Lemon Chiffon Murder: A Donut Hole Cozy Mystery - Book 8 (4 page)

They held a memorial dinner for Jane Duvall in the gardens at the Saint James.

Honestly, in the rush of Angelica’s arrest, the questions, the sleuthin’, Heather hadn’t had time to grieve for the loss of another of Hillside’s finest. They’d decided that there was no time like the present, even if Jane’s body had been flown back to Texas for a proper funeral in the meantime.

The gathering was quiet.

Heather rose from her seat, and clinked her fork against the side of her glass, which was filled with water.

Faces turned to look at them, most of them somber, some of them blank. Dave had been tucked away upstairs for the event. Heather didn’t trust he wouldn’t overturn a table in search of baked goods.

“Thank you all for coming, this evening,” she said.

The lamps along the path clicked on behind her. The sun had only begun to set, but the purple of dusk would soon follow and the hotel ran like clockwork.

“I invited you all here to celebrate our wedding, but things have turned out different to what we expected, as I’m sure you all know. Now, with a time of joy sometimes comes a great time of sadness.” Heather looked around the gardens, at the people gathered.

Bear Trapp stifled a yawn behind his fist.

“I never dreamed that Jane would lose her life in this manner, and especially not an event which was meant to bring happiness. She lived a full life, and connected with a lot of you on a very personal level. So, here’s to Jane,” she said, raising her glass.

Everyone followed suite, and murmured, “To Jane.”

They drank, and Heather lowered herself to her chair. Soon enough, waiters streamed out of the doors of the hotel, bringing plates of gourmet cuisine for the guests to enjoy.

Amy gave Heather a wan smile. “Well, this is nice,” she said.

“Yeah, I know, but it’s the best way to celebrate Jane. I made some extra lemon chiffon donuts to –”

A sob broke the dull chatter.

Lori Lisalot stood in front of the group, holding a lit candle.

She sniffled. “I just wanted to say – excuse me. I just wanted to say that Jane was a fantastic mentor and reporter. A journalist. I learned everything I know from her and I don’t know what I would’ve done without her.” Lori, wiped at the tears beneath her eyes. “I don’t know what I will do without her now.”

And then she blew out the candle, tres dramatique, and rushed between the tables, past Heather, Amy, Ryan and Kent, up the stairs and into the hotel.

“Well,” Heather said. “I guess grief affects people in different ways.” 

An awkward silence fell between the tables, but the hum of talk returned again, after a few minutes.

“She seemed a little over the top,” Amy said, at last.

“Ames, that’s not fair. Jane was her boss,” Heather replied. But deep down, she got the same feeling as her bestie. Lori had been anything but distraught a few days before. Had the grief kicked in?

“Jane wasn’t technically her boss,” Ryan said. “Jane and Lori both worked at the station, but Jane kinda beat her to the anchor position? She asked for an assistant and she got Lori. She could boss her around, sure, but she couldn’t fire her.”

Amy and Heather both looked at Detective Shepherd.

“What?” He asked, shrugging and spooning soup into his mouth. “I’m a detective, it’s what I do.”

“That changes things,” Heather said, and pushed back in her chair. She didn’t want to discuss the murder case at Jane’s memorial dinner, but she had to brainstorm this with somebody. “Care to go for a walk, Ames?”

“You betcha. This soup kinda tastes like dishwater anyways,” she said, dropping her spoon.

A man sniffed behind their table and they turned to meet Augustin’s disapproving glare. Amy looked as if she wanted the ground to open up and swallow her.

“We were just going to –”

But Augustin didn’t wait for their ‘excuse’, he turned and strode back into the hotel, his hair flapping in the breeze of his own making.

“Guess that’s our cue,” Amy said, and slipped her arm through Heather’s. They walked down the side of the hotel and stopped beside one of the lanterns. “What’s up?” Amy asked.

“Think about it, for a second. Lori was working for Jane, but not actually employed by her specifically. She was technically a competitor prior to become an assistant.”

“Yeah, that sounds like a pretty solid motive to me,” Amy said.

Heather wriggled her nose. “I don’t know about solid, but there’s something there. There’s definitely a lead, if I can just work out what it is. And she smokes, by the way.”

“She does?” Amy’s jaw dropped. “Not that it’s scandalous or anything, but I had no idea.”

“Yeah, she lit up a cigarette by the fountain and Augustin lost his mind,” Heather said, and her tone dropped lower and lower until it was a whisper at the end of the sentence. “Augustin is the missing link in this. If I could just get him to talk, if I could just get past his horrible demeanor, I’d be able to get some real information.”

Amy nodded absently, then pointed to a  small white, object resting by the door. “Hey, what’s that?”

They walked to it, and Heather picked it up. “It’s a bottle,” she said.

A plastic one, shaped the same as a regular bottle of eye drops.

“What is that?” Amy asked, taking it from her and shaking it between her thumb and forefinger.

Heather looked from the gardens and down the long hall of the hotel, then to the spot where they’d found it.

“Fake tears,” she whispered.

“What did you say?”

Heather hesitated, working the scenarios in her mind, over and over again. Checking if it was a possibility. If she was wrong. “They’re fake tears, Ames. They’re Lori’s fake tears.”

