Catering and Crime

by Danielle Collins

  Catering and Crime

  A Margot Durand Cozy Mystery

  Danielle Collins

  Fairfield Publishing

  Copyright © 2018 Fairfield Publishing

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. Except for review quotes, this book may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, without the written consent of the author.

  This story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is purely coincidental.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Thank You!

  1

  A warm, salty breeze blew in off the Atlantic, where Margot and Tamera sat sipping iced teas and savoring the best Chef Franco had to offer.

  “Are you sure that Antonio won’t have a fit when he finds out you’re going with another caterer?” Tamera asked, wiping the corners of her mouth with a pristine white napkin.

  “Positive,” Margot said with a smile. “I asked him first, but he’s actually going to be in Italy during our wedding. He finally sent me an email last week that suggested Chef Franco and Bistro Franco as an alternative. After looking at their website and the positive reviews, I had to come see what the fuss was all about.”

  “Luck you did,” Tamera said, reaching across Margot with her fork extended. “This food is excellent.”

  Margot laughed. “I’m glad to see you’re enjoying yourself.” Tamera had taken to the tasting like a fish to water.

  “You know,” she said, “I missed out on all of this with our wedding. Plus, I do love good food. Sorry Adam couldn’t be here, though.”

  Margot nodded thoughtfully. “I’m sorry too, but he was called away to a crime scene and I was promised a sampler plate for me to take home.”

  “How nice. You think they’ll make an extra for me?”

  Margot laughed. “I doubt it.”

  “Thought so.” Tamera licked her fork and put it down, sighing contentedly. “This is the best kind of afternoon. Not too hot here on the water, good food, and good company.”

  “I agree,” Margot said, her gaze slipping out to take in the incredible view. They had driven a little less than twenty minutes south along the coast and found Bistro Franco to be charming and eclectic in style with a warm hostess who answered every one of Margot’s questions and added more she hadn’t even considered. It was clear that Chef Franco ran a tight business and would be perfect for their wedding.

  Turning her attention back to her friend, her gaze traveled over the bistro behind them, startling when she saw a face in the window. By the time it had registered what had been there, it was gone.

  “Margot?” Tamera said. The concerned look on her friend’s face told Margot that she’d missed a question.

  “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

  Tamera repeated her question and they began to discuss each dish in depth. While Margot considered it all thoughtfully, she couldn’t help wondering who had been watching them and why?

  “Will you be able to make a decision?” Tamera asked.

  “Thankfully, I’ll be able to get Adam’s input before giving Bistro Franco our official order.”

  “How is everything, ladies?” Lindsay, the young woman who had guided them through the tasting that day, asking. She came toward the table, smiling at them.

  “Perfect,” Tamera said. “I’m thinking of re-doing my own wedding just to hire you guys to cater.”

  Lindsay gave a genuine chuckle and turned to Margot. “Have we given you too many choices?”

  “Yes…” Margot leaned back in her chair. “But that’s a good thing.” Her gaze traveled to the bistro window again, but it remained empty.

  “I’m always available if you have any questions,” Lindsay said.

  “Say,” Margot said on impulse, “do you have a large staff or…” She tried to make the question as open ended as possible so that Lindsay could freely fill in the information.

  “Not really.” She shrugged. “I handle the catering coordination and marketing for the bistro. Since we hire staff for our larger events, I’m in charge of that as well. We’d be hiring a few extra hands to help with your wedding, but since it will be small, there won’t be a big need for a lot of waitstaff.”

  “I see,” Margot said thoughtfully.

  “All right.” Lindsay’s bright smile was back in place. “Here is the menu for you to take back with you and then you can call or stop by to complete the ordering process.”

  “Sounds perfect,” Margot said, slipping the folder into her canvas bag. “We’ll be in touch.”

  Margot stood, her gaze straying to the window one last time. No sign of anyone or anything else. She also found it odd that Chef Franco hadn’t come out to greet them. Still, she was likely looking into something that wasn’t important. No doubt it was a curious worker who she’d caught looking at them.

  Brushing off her curiosity, she walked with Tamera back to where they’d parked. The women parted ways, Tamera off to get a pedicure, and Margot slid into the warmed interior of her car. The July weather had been unseasonably cool so far, something everyone in North Bank seemed to comment on whenever they got together. Margot was merely happy she could go about making her plans without completely melting like she would have any other July.

  There was also talk about the summer festival scheduled for the end of the week. Rumors ran rampant that rain was forecasted. Margot’s tent would protect them in either rain or shine, but not every vendor was so well prepared.

  As Margot turned on the car and rolled down the windows to catch some of the breeze, she checked her messages before getting back on the road. One text from Julia Hageman, her baking assistant, asking about the location of a pan Margot had used the day before—an easy remedy—and one text from Adam saying that he hoped the tasting went well.

