My cell phone rang. I slogged off the couch, fetched it from my purse, and answered.
“Mimi,” Tyson said. Wind whistled through the cell phone until he closed his vehicle window. “Jo texted me. Are you sick? Were you poisoned?”
I eyed my friend.
What? she mouthed.
Are you my mother now, too?
Too?
I nodded. I was starting to lose count of how many I had.
“I’m fine, Sergeant,” I replied. “Thank you for being concerned. I think it might have been something I ate.”
“Bullpuckey,” Jo shouted.
“Bullpuckey,” Tyson echoed. “What did you do, poke a hornet’s nest?”
“Tyson”—I spoke loudly enough to let him know that I wasn’t a pushover, no matter how icky I was feeling—“I wasn’t poking into anything. I was having a soda at Chocolate.”
“Uh-huh,” he muttered.
“Before that, I was running errands,” I fibbed. I would not—not—reveal that I had tailed Allie. “I was parched when I returned, so I decided to pop into the café before returning to work. I saw Felicity Price, and she asked me to join her.”
“Is it possible that she poisoned you?” he asked.
“Yes,” Jo blurted and twirled a finger, signaling she wanted to be included in the conversation. I pressed the SPEAKER button on the cell phone. “Tyson,” she went on. “Mimi saw Parker there, too. She thinks Felicity was spying on her husband.”
“Well, well,” Tyson said. “That might explain a few things.”
“Like what?” I asked.
“None of your beeswax,” he replied.
Jo chuckled. I threw her a punishing stare.
“Tell him about how your soda was sitting on the counter,” Jo said. “And how Parker was stationed nearby.”
Obediently I filled him in on the details, adding that Rusty Wells was also at the café.
“I told you, you can rule out Parker Price as a suspect,” Tyson said. “He would have no reason to want to harm you.”
“How can you be so sure? Just because he was taking afternoon piano lessons in Camille’s neighborhood doesn’t clear him from being in the area that night.”
“Piano lessons?”
I explained what Bennett Jones had told us. “I wasn’t snooping,” I added. “The information came up in a regular conversation.”
Tyson’s silence irked me. After a long moment, he said, “Mimi, I pinned down Parker’s alibi and verified it. It pains me to say it, but you were right. He has a lover, and he was with her.”
“Who?” Jo asked.
“Louvain Cook,” I said. “Right?”
“Yes,” Tyson admitted.
“Does she live in Camille’s neighborhood?”
“No, Louvain lives miles away in Calistoga. She has confirmed Parker’s alibi, which means he couldn’t have been skulking around Camille’s place.”
“Unless Louvain was lying,” Jo cut in.
“Felicity knows,” I murmured.
“If she does, then Renee wouldn’t have been her target,” Tyson said. “Louvain or Parker would. As for Rusty Wells, his alibi checks out, too.”
“No way!” Jo cried.
“Rusty came to the precinct,” Tyson continued. “He said he told you, Mimi, about his argument with Renee at the house and decided he should bring me up to speed. You’ve told me everything else, but you didn’t think to mention this?” Tyson clicked his tongue.
“We haven’t had a moment to chat, and you’ve sort of made me feel like I should keep my trap shut.”
Tyson cleared his throat. “The rest of what he stated bears out, too. His cell phone records show he called a number of attorneys over the course of an hour, right about the time the medical examiner figures Renee died. Rusty’s Internet provider also confirmed his search that evening for farm sale sites online.”
Jo rolled her eyes. “He could have done all that inside Camille’s house.”
“Sure, he could have,” Tyson agreed, “but here’s the kicker. A nun saw him loitering outside the courthouse at the time of death.”
“A nun?” I coughed out a laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“She was roaming the street looking for lost souls. She greeted Rusty, but she said he was absorbed in a chat on his cell phone.”
“She came forward of her own accord?”
“She read a newspaper account about Renee. The reporter had included a wedding photograph of Renee and Rusty. She recognized him.”
I ran my tongue along my teeth, processing the information. “Why didn’t he mention her?”
