A Deadly Éclair

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  Was I too naïve for words?

  When I arrived at the garden, I spotted Paula sitting on a nearby bench with her father. The scene seemed surreal, like a painting by Seurat. Birds fluttered and tweeted merrily in the nearby sycamore. Butterflies flitted happily from lavender to lantana to white spirea. Paula and her father appeared to be deep in conversation. She, dressed in a long-sleeved, ankle-length floral dress, was twisting a lock of limp hair around her finger. David, clad in a beige golf shirt, linen jacket, and pressed chinos, didn’t look nearly as severe as he had at the out-of-towners’ dinner.

  I greeted them as I drew near.

  “Hello, Mimi.” Paula released her hair and smoothed her dress. “Pretty day.”

  “It is.” The sun was so bright, I had to shade my eyes. “Did Sergeant Daly catch up with you?” I asked.

  “In the library.” Paula tittered. “With the candlestick.”

  David frowned. “Honestly, Paula. This is no joking matter.”

  “I know, Daddy, but when I said ‘in the library,’ the game Clue came to mind, and—”

  “I got the reference,” he snapped.

  Paula flushed and wove her fingers together in her lap. “The sheriff is asking everyone for alibis,” she said to me.

  “I know,” I said. “He asked for mine.”

  “Which was?”

  “I was awake, pacing on my patio and working through the day’s plans.”

  Paula addressed her father. “What was yours, Daddy?”

  David stiffened. “I don’t think that’s appropriate for us to discuss in front of a stranger.”

  “Mimi isn’t a stranger.” Paula clicked her tongue. “C’mon, tell us where you were between four and six AM, unless you have something to hide.”

  I regarded Paula, who in one moment was a chastised girl and the very next moment a sassy, confrontational woman. If I wasn’t careful, I would get whiplash trying to figure her out.

  “Fine.” David drummed his fingertips on his leg. “I was on a long-distance call. To Israel.”

  There was a ten-hour time difference between California and Israel, so talking to someone around four AM would have made it two PM. That sounded reasonable.

  “You talked for two hours?” Paula challenged.

  David’s cheek started to twitch, which made me wonder if he was lying. Why take the risk? He must know the sheriff and his team could check his telephone records. “We were discussing a shipment of gems. We have been having problems, as you know, obtaining quality diamonds. Nachum”—he eyed me—“Nachum Abrams is my contact.” He turned back to his daughter. “Nachum has been working tirelessly with our suppliers.”

  “Actually, I didn’t know that, Daddy.”

  “If not, then you’ve been lax.” David crossed his legs and slung an arm over the back of the bench. “Since we’re being open, dear daughter, what is your alibi? You did have quite a heated discussion with Mr. Baker that evening.”

  Paula glanced at me.

  “What’s good for the goose,” David said. “She’s not a stranger. You said so yourself.”

  Paula pursed her lips and stared daggers at her father—not an appealing look for her. “If you really want to know . . .”

  “Oh, I do.” David smiled smugly.

  Gee, was I glad I hadn’t been raised in their family. Did Angelica know the kind of acidic temperaments these two had? Was Lyle similarly predisposed?

  Paula said, “I wanted to talk to Bryan about becoming his latest protégé.”

  “His protégé?” her father echoed.

  “Like Mimi and the others.” She met my gaze. “Mimi, I can’t believe what you’ve done with this place. I saw the remodeling album you keep at the inn. Wow.”

  I had chronicled every step of the renovation with photographs. I thought our clientele might like to see what it had taken to create a thing of beauty.

  “I need a change, Daddy,” Paula went on.

  David gawked. “Are you saying you want out of the family business?”

  “I’m tired of coddling spoiled rich people who are never happy with anything I offer, no matter how much I bend over backward to please them.” Paula seemed to be working hard not to allow a whine to enter her voice. “I want a new career.”

  “What do you think you’re equipped to do?”

  “Lots of things.”

  “Like what?” He crossed his arms, hardly a picture of fatherly warmth. “Certainly not open a restaurant, I imagine. You burn water.”

