Crème Brûlée To Slay

by CeeCee James

  I told him about the Gainesville golf board, along with the gossip page I’d read earlier. And then I added, “It makes sense about the pin, because Gayle has a bunch of antique jewelry in her store.”

  “Mmm, this is good. But it’s still conjecture. Don’t you worry though, we’re closing in on the murderer. Now get some sleep.”

  “Me? You get some sleep. And quit waking me.”

  He snorted a response, not taking me seriously. That’s how you know someone really gets you.

  I smiled and tried my best not to sound sappy. “Seriously, BigFoot, sleep well.”

  “You got it, Short Stuff.”

  I hung up the phone, knowing I looked like a sentimental idiot. But darn, that guy could be so cute. I had to laugh as I made my way back to the bed. We probably weren’t the only couple in the world who teased each other in a show of affection.

  I had to admit, I loved it.

  The next day, while I was cleaning up from lunch at the B&B, Frank sent a text. —Tracking down the tire tracks in the picture. Might be throwing a wrench in your theory.

  Wrench? What wrench? —Don’t ruin my plan. What is it?

  —Looks like the tracks come from a Mercedes-Benz. Just checked and Gayle drives a Range Rover.

  My eyes popped open. I could feel my theory crumbling even as I tried to hang onto it.

  I texted back—So? It could have been someone else? Maybe a hunter.

  —Still investigating.

  It’s no big deal, I told myself, while gathering up the dishes. But in my heart, I just knew something was wrong. As perfect as this all was, something wasn’t adding up.

  There was just something I wasn’t seeing.

  I chucked the dish towel onto the counter. I wasn’t going to give up. I just had to get more information on their affair. Someone out there had to have seen something. But who would give me the scoop?

  “What’s up, GiGi? Why the long face?” Cecelia said. I hadn’t heard her enter the kitchen.

  I blew out a big breath. “I have this feeling Miquel is having an affair with Gayle. I found some confirmation on a couple internet pages. Have you ever been to the Gainesville golf club?”

  “Of course. I was a member there at one time.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, but I let the membership go when my husband died. It was really for him after all. Quite the catty place. The Miquel’s are members there. And of course the Marshall’s.” She thought for a moment. “And Veronica Vanderton as well, now that I think of it.”

  I nodded. “Speaking of catty, any guesses on who would have left a catty remark on the forum about a married man having an affair?”

  “Oh, those are anonymous, right?”

  “They can be. People make up names for themselves.”

  She pursed her lips, thinking. “Then it could have been anyone. People like to spill scandals around here.”

  “What do you think? Was Steve Miquel capable of an affair? How was their marriage?”

  “I definitely think he’s capable of it.” Cecelia frowned as she got a mug down from the cupboard. She filled it with coffee and continued. “The thing is, Denise and Gayle go way back. They were best friends before either of them married. They went to college and did many competitive tournaments together. I have a hard time seeing Gayle betray her friend like that.”

  I groaned. Another coffin nail to my theory besides the tire prints. “But it could happen, right? People do scummy things like betray friends.”

  She nodded and blew on her coffee. “That’s true. However, those types of things are rare in a friendship like that. I’d more likely believe that Denise would off her husband and go live with Gayle, then Gayle cheat with Steve Miquel.”

  I bit the inside of my cheek in frustration. “Is there anything else you might have forgotten at the Miguel house?”

  She narrowed her eyes at me. “What are you thinking, GiGi?”

  I shrugged and tried to look innocent. “Nothing much. I just thought maybe I could have a conversation with their housekeeper. We kind of hit it off the last time.”

  She sighed and shook her head. “Girl, you’ve always kept me and your grandma hopping. Always a handful, you were.”

  I glanced around the kitchen. “I mean, you might have left a potholder, right?”

  She snorted. “As a matter of fact, I do think I left a crystal carafe there. Either that, or maybe Adele snagged it. Why don’t you go track that down?”

  Yes! “You’ve got it.” I jumped up and headed for the hall.

  “Oh? Leaving right now?” she asked with a smirk.

