A Soufflé of Suspicion Page 18

  “Your voicemail message. Gosh. I’m sorry. I meant to call you back.”

  “No worries. I know you’re busy. See you.”

  As Eli sauntered off, Rusty ended his conversation with the women and jogged to me. “Hey, Mimi, how are you? That must have been quite a scare.” His eyes were warm. Could a killer gaze at me with such genuine caring? But suddenly he cooled and recoiled. “What’s wrong? Why are you looking at me like that?”

  How was I regarding him, like a judge and jury? I would have to work on my impartial stare.

  “If you’re worried that I lied about going to Chocolate the night Renee died, don’t,” Rusty said. “I fessed up to the sheriff. I saw him about twenty minutes ago. I caught up to him in the parking lot.”

  “I’m not worried about that.”

  “Then what?”

  Bite your tongue, Mimi. “It’s nothing.”

  Rusty grunted. “C’mon, level with me.”

  Deliberating, I worked my tongue around the inside of my mouth. “On the night Renee died, an eyewitness saw you driving around Camille’s neighborhood with your headlights switched off.”

  Rusty lowered his chin and worked his tongue inside his cheek. “Yeah, okay.”

  “She thought you might have parked down the street and snuck to the house.”

  “What? Uh-uh. I did not!”

  “She said she saw someone wearing a heavy coat and a hunter-style hat heading in that direction.”

  “I don’t own a hat like that.”

  “She said the guy was limping.”

  “It wasn’t me. My legs work perfectly fine.” He kicked out one leg followed by the other and stamped them in place. “Grade A legs. Never had an injury.”

  A couple of festival folks drifted nearer to us. Maybe they thought Rusty was teaching me a new dance and wanted to join in the fun.

  Rusty placed a hand on my lower back and ushered me to a quieter location. “What else? There’s something else, isn’t there? C’mon, talk to me. I can take it, whatever it is.”

  “Okay, the night Renee was killed, I noticed feathers and chicken feed on Camille’s kitchen floor. Camille thought Renee might have tracked it in, but I believe you did. The sheriff’s forensic team can probably prove that.”

  He jammed his hands into his pockets. “Aw, heck. Yeah, I was there. But it’s not what you think. I missed Renee so much. I wanted to see her. But it wasn’t me in the coat and hat. I was wearing what you saw me in that night, jeans and my baseball cap. I had my denim jacket on. That has to be where the feathers and feed came from. That junk clings to denim something fierce.” He pulled his hands from his pockets and splayed one. “I went up to the front door. It was open. I saw Renee through the screen door. She was singing along with Sinatra. I knocked and entered. She whirled on me, madder than a wet hen. She said she was baking and needed to concentrate.”

  “She was going to learn to make soufflé.”

  He scrubbed his cheek with his knuckles. “She always wanted to be a better cook. Like Camille. I think she was jealous. Camille got all the talent; she had none. Heck, she could burn water.” He lowered his arm. “She ordered me to leave. I said I would after we talked. She said if I loved her, I would go and we could discuss things the next day. I told her what I needed to say couldn’t wait, but she didn’t want to hear it. She shook her fist and started screaming that she hated me and to go, go, go!”

  “How did that make you feel? Mad?”

  “No, not mad. Sad. Really sad.” His eyes narrowed. “I threw up my hands”—he mimed the action—“and told her as I was leaving that I would love her to my dying day.”

  Or hers, I thought sadly. I said, “If it’s any consolation, Felicity Price told me that Renee loved you.”

  “Yeah, right. Felicity Price believes in fairy tales.” He heaved a sigh. “Renee hated me, that was clear, and she went to her grave hating me. I’ll never get over that, Mimi. Never. But I didn’t kill her. Look, I lied about my alibi because I knew it was dicey seeing as I was at the house that night. It was stupid, but it’s all I’ve got. I left fuming and drove around. When I calmed down, I came back to talk to her one more time about…” He studied the cuticles of his left hand.

  “About what?”

  “About me selling the farm and helping her with her new venture.” He splayed his arms to take in the festival. “When she kicked me out, I knew I’d have to prove to her how much I loved and believed in her, so I started researching stuff on the Internet.”

