Murder Most Finicky (19 page)

Chapter 38

By the time the train pulled into the New Haven station, Stan had a game plan sketched out. First, they were going to Pierre's bakery to see what they could find out there. Then they would tackle Melanie Diamond. The train slid to a stop and the doors
whooshed
open. There weren't many passengers on this Sunday morning. She watched the people waiting for the train head to the nearest open door. She was just about to text Jessie when she saw her boarding the car a couple ahead.
Go back two
, she texted.

A minute later the door to Stan's car slid open and Jake's sister appeared. She looked nothing like a cop when she was off duty. She'd twisted her thick red hair into a clip. She wore no makeup on her perfect skin—didn't need to—and her jeans and T-shirt made her look like every other young suburban woman. If you looked closely at the shirt's logo, though, it said “Connecticut State Police.” She'd left it untucked, probably to hide her gun. If Stan knew Jessie, she wouldn't go out without it, even off duty to a different state. Especially not when Stan had arranged the trip and it was related to a murder.

Stan waved, and Jessie headed for her. She sat facing her, placing her backpack next to her.

“Hey,” Stan said. “Thanks for coming, again.”

Jessie waved her off. “My brother says hello.”

“I'll call him on our way back,” she said. “I take it you told him where we were going?”

“I did. I stopped by his place. I had no one else to watch Lily.”

Stan laughed. “You think he'll pay Brenna to swap roles?”

“Actually, he's fabulous with kids,” Jessie said with a smile. “He loves them.”

He did adore his niece; anyone could tell. Stan had just never thought of him as
loving kids
. Did that mean he would want them someday? She wasn't sure how she felt about kids herself. She'd never been quite sure what to do with them.

Jessie stared at her. “What?”

“Nothing,” Stan said, fixing her smile back in place. She pushed the thought out of her head. Way too early to worry about that. “So here's what I thought we should do. Tell me if you would do it differently.” She filled Jessie in on her plan to visit Pierre's bakery first and get the lay of the land, then—hopefully—pry more information out of Melanie, the secret agent publicist.

Jessie listened, those laser-sharp eyes fixed on Stan the entire time. Stan always wanted to squirm under that serious gaze. It was so piercing and intense, like she could see right into her brain and read her thoughts. And know if she was being less than honest.

“Here's her address,” Jessie said, pulling a piece of paper out of her pocket and handing it to Stan.

“You
rock
.” Stan looked at it. West Forty-second Street. Fancy address.

“What are you hoping to find out on this trip?” Jessie asked finally. “Are you really interested in the dead guy, or are you looking for the guy and/or the gal who's hopefully still alive?”

“I don't think I'll find Kyle in New York,” Stan said. “But maybe I'll find some insight into what Pierre was up to. Something that might have gotten him killed. That would at least get Kyle off the hook, which is the next best thing to finding him.”

Jessie went silent again. “How well did you know this guy? The dead one.”

This was when Stan hated the scrutinizing cop look. “Not very.”

“Like how not very? Did you see him at parties and air kiss? Did you talk to him once a year? Did you guys Face Time?”

“No.”

“No what?”

“No, none of the above.” Stan sighed. “I never met him.”

“You never met him,” Jessie repeated. “Then why are you so concerned with finding out who killed him?”

“It has more to do with Kyle's disappearance than Pierre.”

Jessie's eyes narrowed. “In what way?”

“I promised my sister I'd try to help her find Kyle.”

Jessie smiled. “I've known you for, what? More than a year? Never heard you talk about her.”

“Yeah, we're not close.”

“But the Newport PD pulled her in last night to see if she knew anything about McLeod.”

“You knew that?”

Jessie shrugged. “I called them. I hate being caught off guard. I told them I had a family member involved in this case, and was looking for info, cop to cop. I got a guy in a good mood, and he gave me a decent update.”

“Was it Owens?”

“Yep.”

Stan smiled. “He must've felt bad about the PI thing.”

“The what?”

“Never mind. So what'd he tell you?”

“That McLeod vanished the night of the murder. That he's married to a nutcase from Florida, living with the hotel manager here, and was supposed to meet your sister around the time he vanished. They're strongly leaning toward him as a suspect, Stan. And now with this other woman missing, they're not taking any chances. They want this guy.”

“I get it. Caitlyn thinks he's in trouble.”

“Well, if they were supposed to meet and he blew her off, it's natural she'd want to think that,” Jessie said.

“Did he mention finding Pierre's luggage anywhere? Or anything on him?”

