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Authors: Liz Mugavero

Murder Most Finicky (20 page)

BOOK: Murder Most Finicky
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Chapter 40
Stan's delicious cupcake started to roll around in her stomach. She forced the queasy feeling down. That had been one detail Sheldon had forgotten to mention in his true confession session about his falling out with Pierre.
“Greta. Are you totally sure about that?” she asked.
Greta frowned, a gesture that pulled her perfectly shaped eyebrows together. “Of course I'm sure. We had to hire two new people to keep up with it. Pierre stopped doing it himself. He wanted to focus on his own career for a change.”
Stan and Jessie exchanged a glance.
“Was he using Sheldon's recipes?” Stan asked casually.
Greta scoffed. “Pierre didn't use
recipes
for simple, everyday pastries. He just baked them. He spent time with each new baker and gave them his tricks of the trade—at different levels of course, based on their ability—and then they would start by baking some of the ‘everyday' stuff. So he was having the newer people do Sheldon's pastries.”
“Did they have some kind of agreement that Pierre would do this for a certain amount of time? Was it to pay Sheldon back for something?” Jessie asked.
“I'm not sure. It started last year. He told me we were going to be helping Sheldon out because of the demand and Sheldon's limited time.”
Last year. Around the time of his alleged drug troubles, if Sheldon's account was accurate. Maybe this was Pierre's punishment for Sheldon's involvement. Or, Sheldon's way to get his protégé to repay the debt.
“Did he have plans to stop?” Jessie asked. “Had he said anything to Sheldon about being overwhelmed?”
“I have no idea. I didn't get involved much in the business stuff. I just like to bake. And listen to Pierre. I tried to help him when he got upset about things. It's hard being a sensitive chef, you know.” She paused and, for the first time, really looked at them. “Are you guys helping solve the murder? Like, police consultants or something? Is that why you're asking all these questions?”
“I'm a cop,” Jessie said. “With the Connecticut State Police.”
Greta frowned. “Connecticut? I thought Pierre went to Rhode Island.”
“He did. I'm not here in an official capacity.”
“Oh!” Greta exclaimed. “Wow. I . . . didn't realize.” She glanced nervously toward the back room. Jessie followed her gaze. They could hear voices, some music, an occasional burst of laughter.
“Who's out there?” Jessie asked.
“Just a couple of the bakers. Getting a jump start on the week's orders.”
“So it's business as usual, then?” Stan asked.
Greta shrugged miserably. “Until someone tells us otherwise, I guess. Or until Sheldon swoops in and changes everything. Or fires us all.”
Interesting comment. “Why would he do that?”
“Who knows what will happen? I've heard he can be ruthless,” Greta said.
Stan tucked that comment away. “Back to this prize recipe. Do you know where Pierre may have kept it? Was it written down somewhere, or saved on a computer? Or was it all in his head?”
Greta narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Why? Just because he's dead doesn't mean you can steal it.”
“Me?” Stan laughed. “Not quite. I bake for pets, not people.”
“You
do
? That's so cool!” Her newfound suspicion momentarily forgotten, Greta clapped her hands. “Do you have a card? A Web site?”
“I actually don't have a Web site yet. But I'm working on it.” Close enough to the truth. Brenna had been trying to talk her into setting up a Web site for the past few months. She wasn't sure why she hesitated, other than their already packed baking schedule. Add more orders and shipping into the mix and she'd probably have to hire at least one more person. “Here.” She fished a card out of her bag. “That's me. My phone and e-mail are on it.”
“Awesome,” Greta said, sliding the card into her pocket. “I have friends who love stuff like that for their pets.”
“Thanks. So, the recipe.”
“Yeah. The recipe.” She smiled. “Pierre's a pretty low-tech guy. He loved notebooks.” She went back behind the counter and took out a small Moleskine notebook with a gray cover. “He had these everywhere. This was his fancy coffee recipe book. He doesn't usually keep full recipes, though. He always thought people wanted to steal his stuff.”
