A Deadly Éclair

by Daryl Wood Gerber

“Jorianne James!” my mother said as she hustled into the office. “That is no way to speak to our fine man of the law.” Mom and I looked similar, though her toffee-colored hair was chin length and streaked with gray. She had more wrinkles because, well, she was older, plus she smiled a lot, though she wasn’t smiling at that particular moment. “Apologize, young lady.” She smoothed the lapels of her gypsy-style lace vest—my mother wasn’t a hippy, but she loved Bohemian clothing—and gave Jo a stern look. When Jo’s mother had divorced her father and run off to find herself, my mother had taken up the reins to keep Jo in line. After all, what were best friend’s mothers for?

  But Jo would have none of it today. “Ginette, I’m sorry, but I can’t apologize.” She scowled at Tyson. “What are you pinning on my friend this time? What are you holding in your hand?”

  “It’s—”

  “Something worse than the text message,” I cut in.

  “What text message?” my mother asked.

  “I told you yesterday, Mom. Someone used my phone to text Bryan to lure him to the bistro.” I turned to Jo. “Tyson is holding a letter that states that upon Bryan’s death, his estate will forgive my entire debt.”

  “That’s great!” Jo exclaimed.

  “No, it’s not!” my mother cried. “It establishes motive.” She hurried to me and clasped my hand.

  “But she didn’t know about it, Tyson.” Jo glanced at me. “Did you?”

  I shook my head vehemently.

  “Were the letter and Bryan’s signature witnessed by a notary?” Jo asked.

  Tyson nodded. “Last week.”

  My mother squeezed my hand hard. I gulped. If a notary had acknowledged Bryan’s signature, it couldn’t have been forged. I was toast.

  Jo batted the air. “Okay, fine. Bryan Baker was benevolent. We all knew that. Big deal. What about Paula Ives? Did you question her, Tyson? I don’t trust her as far as I can throw her. She’s got a sour disposition and a mean streak. I’ve heard how she talks to the help at the inn. She’s not nice.”

  “Who is Paula Ives?” my mother asked.

  Quickly I gave her a recap of the guests at the out-of-towners’ dinner. She knew Edison Barrington. As fellow vintners, they had met on various occasions.

  “Poor Edison,” she murmured. “How are he and his daughter holding up?”

  “As well as can be expected.”

  “Paula Ives,” Jo repeated.

  Tyson suppressed a smile. “You and Mimi seem to be on the same page, Jo. She’s not a fan of Ms. Ives, either.”

  “Well?” Jo tapped a foot.

  I had to admit that my pal and I were quite the opposite when it came to confrontation. She got in front of the problem, whereas I had a tendency to sidle to the perimeter to get a better view. It wasn’t that I wasn’t adventurous; I was. I’d moved to San Francisco on a whim, hadn’t I? But taking on a guy as big and powerful as Tyson Daly? I would do my best to impress him with my intuition.

  “I’m visiting Ms. Ives next, Jo,” Tyson said. “We’re meeting in the library at Maison Rousseau.”

  “I love the library,” my mother said.

  I did, too. It was small but fashionable, with an eclectic assortment of comfy reading chairs and lamps. Two walls were filled with books—romances and mysteries and classics—that guests could read during their stay. If any found the need to take a book home to finish it, we provided a return stamped envelope. So far, no guest had permanently borrowed a book.

  “Swell,” Jo said. “I’ll bring you and Ms. Ives tea.”

  “No, you won’t,” Tyson warned, “because you’ll try to listen in.”

  Jo tsked. So did my mother and I, knowing that Jo would definitely eavesdrop, and she wouldn’t have to be in the room to do so. She had the hearing of a bat. When she had learned that her parents were going to divorce, she was at the rear of their ranch-style house. I would never forget her telephone call that day. She was sobbing. Up until that moment, I had never heard her cry.

  Tyson brandished the condemning letter at me. “Mimi, if I were you, I’d get some legal advice.” He bid us good day and strode from the office.

  My mother threw her arms around me and hugged me fiercely. “Oh, my darling girl, I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t worry, Mom. I didn’t do it.”

  “Of course you didn’t.”

  “This is merely a snag.”

  “Listen to you.” She released me and petted my face. “Just like your father—sloughing it off as if you didn’t have a care in the world.”

