A Soufflé of Suspicion Page 9

  “That’s odd.” Rusty worked his tongue inside his cheek. “Renee didn’t cook.”

  Until that fateful night, I thought.

  “That is odd.” Parker scratched his chin. “Felicity told me your wife asked for a recipe.”

  “A recipe for what?”

  “Disaster,” Parker blurted, but he had the decency to blanch when he realized how improper his kneejerk response was. “Sorry. That was rude of me. Way out of line.” He stroked his chin. “I believe Renee asked for a paleo cookie recipe. Paleo.” He snuffled. “Who eats that stuff?” He directed his attention to me. “Mimi, if you’re okay, I’ll be moving on.”

  “Hold on, Councilman.” Rusty’s nose curled up in a snarl. “About your beautiful wife … She and I”—he flicked a finger between him and an imaginary Felicity—“have met. In fact, she and I got along rather well.”

  Parker didn’t miss the lewd insinuation. His hands balled into fists. After a long, edgy moment, he forced his hands to unfurl. “My wife gets along with everyone. She doesn’t play favorites.” He threw Rusty a cautionary look before departing.

  Rusty sniggered and headed in the opposite direction.

  I let out the breath I’d been holding. What was up with the tension between those two? The sun was shining. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. I couldn’t blame the friction on electricity from an impending storm. Was Rusty suggesting that Parker and Renee had hooked up? Did Parker honestly believe Felicity could have had a fling with Rusty, who was—Felicity would no doubt remind him—way beneath her social scale?

  Allie appeared in the portico. She had reapplied her makeup and run a comb through her mane of hair. She drifted into the throng and smiled at each passing patron.

  Rusty was also making his way among the people, chatting up the crowd. He ignored Allie as he passed her. In defiance, she lifted her chin and pressed on.

  When Rusty neared the TUTTI FRUTTI tent, he swiveled his head and threw me a vile look. A split second later, he offered a tight grin. I shivered. Was he as unstable as Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde? Another notion struck me. Maybe declaring eternal love for his wife earlier had been an act. Maybe he’d hated the egg farming business as much as she had. Maybe he’d killed her so he could take over this and future festivals.

  Chapter 8

  Even though I felt the urge to phone Tyson to tell him about Rusty’s lie about Chocolate and to replay the heated encounter I’d witnessed between Rusty and Parker, I didn’t have time. Duty called. Yet again, we had two seatings scheduled for dinner. A chef’s work is never done, I thought.

  I donned my chef’s coat and toque and set pots of water to boil on the stove while wondering whether Jo had made any headway on finding another chef to help carry the load.

  Stefan and Yukiko seemed to be getting along, which pleased me. I hated contentiousness in the kitchen. The two were rocking out to a jazzy instrumental rendition of Phil Collins’s “Against All Odds.” The saxophonist was phenomenal.

  “I like the music,” I shouted over the din.

  “Glad to hear it.” Stefan did a two-step toward me. “Hey, I forgot to tell you, at lunch we ran out of lamb. Yukiko and I came up with an alternative entrée. Hope that’s okay.”

  Now they were collaborating? What next?

  I said, “Sure. What is it?”

  “Chicken à la Grecque.” He followed me to the sink, where I washed my hands. “We’re doing it the same way, with the sweet peppers and zucchini in the Greek citrus sauce. In addition, we’ll offer poulet dijonaise.”

  “Chicken with mustard sauce,” I said. “A great alternative. Perfect.”

  During the first seating, Heather pushed through the kitchen door. “Mimi, customers are asking for you.”

  I winced. “With a complaint?”

  “With a compliment.”

  “Phew. That’s what I like to hear.” I dabbed my perspiring face with a clean towel and signaled Stefan. “Got this?”

  He nodded. “Take a bow for me, too,” he joked.

  Heather guided me to a table where Tyson was dining with his mother and sister, whom he introduced as Tish. Oakley, an energetic waitress with carrot-colored hair and a winning smile, was removing their entrée dishes.

  Tyson’s mother, a charming goat farmer with weathered skin and finely etched wrinkles from a life of smiling, scrambled to a stand and took my hands in hers. “Mimi, my dear. Dinner is remarkable, as always.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Daly.”

