A Deadly Éclair

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  Embarrassment warmed my cheeks. Not for being called out—I was used to receiving kudos from my clientele when they were enjoying a meal. But being recognized by Angelica when she looked so glorious and I looked like a worker bee? Ugh! Sure, I had put on a wraparound hot-pink dress for the evening, which went well with my necklace, but I hadn’t had time to do more with my hair—still in a ponytail—and I’d forgotten to put on earrings. Dumb! I got over my angst. I wasn’t there to impress anyone. This was Angelica’s night. Weekend. Future.

  “Hear, hear!” said Bryan.

  “Hear, hear!” Lyle echoed, raising a glass.

  “Okay, then.” Lyle’s younger sister, Paula, who managed Ives Jewelers in San Francisco, was not nearly as polished as Lyle. Even though she had donned plenty of glitzy jewelry for the occasion, including a ring on every finger, she didn’t sparkle. Perhaps it was the pale sheath she was wearing, or her limp brown hair, or her wretchedly bitten nails. Her arms were toned, however, which led me to believe she worked out, meaning she was concerned about her health and appearance to some degree. Maybe she kept them toned so she could lift the oversized flashy tote she had brought along. She elbowed her father to join in the toast.

  David Ives, who was good-looking in a severe way, as if he had stared down one too many uncut diamonds—he had started the prominent jewelry business more than thirty years ago—raised his glass. “To Mimi,” he said in a husky baritone, then threw me a look that was bordering on lascivious.

  I didn’t react. I was not in the habit of flirting with someone old enough to be my father, even if he was a well-to-do widower.

  Bryan, who hadn’t left my side, chuckled. “You’re always turning heads, Mimi.”

  “I am not.”

  “Get used to compliments, my dear. There will be plenty along the years with those eyes of yours.”

  I inherited my father’s chocolate-brown eyes and thick lashes.

  Bryan leaned in and whispered, “I’d better get back to my seat. Keep up the good work. And I’ll take two éclairs, if you don’t mind.”

  He settled into his chair at the far end of the table, beside Paula, who smiled at him and coyly twirled a lock of limp hair around a finger. Apparently she didn’t have the same qualms I did about dating someone older.

  Waitstaff appeared—two men and two women dressed in white shirts and black trousers—and removed the white-and-silver charger plates, making way for soups and salads.

  “Mimi!” Angelica’s best friend, Francine Meister, who was seated on the other side of Bryan, beckoned me with her pinky.

  Irritation reared its prickly head. The moment I’d set eyes on Francine, I realized I didn’t like her. She was a gossip by trade—she wrote a society column for an uppity magazine and had a huge social media following—and I got the feeling she had been one of those mean girls all her life. Maybe my first opinion was colored by the fact that she was Botoxed up the wazoo, and not a hair on her bleached-blonde head was out of place. Someone in a coffin couldn’t look as unnatural.

  Cut it out, Mimi, I scolded myself. Maybe Francine is a lovely, caring woman. After all, she had supplied party favors for everyone—silver wine stoppers etched with the bride and groom’s initials—plus she’d offered to do palm readings for free. To gather more gossip? I wondered wickedly. Bad, bad, Mimi.

  Francine called my name again and pointed to her wineglass.

  As I neared the table with a bottle of Nouvelle Vie Chardonnay, which rated right up there with the best Napa Chardonnays—not too oaky and flavored with notes of caramel and honey—I watched Angelica chatting with Lyle. She leaned toward him and fingered her aquamarine earrings, which were each composed of at least a dozen gems. Grinning ear to ear, she blew him a kiss and mouthed, Thank you. Had he given her the jewelry for her birthday? Aquamarine was a March birthstone, and I happened to know—because of an article I had read in People—that Angelica had been born in March. I did not know of what year—that was a well-kept secret—but I figured she was about my age. Perhaps this was the first chance she’d had to wear the jewelry.

  I refreshed Francine’s glass of wine and moseyed toward Lyle’s business partner, a whip-thin man with Marine-short, yellowish hair. He covered the top of his glass with a palm. What was his name? Clark Kent? I bit back a laugh. No, that wasn’t it; he was a far cry from Superman. Kent Clarke, with an E, that was it. Could you imagine doing that to your kid? Think about the teasing he must have endured! First of all, he didn’t look like any version of Superman, and second, he was British. On the other hand, because his family was British, maybe his parents hadn’t been aware of the Clark Kent/Superman connection, it being a predominantly American cultural phenomenon when he was born.

