Lemon Chiffon Murder: A Donut Hole Cozy Mystery - Book 8 (2 page)

They had decided to take their breakfast – brioche and chocolate sauce – outside for once. The weather was lovely, a sunny, cloudless morning, and Dave frolicked in the garden, enjoying the atmosphere.

For all Dave knew, this was just another holiday.

Heather ate in silence, breaking off pieces of the rich, buttery bun and dipping it into the chocolate, then depositing it in her mouth. Sweetness spread across her tongue, the delicious flavor even an open murder case couldn’t dissipate.

“You’re quiet,” Ryan said, and gulped down his second cup of coffee. Finesse was not his way, but she loved him for it. Gruff, sweet and protective Ryan. Her fiancé and soon-to-be husband if the morbid atmosphere ever lifted at Saint James.

“We all are,” Kent said, and glanced at Amy. They hadn’t been dating very long, and she’d kept him secret until she was absolutely sure that she was ready to introduce him to Heather.

“I believe we should stretch out legs, go for a walk through Paris, do a bit of exploring before this hotel and the crime suck us into their respective orbits,” Ryan said, pointing with a bit of bread. “What do you three say?”

Heather had wanted to stick around and question a few suspects, but a day out might be a good idea.

“A walk sounds like a dream,” Heather said, at last. Dave barked his agreement.

Words Dave understood ranged from ‘walk’ to ‘donut’, and did not include ‘no’ or ‘for heaven’s sakes Dave, get off the sofa’.

“Let’s finish up and then we can head out,” Ryan said. “Come on, it will be fun. The Arc De Triomphe, the Eiffel Tower, and the restaurants. I bet there are some amazing restaurants to explore in this city. After all, we didn’t come here to cry in our soups.”

Heather tried working up the enthusiasm for a trek through Paris. The previous afternoon, before Jane’s death, she would’ve been all for it.

She looked up at the Saint James, whose style was more of a grand manor than a hotel, and wriggled her nose. Mysteries to be solved, that gene of hers had an itch to be scratched.

“Earth to Heather,” Amy said, clicking her fingers under her nose. “You’re in mystery land again.” She smiled lightly and pushed her empty plate aside.

“Sorry, I just realized I forgot something up in the room,” she said, standing quickly.

“You want me to come with you?” Amy asked. They’d been sharing a room in the hotel, prior to the wedding.

“No, no, that’s quite all right. I just want to get a coat real quick.” Heather squeezed Ryan’s hand once and tried to ignore the look of concern he shot at her. Everyone acted as if she was a fragile flower. It was strange.

Perhaps they thought the pressure of being ‘the bride’ would get to her.

She walked off at a leisurely pace, so they wouldn’t expect anything. She’d been itching to take a peek in the kitchen, and she had to do it as soon as possible.

There had to be some clue around. Perhaps the cigarette butt Angelica had seen might still be there.

Heather rushed passed the bar and dining area with its leopard print carpet, through the door which was surrounded by shelves of books, and down the hall.

The kitchen was close by, and likely filled with chefs and waiters. She’d had to pay top dollar to get the hotel to allow Angelica and Heather to work on the Lemon Chiffon cruller donuts in the first place.

She stepped lightly, slowing down at the sight of the dark wood doors which led into the kitchen.

Heather bent and checked the floor outside the kitchen, squinting at any darkened corners.

“What’s that?” She murmured.

A tiny burn mark against the skirting, just big enough to have been made by a cigarette.

Heather lowered herself to her hands and knees to get a closer look. She fingered the black burn mark on the dark wood skirting, humming under her breath.

“Oh mon Dieu!” A man spoke loudly behind her.

Heather jumped and scrambled to her feet. She spun on the spot, re-arranging her blouse and blushing furiously. “Sorry, I, uh, I dropped my contact lens, right here by the door. Can’t find it,” she said, and risked a sheepish grin.

The maître d’hôtel didn’t buy that at all. He twirled his moustache with his index finger, his gaze sharp as a hawk’s.

Augustin Pepe Lepeu stared at her as if she had personally offended him. Then again, there was a huge range of things which could offend the man, as she’d discovered upon check-in when he’d berated her for putting her handbag on the counter.

Heaven forbid she touch his beloved polished walnut counter.

“Monsieur Lepeu,” Heather said, “is there something I can help you with?”

“Oui. You can stop lurking around my kitchen.”

Heather nodded and forced a smile. She stepped around the horrible guy and made for the end of the hall, then stopped, turned back. “Monsieur Lepeu?”

“What is it?” He asked, narrowing those beady eyes.

“Did you hear or see anything strange in the hotel yesterday afternoon? You know, prior to the incident?”

“Aller se faire cuire un oeuf,” he snapped.

“I don’t understand? Why would I cook an egg? I’d much rather make a donut,” Heather said, and chuckled.

“Un donut? Merde,” the wicked man said, shaking his head. “It is a saying. It means to leave me alone. Keep your nose where it belongs, Madame, before it is lost.” And with that, the hotel manager spun on his heel and strode down the hall.

The Musee Dapper was one of Paris’ best kept secrets, for artists at least. The glass cases displayed African masks and art pieces, and the main room was small, if not stuffy.

