A Soufflé of Suspicion Page 22

  “Thing?” Nash echoed.

  “She liked to aim mirrors at stuff in the garden to make it catch the sunlight, and at night, to reflect the stars.” He mimed the motion, then rotated his head to take a gander at the rest of the bistro. “I’m going to have to bring my fiancée here to show her. She’ll love the ambience.”

  “Your what?” Willow’s voice skated upward.

  “His fiancée,” Nash repeated, his unease gone, a merry glint in his eyes.

  “Eli, you’re engaged?” Willow sounded stunned. “But you never said—”

  “You never asked.” Eli inserted his hands into his pockets. “She’s also my boss, so we’ve been keeping the news on the down-low.”

  I suppressed a smile. His boss was the tall, attractive brunette who had accompanied him to the festival. They would make a good-looking couple.

  Nash patted Eli on the shoulder. “Guess you didn’t get the memo about no fraternizing.”

  Eli grinned. “We started dating two years ago, way before she relocated here to take over the resort. In June, we decided we couldn’t live apart any longer. When the chef’s job became available, I jumped at the chance.”

  I laughed to myself. When Eli had said he’d wanted to catch up with me, that was exactly what he’d wanted to do—catch up—not go on a date. I felt foolish but also relieved.

  On the other hand, Willow was breathing high in her chest and her nose was pinched. Was she fuming because her plan to break up Nash and me had failed? I did a mental happy dance. For once, Willow was one step behind.

  Chapter 21

  After seating Willow and her guests, I attended to my mother’s party and made sure all the meals arrived to each guest’s liking. Whenever I passed by Nash, he threw me an amorous look. I had to tamp down the urge to sneak a kiss.

  Two hours later, after the wine dinner ended and Nash and I made a plan for our Tuesday date to go hot air ballooning, I blazed into the kitchen looking for Allie. With all the activity, I hadn’t had a moment to question her about her afternoon foray. I really wanted to, whether Tyson approved of my intentions or not. I ran full bore into Stefan.

  “Success, huh?” His grin was a mile wide. “Your mom’s guests loved everything.”

  “They didn’t merely love everything. They adored everything.”

  “I heard there was a little bookmaking on the side.” He mimed jotting bets on a tip sheet. “Did that woman everyone called the shark win?”

  I cackled. “She lost big-time. I guess her palate isn’t as fine-tuned as she thinks.”

  “And what was that between you and Nash?” He waggled a finger. “In the corner by the office.”

  “Nothing.”

  “Don’t kid a kidder. He was ready to get down on one knee.”

  “No way.” Before setting our date, we had discussed Willow. He’d assured me he was onto her scheme about trying to fix me up and he wouldn’t let her drive a wedge between us.

  “Way.” Stefan flapped his left hand and crooned the opening line to Beyonce’s “Single Ladies (Put a Ring on It).”

  “Get out of here.” I thwacked him. “Have you seen Allie?”

  “Not recently.”

  I hitched a thumb over my shoulder. “Your dad would like to say hello.”

  “I’m on it. By the way, I hear he and your mother are getting tight. Should I start calling you Sis?”

  “Don’t you dare!”

  “Don’t you want your mother to be happy?”

  “Yes, of course. You and I”—I pinged a finger from his chest to mine—“we’ll talk.”

  “You bet, Sis.” He let out one of his rollicking laughs.

  I ignored him and sidled to Camille, who was removing her chef’s coat. “Have you seen Allie?”

  “Not for quite a while.” She retreated to the rear of the kitchen, tossed her coat into a laundry bin, and joined me. “She did well, once again. She is a real find. However, I do not think she wants this job.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “She looks dreamy-eyed, like she has something else on her mind.”

  Like proving her innocence? I thought.

  “I can do without her, of course. I did before. My energy is returning. You told her this was temporary, so I will leave it up to you to decide when to let her go.”

  “Duly noted.”

  I searched the walk-in refrigerator. Allie wasn’t there. I checked outside the rear door. She wasn’t having a smoke. I hated to admit it, but she must have noticed me in the Jeep and, driven by guilt, decided to hightail it out of Napa Valley. I would have to alert Tyson.

