“What does it say?” I asked.
“Here. Read it.” She handed me the card. “Renee tells me how much she loves me, and she wishes we had more time.”
I gasped. “This sounds like she knew she was going to die.”
“Exactement.” Her eyelids fluttered; she heaved a sigh. “What terrible thing must she have done that someone would want to kill her? To not know is crushing me. Did she threaten someone? Did someone retaliate?”
I studied the notecard. It looked similar to the handcrafted one Felicity had given me as a thank you for putting on the Sweet Treats Festival.
“What are you staring at?” Camille asked.
“The card. Did she get it from Felicity Price?”
“Perhaps.” Camille offered a bittersweet smile. “Renee was quite impressed with her. She told me Felicity had oodles to teach her. Oodles,” she murmured. “Such a silly word. Maybe she went out and purchased some notecards of her own. She was trying to emulate Felicity in style and taste. As colorful as my sister always was, I noticed that she had started to change the way she was dressing. Her clothes were becoming a bit tighter and her hair more flamboyant.”
“I tried to imitate a girl in high school.” I handed the notecard back to her. “I believed if I acted like she did, I might entice more boys. Was I ever wrong.”
“I did the same. We can all be beguiled, can we not?” Camille’s tone was wistful. “Renee started drinking tea like Felicity, even though she preferred strong coffee.”
“The day I met Renee, she was chatting with Felicity about having tea at her house. She was such a tease that day.”
“How so?”
I smiled. “She knew Felicity had sworn off sweets, and yet she flaunted a homemade Oreo-style cookie in front of her nose.”
“I prefer a macaron,” Camille said as she inspected the notecard—front and back. “Why send this? What did she know? My curiosity will destroy me.”
I rested a hand on her shoulder. “No, it won’t. There’s nothing you can do to change the past. It’s not your fault.”
“If only she had confided in me. If something was bothering her…” She fanned the card again and swallowed hard. “Return to the party, Mimi. I am fine. I will manage.”
My cell phone jangled in my pocket. I pulled it out. There was a text message from Oscar Orsini: YOUR NEWSPAPER ARTICLE IS READY FOR APPROVAL. PLEASE HURRY. DEADLINES LOOM.
I gazed at Camille. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Yes. Go.”
“I promise you, I will do everything in my power to make sure your sister’s murder is solved.”
“Merci.” With great resolve, Camille stuffed the card and mangled envelope into her pocket, rose to her feet, and smacked her hands together. “I will make tarts for tomorrow. Busy hands heal a broken heart.”
* * *
After checking with Allie and Heather to make sure they didn’t need me for the party, I sped to the Napa Valley Neighborhood location. The workplace was so tiny and cramped that I wondered whether Oscar was a one-man operation, with him doing the writing, editing, publishing, and distribution. Piles of papers and folders stood on the various desks that were pushed up against the walls. I counted ten file cabinets, three printers, and two copy machines. A private office stood at the far end of the room. The door was ajar. Levolor blinds hung in the single window. Maybe Oscar and another journalist shared the space and duties, I decided.
Oscar, looking cool and confident in a blue blazer, white shirt, and jeans, exited the office and met me as I entered. He shook my hand. “So glad you could make it. Coffee?”
“I’ll pass.” The rank smell of stale coffee made my nose flare. The temperature in the room was stifling as well. “Thanks.”
“Let’s get to it then.” He glanced over his shoulder as he led me to a table set with four computers. “Sorry about the heat. The AC broke this morning.” Upon closer inspection, I realized he wasn’t in the least cool. His face was beaded with sweat, and the collar of his shirt showed signs of perspiration. “Your story is on the second computer.”
Each computer screen displayed an article. My headline read: A TASTY TREAT IN TOWN.
“Do you like the alliteration?” Oscar asked.
“It’s great.” What else could I say? It sounded positive.
“Sit. Read it. Take your time.”
A wooden stool stood by each computer. I perched on the one by my computer and browsed the first page. A series of nicely lit photographs of Bistro Rousseau and Maison Rousseau and its gardens accompanied the article. I noted that the advertisements that would accompany the article hadn’t been added yet, which made me wonder about the urgency of Oscar’s message: DEADLINES LOOM.
