A Soufflé of Suspicion Read online

Parker said, “By the way, Mimi, we have a reservation at your place tomorrow. I hope you have the duck à l’orange on the menu. It’s my favorite.”

  Orange? I winced. Talk about bad timing.

  Felicity seemed to agree with me. With a frosty tone, she said, “Darling, Mimi doesn’t have time to talk menus. Let’s go. You need to drop me by the theater.” She addressed me. “Philomena’s in the school play.”

  “So I heard. She’s starring in Cats. She must have a voice like a nightingale.”

  “Aw.” Felicity smiled. “You remembered what I told you about her name. How sweet of you. Do you know there are two other girls in her school with the same name? I kid you not. And not one of them has shortened her name to a nickname. Isn’t it amazing when classical names become the in thing?”

  “Tell her to break a leg,” I said.

  “Not quite yet. The musical is still in rehearsals. It’ll open next week.”

  Parker said, “You should come see it, Mimi.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Enjoy the day,” Felicity said in singsong fashion and steered her husband out of the garden.

  “I will. You, too,” I called after her, but I feared she wouldn’t if she noticed the telltale orange lipstick on Parker’s collar.

  Chapter 11

  I headed toward the arch leading into the inn, bent on checking on my chef, but I stopped when I spied Allie sitting on a stone bench by a grouping of red roses. She was dressed in somber black and reviewing a sheet of paper. A wad of tissue poked from her fist. She looked up as I approached. Her face was as tear-stained as Jo’s had been.

  “Hey, Allie.” I settled beside her on the bench. “Why the tears?”

  “My attorney … He couldn’t…” She flailed the paper. “He couldn’t do anything with this lousy contract. Oh, sugar!” She cursed genteelly. “I was stupid to believe Renee. And as deaf as a doorpost. I heard we would be partners. Wrong! I should get my hearing checked.” She crushed the tissue into a tiny ball. “She was so nice when we first met.”

  I recalled how not nice Renee had been when Allie had confronted her with the contract. Instead of rehashing why she’d lied to Allie, I said, “How did you get into the festival business in the first place?”

  “I’ve worked in the food industry for many years, and I’ve attended tons of festivals. I loved every one of them. They delight people.”

  “Yes, they do.”

  “When I’m not working, I make cookies. That’s how I came up with the sweet treats theme. I understood how hotels and other sites might need extra income. It was a win-win.” She unfolded her crumpled tissue and continued. “When I realized I wasn’t raising enough money to get started, the win-win was how I pitched it to Renee.”

  “How did you two meet?”

  “She came into the restaurant where I worked pretty often. We became friends.” She rolled her eyes. “Friends. As if. Ooh, I wish I was the one who’d wrung her neck.” She slapped a hand over her mouth, tissue and all. After a moment, she lowered her hand, her face ashen. “That was horrible of me. I shouldn’t have said that. One shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.”

  “She wasn’t strangled, Allie.”

  “She wasn’t?”

  “She was clobbered with a countertop mixer.”

  Allie winced.

  If she thought Renee had been strangled, maybe that was enough to prove she was innocent. Or maybe she had practiced that answer to cover her tracks. I groaned inwardly. Was I the most jaded person in the world?

  “You probably know this,” she said, “since you and Sergeant Daly are friends, but he asked me for my alibi. Guess I have a good motive.” She flailed the contract.

  “He’s asked a number of people for their alibis, including Renee’s sister.”

  “I suppose they have to look at everyone.” She sighed.

  “Um, what were you doing that night, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  Her eyelids fluttered. “I was home baking. That always clears my head.” She snuffled and dabbed her nose with the tissue. “No witnesses, though. Not cool, right?” She sucked back a sob. “How I wish I’d never given up on the festivals. If I’d stuck it out and tried harder to get sponsors, then maybe…” She sank into the bench. “I’m a quitter. I always have been.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up.”

  “Who would do a better job of it?” She attempted a smile but failed.

  “What restaurant did you work at?”

  “You wouldn’t have heard of it. The Burger Garden. I was a short-order cook.”