“She said he didn’t give her the time of day.”
A silence fell between us.
Jo said, “Back to Felicity. She has to be the one that put something in Mimi’s drink. Maybe she did it when you bent to retrieve those packets of sweetener that she sent flying off the table.”
Tyson snorted. “How long did that take, Mimi, five seconds? Felicity would have to be pretty deft with sleight of hand to dose your drink.”
A ridiculous image of Felicity yanking off tablecloths zipped through my mind. Focus, Mimi. “I agree. Besides, why would she want to hurt me?”
“Because you were snooping,” Jo laughed and spanked my thigh.
I scowled. “That doesn’t make sense. She would only have cause to hurt me if she’d killed Renee, and seeing as Parker wasn’t involved with Renee—”
“You don’t know that,” Jo said. “Maybe he was having two affairs.”
“Then why not dose him with the nausea-provoking poison? Why me?” I asked. “Tyson, Felicity said you questioned her about Renee.”
He exhaled. “I questioned her and Parker. I wanted their take on Renee since they were working closely with her and the festival.”
“Felicity said she told you her alibi.”
“Yes. She was at her daughter’s theater.”
“Sally Somers corroborated that. She said Felicity got sick and spent most of the evening in the high school restroom. Unless—”
“Mimi.” His tone was dark.
“Sally and I were chatting while icing cookies. People talk to me, Tyson.”
He huffed.
I huffed, too, and didn’t add my theory that Felicity might have pulled a fast one. If Sally said Felicity was there, she probably was. Did that leave Allie as the sole suspect? Her alibi was tenuous at best. “Tyson, I should tell you that I followed—”
All I heard was dead air. He had hung up.
* * *
I gave Jo a heartfelt hug, thanked her for her support, booted her out of my cottage, and headed to the bistro. If I got busy, I would forget about my aching stomach and Tyson’s snub.
When I entered the bistro’s kitchen, a soulful piano and cello rendition of Chopin’s “Spring Waltz” was playing through the speakers. Red was receiving crates of wine. Chef C and Allie were reviewing the prix fixe list of options with Heather so she could print insertions for the menu. Oakley was telling Yukiko and Stefan about her parents’ dude ranch that featured hoedowns and hayrides. She suggested that the two of them should go, which cemented my, um, concern that Yukiko and Stefan were hooking up. I pushed the notion aside. I couldn’t worry about them now.
All chatter quieted when word spread that I had entered.
Heather hurried to me, her energy electric. Tendrils spilled out of her trendy updo. “Did you hear who’s coming to dinner tonight?”
“How would I have? I arrived a second ago. Did you send a carrier pigeon with the message?”
“You’re a hoot.” She batted my arm. “Well, get ready, because it’s royalty night. The leaders of the ten major wineries are dining with us.”
My heart skipped a beat. Yes, the bistro was becoming more and more popular, but hosting the big guns was huge for prestige. If only I could get Oscar Orsini to write about this crowd.
“And guess who’s hosting them?” she went on. “Your mother and her beau.”
“He didn’t; your mother did. Crush Week has been making all the luminaries act like social butterflies. The French Laundry has been overrun with celebrities.”
The French Laundry, located in Yountville, was included in Restaurant Magazine’s Top 50 restaurants in the world. To be mentioned in the same sentence with them was an honor.
Heather jutted her chin. “Look at Chef C. She’s bubbling with excitement.”
I had to admit that the increased activity did seem to be cheering her up.
“The dinner party isn’t the only reason for her delight,” Heather added.
“What else?”
“Donovan called her today. For a date.”
“That explains why her eyes are sparkling.”
“Let’s be cautious with our enthusiasm,” Heather warned.
“Why?” A prickle of fear skidded up the back of my neck. “Don’t tell me you’re having vibes again. Is something dire going to happen at the dinner?”
“No, although those wine bigwigs can be hypercritical.” She lowered her voice. “I meant let’s be cautious about Donovan. He’s unpredictable. A date here, a date there. Nothing steady. If he breaks Camille’s heart…”
“Gotcha.” I nudged Heather to return to work while mentally chanting no vibes, no vibes, no vibes.
