A Soufflé of Suspicion Page 23

  “No.” Dread gripped me. Had someone entered my house? Why switch on the television? “Maybe the maid came by,” I yelled. “She’s scheduled to clean on Wednesdays, but she missed that day.”

  Raymond appeared in the doorway, the shovel resting on his shoulder. “The closets and the bathroom are all clear. I even peeked under the bed and double-checked all the windows. I think you’re right; it was the maid. She turned down the bed and left some sprigs of wisteria on your bedside table.”

  “That was sweet.” I breathed a sigh of relief. “Thanks, Raymond. What would I do without you?”

  “Good question. FYI, Tyson suggested, given your propensity for investigating things that don’t concern you, that you might want to hire a full-time security guard.”

  I smirked. Since when had he and Tyson become best buds? “You two have been talking about me?”

  “He’s the talker; I’m the listener.”

  “Tell him he can take a long walk off a short pier.”

  “Tell him yourself. I’m no dummy.” Raymond winked and made his way to his cart.

  “For the record, these things I look into do concern me or the people I love.”

  Raymond raised one hand in a don’t-shoot-the-messenger gesture, then waved good-bye.

  Scoundrel and Scooter hurtled inside before I closed and locked the door. After brushing my teeth, I crawled into bed with the fireplace poker by my side.

  * * *

  Needless to say, I tossed all night, my dreams filled with images of a tear-streaked Allie and a television gone amok. I awoke with a start Saturday morning. As I showered, I wondered whether I was wrong to have let Allie go free. I downed a mug of strong coffee and a cup of Greek yogurt and mulled over whether she had duped us with her tearful plea. I returned the fireplace poker to its usual spot and pondered whether she’d had the time to race from the fire pit to my place and switch on the TV. How would she have entered? The front door lock was intact. If not her, then who? Did the killer think I knew something and believe that scaring me would make me hold my tongue?

  Cagney and Lacey gazed at me. I tapped the glass and said, “I’m okay. Don’t worry.” Then I signaled Scoundrel and Scooter, who were lying in their new rightful places on my bed, and said, “Let’s go.”

  They bolted out the door ahead of me. I locked it and double-checked the knob to make sure I wasn’t lax, and then headed to work.

  Feeling safe within the bistro kitchen’s walls, Chef C and I put together Saturday lunch and dinner menus. Despite her sorrow about her sister’s death and losing Allie as a helper, she seemed chipper.

  During a break, I sat at the farmhouse-style table and downed a slice of her French apple tart enhanced with apricot jelly. Sure, Greek yogurt was good for me, but it didn’t take the place of a delectable slice of tart.

  Camille took a seat beside me. “My date with Donovan went well.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.”

  “You were right. He says he is dedicated to me.” Her eyes misted over. “I cannot believe it, of course. I am so blessed.” She folded her hands in her lap and added, “I will be seeing him again after tonight’s closing.”

  “Good for you.”

  “How about you and Nash? Are you doing okay?”

  Nash? I had to admit I hadn’t thought about him since the confrontation with Allie. My mind had been going a mile a minute. “We have a date on Tuesday.”

  “Good. Do not let life distract you from living.”

  * * *

  Following lunch service, I experienced a desperate need to drink in fresh air and stretch my legs. I ventured over to the festival. I wanted to observe the last day’s final competition featuring soufflés. I entered the tent through the west gate and stood near the rear. Among the crowd, I caught sight of Allie. She was standing along the far side of the tent. Her mane of hair was windblown, but the rest of her looked festive and upbeat. She was wearing a tomato-red romper with a lime-green T-shirt beneath, and her arms sported colorful beaded bracelets.

  Rusty was standing near the east tent entrance, arms folded across his body, mouth set, shoulders hunched. He seemed to be fighting hard to keep his eyes open. Had he stayed up past his bedtime and snuck into my cottage pretending to be the maid?

  “Let’s get a move on,” the moderator said into a microphone.

  The sister judges roved in front of the three finalists on the stage. The twin with the French twist—the one who was featured in Allie’s snickerdoodle movie—tapped each presentation table as she passed.