  “I remember Renee mentioning that.” She had intended it as a dig.

  “I was known as the burger queen,” Allie said. “I was an expert at whipping out fast, tasty burgers. Renee teased me for trying to put on a festival featuring sweets when what I did best was savory. She said it was all about branding.”

  A lightbulb went off in my mind. “Hey, do you think you could help at the bistro for a day or two, until Camille returns?” Despite Allie being a murder suspect, I liked her. Plus, Tyson hadn’t arrested her, which meant he believed her alibi, right? Was I the most naïve person in the world?

  “Help how?”

  “I need an assistant.”

  “I’ve never cooked French food.”

  “We’ll keep it simple. You’ll do the heavy lifting like boiling water or fetching supplies.”

  She splayed her hands. “I’ll get in the way.”

  “We’ll make it work.”

  I told her where and when to report. She brightened at the prospect, thanked me, and hurried off to freshen up. Watching her disappear, I decided not to second-guess myself. I would do what Bryan Baker would have advised and trust my gut instinct.

  In the meantime, I needed to touch base with Camille. On my way to her room, someone glommed onto me.

  “Hey, gorgeous.” The man, who reeked of alcohol, was wearing a T-shirt with a wine-stained barefoot imprint. “Which way to the loo?”

  “Sweetheart, let her go.” His brunette companion was wearing a similar T-shirt. “I told you it’s to the left.” She said to me, “Sorry. We were at Grgich doing the I Love Lucy experience.”

  That explained why her hair was tousled and grape-splattered. During Crush Week, if someone wanted to roll up his or her pants and stomp grapes with bare feet like Lucille Ball had in that iconic television episode, they could do so at Grgich Hills Winery for a fee. When they were done, they could imprint a T-shirt, like these two had, with their grape-stained feet. No, the winery didn’t make the grapes into wine later; those grapes got the old heave-ho.

  The man continued to hold onto me.

  “Mimi, are you okay?” another man asked.

  I glanced over my shoulder and was surprised but relieved to see Elijah George, clad in a tight-fitting golf shirt, shorts, and sandals. He stared daggers at my inebriated accoster. Being a tad sunburned made Eli look that much more threatening.

  The guy removed his hand. He was sober enough to realize he did not want to fight a guy who was much taller and stronger than he was.

  His brunette companion ushered him away saying, “Beddy-bye for you, hotshot.”

  “Thank you, Eli,” I said. “You’re a welcome sight.”

  “So are you.” His gaze held mine for a bit, but then he scanned the crowd.

  “You look a little, um, red.” I twirled a finger in the direction of his face.

  “Yeah, I forgot to apply sunblock.”

  “Why are you here? Yesterday was your day off.”

  “I actually get two days off a week. Yesterday was all about helping Willow. So today…” He jammed a hand into the pocket of his shorts. “There’s a lot of sugary goodness at this event.”

  “There sure is.” I winked. “I’ll bet you’ve never eaten sugar in your life.”

  “How quickly you’ve forgotten that Halloween is my favorite holiday of the year.”

  “That’s right.” I snapped my fingers. “I remember one time
a group of us went trick-or-treating. You were a ghoul.”

  “You were Princess Leia with that funky doughnut hairdo.”

  “Not my best look.”

  “I like your hair the way you’re wearing it now—up. It shows off your face.”

  I felt my cheeks warm.

  “It sure is a hectic time in Napa,” Eli continued, changing the subject. “The traffic is almost as bad as it is in New York.”

  “Crush Week is the culprit.”

  “So is the weeklong Sweet Treats Festival. What a draw.”

  “Eli, I can’t talk right now. I have to—” I stopped myself. I didn’t want to reveal where Camille was. Though Eli might not care, I couldn’t help thinking about the stranger in the vineyard last night, and as the saying goes, loose lips sink ships. “I’ve got a quick errand to run before returning to the bistro to prepare dinner.”

  “Can I call you? Willow gave me your number. We should catch up.”

  “Um, that would be—”

  “Do you ever go out after you close for the night?”