  I skidded to a stop. “Do you need me? I’m sorry. I didn’t ask.”

  She laughed and shooed me with her hand. “Get out of here.”

  I jumped into the van and chucked the phone into the cup holder before buckling my seatbelt. Just before I shifted into drive, the phone dinged with an incoming message from Frank. —Miquel’s alibi turned out to be good. He was at the golf course. But the rifle is turning out to be a dead end. Miguel says it’s been stolen.

  Stolen? Cold chills ran up my spine. The sun was shining, the grass was green. I was on my way to learn more about the affair. It should be a great day.

  But instead, I felt like my carefully constructed house of cards was falling apart. Was there going to be an easy answer to any of this?

  Fifteen minutes later, I turned into the Miquel’s driveway and started to pull around to the side. A car had followed after me. I parked and watched it in my rearview mirror.

  My jaw dropped.

  It was a Mercedes-Benz.

  Chapter 22

  I sat frozen, my eyes glued to my rearview mirror.

  The car door opened and a woman wearing heels glided out. Glamour should have been her middle name. She wore dark glasses, and a fitted dress suit, and her blonde hair was teased and sprayed into the type of updo that would rival the ones on the red carpet. She glanced in my direction and seemed to dismiss me, probably taking Old Bella for a delivery van. She strolled into the house, self-possessed and confident.

  I noted that she hadn’t knocked. This must be the mysterious Mrs. Denise Miquel. It sure seemed bizarre that Steve would cheat on her.

  I exhaled a breath that I hadn’t realized I’d been holding and climbed out of the van. Compared to the way Mrs. Miquel moved, I felt like a stray dog as I scurried to the servant’s entrance.

  The housekeeper answered the door. “Georgie! How are you! What brings you here?”

  My mind was spinning after seeing whom I presumed was Mrs. Miquel, especially in that car. Pull it together. “Uh, Cecelia was thinking she may have left her crystal carafe here. I was in the neighborhood, and just thought I’d stop to check.” I inwardly cringed. In the neighborhood? Yeah, like I normally mosey around a million-dollar neighborhood. Seeing that Mercedes-Benz had really thrown me off my game.

  “Oh, well come in. Let’s go check.”

  She led me down the hallway that I was growing so familiar with, and we entered the kitchen. The housekeeper murmured the question and the cook pointed to where she kept her carafes. We walked to the butler’s pantry and examined them. I had no idea what Cecelia’s looked like, but the housekeeper apparently found one that was unfamiliar and plucked it out.

  “Why don’t you ask Cecelia if this is hers?” she said, handing it over to me.

  I grabbed hold of it, thinking it might look familiar after all. After a quick glance at the cook pottering about washing dishes, I decided to be bold.

  “I don’t want to put you in an awkward place but…”—here I lowered my voice while she leaned in closer.

  Eagerness widened her eyes. “Yes?”

  “I heard a rumor,” I whispered darkly. “It involves Mr. Miquel.”

  Her mouth rounded to a silent O. She backed away and nodded sagely. “I’m sure you have.”

  “So, is it true?” I could hardly keep the excitement from trilling through my voice. “Is he having an af
fair?”

  The housekeeper made the same backwards glance toward the cook. Seeing that she was still distracted with the dishes, the housekeeper turned back to me. “Well, it’s not my place to say, but he’s rarely at home. And when he returns, he smells of violets.” Her eyebrow lifted as if I should know what that meant.

  “Does her husband know?” I asked.

  The housekeeper’s brows lowered in question. “Husband?”

  “Ms. Kimber!” A razor-edged voice snapped behind us. I confess, we both jumped and looked guiltily in that direction.

  “Ma’am,” The housekeeper glanced to the floor.

  Mrs. Miquel stood there. Her elegant face wore an expression so sharp it could have cut brie. I felt the blood drain from my face. How long had she been standing there? What had she heard?

  “Can I ask what you are doing?” Mrs. Miquel’s gaze sliced between me and Ms. Kimber.

  “Ma’am. She’s here to pick up a decanter. It was left the night of the dinner.”

