A Soufflé of Suspicion Page 15

  “You don’t have to come back today if—”

  “Yes. I do.” As if sensing my reservations, she said, “I need to work. It is all I dream of.”

  “I told you,” my mother said.

  Camille set her travel kit in the suitcase and zipped it up. When she spun around, her eyes were misty. “It is not all I dream of. I hope for an end to this nightmare.”

  Channeling my mother’s positive energy, I said, “The sheriff will solve this.” With or without my input, I decided. I joined Camille at the bed. She smelled of Ivory soap and vanilla-scented lotion.

  “Does he have any suspects?” Camille asked.

  My mother said, “Let’s not talk about the case right now. Let’s keep positive and upbeat. Camille, did you make cinnamon rolls?”

  “Better. I made cinnamon crullers.”

  “Let’s go downstairs and have one.” We hadn’t finished our croissants at Chocolate. We had been too excited to get back and see Camille.

  “No, Ginette, thank you. I am too wound up. I will eat later. Right now, I need to stimulate the gray cells.” She tapped her temple. “Most of all, I need to honor Renee by pressing on. She would have done the same if I were the one—”

  “The killer is at large,” I warned. “You could be the target.”

  “Then let us help figure out who is the guilty party.” She shooed us out of the room so she could change. “I will be down in a few minutes.”

  In the kitchen, I couldn’t resist. I ate half a cruller and hummed with delight. “Perfection.”

  A few minutes passed before Camille descended the stairs. She was wearing a clean but creased blue blouse and the same slacks she had worn to my place on the night of the murder. Riesling acted as her escort to my Jeep. I opened the rear hatch, tossed in her overnight case, and slammed it shut.

  We drove to her neighborhood, north of St. Helena. The yellow barrier tape was gone. She pulled a set of keys from her pocket and hurried inside to change clothes.

  Hanging outside, I studied the houses on either side of hers. According to Willow, Betty lived on one side and Bennett on the other. I’d never met either person. I pictured Betty residing in the white Victorian with the white roses and Bennett in the refurbished contemporary. I could see both porches from Camille’s, so that part of Willow’s story rang true. I eyed Irene’s house, which was kitty-corner from Camille’s. The autumn-toned chrysanthemums were gone, as she had lamented; she had replanted with white ones. Which house was Ursula Drake’s? Was it the blue-and-white Victorian with the Necco wafer–style roof? That would suit her.

  “Ready to go.” Camille pushed through the front door. She had thrown on pleated tan pants, a crisp white blouse, and clogs, and had applied a little bit of makeup.

  “You look great.”

  Seeing her smile sent a thrill through me. Her sister might be dead, but she was going to push through the pain. She would survive.

  On the drive to the bistro, Camille said, “I am not sure that I can ever erase the memory of Renee lying on my floor.”

  What could I say? The image of Derrick’s death had shocked me and still lingered in my mind—yes, his climbing buddies had taken a photograph. Seeing Bryan Baker dead on the rear patio of the bistro still haunted me, too. “It will get easier in time.”

  “Yes, I suppose.”

  “Do you mind if I ask a question?”

  “Is it about that night?”

  How to broach the delicate subject? Dive in, Mimi. “It’s about Renee.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “I asked you before, but you didn’t want to discuss the possibility.” I moistened my mouth, which had become dryer than dry. “Is it possible that Renee was having an affair? Now that you’ve had time to reflect—”

  “With Donovan?”

  “No, not him. I told you, he’s yours.”

  “You did not tell me that.”

  “I didn’t? I thought I had. The night you were mopping the cottage.”

  “No.”

  She was right. I hadn’t because she had cut me off and allowed for no further discussion. “I’m sorry for the oversight. The other day, when he came to the bistro asking about you, he made that very clear to me. He said he is only dating you. That means you’re exclusive.”

  Her cheeks tinged pink. Her eyes brightened.

  I veered onto St. Helena Highway. Traffic was moving. “So, could Renee have been involved with anyone else? A man with a limp was seen in the neighborhood that night. He was heading toward your house; however, the witness didn’t see him enter.”

