A Soufflé of Suspicion Page 25

  Bebe rolled her eyes. “How like Felicity, convincing everyone she was present and then wheedling her way out of helping by hiding in the restroom. In the privacy of a stall, she could check stock prices on her cell phone.” She mimed swiping her finger on a digital device. “But Sally’s mistaken. I saw Felicity leave the theater with a bunch of costume pieces she said she was going to repair. She preferred to use her own sewing machine.”

  “Wait a sec. Isn’t Sally the wardrobe coordinator for the theater?”

  “She is, but we’re overwhelmed at this point with last-minute touchups. I’d bet Felicity didn’t tell Sally what she was doing because she wanted to make sure her daughter’s costume was the best of the bunch.”

  As I pushed my pile of debris toward Philomena, I pondered whether Felicity had taken more than the costumes for Cats—like an overcoat and earflap hat.

  Bebe swept her pile of confetti toward mine. “Philomena, help us out.”

  The girl squatted and set her dustpan near my broom. “Go ahead, Miss Rousseau.”

  “Call me Mimi.” I pushed the pile into the pan.

  Bebe followed suit. When she finished, she collected my broom. “Dump that, Philomena. Mimi, thanks for the help.”

  She headed across the stage, and I couldn’t help wondering why Sally had believed Felicity had been sick in the restroom. Get real, Mimi. Maybe it was a simple case of Felicity telling her it was so and Sally being too busy to notice Felicity had hoodwinked her.

  On the other hand, Bebe could be lying. She had pivoted away from me. Was she avoiding making eye contact because she’d meant to implicate Felicity? There was clearly no love lost between them. The notion that Felicity had left with costumes in hand, however, had the ring of truth.

  “Bebe, do you have a wardrobe room filled with costumes, or do you make or rent new ones for each production?”

  “Sorry”—she pivoted, her finger rummaging in her eye—“got a blast of dust.” That explained why she’d turned away from me. “Costumes? We’re overflowing with them. People are always donating. St. Mary’s is known for high-quality shows. The locals like to support that.”

  I pictured Felicity finding an overcoat and earflap-style hat in the mix of costumes. Not necessarily that night. It could have been any night. But that was when the idea must have come to her. Under the guise of taking the costumes home for repair, she could sneak to Camille’s neighborhood, pretending to be her husband, limp and all. By doing so, she could implicate him in Renee’s murder. That would jeopardize his future, of course, but Parker had said she was wicked smart. Maybe Felicity had realized that she, the aggrieved wife of a murderer and adulterer, could move up the political ladder without him.

  But why kill Renee? Did she truly believe Parker was having an affair with her as well as Louvain? What if Renee had hinted as much to Felicity when she’d gone to her house for tea? Had that pushed Felicity over the edge?

  * * *

  Driving to the bistro, I telephoned Tyson. He was out and couldn’t be reached. I left a voicemail message about Felicity’s iffy alibi and possible motive and dialed Jo.

  “Phew,” she said. “You got my text.”

  “No, I didn’t. What’s wrong?” I glanced at my cell phone screen. Blank.

  “Rusty is in the hospital. He fell off a ladder. No one was around. A volunteer found him lying in the Sisley Garden, out cold. She was distraught and couldn’t rouse him. She called 911 and rode with him in the ambulance. She contacted me from the hospital.”

  A chill ran up the nape of my neck. I said, “Where was Allie?”

  “Allie?”

  “Yes, Allie.”

  I scrapped my meanderings about Felicity and refocused on Allie. Was she innocent of Renee’s murder, as everyone—including me—wanted to believe, or had she killed Renee and was now muscling her way into the festival circuit by putting Rusty out of commission, too?

  “She’s at the bistro.” Jo could see the rear patio from her office window. “She’s standing with Heather. The party is spirited. Why?”

  I explained my suspicion.

  Jo tsked. “Allie had nothing to do with his accident. I’m sure of it. Come back to work and we’ll talk. Where have you been?”

  I told her about my visit to the newspaper office and how that had raised my suspicions about Felicity’s alibi, which had led me to St. Mary’s High School, but added that I couldn’t nail down her motive. Jealousy was all I could come up with.