  “I’m very capable, Daddy, and I’m intelligent. Lest you forget, I graduated Mills College with honors.”

  “Go on.” He wiggled a hand without unfolding his arms.

  “My dream is in the beginning stages, so I’m not going to reveal everything, but when I laid it out for Bryan, he passed, in no uncertain terms. I was mortified by how stern he was with me. I thought maybe my timing was off, so I pleaded, but he refused.”

  So much for me thinking she was making a play for him. Her hasty exit had simply been a matter of being cowed. Why had Bryan turned her down? Because she hadn’t fleshed out her proposal? Because he thought she was too old to start something new?

  “Paula,” I said, “you called Bryan later that night.”

  “How—” Her mouth fell open. “Did the sheriff tell you that?”

  “He was inspecting my phone,” I said, not offering more information about it being found in the planter of herbs, “and I asked to see Bryan’s cell phone to corroborate something.”

  Paula blanched. “Are you a suspect?”

  “As it turns out, I am, for a reason that I’ll keep to myself.”

  “Oh-ho,” David said. “That reminds me of a quote: ‘In nature’s infinite book of secrecy, a little I can read.’”

  “Daddy loves spouting Shakespeare,” Paula said. “That’s from Antony and Cleopatra.”

  I flashed on what Jo had told me about actors being good at putting on innocent faces, and I wondered if two expert thespians were wearing them now.

  “Mimi, did you and Bryan have an affair?” David asked.

  “What? No!”

  “Did he renege on your arrangement?”

  “No, sir. Bryan and I were on great terms in all respects.”

  David assessed me. “What else was on your cell phone, then?”

  I ignored him and said, “Paula, in the text message to Bryan, you asked him to meet you.”

  She reddened.

  “Why?” her father demanded.

  “I wanted to apologize for accosting him—” She flailed a hand. “No, that’s the wrong word. I did not accost him. I approached him at a bad time. ‘Business,’ he told me, ‘should always be conducted in the office and not at social events.’ I . . .” She fidgeted. “I wanted to see if he would give me another chance to pitch my idea—say, a year from now. But he never responded. I was so frustrated that I couldn’t sleep, so I went to the library at the inn and drifted off in a chair. I woke to the sound of a siren.”

  “Has anyone mentioned having seen you in the library?” I asked.

  “Not to me, but I’m not lying.”

  Interesting choice of words, I mused. Why didn’t she say she was telling the truth?

  I glanced at David again. He was gazing at his daughter as if she were a flawed gemstone. Didn’t he believe her?

  “Mr. Ives,” I said.

  “Call me David.”

  “Sir, I heard a rumor about you and Bryan.”

  “‘Rumor is like a flute,’” he intoned. “‘Guesswork, suspicion, and speculation are the breath that makes it sound, and it’s so easy to play that even the common masses—that dim monster with innumerable heads, forever clamoring and wavering—can play it.’” David flourished his hand. “These are the words of the Bard, as well.”

  “Henry IV, part two,” Paula said, proving she was, indeed, capable of more than selling jewelry. Maybe she wanted to open an acting studio or theater. She addressed me. “What was the rumor?�
�

  “For heaven’s sake, Paula!” David rasped.

  “Let’s dispel it if it isn’t true, Daddy.”

  He grumbled and glowered at me. “Go on. Tell me what lie someone is spreading.”

  “That you and Bryan had a falling out over a real estate deal.”

  “We did.”

  “Over a property he preemptively bought that belonged to your wife’s brother.”

  David worked his tongue along his teeth and finished with a click. “It’s true. He didn’t give us time to gather the cash. He leaped in and seized it with no concern about anything or anyone, only his bottom line. It devastated my brother-in-law.”

  “That doesn’t sound like the Bryan I knew,” I said.

  “It’s the truth.” David bolted to his feet and held out a hand to his daughter. “Paula, let’s go.”

  She remained sitting. “Bryan didn’t ruin my uncle, Mimi.”

  “Paula, this is not your affair,” David warned.

