A Deadly Éclair

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  “You want me to snoop?”

  “Be attentive. Offer them something to drink. Try to make at least one of them smile. Consider it a challenge.”

  In a quasi-British accent, Heather said, “Detective Holmes, at your service. Get it? My last name is Holmes. Too bad my first name isn’t Sherlock.”

  “Go.” I shooed her.

  She flicked her curls over her shoulders and sashayed away.

  As I watched her leave, I wondered about her husband’s vibes. What was he picking up, if indeed he existed at all? Had one of Bryan’s business associates or protégés bumped Bryan off? Was Tyson working that angle? What about people other than David Ives who might have felt that Bryan had pulled a fast one on them? Maybe the killer had known about Bryan’s art treasures and murdered him to get hold of a key to Bryan’s home or office. I had suggested to Tyson that he get a tally of the art he owned from Bryan’s assistant. Had he done so yet? If only I had remembered to ask him while we were at the ranch.

  Tiring of tea and thirsty for sparkling water, I headed toward the bar. I paused halfway there and revised my thinking. Bryan’s death couldn’t have been a theft. The killer had used my cell phone to contact him. Granted, everyone on my staff had access to it, but I trusted each of them implicitly. So who else might have had the chance to swipe it? None of Bryan’s associates would have known about it; therefore, someone at the out-of-towners’ dinner would be my best guess. Why lure Bryan to the patio? Because it was a neutral, accessible location from which it would be easy to flee. It dawned on me that Bryan would have suspected something was up if he had seen a car in the parking lot that wasn’t mine, so whoever murdered him had to have either parked out of sight or arrived on foot, the latter suggesting that the killer was staying at the inn or was a local.

  Location, location, location, I heard Bryan chanting from beyond the grave. It was a real estate motto, one he had uttered when he had bargained for the restaurant and inn. He said being on the main highway between two of the hottest towns in Napa Valley would give us more free advertising than we could possibly imagine. He had been right. Had being in a good location backfired on Bryan? Had it helped the killer manage a quick escape?

  An icy sensation zipped through me as I gazed around the bistro. Was the killer present? Did he or she know I was trying to figure out his or her identity? Whoever it was must believe I was doing all I could to exonerate myself.

  The abrasive noise of a chair scraping the floor startled me. Lyle was on his feet. He hurled his napkin on the table and stormed out of the restaurant. What was up with that? Kent was glowering at him. Francine was giving Kent the evil eye. Maybe Kent had learned about the bridge loans and demanded a reason for them. I could imagine the conversation:

  Lyle: I’m the boss; how dare you question me?

  Kent: I’m your partner; I have a bloody right to know.

  Lyle: No, you bloody don’t.

  Like I said, Hollywood would never come calling for my screenwriting skills.

  The door to the bistro opened, and I caught sight of Nash Hawke entering. Dressed in a black shirt and jeans, he looked enticing and mysterious, all at the same time. My breath snagged in my chest, and I instantly forgot about the turmoil between Lyle and Kent.

  I reached up to make sure no stray hairs were sticking to my cheeks and then blew into my hand to make sure my breath was still fresh from my most recent raid on the Altoids mints I kept in the office. Assured it was, I offered a discreet wave.

  Nash grinned and held a hand out to someone entering behind him. A redhead took hold and glided in. She was stunning with a capital S, wrapped in a Diane von Furstenberg purple-toned animal-print dress that hugged every curve. It ended six inches above her knees, revealing legs a pin-up girl would covet. Nash walked with her toward me.

  “Hi, Mimi,” Nash said.

  The woman extended a long-fingered hand with a perfect manicure. “Mimi, bonsoir. It’s so good to meet you.”

  Well, rats. Her voice sounded like honey and butter all melted together. Circe, the goddess of magic, couldn’t have sounded sexier.

  “Mimi, this is my ex-wife, Willow.”

  “Willow Hawke.” She petted Nash’s arm while emphasizing the last name. “And, ahem, darling, we aren’t quite exes yet.”

  “We’re meeting our attorney for dinner,” Nash explained. He seemed pretty casual about a fairly serious meeting. Even his jaw appeared relaxed.

