Lemon Chiffon Murder: A Donut Hole Cozy Mystery - Book 8 (3 page)

“No,” Heather said, and stepped in front of Piti Brodoteau, the rude detective they’d met only one day prior. “No, no, no. You don’t have enough evidence to take Angelica away.”

“Madame, you have not a leg to stand with. I am the lead detective in ze case of murder. I will take zis woman, and whoever else is responsible into ze custody. Comprenez vous?”

“No, I don’t understand,” she replied, folding her arms. “I don’t understand at all. Where’s your warrant for her arrest?”

Piti rolled his eyes, then brought out a handkerchief and mopped it across his sweaty forehead. “You have not ze authority for zis request.” His accent was almost unintelligible.

At least the hotel manager tried to master English. This man spoke in broken fits and starts, his beady eyes darting left and right all the while.

“Excuse me,” Ryan said, stepping around Heather. “I’m an officer from Hillside, Texas, and I’d like to know what this woman has done to deserve this kind of treatment.”

Piti grunted and pinched the bridge of his nose, then stared around at the décor in the dining room.

Angelica was seated at one of the glass topped, dark wood tables, clutching Dave to her chest and blinking back tears. She trembled, and every time an officer got to close – to close for Dave’s liking anyway – the doggie would bark and growl.

“Monsieur,” Ryan said, pronouncing the word worse than Piti pronounced ‘authority’, “I want answers and I want them now.”

“You deserve not ze answer. You are, how you say, you are out of jurisdiction.”

That he pronounced perfectly and with the twang of an American accent. Apparently, Piti Brodoteau was a fan of American cop shows.

“Oh for heaven’s sake. This is ridiculous,” Heather muttered. She couldn’t allow the police to take her assistant away. Angelica had never been out of the country before this, she’d practically begged to be chosen as the assistant to accompany Heather, while the rest of her employees stayed at Donut Delights.

This didn’t set a great first impression for her.

“Sir, I will contact Interpol if you hinder me, and they will get to the bottom of this,” Ryan said. “Now you’d best leave that girl alone or –”

“Stop,” Heather said, and placed her hand on his arm. She squeezed gently. “You’re going to get yourself in trouble and put your career in jeopardy.”

The truth of the matter was, they didn’t have any right to hinder an open investigation, and it wasn’t like Detective Shepherd was in charge here. All he could do was make empty promises and hope they were enough to stop the French from carting off their friend.

And that wasn’t a good idea at all.

Piti Brodoteau was the kinda man who would drag them off to prison with Angelica if they put up too much of a fuss.

“Who cares about my career?” Ryan hissed. “This is your assistant we’re talking about here. We can’t leave her with these frogs.”

Piti Brodoteau grunted and marched off. He stopped at the door and spoke with several other officers, relaying whatever commands he’d come up with in the midst of their conversation.

“If we make a scene we’ll end up in the prison with the frogs too. Think about it, they’ll lock us up and then we won’t be able to get to the bottom of the crime and free her.” Heather hated to admit it, but this was the only way.

Ryan didn’t seem as convinced, but he didn’t argue back.

“I’ll be right back,” Heather said.

She strode to the table where Angelica was seated, and lowered herself into one of the leather padded chairs.

Her assistant met her gaze, bottom lip trembling. “I’m afraid.”

“I know, but I promise you, I will find out who the real killer is and see you freed before this week is out.” Heather grasped her assistant’s hand. “Do you believe me?”

“Yes, I do,” Angelica replied, and some of the tension in her shoulders disappeared.

“It’s very important that you tell me if you saw anything else, anything at all. Did you taste the icing before you put it on the donuts?” Heather asked. She needed as much information as possible, even if it was a bad time to ask.

Angelica closed her eyes, she pulled her lips up, towards her nose, and nodded slowly. “Yes, I tasted the frosting. Lemony and light. Good. Delicious. But when I got to the check the noise, there nothing there. I came back and ice donuts. Then I lock them away. Both doors.”