  “She might as well know the whole story, Daddy. You keep dwelling on it because you weren’t clever enough to get the job done and Bryan was, but Bryan is dead.” Paula said to me, “What have you heard?”

  I told her what Edison had conveyed about the property.

  “That’s half true.” Paula bobbed her head. “Yes, Bryan made a million-dollar profit, but he didn’t keep the money. He put it in a trust for my uncle’s children. He didn’t want them to lose what should have been their inheritance. He believed my uncle would have lost the property and every ounce of value in it if he had retained the title. That embarrassed my uncle, of course, which made my mother furious. Daddy took her side.”

  “Why would Bryan help your uncle’s kids?” I asked.

  “We used to have a second home here. Our families and Bryan traveled in the same social circles. After Mama died, Daddy sold the place. We spend our time solely in San Francisco now.” She smiled at her father. “There, Daddy. She knows the truth. Let it go.”

  Paula rose and marched away. David hurried after her.

  As they disappeared, I wondered again how I could corroborate David Ives’s alibi. Even though Bryan had acted gallantly in the matter of David’s brother-in-law, the brazen way he’d done it had ruffled feathers, and David clearly still held a grudge.

  Had that made him angry enough to kill?

  Chapter 8

  Eager to prove one of the Ives family members guilty but knowing I had a job to finish first, I returned to the kitchen with cuttings of thyme and handed them to Stefan.

  “Beautiful. Magnificent. You are a peach!” He quickly moved to the utility sink to rinse off the herbs and then hurried to his station and stripped the leaves and flowers from the stems.

  Chef C, who was standing at the stove, said over her shoulder, “About time.”

  Stefan snorted, and I smiled. So did Chef C. She winked at me, amused at her pun. I moseyed closer and noticed the perspiration moistening her face. She was working hard, and the kitchen was hot. I peeked over her shoulder. In a sauté pan, onions sizzled in butter. There was no better aroma in the world, in my humble opinion. My salivary glands went on high alert. When had I last eaten?

  “What are you making?” I asked. Thyme leaves and flowers were best suited with mild meats such as pork, veal, chicken, or turkey and worked well in dishes that did not require long cooking times.

  “Your tantalizing recipe for Gruyère and mushroom quiche.”

  “Mmm.” I adored that particular pie. I remembered the first time I’d attempted to make the crust. All the dough stuck to the rolling pin, and I nearly shredded my knuckles when I grated the cheese, but the end result had been divine. Now more adept at piecrusts and grating, it took me minutes to throw one together, and it always satisfied my appetite. “Save me a piece?”

  “If you beg.”

  “Pretty please.”

  Chef C eyed the floor and then me, as if she expected me to kneel. I considered doing so but decided against it. I didn’t want her to think she could manage me.

  I added sweetly, “With a cherry on top. That’s my best offer.”

  She muttered, “Sassy girl,” and then let out a hearty whoop and waved a spatula, signaling that I was free to go. The queen of the kitchen. That was what she was. But I was queen of the establishment, and she knew it.

  For the next few minutes, I roamed the main dining room, checking in on our guests. There were no complaints, as far as I could tell. Some of my regulars offered rapturous praise.

  Heather caught up to me and whispered, “Mimi, bad news. We’re overbooked tonight.”

  “That is music to my ears! Don’t worry. There are always cancelations.”

  “I don’t think so. Not this time. Lots more guests are hanging around, waiting for our second seating.” She indicated the crowd outside.

  “Wow,” I murmured.

  “They want gossip.”

  “You’re not giving them any.”

  “Of course not. I would never.” She pushed a curly lock of hair over her shoulder with a defiant huff. “But our guests are. Many seem to have the inside scoop.” She let out a little snort.

  “What have you heard?” As I was checking on the diners, I hadn’t picked up any ominous chatter, but I did recall that a number of conversations had grown softer as I’d approached.

  “Some say you’re on the suspect list,” Heather said. “Care to enlighten me as to why?”

  “Consult with your aliens. I’m sure they know the answer.”

