Murder Most Finicky (14 page)

Chapter 27

Tyler's text read:

Stan wanted to thunk her head down on the dash. Once this weekend was over, maybe she should call an exorcist, or at least go see a tarot reader to figure out how to banish this murderous black cloud from following her around. Enough was enough—and she still needed a piece of copper pipe to make her cannoli shell. Because in between all this drama, they all had to cook a perfect meal on Monday.

She shot back a quick text:
Be back shortly

“Let's go,” she said to Caitlyn. “I need to run an errand, then I have to get back.”

Caitlyn obediently floored it, zooming back in the direction of Grounds of Hope, still not speaking.

“Don't be mad at me,” Stan said. “I don't want to see you hurt over someone who's not worth it.”

“You don't know anything about it,” Caitlyn snapped. “He's not a bad person.” She swerved into the parking lot and stomped on the brake, barely missing the front of the building that bordered her parking space.

Stan figured she had whiplash by now. She rubbed her neck as she got out of the car. “Will you call me if you hear anything?” she asked Caitlyn.

Caitlyn stared straight ahead. “Sure.” She got out of the car and disappeared inside the coffee shop.

Stan sighed and searched in her bag for her keys. A white pickup truck idled next to her car, windows open. As she finally beeped her car open and slid inside, Stan caught a glimpse of the man in the driver's seat, reading something on a tablet. Bushy eyebrows hung over heavy-lidded eyes. He didn't look up. There was something familiar about him, but she couldn't place it.

She sat in her parking space, rolled down her windows, and called Tyler. He sounded like he'd locked himself in a closet to answer.

“This. Is. Bad,” he said in a loud whisper. “Sheldon's on a rampage. He's blaming Therese for the Vaughn debacle.”

“Therese? Why?” Stan asked.

“Because he's losing his mind. And he's desperate. This bad press could royally derail his plans. He's been working on these investors for
months
. He's accusing Therese of tipping Vaughn off and discouraging her from coming. Therese doesn't even know Vaughn.”

Stan frowned. She was getting tired of hearing about the dinner. One person was dead and two were possibly missing, and all these people seemed worried about was impressing some rich investors. “What if something really did happen to her, Tyler?” Stan asked, her voice sharper than she'd intended.

A brief silence. “I hadn't thought of that,” Tyler said.

“Doesn't sound like anyone has.” Stan disconnected and tossed the phone in her console, leaning her head back against the seat. The coffee shop door banged open and her sister emerged with a large coffee in her hand. She got in her car and peeled out of the parking lot. The white truck next to Stan with the droopy-eyed guy pulled out, too. She frowned. She knew she'd seen this guy and his truck before. If she wasn't mistaken, she'd been with Caitlyn. As she watched her sister turn right out of the lot and the truck follow her, the hair on the back of her neck stood up.

She started her car and pulled out of the parking lot, too, and hit the gas. She was two cars behind. The pickup truck sat high enough that she could still keep an eye on it. She thought Caitlyn would head back to Narragansett and her house, but instead she drove straight down Memorial Boulevard again, then swung left onto Bellevue, heading for the mansion district. The small parade behind her did the same.

Stan felt the first catch of fear in her chest. Maybe this wasn't about Pierre at all. Maybe it was about Kyle, and Pierre had just gotten in the way. If someone had taken Kyle—or done something worse with him—then maybe that person knew about her sister and needed to tie up a loose end. But what could Kyle be doing? And did Caitlyn know about it?

She hit the button on her steering wheel that activated her Bluetooth. “Call Caitlyn, mobile,” she instructed.

The system placed the call—getting it right on the first try, even—and Stan listened to it ring and ring on the other end. Caitlyn didn't pick up.

“Shoot!” She banged the steering wheel out of frustration when voice mail finally answered. “Caitlyn. Pick up. I think someone's following you.” She jabbed the button to end the call and hit the gas. The car directly in front of her took a right turn, leaving her one car behind the white truck. Caitlyn's car turned into the long driveway leading to the Newport Premier hotel. What was Caitlyn doing here?

The white pickup slowed, then passed the entrance. Stan took the turn behind her sister. Caitlyn drove up to the hotel and parked. Stan pulled up next to her and motioned for her to roll the window down. Caitlyn's eyes widened when she saw her, but she did as Stan asked. Music blared out. Matchbox Twenty. No wonder she hadn't heard the phone.