“That’s right! There are two doors into that kitchen.” Heather gasped. “Ang, is it possible that someone could’ve snuck into the kitchen behind your back, and poisoned the icing while you looked for the source of the commotion.”

“Maybe,” she replied, but her gaze was doubtful. Dave barked and wriggled in her arms.

The two women looked up at Piti Brodoteau. A droplet of sweat leaked down the side of his face and splattered the tabletop. If Augustin had been there to witness it, he would’ve had an aneurysm on the spot.

“Put zis doggie away. You come wiz us now.”

Angelica’s eyes went as round as donuts. She waited a moment longer, then rose and handed Dave to Heather.

The dog growled at Piti throughout his hand over trajectory.

“Shush, it’s okay,” Heather whispered to him, stroking the velvety softness between his ears. It really wasn’t okay, but Dave didn’t need the extra stress, right now.

Angelica reached across the table and pulled Heather into a hug. “I see you soon.”

“Yes,” Heather replied, “you will.”

And then Angelica was gone, escorted out of the hotel by the rigid French officers. Brodoteau paused in the doorway and looked back at Heather. He raised two fingers, jabbed them towards his own eyes, then at her.

“Likewise,” she whispered.

Heather stood outside the hotel, staring blankly at the cars filing past in the road. Dave sniffed around at her feet, on a leash, of course, and wagged his tail at passersby. He didn’t mind people, he just didn’t like the ones who tried to hurt his friends.

Dave was the epitome of loyal and eccentric.

Heather suited him perfectly.

She checked her watch and sighed. Amy was supposed to meet her for coffee but she was five minutes late.

“Well, Dave, I guess we’ll have to get our caffeine fix back at the hotel bar. No, no coffee for you, but how about a bowl of milk?”

Dave stared up at her, his doggy brows wiggling.

A bowl of milk for a dog. Heather chuckled. “I suppose you’re right. Milk isn’t really your thing.”

“Sorry I’m late!” Amy called, hurrying into view around the corner. “Kent and I went exploring, the Arc De Triomphe again. I tell you, I can’t get enough of this place.” She patted her hair into place and flicked the front of her blouse. “Hot isn’t it?”

“Only because you’ve been running around Paris, having a romantic adventure,” Heather replied.

“Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do in this city? I heard there was a bridge full of locks around here but I can’t find it.”

“I’m not sure that was in Paris,” Heather said, “but I know wherever it was, they’re tearing it down now.”

“Oh no,” Amy said, and pouted. “I wanted to lock a couple on there. You know to symbolize my romance with Kent.”

“It’s getting serious then?” Heather asked, and nudged Amy for the details.

Her best friend blushed and scraped her heel on the sidewalk. “He’s wonderful. And he’s decided to expand his business into Hillside.”

“What does he do for a living?” Amy had definitely told her, but she couldn’t remember what it was for the life of her. Her mind had been clogged with wedding details at the time, and after that, with news of Jane’s murder.

“He’s a –”

“Miss Janke,” a man said, popping out of the pavement like a rat. All right, not literally, but he appeared as if from nowhere. “Miss Janke, care to answer a few questions?”

“What on earth?” Heather and Amy exchanged incredulous looks. “About what?”

The man wore a bow tie and a short-sleeved buttoned shirt. His eyebrows were two dark strikes against his skin, and his nose was hooked above an almost non-existent mouth.

“About the arrest of your friend, of course.” He was definitely French, but his accent and English were impeccable.

Amy’s blushing turned from shy to angry in two seconds flat. “You have no right to ask her any questions about that.”

The reporter whistled and a chubby guy in shorts and a sleeveless vest ran over, carting a camera on his shoulder. He trained it on Amy, who was now the center of his news world.

“What are you – don’t –” Amy lifted a hand and tried to block out his view, but the chubby guy dodged around her, belly rolls wobbling from the action. He didn’t even break a sweat. The consummate professional.

