by Patti Larsen
I wasn’t expecting integrity as an alibi. “Why did Clara let it go on? Surely it was bad for business.”
“Not this business,” Dale said, a bit harsher than necessary. “I already told you, controversy was one of the only things keeping this show afloat. Without it, the ratings plummet. Tell her, Moll. What Clara wanted you to do.”
She leaned into him, voice tiny. “She wanted me to take a page from Janet’s book and sabotage one of my competitors.”
I was so over this whole gigantic mess. “Did you see Clara talking to Ron when you got there?”
She nodded, wiping her nose with the heel of her hand. “They were arguing about something, I think the cookbook launch. At least, I heard him mention it before Clara stormed off. She was crying. Clara never cries.” She wept herself then, head on Dale’s shoulder. “I just want to bake. This is so much pressure. I hope the show does get cancelled.”
Hard not to feel for her, but still. “You realize you were there very close to the time the doctor said Ron was murdered?”
Molly stared at me with her giant eyes wide, her lips trembling. “I didn’t know that,” she said. “I wasn’t thinking about anything after he… he…” She stumbled over her words. “I just ran.”
I could have pressed her, but that wasn’t my job. Crew needed to know she was at the top of the suspect pile with means, motive and opportunity. It felt horrible to leave the two of them, Dale comforting Molly, with a new destination in mind. Not Crew’s office, not just yet. I needed to eliminate a couple of people first before I brought this to him. I was reaching for my phone to call Alicia for Clara’s room number when the showrunner herself stepped off the elevator and headed toward me. And she wasn’t alone. Patrice grabbed her arm, spun her around, said something too quiet for me to make out. The host met my eyes as Clara hung up her phone, not seeing me when she addressed the woman beside her.
“It’s cancelled,” she snarled. “There, are you happy now?”
Patrice’s face scrunched up. “Like I didn’t know that was coming.” She almost spit that in her boss’s face. “Why do you think I spent all afternoon yesterday on the phone with my agent?” That’s why she was in her room and didn’t emerge until after the murder was discovered. “I’m already in the market for a new gig. Because working with you has been nothing but a nightmare.” She spun and stomped off, tossing her hands while Clara glared after her. The showrunner didn’t notice I was there until I was at her elbow and jumped a bit when she turned and saw me standing next to her.
“Your show?” I tried for sympathetic despite not really liking her very much at the moment. Not only was she possibly a murderer—she could have gone back to the set after Molly left—but she perpetrated crimes against contestants with the moral code of a slug.
Sorry slugs, didn’t mean to offend with the comparison.
“And with it the damned cookbook launch.” She was tied to that, too, was she? Clara’s round cheeks darkened, faint veins showing as if she’d lost her temper one too many times and burst the capillaries beneath her skin. “Everything’s ruined.”
“A man is dead,” I said, knowing I came across cold and that maybe Ron Williams didn’t deserve the kind of respect I figured she should be showing. “A woman who cheated her way to the top of your little game got to benefit from her crime and you’re worried about your show?”
“Of course I am!” Clara looked at me like I was the one who lost my mind, not the other way around. “This was my baby, my creation. And it’s ruined, thanks to Ron Damned Williams.”
Hello, Suspect. Nice to meet you.
“The network is sick of controversy,” she said, staring at her phone. “His death put an end to their support. And that means I’m shut down unless I can find another broadcaster to take me on.”
“Is that what you two were fighting about just before he died?” She didn’t seem the type to spill her soul when someone asked a question, but I had her off balance. “What made you cry?”