  Kent’s eyes narrowed and he grimaced. Was he staring at Angelica or the costly earrings? Without preamble, he plucked his napkin from his lap, wadded it at his place setting, and stood up. “I need some air.”

  “We’re about to serve the first course,” I advised him.

  “I need a smoke.”

  My nose twitched. I wasn’t a prude. Lots of people smoked, despite the surgeon general’s warning. But in my humble opinion, there was nothing worse than having a cigarette in between courses; it ruined the palate.

  I pointed outdoors. “The smoking area is by the fire pit beyond the patio.”

  Since taking ownership of the bistro, we had totally redone the two patios. The front patio offered a glimpse of the parking lot that wrapped around to St. Helena Highway plus a view of Maison Rousseau and our vegetable garden. The rear patio, which faced east, was much larger and screened in. I’d thought to include a door to the kitchen, to make service for the waitstaff easier. Along the patio’s edges, we had filled planters with beautiful Nelly Moser clematis—a purple-and-white variety. Tubs of aromatic herbs like basil, chives, and dill stood in clusters in the far-right corner. A fountain with a cherub centerpiece graced the left corner. We had planted Floribunda white roses, lavender, and lamb’s ears behind the fountain. Wrought-iron bistro tables and chairs gave the patio a rustic look. Beyond the patio’s edge, at a distance allowable by California law, stood a smoking area and a fire pit. We had decorated the area with stepping-stones and native ground cover. Acres of grapes grew beyond it all.

  “Shall I pour more wine for you, Kent, while you’re outside?” I asked.

  “Sure, love, but not that white stuff. Something red.”

  “Didn’t you order the cod as your entrée?”

  “Don’t be barmy.”

  I frowned. Was barmy slang for crazy?

  “I don’t abide by rules,” he continued, “especially when it comes to pairing wine and food.” He attempted a smile, but his lip only lifted on one side. A shark could have done better. He strode out of the restaurant and let the door slam behind him.

  “Well, isn’t he a charmer,” Francine said to Angelica.

  “Don’t look at me.” She chuckled and poked her fiancé. “It’s his fault.”

  Like a seasoned gossip, Francine regarded Lyle. “Why did you and Kent go into partnership anyway?” I expected her to pull a recording device from her Prada purse to get the scoop.

  “Because he hadn’t found his path in life and asked me for a favor,” Lyle replied.

  “And you granted it.” Angelica grasped his hand. “Like always.”

  “C’mon, it’s not like I’m a pushover, Liquey,” Lyle said.

  I winced. What a horrible nickname. All I could imagine was a leaky boat or faucet.

  Lyle’s father, David, who was scrolling through messages on his iPhone, cleared his throat. Was he making a comment about the pushover reference? Was Lyle a soft touch? Or was he also surprised by the nickname his son had bestowed upon his intended?

  Angelica gripped Lyle’s hand and smiled. “Of course you’re not a pushover. I was teasing.” To Francine, she said, “Kent and Lyle grew up together.”

  “They were childhood besties,” Paula remarked, an insinuation in the word
besties. “Let the US and Britain unite.”

  Lyle shot his sister a loathsome look.

  Paula shrugged and took another sip of wine. “They played spies, if you must know. Secret agents. Kent was James Bond. Lyle was Felix Leiter. They were this close.” She crossed two fingers.

  “Sis, cut it out. For the last time, he’s not gay and neither am I. We hung out, that’s all. Now hear this!” Lyle smacked the table, totally for effect. “Kent is good at what he does. No more making fun. Yes, the man has an edge, but he knows his stuff. Without him, we wouldn’t have gone international. Paula, you would never be so successful. And, Angelica, you and I”—he clasped her hand—“never would have met. Remember when you came into the shop looking for a bauble for your mother?”

  “A bauble?” Francine said.

  “That’s right,” Lyle continued. “She was dealing with Kent. He started laughing so hard, I came running from the office.”

  Angelica wriggled her hand free. “They were making fun of me.”

  “Admit it,” Lyle said. “The way you say bauble . . . Go on, do it.”