“If you like what you read,” he went on, “I need you to sign off on it. As I told you, we put out one newspaper a week, but everyone in Napa Valley will read it. Care for some water?”
“No, thanks.”
“I’m going to get some. I’ll be back in a bit.” He slipped into the office and closed the door, leaving me alone.
By page two—there were three—I was surprised to find myself enjoying what he’d written. He had interviewed Heather, Stefan, and Jorianne, each of whom loved their jobs. He had even obtained quotes from Rusty Wells, who was thrilled to hold his festival at Maison Rousseau. I noted the reference that it was his, not his wife’s. He praised my staff and commended me for my willingness to try new things.
When I finished reading the article in its entirety and was waiting for the signature approval page to pop up, I glanced at the articles on the other computers. The one to my left featured Crush Week festivities at six of the better-known wineries in the area. They had formed a coalition and had created what they were calling a traveling party. For a fee, guests could move from one vineyard to the next and taste wines paired with a selection of appetizers. Three of the vineyard owners that were mentioned in the article had dined with my mother the other night. I made a mental note to tell her about the idea so she could team up with popular vintners next year.
The computer to my right featured an article about the finalist I’d dubbed Barbie Martha—Bebe Ballantyne. The headline for Bebe’s piece read: DAY IN AND DAY OUT. Four photographs depicted her as the perfect mom: with her husband dining over candlelight, with her daughter at the theater, by herself in the kitchen baking, and alone in the yard pruning award-winning roses.
The computer beyond that displayed an article about Felicity. I recalled how she’d asked Louvain if she was going to be highlighted, as well. Had she ordered Oscar to omit her BFF?
Felicity’s title read: DREAMS FOR MY FUTURE. Intrigued to read more, I glanced toward the office into which Oscar had retreated. The door was shut and the blinds were closed. I scooted over two stools, clicked the down arrow on that computer, and scrolled through Felicity’s article. As in mine, there were a number of photographs. In one, a young Felicity stood in front of a bank. She was clad in a two-piece black suit and flaunting a fistful of money. In another, she was high school age and dressed like a reporter in a belted raincoat and fedora. She was thrusting a microphone at a blonde who had covered her face. Both photo setups looked like they had been done in jest. In the third, the current Felicity posed with her competition-winning muffins and blue ribbon. There were three blank squares set aside for other photographs. Each one was marked: INSERT PHOTO OF PARKER.
“Hey, there,” Oscar said as he emerged from the office.
Dang. Caught red-handed. I didn’t have time to sneak to my stool. “Hey, there,” I said.
He shuffled to my side while sipping from a bottle of Perrier. “Peeking?”
“I was waiting for my authorization page to load, and—”
“Sorry.” He groaned. “For some reason, those take forever. I must speak to our tech person about that.”
I aimed a finger at the computer with Felicity’s article and, in an effort to align us, said, “I find her fascinating, don’t you?”
/>
“She’s mercurial.”
“Indeed. Where did you get these pictures of her?”
“I took the photograph at the festival. The others I found in”—he pointed at an oak desk that was stacked with books—“her high school yearbook. Man, she was a star. She performed in theater. She was a cheerleader. She headlined the local radio show. She ran for office. She was hot.”
“Um, isn’t she hot now?”
“Well, yeah.” His neck flamed lobster red. He retrieved a grey-and-burgundy burlap-covered book and strode to me. “Do you know that she dreamed of becoming First Lady? Let me show you.” He flipped open the yearbook to a page filled with photographs of Felicity in a variety of costumes. He tapped one where she had positioned herself in front of the Capitol Building in Washington, DC, clad in a Jacqueline Kennedy–style sheath. Jackie couldn’t have appeared more ready for stardom. Then he tapped another where she was dressed like Marilyn Monroe in a platinum wig and revealing white gown, her back to the camera and looking coyly over her shoulder, her infinity sign tattoo already in place.