  “Which means he could have passed by.”

  “Yes.”

  Camille’s breath caught. “What if this man entered another house?”

  “The witness didn’t think he lived in the neighborhood.”

  “No, what I meant was perhaps he was having an affair with one of my married neighbors?”

  “Okay,” I murmured, not grasping where she was going with her theory.

  She twisted in her seat, her gaze intense. “What if Renee saw him? What if he caught her watching him? What if he stole to my place and silenced her to keep his secret safe?”

  “You have a suspicious mind.”

  “The murder of my sister has made it so. You must tell the sheriff this possibility.” Camille shot a finger at me and then faced forward and folded her hands in her lap. Discussion ended.

  When we entered the bistro through the front door, Heather, who was setting tables on the rear patio, shouted, “Chef C, so good to see you!”

  Camille waved hello and hurried toward the kitchen. She paused at the door and glanced at me, her eyes moist. “How I have missed this place.”

  “You’ve only been gone a few days.”

  “It feels like an eon. I have missed the noise and the aromas and…” She drew in a deep breath. “I am nervous.”

  “Don’t be. You’re in your element.”

  “Oui, I am. Let us proceed.”

  I pushed through the door. The staff glimpsed Camille and shouted a joyous greeting.

  Allie hurried over, her hair tucked beneath a toque, her chef’s jacket splattered with something green and yellow. “I’m Allie O’Malley, but that’s a mouthful, so Allie will do.”

  Camille eyed me.

  “Allie is a temporary hire,” I explained. “We’ve been slammed with diners because of the festival, and we’re a few staff short.”

  “I’m here to help you in any way possible.” Allie gestured to the station where she had set up the ingredients for the lunch entrées. “I hope you don’t mind, Chef C—” She clamped her lower lip with her teeth. “Um, may I call you Chef C?”

  Camille grinned, taking to Allie as I had. “Everyone does.”

  “Okay, good. I hope you don’t mind, but I took the initiative and put together another hamburger special for today.”

  “Another?” Chef’s noise twitched.

  “We served one yesterday,” I said. “Hamburgers are international, not simply American. We served it with Roquefort. It was quite a hit.”

  “This one is made with a French flair, too,” Allie said.

  “Allie used to work at the Burger Garden,” I explained. “She has quite a knack.”

  “I made a Dijon mustard sauce,” Allie added. “And I included a host of spices in the burger itself.”

  Stefan, who was preparing lettuce for the Caesar salads, yelled, “I tasted it. Magnifique!”

  I grinned, happy to see he was embracing Allie.

  “Come see.” Allie beckoned Camille and me to follow her. “I’ve plated one.”

  I drew alongside Allie and whispered, “Remember what I said yesterday.” I had told her that if and when Chef C returned to work, she was not to mention Renee at all.

  “Gotcha.” She motioned to a beautiful plating of a thick beef burger set on a whole-wheat bun atop a ruffle of Bibb lettuce. “Here we are. Do you like it?”

  The mustard-based sauce lo
oked savory. So did the accompaniment of a mound of crisp fresh potato chips.

  “It’s not too humdrum, is it? I know you like to serve elaborate dishes.”

  “It is not at all humdrum,” Camille said. “Put together enough sauce and burgers for twenty servings, and ask Heather to add it to the top of the lunch specials.”

  With a spring in her step, Allie hustled out of the kitchen.

  Camille steered me to one side. “I like this girl.”

  “Don’t get too attached,” I joked.

  “Because she might be a suspect in Renee’s murder?”

  “No.” I sputtered. “How did you know—”

  “I have ears. I know the two of them had a falling out.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “You do not think she did it.” Camille wagged a finger near my nose. “You trust her.”

  “I do.”

  “So why should I not get attached, then? She seems spirited and eager.”

  “Because when you feel you’re back in the swing of things and the festival ends, I will let her go. I don’t have the funds for an extra employee. She knows it’s a temporary gig. Now”—I clapped her on the shoulder—“get to work.”

  “Yes, boss, and you call Sheriff Daly.”

  “I’m on it.”