  I held up the referred to crystal for Mrs. Miquel’s approval.

  Mrs. Miquel ignored the item. “Well, it seems to be found. Shall we continue with our day, then?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Ms. Kimber left. I could almost feel her relief as she disappeared around the corner.

  Mrs. Miquel watched the housekeeper go, and then flashed me a frosty smile. “All set, then?”

  I swallowed hard. “Y-yes. Just needed this. I guess I’ll be on my way.”

  I smiled and sidled past her. The cook was still washing dishes, seemingly oblivious to the interaction that had happened behind her. My heart pounded as I reached the back door and it was all I could do not to run to my van and make my escape.

  All that was spinning through my mind was, “She heard! She heard!” I wanted to scream.

  I drove to the bed-and-breakfast and presented the carafe to Cecelia. She claimed it with a laugh, saying that it was, indeed, the missing one.

  “And how about you, GiGi?” Cecelia asked. “Did you find anything you were looking for?”

  I nodded woodenly. “But I’m more confused than ever.”

  She studied my face before clucking her tongue. Quickly, she made me a cup of tea and pressed a cookie into my hand. “Take this and go on outside. It’s surprising how restorative the power of the outdoors is to my clear thinking. I bet it will help.”

  I gave her a hug as a thank you, and took my snack outside. The sunshine warmed my face as I sat on the porch steps and leaned against the railing. I stared into the back yard.

  The maple trees had tight leaf buds on all their branches. Cecelia had done a beautiful job with cleaning and pruning the rose garden, and now all that remained was to remove the mulch around the roots in the next few weeks. It was a lovely piece of property, but it sure took a lot of work for its upkeep.

  A flutter caught my attention. There, hopping in front of me was a robin. It tilted its head and watched me with one of its beady black eyes.

  Little red breast, one of my favorite things about spring. A true sign that winter was at its end.

  “Hi, sweet thing. You going to catch a worm?” I whispered at it. Carefully, I broke off a crumb from my cookie and tossed it in the bird’s direction.

  The bird hopped a few feet, still staring at me. It pecked at the cookie crumb, then took to wing and flew away.

  I watched it go, still trying to figure everything out.

  Think, Georgie, think. The Mercedes Benz was being driven by Denise Miquel. Was it the rental Mr. Miquel mentioned in the phone call? She wasn’t at the charity dinner. Ms. Kimber seemed to validate that Mr. Miquel was having an affair. Was it possible that Denise Miquel could have committed murder? But why Veronica? And what was Ms. Kimber going to say when I asked about Gayle’s husband?

  Mrs. Miquel dressed and acted so sophisticated that it was hard to picture her committing murder. But maybe if she had a strong enough motive.

  I took a sip of my tea. Suddenly, I started choking as it went down the wrong pipe. The motive had hit me like a leaden ball.

  How could I have been so dumb?

  Chapter 23

  As soon as I recovered, I ran inside the B&B and grabbed a notepad and pen from the desk in the study.

  “You okay, GiGi?” Cecelia called as I rushed by the kitchen on my way back outside.

  “Yep, just getting things down.”

  I sat on the porch steps and started to make a list of questions.

  Why were tire tracks matching Denise Miquel’s car description on the side of the logging road?

  Why did both Denise Miguel and Gayle Marshall hate Veronica Vanderton?

  3. Where was the rifle now? Has it really been stolen?

  4. Who made the phone calls and shot at me?

  I read my list over and then texted Frank. —Is there any way Denise Miquel’s alibi can be checked on the night of the dinner?

  His response was immediate. —Is there a way? That’s like asking if the sky is blue. I’ll have it in an hour.

  I smiled as I read it. He didn’t even ask me why, like he knew I wouldn’t ask without a good reason. That guy really gets me.

  Still, I thought I’d let him in. —She drives a Mercedes Benz.

  He wrote back. —Close. We’ve already checked that. She actually drives a Bentley.

  I typed back— I saw her exit a Mercedes Benz at her house. I overheard Mr. Miquel’s phone conversation that night yelling at someone. A car rental was mentioned. Maybe it was her rental?