Heather walked arm-in-arm with Ryan, her thoughts on Augustin Pepe Lepeu, rather than the fantastic Arc De Triomphe which they’d just come from.

“Heather,” Ryan whispered, pointing at another mask behind a thick pane of glass. “Isn’t this fantastic? I bet no one ever comes here.”

“Yes,” she replied, “fantastic.”

“You don’t seem particularly wowed by anything in here. Or out there for that matter.” Her fiancé gestured towards the front of the store, where windows looked out on a typical Parisian street.

“I know,” she said. She couldn’t bring herself to be ashamed of her distraction. “This is supposed to be a special time for us, but I just can’t stop thinking about Jane and what happened at the hotel. I want to be back there, solve it and then carry on with our celebration.”

Ryan drew in a breath and released it slowly. “I understand. What do you say we catch a bite to eat, and then we head back to the hotel? I’ll help you out. Discreetly, of course. There’s not much I can do here, anyway, I’m as far out of my jurisdiction as you are out of Donut Delights.”

Five minutes later, they were seated on orange couches with their backs to a grey weaved wall, studying the menus at Les tablettes Jean Louis Nomicos.

Amy shifted and smiled at Kent, and he squeezed her hand on top of the white table cloth.

“Can you believe the wonder of this place?” Amy asked, breaking eye contact with her new boyfriend and turning to Heather.

“It is gorgeous,” she said, at last. She sipped from a crystal glass of water.

Kent brought out his cellphone, Ryan bent over the menu, trying and failing to decipher the French, and they descended into easy silence again.

Why had Augustin been rude? It seemed entirely unnecessary. Then, he had been furious when she’d asked for permission to use the kitchen. What if he’d decided to take matters into his own hands and get rid of her by…

No, it didn’t make sense. Jane Duvall was an innocent, and she surely couldn’t have controlled her sudden craving for sweets in the middle of the engagement party.

“Wow,” Kent said, “oh wow, you guys should see this.” The blond man slid the phone across the table and presented it to them. “I’m highly active on social media, particularly in the Hillside region? Look what just went live of Facebook. No, Twitter. Everywhere.”

Heather, Amy and Ryan bent over the phone, knocking heads but ignoring the pain.

An article lit the screen on Kent’s iPhone.

Jane Duvall, Consummate Liar and Adulterer, Meets Sticky Sweet End at Paris Hotel

“That’s abhorrent,” Heather said, twisting her mouth to the side. “Who would write something like this? Who would be that cruel?”

Amy scrolled down the screen, speed reading, and her mouth moving as she did. She stopped at the bottom and gasped.

“What is it?”

“Bear Trapp. The author of this article is Bear Trapp. And look,” she said, spinning the phone around on the table, so Heather could get a better view, “he’s illustrated it with pictures from inside the Saint James Hotel. There’s even one with you and Ryan in the background.”

“Bear Trapp,” Heather said, tapping her chin with two fingers. “Bear Trapp.”

Kent chuckled then straightened out his expression. “Sorry, it’s just a funny name.”

“I can tell you what’s not funny, babe,” Amy said, “He’s published salacious lies about Jane. He claims she faked her way through most of her reports and that she cheated on her husband on multiple occasions.”

“That’s heartless,” Ryan said. “So soon after her death? It’s been a day.”

“The media never sleeps,” Heather replied, sagely, “and neither does a greedy man’s need for power or publicity. This is clearly a stunt. But it begs the question, what was Bear doing at our engagement party in the first place?”

They shared a wary glance over their water glasses.

“Right, I’ve lost my appetite,” Heather said.

“Me too.” Amy sighed. “I say we get back to the hotel and take a rest. We can carry on sightseeing.”

Ryan nodded reluctantly and shut his menu. “I’m on board with that, but I won’t pretend for a second that Heather’s going to rest when we get back to the Saint James.”

“Ah, you know me too well,” she said, and flashed him a grin.

They thanked the waiter, tipped him for his trouble and made their way back to the hotel, taking a scenic route through the streets, walking rather than catching a taxi. The fresh air worked wonders for Heather’s constitution.

She had to find out more about Bear Trapp, and why he had a vendetta against Jane Duvall, if indeed, he had one and this wasn’t another publicity stunt to pad out his career and resume.

Heather and the gang rounded the corner and strode through the arch which led up to the fountain and the front entrance of the Saint James.

A lonely figure stood beside the flowing water, tossing pebbles into the basin.

Heather frowned, and squinted. A sudden realization struck her, right between the eyes. She halted and Ryan faltered beside her.

“You guys go head,” she said. “I need to catch up with an old friend out here.” Heather nodded towards the fountain.

The woman beside it turned towards them, jolted as if she’d been shocked, took a step to the side as if she’d run, then halted.

Heather waved. “Hi there, Lori, It’s nice to see you again.” She strode towards Jane Duvall’s assistant, questions dancing on the tip of her tongue.

Lori Lisalot wasn’t exactly an old friend. They’d been acquaintances in high school, years ago, and hadn’t spent more than five minutes in conversation. Heather was about to break that record.