  “I simply had to dine at the hottest place in Nouvelle Vie,” Willow cooed. “What a find.” She released Nash’s hand and turned in a circle, taking in the restaurant. “So quaint. So lovely. You have an exquisite eye, Mimi.”

  “I had help,” I said.

  “Don’t be modest. As the owner, you could have put the kibosh on anything. It’s lovely.”

  Nash said, “Willow is an artist.”

  “Was an artist, darling.” Willow wrinkled her pretty nose. “I’m a hack, but I have an eye for the real thing. There I was, a freshman at UC Davis—where Nash and I met—and I believed I was going to light up the art world, but then I got a dose of reality when I saw my fellow students’ works. They were brilliant; I was so-so. But I do have an eye.”

  For some reason, I would bet she was a pretty good artist and was simply being modest, although her dress certainly wasn’t modest. Neither were her bold glances at Nash. I wasn’t missing the signs. She was totally in love with him.

  “Willow owns an art store in Yountville,” Nash said. “You’ve probably seen it.”

  “Fruit of the Vine Artworks,” Willow offered. “We have some blown-glass vases that would be ideal for your restaurant.” She gently touched Nash’s arm. “You know the ones I mean. They would be so colorful and fun, don’t you think?”

  We had perfectly fine cut-crystal vases with white roses in them. Bryan had thought they were classy.

  “They’d be nice,” Nash said, “but the ones she has are great, too. Like prisms, they reflect the light from the chandeliers.”

  I grinned. How very diplomatic. And how astute.

  “Of course.” Willow flitted a hand. “Well, we have many other things. Wind chimes, pottery, one-of-a-kind mirrors. I love all the mirrors you have hanging about. You must visit.” She spun again to take in the restaurant. “This is simply delicious.”

  Snarkily, I wondered whether she was truly interested in the view or whether she wanted to show off her exquisite derriere. Bad Mimi.

  I said to Nash, “May I show you to a table?”

  “That would be great. I made a reservation for three. Our attorney is almost here. He hit traffic.”

  As I led the way to a table set for four, I leaned into Nash and whispered, “I didn’t know you were married.” I needn’t have worried about speaking softly. Willow had hung back to appraise the etched-glass front door.

  “We’ve been separated for nearly a year,” Nash replied. “I was waiting for the divorce to become final before I asked you out.”

  “Asked me—”

  “On a date. You know, where two people get to know one another better.”

  “Oh,” I croaked and hated that I was revealing myself to him. I liked him. I didn’t want him to know how much. If I could help it, I didn’t want to be that vulnerable again in my lifetime. “Well, let me know when it’s final.” I gestured to the table. “Here we are.”

  Willow caught up. “How charming. Mimi, the exterior lighting along the paths is très dramatic.” She brushed Nash’s arm with her fingertips. “Darling, did you arrange this? A table right by the window? How romantic.”

  She sure was the touchy-feely type, I noted. Nash didn’t seem to mind, or perhaps he was merely tolerating it. Maybe he didn’t want to make a scene.

  “Mimi, please bring us a taste of everything you love to eat,” Willow said as she sat and placed a napkin on her lap.

  “That might be a feast for twenty,” I joked.

  “Okay, then, whatever you think we’ll like.” Of course her
laughter sounded as melodious as the burble of a gentle brook. Was there anything wrong with her? Why were they divorcing? “Nash, I forgot my shawl in the Mercedes, and it’s a little chilly in here. Would you mind?” She flicked a finger at him. Like a dutiful puppy, he headed for the exit. When he was out of earshot, Willow said, “Between us girls, tonight I’m hoping to convince him that we should get back together.”

  I knew it.

  “I miss him,” she went on. “What better place to snare him than your lovely bistro? My attorney is in on the ruse.”

  I sighed. Nash would fold. I had no doubt. His almost ex-wife was quite an enchantress. Guess that date he’d promised was already in the mist.

  Tucking my feelings safely away, I crossed to Oakley, a bubbly, carrot-topped waitress, and asked her to bring a bottle of Nouvelle Vie Chardonnay to Nash’s table with three glasses—compliments of the house—and I retreated to the kitchen.