  Oakley sauntered into the kitchen balancing a tray of dinner plates on one shoulder. Her face was moist with perspiration and her lipstick chewed off. “Mimi, the last check has been paid. Busboys are gathering the remaining glassware. There are a few people chatting on the patio, but they don’t seem to need anything. Is it okay if I leave?”

  “Yes. Great work tonight.”

  “Thanks.” She headed to the dishwashing area and paused. “Say, do you know why Allie hustled across the patio earlier to the fire pit? She seemed upset, like she was crying.”

  “You saw her? Is she still there?”

  “I think so. Maybe she needs a word of encouragement from you.”

  “From me?”

  “You’re the boss. Your praise means a lot. By the way, I like her. She’s sweet.”

  And possibly lethal.

  I helped remove the tray from Oakley’s shoulder and set it by the sink. “Have you two talked or shared stories?” Oakley knew everyone’s history. She was quite a whiz with social media.

  “I haven’t had enough time to delve yet, but”—she rubbed her hands together like an evil scientist—“give me time.”

  “All right, get out of here.”

  As I exited the kitchen to the patio, Heather caught up to me. She was holding a tray filled with empty dessert wine glasses. “Where are you going?”

  “To find Allie.”

  “Why?” She shuddered and rasped, “The woman in white. Of course. Allie wears a chef’s coat. Oh, my.” She set the tray on a table and said, “I’m going with you.”

  I knew I couldn’t dissuade her. “Fine.”

  We reached the end of the patio and halted. A single ray of light from an exterior fixture at the rear of the bistro illuminated a woman crouching near the fire pit. When I realized that Allie was indeed crying—her shoulders were heaving—all of my rancor vanished.

  “Allie,” I said and drew near.

  She bolted to a stand and wiped her face with her right hand. In the other, she was holding a kitten—a black one with white paws.

  “Where did you get that?” I asked.

  Allie’s face went blank as if she couldn’t remember.

  “From the storage room,” Heather said. “I brought them to work. My husband had his writing critique group.” Scoundrel and Scooter emerged from the darkness and orbited Allie’s ankles. Heather stuck out her hands. “It’s time to take the kittens home for the night.”

  Allie gave the kitten to her as tears dripped down her cheeks.

  “What’s going on, Allie?” I asked. “Why are you crying?”

  “You didn’t trust me. You followed me this afternoon.”

  I cringed. So she had seen me.

  “Why?” she pleaded.

  “You were acting suspicious.”

  Heather’s gaze swung from Allie to me. “What are you talking about?”

  “Allie swiped Camille’s house keys and let herself into Camille’s house.”

  Allie jutted her chin. “Camille gave me those keys.”

  I threw her a skeptical look.

  “She did. I swear it.” Her eyelids fluttered. She was lying.

  “What did you want?” I asked. “Were you looking to destroy incriminating evidence?”

  “Evidence?” Heather echoed.

  “Of murdering Renee.”

  “I didn’t kill her,”
Allie cried. “I was … I was…”

  “I think you went to Camille’s without permission. I could ask her.” I turned to go.

  “Wait.” Allie reached for me; her fingertips grazed my shoulder. Realizing she’d overstepped, she retreated. “It’s not what you think.”

  I pivoted and folded my arms. “Enlighten us.”

  “Mimi, what is going on?” Camille rounded the plants at the edge of the patio. Her white shirt gleamed as the exterior light hit it. To my surprise, Donovan was with her. He looked hip in a newsboy hat, striped shirt tucked into jeans, and Doc Marten boots. “We heard voices as we were heading to the parking lot.” Camille pulled up short. “Allie, chérie, what is wrong?”

  “Chef C, I’m not a thief.” Allie tucked her hands beneath her armpits.

  Camille addressed me. “What is she talking about?”

  “On the break this afternoon, she borrowed your house keys and stole inside your house.”

  “Whatever for?” Camille asked.

  “I think she wanted to take whatever it was that might indicate she was at the crime scene. Am I warm, Allie?”