“I didn’t expect to see you, but it is nice,” Heather said, breaking the ice by smiling.

Lori chewed the corner of her bottom lip, then ran a hand through her slicked back, short brown hair. “Yes, I came with a colleague.”

“Oh? Who?” Heather knew exactly who, but she wanted to hear it from Lori, and see the reaction when the other woman said the ex-beauty queen’s name.

“Jane Duvall.”

“Oh right, of course. You were her assistant, is that right? I had no idea she’d brought you with, but I’m glad you’re here now,” Heather said, rambling on. She had to work her way around to asking questions, and even though Lori was officially a suspect, she was also in mourning for her boss.

Investigation was a delicate line to walk.

“I’m not glad to be here,” Lori replied, and fumbled around in her jean pockets. “No offense or anything, but I came here to help Jane report on your wedding and now I’ve been dropped in the mud. I mean, what am I supposed to do? Write the article myself?”

“Maybe, I –”

Lori fumbled a cigarette and a lighter out of her pocket. She clicked the flint, inserted the smoke between her lips, and lit it. She inhaled deeply and puffed out a cloud of smog.

Heather took a step back to avoid it.

Lori didn’t notice. “I mean, let’s be honest here, Jane was great. She was a master at what she did, right?” She took another drag, exhaled. There wasn’t too much of a breeze that morning, so the smoke kinda hovered.

“Yes, I hear she was a fantas –”

“Yeah, right. So she was great, everybody loved her, bla, bla, friggin’ bla,” Lori said, waving the cigarette around. “But where does that leave me?”

“I, uh,” Heather stammered.

“In the lurch. It leaves me in the lurch,” she said, then suckled more of the cancerous fumes into her lungs, “because we came here to do a job and the station is going to expect a report. You know they wanted her to write up an article and do a live feed?”

“I didn’t approve a live feed.”

“Exactly. Jane was probably going to ask your permission before she went ahead and kicked the darn bucket,” Lori replied, bitter as a year old almond. She kicked the loose stones around the fountain and rolled her eyes. “Now, it’s all up to Lori. Lori do this, Lori do that. Like I want to do ‘this’ and ‘that’. And I’ll tell you, if I had my way, Jane wouldn’t have been in charge of –” Lori cut off, her eyes grew wide and she jammed her mouth shut.

“What? She wouldn’t have been in charge of what?”

“Nothing, nothing,” the other woman replied, sucking on the filter again. “It’s the grief, you know? It’s makin’ me talk all crazy and stuff. Listen, Heather, I’m happy for you. I hope you have a great wedding.” Lori shuffled sideways through the pebbles, spraying them this way and that.

“Lori, wait.”

“Americans!” A man yelled from the front of the hotel.

They both turned. Augustin Pepe Lepeu marched down the front stairs of the Saint James, his suit flapping open at the front, to reveal a creaseless cotton button up. His usually pallid cheeks were dotted pink.

“Uh ok, here comes the stiff,” Lori said, then dropped her cigarette and crunched it out with her heel.

“That’s right, you put out that stinky thing. Plouc Americain!” Augustin halted in front of them and rammed his fists onto his hips. “There is no smoking in the front of these ‘otel! If you want to practice this, this –”

“Habit?” Heather said, helpfully.

“Oh, oui? It’s you again,” Augustin said, turning on Heather. “You and your questions, and the scarping, the crawling around.”

“Crawling?” Lori asked, arching both eyebrows. The hotel manager turned his razor gaze and she jumped, then bustled off towards the front door.

Augustin watched her go with his lips pursed and his already lined forehead wrinkled. “Disgusting.”

“I, uh, Monsieur Lepeu, how are you this afternoon?”

“How do I look, Madame? Ripe as the fresh plucked chicken?” He asked, and this time his mouth became a thin line. “You are full of useless questions.”

“And you’re rather rude,” Heather replied, because for heaven’s sake, this was truly out of hand. Couldn’t the man converse normally? Did he have to throw his arms in the air and lament the world?

Typical drama queen. Or king.

“Rude? I’m rude? I am not the one who has ruined the ‘otel with the fighting and the screaming –” The manager cut off and straightened his jacket.

“I haven’t fought with anyone.”

“No? Well every other Americain has done such. That horrible newsman, the woman who died.”

Heather’s heart skipped beat. “They argued? Jane and Bear Trapp argued?”

Augustin snapped his fingers. “Nosy woman! Occupe-toi de tes oignons.” And then he marched off, his heels flattening the stones, never kicking them up, of course.

If Heather wasn’t mistaken, he’d just told her to mind her own onions. But that couldn’t be right, could it?

She shook her head to clear it.

Firstly, Lori had freaked out about Jane’s death, but not because she was sad. She was angry and she’d been hesitant to tell Heather the full story. And now this?

Bear Trapp, who’d published the scathing article about Jane, had argued with her before her death?

Two leads and no answers. Heather patted her heeled pump on the gravel.

The front door to the hotel swung open again, and this time, Ryan stepped onto the stairs. “Honey? We’ve got a problem. I think you’d better come inside. Now.”

“What is it?” Heather asked, already crunching across the driveway to get to him.

“It’s Angelica.”