  She resumed her seat and finger-combed the short silver hair that cupped her face. “Tish, your turn. Tish works as a lawyer in San Francisco and rarely eats rich food.”

  “It was delicious,” Tish gushed. “And just so you know, I’m the one who asked for you. ‘A job well done is a job worth complimenting.’ My dad used to say that.”

  “I say it, as well,” her mother chided.

  “I’m bringing my husband and children here a week from Sunday,” Tish went on.

  “How many children do you have?” I asked.

  “Two adorable eight-year-old towheads.”

  Tyson snickered. “Adorable is pushing it.”

  His sister thwacked him on the arm.

  “How do you manage kids with a career?” I asked, thinking of Jo and her concerns.

  “My firm has an in-house daycare facility.”

  Oakley reappeared to refill their water glasses. “Coffee?” she asked.

  Mrs. Daly raised her hand.

  Tyson brushed my arm. “Mimi, how is everything in the kitchen without Chef C at the helm?”

  “We’re managing. You might have forgotten, but I’ve done this before, in a prior life.” The restaurant in San Francisco where I’d served as executive chef had seated over a hundred people at every meal. The kitchen had been twice as big; the staff, double. “How is the investigation going?”

  “Okay,” he said.

  His sister snickered. “How cryptic of you, little brother. Dad taught you well.”

  “Are you saying you’re nothing like him?” Tyson dipped his fingers into his water glass and spritzed his sister with droplets.

  Their mother tsked to quiet their banter. “Mimi, return to your post. We don’t want to keep you.”

  “Tyson…” I paused.

  He tilted his head as he dried off his hand. “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  Now was not the time to mention the heated vibes I’d picked up between Allie and Rusty as well as between Rusty and Parker, nor was it the time to tell him what I’d discovered at Chocolate. Our fine sheriff was enjoying a night out. His family deserved his undivided attention. I would fill him in tomorrow on my observations.

  * * *

  When I arrived home at half past eleven, my feet were sore and my back was aching. I pressed open the front door and did my best to be quiet so I wouldn’t disturb Camille.

  To my surprise, she was wide awake and mopping the kitchen floor.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “There is chicken feed on the hardwood. My fault.”

  “There was chicken feed in your kitchen, too.”

  “It is everywhere. Renee tracked it in. She used to say that the farm would not leave the soles of one’s shoes.” Tears pooled in Camille’s eyes.

  I rushed to her and threw my arms around her. The mop handle pressed into my chest. “Cry,” I said. “Let it out. It’s okay.”

  “That is the problem. I cannot stop”—she hiccupped—“crying. I have been weeping all day. Whenever I think of something she said or did, I—”

  The aquarium let out a burp. Cagney and Lacey were goggling us from inside their tank. They swam off but returned and brushed their cheeks against one another. I wondered whether they wished they could hug like humans, or maybe they were thinking we looked ridiculous. Either way, I didn’t care; I didn’t let go of my grief-stricken chef.

  “I think of all of our times together,” Camille said. “I rehash things I told Renee and regret th
e sentiments I did not reveal. I think of funny and not-so-funny moments.”

  “Like the time you chased her with a meat cleaver?”

  Camille pressed away from me and wiped the tears off her face. “Who told you that?”

  “Rusty.”

  “Liar. It was the other way around. Renee chased me. She was furious that our father would pay for my schooling and not hers. ‘I have no talent,’ she yelled at me. ‘How am I to get by?’ I told her she had plenty of talent but no constancy. How furious that made her.” A smile tugged at Camille’s lips. “She looked so funny whenever she got mad. Her nose would scrunch up, and her eyes would grow very small, and she would snort like a piglet.” She imitated the sound.

  “Camille, I can’t believe you’re finding this humorous in the least. She ran after you with a meat cleaver.”

  “I was not frightened. She did not know how to use it. The sharp edge of the blade was pointing toward her. Looking back, she was always gearing for a fight. That is the phrase, yes?” Camille erupted in giggles, but suddenly, the giggles morphed into tears and she started to convulse. I attempted to comfort her, but she wouldn’t let me. “No, merci. It will pass. It must pass.”