  “Might I remind you”—Jo cleared her throat on purpose—“that Felicity was in the vicinity when the flowerpot careened toward you, and she was present when you ingested that poison.”

  “I’m not sure it was poison.”

  “It was toxic. Don’t quibble. Did you call Tyson and tell him your concerns?”

  “Right before calling you. He was out. I left a message.”

  “I’ll track him down. You get back to the bistro and detain Felicity. When Tyson gets there, he’ll make sense of the mess.”

  The mess!

  “Jo,” I blurted as an image scudded through my mind. “The mess on the floor at Camille’s. I thought Renee had tried to draw a heart in the flour.”

  “What flour?”

  “From the canister. I told you about the flour on the floor. There were snippets of paper and feathers and seed and…” I waved a hand. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is … what if she wasn’t drawing a heart but she was drawing the beginning of an infinity sign? Felicity has a tattoo on her back.”

  “Which would mean Renee was implicating her.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Hurry.”

  Traffic was a bear going north. Crush Week crowds were out in force. I arrived at the bistro twenty minutes later. Taking the last turn too fast, my wheels skidded on the pavement. I hit the brakes and came to a screeching halt. I bolted from the car and raced to the rear patio.

  Oakley was setting platters of dessert on each table. Red was pouring champagne. Parker and Bebe’s husband were sitting at one table having a heated tête-à-tête. Louvain was cackling at something her sister had said. Across the room, two blurs of white caught my eye. Felicity was at the buffet table dodging Stefan. He was doing his best to remove serving dishes.

  Felicity was talking into her cell phone. When she caught sight of me, she frowned. Loudly enough for all to hear, she said to whoever was on the line, “Oh, yes, I’ll win the finals. You can bet on it. I’ve got my game face on.” The conversation sounded forced, like she was trying to prove she was talking to a fan, but when she stared daggers at me, I knew something was wonky. Was she talking to Oscar? Was he telling her about my interest in her photo spread? Or maybe Bebe was Felicity’s friend after all and had alerted her that, oops, she had contradicted Felicity’s alibi for the night Renee was killed.

  Someone tapped me on the shoulder. I whipped around.

  Allie blinked and retreated a pace, arms raised. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “You didn’t. Actually, yes you did, but—”

  “Did you hear about Rusty?” She lowered her arms and tugged her tomato-colored romper down around her hips.

  “Poor guy. I hope he’s going to be all right.”

  “Me, too. We were working so well together.”

  I shot her a curious look.

  “Not in that way.” Allie flapped her hands like Oscar had, denying any hint of scandal. “I’m not into guys. Hey”—she pointed toward the floor—“what’s that on your shoe, toilet paper?”

  I glanced down. I had tracked in a strip of confetti from the theater. I bent to remove it and stopped as I thought again of the mess at the crime scene. Little snippets of paper had been mixed in with the chicken feed and feathers on Camille’s kitchen floor. Camille had thought Renee had tracked in the scraps from the festival or from her visit to The Bookery, seeing as they had been having a celebration. But what if Felicity had tracked in the confetti? Even though the student actors cleaned up after ever
y performance, bits of confetti would have lingered. Had some stuck to her shoes? Tyson’s technicians would have logged in the evidence they’d found at the crime scene. Maybe he could locate a piece of confetti and match it to the stuff used at the theater.

  Felicity ended her call, hoisted her tote higher on her shoulder, and stomped to the exit. “Parker, I’m leaving.”

  Oh, no, she wasn’t. I raced after her.

  Chapter 25

  I reached the door first because Felicity had paused by her husband’s table.

  “On your feet, Parker,” she said. “It’s time to go.”

  “Not now, hon,” Parker said. “We’re just getting to the good stuff.”

  Heather entered the patio from the main dining room and joined me. “What’s going on? Why are you out of breath?”

  I pointed to Felicity. “I can’t let her leave.”

  “Now, Parker,” Felicity said.

