Philippe smiled broadly. “Fascinating. You are the most interesting detective. I like how you detect.”
Abby looked at him curiously.
Where are you going with that?
She felt relieved when Kat pulled up and parked alongside them. Exiting her cruiser, Kat said, “You’ve got to clear your messages, girlfriend. Your cell is going straight to voice mail. Again. What’s up with that?”
Abby reached for her cell in her pocket.
Philippe extended his hand to Kat. “Officer Petrovsky.”
Abby watched Philippe appraising Kat. His voice sounded sexier than it had all day. For a split second, she felt a twinge of envy, but she quickly reminded herself for the umpteenth time that Philippe was a paying client. She couldn’t let herself feel
that
way about him.
“Right back at you, Mr. Bonheur,” Kat said.
Abby knew Kat loved to flirt but never in the line of duty. Turning her attention back to her smartphone, Abby exclaimed, “You called four times! Sorry! I must not have turned the ringer back on after shutting down the phone when I got home at dawn.”
“Dawn?” Kat seemed surprised. “So your chickens and bees had to do without you for a night? I hope you can see what this means.” Kat eyed Philippe but directed the question to Abby. “Can you say
social life?
”
Abby sighed. “I’m working on it.”
“How’s the case going?” Kat asked.
Abby opted for the shortest reply she could think of. “Still looking for a major break.”
“Well, I come with a tidbit,” said Kat.
“Spill it.”
“So, here’s the setup. I have to work the park tonight.
A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
”
“Sheesh . . . Is it that time of year already?” Abby asked. To Philippe, Abby explained, “It’s a major fund-raiser for our local acting troupe and for the park. It also raises the profile of our town.”
Kat looked directly at Philippe. “Your brother got rave reviews for his beautiful dessert creations at the festival last year.” To Abby, she said, “But with Jean-Louis gone, organizers had to pick someone else to make the world-class desserts this year. Guess who?”
Before Abby could say anything, Kat remarked, “Stephen B. Flanders, now at the Baker’s Dozen. Still goes by the name Jean-Louis gave him, Etienne.”
“I’m not surprised,” Abby said. “He wanted more money, and going to a competitor, giving away Jean-Louis’s secrets, could be his ticket.”
“Well, we all want more money,” Kat said.
Abby broke into a wide grin and said, “Must have thought his dough would rise higher somewhere else.”
“Oh,
please.
” Kat rolled her eyes. “Seriously, look into Etienne’s alibi. In his sworn statement, he said he texted a friend in the middle of the night from his friend’s apartment in San Francisco. However, his car was seen in Las Flores at four thirty in the morning.”
Abby raised a brow, fully aware of the quizzical expression that must have taken over her face.
“Vanity plates,” Kat replied. “Etienne has vanity plates.” Kat filled Abby in on the details.
“Ah.” Abby gazed at Philippe. “You know, suddenly I have an insatiable urge for a pastry.”
Kat pushed her thumbs into her duty belt. “I thought you might.”
Abby reached over and laid her hand on Philippe’s arm. “Feel like taking in a performance of Shakespeare in the park?”
He did not hesitate in his reply. “Park . . . two beautiful women.
Bien sûr.
”
Inside the downtown park, Abby led the way along the paved walkway to the wooden theater set near the gazebo and arboretum. A temporary cyclone fence had been erected to keep out park visitors without tickets. Philippe chose front-row seating and promised to save Abby a seat while she went to get her pastry.
The food court was situated where it usually was, in the stand of old oak trees. Abby spied Etienne working in the Baker’s Dozen tent and watched him awhile before approaching him. He expertly sliced a tall triple-layer white cake with a fruit filling. Using squirt bottles, one raspberry colored and one a dark shade of chocolate, he swiftly created a pattern on each white plastic plate set out on the table before placing slices of cake upon the pattern. He had dressed the part of an expert baker—a toque blanche and a shirt with a double row of snaps, trousers with black-and-white stripes, clogs, and a wide name tag, on which the name Jean-Louis had given him, Etienne, had been written in cursive.
When Abby heard the announcer asking for applause for the festival sponsors before the actors took the stage for act 1, she approached Etienne with her questions about the death of his former employer.
