Murder Most Finicky (26 page)

Chapter 50

The photographer arrived promptly at ten and introduced herself as Alice Wolcott. Alice, a thirty-something who wore a photographer's vest with lenses in every pocket, did not appear starstruck at all to meet Sheldon. Which won her points in Stan's book.

“Here's what I want to do,” she said once she'd met Maria and Stan. Maria had already dressed for the big day in a glittery dress that barely covered anything. Stan hadn't bothered yet. She still wore yoga pants, a T-shirt, and no makeup. She grabbed a white chef's coat from a hook on the wall and hoped it would suffice. “I want lots of pictures of food. Veggies. Bright colors. Sharp knives. Pans and sizzling oil. Herbs. You hear me, right?”

Maria nodded. “I have some things set up. You tell me if they work.” She motioned for Alice to follow her.

“Is there a cat here?” Alice asked. “I'm supposed to take pictures of two cats.” She pulled out her notebook and flipped a page. “A coon cat and a Siamese.”

Stan swallowed. “The Siamese will arrive later at the mansion. The coon is my cat. He's . . . missing.”

“Missing?” Alice repeated.

Stan nodded, eyes filling again.

“Maybe the dog instead?” Maria suggested.

“No.” Stan shook her head. She'd left Gaston with Lucy Keyes, who'd promised to keep him under lock and key. “He's got nothing to do with the dinner.”

“What's your specialty?” Alice asked Stan.

Murder.
“Pet treats. Hence the cats.” She squared her shoulders. “Can we just take some shots? I need to keep looking for Nutty.”

“Of course. Let's get you set up.” Alice surveyed the options. “Here, do you use mixing bowls?”

Stan nodded. Alice handed her a bowl and a spoon and positioned her in a chef-with-attitude pose. “There. Love it. Hang out for a minute.” She swapped lenses and snapped away. “A few more. Now tilt this way.”

Stan kept her smile in place until her face felt like it might break. Maria watched, clearly annoyed. Alice didn't seem to care. Finally she gave Stan the nod. “Great. Thanks. Oh, hey. Do you have photos of your cat? I can try to use one. I feel bad leaving him out.”

Stan brightened. “I do.” She took out her phone and found her camera roll. As she scrolled, she remembered the photos from Pierre's bakery. She had to look at those today. After finding a couple good photos of Nutty that made her cry again, she e-mailed them to Alice and went upstairs.

She locked herself in her room and threw on the one dress she'd brought for the weekend, which was now wrinkled from sitting in her suitcase the entire time. She stuffed her heels—she'd gone with Marc Jacobs for this occasion—into her bag and slipped on her flip-flops. She had to check in with Lucy. But first, she took out her phone and pulled up the pictures from the bakery. She found the one with a bunch of people in the background and zoomed way in, moving the photo around with her finger to try to see the faces. The person she'd thought looked familiar appeared as a blurry half person. But the features . . . She studied it for a minute, then zoomed out and looked again. Then zoomed back in.

He held a pastry bag, squeezing frosting onto something. She zoomed again. Then she realized what had caught her eye.

His nails were blue.

Stan's heart flipped slowly in her chest. Blue nails. Granted, pastry chefs were an eclectic bunch. She'd seen that firsthand. Joaquin couldn't be the only one who painted his nails. This person looked a lot slimmer and had a much larger nose, and a small goatee. But something about the face, the smile.

Five or more years ago when Joaquin wasn't supposed to know Pierre. Yet he'd called the dog Jaws. His old name from five years ago. Coincidence? Stan hated coincidence. But why would Joaquin lie about knowing Pierre then?

She closed out of the photos and opened her browser. She typed in “La Chocolate Bakery” and found a phone number.
Please answer. Please answer.

Greta did, after three rings. “Good morning. La Chocolate Bakery,” she said, her voice subdued.

“Greta? It's Stan Connor. We met yesterday.”

“Oh, yeah!” Greta's voice brightened. “How's Gaston?”

“He's good. Listen, I need a favor. That picture on the wall, with a bunch of people in it with Pierre? You know the one? He's decorating something in the main shot?”

“I think so,” Greta said. “What about it?”

“Can you get me the names of the people in the photo?”

Silence. “I guess,” she said. “Why do you need that?”

“It's really important, Greta. Please? You can text me.” Stan repeated the number in case Greta'd lost her card.

“Okay. It might take me a bit. I really don't know who knows them.”

“That's okay. Just try to hurry. Thanks.”

