Chapter 6
AS SOON AS THE CHILDREN’S PROGRAM WAS FINISHED, I planned to retreat to the peace and quiet of my office at Novel Idea. Flora told me that she also intended to head over to the agency after grabbing something for lunch. She kindly offered to pick up a sandwich for me and I accepted, though in truth I wasn’t very hungry. I’d been surrounded by food most of the morning, but my appetite had been quelled by the news about Joel Lang.
I had two hours until I needed to return to the Arts Center and moderate a panel called “Killer Tales From the Kitchen.” Two of my clients, a pair of gregarious cozy mystery authors, would be joining three of the celebrity chefs (Klara Patrick, Leslie Sterling, and Bryce St. John) and a renowned food critic to address the joys and challenges of writing about food. This would be followed by a lengthy question and answer session in which the members of the audience could query the panelists about their professional experiences.
It would take a great deal of energy to moderate this panel, and even though I’d be sharing the responsibility with Jude, I was grateful to have a brief respite before it started. I stayed to help Flora clean up after the kids program, waved good-bye to the guest author, and then headed for the front door.
A swarm of laughing children burst past me, racing toward the main entrance of the Arts Center while their parents shouted for them to wait. Watching them made me smile and when I stepped into the spring sunshine, I felt lighter and more hopeful. Yes, Joel Lang had been murdered and there was a killer on the loose, but I had to decide how to handle myself in the face of these dire truths. Was I going to spend the future glancing over my shoulder in fear, or was I going to do my best to ensure that the rest of the festival was a resounding success?
“I have to be tough for my town and my agency,” I said, addressing the Taste of the Town banner hanging from the nearest streetlamp.
Strong and determined, I walked briskly to where I’d parked my scooter. Just the sight of its bright yellow paint gave me a zap of positive energy, and yet, even from a distance, I could see that something was hanging from the Vespa’s handlebars. Something that hadn’t been there before.
“What the—?” I murmured to myself, feeling slightly anxious.
Drawing alongside the scooter, I could see that the mystery object was a paper gift bag—the kind sold in any stationery or grocery store. This one, however, was covered in what looked to be hand-drawn stencils of an old-fashioned quill pen.
Inside, I found a tissue paper-wrapped bundle. I carefully unfolded the small package, revealing a necklace with a purple crystal pendant. The crystal, which winked in the midday sunlight, was held in place by delicate silver wire. Attached to the wire was a dainty stainless steel chain that felt cool in the palm of my hand. Intrigued, I peeked inside the bag again and noticed a sheet of paper tucked into a corner. It was rolled up into a tight cylinder and tied with an indigo ribbon.
Sliding the ribbon free, I unfurled the letter and began to read.
Dear Ms. Wilkins,
This is my own unique way of delivering my query to you. Everyone in town knows that you drive a yellow scooter and so I thought that instead of sending this with a boring stamp and plain envelope, I’d tell you about my novel in a more creative way. The whole process will work better if you wear the crystal. It’s an amethyst and the regal purple crystal represents creativity, imagination, and intuition. I know that your intuition is amazing because of all the wonderful authors you represent, but everyone could use a special boost now and then. So now that you’ve got your energizing necklace on (you have it on, right?) you’re properly centered and energized and ready to hear about my book.
My novel is called The Crystal Color Wheel Witch and it’s about a woman named Jade who’s studied the powers of crystals but decides to use them to make herself beautiful, younger looking, and richer instead of helping other people develop their spiritual selves. Jade is a yoga teacher and she’s tired of making a crummy salary and spending all of her free time sanitizing other people’s dirty yoga mats. One day, she decides to kill another instructor by making a hot yoga class really hot. Deathly hot.
I stopped reading and tucked the paper back into the gift bag. I then eyed the necklace on my palm with slight revulsion. There was something creepy about having an aspiring writer leave a token and a query letter attached to my scooter. Not only was it unprofessional, but it also felt incredibly invasive. I’d heard other agents tell stories of being stalked, but those cases usually occurred in the streets of Manhattan and ended up with the hopeful author being permanently blackballed in the writing community. The literary agent network was closely knit and all of us kept an Agent Beware file. There was no doubt that this query was going straight into that folder.
Shoving the entire bag into my purse, I put my helmet on and eased the Vespa into the slow-moving traffic. At the first red light, I glanced around and saw that most of the drivers had their windows down and their radios turned way up. The country twang being piped out of a battered truck competed with the rhythmic bass of hip-hop from an SUV while the occupant of a Lexus sedan swayed in time to Vivaldi, his expression one of dreamy contentment.