She flinched as if being caught crying was a crime in itself. Maybe in her line of work it was. “I already told that sheriff of yours when I left Ron, he was alive and whining. As usual. Asking for more money, surprise, surprise.” She inhaled, pulling herself under control again. “I wanted him to rein in Janet, but he convinced me otherwise. And I was desperate enough when her cheating raised the ratings to try it again this season. But Molly wouldn’t play. And no one would believe it of her anyway.” She seemed to deflate just slightly, a woman with a mission adrift for the first time in years. “He refused to help, told me he was planning to leave at the end of the season and start his own show. That would mean the end of mine. So yeah, I cried over a baby I’d birthed and raised the last eleven years.” She seemed close to tears again before shaking them off. “Ron’s death means the death of my show. Why would I kill him?”
That much at least rang true. “Any idea where his cookbook came from?” She stared at me a moment in surprise. “Bonnie doesn’t seem to have any idea.”
“Ron didn’t tell his so-called wife anything.” But Clara frowned, shook her head. “I have no idea. I never asked. Didn’t care. He just seemed to snap it out of thin air about three months ago, no mention of it beforehand. The launch was going to wrap the season, raise the ratings. Branch us into cooking, not just baking for next season.” I hadn’t heard that. “Why he was so popular, though, I could never understand.” She grunted something under her breath that sounded like “poser.” “Frankly, I never considered him that smart or a very good baker. His rep was all press release and ancient history. He hadn’t picked up a spatula in years.”
“Have you tasted any of the recipes?” What did the cookbook have to do with this? Anything, or was I grasping at roux and pork tenderloin?
She shrugged. “I heard they were good.”
Talk about a glowing recommendation. But wait, did she seem uncomfortable with the reference to his cookbook? I wondered why and instead blundered forward, seeing I was losing her focus as she stared at her phone as if considering something. Because hitting suspects with a rapid-fire pile of uncomfortable questions usually got me what I wanted to know. “And his gambling issues? His trouble with the IRS?”
She flinched, shook her head. Didn’t answer. So she knew and did nothing yet again? “I wonder if I’m too late to pitch that other show for the fall.”
Moving on, then.
When Clara looked up at me again she was already dialing. “Listen, I’m sorry about your mother, that she got caught up in all this. But the show’s over and whoever killed Ron, it wasn’t me. If you’ll excuse—Perry! Yeah, you heard, too. All good, I have that new pitch I wanted to…” her voice drifted off as she hurried away, head down, talking to whoever it was she figured could get her career back on track.
While I pondered what I’d learned, heading for the lobby with about as many questions and answers as I came with.
***
Chapter Twenty Six
I didn’t make it far, stumbling on Bill who lurked, as I’d expected he would, near the elevators when I emerged downstairs. At least he didn’t follow me all the way up, but the relief on his face when I stepped out into the noisy lobby made me smile.
I hooked my arm through his as I guided him down the hall toward the staff quarters. “I’m fine, see?”
“Good to know,” he said. “Any luck?”
“Not sure.” I stopped him beside the exit sign over the doors I’d been pushed through on Valentine’s Day, staring at them and trying not to remember the bitter cold and my near death from exposure. “But I could use some insight.”
“Anything.” He glanced at the doors himself. “Let me guess, you’re wondering about ways into and out of the dining room?”
Clever man. “So there’s the main ones into the lobby,” obviously, “and the side door that leads to this hallway,” I pivoted and pointed at the one beside us. “Any others?”
“One more,” he said. “This way.” He led
me into the quiet of the partially collapsed sound stage, around the back of the set past the green room area and to the far wall to the right of the main entrance. I had no idea there was a separate hallway back here, nor that it had a staircase attached. But when he opened the plain, gray door, nondescript but clearly an exit, I looked up the cold, basic concrete steps with a faint frown.
“No camera,” I said.
He pursed his lips, turned on his heel as he checked out the view above us. “Nope.”
Which meant this investigation was far from over. “Crew know about this?”
Bill paused, head tilted much like his big dog would if he heard an odd noise. “Now that you mention it, I don’t think so.”
Hmmm. “Where does this come out?”
“Exits on every floor,” he said. “Mostly for maintenance.”
Well, craptastic. “So if the killer found this door, they could have used it and no one would be the wiser.”