  I understood. I’d felt the same when people had tried to comfort me after my late husband’s death.

  Camille began mopping again. “C’est la vie.”

  I moseyed to the fish tank, opened a small can of fish food, and gave my pets their daily pinch of flakes. As the two vied for their fair share, I recalled Renee’s heated encounters with Allie as well as with Rusty. How many enemies had she made over the years? “Camille, you said Renee was always gearing for a fight.”

  “Gearing, yes, but never following through. She had a fiery temper, but her passions waned. Do not let Rusty fill your head with nonsense.” She sniffed, clearly not over him mixing up the meat cleaver story. Though he had a tendency to lie, maybe this story wasn’t his fault. Perhaps Renee had given him the wrong account.

  “Where did you see Rusty?” Camille asked.

  “He’s managing the festival.”

  She grumbled. “Someone has to, I suppose.”

  “Would you care for tea?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  I fetched my favorite Forsyth by Royal Doulton teacups—I loved the design of a thin green line next to gold—and filled them with instant hot water, one of the luxuries I’d installed in the cottage when we had revamped it. I added an English Breakfast tea bag and two tablespoons of milk to each. I knew Camille liked it that way. I set the cups, saucers, spoons, and napkins on the kitchen table and sat down.

  As I let my tea steep, I offered my theory about Rusty’s endgame—to get out of the egg-farming business. Camille didn’t respond. She rinsed the mop and squeezed the water into the sink. Afterward, she propped the mop in the sink, handle in the air.

  “Is it possible that he was the one who tracked the chicken feed into your kitchen?” I asked.

  Camille joined me at the table. “I cannot believe he would kill Renee. He loved her with all his heart.”

  “What if he killed her in a green-eyed rage?”

  “Why would he be jealous?”

  “Because of Donovan.”

  Camille huffed. “Renee would not have left Rusty. Donovan was a passing fancy.”

  Using a spoon, I removed my teabag, wound the string around the spoon to press the remaining brew into the cup, and set the teabag and spoon on the saucer. “Donovan came to the bistro today.”

  “I do not wish to talk about him.”

  “But—”

  “No.” She ran a finger around the rim of her teacup and stopped. Her gaze met mine. “When Renee met Rusty, she fell head over heels. First love is so sweet, no?”

  “But then she fell out of love with him.”

  “Did she?”

  “She wanted a divorce. She filed papers.”

  Camille sighed. Her sadness was palpable.

  I took a sip of tea and set the cup down. “Is it possible, prior to having a crush on Donovan, that Renee could have hooked up with someone else? Say, someone who made her want to divorce Rusty?” I thought of Parker Price but didn’t mention his name. Earlier, he’d been so cagey about not knowing her well. I couldn’t tell if he had been taunting Rusty or telling the truth. “She’s been staying with you for a few weeks. Did she ever mention meeting another man?”

  “No. Never. It did not happen.” Camille stirred her tea but didn’t drink it. After a long silence, she said, “I have thought of a temporary chef for you. Victor Richard.” She pronounced his surname with a French accent, the ch sounding like sh. “He is very talented. His résumé is excellent. We worked together years ago. I jotted his number down for you.” She pointed to a notepad on the counter. “I must go to sleep,” she said, ending any further discussion. She rose from the table and settled onto the couch fully clothed.

  I let her be.

  * * *

  I awoke at dawn the next morning, aching from the previous day’s activities and desperately craving time off to recuperate. When I realized it was Tuesday, I silently cheered. Tuesday was the single day of the week that we closed the bistro.

  In order not to wake Camille, I drank my morning coffee on the patio. Listening to birds twittering in the nearby vineyard and orchard revived me. When I finished my coffee, I tiptoed into the kitchen and quickly threw together an autumn-themed quiche made with ham and pumpkin. The moment I removed it from the oven, I cut myself a portion and savored it for breakfast. When I finished, I plated a slice for Camille.

  At nine AM, I contacted Victor Richard, who said he was ready, willing, and able to start Wednesday. He had a pompous voice, but I tried to reserve judgment. Camille vouched for him; I needed him.