“What are you doing here?” Caitlyn said, turning the music down. “I thought you had an errand to run.”

“I do. But I think someone's following you, so I followed them. What are
you
doing here?”

“Following me?” She whipped around, scanning the parking lot. “Why would someone be following me?”

“I don't know,” Stan said pointedly. “But you didn't answer my question.”

Her eyes shifted left, then back to Stan. “I . . . just wanted to ask around about Kyle.”

“You sure you want the attention?” Stan asked. “The hotel staff probably has to call the cops if anyone comes in and mentions him.”

Caitlyn thought about that, tapping a manicured finger against her steering wheel.

“Do what you want. You're the one worried about getting caught, not me. Listen, have you noticed a white pickup truck in your travels?”

Caitlyn looked at her warily. “No. Is that who's following me?”

“Looked like it.” Stan looked around, too, but no white pickup appeared with a flashing sign declaring
Here I am!

“Who is it? What should I do? You think it's someone looking for Kyle?” Caitlyn looked panicked now. “I can't call the police! What would I tell them?”

“Calm down,” Stan said, but her mind raced. It could be a coincidence. Heck, she could be seeing things. But something told her she wasn't, and she'd learned to trust her gut. “Switch cars with me,” she said.

Caitlyn stared at her like she'd lost it. “Why?”

“Because if someone's following you, they'll follow me and I can figure out what's happening.”

“But then you'd be in danger,” Caitlyn pointed out.

“I'll be fine. Give me the keys,” Stan said. “You have other things on your mind. I'm at least paying attention.”

Caitlyn handed her the keys reluctantly.

“Be careful,” Stan said.

“I will.” Caitlyn made no move to go inside. “You too.”

Stan got in her sister's SUV, adjusted the seat, and drove slowly through the parking lot, one eye on the rearview. She didn't buy Caitlyn's story about coming here. But what was her sister up to?

Caitlyn waited until Stan got halfway down the drive before she hurried inside. When Stan got to the hotel ground's exit, she looked carefully in both directions but saw no sign of the white truck. Maybe she
was
losing it.

She drove to the nearest hardware store for her copper pipe. She used that to make her cannoli shell by wrapping a piece of bread around it. She liked it for that purpose because it warmed evenly and gave her a perfectly cooked shell. She also found an outdoor market and got more strawberries, blueberries, and a piece of fish. She'd make one of the dinners tonight for Nutty. At some point, they would all be expected to cook.

She loaded her purchases into the backseat and leaned against her car, sniffing at the sea air. The sun shone bright and high in the sky, giving the impression of paradise. In the jeweled tones of the day with the sea twinkling in and out of her vision, thinking about murder seemed so out of place. A vision of Pierre's still form on the patio, all that blood, flashed through her brain and she abruptly pushed the images away. She had to get back and help Tyler. That familiar feeling of obligation took hold of her. Tyler would be a deer in the headlights again, trying to figure out how to address this while Sheldon freaked out.

She thought about what she would do if this was still her real job. In light of today's developments and the limited information she had, she'd talk to Pierre's mystery publicist. If he did have a campaign going against Sheldon—and it wasn't all in Mr. Pastry's head—Melanie Diamond would have orchestrated it. And if it had to do with Vaughn Dawes's disappearance, she might be persuaded to talk now that the police were involved.

Stan checked her watch. Enough time to whip up a test batch of cat-noli and talk Sheldon off the ledge. Then she could figure out how to find Melanie Diamond and have a conversation about Pierre and friends.

Chapter 28

Stan got back in the car and used her iPhone to search for Vaughn Dawes before heading back. She was curious about the allegedly missing woman. A number of images popped up—including a photo Stan had seen before. The one of Pierre on the red carpet with the blonde woman.

She should've known. Pierre and Vaughn seemed like the perfect couple, if one judged by outward appearances. But why hadn't Sheldon told her they were an item? He'd either pretended not to know, or he hadn't known. She checked the date on the phone. Last February. Maybe they'd since broken up.