“Leave her alone,” Heather said, loudly. “Right this minute.”

Chubby Boy spun on the spot and focused on Heather instead. “Oh yes,” he murmured, “she will give the answers. Interview her, Gaston.”

“What is
even
happening right now?” Amy asked, shuffling closer to Heather and leeching onto her arm.

“I don’t know, but I suggest we cancel the coffee and retreat to the safety of the Saint James instead.”

“Oh ho! The Saint James. The safety?” Gaston, the hook-nosed reporter crooned. “The safety? How can you say that it is safe after the untimely murder of Jane Duvall?”

“Merde,” the cameraman echoed, in a spooky tones.

Dave lost his marbles at that. He barked and ran around in circles, twisting the long leash this way and that.

Gaston swept one hand into the air and brought it down in an expressive swishing movement. “Perhaps it is because you know who the killer was and that the killer is behind bars.”

“You’re ridiculous. And your accusations are ridiculous,” Amy growled.

“Don’t talk to him, Ames, you’re just giving him more ammo.” Heather spun her friend around and marched her back towards the entrance of the hotel.

“Ah ha! The friend’s name is Ames,” Gaston said, then snapped his fingers, “Claude, pay attention. Are you getting this?”

“Yes, boss,” Claude replied, in a low simper.

“Very well, follow the women. Do not let them escape!”

Heather and Amy strode under the arch of the Saint James, clutching each other. “He’s like a cartoon or something,” Amy whispered.

“I’m beginning to think all Frenchmen are caricatures. I’ve seen no evidence to prove otherwise,” Heather replied, speaking just as low as Amy.

“Do you not have a comment, huh?” Gaston appeared in front of them, running backwards on the spot, with his fluffy-tipped mic extended. “No defense for the friend who has been taken into custody? We have it on good authority that this Madame Angelique poisoned Jane Duvall in a fit of jealousy.”

“No comment,” Heather said, keeping her expression blank. The chubby Claude hissed his disappointment.

“What of the news that it was your donut which destroyed Jane’s innocent life. Oh my, taken so soon from us all,” Gaston said, then broke to camera, “And she was a reporter too Claude. For shame. For shameeeee!”

“No comment,” Heather repeated, woodenly. Dave had many comments, thankfully all of them were barks.

They were almost at the front steps of the Saint James anyway.

Gaston continued backpedalling along the gravel. “And what of the –”

His back slammed into the very solid chest of Augustin Pepe Lepeu. The reporter turned on the spot, with a theatrical frown – made that way by those caterpillar eyebrows – then froze and turned pale as flour.

“Leave,” Augustin said. An English word, with a French accent, which had more power over Gaston and his cameraman than anything Heather and Amy, and Dave, could have said or barked.

Gaston’s non-lips trembled. He swallowed and licked at them. Then he turned, clicking his fingers at Claude, and disappeared down the driveway.

“Thank you,” Heather said.

Augustin ignored her and charged back into his beloved hotel.

Amy and Heather shuffled into the dining area and made for the bar, with Dave on the end of the leash, wriggling with latent anger. Her dog didn’t forgive interruptions to his daily walk kindly.

Gaston was in line for a vicious ankle chewing after that stunt.

They trudged to the bar and seated themselves at it, then asked for two coffees, black.

“These are to clear our heads,” Amy said, “we can have the cappuccinos to sweeten the deal after.”

Heather yawned and nodded. “Being in the public eye is exhausting. I can’t stop thinking about Angelica, either, I’m worried that they’ll mistreat her. I don’t even know what the procedure is for a foreign arrest.”

“Ryan will know,” Amy replied. “And Kent’s pulling all the strings he has, trying to get her extradited back to the US.”

Heather sighed and unhooked Dave from his leash. He was allowed to wander, as long as he stayed close. The glory of a pet friendly hotel.

“I doubt they’ll allow that. They have to keep her here for a trial. It’s been an entire day since she was arrested and I still haven’t made any head way into my investigation,” Heather said, then cleared her throat. “It’s really quite frustrating, I –”

Amy nudged her and she snapped her mouth closed.