  I was surprised to see the contestant I’d nicknamed Barbie Martha on stage. Yet again she sported a perfect hairdo and wore a spotless ruffled apron over a black dress. She put her utensils down and held up both hands. The sign at her station read CHOCOLATE SOUFFLÉ WITH RASPBERRY SAUCE. Next to the sign sat a beautiful soufflé, baked in a CorningWare French white round baking dish. The audience could view her masterpiece via the slanted mirrors that hung overhead. My mouth began to salivate. I loved a combination of chocolate and raspberries. Heaven!

  Within seconds, the twin with the French twist stopped in front of Barbie Martha and raised a hand. Barbie Martha squealed with delight, received her ribbon, and headed down the stairs toward Oscar Orsini, who was waiting with his digital camera in hand.

  Before she could reach him, however, Felicity, in a snug pearl white dress, and Louvain, wearing a flouncy orange getup, approached her. None exchanged hugs or congratulations. In fact, Felicity and Louvain faced off against Barbie Martha like she was their foe in a Western-style standoff. Nobody was packing heat, but the sparks were flying between them.

  Uh-oh, I thought.

  “You had no right to enter another competition,” Felicity said loudly enough that I could pick up their exchange, even over the movement of the boisterous crowd snaking out of the tent.

  “We were allowed to enter any and all competitions,” Barbie Martha replied in a squeaky-high voice that didn’t quite fit her idyllic looks. Maybe she was nervous. She was confronting two wildcat women, after all. “Didn’t you read the fine print? One must always read the—”

  “You did this on purpose.” Louvain poked the woman just beneath her clavicle. “To make Felicity look bad.”

  Okay, my head was spinning. Louvain was having an affair with Felicity’s husband, and yet, here she was, defending Felicity in public. Why? To cover up the affair or because she liked Felicity, who claimed they were tight?

  “You’ve been doing this since high school, Bebe,” Louvain continued. “It’s always a competition for you. Always.”

  I stifled a snort. The woman’s name was Bebe? That sounded a heck of a lot like Barbie. Maybe I did have ESP.

  “She’s right, Bebe,” Felicity said. “You ran against me for class president.”

  “And tried to out-bake me for the home economics award,” Louvain added.

  “And your husband.” Felicity wagged her finger. “Honestly. Why did he feel compelled to run against Parker for councilman? I’ll tell you why. Because you put him up to it.”

  “He lost, of course.” Louvain smirked.

  “And let’s not forget last month”—Felicity leaned in, her eyes gleaming with malicious intent—“when your daughter, as if she were your stand-in, vied against my talented Philomena for the part of Grizabella.”

  “We know how that worked out,” Louvain said.

  For a moment, I thought Bebe might cry. She was blinking rapidly. Her lower lip was quivering. But then she stood taller, lifted her chin, and offered a regal smile. “This is one contest I won’t lose, ladies. You wait and see. Soufflé will reign supreme.”

  I smirked. An Iron Chef couldn’t have announced that last line better.

  “You’ll have to come with your A games,” Bebe added, and without another word, strutted away.

  Felicity and Louvain stormed after her.

  Oscar strode after them, too. “Ladies, wait!”

  Rusty raced up to me. “This is ho
rrible. Is there going to be a catfight?”

  “No,” I assured him. “It’ll blow over.”

  “You think?”

  “It will.” Allie joined us, her face flushed with energy. “Felicity and Louvain are trying to rile Bebe to throw her off her game.”

  “You know them?” I asked.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “How?”

  “Because…” She seemed to be searching for the right words. “Because I’m the one in charge of the celebratory wine tasting today for the semifinalists and finalists.”

  “At the bistro,” Rusty said.

  At the bistro? Why hadn’t I heard about this?

  “Right,” Allie said. “I made it a point to get to know their names.”

  “Who put you in charge?” I asked.

  “Renee had designated Heather as the party point person, but Heather has been so busy with the crowds at the bistro that she offered me the job when I started helping out temporarily in the kitchen, and I…” Allie licked her lips.

  Suddenly I understood why Heather had been so upset with Allie last night. As swamped as she was, the responsibility of throwing a celebratory party would now fall on her shoulders.

