A Deadly Éclair

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  *

  Around a quarter to six the next morning, I woke to the sound of a woman pounding on my door. “Mimi, it’s Angelica! Open up!”

  I scrambled out of bed, tugged my Victoria’s Secret nightshirt over my thighs, and dashed to the door. I flung it open, and a chilly breeze wafted in. “What—”

  “It’s Bryan . . . He’s . . . I was out running and—” Angelica was dressed in multicolored calf-length tights, a fuchsia-pink crop top, bubble-gum-pink running shoes, and a headband, and she was glistening with perspiration. She grabbed my hand. “Come with me!”

  I cringed and tried to pull away. My hair was probably sticking out in every direction—bedhead hair was not my prettiest look—but she wouldn’t let go. In fact, she was gripping so hard, I worried I might lose circulation. I lifted my raincoat from the wall-mounted coat rack, and we were off.

  The sun had barely made an appearance as she dragged me across the cold ground to the bistro. My bare feet felt as if needles were impaling them.

  “I was out for my run”—Angelica continued to tug me, her ponytail whipping to-and-fro—“so I swung by the bistro before coming to my room, hoping to catch a glimpse of the wedding cake through the kitchen window. I know. A bride should wait to be surprised, but I couldn’t be put off. Then I saw—” She pointed. “There!”

  Bryan was lying near the door leading to the kitchen, his body motionless, his eyes closed.

  “He’s dead!” Angelica released me and sucked back a sob. “Dead!”

  I didn’t believe her. It couldn’t be true. Bryan must be dozing. He must have shown up eager to see what I had in store for the event and had drifted to sleep. Except there was no rise and fall to his chest.

  “Bryan!” I called. He didn’t respond. I rushed to help.

  A patio chair lay beyond him, cast aside as if thrown away in haste. Had somebody struck him with it and knocked him out?

  As I drew nearer, I gasped. Bryan’s face was motionless and tinged blue, and something was stuffed inside his mouth—an éclair.

  Chapter 4

  I sat at a table inside the bistro, shivering even though I was wearing my raincoat. The chill I felt wasn’t just due to deep-seated dread. My bare legs had something to do with it—the cool morning temps, too. I ran my finger around the lower rim of a coffee mug, my insides twitching with anxiety. I had drunk three cups of strong coffee, yet I craved more caffeine. I wanted to stay fully alert, and the jittery energy racing through me seemed to be keeping my tears for Bryan at bay.

  Who had killed him? And why had the killer stuffed an éclair into his mouth?

  Through the French doors, I watched Sergeant Tyson Daly, a Napa County sheriff contracted by the town of Yountville, supervising his investigation crew on the patio. One tall, husky deputy had cordoned off the area. Another deputy, a young Asian woman with sleek black hair, was taking photographs of an item she had marked by placing a yellow plastic cone beside it. Footprints? I wondered. I couldn’t see any. Maybe it was dirt, or fibers, or even the cigarette Lyle had discarded the night before. She had already marked a few loose gems—a diamond, a ruby, and a sapphire—which lay on the ground near Bryan. Why Bryan would have been carrying them baffled me. A third deputy—all Napa County deputies were trained as deputy coroners and could do the technical work required to establish that a victim had been murdered—removed the éclair from Bryan’s mouth and set it on a black cloth to his right. Then he removed something else, something sparkly—another gem. An aquamarine. I gagged. The killer must have put that into Bryan’s mouth. Why? Scoundrel, who had shown up about twenty minutes ago, sat perched on the fountain, staring at the deputy coroner as if inspecting his work, his tail swinging back and forth like a pendulum in a grandfather clock.

  I returned my attention to Tyson, who, like me, had grown up in the area. Back in grade school, he had been gangly and bucktoothed and had kept to himself. Now he was a handsome man and more outgoing. He had a wry smile—braces had fixed his teeth—and he wore his beard and mustache in a distinctive Buffalo Bill Cody style. He had a unique gray streak down the center of his unruly flaxen hair, as if he had been greatly shocked once in his life. If he had, he never talked about it. Maybe he would tell Jo. I bet he would tell her anything; his love for her was that obvious. However, he had never asked her out, the coward.

