A Soufflé of Suspicion Page 5

  He offered a gotcha wink. “Let’s go through the timeline. You first, Chef.” Tyson faced Camille. “Tell me when you last saw your sister.”

  “She visited me at the bistro. She left…” Camille silently implored me for help.

  “During the dinner service, around eight thirty or so,” I said. “She was on her way home to make a new dessert. Right after she argued with Allie O’Malley.”

  “She called me when she arrived,” Camille added.

  Tyson wrote more notes on the pad. “What happened next?”

  Camille repeated what she had said to me, about going to the grocery store and returning home at eleven thirty. That was when she found Renee on the floor. She added that her sister could be an imp, so she believed Renee was playing a trick on her. “But she was not.”

  “You left the bistro at what time?” Tyson asked.

  “Around ten thirty,” I answered for her. “The same time as I did.”

  “I needed to buy eggs.”

  “Why didn’t you grab a couple of eggs from the bistro?” Tyson asked.

  She gasped. “That would be stealing.”

  “Why did it take you an hour to purchase eggs?” Tyson asked. “Was the store packed with Crush Week fans suffering the munchies?” He pocketed his notepad and moved farther into the living room. He inspected the lit candle on the coffee table. It looked brand-new. The wax had melted about two hours’ worth. He pressed on. What was he looking for?

  The two end table lamps flanking the all-white sofa were switched on. Only now did I realize that the music that was playing was all Sinatra. He was singing “That Old Black Magic.” Renee must have put on the music. Camille wouldn’t have done so after what she had seen.

  Tyson ambled to the bookshelves behind the sofa and picked up a CD case. He flipped it over, perused the backside, and returned it to where he’d found it.

  “I asked you a question, Camille,” Tyson said. “Was the grocery store busy?”

  “No.” Camille pushed away from me, her face suffused with fear.

  “So where were you for the remainder of the time?”

  “I took a walk in the woods.”

  “At night?”

  “I often walk at night. I like the sounds of the creatures. I am indoors all day at the bistro. I carry a flashlight with me.”

  “She does take walks,” I said. “At Yountville Crossroads. It’s an easy hiking route—”

  “I didn’t ask you, Mimi.” Tyson threw me a cautionary look. “Is that where you walked, Chef?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did anyone see you?”

  “I do not know. I did not happen to see anyone.” Camille hugged herself again. She started rubbing her arms and cut a worried look at me.

  Tyson ran his hand along the two-seater sofa. He jostled a throw pillow and dug deeper, between the seat cushion and the back of the sofa. “What’s this?” He pulled out a piece of white stationary and unfolded it. “Well, well.” His eyes widened. “It seems I’m holding a declaration of love from your sister to Donovan Coleman.”

  Camille sucked in air. She turned milk white.

  “Aren’t you and Donovan an item, Chef?” Tyson asked.

  “No,” she said, her answer clipped.

  “I think you are. I dine at the bistro often enough to hear the gossip.”

  “We have been on a date or two.”

  “Why would your sister have hidden this love letter?” Tyson withdrew a plastic baggie from his pocket, slipped the note into it, and set it on the stack of cookbooks.

  “Maybe she felt it was fanciful and did not want me to see it,” Camille offered.

  I stared at the kitchen and recalled my encounter with Renee at the festival and how she had raved about the splendid morning she and Donovan had spent in Calistoga. How had I not picked up on her infatuation? Talk about dense! I glanced at the sprinkling of flour on the floor and noticed a squiggle in it. Had Renee tried to draw a heart before she died?

  Tyson said, “What are you looking at, Mimi?”

  “Me?” My voice cracked. “No footprints.”

  “I noticed that. I also see the makings for soufflé on the counter,” he said. Jo had told me Tyson was a whiz at fixing deli sandwiches. Was he also a baker? “Why were you gawking at them?”

  Camille cleared her throat. “I will answer, Mimi. Sergeant, I was going to teach my sister how to make chocolate soufflé. She was not a cook.” She shifted feet. “She must have learned soufflé was Donovan’s favorite dessert.”

  “You knew that?” I asked.

  “Oui. I suppose, by the words in that note—”

  “She had a crush on him. How did that make you feel?” Tyson asked.