  I wasn’t sloughing it off, but I didn’t want her hovering over me. We were both proud, independent women. The last thing she needed was to see me become the same sniveling mess I had been after Derrick died. I had eaten bonbons and potato chips for days. Not pretty.

  I kissed her cheek and said, “Thanks for coming to see me. Go home. I’m so busy, I can’t see straight. I’ll call you later.”

  She tucked a stray hair behind my ear. “I’ll light a candle.”

  “Or two or three,” I joked. She was a candle freak. Last Christmas, the fire department showed up because she had lit so many candles that the residual smoke after blowing them out had set off an alarm. I gave her a nudge, and she left.

  When I headed back to the dining room, my stomach was in knots. One of our regular patrons was a defense attorney. Would she take my case?

  Jo followed me. Under her breath she said, “You’re going to be fine. Promise. We’ll get to the bottom of this.”

  The place was packed with guests. Heather was seating patrons. Stefan was preparing a Caesar salad tableside and chatting good-naturedly with the customers. Two waitresses exited the kitchen with full trays of food. The aroma of onion tarts filled the air. The chatter was infectious. So far, I didn’t hear anyone talking about me going to prison for a crime I didn’t commit, but once the news leaked about the letter concerning my forgiven debt, all bets were off.

  “Come with me,” Jo said. She led the way out the French doors and across the patio to the fountain. I wasn’t allowing diners on the patio yet, since Bryan had died there. It didn’t feel right. Tomorrow, maybe.

  Sunshine was warming the day, but the trellis across the top of the patio was keeping the sun’s intensity at bay. Even so, I was roasting. Embarrassment and frustration always did that to me. I wasn’t guilty of murder, and yet I felt responsible. It had happened on my property, to my mentor.

  Water gushed from the pitcher that the fountain’s cherub statue was holding and spilled into the basin below. I perched on the ledge and fingered the cool liquid, wishing I could splash my overheated face repeatedly with it.

  Jo sat beside me and handed me a tissue. I dabbed my eyes.

  “I’ll bet Paula did it,” Jo said, “and Tyson will be back in a matter of minutes to let you off the hook.”

  I wadded the tissue in my fist. “If only.” Jo was more of an optimist than I was. My life with Derrick had put a damper on my rosy-eyed hopefulness. “Not all murders are that easy to solve. Rarely does the killer admit guilt.”

  “I heard Paula’s mother died under iffy circumstances. Did she kill her?”

  “Don’t go spreading rumors.”

  “Do you know the facts?”

  “I don’t, but I know she was a little girl at the time.”

  Jo dipped her fingers in the water, too, and dabbed the back of her neck. I recalled Angelica saying that both Paula and her father were involved in the San Francisco local theater scene and told Jo.

  “That’s not good,” she said. “Paula will probably be skilled at lying. She’ll put one over on Tyson. You watch.”

  I knuckled her arm. “Be kinder to him. He sooo has a thing for you.”

  “He does not.”

  “Are you blind?” I chuckled. “He can’t take his eyes off you. And if you would open your pretty blue eyes, you’d see that Tyson has turned into a good-looking man. Plus he’s simply good. Good at his job. Good in his soul. You could do worse.�
� And she had. Her high school snubs aside, during college, Jo had stretched her wings. She’d dated a few bad boys. Luckily none had won her heart and none had broken it, either. “Give him a chance.”

  She harrumphed and said, “Forget him. You’re the one in trouble. We’ve got to figure out who killed Bryan Baker before Tyson throws you in jail. Think.”

  “I don’t believe Kent Clarke or Francine Meister killed him. They only met Bryan for the first time at the out-of-towners’ dinner.”

  “But you won’t rule them out.”

  “I won’t rule anyone out yet.” Not even Angelica’s celebrity friends, though none of them had shown up to observe the scene of the crime, and from what I’d heard, all had enjoyed quite a bender Friday night. I doubted any of them could have roused themselves to drive south to Bistro Rousseau. And what motive would any of them have had to hurt Bryan Baker? None.

  I plodded to the bed of white roses beyond the fountain and aimlessly started to remove brown leaves. “By the way, there were quite a few events that occurred at the out-of-towners’ dinner that piqued my interest.”