  “That’s sort of late for me.”

  “Late? Are you kidding me? You were a night owl when we were little. Remember all the times we slept outdoors and counted stars? Both of our mothers were worried we’d get eaten—”

  “By raccoons.”

  “You do remember.” He let out a full belly laugh.

  I joined in. “You were addicted to Cheetos.”

  “And you liked potato chips.”

  “Raccoon bait,” we said in unison and clawed the air with our fingertips. I couldn’t recall who had coined that phrase—him or me. Silly times. Ages old.

  Though I was enjoying the walk down Memory Lane, I tapped my watch. “Eli, I really have to go. The kitchen beckons.”

  He kissed me on the cheek. “Speak to you soon.”

  The tenderness of his kiss threw my insides into confusion. What the heck? He was an old friend, nothing more. I was not interested in him. Had Willow given him the idea I was? I pushed the maddening notion aside and scooted out the front entrance. When I felt Eli couldn’t see me, I rounded the corner and raced toward the rear of the building.

  A minute later, I arrived at Camille’s door. I knocked once then twice. “Camille, it’s me. Open up.”

  I saw her eyeball appear in the peephole and heard her unlocking the chain guard. She swung the door open, but her frown told me I wasn’t welcome.

  “May I come in?” I asked.

  “I’m fine, Mom.” She was lying. Her hair was raggedy and her skin slack.

  “I know you are, but I need a hug.”

  Reluctantly she allowed me to enter. She closed the door, tightened the sash on her robe, and trudged to the center of the room.

  So much for that hug.

  The bed, with its Provençal-style coverlet, was unmade. The door to the bathroom was open. Towels lay in a lump on the floor. The remnants of a room service meal sat on the white cedar café table. At least the drapes were partially open and sunlight was entering the room.

  I said, “You had an omelet, I see.”

  “Made with Irish cheddar cheese and herbs. My mother always believed eating protein, not sweets, helped when one was depressed. She lavished us with eggs and meats.”

  “She was a wise woman.” I perched on the end of the unmade bed.

  “I called my daughter,” Camille said. “She wants to come to California and take care of me. I told her no.”

  “But—”

  “No.” Camille held up her hand. “I am fine. I do not need her. And, Mimi, I do not want you to think I am unappreciative of what you have done for me—you were so kind to open your home to me—but all I need is time to mourn without watchful eyes upon me. Do you understand?”

  “Of course, but I’m a little nervous about you staying by yourself.”

  “I am a grown woman. I am not under attack.”

  “Yes, but…” I thought again about Camille being the murderer’s target.

  “What is wrong, Mimi? You look like you have seen a ghost.”

  “Here’s the deal. Last night I sensed somebody was watching my cottage.” I paced by the foot of the bed as I explained: the sounds, Scoundrel in a panic, seeing the person in the vineyard with the flashlight. “How do we know that you weren’t the murderer’s target? Maybe the killer came to your home looking for you and ran into Renee instead.”

  “No. You are mistaken.” She slumped into the ladder-back chair by the café table. “Renee had enemies. I do not.”

  “Okay, even if you weren’t the intended victim, the murderer might think you know something. Or saw something. Or figured out something. Who better than you, the person who knew your sister best, to come up with the motive for her murder?”

  Camille shook her head. “I have been trying to solve this, but I cannot. I fear I did not know her at all.”

  “Did she fight with anyone? Who did she cross?” Other than Rusty or Allie O’Malley, whom I’d hired moments ago. Had I lost my mind?

  “Renee was not like that. She had a good soul. She was off track. Her marriage—”

  The doorknob jiggled.

  Camille’s panicked gaze swung from the door to me. “Housekeeping has been here. I sent them away.”

  It sounded like the intruder in the hall was slotting something into the lock. A key or a lock pick? Due to Bryan’s insistence, the inn had an old-fashioned key system to complement the quaint atmosphere. Napa, he had assured me, was a safe community. Not true, I was learning.

  “Who’s there?” I called.

