A Soufflé of Suspicion Page 8

  Oh, to feel so lighthearted, I thought.

  Willow and I entered Maison Rousseau. The registration desk was to the left, the valet stand to the right. In the center of the foyer near the fountain, which was situated in front of the arched portico that joined the gardens on either side of the inn, stood a pretty display of art on verdigris baker’s racks. Willow had brought vases, picture frames, serving plates, and baskets. She must have supplied the baker’s racks, too. I couldn’t remember us having any on hand.

  A dark-haired man with broad shoulders was installing the rest of the art. A tea service set for four and a cashbox rested on an antique oak table.

  “Eli,” Willow called as she released my arm.

  The man pivoted, and I gasped. “Elijah George, is that you?”

  He ran a hand through his stick-straight hair. “One and the same, though everyone calls me Eli now.”

  Elijah and I had gone to elementary school together. Even back then he’d had the most gorgeous brown eyes. I couldn’t remember a time when they hadn’t twinkled with merriment. He was trim and fit and stood well over six feet tall.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “What does it look like?” He gestured to the baker’s racks. “Giving Willow a hand.”

  “He’s got the day off,” Willow said.

  “No, I mean what are you doing in Nouvelle Vie? The last I’d heard, you and your family moved across the country. You were, what, eleven at the time?”

  “Good memory.” He gave me a thumbs-up. “We settled in New York. Dad worked for NBC until a month ago, when he retired. Mom continues to sell flowers. She delivers sprays to everyone with a Fifth Avenue or Park Avenue address.”

  “And you?” I asked. “What did you end up doing?”

  “I went to NYU. Afterward, I became a chef.”

  “A chef?” Memories of Eli and I making mud pies at the ripe age of five sprang to mind. Was that the beginning of his future as a chef? It wasn’t mine. “I thought you were going to become an astronaut or a research scientist.”

  “He’s sort of a scientist,” Willow said. “He’s working at the Sonoma Health and Fitness Resort. They brought him on to make sure every meal is designed with superfoods and foods packed with antioxidants. That’s where the science skills come in.”

  “Wow,” I blinked. “I’m impressed.” The all-white resort was set on a sprawling piece of property and boasted a very tony clientele. Celebrities from every walk of life stayed there.

  “I knew you’d be thrilled to see him,” Willow went on. “I got the lowdown about you two when he came into the shop looking for a few mirrors. I’ve told him all about your success. I also told him that I was helping a good cause over here at the inn, and he offered to help. What a sport, right?”

  I poked her arm and said sotto voce, “What are you doing?”

  “Fixing you up, natch. If I’m going to be in love, you might as well be.”

  “You’re in love?”

  “Maybe. My new beau and I spent a lovely night together. There was chemistry.” She flicked her fingers to signify fireworks. “Hot chemistry.”

  “That’s great, but Willow”—I leveled her with a firm look—“I’m dating Nash.”

  “Exclusively?” she asked.

  I didn’t know how to answer that. The more I thought about it, the readier I was to say yes. But how did he feel? We needed to talk.

  When I didn’t answer, she moved on. “Did I tell you Eli is an expert on which herbs and foods increase brain function?”

  He reddened, endearingly.

  “And no GMO,” Willow continued. “Isn’t that fabulous? You and he should get together sometime and compare notes.”

  I bobbed my head. What else could I do? “Eli, it would be nice to get caught up, but right now, I’ve got to get back to work. We’re taste-testing the week’s specials before we’re slammed with diners. Sorry.”

  “No worries.”

  He smiled easily, and the memory of a dance we’d attended in seventh grade—a sock hop—flickered through my mind. He’d had braces put on his teeth the week before and had been so self-conscious. No longer.

  As I turned to leave, Willow gripped my elbow and said, “I’ll give him your number.”

  I skewered her with a scathing look, but she was already heading toward Eli.

  Chapter 7

  On the way to the bistro, I fumed and mumbled to myself. What was Willow up to? Did she want Nash back? Was her story about having a new beau—what a pretentious word—a hoax? I entered the kitchen and pushed the memory of her self-satisfied face from my mind before I pressed ahead with the meals.