“Like I told the police,” the young chef explained, “I went up to San Francisco for the night. I stayed over at a friend’s place. I didn’t even hear about the death until I got home around noon the next day.”
“Your friend got a name?” Abby asked.
“Wayne Wu. Call him.”
“Well, the police did call him. Wu, your flight attendant friend, says that you come and go and that he didn’t even see you that night, because he was at the airport, waiting to take off from SFO and fly to Denver.”
“Like I said, he lets me use it when I’m in the city . . . North Beach neighborhood. I sent him a text at midnight. I remember hearing the foghorn sound just as I sent it. Check it out.”
“Okay. What did you do after you sent the text?”
Etienne didn’t answer, so Abby pressed on.
“Didn’t you drive back to Las Flores? Weren’t you here in town by five in the morning on the day Jean-Louis died?”
The young chef set aside the bottles of raspberry puree and chocolate and picked up a paper towel. He wiped icing from a serrated knife and set it aside.
“Look, I went to see Jean-Louis that night, around ten. He was working. I asked him for money. He said no. End of story.”
“Why do you need money?”
“Why does anybody need money? It’s not like I was asking for a gift. He owed me. Anyway, I made him an investment offer.”
“What kind of investment?”
Etienne seemed to be thinking through his story as he tossed the paper towel into the nearby trash can and retrieved another from the roll on the table, which he used to wipe his hands.
Abby waited. Still no reply, so she decided to take a different approach.
“Etienne, I’m not working for the police or the county sheriff. I don’t care what nefarious activity you are into. I am only interested in who killed Jean-Louis Bonheur. His family members are devastated and want answers. Talk to me, and I go away. Keep silent, and you are going under a microscope.”
Etienne tossed the paper towel and reached for a long box of plastic wrap. He methodically covered each cake piece on its plate. “Chef fired me and never gave me another cent. An opportunity came along. I took it.”
“Opportunity? What kind of opportunity?”
He looked up and narrowed his eyes. “A plant-based business.”
Abby arched a brow. “Well, I can understand using edible plants and herbs in pastries, but I suspect those are not the kind of plants you mean, are they? I mean, we’re not talking sugar-dusted rose petals or crystallized violets here, are we?”
Etienne stopped what he was doing to stare at her. His tone grew more sarcastic. “You’re not the police. I don’t have to tell you anything.”
Abby responded in a steely-edged voice. “True, but I have contacts at all levels of law enforcement. With one phone call, your life radically changes. The sooner you talk to me, the sooner I go away.”
Etienne frowned. “Whatever!” He lined up several more plates of cake to wrap in plastic. He seemed to be thinking about her threat. His tone shifted. “I asked Jean-Louis for money to pay for a place to dry some plants.”
“So you need a drying shed. Not talking about herbs, are you?”
He shook his head. “I think you know exactly what I mean.... I found a place . . . more like a shack, but no way to grab it.”
Abby rubbed the lobe of her ear as she thought about how to phrase the next question. “So you and your friends, you wanted to actually rent the place, instead of just moving into this drying shed?”
Etienne looked at her dismissively. “And have the owner call the cops? Get real.”
“Okay . . . so, what kind of money are we talking about?”
“Seven hundred rent, fifteen hundred up front for that shack.”
“Where is the shack?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” He leaned over and retrieved a new roll of plastic wrap from a box of supplies and continued cutting sheets of it to wrap the plates.
For a moment, the thought of Lucas digging up the marijuana field he’d found crossed Abby’s mind, but she said nothing. While she didn’t appreciate Etienne copping an attitude, as long as she got some answers from him, she would push him for more.
“Did Jean-Louis give you the money?”
“Nope.”
“So what did you do?”
“Said a few choice words . . . initiated my backup plan.”
“Which was . . . ?”
“Give me money or kiss your reputation good-bye. Folks around here fear what they don’t understand . . . and they wouldn’t understand their town’s illustrious pastry chef stealing recipes from other chefs and elbowing others aside to win a competition.”
“Well, that’s creative. Did he really do that?” Abby asked.