  When he had first arrived on the scene that morning, he had been all charm. He had made fun of my raincoat-over-nightgown look and teased me about my hair. I hadn’t let the jesting fool me, though. He, like his father and grandfather who had served the law before him, possessed a dogged passion for discovering the truth.

  Heather shuffled to my side. “Are you doing okay?” Her hair was knotted at the nape of her neck. She was wearing jeans and an I Love Napa T-shirt and no makeup, which was unlike her, but why dress up? We weren’t open for business. The wedding was on hold. Heck, life was on hold. “Want more coffee?” she asked.

  For the last hour, she had been plying me with my drug of choice. And she was the one who had scrounged up a pair of Crocs for my bare feet.

  “I’m okay,” I said.

  “Liar.”

  A moan escaped my lips. “I can’t believe it. Bryan’s dead.” I worked hard not to cry. Bryan. My mentor. My benefactor. The man who had taught me not only to trust others again but, more importantly, to trust myself. I didn’t even want to contemplate how a murder on the property would destroy the bistro’s reputation and end all prospects of its success.

  “I’ll bet he had enemies,” Heather whispered. “Successful men often do.”

  I gawked at her. She was right. Bryan had a lot of business dealings. Had one of those gone awry? If so, why kill him at the bistro?

  “Do you know why he was here so early?” Heather asked.

  “No.”

  She stroked the back of my head. Her touch comforted me. I wondered if she was quietly calling upon her alien pals to ease my troubled soul. If it would work, I wouldn’t fight it.

  “Did you notice anything before the sheriff arrived?” she asked. “Did you look around for clues?”

  “What? No!” The thought made my stomach roil.

  “Did you touch him?”

  “His wrist.”

  “To make sure he was dead.”

  I nodded. After my initial shock, I had gone to him.

  “Breathe,” she coaxed. “You’ll probably remember things as the day unfolds. I’ll get you a croissant to absorb some of that coffee.”

  Despite the early hour, Chef C was already in the kitchen making pastries as well as mini–bacon and onion quiches packed with extra protein for the sheriff’s investigative team and the somber wedding party, all of whom had gathered outside the screened-in patio and were watching the proceedings. Lyle, in sweatpants and a hoodie, stood by Angelica’s side, mindlessly stroking her shoulder. David and Paula Ives, also in casual clothes, hovered nearby. Francine and Kent lingered at a distance, each sipping from to-go coffee cups. Edison—Angelica had called her father right after we alerted 9-1-1—was pacing behind the group. His gaze was fierce, like he wanted to rip someone’s head off.

  Tyson crouched down. The movement caught my attention. I rose and inched toward the window. He was next to Bryan’s body, inspecting something in his palm. Something hot pink.

  My insides did a somersault. It was a cell phone. Mine was housed in a hot-pink case. No blinking way, I thought. It can’t be. When had I last seen my phone? I didn’t remember putting it in my purse last night. I was so tired when I’d left the restaurant, I might not have. Usually, I plugged it in and stowed it in one of the cubbies in the bistro’s kitchen so it could charge in case of an emergency.

  Tyson caught my eye and hooked a finger.

  I thumbed my chest, miming, Me?

  He beckoned me to the patio. I stepped through the doorway and paused halfway to him. There was no doubt in my mind. He was holding my cell phone. I could see the glitter I had glued to the rim of the case to mak
e it distinctive, as if hot pink wasn’t unique enough.

  “Where did you find that?” I asked, moving closer.

  “In the pot of basil.”

  “How did it get there?”

  “Exactly what I was wondering.”

  “I didn’t put it there. Moisture can ruin a phone.” I splayed a hand. “For your information, I forgot to take it home last night. I often do because I don’t need it, and I know it will still be in the kitchen cubby in the morning.”

  “Who would have access to it other than your staff?” Tyson asked. He towered over me. At six feet four inches, he stood head and shoulders above most people.

  “I don’t know. I don’t have a—” I caught sight of Bryan, his skin pale and his limbs stiff, and I shuddered. My gaze landed on the patio chair, still lying on its side. “Did whoever killed him hit him with the—that? Did he die instantly?”