Her phone rang again. Stan smiled when she saw Char Mackey's name flash on the screen. Char would likely be following this story and want the gory details. Char was a huge foodie and loved The Food Channel. She also loved pastry and had been beside herself with excitement about Stan's partnership with Sheldon. Stan knew she harbored a secret desire that Sheldon would open a people bakery in Frog Ledge, too, so she didn't have to drive so far to get his goodies.

“Stan, honey! How are you?”

She pictured Char in the bed-and-breakfast's cozy kitchen, whipping up something delightful and Southern to eat while she cranked the air-conditioning and a Billie Holiday CD. It made her smile. “I'm okay. How are you?”

“How am
I
? Well, sugar, I'm not rubbing elbows with dead chefs, that's for sure! What in blazes are you cooking up now?” Char giggled a little. “Get it? Cooking up?” Then she sobered. “I shouldn't joke. This is serious.”

Despite herself, Stan chuckled. “What have you heard?”

“Heard? Honey, it's all over the news. Pierre LaPorte, one of the juiciest chefs around, is dead, another up-and-comer is on the run or missing, the fabulous Vaughn Dawes is missing . . . sounds like y'all got yourself in a speck of trouble.”

“Seems that way,” Stan said. “I'm so glad you called. It sounds like you know these guys.”

“Well, I know them the way groupies know their favorite rock bands,” Char said, laughing. “And Pierre was juicy. How could you not know him? Such a shame. Good pastry chef, too. I've been to his place in New York a few times. He didn't make the rags much, other than that stint of family drama that followed him around for a few years.”

“Family drama? Like what?”

“Oh, honey. You need to read your rags more often. Pierre and his ex-wife Marianna Russo. Mob ties,” she whispered, as if the mob had slipped in and bugged her house. “They were building a restaurant empire. Her father managed the whole thing. Successful too. Then they split. Pierre fired his father-in-law, but Mr. Russo fired him right back. What a mess. The Russos had a lot more money, though, so of course they came out on top. Pierre's been trying to find his footing ever since.”

“Wow. How long ago?”

“Probably five years or so,” Char said.

“Why'd they get divorced?”

“She cheated on him, according to the rumor mill. Not even the poor dumb schmuck's fault.”

Which would've left Pierre bitter—and probably broke. Maybe he'd been threatening his ex-family in a desperate quest for money, if he was struggling like Sheldon suggested. Maybe they hadn't liked that and wanted him silenced. Stan wondered if Sheldon knew the Russos.

“What about arrests? I heard Pierre had some trouble with the law.”

“Hmm. Now that you mention it, I think he got in trouble for selling drugs out of the New York kitchen. He somehow managed to avoid any real consequences, though. Or even much publicity. I remember hearing something last year, maybe? Then nothing.”

“You knew of Vaughn Dawes, too?”

“Vaughn? Sure,” Char said breezily, as if they were friends on a first name basis. “When Ray took me to Southern California for our twentieth anniversary, we ate at all the best restaurants. Including hers.”

“She has a restaurant?”

“She did back then—Grind. We were reminiscing about our anniversary dates just last week because we were planning our date for this year. The California trip would've been four years ago. We just celebrated our anniversary this weekend at Jake's, you know.”

Four years ago. Pierre and Vaughn may have been an item. Vaughn had a restaurant. Pierre had a divorce bill. “Congratulations. I wish I'd been there.” That left-out feeling washed over Stan again. While it hadn't been an official party, it would've been nice to be part of the night. And most things at Jake's turned into a party. That was the way of the Irish pub. “I thought this woman was a pastry chef. You said she had a full-service restaurant?”

“That's her specialty, but she was trying for the whole nine yards. She brought in this young, new talent as her star chef. I remember noticing it because it had been written up in
Foodie
right before we went. She did a gumbo that the reviewer raved about, so of course I had to try it. So did everyone else. I remember it was busier than a cat on a hot tin roof.”

Char was originally from New Orleans. Despite twenty-something years in New England, she still talked, cooked, and best of all, acted like a Southerner. And she made monkey bread to die for.

“So her food was good?”

“Eh. My gumbo's better, but I'm biased. Her desserts were scrumptious, I do have to say. Seems that was her calling. But the rest of it went downhill faster than a hot knife through butter. The chef just wasn't that good, I guess.”

“Who was the chef?” Stan asked.