  The savory aroma of roasted chicken wafted to me, and I breathed easier. There were few things that could soothe the soul better than the smell of good food. I moseyed to where Chef C was supervising the preparation of soup. We served two selections nightly: always French onion soup, regular or gluten-free—many diners were requesting that option nowadays—plus a specialty soup. Tonight’s was split pea loaded with chunks of artisanal ham that the chef made using pork sirloin tips, which she had placed in a brine of fresh herbs, garlic, and onions for two weeks. Then she slow-cooked them by smoking them over applewood chips for twelve hours. Talk about heaven! That was what I was having for dinner when we closed.

  “Promise to save me a bowlful,” I said.

  “Have some now,” she replied.

  “I can’t. No time.”

  “You’re not taking care of yourself.”

  “Don’t mother me.”

  “If I don’t, who will?”

  “My mother.”

  Chef C grinned. “Two mothers might be better than one, missy.”

  “Not in my world.” I grinned. I put in an order for an array of her best selections for Nash and Willow, which in the future I would add to the menu and call a tasting platter, and headed toward the dining room.

  At the same time, Heather pushed through the swinging kitchen door and scuttled toward me. “I heard something between, you know . . .” Her eyes sparkled with intrigue. She clutched my elbow and dragged me to the rear of the kitchen by the dishwashers. “I brought David and Paula drinks, like you suggested . . .” She mimed the action. “Prosecco, on the house.”

  “Go on.”

  “David was talking about Angelica. He said he didn’t trust her.”

  “Did he say why? Did Paula defend her?”

  “Are you kidding? She hates her.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Neither did I, but the way they were talking—as if I was as deaf as a lamppost—they couldn’t say enough bad things about her. They don’t want her to marry Lyle, claiming things like she’s too cocky and flamboyant and why does Lyle want to be chained to a celebrity, anyway? Paparazzi stalk celebrities, according to Paula. David suggested this whole affair should be called off. Paula said it’s got bad mojo.”

  To be fair, a murder on the morning of your wedding did scream bad mojo.

  “Did you hear more?” I asked.

  “Paula said Angelica is using Lyle to get his money.”

  “But she isn’t,” I said. “She’s got her own money. Not to mention Bryan was investigating Lyle because he’s in the hole. He has business bridge loans up the wazoo.”

  “Mimi!” Stefan hurried toward me. “You have a gentleman caller at the door.” He hitched his chin toward the swinging door leading to the dining room.

  Nash was standing there. A halo of light backlit him and added to his gorgeous allure. My knees wobbled.

  “Don’t blow this,” Stefan whispered. “He’s a hunk.”

  I nudged him fondly. “Get out of here.”

  “You’re getting up there in years.” He aimed his index finger at the ceiling. “Just saying.”

  “And you are pushing your luck at being employed by the end of today.”

  Stefan chortled. So did Heather. I squeezed her elbow. “To be continued,” I whispered and hustled to Nash. “Is something wrong? I’ve ordered your meal. It might take a few minutes. We’re slammed.”

  “Everything’s fine. Okay if I come in?”

  “Um, sure.”

  He edged through the opening and sidled to his left. He reached for my hand. “I want to ask you on that date now.”

  “The divorce is final? So quickly?”

  “Not yet. But I’m not waiting any longer to ask you out.”

  Apparently Willow’s charms weren’t as captivating as I had imagined, or the lawyer, who was in on the ruse, had arrived and doused her plans.

  “Will you go to the jazz festival with me?” Nash asked.

  I couldn’t imagine a better first date. “Yes.”

  “When’s your day off?”

  I grinned. “I’m the boss. I can take any day. But we’re closed Tuesday.”

  Though restaurants were typically dark on Mondays, because Napa was a tourist destination and tourists often stayed in the area through Monday, we decided that Tuesday would be a good day to close. You could get lots of errands done on a midweek day when there was less traffic. Most Fridays, I took over the lunch shift in the kitchen, and the assistant sous chef who reported to Stefan served as my sous chef so that Chef C and Stefan could rest up for the busy weekend crowd. Last Friday had been an exception because of the out-of-towners’ dinner.