  “Rusty said it was okay if I did it,” Allie said. “It’s only one event. I won’t be there long. I know you don’t trust me, Mimi, but if you say yes, I’ll tell Rusty everything.”

  “Why would you have to explain anything to Rusty?” I asked.

  “Because he’s—”

  “Hold it.” Rusty’s gaze swung from her to me. “What’s going on?”

  “I stole recipes from Chef C,” Allie confessed.

  “Yeah, so?”

  “Recipes are proprietary.”

  “Big deal.”

  “It is a big deal because I snuck into Chef C’s house without permission, and Mimi saw me, and, well”—Allie jammed her lips together and popped them open—“she thought I might have killed Renee and gone there to remove evidence. But I didn’t kill her, Rusty. I swear. I could never kill anyone. I think Mimi believes me, but I’m no longer in her employ, so I don’t have any references.”

  “References for what?” I asked.

  “Rusty wants to hire me to help with the festival, and he said I could manage the party.”

  “I thought you wanted to open a bakery.”

  “I told you last night, that’s a fantasy.”

  Rusty held up a hand and leveled me with a stare. “Mimi, where do you stand?”

  “Camille forgave her.”

  “And you?”

  “She works hard,” I said judiciously, though I was still wondering about the break-in at my cottage. Had Allie stolen inside to mess with my head after we parted ways, or was leaving the television on and not closing the door merely an oversight by the maid? The bed had been turned down. I’d have to check with Jo on that.

  “I don’t see a problem.” Rusty stuck out his hand. Allie pumped it. “You usher the three finalists to the party. I sure as heck don’t want to be present, given their attitudes.” He released her hand. “When that’s over, escort them back and stick around. I’ll need you for tonight’s contest and the closing ceremony.”

  “Really?” Allie’s face filled with hope.

  “People always need a second chance,” Rusty said. “Maybe even the benefit of the doubt. Didn’t you feel that way a few months ago, Mimi?” He threw me a mocking look. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure you did.”

  He marched away without waiting for a reply.

  While Allie rounded up the three contentious females, I returned to the bistro to find the rear patio decorated with blue streamers and white balloons. The multicolored vases Willow had gifted to me in June were filled with freshly cut blue asters. Red had placed wineglasses as well as opened bottles of Cabernet and Chardonnay on a buffet table. Stefan and Oakley were setting out an array of pâté and cheeses to the right of the wine.

  Heather met me as I entered and advised me that the semifinal competitors who had lost their rounds had arrived. Each had been allowed to invite one or two guests. Finalists’ family members were there, too, she added. No one seemed downhearted. Chatter abounded about who might win tonight.

  “I wish I’d known about this soiree,” I said.

  “Did I forget to tell you?” Heather blanched. “Gosh, I’m sorry. We’ve had so much going on with the festival and Renee and last night’s encounter with Allie. I’ve got to start making lists.”

  “Rusty has allowed Allie to remain in charge of this portion of the festival.”

  “And you didn’t countermand him?”

  “How could I? It’s not my festival. I simply own the location. Besides goodwill breeds goodwill.”

  “Mimi!” Parker was standing with a dignified gentleman whom I recognized from political posters—Bebe’s husband. There didn’t seem to be any animosity between the two men. “Nice gig,” he called. “Where’s my bride?”

  “On her way.” Along with your paramour, I thought but didn’t offer.

  Philomena had stationed herself at a bistro table with another girl her age. By the look of her, I figured the girl was Bebe’s daughter—perfect hair, cheekbones, and figure. She was a total contrast to gawky Philomena, although both girls were wearing holey jeans and pastel crop-tops. The two were sipping the bistro’s specialty lemonade while engrossed in something on their iPhones.

  When Louvain, Felicity, and Bebe followed Allie inside, a chesty woman with white-blonde hair wiggled a flute of champagne and shouted, “Hey, sis. You-hoo! Lovey, over here!” Louvain’s sister, I determined.

  “Be right there,” Louvain said.

  Allie guided the three women around the patio, pointing out the various food stations.

  Bebe said, “Excuse me a sec.” She strode to the teenagers and tapped her watch. “Fifteen minutes, ladies, and we leave for the theater.”