  “Mimi!” She threw me a disdainful look.

  “Sorry. I don’t mean to make fun. Promise.” I crossed my heart and then sighed. “Yes, I am a suspect because last week, Bryan drew up a document that said in the event of his death, his estate was to forgive my entire debt to him.”

  “Golly.”

  “Golly is right.” I swallowed hard. “He didn’t absolve any of his other protégés, as far as I know.” Although I wasn’t completely sure about that. Tyson hadn’t found letters to that effect, but that didn’t mean Bryan hadn’t written them. “So I wasn’t kidding earlier when I said I need help.”

  “I know a good defense attorney.”

  “So do I.”

  “Kaya Hill!” we blurted at the same time, and then I shouted, “Synchronicity!” the word Jo and I had chimed when we were young because of how often we were in sync.

  “She’s won a lot of cases,” Heather went on. “She handled that mess up north in Calistoga.”

  I knew the circumstance she was talking about. A vintner had murdered his foreman when he discovered the man had been skimming for years. The vintner used a magnum of champagne to strike him dead. Miraculously, Kaya had gotten him a reduced sentence.

  “I’ll call her tomorrow,” I promised. “In the meantime, if you do communicate with your otherworldly pals, would you ask them if they know anything about Bryan having a will?”

  “Honestly, will you cut me some slack?”

  “Honestly, I need to find out!” I squeezed her arm. “If there is a will, I think it might be the only thing that could save me. If someone other than me benefits from Bryan’s death, that would be a pretty good motive.”

  “Money,” Heather grumbled. “Why does everyone think it’s so important?”

  “Because it makes the world go ’round.”

  “But it doesn’t buy happiness.”

  How true.

  Speaking of happiness, or rather a lack of it, through the window I saw Edison Barrington hopping into a black Jaguar in the parking lot. He seemed steaming mad. Seconds later, he peeled rubber and tore off. I wondered what was up. Had he met with Angelica? Had she said something to upset him? Had she accused him of killing his half brother? Would he, as Bryan’s sole living relative, inherit everything? If he did, maybe he killed Bryan so he could pay off his own reckless debt—if he had any. That was purely supposition on my part. Angelica hadn’t said as much. Not all gamblers went bankrupt; some made a decent living. But the other
night, she hadn’t been pleased when she’d confronted her father about his habit.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I spied Angelica, clad in a smart black sheath with a clutch purse and matching heels, waving to her vanishing father from the path leading to the inn. She seemed despondent.

  “I’ll be right back,” I said to Heather and dashed outside.

  Angelica disappeared into the inn. I caught up to her as she was inserting a key into the door to her room. Steady streams of air conditioning wafted over us.

  “Angelica!”

  She whirled around and gasped. Hair caught on her lipstick. “Oh, it’s you.” She pried her hair free and then dropped her arm to her side and released the handle of the door, the antique key balled in her fist. Light from the wall sconces cast a warm glow on her face and made her aquamarine necklace sparkle. She smelled faintly of Chanel No. 5 perfume, one of my favorite scents. I rarely wore perfume, too afraid it would affect my senses in the kitchen.

  “I apologize,” I said. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  “You didn’t. Well, sort of.” She tittered. “Fans come out of nowhere sometimes. You wouldn’t believe the things they do. Request autographs. Coerce me to take selfies with them. Praise me ad nauseam. Insult me beyond words.”

  Here in idyllic wine country, I had forgotten that she was a prominent figure on television.

  “What’s up?” she asked.

  “I saw your father leaving.”

  Her eyes were red-rimmed as if she had spent the time with Edison crying her eyes out. “We met for coffee, and then we went back to my room to chat a little more, and he got upset.”

  “I noticed.”

  “He’s”—she twirled a hand—“bereft.”

  “I can imagine. You must be, as well.”

  “Poor Uncle Bryan. I can’t believe it.” She blinked back tears. Using her pinky, she swiped at one that slipped down her cheek. “Is that all you wanted to say?”

  “Um, I hoped we might chat.”

  “About?”

  “The wedding.”