Murder on the Riviera (2 page)

Chapter 3

Ravenous for information, I searched through an assortment of local newspapers but could find no report about the lounge chair death. Frustrated, I flipped through the
American Riviera Times
and the
Santa Barbara Gazette
a second and third time but still found nothing.

“They’re treating this like a natural death,” I mumbled to myself.

“You talking about the lady who was found dead on the beach last night?” A tall, lean young man in a freshly pressed black uniform asked in a low voice.

Startled, I demanded, “Were you spying on me just now?”

“Um, no. You were rummaging through undelivered newspapers. And it’s
my
job to deliver them to the guests in perfect condition, which is very difficult to do when someone’s torn through them like a grizzly bear in a picnic basket,” the man said testily, his handsome features contorting in an irritated smirk.

“Oh right, you’re the bellboy…”

“I prefer bellman,” he said coldly, snatching a newspaper out of my hand.

“Listen, I was only trying to help…oh never mind, you wouldn’t understand,” I babbled, wiping greasy newspaper ink off my hands and walking away.

Squeaky wheels followed me as I whipped around and shot the bellboy/bellman an icy glower. “Why are you following me?” I snapped.

“It sounded like you were interested in looking into that lady’s death,” the bellman observed.

Narrowing my eyes, I read his nametag. “Jackson, I really don’t think that’s any of your business.”

Jackson turned his back to the front desk and said in a conspiratorial tone, “If you ask me, I’d say that poor lady was murdered.”

My heart beat triple time. “Why do you say that?”

“There was something strange about those ladies. I could feel it when I brought the luggage to their room.”

“Do you remember their names?” I asked hopefully.

“I heard one of their names, but I don’t know which one of them it belonged to. The name was Bertha. It stood out to me because it sounded so stupid,” Jackson gurgled with immature laughter as I appraised him from head to toe, estimating that he couldn’t be more than 22 or 23 years old.

“Bertha,” I repeated, making a mental note. “Why did you think she and the other ladies were weird?”

“I don’t know. It just seemed weird that they were all sharing the same room.”

I rolled my eyes with disgust. Clearly, Jackson would be of no help and if ever someone deserved the title of bell
boy
, it was him. “Jackson,” I said condescendingly, “Many woman travel and room together. It’s perfectly normal.”

Unwilling to waste another second with the childish buffoon, I swept towards the front desk and tried to bypass the clerks. “Excuse me, ma’am, may I help you?” A bespectacled woman asked me sharply.

Silently berating myself for rushing out of the room without my wallet and employee ID, I said, “I’m a Pacific Coast staff member. I’m allowed back there.”

“You work at
this
hotel? I’ve never seen you before,” the clerk said skeptically, tossing a lock of mahogany hair over her shoulder.

“No, I work at the Seattle location, but I’m still an employee, so you should…” I cut myself off, realizing how ridiculous I must sound to the clerk who was simply doing her job. I waved my hands in a dismissive gesture, pursed my lips sheepishly, and walked towards the revolving doors leading to the pool and beach area.

There was no rush to gain access to the computer system; I could do that anytime and I could do it much more smoothly than I had just attempted. Shaking my head at my own impatience, I strolled towards the lounge chairs where I had made the gruesome discovery not even 12 hours ago. There was no police tape or other barrier around the corner lounge chair where I had found the deceased woman, so I dared to inch closer and investigate.

The lounge chair was immaculate, not a spot of blood or other blemish to be seen. It was as though nothing had ever happened and I had dreamed up the whole macabre event. Feeling foolish that I had blown an ordinary situation out of proportion, I started to walk towards the hotel, hoping to sneak back into my room before Charles woke up.

A glossy magazine caught my eye as I stepped from the sand onto a wooden boardwalk. Sandwiched between the wooden slats, not even 100 feet from the dead woman’s lounge chair, was a real estate brochure. Curiously, I flipped through the pages, noting the luxurious community listings in Santa Barbara and posh nearby cities like Isla Vista and Thousand Oaks. Each airbrushed page depicted a different luxury retirement community in southern California. If the brochure belonged to the woman who had died, then I had one very important clue about her profile: she was wealthy.