I caught Allie eyeballing me. She averted her glance and hurried to a boiling pot of something on the stove. Did she know I’d tailed her? Had she seen me drive by Camille’s place and put two and two together? She was hiding something, but what? Felicity had suggested Allie had a past. If she were dangerous, wouldn’t Felicity have told me that at least?
“Mimi,” Chef C called. “I will need your help tonight if you can spare a hand. Having a table of twelve ready all at once is such a challenge.”
She was right. Most of our parties consisted of six or fewer guests. “Of course,” I said and moseyed to her. “It’s my night anyway.”
“I figured with you feeling under the weather…”
I balked. Jo must have called and alerted her. I set a reassuring hand on Camille’s shoulder. “I’m fine.”
“May I put you in charge of the galantine de poularde, then?”
I smirked. “Gee, um, how is that made again?”
“It is your specialty.” She threw me a sly look. “You tell me.”
Chicken galantine was a dish I’d been making for years. In essence, it was a French classic made from deboned fowl, which was then stuffed and formed into a log. The chicken’s skin worked as a casing. The forcemeat, or farce, from the French word for stuffing, was a mixture of seasoned chicken. I liked to layer in carrots, green beans, pistachios, and such so that when we sliced the galantine, we had a beautiful presentation of colors dotting each portion. To serve, I’d drizzle it with a savory-sweet vinaigrette made with Tawny Port wine. The dish was so pretty that most customers oohed when they saw it. They aahed when they took their first bites.
Thankful for a task, I set to work.
Two hours later, as dinner service was getting under way and Stefan, Yukiko, and the rest of the staff were moving in what felt like a synchronized dance, Heather entered.
“Mimi, you’re wanted out front,” she said. “Your mother has arrived.”
Chef C signaled that I should go. I had done all she needed.
I met my mother at the table for twelve. She radiated confidence in a slim aqua-blue sheath—new, I imagined, since it wasn’t her typical Bohemian style. Her eyes glimmered with liveliness. She was circling the table for twelve and setting out seating cards. Anthony, looking as charismatic as always, was assisting her. He nudged her. She blew him a discreet kiss.
Oakley, who was lighting candles on the table, alerted my mother to my arrival.
Mom hurried to me. “Sweetheart, how are you feeling?” She grasped my upper arms and gazed at me.
I flinched. Who else had Jo told? It was my bellyache—my business.
“Were you poisoned?” my mother asked.
“I’m not sure.”
“You should have gone to the emergency room. Poison is—”
“Please don’t baby me.” I broke free. “I’m fine.” In fact, I felt great. Whatever I’d ingested had gone through my system. Drinking a gallon of water must have helped. “Better than fine,” I assured her.
Mom got the hint. She, like me, was fiercely independent. She wouldn’t want a soul to know if she was ailing. She took a step backward to give me space.
“Wait until you taste the galantine de poularde,” I said, changing the subject. “I poured my heart into the dish.”
“I look forward to it. By the way, I made sure Red has one selection of each vintner’s wine tonight. We’ll be blind-tasting them. I’m sure there will be some gamesmanship and braggadocio. They’ll be talking about the aroma, the legs, and the controversy between oak barrels versus steel barrels. But, in the end, we’re all proud of what we do and supportive. We should have fun. Anthony is being a sport to play along.”
“No sport involved.” Anthony joined us. “I like my wine as much as the next man.” Whenever he spoke, I imagined him on stage crooning “Chances Are” or “Misty” into a microphone.
I extended a hand. “Good to see you, sir.”
“Cut the sir. I’ve told you before.”
“Some habits are hard to break.”
He glanced in the direction of the kitchen. “Is Stefan working?”
“Of course.”
“Would he—”
I motioned for him to hold off. “Why don’t you visit him after the meal? I don’t want to break his concentration. He’s preparing a number of appetizers: fig and olive tapenade and warm Brie with roasted garlic, plus a few others. He would hate to be disturbed. You know what an artist he is.”