Someone knocked on her bedroom door, a pleasant, quick rap. Stan sat up, dread pooling in her stomach. With shaking hands she disconnected and threw her phone into her bag.

“Yeah?” she called, working to make her voice normal.

“Stan? We're getting ready to load into the car,” Joaquin called. “Are you almost ready?”

“Just finishing getting dressed,” she called back. “Be right out!”

“Lovely! I'll wait for you.”

“You go ahead,” she said. “I promise I'll be right there.”

“Not a chance. Too many missing people,” he singsonged. “I want to escort you myself. I know you're worried about the kitty, but I promised Sheldon I'd help hurry you along.”

She grabbed her bag. Holding her breath, she yanked the door open. Therese waited, her foot tapping in a five-inch stiletto heel.

“Are you, like, ready?” she demanded.

Stan let out her breath in a
whoosh
. “More than ready. Let's go.”

Chapter 51

The limo driver held the door for them. Maria, Tyler, and Sheldon were already seated. Sheldon apparently wasn't bringing his pink Caddy to this shindig. Alice, tucked into the far end of the car, snapped a picture. Silver balls of light danced in front of Stan's eyes.

“Gorgeous dress,” she said, as Stan climbed in.

“Thanks.” She sat next to Maria. Therese and Joaquin followed. Joaquin sat on Stan's other side. He wore funky platform shoes today with his plaid vest and tight pants. And he seemed happy as always. Stan studied him critically. He looked nothing like the person in that photo. She was reaching.

“Any luck with the cat?” Alice asked.

Stan shook her head. “Sadly, no. But I have friends coming to look, and the hotel staff is looking, too.”

“Where's the pup?” Joaquin asked.

“I found someone to watch him,” Stan said.

Joaquin smiled. “I hope he likes them.”

“Is that your only cat?” Alice asked.

“No. I have another cat and two dogs.” Stan pulled out her phone and showed Alice pictures of Scruffy, Henry, and Benedict, as well as Duncan, whom she considered hers by extension. Scruffy, especially, was very photogenic, just like Nutty.

“Cute furries! Can I see?” Joaquin asked. He leaned over to look. When Stan held the phone closer to him, he reached for it. “I left my glasses,” he said by way of apology, then scrolled the pictures himself.

She watched him as he studied each one before swiping to the next. He went through the animal pictures, appropriately
oohing
and
aahing
. With each swipe, Stan's stomach dropped further. Any minute, he would see the photos from Pierre's bakery.

Then, Joaquin swiped to it. His eyes lingered on it for a minute, then brightened. “Look at that! Vintage Pierre.” He raised the phone for a closer look. “Wherever did you get that? And OHMYGOD. Is that Felix Paulson?”

Stan stared at him. “I have no idea.”

“Of course it is! He was quite the up-and-comer a few years back. Tragedy, what happened.” He leaned closer and stage whispered, “He killed himself.”

A text message alert sounded. Joaquin paused, then handed the phone to Stan. She took it and checked the readout. A New York number. The message read:

She'd asked Sheldon? That could be bad. Stan pulled the picture up and matched names to faces. The person with the blue nails, according to Greta, was Felix Paulson.

Joaquin was right. She searched her exhausted brain. Why did that name sound vaguely familiar? Not from yesterday. Melanie and Vaughn hadn't mentioned . . .

Vaughn. Char. The restaurant. Yes, that was it! Char said the chef from Vaughn's restaurant in LA was named Felix Paulson. That couldn't be a coincidence. And the timing would've been about right, if the picture in Pierre's bakery was about five years old.

And now, according to Joaquin, he was dead.

Chapter 52

The limo driver pulled up to The Chanler's front entrance. The restaurant was closed to the public for the day, but it still bustled with activity as staff polished and primped and set things up for the event. A man in a tuxedo waited at the front door for them. He introduced himself as Andrew and led them to the kitchen. Stan found herself in the middle of Sheldon and Joaquin for the walk. Sheldon had his arm through hers, as if he feared she might take off at any moment and let him down. Or for another reason? Now she'd become paranoid.

She had to slip away to the ladies' room and call Detective Owens. She wanted to run some of this by him, see if he could check out Joaquin. And Felix Paulson.