  She thrust her hand at the note. “I did not know until you read that.”

  “Are you sure? Maybe you were the one who stuffed this note behind the pillow.”

  “I did no such thing.”

  “Maybe you hid it before you called Mimi, knowing it would be incriminating.”

  “No.”

  Tyson tossed the bagged note on top of the cookbooks on the end table. “Were you jealous of your sister, Camille? Did you think she might steal Donovan away from you?”

  “She is”—she faltered—“was married.”

  “Married people do all sorts of silly things when it comes to love.”

  Camille sniffed. “That is a jaded view of life, monsieur,” she said, reverting to her native tongue. She mumbled something else in French that I couldn’t make out. I did pick up the word beast.

  Tyson ran a hand along the sides of his hair, smoothing it off his face. “Did anyone see you walking in the woods, Camille?”

  “I told you, no. At least I do not think so. I did not see a flare from another flashlight.”

  He grimaced. “I hate to say it, but your alibi is weak.”

  Camille hurried to me and clutched my hand. “Mimi.” She was shivering like an aspen. Her hands were cold as ice.

  “Is there something you’re not revealing?” I asked her.

  Her shoulders sagged. “Yes, all right. I knew about her infatuation. I admit it. She told me tonight as I was icing a dozen mille-feuille.”

  “Napoleons,” I explained to Tyson.

  “Did others in the kitchen hear her?” he asked.

  “No. I do not know. I—”

  Tyson made a clucking sound.

  “Stop!” Camille demanded. “Do not mock me. I did not kill my sister.”

  I threw Tyson a scathing glance, begging him to be patient. “Go on, Camille.”

  “Renee wanted to know if I was in love with him. I could not say that I was, you see, because Donovan and I do not know each other that well. We have dated a few times. When does one know one is in love?” She placed a hand on her chest. “The matters of the heart take time. One must not be impulsive.” When we first met, Camille had confided that she’d been in love before, with her daughter’s father, but the loser had run off when Chantalle was born.

  “Renee asked me to consider whether I could give him up,” Camille went on. “I said I would think about it. Of course, I could not think at the bistro. We were so busy.” She smoothed the collar of her shirt. “When I left and purchased the eggs, I realized I could not face her without clearing my head. I needed to know what to say, what to do. That is why I went to the woods.” She squeezed my hand. “It is not like Donovan and I are, what is the word—” She searched for it and landed on “exclusive. We have not even…” She halted and worried her upper lip with her teeth. “We have kissed once. That is all. But I had hoped—”

  “You were jealous,” Tyson said, cutting her off.

  “No.”

  “You didn’t want her horning in on the love of your life.”

  “No!”

  “Tyson,” I said, “Chef C isn’t like that.”

  “Isn’t she? She’s flesh and blood. Two sisters in love with the same man? Murder has happened over less.”

  “Renee was
not in love with him,” Camille yelled. “She was infatuated. That is not love. She was angry with her husband. She was changing her life’s course. She did not know what she wanted. Perhaps she hid the letter because she had second thoughts after writing it and did not want me to see it.”

  “She was younger,” Tyson said. “Isn’t Donovan younger than you?”

  Camille’s face flushed the color of rhubarb. She released me. “I told her that she should return to her husband. I told her she needed to try and make the marriage a success. Love is not easy. Love takes work. Rusty loves her.”

  “When did you say all this?” Tyson said. “Right before you hit her in the head with the mixer?”

  “I spoke with her in the kitchen. At the bistro. I did not do this. I did not kill her. Mimi, please”—she pleaded with her eyes—“you have to believe me.”

  “Let me in!” a man with a squeaky voice yelled from the front porch.

  The door opened an inch and thwapped closed.

  “Sir, this is a crime scene,” a second man with a gruff voice said.

  “Out of my way, dang it!” the first man bellowed.

  Through the screen door, I saw Rusty Wells wrestling with a sizable, squash-faced deputy. Where had he come from? Had he carpooled with the technician?

  “It is Rusty,” Camille said. “He is Renee’s husband.”

  “Deputy, allow him to enter,” Tyson ordered.