He nodded, looked contrite. “Should have thought of that.”
“You’re not a criminal, Bill,” I said. “Why would you?”
His slow smile lit his craggy face like I’d handed him the keys to the town.
I left the Lodge with a lot of thinking to do, heading for my car while texting instructions for Alicia to check any cameras close to the newly discovered exit. She promised she’d forward anything she found to Crew while I applauded myself for a job well done. See, I could play ball with him. I didn’t even ask for the information for myself, did I?
Way to cover tracks and call it a win, Fee.
I filled in Daisy on everything I found while she fed Petunia an early lunch.
“I spent the morning researching the cookbook,” she said, turning her laptop around to show me what she’d found. The home screen for a large bookstore chain showed the cover with Ron’s face plastered front and center, the Cake or Break Bread title making me eye roll. There were a large number of reviews already, though from the flag next to the purchase button it was still on preorder and wasn’t due to be released until April when the show was supposed to wrap.
“Looks like a lot of happy reviewers for a book that’s not out yet,” I said.
“Well, publishers do prerelease ARCs to early readers to drum up interest,” Daisy said. Blushed when I arched an eyebrow at her in the know. “I’m on the list for advance reader copies from Purely Paranormal Press.”
Right, she loved those witchy books. Huh, but I had no idea there was such a thing. “So anyone on the list gets the book, a chance to read it,” or try the recipes in this case, “and leave a review before the book is published?”
“Exactly.” She pointed at the list of five stars, a handful of four stars, but not a bad review in sight. “Funny thing is, usually there’s a few bad apples, if you’ll pardon the food comparison. This many raving reviews? Smells like yesterday’s fish.”
Interesting. “So, is there a way to look at the sample? Test one of the recipes?”
“Sometimes,” she said. “But not in this case. And there’s no big name chefs in the list of reviewers, either. That makes me wonder, Fee.”
“If, like Ron Williams himself, this book is all hype?” Made sense. But was it reason to murder him? If the book was a fraud, for example, could someone have found out? I found it hard to believe someone would kill over some recipes but odder things had crossed my path. From the crazy way the show was run, maybe death by designer dish wasn’t so farfetched after all.
I heard the front door bell chime but was too slow to get it, Daisy already on the move as I perused the book page, reading reviews that sounded just a bit too flowery and excited. Fakes? Possibly. Reinforcing my suppositions about the books authenticity.
I turned when I heard the kitchen door swish, caught the warning look on Daisy’s face just before my gaze slipped past her and settled on Vivian French. The sudden urge to leap at her and tear her hair out hit me so hard it froze me in place, both from shock at the reaction and horror that I gave her that kind of power over me.
In the silence that ensued, Vivian spoke.
“I’m not here for you,” she said, voice firm but low. “I’m here for Lucy.”
“To take another shot at her?” I found my own voice apparently. “Tell her she’d be better off working for you than being her own person?”
Daisy looked shocked, then pissed. So Mom hadn’t told her the details of Vivian’s attack, either? Shouldn’t have comforted me as much as it did, but I was jealous of my mother like that, I guess.
Did Vivian actually flinch ever so slightly? Her already porcelain skin paling further? Must have been the camel wool of her coat clashing with her skin tone. Because surely she wasn’t showing a breath of humanity.
“Your mother was wronged,” she said. Stiffened as I opened my mouth to tell her where she could take her platitudes. “I like to win, Fee. But not that way. Fraud is a hollow victory.”
So she’d rather wipe up the floor with my mother fair and square. Didn’t make her a good person.
“Whatever,” I said. “You have a point?”
Daisy cut in before Vivian’s flushing response could turn to an argument like the one we’d carried out in the back alley of her bakery. That had been productive, if yelling and screaming like little kids in a playground got us anywhere.
My bestie took the reins, gesturing for Vivian to join us. “It took a lot for you to come here,” she said, soft and understanding while I fought the urge to make a face. “You found something you wanted to share?”