  Lots of dots showed he was typing, but his answer was short and dissatisfying.—That’s quite a discovery.

  I was thinking about something witty to say in response, when he wrote again. —Listen Inspector Gadget, stay out of trouble. We’ve got this.

  I harrumphed and slid the phone away. I didn’t want him mad at me again. Of course I’d take his advice.

  Sort of.

  I drained the last bit of my tea and walked back into the house.

  “Feeling better, GiGi?” Cecelia asked, looking up from where she was mixing something that smelled chocolatey and delicious in a bowl.

  “I think so.” I spotted the cookie jar, and bet Cecelia had just loaded it up. I considered it for a minute. Well, food always did have a way of greasing stubborn doors.

  “Would you be opposed to me taking a plate of cookies? I’d like to bring something to Veronica Vanderton’s sister as a way of showing our condolences.”

  “Of course, dear. I’m always happy to show condolences.” Her voice was sweet but her eyes narrowed as she watched me. Still, she didn’t question my motives. I grabbed a plastic plate from the pantry and loaded it up, before covering it with plastic wrap.

  “You okay with me leaving again?” I asked.

  “We should be fine until dinner time,” she answered, retrieving a bundt pan from a lower cupboard.

  “All right. I’ll see you later.”

  I was gambling that I knew where the sister was staying. I figured she’d be at Veronica’s house. After a quick search, I was on my way.

  I pulled into the colonial home’s driveway—most likely built in the 1770s. She lived in a very old neighborhood, the road bordered by stately maple trees. There was a small compact car in the driveway with plates that marked it as a rental.

  I pulled past the driveway and parked Old Bella out on the street, feeling like the vehicle stood out like a sore thumb. I didn’t even lock it when I got out. Let’s face it, anyone who rifled through the van in search for something to steal would sadly be disappointed. They’d only leave with a candy bar wrapper and a proof of insurance.

  Anxiety was ticking around at the base of my throat. I never considered myself an introvert, more like a non-talking extrovert. I liked being in the world and around people. Just don’t approach me.

  So knocking on a stranger’s door was, once again, going against my core of what felt comfortable. But I was curious and determined, and those forces were an automatic override of anyt
hing else.

  Armed with my plate of cookies, I marched up the sidewalk. I found if I didn’t give myself time to think, things went easier.

  Azalea bushes lined the walkway up to the front porch. I trotted up the stairs and knocked on the door. Feeling slightly shaky, I stood back and waited.

  The door opened, and a woman in her forties stood there. She was dressed nicely, and appeared to come from money, but other than that, she seemed to have little in common with her sister.

  “Hello,” I said. “I’m Georgie Tanner. My friend is one of the officers investigating what happened to Veronica Vanderton. He told me her sister was in town. I just wanted to stop by to offer my condolences.”

  “Oh.” Her expression softened and her gaze dropped down to the plate in my hands.

  “For you,” I said, lifting it up.

  “Oh, well thank you.” She accepted the plate and stood back from the doorway. “I’m Amelia Spalding, Veronica’s sister. Won’t you come in?”

  I followed her into the house, my head swiveling around as I tried to take everything in. What hit me first was the overload of paintings on the wall and knick-knacks galore lit by a sparkling chandelier overhead.

  And the scent of violets.

  “The living room is this way,” she said, leading me in deeper through the old home.

  She took me in to what Cecelia would term the parlor, and we sat opposite each other on stiff, ugly loveseats.

  “I so appreciate you stopping by. I’m just trying to get through Veronica’s things. I’m the executer.”

  “I’m so sorry. Do you need help?” I asked.

  “Well, I’m having an estate sale soon. This place will be out of my hands. You see, she was—” Mrs. Spalding stuttered and blushed. “She was in default on her loan. It’s being reverted back to the bank.”

  “I’m so sorry.” I cleared my throat. “I had heard rumors of a short sale.”

  She nodded. “Yes, Veronica was doing everything possible to escape that. The last time I’d talked to her, she said she had a plan. She was positive she would come up with the money in time.”