Following his gaze, I took in the sunny faces of the daffodils crowded in the oversized terracotta pots lining the sidewalks and inhaled the scents of freshly cut grass and peonies. The pear trees were dressed in silky white petals, and bluebirds and robins darted among their branches. Pedestrians strolled down the sidewalks with a light, easy gait, and laughter floated in the soft currents of air.
No one was in a hurry. No one wore a frown. The people of Inspiration Valley had been infected by spring fever, and everyone I saw seemed to be enjoying a carefree Saturday.
“‘The peace and beauty of a spring day had descended upon the earth like a benediction,’” I proclaimed to my fellow motorists, quoting a line from Kate Chopin’s short story “The Locket.” However, my voice was drowned out by the sounds of their own crooning, steering wheel drumming, or beat boxing.
I tried to hold on to the feeling of benediction as I climbed the stairs to Novel Idea’s offices, but the moment I reached the top, the warmth of the spring sun vanished with the suddenness of a spent match. For there was Sean, dressed in uniform, notepad in hand, standing over Vicky’s desk in a rigid posture that told me this was no friendly visit. My boyfriend was questioning my coworker and though I’d been anticipating a police presence in the agency, I was hoping to first eat a quiet lunch at my desk while reading through emails.
“Hello,” I said, including both Sean and Vicky in my greeting. “What’s going on?”
“We’re interviewing everyone at Novel Idea,” Sean answered. His tone was strictly professional and served as a reminder that he was here in an official capacity, not to visit with me. And with a murderer on the loose in Inspiration Valley, Sean clearly had little time for pleasantries. “I’d like you and Vicky to join us in the conference room. My team is trying to gather all the information we can on the people who knew Joel Lang and had access to the kitchen at the Arts Center. The members of this agency have had the most contact with Mr. Lang’s fellow chefs. Franklin in particular. He’s the agent to most of the guest chefs, correct?”
“That is correct,” Vicky said, sitting as erect in her chair as a soldier at attention.
“Then he should prove very useful,” Sean continued. “But we’d like to hear everything there is to know about the chefs—every impression, piece of gossip, or detail, no matter how small.”
I nodded solemnly and followed Sean and Vicky into the conference room. A cop about fifteen years Sean’s junior had pulled a chair into the corner of the room and sat with a notebook open on his lap. He had obviously positioned himself so that he could observe all that happened in the room. Meanwhile, a pretty female officer in her mid twenties whom I recognized from a previous investigation finished drawing a series of lines on our whiteboard. The names of all the guest chefs had already been printed in neat block letters on each line. Officer Burke replaced the cap of the dry-erase marker and looked at Sean expectantly.
“I see neither Mrs. Meriweather nor Mr. Cohen have arrived yet,” Sean said, casting his gaze around the room.
“Flora’s grabbing some lunch,” I explained. “I don’t know where Zach is.”
“He’s needed elsewhere,” Bentley stated tersely. “If he doesn’t spin this to our advantage with our media contacts, they’re certain to ruin this festival. And we’ve worked far too hard to have that happen.”
Sean stared at her, incredulous. “With all due respect, Ms. Burlington-Duke, a man has been murdered. I believe my request was to gather your employees here without delay. No exceptions.” He lowered his voice to a dangerous growl. “I could have insisted on having everyone come to the police station in Dunston, but I was trying to make things easier on all of us. The best way to protect the people who are attending the festival is to apprehend Mr. Lang’s killer. For that, I need the cooperation of this agency. That sounds reasonable, doesn’t it?”
Bentley was unfazed by Sean’s icy tone. “It does, yes. However, Zach will be of little help, as he doesn’t know these chefs from Adam. Franklin, Lila, and Vicky are the only agents who can aid you on that score. I’m simply sitting in on this meeting because they are in my employ and the chefs listed on that whiteboard are the clients of my agency. I want to make sure that none of them are subjected to frontier-style justice.”
Sean’s brow darkened with anger and I felt indignant on his behalf.
“Officer Griffiths has investigated a homicide involving this agency before,” I reminded Bentley, doing my best to sound calm and impartial. “He’s always treated everyone fairly and with the utmost courtesy and professionalism.”