  She shook her head. “I didn’t … I wouldn’t … I’ve never been inside Camille’s house until today. Honest. I—”

  I held up a hand to cut her off. “Allie, I think you lied about where you were the night Renee died. Tell us the truth.”

  She gawked at me. “I did lie. I wasn’t home baking. But please don’t jump to conclusions. I wasn’t at Camille’s, either. I didn’t kill Renee.” She chewed her lower lip.

  Heather said, “Sign me up for whatever acting classes she’s taking.”

  I nudged her and whispered, “Only a day ago you wanted to adopt her.”

  “I was wrong,” she countered.

  I refocused on Allie. “Please go on.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Camille. Pain pinched her face. She did not want to relive that night, and yet here she was listening to yet another alibi—this time from someone she had grown fond of.

  “I was spying on a cookie baker,” Allie said, her voice raspy with fear.

  “Who?” Camille asked.

  “Yeah, who?” Donovan echoed.

  “Please, everyone.” I held up both hands. “Let her tell the story.”

  “That’s what it is,” Heather said. “A story.” The kitten in her arms mewed. Scoundrel and Scooter roamed around her, their tails rising in question marks. “Do you see how she’s blinking? It’s a telltale sign that she’s lying.”

  “Heather, c’mon,” I said. “Do I have to banish you from the discussion?”

  “Nope.” She hugged the kitten and smirked. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

  Camille brushed Allie’s shoulder. “Continue.”

  “I needed a recipe for snickerdoodles.” Allie’s face flushed. “There’s this baker who notoriously bakes at night. She’s one of the judges for the festival’s competitions.”

  “I heard about her,” Donovan said. “She’s the one that always wears her hair up.” He twirled a finger at the nape of his neck.

  “That’s right,” Allie said. “I stole over to her house and took photographs of the process through her window.”

  “Sheesh,” Heather said. “Snickerdoodles are easy. I’m a lousy baker, and even I can make them.”

  “Not like hers,” Allie exclaimed. “They’re amazing. See, she believes that snickerdoodles shouldn’t be crisp.” She mimed snapping a cookie in half. “They should be soft and chewy.”

  “I agree,” Donovan said.

  “To do this, I knew she had to add something special to them. I wanted to figure out her secret. Guess what it was? An extra egg.”

  “So simple,” Donovan murmured.

  “Plus, she doesn’t use a mixer. She stirs the batter by hand. That keeps the extra air out of the dough. It was brilliant to behold. And she used a different kind of cinnamon—Vietnamese cassia.”

  “Exquisite,” Donovan said.

  Allie gasped. “You’ve heard of it? I hadn’t. She ground it fresh.”

  “How do you know so much about cookies, Allie?” Camille asked.

  I said, “She’s baked them all her life. That’s the real reason she wanted to put on the Sweet Treats Festival.”

  Allie nodded. “Seeing as Renee cut me out of the event, I decided to open a bakery.”

  Donovan shuffled feet. Was he worried about facing more competition as he embarked on his new career?

  In a flurry, Allie added, “I knew I would need excellent recipes to get started. Not my family recipes. They’re pedantic. I needed super great!” Her enthusiasm, despite her tears, was infectious.

  Camille said, “So you went to my house to get the cookie recipes I boasted about.”

  “To steal them,” I corrected.

  “Chef, you…” Allie faltered. “You said they were so good that you kept them under lock and key.”

  “How many did you take?” I asked.

  “Four. The cardamom madeleines, the chocolate macarons, the langues du chat, and—”

  “What are those?” Heather asked.

  “Cat’s tongues,” Donovan said. “They’re slim cookies dipped in semisweet chocolate.”

  “And your French lace cookies,” Allie went on. “The ones you served at lunch. With the pecans.” She reached into her pants pocket and withdrew recipe cards. She offered them to Camille.

  “Allie…” I let her name hang in the air. All attention focused on me. “I hear you have quite a past.”

  “Who says?”

  “Felicity Parker.”

  Allie placed a hand over her mouth. Through split fingers, she said, “How could she know? My record is sealed.”