  “Uh-uh. You know how I like these little tarts.” He lifted a plate of cookies, mini fruit tarts, and ramekins of vanilla soufflé. Camille had gone all out with the dessert choices. “If you’ll be kind enough to get me some milk for my tea.”

  “Milk? Why you…” Felicity growled. “Get it yourself. Or better yet, have your tart Louvain get it for you.”

  Parker blanched. Louvain cringed.

  “Yes,” Felicity said, her voice rising in intensity, “I know about you and Louvain and your matching football tattoos.”

  “F-football tattoo?” Louvain sputtered. “I don’t—”

  “Do you think I’m blind, Lovey?” Felicity shouted as she kept her focus on her husband. “Are you leaving me for her, Parker? Is that the plan? Well, if it is, get ready, darling, because she’s going to milk you for all you’re worth. She’s after you for your money. Capital M-O-N-E-Y.”

  “That’s not true,” Louvain blurted. “I love him.”

  Bebe’s husband and the others on the patio froze, as if immobilized in a tableau.

  As Felicity continued her rant about Parker being weak and Louvain being easy, the word money went pow in my brain, and the conversation I’d witnessed between Renee and Felicity started to make sense. Renee had praised Felicity and Parker for being adept at fundraising for education. Right afterward, Renee had taunted her with the cookie. Felicity had demurred, claiming she didn’t eat sweets. Renee countered that she knew Felicity enjoyed dipping cookies into skim milk, and added, “We’ve got to watch our figures, don’t we?” At the time, I hadn’t picked up on the underlying meaning. Sure, Renee had punctuated a few of the words, but, not knowing her well, I’d thought it was her cadence. Looking back, the words skim milk and figures stood out. She had gone on to say that she had received quite an education after viewing Felicity’s book collection. She hadn’t meant literature books; she’d meant accounting books. Had Renee discovered that Felicity’s husband was skimming money from their fundraising? Had she been baiting Felicity to confess Parker’s guilt, or had she, in front of me and the rest of the festivalgoers, been blackmailing Felicity?

  The telephone at the hostess desk jangled. I hoped it was Jo calling to say Tyson was en route. I was convinced Felicity had killed Renee not out of jealousy but out of self-preservation, and she was ready to flee the scene.

  “Felicity,” I said.

  She didn’t respond. She was still raving at her wayward husband for being spineless.

  I recalled another moment when Allie had told me what Renee had said after drawing lips on their contract—she’d had to buck up and be tougher than most. Tougher in what way? Had Renee extorted Felicity in order to fund future festival plans? Had she told Felicity that she would expose her husband’s skimming operation and not simply ruin Felicity’s standing in the community but destroy Parker’s political career, as well? Parker had shown up at that moment and guided Felicity away from Renee. Had Felicity mentioned the issue with Renee to him? Had Parker, knowing he was leaving Felicity for Louvain, sloughed it off? Maybe that was why Felicity had decided to implicate Parker in Renee’s murder. She could kill two birds with one stone.

  My breathing heightened as I stepped toward Parker’s table. I had to ask. I had to know the truth. I said, “Sir.”

  “What?” Parker snapped, then quickly looked relieved to be facing someone other than his outraged wife. “Sorry, Mimi. Call me Parker.”

  “Pardon my bluntness, sir, but um…” I hesitated.

  “How dare you butt in.” Felicity’s lip turned up in a snarl.

  “Back off, hon. She wants to ask me a question. Go on, Mimi.”

  “Sir, were you skimming from the education fundraising accounts?”

  “What?” He scrambled to his feet. His face blazed red. “I can’t believe you would ask such a thing. I am as honest”—he thumped his chest—“as the day is long.”

  Felicity snorted. “Except when it comes to matters of the heart.”

  Parker recoiled. Louvain wheezed and turned pale.

  “Then it was you, Felicity,” I said.

  She raised her chin. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You skimmed funds and juggled the books. Renee found out. She threatened to reveal what you did.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “If she told the world that Parker was having an affair, big deal. That wouldn’t hamper his or even your future if you decided to enter politics. But larceny would.”

  Parker grabbed hold of Felicity’s arm. “What is Mimi talking about? What did you do?”