  “Like?” Jo popped to her feet and joined me at the roses; she cupped her hands so I could discard the dead leaves I was collecting.

  I told her about the scene when Paula followed Bryan to the patio.

  “You think she was throwing herself at him?” Jo asked.

  “Seemed like it.”

  “And he rebuffed her?”

  “In less than a minute. She was crestfallen and retreated to the table to chew her nails.”

  Jo scrunched up her nose. “What about Paula’s father, David? I don’t like him. He has narrow eyes.”

  I had thought the same thing, as if David had stared down one too many uncut diamonds.

  “Cheaters squint,” Jo said.

  “He and Bryan have a history.”

  “I knew it.”

  “According to Kent, ten years ago, Bryan might have ruined a real estate deal for one of David’s friends. Apparently Bryan went for the jugular, though he claimed he hadn’t. The topic was quickly extinguished, thanks to Paula, so I don’t know the half of it, but both men appeared steamed.”

  “So later”—Jo dumped her collection of dead leaves out of sight behind the lavender bushes—“David, fuming from the old grudge, decided to act on his rage. To avenge his friend, he met up with Bryan and bashed him with the chair.”

  “But why wait so long? Why stuff an éclair into his mouth? And why insert a single aquamarine?” I discarded the remaining leaves behind the bushes and brushed my hands on my trousers.

  “Maybe the marriage was the last straw. David wanted Bryan to choke on his lifestyle and riches. As for the aquamarine, he intended to put in the other gems, too, but he ran out of time or he heard something and dropped them, which is why they were found on the ground.”

  “You know, if David didn’t kill him, Lyle might have.”

  “The future groom?”

  “He and Bryan had a heated conversation right after Paula was dismissed. It started out calmly enough.” I described the encounter, adding that I hadn’t heard a word of it, though I could surmise. “I’d wondered if he was making Paula’s case for her, but then Lyle said something and jabbed his cigarette in Bryan’s direction.”

  “Like a sword.”

  “Exactly. Bryan gripped Lyle’s wrist. Lyle wrenched free and backed up, arms raised.” I mimed the action. “That seemed to end it.”

  “It sounds to me like Lyle was jealous of Bryan.”

  “Jealous?”

  “Maybe he was telling Bryan that he didn’t like how close he was to Angelica.”

  I blanched. Minutes ago, Tyson had made the same insinuation about Bryan and me. “He was Angelica’s uncle,” I countered.

  “Right, but, you know . . .” Jo let the inference hang.

  “No way. Ew. Bryan and Angelica had a pristine relationship. He glowed whenever he talked about her. Lyle had to realize that.” I recalled the way Angelica had fawned over her intended at the out-of-towners’ dinner. “No, Lyle couldn’t have been jealous. Angelica very obviously adores him. She kisses him frequently. She even snuggled him openly while cooing her appreciation for a dangling pair of earrings—” I halted.

  “What?”

  “The earrings he gave her. They’re aquamarine. Her birthstone. The same as the gem that was found in Bryan’s mouth.”

  “So we have a connection there. However”—Jo raised a cautionary finger—“let’s not dismiss Angelica as a suspect. Are you sure she didn’t kill him and fetch you to establish her alibi?”

  “She was beyond grief-stricken.”

  “A killer can have regrets.”

  “Why would she kill Bryan? There’s no motive.”

  “Yet,” Jo said. “Say, what about her father? Bryan put the wedding together. Bryan arranged for the rooms at the inn. Bryan was doing everything for Angelica. Maybe her father was jealous. Basically Bryan had stepped in for him.”

  I shook my head. “I can’t imagine. Edison was Johnny-on-the-spot when Angelica called him after finding Bryan. The moment he showed up, he seemed ready to rip the killer to shreds.” I recalled him pacing behind the group as they watched the investigative team’s discovery process. His eyes had smoldered with what looked like a hunger for retribution.

  Jo snorted. “You said David and Paula Ives dabbled in acting. Maybe nowadays everybody is an expert at putting on an innocent face because they see how it’s done on TV murder mystery shows.”

  “David,” I grumbled. “We’ve got to figure out what the story was between him and Bryan.”

  “I know the truth,” a man said.