  Her smile faltered when she remembered the sampler she was supposed to have taken back. Lindsay had forgotten to bring it out to her!

  Shaking her head, she turned off the car. She’d leave the windows down since she was likely to only be gone a few minutes. Stuffing her bag mostly under her seat, she picked her way down the gravel path toward the small restaurant again.

  The small building was painted in a dark mustard yellow and accented by deep burgundy trim. The main feature was the back patio area where seating was plentiful and bistro lights hung across the area in what would be a glowing sensation in the evening. Inside, she could just see a large open area filled with tiny tables, but not much more than that. It wasn’t a place you’d take a large group to, but it was quiet and intimate enough for late lunches and even later dinners.

  Margot and Tamera had opted for a late morning session before the bistro officially opened and now Margot found the front door locked. Where was Lindsay?

  Margot assumed that Chef Franco had remained in the kitchen, though she was curious about the eccentric chef who won awards but was barely ever seen. Was he still there too?

  Biting her lip, she considered her options. She could try and call to see if Lindsay would come to the front or perhaps she could try the back door. That seemed the easier of the two and she made her way around the building on the small, stone-paved path.

  As she neared the back patio again, she heard a large crash followed by a shout. The sound startled her, but it sounded more like frustration than anger. She could relate, having dropped several pans in her day.

  Hesitating slightly, s
he hung back before going around the corner. Would she only create more hassle? But no, she had to get that sampler for Adam before they cleaned up from the tasting they had just done.

  About to move forward, voices floated out of the now open kitchen door and caused Margot to hesitate again.

  “You are seeing things that are not there.” The voice was rough and masculine, tension and frustration highlighting the words.

  “I’m not. I promise, Papa.” The voice that replied was soft and feminine, marked by hesitation.

  “You have no proof.”

  “But—”

  “Enough. I cannot hear this made up nonsense!” the masculine voice thundered.

  Margot swallowed.

  “Why would I make something like this up?” the girl pleaded.

  “What do we have here? A jealous tiff?”

  Margot perked up at the new voice. It sounded like Lindsay.

  “Lindsay.” Was it Margot’s imagination or did the young woman sound scared? “I— I’m not jea—”

  “Stop. Both of you. You are both prize jewels in a sea of fakes, but I need you out of my kitchen so I can prepare for tonight.”

  “But, Papa.”

  “Go. Out!”

  His kitchen? The voice had to belong to Chef Franco then. Why was he so upset?

  Just then, a short woman came barreling around the corner. She bumped into Margot, but before she could look up, she rushed down the path, her wide brimmed straw hat completely concealing her features.

  Deciding it was better to move forward rather than to be found eavesdropping, Margot strode back into the small outdoor courtyard. She went straight to the partially open door and knocked. “Excuse me?”

  “Yes?” Lindsay said, coming around the corner. “Oh, Missus Durand, isn’t it? Did you forget something?”

  “Yes,” she said, trying to see past the woman’s perfect veneer to whatever had been going on during the conversation. Lindsay gave no clues. “The sample plate. For my fiancé.”

  “Ah yes, how could I forget? Will you give me just a few minutes?”

  “Of course.”

  “Would you like anything as you wait?”

  “No,” Margot said, shaking her head.

  The woman disappeared back into the kitchen and Margot sat at a small table. Her thoughts strayed to the conversation she’d overheard but without context, the words made no sense. Whatever it was, she hoped the young woman would get the chance to talk to her father again. Perhaps this time without an interruption from a staff member.

  Margot fought the urge to take a walk in the lovely afternoon sunshine. She’d been stuck inside her small, windowless office for hours now working on things for the wedding and the bakery simultaneously. She was starting to see cross-eyed, but she was almost done for the day, something that kept her anchored to her chair. Just a few more things and she’d be free.

  Her phone rang, jarring her from concentration on the DJ’s website she had been perusing for the last fifteen minutes.

  “Hey, beautiful.” Adam’s deep, rich voice came across the small phone speaker and melted a little part of her heart.

  “Hey, yourself,” she said, smiling. “What’s up?”

  “Just checking in to see how you’re doing. Are you buried in details yet?”

  She sighed heavily. “You’d think after all the work I’d already put into this wedding, I would be further along in the process, but it seems like things keep coming up.”

  “But at least you have your dress,” he said.

  “True.” She smiled at the memory. She had taken Tamera, Rosie, and Julia wedding dress shopping a few weeks prior and had lucked out a local bridal shop with the most perfect wedding dress she’d seen since her first wedding. No woman had a dry eye when she’d walked out, the small train trailing behind her.

  Yes, she could cross finding a dress off her lists, but that sadly didn’t make them much shorter.

  “What are you working on now then?” he asked, drawing her out of reliving the ‘perfect dress moment,’ as Julia had called it.

  “The DJ, and I’m about to look over the menu again. You haven’t changed your mind on the food, have you?”