  Felicity hissed. “She has no proof.”

  “Has no proof? Did you do it?” His gaze grew dark. “Did you? Answer me.”

  She blinked.

  He thrust her away. “You disgust me.”

  “Don’t get all high and mighty with me, darling,” she said as she smoothed the skirt of her pearl-white dress.

  Heather’s warning, Beware of a woman in white, zipped through my mind.

  “How did you think we were affording all our trips?” Felicity went on. “And our lifestyle and the private school for Philomena? Not on your meager salary.”

  “But I thought…” Parker wagged his head. “You said you were good with a budget. Math was always your forte.”

  “You were wearing blinders.”

  I said, “Renee saw evidence at your house when you invited her for tea, didn’t she, Felicity?”

  She looked down her nose at me. “There I was being all nice and sweet to her, making her favorite tea, and what did she do? Snooped. The gall.”

  “She taunted you at the festival in front of me, but I didn’t catch the threat at the time.”

  “She was quite good at a double entendre.”

  “You went to Camille’s house that night to confront her.”

  “You can’t prove that.”

  “You dressed up as Parker.”

  Felicity pursed her lips.

  “I’m guessing you’d been following him frequently to confirm he was having an affair with Louvain and quickly realized he was also going to my chef’s neighborhood on a regular basis. At first, you probably suspected him of carrying on two affairs, but you soon learned he was taking piano lessons.”

  She clucked her tongue, but she didn’t deny it.

  “That fit right into your plan,” I continued. “People had seen him there, so on the night of the murder, to implicate him, you put on an overcoat and earflap hat and limped through the neighborhood.”

  “That’s crazy. His coat would hang down to my ankles.”

  “Not his coat. A coat you borrowed from the high school theater’s costume closet.”

  “Speaking of high school”—she dumped her cell phone into her tote and folded her arms—“need I remind you that I have an alibi? I was at the theater until the end of rehearsal. Sally Somers will corroborate that.”

  “She did. She said you were sicker than a dog.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Except Bebe saw you leaving with costumes. Was there
an overcoat in the mix, I wonder?”

  Felicity cocked a hip. “Bebe hates me. Sally will confirm—”

  “I think you fooled Sally. You left the theater, drove to Camille’s neighborhood, and waited for Renee to enter her sister’s house—”

  “I did not.”

  “And then you hobbled along the street. When you arrived, to your delight, you found the door unlocked. Renee was expecting her sister to come home from work. You entered and explained that you wanted to settle accounts. Did you offer her hush money?”

  “Hush money?” Her mouth grew thin and cruel. “Mimi, for heaven’s sake. What dime-store novel have you been reading?”

  “You told her you would pay for her silence, but she turned you down,” I continued, undeterred. “Did she laugh? Did she insult you? Was that what enraged you so much that you slammed her in the head with the mixer? Before she died, she tried to draw an infinity sign in the flour on the floor. A sign like the tattoo on your back.”

  “That’s it. I’ve heard enough lies. Parker”—Felicity glowered at her husband—“you are a poor excuse of a man. Why aren’t you standing up for me? Why aren’t you defending me, the love of your life? And why, for heaven’s sake, were you taking those stupid piano lessons?”

  Parker’s mouth opened but no words came out.

  “Because I asked him to.” Louvain pressed a hand on her chest. “He did it for me. We intend to play duets together.”

  Aha. Parker had lied to Betty about his reason for needing lessons.

  Felicity huffed. “You never appreciated what I did for you, Parker. I helped you get through college. I negotiated your football contract. I planned your future. Our future. You weren’t going to stay a councilman forever. You were going to become governor and then president. It was simply a matter of time. Well, guess what, you idiot? You jumped into another bed and lost that chance.” She stomped toward the exit.

  “Wait!” I hurried after her and grabbed her arm. She had yet to admit anything.

  “Give it up, Mimi.” She tugged free. Her tote plummeted to the floor. Out of it spilled her cell phone, a multitude of makeup, and a packet of wisteria seeds with its top rolled over as if it had been opened.