  “Great. See you Tuesday.” Nash kissed me on the cheek and quickly returned to the dining room.

  A warm glow ran from my head to my toes. Is Willow going to be a problem? I wondered. I sure hoped not because, throwing caution to the wind, I had to admit that I really liked Nash. A lot. I didn’t know him very well, but what I did know, I enjoyed.

  The swinging door flew open again, and Jo scurried in. Her short-cropped hair stuck out like a porcupine’s quills, and her blue blazer was unbuttoned and flapping. She was smiling triumphantly while waggling her cell phone. “Guess what? Tyson called me.”

  “For a date?”

  “No. Are you nuts? He’s not . . . we’re not . . . how many times do I have to tell you—” She wiggled her cell phone again. “He didn’t want to disturb you because he knew you were in full swing on a Sunday night, so he called me with the news. Bryan’s attorney returned from his cruise, and get this: Angelica Barrington is Bryan’s sole heir.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “As in, her father is cut out. My dear friend, you are definitely off the suspect list!”

  I shook my head. “Being his heir doesn’t mean she’s guilty. She has plenty of money.”

  “True. But she can always use more, especially if Lyle’s business is under water. And let’s face it, her alibi is iffy. Out running in the dark?” Jo rolled her eyes.

  “I’ll bet she didn’t have a clue she was his heir.”

  “I’ll bet she did.”

  Chapter 11

  In my cottage later that night, unable to sleep, I flicked on the wireless speaker that I kept at the ready in my kitchen, opened iTunes on my iPhone, selected the album The Phantom of the Opera, hit Shuffle so all the songs would play in a random sequence, and let the music fill my soul.

  Back when I was a teen, my father turned me on to musicals. He wasn’t a pianist by trade—he did the bookkeeping for the winery—but he did play occasionally at a variety of restaurants in the valley as well as at the music festivals. He believed, like Shakespeare, that music was the food of love. I felt the same. When I lived in San Francisco, every few months I would attend a show in the theater district, which was situated between the Union Square shopping area and the Tenderloin neighborhood. After Derrick died, when my purse strings were temporarily tied in a knot, I squelched the luxury of going to a musical, but that didn’t mean I couldn’
t rock out on my own time.

  As I sang, my stomach growled, and I realized I had missed the bowl of pea soup Chef C had promised me. To keep suspects’ faces from flickering through my mind like a film, I decided to create one of my favorite meals. I moved around my kitchen, singing at the top of my lungs while setting items on the granite counter.

  My goldfish, Cagney and Lacey, which I’d named accordingly because I not only liked reading mysteries but also liked watching classics on television, eyed me with fascination, their snouts pressed to the glass, tails fanning to and fro. What was their crazy human doing? Sure, they had seen me cook in the cottage before. Often. But not with such frenzy. And not while belting out “The Point of No Return.”

  I fetched an English muffin from the refrigerator and split it in two using a fork, making sure the little holes remained intact. Then I pulled out eggs, butter, chives, and Tabasco. Hollandaise sauce should be made with care. Tonight I was going to make my mother’s speedy yet consistently good version.

  First, the sauce. I added the ingredients to the blender and let it whirl. I melted butter and drizzled it into the blender. Perfect. I put the blender into a pot filled with hot water and set it aside.

  Next came the difficult part—the poached eggs. I had no trouble making them, but poaching eggs was not easy. Way back when, it took me many tries to master the task. A tablespoon of vinegar in the simmering water was key.

  After broiling the English muffins and browning the Canadian bacon, I assembled my masterpiece on a Limoges France–pattern dinner plate. I sprinkled chopped chives and cracked red peppercorns for color on top—I happened to own four peppermills, each holding a different color of peppercorns: white, green, rose, and red. A sprig of parsley completed the presentation.

  As the track for “The Music of the Night” started up, I set the dish on the antique oak kitchen table, flapped open my linen napkin—I always treated myself to a pretty table—and dug in. Heaven.