“Of course.” For years, Anthony and Stefan had been at odds. Now that Anthony was living in Nouvelle Vie, Stefan seemed to be warming to his father. He said his dad was more relaxed—cooler—now that he wasn’t trying to fix the financial woes of the country. Stefan had even risked showing his father his apartment and the watercolor landscapes that he didn’t think anyone would buy. I would and I’d offered. Stefan had thought I was coddling him, of course. His talent had floored his father.
The front door opened and Nash entered, looking delicious in a silk ecru sweater and caramel-colored corduroy slacks. My insides did a happy dance.
“Nash!” My mother beckoned him. “You’re sitting at that end.” She wiggled a finger.
“Got it,” he said and approached me. He looped an arm around my waist. “Hello, beautiful.”
“I see you’re one of the infamous ten tonight.”
“Nouvelle Vie Vineyards might not be one of the top ten in the valley yet, but we’re aspiring. It didn’t hurt that I knew the hostess. How are you?”
“You heard?”
“Heard what?”
My mother wagged her head—no—meaning she hadn’t told him anything about my stomach issue.
“I’ll tell you later,” I said. “It’s nothing.”
“You know how much I hate vague references.”
I pecked his cheek. “Sit.”
He stroked my shoulder and took his seat.
Moments later, the leading winemakers in the valley entered—three women and six men. Anthony and my mother guided them to their places. Mom gushed about the entrées. Anthony raved about the desserts.
Oakley orbited the table, pouring olive oil infused with rosemary into the bread plate for each setting.
Red sashayed to the table with a tray filled with twelve sets of wine flight glasses, four to each set. Then she fetched four white wine bottles that she’d wrapped in brown paper so none of the guests could guess the vintage and poured two ounces into the first tasting glass.
“Cagey,” said a fine-boned blonde. She swooped her hair over her shoulder and slid into her s
eat, which was situated next to Nash’s. She leaned toward him. “I’ll know which one is mine in a single sip.”
“Bet you won’t,” he said.
“Bet I will,” she countered.
Surprisingly, I didn’t feel one ounce of jealousy about her flirtatious manner—a first for me, which pleased me no end. Maybe I was growing up. Maybe I was becoming more confident.
“In fact, I’m sure I will,” she added. Her eyes blazed with a dare. Her voice held an edge. She bolted to her feet, pulled a hundred-dollar bill from her sparkling evening purse, and slapped it on the table. “Who’s up for a little wager, ladies and gentlemen?”
“Nash?” a woman said. “I thought that was you.”
I spun around.
Willow, looking incredible in a violet lace dress, had entered the bistro with Bennett and, of all people, Eli. “I’d like to introduce you to a few friends,” she said. “This is Bennett—”
“We met the other day,” Nash said.
Willow petted his arm. “Of course. I forgot.”
“Nice to see you again, Bennett,” Nash said. Did I sense relief in his eyes because his ex was not only moving on but moving on with a guy who was well-to-do?
“And this is Eli George,” Willow went on. “I told you about him. He’s an old friend of Mimi’s.”
The way she said the word friend made my cheeks flame. If we were anywhere else, I’d … I’d have what? Taken her to the mat? Don’t be ridiculous, Mimi.
“They’ve known each other since the cradle,” Willow added.
“Not that long,” I said.
“Since we were five,” Eli offered.
Nash’s gaze drifted between Eli and me.
“Nice to meet you, Nash,” Eli said.
“Eli’s a chef at the tony Sonoma Health and Fitness Resort,” Willow went on. “They brought him in to bolster its reputation. Before the move, he was a well-known chef in New York. Lots of big-name hotels have been clamoring for him to take the helm.”
Was Willow touting Eli to make Nash feel bad? If so, it was working. His jaw was set and his shoulders looked tense.
“Mimi,” Eli jumped into the conversation. “The place looks fabulous. I remember how much you liked mirrors as a kid.” He readdressed Nash. “Not that Mimi was egotistical. She wasn’t. She had this thing.”
A Soufflé of Suspicion Page 21