“Why does Felicity have a full-page spread? What was she, the prom queen?”
“Nah, in addition to everything else, she was the yearbook editor.” He chortled.
I motioned to a photograph of Felicity and Parker—he in his football uniform and she in a form-hugging cheerleading outfit. They weren’t linked arm in arm. “They don’t seem very chummy here.”
“They weren’t. Yet.” He flipped a page and indicated a photo of Parker in a tux and Louvain in a gold ball gown. “It turns out Parker and Louvain Cook were sweethearts before he fell in love with Felicity.”
“Hmm. Felicity told me she and Louvain were best friends back then.”
“They were.”
Yet Felicity had already added the tattoo that signified her endless bond with Parker? Talk about cheeky.
Oscar flipped to another page and displayed a photo of Felicity and Louvain hugging in a home economics class. Both wore black bib aprons. Flour dusted their cheeks. “This was taken right after they won a baking competition. Their entry was chocolate peppermint iced cookies.”
“So, um, how to put this delicately…” I licked my lips. “Are you saying Felicity stole her friend’s boyfriend?”
“Heh-heh. Not exactly. On prom night”—Oscar worked his tongue inside his cheek—“Parker caught Louvain making out with the field goal kicker.”
“Ouch.”
“Felicity was there to pick up the pieces of his broken heart. The rest is history.” He clapped the yearbook shut and replaced it on top of the stack of books.
I gazed again at the article about Felicity. “Are you doing a piece on each of the baking competition finalists?” I asked.
“Only Felicity and Bebe.”
“Why not Louvain?”
“Um…” He rotated his head to survey the room, reminding me of a meerkat on the alert for danger. When he refocused on me, he forced the other computer screens into sleep mode. “Felicity asked me to skip Louvain.”
Aha! As I’d suspected. “So much for being best friends,” I said.
He sniggered. “Felicity told me it was good-natured competition. I gather they like to prank each other. I agreed because, after snagging you, I had plenty of material for the next edition.”
I tilted my head. “You like Felicity, don’t you?”
“Well, sure. Who doesn’t? But not like that. She’s married. I would never…” He flapped his hand.
“Why did you show up at the bistro for dinner the other night? Did Felicity ask you to flirt with her so Parker would be jealous?”
“What? No.” Oscar reddened.
“Did she pay you?”
“Pay me? No. I…” Oscar screwed up his mouth. “Okay, yeah, you found me out. I did it because Felicity said it was all in fun. I’m all about fun.”
I’ll bet, I thought, and inwardly cheered because I’d been right. His testimony reinforced my theory that Felicity knew about Parker and Louvain’s affair. Did she fear that if she lost Parker to Louvain now, all her hopes and dreams of remaining Parker’s beloved wife for infinity were ruined?
A beep sounded.
“There’s your approval page.” Oscar pointed at my screen. “Go ahead and sign in the blank box and click that you reviewed the agreement.”
I did.
“Our business is concluded.”
“Thank you.” I shook his hand. “Next time you come into Bistro Rousseau for lunch or dinner, dessert is on the house.”
“Your delicious orange soufflé? That’s my favorite.”
“Of course.”
On the way back to the bistro, I thought about Felicity and her mini feud with Louvain. She pretended to be warm to Louvain, but deep down, she was as cold as ice. The notion made me recall the subzero way she had treated Renee that day at the festival. Renee had teased and cajoled, but Felicity hadn’t thawed. Why? Had Renee learned about Parker and Louvain’s affair and threatened to reveal the news to the world, thus putting Felicity’s future happiness in jeopardy? No way. Why would Renee do such a thing? Though I’d only known her for a New York minute, she hadn’t seemed the meddling type … although I supposed she could be considered vindictive after what she’d done to Allie. On the other hand, wouldn’t Felicity have safeguarded her future better if she’d knocked off Louvain?
I recalled the yearbook photograph of Felicity in reporter garb and Ursula Drake’s account of seeing a limping man sneaking into Camille’s neighborhood. Could the shambling person have been Felicity posing as her husband? No. If Felicity had donned Parker’s overcoat, it would have dragged on the ground. Plus, she had an alibi. Sally Somers had said she was at the theater that night.