  The morning tasting went smoothly. Heather had picked the right wines to pair with each entrée. I liked the Grgich Hills Sauvignon Blanc, which had a nutty, citrusy flavor; it perfectly complemented the pork medallions. The lunch crowd liked the pairing, as well; we sold out of both. We ran out of crème brûlée, too. I must have torched the tops of at least forty desserts; Stefan had caramelized the others. At three PM, I declared the day a success.

  Needing a walk to clear my head and craving a cup of strongly brewed coffee, I donned a sunhat, sprayed my face with sunblock, and headed out.

  Down the street from Bistro Rousseau, mixed in with the other upscale eateries, jazz clubs, and high-end shops, was the café called Chocolate. I loved visiting it, with its coffee-cup-shaped chairs and walnut tables. I enjoyed standing at the white granite counter and eyeing the luscious pastries displayed on tiered cake plates, though today I wouldn’t indulge. If I were going to eat anything, it would have to be protein. A pastry would send me on a sugar high which would then plummet me to a sugar low. No thanks.

  “Hiya, Mimi.” The owner, Irene, approached me as I arrived, the skirt of her white smocked dress swishing around her calves. She was as sweet as her café and as warmhearted as her adopted Labrador retriever. “You look beat. Are you okay, honey?” Her eyes were darker than mine, more the color of Hershey’s Kisses, and she invariably wore her pink-tinted hair in a loose braid.

  “I’m fine. I’m burning the candle—”

  “—at both ends. I understand.” She wiped her hands on the cocoa-brown apron that protected her dress and gripped my elbow. “Running a restaurant is hard enough, but to also manage the inn and have a festival on the premises to boot? I admire you.”

  “Admit it. You think I’m crazy.”

  “I know the name of a good therapist.” She winked.

  I chuckled.

  “What’ll it be?” She released me. “Your usual? Hot chocolate and a croissant?”

  “A café latte to go, with an extra shot of espresso. Two-percent milk. That’s all.”

  “Geez, you really are off your game,” she said and headed toward the counter.

  I followed and perched on an available stool. “Say, Irene, before you make that latte—”

  “What’s up?”

  “On the night Renee Wells died—”

  “Oh, lordy. What a shame.” Irene wagged her head. “What is this world coming to? You know, Camille and I are neighbors.”

  “I had no idea.”

  “I live in the corner house with the green gables.”

  “I adore that house. You have a beautiful garden. I particularly love your autumn-toned chrysanthemums.”

  “What a pity.” Irene sighed. “I had to replace all of them. My adorable Chocolate Chip tore through them and decimated them.” Chocolate Chip was her rescue Labrador retriever. “But enough about the mundane. Poor Camille. I can’t imagine losing a sibling, and to violence no less.” Irene was an only child. She’d relocated to Napa Valley when her parents retired here. “How is she?”

  “She’s coping.”

  “If she needs anything, you tell her I’m at the ready.”

  “Thanks.” I folded my arms on the counter. “Tell me something. Did Renee’s husband come in here that night? He’s got tan skin and ginger-colored hair—”

 
“And beady eyes.” She narrowed hers in imitation.

  “Yes, that’s him.”

  Irene pursed her lips and scanned the café as if trying to picture everyone who had stopped in that evening. After a long moment, she shook her head. “I don’t recall having seen him. He’s been in once or twice, which is how I knew about the eyes, but he’s not a regular.”

  “He said he came in to access the Internet.”

  “Let me ask around. Are you sure you’re going to pass on a croissant?”

  “Yep. I need protein.”

  “I have a homemade nut bar, packed with goodies.”

  “And no sugar?”

  “Well, of course, there’s sugar.”

  “I’ll pass.”

  A minute later when Irene returned with my to-go latte, she said, “No one can vouch for that man being here. Granted, not all of the staff who were working that night are on the job right now, but a few are.”

  On my way back to the bistro, I couldn’t stop thinking about Rusty Wells. If he had lied about his whereabouts that night, did it mean he’d lied about not killing Renee? On the other hand, if I proved he was lying and he hadn’t killed his wife, then his testimony corroborating Camille’s whereabouts would be in question, too.