Clinging to the brochure, I hurried back into the hotel and rode the elevator up to my room. Tip-toeing as quietly as I could inside, I held my breath until the worried sound of Charles’ voice made me deflate like a helium balloon.

“Where were you, Chelsea? I was worried sick when I woke up and saw you weren’t there next to me.”

“Worried sick? Isn’t that a little dramatic?” I teased, hoping to deflect the conversation.

“Not after what happened last night. And I knew how upset you were,” Charles said with real concern.

“I’m sorry honey,” I wound my arms around his neck and gave him a kiss. “I just went out for a morning stroll and I didn’t want to wake you.”

“What’s that you’re reading?” Charles inquired, gesturing to the brochure.

“Oh this?” I asked innocently as he cocked his head to one side to read the title.

“Ventura County Luxury Retirement Communities?” He read quizzically. “Aren’t we a little young to be thinking about retirement?” Charles jabbed me playfully in the belly and grinned.

“There was nothing else to read in the lobby,” I fibbed, avoiding my husband’s eyes.

He was instantly suspicious. “What are you hiding, Chelsea?”

“Nothing,” I lied again as he grabbed the brochure and roughly opened it.

Frowning, he browsed through the pages for a few moments before turning it over and pointing accusingly at an address label on the back cover. “Where did you get this anyway? This isn’t hotel reading material. This belongs to a woman named Gardenia Lewis.”

Stunned, I snatched the brochure out of his hands and read the address label that I had missed, “Gardenia Lewis…she lives in Mesa, Arizona,” I mumbled as Charles looked at me expectantly, impatient for a straightforward explanation. “I found this outside by the lounge chair where the woman died last night…”

“You were snooping?”

“Not snooping, taking a walk,” I defended even though I knew he was right. “Charles, the dead woman could be Gardenia Lewis…”

“And it could be Mrs. Claus or the Wicked Witch of the West. I don’t know who she was. But I do know who
you
are. And who you’re not! You’re not a detective and this isn’t a James Patterson mystery novel!” Charles fumed.

“I thought you had accepted the fact that I’m going to get to the bottom of this. Really Charles, save us an argument. It’s inevitable. I’m already involved,” I coaxed as he gave me a look halfway between horror and hilarity.

“Pardon me for thinking a honeymoon should be about romance and relaxation, not crime and culprits!” Charles growled as I set the brochure down on the nightstand.

“You’re right. Let’s just enjoy today. I can look into this later when you’re checking your work emails,” I said sweetly as he groaned but acquiesced. “Room service breakfast?”

“No, the weather is amazing. Let’s have breakfast on the pavilion and then go for a swim,” Charles suggested as I smiled.

“Sounds great!” I chirped.

We spent the entire morning and most of the afternoon relaxing by the pool, occasionally ordering rum-infused cocktails and indulgent snacks like corn fritters and crab stuffed mushrooms. Not once did I bring up my unpopular investigation even though it remained active in my mind. Eventually, Charles would tire of the fun and sun and feel the urge to check into work emails just to make sure everything was running efficiently in the catering department.

Neither of us had taken a vacation in more than a year and a half. Freedom from the daily grind felt strange, like a guilty pleasure that we didn’t deserve. Secretly I wondered if my interest in the case was just a distraction or a way to self-sabotage. Was I afraid to enjoy myself? Maybe, but I really did have a hunch that wouldn’t leave me in peace…

Before I could ponder the issue any longer, Charles announced like clockwork, “I’m going to check into work now. Won’t be more than a half hour. Promise.” He laid a kiss on my lips and strode towards the internet café as I scampered out of my seat.

Digging into my straw beach bag, I pulled out the brochure and my cell phone. As I was typing in the name and address on the catalogue, a shrill voice interrupted me:

“There’s my brochure! I’ve been looking all over for it!”

Chapter 4

Giving myself whiplash, I snapped my head up and locked eyes with a woman who looked frighteningly like the corpse I had discovered. Her hair was milky white and her skin slightly sunburned. She had eyes the palest shade of blue and those eyes were unnerving me to my very core.

Feeling like I was talking to a ghost, I whispered hoarsely, “Who are you?”

“I’m Gardenia Lewis. You can see my name plain as day on that brochure,” the woman replied testily, holding out an empty hand.