“I can
’
t confront her or break into her room, and I can
’
t do the same for Bear either. I don
’
t have enough evidence. I need to interview more people,” Heather said, rubbing at her temples with two fingers on each hand. “And I
’
ve never not baked a donut for this length of time in my entire life.”

Ryan nodded along and held out a hand. “
Then let
’
s ask some questions.”

The gardens had emptied an hour ago, and the memorial dinner had left everyone feeling slightly sad but uplifted. Amy had gone to bed to work things out in her head – apparently, she wanted to help Heather free Angelica with all she had.

Heather checked that the coast was clear of nosy Frenchmen or Bear Trapp, who had the hearing of a fox and a sly attitude to match.

All that met her was the vista of the trees, grass, and the white and black wrought iron tables.

“I bet we could sneak past that hotel manager guy and get into the kitchens. Have a look around.”

“I
’
m sure the police would
’
ve cleared the kitchen of all evidence,” Heather replied.

“If that
’
s the case, why do they still have Angelica in custody?”

Ryan had a good point. They couldn
’
t exactly rule out  any lead in the case, and if the kitchen was all they could get to…

“
Wait a second,
” Heather whispered, “I bet we could find out what room she was in from someone in there.” The Saint James hotel was exceptionally stuffy about which rooms they placed their guests in, to protect their privacy, of course.

And now, because it could interfere with a police investigation.

“Let
’
s do it,
” Ryan whispered. “
Besides, it
’
s getting chilly out here.” He rose and slipped off his coat, then placed it around her shoulders. “Let
’s go, beautiful.
”

Heather giggled. She
’
d forgotten
all about the romance with the murder case and Angelica
’
s impending court case at stake. Just today, they
’
d heard she wouldn
’
t be eligible for bail and would have to wait in a holding cell for her trial.

They
’
d tried to visit, but the officers had been less than accommodating.

Heather and Ryan walked down the long hall which led to the kitchen, tiptoed actually, because Augustin Pepe Lepeu
’
s cheesy cologne was in the air.

They reached the kitchen door, knocked once and slipped inside.

Organized chaos greeted them. The kitchen of the hotel was run clean and smart, the chefs yelled at each other in French, made jokes Heather could barely decipher and didn
’
t notice the new additions to their atmosphere.

“I have no idea who to talk to,” Heather whispered.

“Me neither, but we
’
ve got to start somewhere,” Ryan replied. He grasped the sleeve of one of the chef
’
s jackets and dragged him closer.

The man jerked the sleeve out of Ryan
’
s grasp and shouted something in French, his face purpling.

“I
’
m Ryan Shepherd. I
’
m an external consultant for the French Police Force, and I
’
m here to ask some questions. Direct me to the head chef.” He spoke with such confidence that Heather had to remind herself that he wasn
’
t a consultant, and that they could get into a lot of sticky trouble for this.

Stickier than lemon chiffon icing.

The French chef narrowed his eyes. “Oui,” he said, at last, “follow me.” And then he marched between the steel tables and sizzling pans.

He led them to an overweight man with a bald head and a sweaty upper lip. “Who are you?” He asked, immediately, patting down his white chef get up. “And what are you doing in my kitchen.”

“You sound British,” Heather remarked.

“That
’
s because I am British. I studied French cuisine under Michel Guerard, if you must know. Dan
’
s the name, by the by. What can I do you for?” He brushed off his hands and stuck out one to shake Ryan
’
s. Then took Heather
’
s and brushed that sweaty lip across it.

She did her best not to snatch it out of his grasp.

“We
’
re here as consultants with the French police. I have some questions about Jane Duvall, her recent meals and so on. Standard stuff,” Ryan said, waving his hand imperiously.

Dan the chef snorted. “Right, you are. Whatever you need.”

“Great,” Ryan said, readjusting his shirt. He certainly didn
’
t look the part of a consultant, but Dan wasn
’
t worried about it. “Thank you for your cooperation. I wanted to find out whether Jane ordered any meals the night prior to her death, and the morning of it most specifically.”

Heather let Ryan lead. He would know what to ask and why.

“She ordered, let
’
s see if I remember,” Dan tapped his chin with a hotdog-like finger. “Oh yes, that
’
s right. She ordered two burgers, I remember because most of the chefs in here were disgusted that anyone would order the good old American hamburger rather than the coq au vin.” He chuckled. “They don
’
t have the best temperaments.”

“I
’
m sorry, did you say two hamburgers?” Heather asked.

“That
’
s right. One for her and one for her friend. He was the one that ordered on the phone. Got pretty snotty with the front desk too, when it took longer than, oh, say five minutes. Monsieur Lepeu was not impressed.”

“He?” Ryan asked.

“Yeah, some guy, I don
’
t know his name. Didn
’
t see him either. We do our jobs down here. Make the food, send it out, that
’
s all.”

Ryan nodded and brought out a pen and a notepad – apparently, he carried them everywhere he went – and scratched down a few notes. “And those were for room…?”

“Room 212, of course,” Dan said, narrowing his eyes.

“We have to make sure of all the facts. Now, that we know which room, we can correlate with Jane
’
s actual room number,” Heather put in, quickly.

“Thank you for your time, Dan.” Ryan tipped and invisible cap, then escorted Heather towards the door, with the chef
’
s gaze hot on their backs.

“He doesn
’
t believe our cover,” Heather whispered.

“
Doesn
’
t matter. We got what we came for.”