  “Bauble.” Angelica’s nose crinkled and her lips pursed like she was begging for a kiss.

  “Yeah, that’s it. Too cute.” Lyle aimed his index finger at her. “Man, I was toast.”

  David, still scrolling through text messages, cleared his throat again. Didn’t he approve of Angelica? How could he not adore her?

  “My uncle recommended the jewelry store,” Angelica said.

  “And I will be forever grateful.” Lyle kissed her cheek.

  Francine said, “Okay, you two, get a room. Oh, wait, you will. Tomorrow night.”

  Though they had cohabitated for a few months, the couple had elected to sleep in separate rooms at the inn. Sort of sweet, if you thought about it.

  Angelica mock-glared at Francine, who chuckled. As did Lyle. Bryan laughed, too, in a jocular, life-of-the-party way.

  Realizing he was outnumbered, David pocketed his cell phone and raised his wineglass. “I’ll take some of that, Mimi.”

  As I poured the Chardonnay, Angelica said, “Mimi, Bryan has told us a bit about what you’ve done to the place. What a fascinating story. I’d love to hear—”

  The door to the bistro flew open, and in stumbled a weathered, dark-haired man in a sloppily buttoned shirt. His jacket was slung under his arm. “Angelica!”

  Chapter 3

  “Angelica!” the man bellowed again, the G slurring and sounding like Sh. He was clearly soused and nearly tripped himself as one foot crossed the other.

  “Dad!” Angelica leaped to her feet.

  Lyle and Bryan started to rise. “Need help?” they asked in unison.

  “No, thanks. Stay here.” Angelica skirted the table and hurried toward her father.

  I followed, ready to assist, and signaled Heather to remain attentive to the guests. As I drew nearer to Angelica, the photographer appeared. “Want me to snap a family picture?”

  Angelica threw him a sour look. “For heavens sakes, no!”

  The photographer shrank back.

  Angelica petted her father’s shoulders. He was quite a contrast to her. They had the same color hair, but he was thick and muscular, while she was svelte. His skin was tan; hers was pale—kept that way for the cameras, I assumed. He had a dimple in his chin; she had none. Granted, my father and I hadn’t looked similar either, other than our eyes. He had been a short, stout dumpling of a man. We did have the same smile, though. I couldn’t tell if Angelica and her father did, since at the moment he was scowling.

  Angelica whispered to me, “He never drinks.”

  “How is that possible? He’s a vintner.” Barrington Vineyards was known for its scrumptious Pinot Noir. Like Nouvelle Vie, it was not open to the public, but I had been lucky enough to taste the Pinot Noir, thanks to Nash Hawke.

  “He’s a sip-and-spit guy. He doesn’t swallow. To Dad, wine is all about the first flavors, not the effect.” Angelica said softly, “Dad, what’s going on?”

  Her father’s blue eyes flickered back and forth in their sockets. Tears pooled in the corners. “I . . . You . . .” He shook his head.

  “What did you do? Bet on the ponies and lose again? Or did you sit in on a high-stakes card game?”

  Aha! That was what Angelica must have thought earlier when she said, “Dad’s, well, Dad.” He had proclivities that might delay his arrival to an event, even one as important as his daughter’s out-of-towners’ dinner.

  “Did one of your buddies lace your drink so you would bet foolishly?” Angelica pressed.

  “No, I was—”

  “You could have gone to a Gambler’s Anonymous meeting. Or to the GA chat room.”

  “You . . .” He patted his chest, like he was in search of something. Then he realized he had tucked his jacket under his arm. He rifled through the pockets and pulled out a bejeweled wallet. A piece of paper jutted from the fold. He fumbled to secure the clasp but couldn’t manage. “You accidentally left this when we . . .” He twirled a finger. “Earlier.” When she had left the hotel in a limo to meet him.

  “You found it! I thought I’d lost it.” She took it from him, tucked in the paper, and fastened the clasp. “I bought it at the jazz festival right before I came to see you.” To me she said, “Have you been there yet? It’s amazing. Tons of arts-and-crafts tents. Each filled with artisanal glasswork, leatherwork, and jewelry. The music is divine. And did I mention the wine? What an assortment!”