  As I headed toward the exit, Allie swooped past me. She mouthed thank you and dashed to assist the chef.

  After I changed into my work outfit, I sat at my office desk and dialed Tyson’s cell phone number. He answered after one ring.

  “What, Mimi?” He sounded peeved.

  “Hi, Tyson,” I said with forced charm. “Is that how you greet your one and only middle school pal?” Years ago, he had been gangly and bucktoothed and he had kept to himself. When I learned that he liked to read the same books I did—mysteries—I had approached him and we had become fast friends.

  He exhaled. I pictured him breathing in and out, searching for a modicum of graciousness. “You’re pushing it, Mimi.”

  “I’ve got some news.”

  “Let me guess. It has to do with Willow Hawke.”

  “No, although I heard you spoke with her, and she cleared my chef, who is happy to be back at work.”

  “Bully for her,” he said, his tone deadpan. “What news do you have then?”

  “Two things. The first is about Parker Price and the second is about Rusty Wells.” I still hadn’t told him about Rusty’s not being at Chocolate on the night of the murder. With Camille exonerated, I could do so and not worry I would damage her alibi. “A witness—”

  A man with thick brown hair and wide sensual lips rapped on my door. A professional digital camera hung on a strap around his neck. “Excuse me, Miss Rousseau, got a sec?” Hairy forearms jutted from his beige camp-style shirt. Over his arm, he carried a beige photographer-style jacket—the kind with lots of pockets.

  “Sir.” Heather tried to block him from entering, but he was determined to get past. She nabbed the collar of his shirt.

  “Let go of me.” He wrenched free and strode toward me.

  I bounded to my feet and, despite his good looks, picked up a letter opener and aimed it at the intruder. “Sir, what the heck do you think you’re doing barging into my office?”

  “The name’s Oscar.” He threw up his hands. “I’m not here to hurt you. Honest.” His voice was raspy as if he’d been talking for hours without stopping.

  “Mimi, are you there?” Tyson asked, his voice crackling through the receiver. “Is everything okay?”

  “Sorry, Tyson. I’ll call you right back.”

  “I’m sorry if I scared you,” the man said. “I’m a reporter.”

  Was he the one who had dogged Camille the other day? “What are you reporting on?”

  “You.”

  “Me?”

  Without invitation, he dropped into a chair. Squish! Air hissed out of the cushion. “Oops, bad me.” He offered a sly grin.

  I stifled a laugh—the man wasn’t a danger, just eager. I shooed Heather out of the office. “It’s okay. Call Henry and check on the kittens. How are they, by the way?”

  “Adorable and getting so big. I’ve named them all.”

  Uh-oh. She was bonding. Would she be able to give them up at the appropriate time?

  “Haven’t I shown you the latest pictures?” she asked. “I’ve got tons on my cell phone. I can go get it.” She hitched a thumb over her shoulder.

  “Later. We’re fine here.” I lifted my chin, signaling she should leave. I was safe. As she slipped out, I eyed Oscar. “Who do you write for?”

  “The Napa Valley Neighborhood.”

  “Never heard of it.

  “It’s a local rag with up-to-date news for everyone in the valley. Last week I wrote a piece about the upcoming Crush Week, letting people know where to go and what to do. Didn’t you see it?”

  “Didn’t you hear me earlier? I haven’t heard—”

  “You must have seen it. It’s delivered to every vendor in town, including restaurants.”

  “Not ours.” I shook my head.

  “That will be rectified.” Oscar whipped out a spiral pad and pencil and jotted a note. “In the meantime, I’m trying to get the scoop on you and your success. Ten minutes of your time, that’s all I ask.”

  “Two.” I held up a pair of fingers. “What would you like to know?”

  “Well, for starters, you had a benefactor named Bryan Baker. Right?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “He was murdered.”

  My antennae twitched. They were attuned to detect poppycock. Oscar was after a lurid story. I folded my hands and stared daggers at him. “I won’t address that.”

  “But you helped solve the crime.”

  “I was able to provide some information to the sheriff.”

  Oscar tapped his pencil on his pad. “That’s not what I heard. You were there. You took the murderer down.”