  “Nope,” he said in his easygoing manner. “I agreed with what you picked but seriously, anything on that sample plate you gave me would be fine with me. It was all amazing.”

  “I agree,” she said, fishing out the menu that Lindsay had given her. The memory of the disagreement she’d overheard made her brows draw together, but she shoved the thoughts away as she and Adam talked over a few other details before he said he needed to get back to work.

  “Love you,” she said as they hung up.

  Turning her attention back to the menu, she cleared her planner and a few bridal magazines away to make space to open the trifold paper menu. It was made of a heavyweight paper and embossed with the restaurant’s name, Bistro Franco.

  Margot opened the pages, but her hand paused when she saw a folded sheet of paper that looked like it came from an ordering notepad a waitress would use.

  Frowning, she unfolded it and to see a hastily scrawled note. It read: I’ve heard of you, your reputation makes you seem like the right person to talk with. Please call me. A number was scratched at the bottom, but no name was given.

  Margot slumped back against her chair wondering what this could be about and if it was related to the argument she’d overheard. Who was it from, though? Had Lindsay slipped it in the menu when she’d given it to Margot? Or was it the other girl, Franco’s daughter?

  A quick Google search showed Margot a photo of Chef Maurice Franco and his daughter Jacquelyn Franco standing in front of the small bistro on opening day. He had his arm around her shoulder and they both beamed at the camera. The short article explained that Maurice’s wife had passed away several years before, but he’d continued toward his dream of opening a bistro with his supportive daughter by his side.

  From the image, Margot thought the young woman could have been the girl who rushed past her outside the bistro, which would fall in line with the conversation she’d overheard, but that didn’t bring her any closer to uncovering who had left her the note.

  Figuring the best way to deal with her curiosity was to give the person a call, she dialed the number into her phone and waited. On the third ring, a woman’s voice replied, “Hello?”

  “Hello, this is Margot Durand,” Margot said, unsure if she recognized the voice or not.

  The line was silent for a moment. “You got my note?”

  “I did. And who is this?”

  More hesitation. “I’d prefer to meet with you instead of discussing anything over the phone.”

  The woman’s voice, while still undefined, held a hint of something Margot couldn’t quite put her finger on, but it was something close to fear, if not fear itself.

  “All right,” Margot said, letting out a sigh and knowing she’d need to talk to Adam before following through on her plans. “How about the Coffee Bean on Fifth Street? Does tomorrow at one o’clock work for you?”

  “Yes.” No hesitation this time.

  Then the line went dead.

  2

  “You did what?” Adam said, turning from the glass of iced tea he was pouring.

  “It’s a public place. There will be lots of people there. You know I can’t turn someone down who has asked me for help.”

  “But you don’t even know what it’s about? What if—”

  “Stop.” She came toward him, smiling, then rested her palm against his chest. “I’ll be fine. I’m telling you now so that I don’t run off by myself and you won’t berate me.” She winked to soften her words.

  “That’s right, I won’t, because I’ll be there at that coffee shop too.”

  “Adam,” she said in a light warning tone. “I’ll be fine. There’s nothing that she can do to me. You don’t have to—”

  “I’ll be there. Tomorrow at one.”

  Margot shook her head and gave u
p with a shrug. She’d half-expected this, but she also wasn’t mad at her fiancé. He cared about her, which was why he was protective. And he wasn’t coming because he didn’t think she could take care of herself. Margot had taken Krav Maga classes for years now and could defend herself when needed. No, he was coming because Adam Eastwood was a detective and knew the benefit of having a partner in situations where you couldn’t control everything. Sure, they would be meeting at a local coffee shop and there would be plenty of witnesses around, but you still couldn’t account for everything.

  Knowing he would be close by actually helped her to feel more secure about the meeting. Having two sets of eyes on the woman she was meeting with would be good—especially Adam’s eyes, because he was perceptive in a way she wasn’t. He had the eyes of a detective as well as the power to do something about what he saw if need be.

  Margot thought back to a few months before when she’d gone to a prearranged meeting under even more dangerous circumstances and come across a dead body. This was nothing like that, but still, she wouldn’t take any chances.

  “Thank you,” she said, coming to him and kissing his cheek. “Just make sure you arrive before us and don’t look conspicuous.”

  He gave her a look of fake shock and placed his hand to his chest. “Who? Me?” After a moment, he was serious again as he asked, “So, who is this Chef Franco guy anyway? Aside from the guy who’s going to cater our wedding.”

  She shrugged. “I’ve only read a few articles about him. He’s well trained and moved here from the west coast in hopes of making it big in Washington, D. C., but then his wife got sick and he had to put his dream restaurant on hold. After she died, he decided to follow his dream and his daughter has been with him all the way—or so it looks. Many articles say he’s eccentric and reclusive.”