Shakily, I placed the brochure in her hand and gasped, “But I don’t understand…”

“Understand what? Oh, I don’t have time for this. My sister died yesterday and I can’t be making chit chat with idiotic strangers.” The woman’s dry lips etched into a straight line as she stomped away.

Ignoring her insult, I leapt to my feet and followed her. As I pursued her, I remembered that there had been
two
white haired ladies at lunch yesterday. I hadn’t noticed a resemblance then, but I hadn’t been paying close attention either. “I’m so sorry about your sister. I’m the one who found her…”

Gardenia stopped dead in her tracks and peered at me with those haunting pale eyes. “You found my sister?”

“Yes, on that lounge chair over there,” I pointed and her eyes followed my finger.

“Poor dear. She had high cholesterol. We think she died of a massive heart attack. Too many bacon cheeseburgers,” Gardenia quipped as I raised an eyebrow.

Her comments seemed flippant for a grieving sibling, but I merely said, “I’m sorry. I assumed that brochure belonged to your sister and that her name was Gardenia. You see, I found the booklet in a wooden slat near the sand.”

“My sister was always going through my things, especially my catalogues. She’s not quite as wealthy as I am. Perhaps there’s always been a little sibling rivalry, especially since I’m the one who financed this trip,” Gardenia explained as I wondered why she had suddenly become so candid after appearing furious not more than a minute ago.

“And what about the other ladies in your room? The redheads, are they your sisters too?” I asked as the grimace returned to Gardenia’s face.

“How do you know about them?” She demanded.

“My husband and I were seated next to you ladies at lunch yesterday,” I said with as much politeness as I could muster towards the shrewish woman.

“They’re friends of ours,” Gardenia said flatly.

“Oh okay, well I won’t hold you up,” I said slowly, knowing there was one vital morsel of information I needed to extract first. “What was your sister’s name, by the way?”

Gardenia had turned her back to me before I could finish asking the question. Opting not to follow her a second time, and risk her calling hotel security, I found a shady spot under a palm tree and typed the name Gardenia Lewis into a search engine. Before I could retrieve the results, a text message beeped into my phone.

Hi Chelsea, this is Chef Martin at Oyster Palace. Do you and Charles have time today to swing by the kitchen and work your magic?

It was a message that required my immediate attention. Charles and I had been given such a generous employee discount, twice as much as the usual offering of 20%, and we needed to earn our keep. I sent a quick response to Chef Martin, telling him that Charles and I would be at the restaurant in 15 minutes.

***

Charles was sitting at a desktop computer, furiously typing a message. Creases lined his forehead and he looked as stressed as though he were sitting in our office in Seattle rather than on vacation in Santa Barbara.

“Everything okay?” I asked softly.

“No! They messed up everything for the Wades’ wedding today. There was supposed to be a vegetarian option and a gluten-free dish, but the kitchen hasn’t prepared any of it! It’s a disaster!” He ran a tense hand through his hair as I massaged his neck.

“If the Wades are really in love, they won’t care about the food or anything at the reception,” I encouraged. “It’s not a disaster, honey. Just a few hiccups, that’s all.”

“I’m sorry,” Charles unglued his eyes from the computer screen. “I’ve already spent enough time on this email today. How about we rent a car and take a drive up the coast?”

“That sounds amazing,” I groaned. “But I promised Chef Martin we’d start working on our recipes today.”

“When?”

“In 15 minutes,” I gulped. “Actually about 10 minutes now.”

“Man!” Charles slapped his thigh and laughed despite himself. “Okay, let’s get this done. If we focus, we can get all five recipes perfected today. Then we can enjoy the rest of this vacation.”

I smiled on the outside, but inside I felt like the investigation was heading in a direction I didn’t expect. Gardenia had claimed that her sister gobbled up too much fat-laden fast food, but I didn’t think she had even scratched the surface of the story. Something was very fishy. Yes, something was fishier than any seafood entrée Charles and I could whip up at Oyster Palace and I was going to clear the air!

***

Despite its slightly kitschy name, Oyster Palace was a magnificent restaurant graced with a dramatic western exposure overlooking the Pacific Ocean. I sighed, imagining how magical the sunsets must be on the dining veranda. Wishing I was a patron rather than an employee, I forced myself to walk into the kitchen with Charles by my side. We had work to do and the sooner we finished that work, the sooner we could play.