  “Rusty, c’mon, you admitted you didn’t go to Chocolate.”

  “No, I didn’t, but I used my cell phone. I parked on some street where the reception was good.”

  “Which street?”

  “I can’t remember the name.” He scuffed the ground with the heel of his shoe. “When I couldn’t find squat about how to sell the farm, I started making phone calls to a bunch of attorneys. I wanted to see if any of them would handle the sale of the farm. Nobody answered.”

  “It was late. Did you leave messages?”

  “Yeah, of course. I even decided to swing by the courthouse on the off chance some attorney might be there. No one was.”

  “Did you tell the sheriff the names of the law firms you called?”

  “It didn’t come up.” He held up his left hand. “Look, I’ve got to get to work. Things are getting into full swing now that the wind has died down.”

  “You should talk to Sergeant Daly again. Give him facts and figures.”

  “Will do. Promise.” As he ran off, he shouted, “Thanks for believing me.”

  I hadn’t said I did.

  Chapter 17

  The preparations for Thursday dinner went smoothly. Allie was working out well as a support to Camille. The kitchen staff seemed to be enjoying the positive energy. I caught Stefan smiling. Maybe he was doing so because Yukiko was nearby. I wondered again whether I should nip a staff romance in the bud but decided it wasn’t my business. If things cooled between them, I wouldn’t fire either unless they weren’t doing their jobs.

  During dinner, as I toured the kitchen taste-testing and offering suggestions—the hollandaise sauce needed a bit more lemon; the sweet potato pommes frites were crying out for a dash of cayenne—I felt a frisson of dread crawl up my neck. I swiveled and caught Allie, who was stirring something in a large pot, gazing at me with a curious look in her eyes. Her white chef’s jacket was splattered with red sauce. I shivered as I recalled Heather’s warning—okay, Heather’s vibes—that I should beware of a woman in white. Had she envisioned Allie hurting me? Did Allie have an inkling that I was trying to figure out who killed Renee and that she had, at one time, been on my suspect list?

  Granted, she couldn’t have hurled the flowerpot at me. At the time she would have been here in the kitchen.

  I tamped down my angst and sidled up to her. “What are you making?”

  “Purée à la ratatouille, heavy on the red pepper,” she said. “Chef will set grilled halibut on top.”

  “Yum.” I fetched a new spoon—we never used the same spoon to taste-test—and dipped it into the mixture. The texture was perfect, and the flavor on the Scoville heat scale—a determinant for spiciness—was a tad under three thousand, which I preferred for this dish. “Lovely.”

  Allie beamed. “I get to help her prepare the soufflés tonight, too.”

  “Lucky you.”

  Heather entered the kitchen, paused in the doorway, and hooked a finger. “Mimi.”

  I tossed the tasting spoon into the sink and joined her. “What’s up?”

  She jutted her chin toward the main dining room. Felicity and Parker were seated at one of the tables by the window. Felicity was wearing an ecru sheath with a revealing sweetheart neckline. Parker wore a sport jacket over a gray-checkered shirt. Both were sipping their water; neither was looking at the other.

  Heather whispered, “They showed up without a reservation. We had a cancelation.”

  “I’m glad we could acco
mmodate them.”

  “Ahem. Did you notice the color of her dress?”

  “It’s not white,” I said, still worried about the unsettling feeling I’d experienced in the kitchen.

  “It’s close.” Heather furrowed her brow. “Do you want me to do reconnaissance? I could listen in and see if they’re talking about you.”

  I grinned. Her feisty spirit was giving me a boost of energy. “Why don’t I handle it?” I strode to the hostess podium, gathered two menus, and carried them to the Prices. “Welcome.” I offered my most winning smile.

  Felicity’s eyelids fluttered as she peered upward. She placed a hand on mine as I offered her a menu. “Heavens, Mimi. I heard about the incident at the festival. How are you?”

  “What incident?” Parker asked.

  “A flowerpot almost nailed Mimi when it fell through the railing.”

  In truth, I believed it had soared over a railing, which suggested an outside agency at work.

  “Are you shaken up?” Felicity asked.

  “I’m right as rain,” I said, using my grandmother’s favorite age-old expression.