  “I would imagine her husband was able to unseal it,” I said. “Did you do something illegal? Did you hurt someone?”

  “No! When I was a teenager, I…” Allie licked her lips. “I shoplifted a few things. From a dime store. Silly stuff. Hairpins and nylons and candy. I wanted to give my mother a good Christmas gift. We didn’t have any money. Hardship makes people do all sorts of stupid stuff.” She faced Camille. “I understand if you don’t want me in your kitchen, Chef, but please know that I did not hurt your sister. She made me mad, but I would never kill anyone. I can’t even squish a spider.”

  I tried to determine whether Allie was lying about any part of her tale. She could have gone to Camille’s hoping to remove evidence that the sheriff had overlooked and snatched the recipes to cover this story. “Allie, did you see anyone when you were spying on the baker?”

  “I didn’t. Someone might have seen me, but I’m not sure. I was really focused. I … Wait a sec. I took photographs.” She rummaged in her other pocket and pulled out her cell phone. “They should be time-stamped.” She swiped the screen and opened the photo album. “There, see?”

  The baker—the twin with the French twist—was hard at work in her kitchen. Allie had recorded a short movie of the woman hand-mixing dough in a bowl, and she had taken photographs of trays upon trays of cookies ready for the double ovens.

  “They aren’t very good,” Allie admitted. “I switched off the automatic flash so she wouldn’t notice me.”

  I returned the cell phone to her.

  “None of this proves I’m innocent, does it?” Allie’s voice cracked. “None of it.”

  The word none sent my thoughts flying to Rusty and the nun who claimed she had seen him outside the courthouse. Would a nun lie? Had Rusty paid her to say he was there? Was the coroner so positive about the time of death that he could rule out Rusty as a suspect?

  Tears pooled in Allie’s eyes again. “Do you believe me?”

  “You hated Renee,” I said. “You wanted her to cede the rights to the festival back to you.”

  “Yes, but that was a pipe dream. We had a contract. I wasn’t savvy enough to understand it. Plus, she had gotten the festival on its feet, not me. She had the know-how and flair; I didn’t. And now Rusty is doing a goo
d job. He seems to have the same pizzazz.”

  A very good job, I thought. Too good? Had he killed his wife so he could gain sole control of the business?

  Camille said, “Mimi, I believe Allie. She did not kill my sister. Let her go.” She clasped Donovan’s hand. Looking deflated at having been deceived, she led him away from the fire pit.

  Allie blinked. “It’s up to you, Mimi.”

  “To fire you?”

  “To believe me.”

  “Before I do, Allie, I want to know what Renee wrote in your contract.”

  “Huh?”

  “When you and Renee went at it last Saturday, you handed her the contract. She wrote something on it. What?”

  Allie moaned. “She drew a pair of lips and told me it meant kiss off.”

  “That was mean-spirited,” Heather murmured.

  Allie’s mouth drew up on one side. “Renee said women had to play tough if they wanted to get ahead. She added that if she had to buck up, then I had to as well.”

  “Buck up about what?” I asked.

  “She didn’t say. Maybe someone was giving her grief. Maybe her husband or a fundraiser or a vendor or—” She blew out an exasperated breath and straightened her shoulders. “I will buck up, Mimi. I will be tough and strong, and I will find my path. Thank you for the chance. You don’t need to pay me. Good-bye.”

  When I arrived home, I was exhausted, but not too tired to notice that the front door of my cottage was ajar.

  Chapter 22

  Scoundrel and Scooter, who had accompanied me home, didn’t seem alarmed. They dashed through the opening and disappeared. Me? I hung back. My adrenaline was pumping so loudly I could barely hear myself think. I pulled my cell phone from my pocket. I wasn’t typically a scaredy-cat, but I also wasn’t stupid. I dialed Raymond, who was on the property, and explained my concern. In a matter of seconds he arrived on his gardening cart.

  “Stand aside, Mimi.” He grabbed a shovel from his array of tools and thwacked the door with his hand. It flew open and bounced off the interior wall.

  The cats darted outside as Raymond stepped inside.

  “Did you leave the television on?” he called, out of sight.