Jessie shook her head. “They haven't found anything.”

Stan thought about that. “Did the Newport cops call Sheldon's sister who owns the house?”

“Owens did. She and her husband were out of the country this week, so they were ruled out as potential killers.”

“I tried calling her,” Stan said. “She never called me back.”

“You did? Why?”

Stan shrugged. “To see if she'd talked to anyone.”

“So much for leaving police work to the police,” Jessie said. “Where does she live?”

“Burke, Virginia. You going to try her?”

“Tell me about your sister and this relationship,” Jessie said, changing the subject. “They're both married. Obviously not to each other.”

Stan sighed. “Please don't judge her. I'm sure it's hard for someone like you to hear that and stay quiet.”

“Someone like me?” Jessie barked out a laugh. “What does that mean?”

“You're a cop. You do the right things.” Stan leaned back and focused out the window, watching Connecticut flash by, a high-speed montage of woods and urban areas, the picture changing every few seconds.

“Yeah,” Jessie said in an oddly flat voice. “I do the right things.” She leaned back and closed her eyes, signaling the end of the conversation.

Stan reached into her purse for a protein bar. Her hand brushed the folder from the retreat she'd stuck in there two days ago. What the heck, since Jessie wasn't talking. She flipped through the pages on the left. Sheldon's agenda for the weekend, which had never happened. Glossy flyer of The Chanler, photos of the backyard. In the left pocket, the investor bios. Stan flipped through them. She had never heard of most of them, but one of them could be involved in Pierre's death. She skimmed facts, looking for anything relevant. Nothing jumped out at her.

Until page six.

She stared at the picture of her mother, her stomach plummeting like she was on a particularly steep roller coaster. Her mother. She should've known. No wonder Sheldon wanted her participation so badly. Because he wanted her mother's money. And this was another way for her mother to interfere in her life.

“What's wrong?” Jessie had opened her eyes and seen her face.

Wordlessly, Stan shook her head. “Nothing.”

Jessie stared her down. “I'm a cop. I mostly know when I'm being lied to.”

Stan tried a smile. She failed. “Jake was right, that's all. Sheldon doesn't care about me. He wanted my mother as an investor.”

Jessie processed that. “First, my brother is usually right. But that doesn't mean Sheldon didn't want you. He probably wanted both of you,” she said, always practical. “You're the baker, she's the financier. Can't blame the guy for wanting the whole package.”

“No,” Stan said, tucking the folder back in her purse. “But he picked the wrong girl to play games with.”

Chapter 39

When they erupted onto Thirty-fourth Street with the rest of the crowd at Penn Station, Jessie finally spoke. “Cab?”

Stan nodded. “It's a couple miles from here. In SoHo.” She stepped into the street and hailed a cab. They settled into the backseat and the driver took off at New York speed, throwing them against the seat back. Jessie wrinkled her nose as she surveyed the interior of the cab, keeping her hands firmly in her lap. “I'm not really a New York girl.”

“No?” Stan smiled out the window at the crowds of people streaming by, the brake lights pulsing in the hot summer afternoon. “I love it here.”

“You look like you would.”

Compliment or insult? Stan couldn't tell. “Work took me here a lot. I love the energy of the city. It's . . . invigorating.”

“Do you miss your old job?” Jessie asked.

Stan glanced at her, but Jessie still focused on the views outside her window. Jessie wasn't usually a conversationalist, at least not with her, but she'd take it. “I used to think I did. But I don't. I love my freedom. I love what I'm doing now. I love where I'm doing it. I really love not having to pretend to be someone else every day. And having to bow to everyone else's demands on my schedule. I can come to New York any time I want. I don't need a corporate job to get me here.”

Jessie nodded. “Sounds about right to me.”

The cab driver slammed on his brakes and muttered something in another language at the car in front of them. Jessie turned slightly green as she grabbed on to the seat back for balance. “I don't know how people do this every day.”

Stan laughed. “They don't. Hardly anyone who lives here takes a cab unless the weather is crap. Trust me, I don't miss the cabs. I'd rather take the subway.”

The cab pulled to the curb and switched off the meter. “Thirteen bucks.”

“You're kidding,” Jessie said. “We barely went anywhere!”

Stan handed him cash and pushed Jessie out of the car. “You're not in Frog Ledge anymore, Dorothy. Let's go.”