  Felicity shimmied in her chair and fluffed her hair as a cool breeze hit me on the back. I spun around. Oscar Orsini was entering the bistro. He slipped a notebook into the inside pocket of his brown jacket, smoothed his hair, and addressed Heather. She waved at me and held up a single finger. Didn’t he have a reservation, either? Why had he shown up? Did he know Felicity was dining here? I recalled their flirtatious interlude at the cooking contest. Was his interest more than a dalliance? Had they met privately to finish the interview?

  As Heather led him in our direction, a number of female diners gave him an appraising glance. When they neared the Prices’ table, Felicity smiled with impish pleasure. Parker opened the menu.

  Oscar stopped. “Felicity, good evening. Parker, my man.” He extended his hand.

  Parker offered a terse nod but didn’t shake. Felicity’s mouth turned down in a frown. Had she asked Oscar to stop by to make Parker jealous? If so, her ploy wasn’t working.

  “Parker, don’t be a boor,” she said. “Say hello.”

  “Hello.”

  “Oscar, darling,” Felicity crooned. “When will the article be ready?”

  Parker raised an eyebrow. “What article?”

  Felicity ran a finger seductively along the neckline of her dress. “Oscar is doing a piece on me for the newspaper since I won the semifinal. He writes for the Napa Valley Neighborhood.”

  “Never heard of it,” Parker said.

  Oscar repeated the spiel he’d given me about the expanse of his audience.

  “Parker”—Felicity put her hand on his—“he wants to do a sideline on you, too. It’ll be great publicity for your next campaign.”

  “Whatever.” Parker folded his menu and said, “Mimi, I’d like to order.”

  To his credit, Oscar didn’t flinch at the curt dismissal. In a confident voice, he said, “Have a delightful dinner, you two,” and moved on.

  Felicity sniffed. She craned her neck to see where Heather was taking Oscar.

  “Want to know the specials?” I asked.

  Parker said, “Please tell me you have that duck à l’orange tonight. I didn’t see it on the menu.”

  “It’s listed at the bottom right corner along with the porc à l’orange,” Felicity said with a bite. “Anything orange is hard to miss.”

  Parker ignored the barb and opened the menu. He searched for the item, found it, and closed his menu with a snap. “That’s what I’m having.”

  “I’m not ready yet,” Felicity said. “What are the specials, Mimi?”

  “For the appetizer, chausson du fromage chêvre. For the salad, a mini salade Niçoise. For the main course, either a vegetarian champignon parmentier au gratin—that’s a portabella mushroom topped with mashed potatoes and Gruyère cheese—plus we’re offering grilled halibut topped with purée à la ratatouille.”

  “Perfect. I’ll have the first two and the halibut.” Felicity closed her menu.

  Parker cleared his throat. “Are you sure you want all that, hon?”

  “Are you insinuating that I’m fat?”

  “Of course not, but you want to save room for dessert.” He gazed at me. “Make sure you reserve one of the chef’s chocolate brandy soufflés for me, Mimi.”

  “Make that two.” Felicity stared at her husband, daring him to object. When he didn’t, she said with saccharine sweetness, “And I’ll pass on the chausson whatever.”

  “Chausson chêvre,” Parker said.

  “Right.” Felicity scrunched her nose in a kittenish way. “And we’ll have a bottle of that tantalizing Chardonnay from your mother’s winery. I had it the last time I was here because your boyfriend Nash said it was so good.” She tapped my arm. “By the way, is he ever adorable. I spent time with him when he was volunteering at the festival. What a catch.” She batted her eyelashes in the direction of her husband, and again I wondered whether she was trying to make him jealous. He didn’t seem to be listening. He was scrolling through email on his cell phone. “Apparently my husband is attending to correspondence from his constituents. Isn’t he dedicated?”

  “Seems to be,” I said. “Enjoy your dinner.”

  Around nine thirty, a table of six women who had polished off a half dozen of the specialty soufflés asked to see Chef C. As she emerged through the kitchen door, the women rose to their feet and started whooping like a band of gleeful fans. They weren’t drunk in the slightest, simply enthusiastic. My crowd-shy chef recoiled. Heather and I each clutched one of her elbows and guided her toward the group.