  The deputy stepped aside. Rusty tramped in. He hadn’t shaved recently, and a heavy stubble of ginger hair covered his chin. He was wearing the same dirty denim jacket and jeans he’d worn the day before, although he had thrown on a turtleneck sweater and he was carrying a single red rose—not the store-bought kind, one he had plucked off a bush.

  Tyson held up his hand. “Stop right there. I’m Sergeant Daly. Why are you here?”

  “I’ve been calling Renee all day. She hasn’t returned my calls. I know she’s here. I want to speak to her.” Rusty’s gaze darted left and right, which made his beady eyes look even beadier. Perspiration peppered his face. “Please. I need to talk to her.”

  “Sir,” Tyson said, “that won’t be possible.”

  “Why in heck not?”

  “Because”—Tyson swallowed hard—“she’s dead.”

  “What?” Rusty recoiled. He dropped the rose. “What happened? Did she have a heart attack? Is that why you’re here? Ah, man, I knew this festival thing was too much for her. She’s been on medication for anxiety. She—”

  “She was murdered,” Tyson said, no preamble.

  Rusty staggered. Tears sprang to his eyes. He batted them away with his weathered fingers. “When? How?”

  “Someone”—Camille pointed—“hit her with the mixer.”

  Rusty peeked around Tyson. His face trembled with shock.

  Camille glowered at Tyson. “The sheriff thinks I had something to do with it. I did not.”

  “Why would you have killed her?” Rusty asked.

  “The sergeant believes I was jealous.”

  “Aw, heck, you found out, didn’t you?” He ran his hand over his face.

  “Found out what?” Tyson asked.

  “Renee told me she had a thing for a baker named Donovan.” Rusty’s voice caught in his throat. “I asked around and found out that you like him, too, Camille.”

  “It is not like that, Rusty. I swear.” Camille put a hand to her chest. “I did not do this. I loved her.”

  “Camille couldn’t have killed her,” I said. “She wasn’t here. She was walking in the woods near the Yountville Crossroads.”

  Tyson coughed, his skepticism obvious.

  I added, “Someone else must have attacked Renee.”

  “Who?” Rusty pleaded. “Maybe this Donovan person made a move on her and she rejected him.”

  “Or Allie O’Malley killed her,” I said, feeling like Johnny One Note. “Allie and Renee exchanged barbs at the bistro. When Renee said, ‘See you tomorrow,’ Allie replied, ‘Not if I can help it.’”

  “Duly noted.” Tyson inserted his hands into his pockets, striking a casual Mr. Nice Guy pose, but he didn’t fool me. He was after facts and lies. “Where were you tonight, Mr. Wells?”

  “Me? You don’t think—” He jammed a thumb into his chest. “I didn’t kill her.”

  “Answer the question, sir.”

  “First, I went to the county clerk’s office. I wanted to reverse the divorce proceeding.”

  “Divorce?” Tyson raised an eyebrow.

  “Renee filed papers,” Camille said.

  “I told her I objected.” Rusty glanced in the direction of the kitchen. “I don’t…” He hesitated. “Didn’t want a divorce.”

  I said, “The clerk isn’t open this late.”

  “Yeah, I know that now.” Rusty sank into one hip like a sluggish teenager.

  Tyson’s forehead pinched. He wasn’t buying Rusty’s story. Neither was I. “Sir, you said first. What did you do next?”

  “I went to that coffee place near the bistro, the one with the coffee cup–shaped chairs.”

  “Chocolate?” I asked.

  “They have Internet,” Rusty said. “I wanted to go online and learn how to sell my farm by myself. I figured if I could find someone to buy it, I might win Renee back.” He heaved a sigh. “She hated that farm. With the money, I hoped maybe I could buy into her new venture and we could run it together. Be a team.”

  “How’d that go?” Tyson asked.

  Rusty shifted feet. “Not so good. I didn’t learn squat.”

  “So you left there and came here?” Tyson regarded Rusty. Were the wheels in his head going as fast as mine were, trying to establish a timeline?

  “No, I … I took a drive.”

  “Hoo-boy,” the deputy in the kitchen said.

  We all looked in her direction. She wasn’t responding to something she had found. She was on her knees, listening to our conversation. Her response must have been a flippant reaction to Rusty’s took a drive response.

