORD button on his cell phone and started in on his interview. As Felicity responded to his questions about her high school years and beyond, a niggling sensation tweaked my insides. Wrapped in Oscar’s jacket, Felicity looked formidable, which made me wonder, as I had about Rusty, whether she had donned a man’s coat to make herself look like Parker and gone to Camille’s house. She could have faked a limp. Did she, as I’d theorized, believe her husband was having an affair with Renee? Did jealousy provoke her to commit murder?

  A hiccup of laughter slipped out of me. Tyson had asked me not to theorize about Renee’s murder, and yet theories were scudding through my mind.

  “What’s so amusing?” Felicity asked. “You don’t believe I was the head cheerleader?”

  “Were you? I’m sorry.” I flapped a hand. “I wasn’t listening to your answers. My mind was elsewhere.”