  “Room service,” someone replied in a low, guttural voice. Man or woman, I couldn’t tell.

  “I did not ring for anyone to pick up the dishes,” Camille whispered.

  “We didn’t order room service,” I said through the door.

  Footsteps beat a quick retreat, which made my insides snag. Was my theory correct? Was the killer after Camille, or did he … she … think Camille had seen something that night and hoped to silence her?

  I hurried to the door and peeked through the peephole. The hallway appeared empty. Even so, I grasped the umbrella we kept in the closet for guests to use if it rained and whisked open the door.

  “Who’s out there?” Camille asked.

  I peered down the hall. “No one.”

  Whoever had attempted to get in was gone.

  Chapter 12

  “That does it!” I lifted the receiver for the room telephone and dialed the front desk. A perky receptionist answered. I didn’t recognize her voice. Jo had said she’d hired a few extra people this week. “It’s Mimi Rousseau.”

  “Yes, Miss Rousseau. What can I do for you?”

  “Can you review the security camera footage quickly and describe who was recently outside room 104? Yes, I’ll hold.”

  Camille said, “Maybe whoever tried to break in was a thief.”

  The receptionist came back on the line. She believed the perpetrator was a reporter attending the festival. She recognized him because earlier he had asked her directions to the competition tent.

  “How would he have known which room Camille was in?” I asked.

  The receptionist wasn’t sure. She’d have a security guard check. We had two security guards on payroll—a night guard and a day guard—and two extras for the duration of the festival.

  I ended the call and sat down opposite Camille at the dining table. “It turns out there’s a reporter here covering the festival. He must have decided the better scoop was locating you.”

  “It wasn’t the killer?”

  “Let’s be safe rather than sorry. If you won’t stay with me, please go to my mother’s house. She could use the company. We’ll keep your whereabouts under wraps.”

  When Camille agreed, I rang my mother.

  She picked up after the first jangle. “What’s up? Need a recipe?”

  I often called her for creative inspiration. She was a fabulous cook. I explained the situation.

&
nbsp; “I’m on my way,” Mom said. “And don’t you worry. It’ll be hush-hush. No reporters—or anybody else for that matter—will get past me.”

  “She’s in room 104. Text me when you and she arrive at your place.”

  “Should I call Sergeant Daly and tell him about the encounter?” she asked.

  “I have no proof that anyone is after Camille.”

  “Let him be the judge of that.”

  “Okay. If you do speak to him, please tell him I need to touch base with him, too.”

  “What about?”

  “The case. He hasn’t responded to any of my messages.”

  Under her breath she muttered, “Amateur detective.” I ignored her.

  After I ended the call, I dialed the receptionist again. I asked her to send a security guard to Camille’s room. When he arrived and assured me he wouldn’t leave until my mother appeared, I raced to the bistro.

  * * *

  An hour later, as I was measuring flour into a bowl at the centermost counter in the bistro kitchen, Allie pushed through the swinging doors.

  “I’m here,” she announced.

  Heather flew in after her. “Is it true, Mimi? You’ve hired her?” She trained her gaze on Allie, who was dressed like me in tan trousers, white shirt, and clogs. A red bandana covered her hair and her skin was scrubbed free of makeup.

  “Temporarily.”

  “But the other day, Jo said, and then you said—”

  “I’ve got this, Heather.”

  “Don’t you think you should reconsider?” Worry pinched her face.

  I clasped her elbow and drew her toward the exit. “What’s going on?” I whispered. “Are you mother-henning me because you’re tending to the kittens?”

  “I’m getting vibes.” She wiggled her fingers by her temples.

  I had learned over the past year to trust her vibes. At first I’d thought her alien pals were mystically sending them to her; now I realized they were her own gut instincts, which were usually right.

  Heather continued. “I’m concerned that you might be letting your guard down and seeing good in someone where there is none.”

  I gazed at Allie. Had I been wrong to hire her? Should I trust Heather’s gut instincts or my own? Allie sidled to the menu board and perused it. Her mouth moved but no words came out. Was she memorizing it?