  I crossed the bistro parking lot, and a breeze kicked up. My sun hat flew off and wafted over a row of vehicles. While collecting it, I spotted a battered green truck with the license plate WELS EGS. Rusty was on the premises.

  Seeing as I had a half hour before I needed to supervise the kitchen for the dinner crowd and because I was curious why Rusty claimed he had gone to Chocolate on the night of the murder when he hadn’t—if Irene’s employees were correct—I struck out across the lot and followed a crowd through the inn to the festivities.

  I found Rusty in the Sisley Garden. The scalloped eaves of the white tents were flapping, the bells were jingling with merry abandon, and the chatter among the crowd was joyous. Rusty, on the other hand, wasn’t happy. He was arguing with Allie O’Malley near the end of a line of people waiting to purchase something at TUTTI FRUTTI.

  “You can’t do that!” Allie shouted, her voice carrying on the wind. She threw her arms wide. “Please!” Her white tunic top was billowing over her white trousers and flapping like crazy. If she wasn’t careful, I feared the breeze might catch her tunic and lift her like an umbrella.

  “Leave,” Rusty said, looking and sounding official. Like the other employees, he had donned a pair of crisp khaki pants and an iron-pressed khaki shirt, and his hair was combed. “You’re not welcome here. I’m running this now.”

  “But it’s mine.”

  “No, it’s not. You sold it lock, stock, and barrel. To my wife.” Rusty’s face flamed beet red, and his pointy lips looked even sharper because of the way he was pursing his mouth.

  “That’s not true. I sold it to her with the agreement that I would earn a percentage.”

  “That’s not what I heard.”

  “She also promised that I could buy it back at any time. She lied. That makes the contract invalid. A woman’s word is her bond.”

  “Sue me.”

  I gazed at the festival guests. A few standing near SHAKE YOUR BOOTY were agitated. Some were even covering their children’s ears. Parker Price, clad in a casual tan suit and straw fedora, was among the crowd, glad-handing a few constituents. He made eye contact with me and lifted his meaty chin, silently asking if I wanted his help. I waved him off and, taking matters into my own hands, marched to Rusty and Allie.

  “Hey, you two”—I offered a solicitous smile—“can you take this discussion elsewhere?” I jutted my head in the direction of the gawking crowd.

  Allie gaped, not realizing what a stir she and Rusty were causing.

  Rusty scowled at me. “It’s not your business.”

  “Yes, it is,” I said. “I own the joint, remember?” Joint? I bit back a grin. Had I said joint to sound tough? What a joke. “Look around, Rusty. This isn’t good for PR.”

  Rusty scanned the crowd and blanched. “Gosh, you’re right. I—” He scratched his head. “I don’t know what we were thinking. Allie, listen—”

  “No, you listen,” she began, trying to sound as menacing as I had, but then her façade cracked. Her lower lip started to quiver and moisture pressed at the corners of her eyes. “This”—she spread her arms wide, encompassing the festival—“is everything I dreamed of. I couldn’t get it up and running, but Renee did. After she blew me off, I reconsidered. I was going to talk to her about partnering with her, learning from her, but now she’s dead, and I’m stuck. Don’t you see? I have nothing. I thought you would understand, Rusty. I hoped”—she scuffed the heel of her white ballerina flat against the ground, a fruitless gesture; it made no sound—“you would take pity and give me a chance. Guess I was wrong. You’re … heartless.” Tears spilled down her cheeks. She pivoted and hurried in the direction of the inn.

  As she fled, I again pondered whether she had it in her to be a killer. She seemed so pathetic that I couldn’t imagine her capable of committing a brutal act.

  “Aw, man.” Rusty rubbed his cheek then glowered at me. “What are you staring at? Why are you here?” He took a step toward me.

  “Whoa!” I held up two hands, keeping him at bay. “I wanted a word with you. That’s all.”

  “What about?”

  “I was at Chocolate talking with the owner. She…” How could I broach this topic without making him defensive? I couldn’t. His mouth was set in a grimace. I plowed ahead. “She said no one remembers you being there on the night of the murder.”