On the sidewalk, they surveyed the storefronts as their cab driver pulled a heart-stopping move and shoehorned himself back into the traffic. Stan glanced at her phone to confirm the address. “This is it.” She nodded at the storefront of La Chocolate Bakery, the name emblazoned both on a rectangular sign and on the cherry red awning. Through the window Stan could see a pastry case jam-packed with delightful-looking creations of all shapes and colors. And coffee. “Let's go.”

She pushed the door open and walked in, Jessie on her heels. A thirty-ish woman behind the counter gave them a wobbly smile. She had long dark hair pulled into two loose braids tossed over each shoulder and a black cap perched on the top of her head. A diamond stud glinted from the side of her nose. Her red, puffy eyes—she'd clearly been crying—were lined with blue liner. “Hello. Wel-welcome to La Chocolate Bakery.” Her eyes welled with tears but she forced them back. “What can I get you today?”

Stan stepped up to the counter and held out a hand. “My name is Stan Connor. This is Jessie Pasquale. We wanted to talk to you about Pierre LaPorte.”

The woman's eyes widened and filled with tears, but she extended her own hand and shook Stan's limply. “What . . . what about him? He's . . . dead.” The last word dissolved into a sniffle and she reached for a tissue.

“I know. I'm so sorry. I'm a pastry chef also. I was at the same weekend event as Pierre.”

She gasped. “Oh my goodness. You were there. What happened? We—none of us can believe it. We weren't even sure if we should open this weekend but didn't know what else to do. And then . . . we figured it's what Pierre would want, you know? To share his . . . last batch of pastries.” She hiccuped through a sob. “So what's going to happen now?”

“I don't know,” Stan said gently. “The police are trying to find out who killed him. And I wanted to come and see his shop. What's your name?”

“I'm Greta. I've been with Pierre now for almost two years.”

Interesting choice of words, Stan thought. Not
I've been working for Pierre
, but
I've been
with
Pierre
. She didn't look like any of the women Stan had seen online when Googling Pierre. And she seemed very young.

Greta hurried out from behind the counter and flipped the
CLOSED
sign in the window. “I've never done that before, during the day.” She laughed nervously as she untied her red apron with the shop name emblazoned on the front. Under it, she wore a T-shirt with a plunging V-neck, a pair of black leggings, and red ankle boots. “I guess it's okay. No one's around to tell me not to.” The thought seemed to make her incredibly sad. “Just a couple of the bakery staff out back, working on the cake orders for the week. Do you want coffee?”

“I'd love a cup,” Stan said gratefully, turning to Jessie, who hadn't said a word yet.

Jessie nodded and stepped forward. “Sure, thanks.”

Greta looked like she might ask something else but didn't want to expend the effort. She went back behind the counter to fix the coffee.

Stan walked around the bakery, checking out Pierre's world. Recessed lights inside the pastry case gave the treats a unique glow. Cupcakes, small, elegant cakes, flaky pastries, fruity pastries, chocolatey delights were all arranged with a meticulous level of care. Greta's handiwork, probably. Her last tribute to the chef. The walls were lined with shots of food from every stage of the baking process. Overflowing bags of sugar, dough in mixing bowls, a just-broken egg perfectly captured as it dripped from its shell into a bowl. Finished products that belonged in magazine pages. Other shots captured the people doing the cooking. Pierre was in most of them either solo or with other chefs, always in some form of deep creative concentration.

Stan stopped to look at the photos one by one. The most prominent featured Pierre and Sheldon, arms around each other in front of a cake that had to be almost as tall as they were. Sheldon looked a lot younger and even more flamboyant, if possible. In another photo, Pierre and three other chefs were hard at work on trays of what appeared to be chocolate mousse. The other chefs, all male, were a tad blurry, clearly in the background, but there was something familiar about one of them who was half in and half out of the frame, squeezing cream out of a pastry bag onto a cake. Stan stepped closer to get a better view.

“Here you go.” Greta stood behind her with a cup of coffee, watching her curiously.

Stan whirled. “Thanks.” She accepted the cup, nodding to the wall. “Great pictures.”

“Yeah. Pierre was big on documenting his life. Which meant his work, because that was his life.” With a nervous laugh, she went behind the counter again and returned with a small pitcher of cream and a bowl of sugar.

“Do you know all the people in these photos?” Stan asked.

Greta shook her head. “No. These are kind of old pictures, from like five or six years ago. Pierre kept saying he'd get someone in to take new ones, but it never happened. He was so busy.” She went back to the bakery case and pondered the cupcake selection.

While Greta was occupied, Stan used her phone to snap photos of a couple of the pictures on the wall to peruse later. Jessie raised an eyebrow at her. She shrugged.