Bentley peered at me over the rim of her lilac reading glasses and was silent for a long moment. Finally, she removed her glasses and rubbed her temples. “You’re right, Lila,” she said and then turned to Sean. “I apologize, Officer Griffiths. I must admit that I’m feeling rather unsettled in light of the news that the gas explosion at the Arts Center was deliberate and that its purpose was to murder a man we invited to Inspiration Valley as an honored guest. I feel . . . responsible.”
“We all do,” I told her softly. “But what we need to focus on now is catching the person who truly is responsible.”
Sean shot me a fleeting look of gratitude before taking a seat between Bentley and Vicky. “Let’s start by discussing Maurice Bruneau. Mr. Bruneau told us that he and Mr. Lang were once business partners, and that they had a falling out over how their restaurant should be run and went their separate ways. Mr. Bruneau feels that he’s the superior cook, though he admitted to being envious of Mr. Lang’s cookbook successes and his forthcoming cookbook release.” He gestured at the whiteboard. “The question is, was Mr. Bruneau’s jealousy consuming him? Was it powerful enough to convince him to commit murder?” He locked eyes with Franklin.
Franklin wrung his hands together and I realized what a difficult position he was in. The names on the board belonged to his clients, to men and women he’d known for years. He was invested in their futures and he was a part of their pasts. He’d listened to their hopes and dreams, had negotiated their contracts, critiqued their proposals, and had counseled them on their careers. I also suspected that he’d been a friend to each and every one of them.
“Every author wants his or her work to do better than everyone else’s,” Franklin finally said. “But no, I don’t think Maurice or anyone else on that board would have killed Joel because they felt threatened by his possible success. They’ve all been in this business long enough to know how capricious a mistress Success is. One day she’s in your corner and the next she’s in someone else’s. She’s as slippery as an eel, if you’ll forgive the cliché.”
“I’m sure that’s true, but I’d like to concentrate on Mr. Bruneau for the moment,” Sean said. He searched Franklin’s face and was clearly poised to push the subject of Maurice further.
Sensing the weight of Sean’s gaze, Franklin straightened his bow tie and murmured, “There are some things I’d rather remain confidential. Not everything about the private lives of my clients should be laid bare for all to see and judge.”
After a brief pause, Sean nodded. “All right, we can discuss Mr. Bruneau in greater length later. You and I can meet in your office after we’re done here.” Franklin relaxed a fraction and nodded gratefully. “And what of Ms. Patrick?” Sean continued. “Was her competition with Mr. Lang as superficial as Mr. Bruneau’s would appear?”
Franklin released a pent-up breath and I wondered why he was so eager to move away from the topic of Maurice. As Franklin spoke of Klara’s obsession with the New York Times bestseller list, I thought back on the few times I’d seen Maurice and Joel in close contact. I realized that the two men interacted with a great deal more emotion than was warranted by a broken business partnership. There was something deeper between them, a lingering wound that I believed to be the result of one thing and one thing only: a broken heart.
Suddenly, their strained behavior and pained expressions made sense. The mentor relationship that had brought the two men together must have grown into a more intimate relationship. A romantic one, most likely. And when Joel struck out on his own, Maurice had lost more than a friend and associate. If my assumptions were correct, he’d lost a lover as well.
I wondered how to raise the subject without putting Franklin on the spot. I sensed that he didn’t want to talk about a romantic partnership between the two male chefs because he was involved in a secret relationship of his own. Franklin never spoke of his partner to anyone. In fact, he didn’t talk about his private life at all if he could help it and made a concerted effort to hide his homosexuality. I only knew about the good-looking music teacher he was dating because I’d blatantly spied on my unsuspecting coworker a few months ago. I told myself then that I’d had to pry because I was investigating a crime. Now here I was again, involved in a new investigation, and I couldn’t remain silent.
“Excuse me,” I said after Vicky had finished describing her impressions of Klara Patrick. “But can we go back to Maurice for a moment? I have to say that when I saw him with Joel, I got the feeling that they’d been much more than business associates at one point and that their partnership hadn’t ended well.” I kept my eyes on Sean, hoping to spare Franklin any discomfort. “And I’m not referring to their restaurant.”
Sean looked intently at me first and then turned to Franklin. I followed his gaze. My coworker reached inside his suit jacket and withdrew a silk handkerchief. He delicately dabbed his brow and then stared at the embroidered initials on the cream-colored material. Hurriedly, he wadded the handkerchief into a ball. “Yes,” he said stiffly. “They were a couple until Joel decided to spread his wings. He wanted to try new dishes and create an ever-evolving menu and visit food markets around the world. He was determined to take chances, to experiment. Maurice didn’t want that. He was happy with the status quo.”