  “Look, Mr.—”

  “Orsini. Oscar Orsini. In Italian, orsini means hairy. The joke’s on me, right?” He rubbed a meaty forearm.

  “Thank you for your interest, Mr. Orsini, but I’m going to pass.”

  “No. Wait. Give me a chance. We don’t have to talk about your benefactor. We’ll discuss you. You’re the star. It’s your reputation for great food that is making this place soar. You’re the talk of the town.” He was speaking at sixty miles a minute. “I forgot my biggest selling point. We have a readership of over five hundred thousand.”

  I gulped, set the letter opener down, and sank into my chair. A half a million people perused his paper? I couldn’t buy that kind of publicity. “You’re pulling my leg.”

  “No, ma’am. The Neighbor, as we like to call our little rag, has wide circulation. All the hotels and inns get it. The tourist havens and wineries, too. And locals read it at the coffee shops. Promise.” He crossed his heart with the eraser on his pencil. “We’re the biggest little secret this side of the Rockies. So, c’mon, give me an insider scoop on how you did it. I heard you’re a widow, by the way. Sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you.” Despite his brash behavior, I sort of liked Oscar. He reminded me of a chef I’d worked for in San Francisco who had steamrolled everyone in order to turn out great meals. I’d learned a lot from him, including how not to steamroll.

  “You left home at eighteen to become a chef,” he said.

  In a quick minute, I told him about my young career: moving to San Francisco, working as a sous-chef, graduating to full chef at a French restaurant, and Derrick’s death. “I returned to Nouvelle Vie to start over. I met Mr. Baker, and the rest is history.”

  “As for food reviews, your bistro has earned over twenty in a short period of time. All positive. How did you swing that?”

  Our very first food critic had liked his meal so much that he had put out the good word to his buddies to give Bistro Rousseau a try. Thanks to a friend in the restaurant business, Heather had figured out the pseudonyms many critics used to ma
ke reservations. Forewarned for nearly every appearance, we had prepared our tastiest menus.

  “Word of mouth,” I said.

  “Tell me about the festival.” Oscar licked the tip of his pencil. “Did you know the woman who was killed?”

  I eyed him warily. “What’s your real intent, Mr. Orsini?”

  “Huh?”

  “Were you the reporter who was sneaking around my chef’s hotel room at Maison Rousseau trying to get the lowdown on her?”

  “What? No. It wasn’t me!” He leaped to his feet. “If I’d known she was staying there…” He snapped his fingers. “Rats. Um, has she returned to work?”

  Again, I regarded him. Was he lying about not being the brazen reporter? Had he followed me to my mother’s house? Had he seen me fetch Camille and bring her here? Was his endgame getting an exclusive with her?

  “Oho!” He aimed his pencil at me. “You cut a look in the direction of your kitchen, which means she is here. Would she like to be part of this article? I mean, it’s your restaurant, but she’s doing the cooking.”

  “She would like to be left alone and to mourn in private.”

  Oscar threw up a hand in defense. “Hey, I’m not an ambulance chaser. I was merely wondering.” He jotted a note. “So, are you investigating this murder, too?”

  “That’s it. Time’s up. You’re full of baloney.” I shooed him toward the door. “I’d like you to leave.”

  “Okay. I’m going. I didn’t mean to offend you.” In the archway of the door, he pivoted. “Just so you know, I’m not going to hold it against you that you booted me out. I got enough good stuff. I like you, Mimi. You’ve got pluck. You’re going to be pleased with what you read. I’ll give you final approval of the story, okay?” He whipped his cell phone out of his pocket. “If it’s all right, I’ll snap a few photos before—”

  “Don’t push it.”

  Chapter 15

  On his way out of the office, Oscar bumped into Tyson Daly. “Sorry, fella.” He wasn’t being dismissive by calling Tyson fella. Our beloved sheriff wasn’t in uniform. In fact, in his jeans and golf shirt, he looked like an ordinary guy ready to spend a relaxing sightseeing day in the valley.

  “Who was that?” Tyson asked as Oscar slipped past.