  He flinched but covered his reaction by lifting a defiant chin. “What were you doing, spying on me?”

  “No, Irene and I were chatting and she—”

  “You don’t believe I’m innocent.”

  “I don’t know what to think, Rusty. You lied about being at the café. Did you lie about everything else?”

  “I didn’t kill Renee.” His voice cracked. His shoulders sagged. “I swear. I think Camille did it. She must’ve been crazy jealous when she learned that Renee had a thing for that Donovan dude.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “I’ve been meaning to ask, how and when did you find out about Donovan?”

  “The people around here have been chin-wagging like nobody’s business.” He opened and closed his hands like talking sock puppets. “A woman saw Renee and him together. That day. At The Bookery. She told another woman that he put his hand on Renee’s lower back, and all of a sudden, everyone around here was gossiping. They were eloping, one person said.” He mimed quotation marks around the word eloping. “They were going to get married, another claimed.” More finger bracketing. “They were planning to off the husband—meaning me.”

  “People were saying that?”

  “Folks love to gossip. They read all those silly rag magazines at the grocery store, and crazy ideas come into their heads. Scout’s honor.” He raised a hand, three fingers up, thumb anchoring his pinky. “I’ll bet Camille caught wind of the brouhaha and decided she could kill Renee and lay the blame on me. She has a temper.”

  “Who, Camille?”

  “Yeah.” He aimed a finger in my direction. “You know what she did to Renee when they were teens, don’t you? She ran after her with a meat cleaver.”

  “Give me a break.”

  “It’s true. She flies off the handle. Renee told me so.”

  I knew my chef could be demanding, but would she aim a weapon? At a person? At her sister? No, not a chance. “Rusty, you told the sheriff you saw Camille at the entrance to the hiking trail that night. You gave her an alibi. Did you lie about that?”

  “Maybe.”

  I couldn’t tell whether he was yanking my chain or trying to formulate a plan to implicate Camille. His gaze was darting right and left, refusing to focus on mine. “What else did you fabricate?”

  He grunted. “Look, I’ve heard about you and what happened a few months ago.”

  “Huh
?”

  “You’re curious. You’re a snoop.”

  “I am not.”

  “You solved that murder. You stopped at nothing.”

  “He was my benefactor and my friend. I wanted to know the truth.”

  He aimed a finger at his mouth. “Read my lips. I. Did. Not. Do. It. Keep your nose out of my business. The sheriff will get to the bottom of it.” He turned to leave.

  “Hold it, Mr. Wells.” As much as I preferred the soft approach when dealing with bullies—I had encountered plenty of them during my stint in the restaurant business—I was not going to let him bulldoze me. “I can close this festival down. What then?”

  “And ruin all the fun for these people? You wouldn’t do that. That could hurt your standing in the community.” Rusty puffed out his chest. “And, let’s be honest, I don’t think you or your business could suffer another blow—having a murder on the premises as well as a chef who’s a murderer.”

  I squared my shoulders. “Are you threatening me?”

  “Two can tango,” he said, messing up the metaphor.

  “Mimi”—Parker Price pulled alongside me, his gaze trained on Rusty—“is everything okay?”

  “Fine, Councilman. Thank you.”

  Parker jutted a hand toward Rusty. “How are you, my man?”

  Rusty stepped backward and peered up at Parker, who was a good six inches taller. “You’re Price.” He didn’t reciprocate the handshake.

  Parker didn’t react to the slight. “That’s correct.”

  “My wife told me about you.”

  “Hope it was all good. If word gets around that I’m a jerk, I won’t have a job.” Parker knuckled Rusty on the arm—hard.

  Rusty held his ground. “Renee said you were quite the talker.”

  “Renee was your wife?” Parker stammered. “Gee, I didn’t know. Sorry for your loss. To be truthful, I didn’t know her very well.”

  Rusty cocked his head. “That’s not what I heard.”

  Parker bridled. “Who says differently?”

  “She did.”

  “Man, she was pulling your leg. We shared a brief hello. That’s all. She and my wife were friendly. They’re the ones who had tea and exchanged recipes and the like.”