  Chapter 7

  I spun around. Edison let the screen door slam and crossed the patio, making a beeline for us. He must have cut through the garden between the inn and the bistro. He was dressed in a black shirt and trousers, and his skin was beaded with perspiration. My heart skipped a beat. Had he heard us talking about him? Why should I worry? I had uttered positive things.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “Looking for Angelica. We have a date to meet at the inn. Have you seen her?”

  “Maybe she’s running.”

  “She never exercises midday. There’s too much sunshine. She can’t allow herself to get a tan.”

  “Maybe she went shopping and got stuck in traffic,” I offered. “There’s a lot of it on the main highway.” There was always traffic because there were so many wineries to visit. The Silverado Trail, which ran parallel to St. Helena Highway, was a much easier route to travel.

  “Sir,” Jo said, “feel free to go to the inn and get some sparkling water at the bar while you wait for your daughter. It’s on the house.”

  “Thanks.” Edison turned to leave.

  “Wait.” I held up a hand. “Before you go, you said you know something about the history between David Ives and your brother.”

  Edison narrowed his gaze. “It’s not mine to tell.”

  Then why had he spoken up in the first place? Because he wanted us to beg for the gossip?

  “Give us a hint,” I said, obliging him.

  “Please do.” Jo offered a dazzling smile. If only she would flash that smile at Tyson and mean it.

  Edison peeked over his shoulder and back at us. The coast was clear. He beckoned us to draw near. “David held a longtime grudge because his wife’s brother lost a real estate deal to Bryan.”

  I said, “Kent implied it was a friend of David’s.”

  “A brother-in-law could qualify as a friend,” Jo said.

  Edison nodded in agreement. “The property, a home in San Francisco, had been in the family for generations. The brother-in-law had some financial trouble. David and his wife were trying to scrape up enough money to buy him out, but Bryan put in a preemptive bid to stave off other investors and snatched it up. He then fixed it up and sold it six months later for a million-dollar profit.”

  I gasped. “David said
Bryan went for the jugular.”

  Edison nodded. “He could be ruthless.”

  How angry David Ives must have been with Bryan. Mad enough to kill? I wondered.

  “Edison,” I said, “do you know what happened to David’s wife?”

  “She fell down the stairs and broke her neck.”

  Jo cut a look at me and then turned back to Edison. “Was it an accident, or did someone push her?”

  “Come to think of it, there were rumors, but I don’t know.” Edison scratched his chin. “I should go find my daughter.”

  “I’ll go with you, sir,” Jo said quickly. She winked as she moved past me, which could only mean that she hoped to glean more information.

  I headed into the restaurant. Seconds later, Stefan darted up to me. He stopped me near the bar. “Boss!”

  “What’s wrong?” My insides did a nervous jig.

  “Chef C requires fresh thyme. ASAP!”

  I offered a wry grin. Did the chef think that I was her employee?

  “Please,” Stefan begged. “We need all hands on deck. The place is booming. Heather wants to open up the patio. We have twice as many customers as usual.”

  I scanned the bistro. Among the throng, I caught sight of Lyle sitting alone at a table for two. He was reading a newspaper. He appeared tired, his shirt rumpled and his hair mussed. Had he slept in his clothes and rolled out of bed for a meal? Where was Angelica?

  “Uh, thyme?” Stefan threw his arms wide.

  I glanced at my watch, which made him snicker. “Oh, you meant thyme.” My cheeks warmed. I had to force myself to focus. “Sure. I’ll get some.” I could use a walk.

  “Be quick about it, missy,” he chimed.

  “Don’t let Chef C hear you mocking her,” I warned. The phrase he’d uttered was one of her favorites.

  “Never. What do you think I am, suicidal?” He strolled away, chuckling to himself.

  I scrounged up a pair of cutting shears and headed to the garden, thinking about what Edison had revealed. He said Bryan was ruthless in business. Why did that not sync with the Bryan I knew? Sure, he’d wisecracked once that he loved making real estate deals because he had grown up playing Monopoly, but he was a humanitarian. He gave freely of his time and wealth. He was my mentor for no other reason than he had wanted to help a young woman find success. No, I couldn’t believe it. Bryan was not the man his brother or David Ives made him out to be.