  Tyson bit back a smile. “Where did you drive, sir?”

  “Around. But I think I saw Camille. At the bridge between Highway 29 and the Silverado Trail. That’s the spot, right? She was holding a torch. I mean a flashlight.”

  Rusty’s gaze flitted from Tyson, to Camille, to the deputy, and then to me. Was he checking to see if any of us were buying his alibi? He cut another look at the crime scene.

  “Let’s go outside, Mr. Wells.” Tyson motioned to the front door.

  Feet dragging, Rusty followed him to the porch.

  I edged in that direction, wishing I could hear everything they said, but I couldn’t. Tyson steered Rusty under the crime scene tape that was now in place—the deputy must have strung it up—toward a stand of bushes far enough away that I couldn’t pick up a word either of them said. I couldn’t read their lips, either, because there were no streetlamps in the area and the light from the moon, though bright, was of no help. Rats.

  A crowd had gathered on the street. Was the killer among them? A couple of women were pointing at a battered green Ford Truck with the license WELS EGS that was parked across the street. I loved the game of figuring out cryptic license plates’ meanings, but this one was a no-brainer; it had to be Rusty’s vehicle.

  I refocused on Tyson and Rusty. Tyson was talking. Rusty shifted his feet; his right hand was rubbing his thigh. Tyson aimed a finger at him.

  “No way!” Rusty jutted both hands. “Renee had her heart set on the festival being a success. Who’s going to manage the dang thing if I don’t? I can’t let those people flounder. She would be devastated.”

  “Sir!” Tyson shouted. He immediately lowered his voice and continued. I would imagine he was telling Rusty to calm down.

  Observing the two of them, I wondered whether Rusty’s indignation was a put-on. Was he a master liar? What if he had confirmed seeing Camille on her outing not to exonerate her, but to make sure he had a credible alibi?

  Chapter 5

  Clo
se to midnight, I begged Tyson to allow Camille to come home with me. Her house was a crime scene. She couldn’t stay there. Seeing as he didn’t have enough to hold her on—his tech didn’t find any fingerprints on the mixer; it had been wiped clean—he allowed it. I assured him she wasn’t guilty. I promised that I would keep a close eye on her.

  Needless to say, I didn’t sleep well. I heard Camille pacing and crying and blaming herself for not being there for her sister. When Sunday morning rolled around, I awoke bleary-eyed. Camille was passed out on the sofa, one arm dangling over the edge. I tried to wake her but she didn’t rouse, so I did the only thing I could think of—called my mother.

  An early bird like me, Mom arrived in less than ten minutes with her adorable Goldendoodle, Riesling, in tow. He gave me a bounty of kisses.

  “Shh,” I said as I closed the door and signaled that Camille was sleeping.

  “Riesling, sit. Stay.” My mother wrapped her arms around me. “Sweetheart, I’m so sorry. What a horror.”

  Though my mother and I were thirty years apart, we looked similar—same height, same weight—but she appeared worlds better than I did. Her toffee-colored hair was washed and blown dry, and her eyes were bright and alert. Her smile was easy, too. Mine wasn’t. She sported a burgundy lipstick that matched her cabernet-colored Bohemian dress. She enjoyed wearing romantic clothing at any time of the day.

  “I hope Camille likes dogs,” my mother added. “I couldn’t leave him home alone.”

  “Growing up, she had two French Briards. I’m sure she’ll be fine.”

  Mom petted my cheek. “How are you holding up? Can you tell me what happened? Who did it?”

  “We aren’t sure yet.” I gave her the basics: Renee bashed by the mixer and dead the moment she hit the floor, the love note found in the sofa, Camille’s flimsy alibi, my misgivings about Allie O’Malley, and Tyson’s suspicion of Rusty Wells.

  “Poor Camille.” My mother shook her head. “Have you contacted her daughter?”

  “Not yet. It was too late last night. I’ll let Camille decide when is the right time.” Would Chantalle beg to fly across country to be at her mother’s side? Would she say hurtful things about Renee to console her mother? She hadn’t been close to her aunt, Camille had revealed on the drive to the cottage. “I’ve got to leave. I need to be in charge of the kitchen at the bistro.”