“It doesn’t matter if he did or not, if people believe it. He had so many in this town looking up to him, I had to make sure his ivory tower came crashing down.”
“And you had a plan, didn’t you?”
“I would say so,” Etienne said. Then he added, “I knew where he kept all his recipes. I just took a few. I knew he’d want them back, and maybe he would even pay for them. Hopefully, it would change his mind about ponying up some cash.”
“But from what I hear, Chef Jean-Louis was cash-strapped.”
“That’s what he said. But I didn’t buy it.”
Abby watched as Etienne wiped his forehead with a towel. She wondered if Etienne sweated because he was feeling cornered. As a cop, she’d seen plenty of guys sweat under questioning; some had even cried like babies after they were caught. “Then what did you do?”
“Had a Baileys at the Black Witch. But I got madder. The more I drank, the angrier I got. You know what they say about alcohol releasing inhibitions. Guess I started spreading it on thick.”
“About the chef stealing from other chefs?”
“Yeah.”
“So, who’d you tell?’ Abby asked, trying not to sound disgusted.
“The bartender . . . the guy on the stool next to me . . . I dunno. What does it matter now? The chef is dead.”
“It matters.”
“Okay, so I chatted up a few people, had a drink, drove up to the city.”
“Your car was spotted in Las Flores around four thirty a.m.”
Etienne stared at Abby in an intense silence.
Oh, you’re angry, aren’t you?
“You’re not pinning his death on me.”
“You ran a stop sign at the end of the exit ramp from the highway into town.”
“Big deal. So what?”
“You careened past the newspaper carrier delivering his route. He wrote down your vanity plate. LFCHEF, isn’t it? So I ask again, at five o’clock on the morning the chef died, where were you?”
“Watching reruns on The Food Channel with a friend. We didn’t get out of bed until lunchtime.” Etienne glared at her and then pulled out his phone and scrolled through his contacts. “There. Name. Photo. Number. Now, can I go back to work?”
Abby jotted the info on her notepad. Looking up at last, she said as a parting shot, “Listen up. Drugs. Blackmail. You might want to come clean with the cops, or you’ll be playing patty-cake behind bars, Mr. Stephen B. Flanders, aka Chef Etienne.” She spun around and swiftly walked back to the fenced-in enclosure.
Philippe was on his feet, enthusiastically cheering the actors along with the rest of the crowd.
“You look like you are enjoying it,” she said.
Nodding, he said, “You missed the opening.”
“Oh, if you only knew how many times I’ve sat through that.”
“Find out anything from Etienne?” Apparently, Philippe was so eager to learn about any new development, he took hold of Abby’s elbow and guided her toward the exit.
“Perhaps,” Abby said as they walked to a quieter part of the park. “He’s changed his story again, but my gut tells me he didn’t take your brother’s life.” She caught a whiff of something, which reminded her that she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. “Oh my! Do you smell that? Butter, parmesan cheese . . . barbecued oysters! Are you hungry?”
“Un peu.”
“Only a little? I’m famished. Let’s grab a glass of vino and let our noses lead us to those oysters.”
Philippe’s mood seemed to have lightened, and they strolled like young lovers past tents housing offerings from local wineries. As they walked, they spotted many varietals and blends. While some wineries provided engraved commemorative glasses, others poured their vino into plastic stemware. Abby thought about stopping at the pouring station for High Ridge Wines, but seeing the long line of park visitors there, she opted to walk on to view Casa Lennahan’s offerings.
“Shall we taste their cabernet?” she asked Philippe.
“Avec plaisir.”
Philippe stepped into the short line at the pouring table and soon returned with two Casa Lennahan etched glasses filled with a dark ruby liquid.
Abby touched her glass lightly to Philippe’s and sipped. Licking her lips, she pretended to be a master sommelier. “Black fruit, olive, a hint of anise . . . smidgen of mineral, and a touch of oak. Lovely.”
Philippe sniffed the wine twice, once with his mouth slightly open to allow the vapors to cross his palate, and then took a real sip, which he held in his mouth before finally swallowing. “For me,” he said, “not so good. Too astringent. Not enough oak. Just average.”