“Oh, let me think a minute.” Char paused, searching her memory banks for the information. “He had an interesting name.... Felix! That was it. Raymond!” she called to her husband. Stan pictured Ray in his ever-present overalls, just in from tending to the alpacas, and felt that homesickness again. “What was that chef's name at Grind? Paulson, that was it,” she said back into the phone. “Felix Paulson. I never heard about him again, after that place closed.”

Hmm. Stan scribbled the name of the restaurant and the chef on the receipt from the hardware store and started the car, keeping an eye out for a white pickup as she drove back to the hotel. “So what's the word about her being missing?”

“There wasn't much info. Just that a friend reported she was on her way to Rhode Island, but didn't arrive as scheduled. Foodie tabloids, you know. Not much substance. But it came on the heels of this murder scandal. Did you know Pierre and Vaughn were linked romantically at one time? That's why it's big news, too. I've already heard stories about it being a murder-suicide. All kinds of crazy theories will come out now.”

“I Googled her. Saw a picture of them. Murder-suicide? Like she killed him, and now we're going to find her body somewhere?” Creepy. Stan thought about that possibility as she navigated the streets of Newport, avoiding families lugging children and supplies to the beach, kids on skateboards, motorcycles, and everything that screamed summer. Love, lust, and sex. All good murder motives.

“Oh, you bet. It's just like Hollywood, honey. Stories galore. Wasn't she supposed to get there last night?”

“Yes,” Stan said slowly. Which would mean a very limited number of people knew that she'd made this last-minute trip. Someone must've tipped off the rags. But who, and to what end? “I won't lie. They all seem nuts.”

Char laughed. “I'm quite sure they are. They seem nuts, from what I read in the papers. Always have. I've been following the food industry my whole life. I was almost a chef, you know.”

“I didn't know! But I can totally picture it.” That fit. Char's cooking skills left Stan feeling like an amateur.

“Long time ago, but I enjoyed it. I went to cooking school and trained under some experts in Louisiana. Had my sights set on a Creole kitchen.”

“So what happened?” Stan asked.

“I met my Raymond, and up and left to come north. It was meant to be.”

“Did you ever regret it?” Stan asked. “Not Ray, of course, but leaving your dream behind?”

Char laughed. “Oh, honey, I didn't leave anything behind. I cook every day. And I get to share that food with all my friends and the lovely people who stay at Alpaca Haven. I'm still a chef. I just do it my way. Good thing, too. I could never be part of the nonsense that goes on in those celebrity circles. Like what's happened with your friends. I just like to read about it.”

“They're not my friends,” Stan said immediately, then realized how that sounded. “I mean, this is the first time I've met most of them. Anyway, that's really helpful, Char. Thanks.”

“Anytime, sugar. Need to know anything else?”

“Yeah. How to read minds. If I could pick a superpower, that's what I'd take.”

“Nah, you don't want that,” Char said. “I'd never want to read Raymond's mind.”

“No?”

“No. That's a recipe for disaster. I'd much rather be invisible when I wanted.”

“That's a good one, too.” And might come in handy in this case also. “Hey, Char?”

“Yes, darlin'?”

“Speaking of reading people's minds, have you talked to my mother?” Char and Patricia had become friends of sorts when Patricia first began spending time in Frog Ledge. Char hadn't seemed like Patricia's type, but to this day they spoke regularly. And since her mother had been radio silent for a while, maybe Char had some info.

“I have, honey. She keeps in touch. Y'all haven't?”

“No. Not in awhile. I just wondered . . . what's going on with her.” God, she hated the awkwardness of her family. She was thirty-six years old, for crying out loud.

Char sighed. “You two are such Yanks.”

“What's that mean?” she asked, pulling into the hotel parking lot. Maybe she'd been crazy before, imagining the white truck following her sister. Even driving her SUV, she hadn't seen a glimpse of it.

“You can't just love each other. Always has to be some reason why you're not happy with each other. Your momma is trying to figure some things out.”

“With Tony?”

“I think that's a big part of it, yes. She asked me about you, too, last week. I told her the same darn thing I'll tell you.
Call her.
”

“It's gotten complicated again,” Stan said.

“Oh, that's nonsense. Listen, honey. I love you, but you're stubborn as any mule. Call your momma. Life's real short. Sometime you'll be sorry you didn't.”