Greta chose three cupcakes frosted with brightly colored creams. She arranged them on a plate and placed them on the table next to the coffees. “I almost don't want to eat any of these pastries,” she said, picking at her fake fingernail. “I mean, like, I know they'll go bad eventually, but I feel like it's our last piece of him.” She nodded to the cupcakes. “He . . . it was from the last batch he baked before he left for Rhode Island.” Her eyes filled again.

“We're so sorry for your loss,” Stan said. “I was very much looking forward to meeting Pierre.”

“You didn't even know him?” That made Greta cry harder. “It's so . . . messed up! Pierre was fabulous at what he did. And so generous. A true pastry artist and incredible human being.” She blew her nose again, then looked from Stan to Jessie and back. “They said he was m-murdered. Who would do such a horrible thing?”

“That's what everyne's trying to figure out,” Stan said, but now she was distracted. The cupcakes taunted her. She'd eaten a lot less than expected this weekend, for sure, so one little cupcake couldn't hurt. She briefly thought of this morning's coffee cake and last night's chocolate chip creation, but pushed it away. After all, she'd never gotten to have Joaquin's fudge cake with the mocha creme filling. And it had been a long time since breakfast. She selected one that looked chocolaty, with swirls of purple, pink, and blue on top, and took a bite. Decadent cake combined with some kind of creamy deliciousness assaulted her taste buds, and her eyes widened. This had to be, hands down, the best cupcake she'd ever eaten. “Wow,” she managed.

“Amazing, right?” Greta nodded. “I don't think anyone will be able to replicate those. They were a new recipe. Top secret,” she added in a stage whisper.

“Secret from whom?” Stan asked.

Greta shrugged. “Anyone. Pierre was working on some really exciting recipes. Like, recipes that would've blown away the Cronut.” She rolled her eyes, then noticed Jessie's blank stare. “You've never heard of the Cronut?”

“Nope,” Jessie said in unison.

Stan hid a smile. She'd had a few Cronuts in her time. They were decent, but she wasn't a huge doughnut person. Or croissant person.

Greta hiccuped a laugh. “I guess you wouldn't, if you don't come to the city much. The chef is here in New York. People do come from all over to get them, but you wouldn't know that unless you were a doughnut person, I guess. Anyway, the guy who made the Cronut, like, struck gold. He's totally known for that now. He does other cool stuff, too, but he gets mad kudos for those things. Pierre wanted something like that. He's wanted that recognition, that One Big Thing, for as long as I've known him. Now he was on the verge of it.”

Stan's ears perked up through the sugar haze. “Pierre had a recipe?”

Greta nodded slyly. “He had a couple of them. Bigger than even the cupcakes.” She, Stan, and Jessie looked down at Stan's plate, where only a couple of crumbs remained. Stan licked the tip of her finger and unabashedly picked them up.

“Did anyone know about the recipes? Was he close to unveiling them?” Stan asked.

“He was close. He didn't talk about it much. I'm not even sure what type of pastry. I guessed it had something to do with chocolate. They don't call him Monsieur Chocolate for nothing. That man is a
genius
with chocolate in any form.” Her eyes took on a dreamy look, and Stan noticed she'd fallen back to speaking in the present tense. “He didn't want to jinx himself by saying too much. These recipes are, like, the Holy Grail for these guys, you know? If it gets into the wrong hands your career is over. But over the past few weeks especially, he was jazzed. He told me this recipe would change the pastry landscape. I think he was going to do some test groups before a mass rollout, but it was definitely happening soon.”

Stan and Jessie looked at each other. Stan knew they were thinking the same thing: Was this recipe enough to kill for? The Holy Grail of pastries sounded serious. Did someone feel threatened? Or did someone want the fame and fortune that such a recipe might bring?

“You're sure no one knew about it?” Stan asked.

Greta thought about that. “I'm not sure
no one
knew, but not many people. I know he told Sheldon. He didn't want to, but all the other work was overwhelming and leaving him with less time to perfect his recipe. The Providence orders every week were killing him.”

“Providence orders?” Stan asked.

“The orders for Sheldon's place. He was totally getting sick of it. Pierre doesn't have a huge baking staff, and he has his own business to run.”

“Wait,” Stan said, pushing her plate aside. “I'm not following. Are you saying he was baking Sheldon's pastries?”

Greta laughed. “You bet. Mr. Pastry was either too busy or had lost his touch, but Pierre's been filling his pastry case for the past year.”