  “It’s okay, Camille,” I said.

  She murmured, “It is only soufflé, and Allie made most of them.”

  “Yes, but you take the bows.”

  Many of the other patrons in the bistro started to applaud. I was sure some were doing so to show their support, knowing of her loss. She suffered through the praise gallantly.

  When she and I returned to the kitchen, she gave me a fierce hug. “Mimi, thank you.”

  “You bet.”

  “Tomorrow morning, I want you to take it easy. Come in late. Allie is being a terrific help.”

  I pretended to be wounded. “You don’t need me?”

  “I will always need you, but you look tired”—she motioned to my eyes—“like your brain has been moving nonstop. A woman needs rest if she is to perform at her level best.”

  “Thanks, Mom,” I jibed.

  Later that night when I retreated to my cottage, our dutiful gardener was puttering in the vegetable garden, a flashlight in his hand.

  I said, “Do you ever sleep, Raymond?”

  “Rarely. I’m good with four hours.”

  The notion hit me that he might be hanging out to keep an eye on me. I had acted pretty jumpy Monday night after seeing the stranger in the vineyard, and again Wednesday evening after running into him when he was carrying the ladder. Plus, Jo might have alerted him to the flowerpot incident.

  As I thought of the events as a whole, worry began to tick through me. Was someone trying to frighten me?

  Shaking off the feeling, I entered the cottage and tossed my purse on the kitchen counter. Scoundrel and Scooter, who appeared out of nowhere, jogged inside with me and circled my ankles. I gazed at them. “Hello, you two. Are you staying?”

  In response, both bounded to the bedroom. Cagney and Lacey, with their snouts pressed to the glass, reminded me of worried parents waiting up for a teenager. I fed them and told them to settle in for the night after they dined. They flipped their tails.

  Close to midnight, I snuggled into bed with the cats nestled at my feet, and I opened a new mystery by Krista Davis about a posh pet hotel. I read three delightful chapters and fell asleep dreaming of vacations I wanted to take. With Nash.

  * * *

  Even though Camille had told me to come in late Friday morning, I awoke early. When I opened the door to the patio, the cats dashed out
. I didn’t worry. They would track down Heather for their breakfast. Wrapped in my robe, I sipped my first cup of coffee and listened to the birds. Then I downed a quickie breakfast of a warmed-up piece of autumn quiche and got dressed in my work clothes. I added some pink dangling earrings to go with my tourmaline necklace for a touch of sparkle.

  Around nine AM, rather than heading directly to the bistro—if I showed up too early, Camille might read me the riot act—I decided to stroll through the festival. Surprisingly, even though the event was going on its sixth day, the crowds were still huge. For one day only, all the sweet-treats vendors were setting up create-your-own tables. Per the vendors’ contracts, fifty percent of the proceeds would go to the education fund. Volunteers were helping out at each location.

  In the Renoir Retreat, Tyson, a few of his deputies, and Jo—who looked radiant in a red-and-white ensemble—were assisting at COLORFUL COOKIES. The vendor had set up a buffet-style table draped with a red-checkered tablecloth. A flurry of parents and children surrounded the table. Nash was there, too, serving up sprinkles, chocolate chips, and cookie icing in plastic cups. Each cup cost a quarter.

  “Hey, beautiful,” he said as I drew near. He slipped an arm around my waist and pecked me on the cheek. “What a wonderful surprise to see you here.”

  A rush of desire swept through me. I kissed his cheek. “Good to see you, too.”

  “What are you doing? Playing hooky? Friday is your day in the kitchen.”

  “Chef C is so excited to be back, she told me to take the morning off.”

  “So she’s the boss now?” He winked.

  “I’m the boss, but she has a helper who’s working out great. Why are you here?”

  “Cookie and I go way back.”

  “Cookie?”

  He hitched his thumb over his shoulder. “The vendor. Charles Charleston. Cookie is his nickname. His father owns The Charleston, a fine restaurant in St. Helena. Great southern food with a wine country flair.” He handed a cup of sprinkles to a curly-headed girl. “How could I say no to a good cause? Want to decorate one, young lady?”