Vivian tsked at Daisy as if her tone offended, before striding forward and setting her own laptop on the already cluttered counter. I made no move to give her space and she ended up hip-to-hip with me, the clash of the computers unfolding as hers butted up against mine.
“I have some connections in the cookbook world,” she said like that wasn’t the most hilarious thing to come out of anyone’s mouth ever. I almost giggled as she went on. “I convinced one of them to forward me their ARC.” She clicked on a file on her computer desktop, the background a shot of the bakery in summer. It was actually really pretty. Grumble. I guess I needed to hire a photographer to shoot Petunia’s and the annex.
Distractions. Got to love them.
“Did you try the recipes?” Daisy had joined us, pinning Vivian between us.
“I didn’t have to,” the arrogant blonde said, manicured fingernails clicking on her keyboard. “One look through the pages and I knew the truth.”
“Let me guess,” I said, “the book is a fraud.” I was so clever I could kiss myself.
Which made me think of Crew’s lips and grin all over again.
“Actually,” Vivian startled me by saying, “their all fantastic. The combinations are wonderful, I’ve used some myself in the past.”
“How could you?” Daisy met my eyes as Vivian scrolled through the list of recipes, stopping at one for some kind of stew. “The book hasn’t come out yet.”
“Oh,” Vivian said, a happy tone of malice running through her voice, “but it has. At least, the individual recipes have.” She minimized the file window and clicked another, side-by-siding the two recipes while I skimmed the ingredients and the instructions. The one from the book was typed up, formatted perfectly while the other looked as if it was a scanned copy of a typewritten page.
“Stolen?” Daisy likely didn’t know she gasped when she said that word like some startled heroine in one of her paranormal romance novels. Adorable.
Vivian shrugged, paging down the book again before clicking another file and repeating the performance. Another scanned page, another recipe plagiarized. “I’ve seen the advanced reviews. None of them call out the theft. Perhaps the reviewers are unfamiliar with the source. But I’m not.” She sounded pissed. “He might have thought he could get away with it, though. The creator is obscure and now passed away.”
Did that negate the copyright? No, it would just transfer to next of kin, right? But it might have made Ron brave
enough to take the risk if there wasn’t anyone to claim ownership. Still, the padded reviews made me think he was doing his best to keep his fraud under wraps until the book actually published. Could he really benefit from the release financially if he was exposed?
Maybe the money from the sale of the book wasn’t what he’d been after. Publishers paid advances, didn’t they? And he was in need of funds if Malcolm’s visit was any indication.
“That’s worth murdering over,” I said out loud.
“Exactly what I was thinking,” Vivian said.
“Whose recipes are they?” A name was scrawled at the bottom but I couldn’t read the writing.
“Someone familiar,” Vivian said, closing both windows and clicking the last link. “I met her a long time ago, an old friend of the family. I started watching Cake or Break because she was in the first season, back when they brought in home cooks with real talent.” That better not have been a jab at Mom. The video came on, playing the opening sequence. Vivian pushed the slider past it to the middle of the show and an older woman in glasses and a cute floral dress, portly but beaming, while next to her, scowling at the judges, stood none other than Ron Williams.
“Wait, he was a contestant?” I had no idea. “How long has the show been on?”
“This is the eleventh season,” Daisy said while Vivian spoke over her.
“He won that first round, despite inferior baking,” she said. Her bias wasn’t showing or anything. “The prize was a place at the judging table. It should have gone to her.” She pointed at the older woman. Why did she look like someone I knew? “He won by cheating, at least, that was the rumor. But she refused to challenge him and went home to her family, taking her amazing recipes with her. Yet again as unknown as she had been all along despite her genius.” She actually sounded sad for the woman.
“I’m sorry for your friend,” I said. “But you do realize this doesn’t look good, Vivian. Crew will have questions.”