  Tyson was working his teeth back and forth. Was he a habitual grinder? Did it help him concentrate? I wondered whether he wore a night guard to avoid getting TMJ, a.k.a. jaw pain. My mother wore a guard and had urged me to do the same because I ground my teeth when I slept.

  I shook free of the off-track thought and focused. “Well?”

  “Yes.”

  I glanced at Angelica and her loved ones, and a fleeting suspicion swept through me. Would any of them have killed Bryan? I couldn’t fathom a reason Angelica or her father would want him dead. The others barely knew him, though I recalled David being disgruntled about some business deal with Bryan. Then I remembered the way Bryan had shut down Paula the previous night. Had that infuriated her? I would never forget the way she had bowed submissively and shuffled away from him.

  Tyson said, “Tell me again what Miss Barrington said to you when she fetched you.”

  I had given him a lengthy statement already: Angelica’s early morning arrival at my cottage, the way she’d tugged me to the bistro, her claim that she had been out running. I recounted my statement and added, “She said she wanted to glimpse her wedding cake, but then she saw Bryan, and—”

  “Did she?”

  “Did she what?”

  “See the cake?”

  “I don’t think she made it as far as the kitchen window before seeing Bryan and racing headlong to my place.”

  Tyson set my cell phone on a patio table and pulled a small spiral pad from his pocket. He clicked a disposable pen and jotted a note. He flipped the booklet closed and eyed me.

  “Was he robbed?” I asked.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Bryan is very wealthy. Maybe he had a lot of cash on hand.”

  “His wallet seems to be intact. It’s filled with fifty-dollar bills.”

  “What about the loose gems?”

  He didn’t respond.

  “Many successful men have enemies,” I said, repeating Heather’s comment.

  “We’ll be checking into that.” Tyson lifted my cell phone and displayed it to me. “Can you explain why you wrote this text to him?”

  The text read, Meet me on the bistro patio. Something has come up. Hurry.

  “I didn’t write that. Like I said, I didn’t have my cell phone with me. I haven’t seen it since—”

  “Since when?”

  I glanced toward the bistro kitchen, trying again to think of when I had last seen it. While Stefan was dishing up salad? Or later, while I fixed Edison an Alka-Seltzer? Maybe it was when Bryan and I had discussed éclairs, I thought, but revised that notion. We had discussed dessert in the main dining room.

  Tyson said, “There’s a matching message on the deceased’s cell phone.”

  The deceased. I groaned.

  “Tyson . . . I mean, Sergeant Daly.” I would show him the courtesy of using his title. Friendship was off the table for the present. “I didn’t write that. I don’t know who did. Whoever it was put my cell phone in the basil. I’m not that stupid.”

  “Where would you put it? In the chives?”

  “Don’t be flip,” I snapped and instantly regretted my tone. “I’m sorry. What I’m trying to say is, I think the killer is framing me.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe the killer thought Bryan wouldn’t show up if he . . . she—” I flailed my hands. “Why would I want Bryan dead? Without him, the bistro—everything I’ve worked for—is going to go up in smoke. Poof!”

  Tyson nodded as if I was making sense. Was I? Did he believe me?

  “I wouldn’t be strong enough to knock him out with a patio chair.”

  “Sure you would. You’re a chef.” Tyson jotted a note on his pad. “The killer hit him on the back of his head. He was caught unaware.” He flipped the pad shut. “Where were you between four and six this morning?”

  “Is that when he died?”

  “That hasn’t been determined yet, but approximately.”

  “How can you tell? By body temperature?”

  “Don’t you worry about the technical stuff, Mimi. Where were you? In bed?”

  “As a matter of fact, I was awake. From a quarter to four to twenty to six, I was on my patio, pacing, because I was restless about today’s event. I’d just gone back to bed when Angelica—” I halted. Did the killer know that I was up and about? Was that why he . . . she . . . had used my cell phone? Why me? Why frame me? I moaned. “Being alone in my yard is a pretty weak alibi, isn’t it?”

  “About as weak as being asleep.”

  “Early morning hours would seem to be an inopportune time to commit murder,” I said. “It’s hard to find a witness to account for one’s whereabouts.”