Sean rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “It must have been difficult for Mr. Bruneau to have his former lover and protégé flourishing on his own. The question is, was he angry enough to take a life? To ensure that Mr. Lang would never outshine him again?”
“No,” Franklin insisted. “Maurice is passionate. He’s a Frenchman and a chef. But he’s no killer. He loved Joel. Still does, or did, if you ask me. And he’s grieving over Joel’s death, though he’s doing his best not to show it. He told me that he only wanted to take Joel’s place in today’s cooking demonstrations to honor him.” Franklin held out his hands, palms up. “And consider, Officer Griffiths, that Maurice has little to gain by killing Joel. Their partnership had already been dissolved. I can’t see anyone rigging a gas explosion to earn a ten-minute television slot and that’s all Maurice gained from Joel’s passing.”
Sean considered Franklin’s argument in silence and then nodded. “Then who does benefit? I’ve been told that the kitchen remained unlocked after Ms. Wilkins had finished her tour of the Arts Center. Anyone who went on the tour could have studied the layout and then returned later that afternoon to place the cans of cooking spray inside the oven. The building’s staff had access, too, but my team has already interviewed these individuals and none of them have raised our suspicions, so let’s focus on our visiting chefs for now.”
We all looked at the names on the board.
Again, I had to speak up. “Klara seemed pretty obsessed with her cookbook outselling Joel’s. She made a few nasty remarks about him and though I don’t think that makes her a suspect, I have to admit that several of the chefs seem to be a bit duplicitous.”
“Oh, please.” Bentley groaned in exasperation. “They’re TV personalities! So you saw Klara’s mask slip a little,” she said to me. “You saw a crack in Maurice’s fa?ade. These people have artistic temperaments, just like many of our authors. They can be petty and jealous and insecure, but they’re not villains. They’re artists.”
“And yet one of them probably murdered Joel,” murmured Jude as he doodled on a notepad. He seemed very removed from the discussion.
“Do you have anything to add, Mr. Hudson?” Sean gazed inquiringly at Jude.
Jude shook his head. “Not really. I haven’t had specific dealings with the chefs since none of them are my clients. My main experience with them has been on the periphery, and my observations are on par with everyone else’s. They may be artists.” He glanced at Bentley. “But most of them struck me as egotistical and self-centered, and while murdering one of their own is extreme, I could well imagine them having it in for one another.”
The room was struck silent by the sudden slam of the door downstairs, followed by echoing footsteps slowly climbing the steps. We all turned toward the doorway to see who had arrived, and Flora appeared, panting in exertion. She carried a carton in one hand containing bottles of Cheerwine, her favorite cherry-flavored soda. In her other hand she held a paper sack from which emanated tantalizing aromas of mozzarella, tomatoes, and basil, the ingredients of my sandwich order, Pinocchio’s Panini. The aromas aroused my dormant appetite.
“Oh, you’re all here!” Flora exclaimed. “I brought lunch for Lila, but not for anyone else. I’ll share my Cheerwine with you though.” Then she noticed Sean and the other two police officers. “Hello, Officer Griffiths. What are we doing?” She glanced around the room.
Sean pulled out a chair. “Ms. Meriweather, please have a seat. We’re interviewing everyone who has had contact with the chefs, and I’d like to hear what you might have to contribute.”
“Contribute?” She placed the take-out bag in front of me and sat down. Clearing her throat, Flora said, “I do have something to tell you about Klara.”
“Anything you’ve noticed might be helpful,” prompted Sean.
“Well, I’m not one to spread stories.” Flora stared at her hands. “But after the Arts Center tour, I witnessed Klara and Bryce St. John engaged in an . . . activity . . . that makes it unlikely that either of them could have rigged the explosion before dinner.”
Sean’s brow furrowed. “What kind of activity?”
Flora fidgeted with the cuff of her sleeve. “When I was walking home to get ready for the dinner, I passed Bertram’s Hotel and saw them go in together. I went after them because I thought that maybe they had mistakenly gone to the wrong hotel. But when I entered the lobby . . .” Her cheeks flushed bright pink. “They were kissing. And Bryce was squeezing Klara in places where a person would never touch a colleague. I snuck back out before they saw me.”