  “But what about the party?” her daughter whined.

  “You’ll have plenty of parties in your lifetime. We have to clean up the theater so I can get back here in time for the final bake-off. Drink up.” Bebe rejoined Allie and the others. “Felicity, will you be joining us for theater cleanup?”

  “Not on a bet. You’ll do fine without me. It’s party time.” Felicity tapped Louvain on the shoulder, hooked a finger to follow her, and made a beeline for me. “Mimi, come with us.” She led the way to Parker. “Darling,” she said curtly.

  Parker looped an arm around her waist and pecked her on the cheek. “Hey, hon,” he said, and added, “Hello, Louvain.”

  “Parker.” Her tone was sultry and rife with hidden meaning.

  “How did the competition go?” Parker asked. “Who won this afternoon’s round?”

  “Bebe.” Felicity wrinkled her nose.

  Parker chuckled. “Are you peeved beyond compare?”

  “Sort of.”

  Parker squeezed her. “It’s time to end the feud, hon.”

  “Feud? We don’t have a feud.” Felicity eyed Bebe’s husband. “Bebe and I are besties.”

  “As if,” Louvain said. “You and I are BFFs.”

  Felicity bobbed her head. “That’s true. Since high school. Speaking of which—”

  “Uh-uh. Don’t.” Louvain swatted Felicity’s arm. “I do not want to think about our wild heathen days.”

  “Heathen? Speak for yourself, girlfriend.”

  “My, my. How we partied hearty.” Louvain flapped a hand in front of her face. “Why, I remember when we went to get tattoos at two in the morning.”

  “You have a tattoo, Louvain?” Parker asked.

  “I do.”

  “What is it?”

  “I’m not telling.” She wagged her index finger.

  “She won’t even tell me,” Felicity said.

  Louvain pursed her lips. “Because it’s a secret.”

  “C’mon, spill,” Parker said.

  I spluttered. Was the game he and Louvain were playing foreplay, or were they taunting Felicity and daring
her to make a scene?

  Felicity wriggled from her husband’s grasp. “Parker, darling, I told you what Oscar Orsini is doing, didn’t I? Of course I did. He’s putting together a piece on some of the festival’s competitors. Will you have time for your sit-down with him tomorrow morning?” She petted his cheek. “Of course you will.” She smiled at Louvain. “He’s doing a piece on you, too, isn’t he, Lovey?”

  Louvain reddened. Her jaw ticked. With all the pluck she could muster, she said, “Who needs someone to pry into one’s affairs? Privacy is underrated.” She hurried in haste to her sister, accepted the glass of champagne, and downed it in one gulp.

  Felicity smirked.

  Oh, yeah, she knew about the affair, but she held the upper hand. She was married to Parker, and I doubted she would ever grant him a divorce.

  “Mimi!” Oakley burst through the door from the kitchen and raced to me. She clasped my hand. “Come quick.”

  Chapter 23

  “It’s Chef C,” Oakley said.

  “Is she sick? Choking?” My voice skated upward as I hurried after her. “Is it her heart? Have you called 911?”

  “It’s not her heart. It’s … it’s…” She couldn’t form words.

  I followed her into the kitchen and found Camille sitting on a stool, her toque resting on the counter, her shoulders hunched. She was clutching a cream-colored notecard and a mangled envelope in her hands.

  “She’s so sad,” Oakley whispered.

  “I can see that.” My pulse settled down. I motioned to Oakley to return to the party. She hesitated, like she didn’t want to leave Camille. I understood. It was hard to see someone you admired—someone you thought was as strong as brandy—broken. “Go on.”

  She departed.

  “Chef,” I said and drew near. “Bad news?”

  Camille peered up at me. Tears brimmed in her eyes. She flourished the notecard. “Oui.”

  “Who wrote you?” I asked. “Your daughter? Is Chantalle okay?”

  “It is from Renee.”

  How horrible. I couldn’t imagine receiving correspondence from Derrick or my father or Bryan after their deaths, as if they were talking to me from their graves.

  “It came in the bistro’s mail today,” she continued. “The original envelope is postmarked the day she died, but it—” Her voice caught. “It was damaged. It was delivered in a postal package.”