  “On the other hand, it provides anonymity.”

  Tyson jotted another note on his notepad. I had to admit that his habit of flipping the pad open and shut was driving me nuts.

  He said, “Did anyone see you, um, while you were pacing?”

  “A stray cat and my goldfish.”

  “Very funny.”

  “I’m not trying to be. Look, the killer took my cell phone and contacted Bryan. Whoever it was knew Bryan would come running because he was invested in the wedding. He wanted everything to be perfect for his niece. I swear I didn’t do it.”

  Jo bounded onto the patio and cut past a deputy who tried to stop her. “Of course Mimi didn’t do it.”

  Tyson stood a little taller. He swept a hand over his hair and smoothed his mustache and beard. His interest in Jo was rather endearing. She didn’t seem to notice, or if she did, she was deliberately ignoring the signs. She could be prickly when it came to men. Her father was a great guy who was dapper, smart, and as funny as the day was long; she had extremely high standards. I remember two boys in high school who had ended up with very bruised egos after asking Jo on a date. Not that she was nasty; she wasn’t. She was terse. Maybe that was the reason Tyson still hadn’t found the nerve.

  “Tyson Daly, what’s going on?” Jo demanded.

  “I’m interrogating Mimi.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we found evidence that is fairly incriminating.”

  “Give me a break. You know Mimi. She didn’t do this. She has an alibi.” Jo turned to me. “You do, don’t you?”

  I muttered that I had been on my patio, pacing. I added, “Yeah, I know it’s flimsy, but what were you doing between four and six this morning?”

  “Tossing and turning, thinking about all the plans for today.”

  “Exactly.”

  Jo tilted her head and whispered, “What does Tyson have on you?”

  “My cell phone was found in that pot of basil.”

  “The basil? Not the chives?”

  I sneered at her. Tyson bit back a laugh.

  “There was a text message,” I continued, “asking Bryan to meet me here. There’s a corresponding text message on Bryan’s phone.”

  Jo blanched but recovered quickly. Boldly she held a hand out to Tyson. “May I see Mr. Baker’s phone?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that, Jo,” Tyson said.

 
; “Don’t be a ninny. Of course you can.”

  “I can’t have your prints on the evidence.”

  “Fine. Give me a pair of vinyl gloves. I know you have extras in your pocket.”

  “Listen, Jo—”

  “No, you listen, mister.” Without an invitation, Jo foraged in his pocket. She found a pair of vinyl gloves, blew air into them like a pro, and slid them on. She and Tyson had a relationship that went back to the playpen. I had heard stories about him smooshing oatmeal in her hair and her messing red Jell-O in his, and even more stories about wrestling matches and bicycle races down steep hills. “The phone.” Jo wasn’t a bully. She was dogged. “C’mon. You always say fresh eyes are important. Deputize me if you have to.” Her eyes blazed with a dare.

  Tyson’s mouth twitched; he was fighting a smile. “Fresh eyes,” he said and handed over Bryan’s cell phone.

  While scrolling through messages, Jo said, “Sergeant, did you review all his text messages?”

  “Not yet. We just found the darned thing.”

  “Well, take a look at this thread.” She flashed the cell phone at him. “See that? It’s from Paula Ives. It looks pretty pathetic to me.” She read it out loud, emoting like crazy. “‘Please meet me. There’s something I need to discuss.’ Bryan didn’t respond. So she sent another. ‘I need to explain.’” Jo thrust the cell phone into Tyson’s hand. “Um, explain what?”

  I said, “I think she made a play for him last night, but he rebuffed her.”

  “Wasn’t he old enough to be her father?” Jo asked.

  “I know lots of women who date older men.”

  “Ahem.” Tyson wagged the cell phone. “The message, you will note, was sent at midnight, plus Ms. Ives doesn’t ask him to meet her on the patio.”

  “Maybe when he didn’t respond,” Jo countered, “Paula used Mimi’s phone to lure him here.”

  “How would she have gotten it?” Tyson regarded me.

  “I’m not sure.” I felt my cheeks warm. “I suppose she could have taken it from the kitchen.” I wracked my brain for a recollection of Paula entering the kitchen last night, but I couldn’t conjure up an image.