“Here is your work space,” Andrew announced with a sweeping hand gesture. Stan gaped at the sight. The kitchen could fit the entire first floor of her house. Enough ovens were in place for all of them to have different food going at once. An overwhelming amount of food had been set out. Produce of all shapes and colors, fresh fish and cuts of meat, oils and wines and chocolates, fruit—she barely knew where to start. Three men were already chopping and sautéeing with a vengeance. The Chanler kitchen staff, probably. They raised their hands in acknowledgment.

“Would you like to see where the party will be held?” Andrew asked.

“I'm dying to!” Sheldon exclaimed.

He led them outside to the backyard, where an elegant wedding-style tent stood at the ready. A bar on the patio had been stocked full with colorful bottles. Its awning extended over the small cocktail tables. A marble fountain in the middle of the lawn, which looked like a small pool, spewed sparkling water to great heights. Staff set up the rest of the tables with elegant, lacy tablecloths, napkins, and candles. Beyond the party, the ocean shimmered below the Cliff Walk.

“Gorgeous,” Sheldon declared. “Exactly what we imagined it would be.”

“Excellent.” Andrew looked pleased. “The guests will be brought in the front entrance and escorted back here, where they will have cocktails and passed hors d'oeuvres, which we have supplied. The wine is local, as you requested. There's a side door over there”—he pointed behind the tent to the left—“so unwieldy trays and servers won't be blighting the patio doors.”

“And for the cat?” Sheldon inquired.

The man smiled. “Yes, sir. Right this way.” Stan followed him to one of the tables inside the tent. Next to the chair was a booster seat with a pink cushioned cat carrier built onto the top, complete with a tray for food dishes.

“Delightful.” Sheldon clapped his hands. “This will be a night to remember. Don't you think, Stan?”

Stan looked around. Despite the beauty of the scene—the gardens, the mansion, the backdrop of the sea—a sense of foreboding hung over the day like an ominous fog that wouldn't lift. She nodded, fighting off the feeling of dread.

“I think you're right,” she said.

Chapter 53

Sheldon shepherded them back to the kitchen. “I trust you'll be getting busy,” he said, his gaze lingering on Stan.

“Absolutely. What a fabulous place to cook!” Maria exclaimed. “I'm so excited.” She made a beeline for the food. Alice followed, snapping pictures.

“Tell me how I can help,” Joaquin said. “Stan? I enjoyed working on the cat-noli with you the other day. I'd love to help you whip that up.” He dropped his small backpack next to the fridge and tucked it against the wall.

“Sure,” Stan said. She gathered ingredients, her mind shifting and organizing the few facts she had to prepare for her call to Detective Owens. She watched him as he added ingredients to the bowl, humming to himself. The dog thing bothered her. A lot. Plus Joaquin had called Vaughn Dawes and warned her not to come this weekend. Maybe the picture had nothing to do with anything. But even if Joaquin knew Pierre and his dog from years ago, why kill him today? And what about Kyle? Then there was still the whole mystery about the house.

Stan measured out the ingredients to mix the cream for the cat-noli.

“This should do it. Can you work your magic with the food processor while I run to the ladies' room? I've been dying to go since we got here,” she said with an exasperated laugh. “Too much coffee.”

“But of course,” Joaquin said. “I'll make sure it's extra fluffy.”

Stan left the kitchen. She had no idea where the bathroom was. After wandering into one hall that had a rope blocking it halfway down and another with so many doors she felt like she was on a Disney ride, she saw a staffer down the hall. “Bathroom?” she asked.

“Go back that way and take a right. You'll see it on your right, second door.”

Stan hurried to it, making sure no one was behind her. She ducked into the bathroom and found herself in an elegant waiting room with couches and mirrors galore. Best of all, a lock, which she promptly deployed. Around the corner through another door were the toilets, with marble floors and walls and thick wooden doors that closed and locked. Complete privacy. She checked to make sure no one else was in the bathroom, locked herself in a stall, and took out her phone with shaking hands. She scrolled through her contacts for Detective Owens's number and dialed.

Voice mail. She groaned in frustration. “Detective Owens. Stan Connor. I wondered if you could check out Joaquin Leroy. He may have known Pierre and this crew a lot longer than he claims. Don't call me. Just come. We're at The Chanler. I have another name, too. Felix Paulson. Not sure if it's anything.”

She hung up and tried Jessie. No answer. She shot off a text and prayed Jessie would see it. Check out Joaquin Leroy and Felix Paulson. She waited an agonizing amount of time for the reception to take her message where it needed to go. When it finally dinged as Sent, she deleted the message and pocketed the phone, then prepared herself to return to the kitchen and act like nothing was wrong.