But was she really?
Chapter 24
St. Mary’s High School was a private co-ed school south of Yountville. It boasted a well-maintained Mission Revival–style campus with low-pitched adobe tile roofs and an enclosed courtyard. The azaleas were no longer in bloom, but the red tea roses were. The afternoon sun made the school’s green-and-gold WELCOME sign shimmer.
I cut across the campus following signs to the theater complex. I paused in front of the building to admire the grassy expanse. It was so green that I wondered whether Raymond might have tutored the groundskeeper.
Inside the theater, I blinked to help my eyes adjust to the dark.
“Lights!” a woman ordered.
Suddenly, all the lights popped on, making it possible to take in the plush loge seats and what looked like a state-of-the-art control booth. St. Mary’s donors had done a bang-up job.
Bebe, who had changed from her competition clothing into jeans, fashionable plaid shirt, tennis shoes, and a bandanna to protect her hair, stood center stage. She clapped her hands. “Okay, everybody, let’s get a move on. Cleanup time. Hop to it.”
Moans were heard from people offstage.
“Grab those brooms and put on those happy faces,” Bebe said. A television preschool hostess couldn’t have acted cheerier.
A troupe of teenagers and a gaggle of older women—the actors’ mothers, I assumed; Felicity was not in the mix—marched onto the stage. Each manned a broom. A cloud of confetti whooshed into the air.
Bebe caught sight of me and raised a hand to shield her eyes from the bright lights. “Mimi? Is that you? C’mon up.” She beckoned me.
I strolled down an aisle and climbed the stairs at the right of the orchestra pit to the stage.
“What are you doing here?” Bebe asked. “Have you come to help? We could use it.”
“Sure.” I knew how to win friends and influence people.
“Swell.” Bebe thrust an extra broom in my direction.
I accepted it and started sweeping.
A few of the teens picked up piles of confetti and hurled it at each other.
“Cut it out,” Bebe ordered.
The giggling stopped; somber sweeping resumed.
“Tech week is a bear.” Be
be grinned at me. “This is what the stage will look like at the end of every performance. Ugh!” She lowered her voice. “This was last night’s rehearsal mess, but I simply couldn’t make the kids clean up on a Friday night, you know? Between you and me, the director is nuts for coming up with this finale. How on earth could he expect the actors to help out when they’re exhausted? But surprise, surprise. They’re rallying.”
“Is Felicity here?” I pushed my broom in one direction and tried not to cough from the dust it was kicking up.
“Are you kidding? Didn’t you hear her at the bistro? She’s in party celebration mode. La-di-da.” The bite in Bebe’s voice was unmistakable. “You two”—she singled out a pair of twin boys—“bring out the trash cans. Philomena, distribute dustpans and please tell my daughter to put in an appearance. Where is she? Texting?”
“Doing math homework in the green room,” Philomena said.
“Tell her math can wait.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Philomena scurried offstage.
“Do you think Felicity will win the bake-off?” I asked as I pushed confetti to the right.
“Not a chance. I might not rival you in the dessert department, but my soufflé is pretty darned terrific.” She winked like we were old friends. “By the way, I love your crème brûlée. Do you use a culinary torch or the good old-fashioned warehouse special?”
“The latter.”
“Me, too.”
I stopped sweeping and propped an arm on the broomstick. “Bebe, before coming here, I was at the Napa Valley Neighborhood office. I saw the articles on you and Felicity.”
“What a farce. Felicity arranged that to tick off Louvain. She—”
Philomena and Bebe’s daughter emerged from the wings.
“About time, ladies,” Bebe said. “Grab dustpans.” She refocused on me.
“I was wondering about something,” I said. “On the night Renee Wells died, Felicity said she was here volunteering.” Clumsy segue, I thought, but continued. “Sally Somers confirmed that, but she said Felicity was sick and hung out in the bathroom all night.”
A Soufflé of Suspicion Page 24