Another guest had joined them at the bar, and ordered a martini, dry, with one olive. It was Bear Trapp, with his hair fluffed to perfection. The picture of a popular man, not a slimy paparazzo.

“Looks like you’ve got your chance to get ahead with the case,” Amy whispered, then slurped at her bitter coffee and grimaced afterwards.

Heather turned and smiled at the newcomer, turning on whatever charm she had left after the run-in with Gaston and his nose.

“You’re Bear Trapp, aren’t you?”

He swigged his martini and looked over at her. “That’s right. And you’re the bride. Heather Janke.”

“That’s right,” she said, and reached over to shake his hand. “I didn’t expect to see you at my wedding, Bear.”

“Of course you didn’t. Anonymity, subtlety is what I do best.”

Amy snorted into her empty coffee cup and covered it with a fake coughing fit.

Heather shifted to block her from view. “I see. It’s unfortunate how things turned out. I would’ve preferred a peaceful week in France, to the absolute insanity that’s gone on the past few days.”

“Can I quote you on that?” Bear flashed a cheesy smile.

Amy snorted again, and this time Heather nudged her gently to get her to behave.

“I think I’ll take Dave for his walk,” Amy said, slipping off the chair and grabbing the leash from Heather’s lap. “He wouldn’t want to miss out on it.”

Dave hopped over, pranced actually, at the mention of his walk.

Heather waited until Amy was out of earshot. “As I was saying, it’s a real pity about Jane Duvall, don’t you think?”

“Hmm, I know what you’re up to Ms. Janke. Can’t say I care to talk about Jane or the murder,” Bear replied.

“Oh come on, you? Didn’t you just publish a tell-all on Jane? A day after her murder.” Heather accepted a cappuccino from the bartender, and thanked him with a smile. She kept her calm exterior up, but her nerves bubbled away in the pit of her stomach.

“Ah, I didn’t know you’d read it,” Bear replied. “One of my best pieces. I’ve been researching that article for quite some time. It was the reason I followed Jane to Paris. I had my suspicions about her, believed she’d meet with her ‘boyfriend’ here, out from under the watchful eye of the Hillside press.”

“And did you find him?” Heather asked.

“You could say that. I found evidence of him, let’s put it that way.”

“What evidence?”

Bear finished off his martini and ordered another with a swish of his hand. “That’s really none of your business, Ms. Janke.”

He sure had nerve, crashing her engagement party and wedding celebrations to follow a lead, and then refusing her information about it, after the lead he’d been following had dropped dead.

“You didn’t care much for Jane, did you?” Heather asked, and lifted a silver spoon from her saucer. She scooped cream off the cappuccino and gobbled it down.

“Jane? We didn’t talk often. I had no relationship with her, but I also didn’t have professional respect for her,” he said, then removed a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.

The bartender slipped an ashtray onto the table.

Bear Trapp lit up and puffed away on his cigarette. “Better not let that frou-frou hotel guy catch me. He’s been moaning for the past two days about the smoke smell. Never mind smoking in public areas is permitted here.” He rolled his eyes.

Heather didn’t register the derision. Bear Trapp had to be lying.

Augustin had seen Bear and Jane fighting prior to her death, but Bear claimed that he had no relationship with her? That they hardly ever spoke?

Something smelled about his story and it wasn’t the nicotine and tar.

“Are you done sleuthing out your questions? Nothing else to add? A murder accusation perhaps?” Bear asked, with a sly grin. He tapped the ash off the end of his cigarette and into the ashtray.

Heather stared at him for a moment, the calm demeanor, and the cigarette. She definitely wasn’t a fan of him or his work.

“Have a good day, Mr. Trapp,” Heather said, at last. She rose, leaving her cappuccino on the bar, and walked for the door.

“Yeah,” the paparazzo said, behind her, “that’s what I thought.”