  Camille awoke a half hour later and ate the quiche. We didn’t talk. We didn’t discuss her sorrow. I hoped that, as soon as Tyson found her sister’s killer, she would start to heal and rediscover her sparkle.

  Tyson. I pulled out my cell phone and texted him that I had information I wanted to share. He didn’t respond. I would give him the day before I’d reach out a second time.

  Midmorning, Nash sent me a text message to remind me about our date. I replied that I couldn’t wait and sped into my bedroom to get dressed.

  Though we had planned to go wine tasting on previous occasions, we hadn’t yet done so. I was excited. Going during Crush Week would be a challenge, of course, because everyone was out and about and the roads would be packed with vehicles, but I would be with Nash, so I didn’t care how long the drive would take.

  As usual, he was prompt. He entered and gave me a lingering kiss.

  “Was that the kiss you promised?” I asked.

  “Nope. You’ll get that one after the jambon-beurre.”

  “Nice pronunciation.”

  “I practiced.” He grinned and raked me with his gaze. “You look wonderful.”

  The weather was going to be warm. I’d thrown on a pair of cream capris and a sleeveless cream top with aqua-green stitching around the V-neck.

  “We almost match,” he said. He wasn’t wearing his typical jeans, white shirt, and leather jacket. He had donned a pair of tan cargo shorts and an ecru-and-turquoise plaid shirt.

  “Should I put on something else?” I asked. My father and mother had never dressed in matching outfits. If either accidentally did, one or the other would hightail it to the bedroom to change.

  “We’re different enough,” he said. “You should grab a shawl, though, in case it’s cold in the winery.”

  “Where are we going?” I plucked an aqua shawl off the hat rack.

  “It’s a secret.” Eyes twinkling with mischief, he moved past me to greet my goldfish and scratched the tank with a fingertip. Lacey swam to him and pressed her face against the glass, swishing this way and that. Cagney hung back. She could be a little shy.

  Camille emerged from the bathroom and stopped short. Her hair was flat against her head, her face devoid of makeu
p. She pulled the collar of her robe around her neck.

  “Morning, Chef,” Nash said, acting as if seeing her in my cottage was the most normal thing in the world.

  “Good morning.”

  “We’ll be back in a few hours, Camille,” I said. “Will you be okay?”

  She licked her lips. “Mimi, I am going to find another place to stay.”

  “No. Don’t—”

  “Until the sheriff allows me to return to my house.”

  “Let’s talk about this later. Please.”

  “I have made up my mind. Go.” She shooed us with her hand. “Do not forget the picnic I packed.”

  Though Camille might have been working through intense emotions, she had felt the urge to cook and had prepared a number of miniature sandwiches using whatever she could find in my refrigerator. She had cooked up a fresh batch of crisp sweet potato chips, as well. Of course, a picnic by my chef would not have been complete without dessert—chocolate-dipped madeleine cookies. I had sneaked one before Nash arrived. Delectable.

  Out on the road, the traffic was moving at a crawl. Nash tuned the radio to a jazz station. I didn’t recognize the song that was playing. The rhythm was quite chaotic and seemed to be mimicking the thoughts about Camille that were running roughshod in my mind.

  So much for taking the day off from worry. What was I going to do about her? How could I urge her to rejoin the world of the living? Was I expecting too much too soon? After Derrick died, I’d lived in an emotional cocoon for a good month. Lots of dark chocolate bonbons had been consumed.

  Nash cut into my thoughts. “Where are you?” he asked gently.

  “I’m here. Nice car. I love the smell of new leather.”

  “Me, too.” Buying the GMC Acadia had been a big splurge for him. His family had never been well-to-do, living paycheck to paycheck. Throughout high school, he had worked odd jobs to save for college. “Hey, I spoke with Willow earlier. She said she ran into you.”

  “She did.”

  “She said she’s showing some of her wares at the inn.”

  “Mm-hm.” I thought of my brief encounter with Eli. He hadn’t called. Maybe Willow had taken the hint and not given him my telephone number. Good. I wasn’t interested. I liked Nash. A lot. But now wasn’t the time to talk about our relationship. Not with Camille—