  This year, the arts-and-crafts festival had teamed up with the annual, weeklong “Jazz in the Valley” event in Alston Park. The event featured a variety of musicians plus wine tastings. Artisanal food tents would be everywhere, and balloonists would take to the sky. A bistro patron told me that I absolutely had to hear the jazz guitarist.

  “I found this inside the wallet.” Edison withdrew a pretty silver necklace from his pocket and dangled it by the chain. It was a pendant-style necklace with an aquamarine in an antique setting.

  Angelica blushed. “Aw, Dad, that was Mom’s and my secret. She said you gave it to her years ago as a keepsake for me. She kept it hidden and presented it to me on my twenty-first birthday, right before she—” Angelica’s voice caught. Right before her mother died. “She said to wear it on the day I got married. I wanted to surprise you when I was walking down the aisle. Want to put it on me?”

  “I . . . No . . . It . . .” Edison groped for words.

  Angelica smiled indulgently. “That’s okay, Dad. Hand it to me.”

  He hesitated and then obeyed. Angelica clipped on the necklace and centered the stone. Her father let out a little whimper.

  Poor guy, I thought. How he must miss his wife. I said, “Sir, why don’t I get you something to drink?”

  Angelica yelped.

  “Alka-Seltzer,” I assured her.

  “Oh, of course.” She smiled. “Good idea.”

  Fizzy medicine wasn’t a cure-all, but it might help. I touched her father’s shoulder. “Follow me to the kitchen.”

  “Call me Edison,” he said.

  After we passed through the swinging door, I settled Edison at my favorite place in the kitchen—a rustic white farmhouse-style table fitted with a set of cubbies. It was where I ate my meals. He mumbled something more about Angelica and being disappointed, but I couldn’t make out the gist. I figured he was trying to say he was sorry to have let her down, showing up soused like he had. I murmured something stupid like there, there and asked Stefan to feed him and keep watch over him until he felt Edison was steady on his feet, and then I returned to the party.

  Angelica had retaken her seat at the head table. Lyle was stroking her shoulder and whispering into her ear.

  Seconds later, the waitstaff emerged from the kitchen and began the process of setting out soups and salads. The zesty aroma of onion soup topped with melted Gruyère cheese wafted through the air, as did the sound of happy chatter.

  An hour later, Edison still hadn’t emerged fro
m the kitchen. As the main course dishes were being removed, Angelica slipped through the swinging door. I followed but stopped at the entrance when I spied her sitting on a stool beside her father. She was caressing his hand and murmuring to him.

  Deciding not to disturb their intimate moment, I made a U-turn and went in search of Heather to see how I could help with the wine and whatnot. A few minutes later, Angelica appeared with a smile on her face.

  As I was pouring champagne into flutes at the celebrity table, Stefan pushed through the door from the kitchen. “We’re about to serve dessert,” he announced in a big, booming voice. “The chef hopes you have all saved room.”

  A few people applauded.

  Edison shuffled in behind Stefan, his jacket on and his hair combed.

  I bustled up to him and linked my hand through his elbow. “Feeling better?”

  “You’d like me to say I do, but I don’t. I never lie.”

  “Well, you fooled me. You look good. Your eyes are bright.” I gave his arm a squeeze and guided him to the bride’s table. I seated him beside Angelica.

  She kissed her father’s cheek. He muttered something about the necklace, and then he leaned behind her, clenched Bryan’s sleeve, and tugged.

  Bryan scowled and mouthed, Later.

  Edison said something sotto voce and bobbed his head emphatically. He seemed to be insisting, Now.

  The photographer swooped in. “Angelica, is it a good time for a family photo? You, your dad, and your uncle? C’mon. We need at least one.”

  “Okay.” She grabbed her father’s hand and drew him to his feet.

  Bryan bounded up and flanked her on the other side. He was smiling tightly, which made me wonder what was up. What was causing the strain between him and his brother? Was he angry that Edison had shown up inebriated? Did Bryan know about his brother’s penchant for gambling? What had Edison wanted to discuss? Maybe he didn’t like that Bryan had taken it upon himself to set the wedding at the inn or, worse, pay for the wedding. I didn’t have siblings, but Jo had an older sister, and she often told me how hard it was to keep things on an even keel. Repeatedly, her sister reminded her that Jo had wasted her college education when she abandoned her CPA job to come work for me.