Shocked, I sat back in my seat. Were Klara and Bryce having an affair? Klara had given me the impression that she was completely devoted to her husband. Was that all an act? Could she be that duplicitous? The woman I was getting to know over the last few days did not mesh with the chef I had admired on the television screen. My mother’s warning about her rang in my ears. How had she known?
“When exactly was this? Do you know the time?” Sean inquired. “And did you see them leave the hotel?”
Flora’s hands went to her cheeks, as if to cool them. “Like I said, it was right after our tour. Four-thirtyish perhaps? I was one of the first ones to leave the Arts Center, and they had gone before me. And I didn’t linger at the hotel after I’d followed them inside either. I went home to change.” She shifted in her seat. “I don’t want to tell tales when I don’t have all the facts, but they were headed up the stairs when they were behaving so . . . so amorously. The stairs lead to the guest rooms. The hotel doesn’t have an elevator, you know.”
Vicky frowned. “Do you mean to say that they checked into the hotel together? Klara, who is supposedly happily married, and that handsome chef?”
Flora shrugged. “I don’t know for sure, but that’s what it looked like to me.”
Sean glanced up at the whiteboard where Officer Burke was writing beside Klara’s name, Alibi—Bertram’s Hotel? He said, “If they were otherwise occupied at the hotel, then that would certainly provide an alibi for the two of them.” He turned to the officer in the corner. “Rick, when we’re finished here, go to the inn and check out their registration records.”
The policeman nodded and wrote on his notepad.
Sean checked his watch. “Does anyone care to add anything?” He gazed intently at each of us in turn, his blue eyes staying on mine just a tad longer than the rest. We all shook our heads.
“I believe we’ve told you all we know,” Bentley said. “If there’s nothing else . . .” She scraped back her chair and stood.
Sean and the other two police officers got to their feet as well and went to the door. “Thank you all for your time,” Sean said, pulling it open. “I’ll keep you informed as our investigation develops. And I’ll be back to speak with Mr. Cohen.”
When they had gone, we let out a collective sigh, as if a tension release button had been pushed.
“Flora, I can’t believe that Klara and Bryce would be so blatant about their affair,” I said. “You’d think they’d be afraid of getting caught.”
“It is quite a revelation,” Franklin said sadly. “I must admit that Bryce’s actions don’t surprise me, as he can be a bit of a ladies’ man. But Klara’s involvement has me stunned.”
“And what about Ryan?” I asked no one in particular. “I wonder what he’ll do when he finds out, because I don’t think Klara’s affair can stay a secret now that it’s part of the investigation.” My heart went out to the man who was working hard to prepare for his wife’s next event while she was in the arms of another man. Would his world be shattered?
“Perhaps he knows about it,” suggested Bentley. “Maybe they have an open marriage.”
Franklin shook his head. “No, I don’t think that’s the case. I have spent many hours with the two of them, and I am convinced that Ryan believes wholeheartedly in his monogamous marriage to Klara.” He rubbed his forehead. “How can people betray one another like that?”
Jude leaned forward on his elbows. “I realize Klara couldn’t have sabotaged the oven, but even from what little time I’ve spent in her presence, I’d say she’s more than capable of hurting another person.”
“What makes you think so?” I asked. Jude’s statement irritated me and I felt the need to defend Klara, even though her behavior distressed me as well. The image that I had built in my mind of the talented, gregarious, and friendly chef was shattering. I was dismayed to discover that she was both arrogant and deceitful. However, Jude was making an assumption that went beyond those characteristics.
“I had coffee with her assistant yesterday. Annie is sweet and quite cute.” Jude grinned. Of course he would have tried to cozy up to Klara’s attractive assistant. I rolled my eyes. “Anyway,” he continued. “She told me stories about Klara. The way she treats her staff, and even her peers, makes me think that Chef Klara cares about only one person. Herself. And she’s so ambitious, I don’t think she’d let anybody get in her way to the top.”
“But she was busy with Bryce St. John,” Vicky countered. “So she couldn’t have caused the explosion.”
Flora sighed. “Well, if it wasn’t Klara, and Franklin is convinced that it wasn’t Maurice—an opinion I agree with, by the way—then who murdered Joel?”
Who indeed. Suddenly, everyone began talking at once. Voices got louder as my colleagues became more and more animated. I looked from one to the other. This was not the peace and quiet I’d sought when I returned to Novel Idea for a respite. Eager to escape the fray, I grabbed my lunch and headed for the calm of my own office.