“Chef Martin?” I presumed, addressing an older man with a thick salt and pepper moustache and tall white hat.

“Yes, and you must be Chelsea and Charles,” the chef grinned warmly and his demeanor exuded a sincere charm that set me instantly at ease. So many chefs I had worked with over the years as a caterer had wickedly difficult personalities, but maybe Chef Martin would be different.

Charles shook Chef Martin’s hand as he visually appraised the kitchen. “We were honored when we were asked to create some new dishes for your restaurant.”

“Yes,” I added. “We’re well aware that this is a 5 star restaurant.”

“It is,” Chef Martin said with gleeful pride. “But we could use a little more spice on the menu. Everybody’s asking for coconut recipes these days and we only have the standard…”

“Coconut shrimp?” I drawled as the chef nodded.

“You got it. So I’d really appreciate if you could bring some exotic flair to Oyster Palace.”

Suddenly, I was nervous. Exotic flair?
We’re from Seattle not Honolulu!
I wanted to shout, but I bit my lip. I had faced many culinary challenges in my career, trying to please finicky brides and corporate sharks. If Chef Martin wanted exotic, then let me grab my passport and go!

“I’m going to take my lunch break now, but the line cooks will handle all the orders. Don’t you worry. You’re here as artists, not work horses.” Chef Martin grinned, removed his hat, and left us in his prized kitchen.

“Where do we begin?” Charles wondered aloud, clearly overwhelmed.

“Maybe with a coconut?” I teased, picking up a ripe piece of the fruit. “Mmm, I already have an idea. How does herb encrusted mahi mahi with toasted coconut rice sound? And maybe a sweet coconut salsa on the side.”

“Mouth watering,” Charles declared. “That’s one down, four to go.”

“Not so fast,” I giggled. “We have to test out the ingredients and see what tastes the best. It sounds good, but it could taste horrific!”

By the time Chef Martin returned from lunch, my husband and I had all five recipes sizzling on the grill. With a broad smile and a bow, the chef proclaimed, “Welcome Julia Child and Wolfgang Puck!”

The room fizzed with laughter as the chef grabbed a spoon and tasted each of our creations. His expression was one of grand approval and I held in a relieved sigh, hoping that I wouldn’t have to see the inside of a kitchen until I was home in Washington serving Charles the first home cooked dinner of our marriage. Shooting the breeze for a few minutes with Chef Martin, the hubby and I exchanged satisfied looks as he approved our coconut concoctions.

“The mahi mahi is brilliant,” he praised. “And so is the coconut flambé with vanilla bean ice cream. What a contrast in textures and temperatures! The other entrées are superb. Just make sure you write down all the ingredients on some recipe cards for me.” He opened a drawer, then handed us two ball point pens and a stack of index cards.

“You got it,” Charles said cheerfully. “Thanks Martin.”

“Thank
you
,” the chef emphasized. “Maybe with these recipes, tonight won’t be so bad after all.”

“What do you mean?” I asked blankly.

“Well, you did hear about the dead woman on the beach, didn’t you? It’s put a cloud over this whole hotel,” Martin said gloomily.

“Oh yeah, we heard about it alright. We’re the ones who found her,” I said darkly as the chef’s eyes bulged.

“You’re kidding!” He exclaimed.

“I wish we were,” Charles interjected.

“You poor kids. I heard through the grapevine that this is your honeymoon. And here you are finding bodies and working when you should be sunbathing! Go on, get out of here,” Chef Martin grinned and swatted us away with a towel.

Once he was out of earshot, I said, “He acted a little odd, don’t you think?”

“Odd? What are you talking about? He was awesome. I wish the chefs at our hotel had his personality!”

“Sure, he was friendly, but he acted so careless about the woman who died. It almost seemed like a joke to him,” I criticized.

“Well he didn’t know the lady,” Charles defended. “And he probably heard how she was older, so maybe he didn’t see it as a huge tragedy.”

I shook my head willfully. “No, he was too lighthearted.” In my mind, everyone was a suspect, even a toothy grinned chef who had no apparent connection to the victim. No
apparent
connection.