“So he may have had his gold medal winner on him somewhere,” Stan said, looking at Jessie.
“Like I said,” Greta reminded them, “there would only be pieces of the recipe. Probably the most critical measurements. A lot of the stuff he could wing, but if it was still new to him he would keep the notes handy.”
“Excuse me,” Jessie said, getting up and going to the back corner of the bakery. Stan saw her slip her phone out of her pocket. Probably calling the Rhode Island cops to “offer” the information—and fish around to see if they'd found something on Pierre's body.
“So, what else can I tell you?” Greta asked. She'd started to fidget and Stan sensed they were losing her.
“Just one more question,” she promised, flashing her an apologetic smile. “Do you know if he was dating anyone?”
Greta's face pinkened. “Me,” she admitted, and promptly burst into tears again.
Of course.
Stan should've seen that one coming. The starstruck young woman would've been a perfect candidate, at least part of the time.
“I'm so sorry, again,” she said quietly.
Greta cried for another minute, then pulled it together. “I'm sorry. It's just . . . you know.”
“I do.” Stan glanced at Jessie, who still talked on her phone. “Do you know Vaughn Dawes?”
Greta looked blank and started to shake her head when a huge crash sounded from the back room, followed by a howling that sounded suspiciously like a dog. Or a wolf. Jessie was off the phone and next to them, gun in hand, before Stan even blinked.
“Whoa!” Greta jumped up, too, hands raised. “What are you doing?”
Jessie had already started around the counter, gun leading the way.
“What's going on back there?” Stan whispered.
Chapter 41
Before Greta could respond, the swinging door flew open and a man with a shaved head and goatee ran out. Stan didn't see the dog in front of the guy until the pooch rounded the corner and skidded to a stop, tongue lolling, at her feet. He (she?) looked like an Australian cattle dog, or at least a mix.
The tattooed guy skidded to a stop when he saw Jessie and her gun. His hands shot into the air. “Is this a stickup? I don't think we have much cash. Greta, give them the cash!”
“Oh, for . . . just go bake something, Kent,” Greta said, grabbing the dog's collar. “We're not getting robbed. They're here to talk about Pierre. They've been here for an hour. Where have you been?”
“Oh.” His hands dropped and fisted onto his hips. “Well, his dog needs a home. Can we talk about that?” He glared at Greta. “What are you doing about it?”
“Me? Why me?”
“He was your boyfriend! This dog can't live in the kitchen. We're gonna get busted by the Department of Health. Plus he just knocked over my cake mix. Listen, you want this place to stay up and running, this isn't the way to do it.” He looked at Stan and Jessie. “You cops?”
“Yes,” Jessie said, without bothering to mention where. She'd already tucked her gun back in her waistband, under her shirt.
“Cool. You close to cracking the case?”
“We certainly hope so,” Jessie said. “You knew Pierre well?”
“He hired me a few months ago. Cool dude. We weren't, like, friends or anything. He was a tough boss. But he knew his stuff.” He leaned on the counter. “You think he got killed over pastry? Or something else?”
“That's what we're trying to find out,” Jessie said.
He nodded. “Listen, I gotta go put my cake in the oven. Come on back if you want to talk to me or Alex.” With one last curious glance at them, the guy headed back into the kitchen.
“Sorry 'bout that,” Greta said. She glanced at the dog and sighed. “I have no idea what to do about this.”
“Is this Pierre's dog?” Stan bent down and held out a hand to the pup. The dog wagged cautiously and sniffed her.
“Yeah. This is Gaston. Named after some fancy pastry chef—I forget who. He's one of the reasons I'm at the shop today.” She glanced at the kitchen door where the cranky baker had retreated. “There's no one else to take him, and I can't have dogs in my building. I think he's sad. He really misses . . . Pierre.” She sniffled and wiped fresh tears away. “Like I do.”
The dog nuzzled his head into Stan's hand. She rubbed his ears. He was gorgeous. And his eyes did look sad. And confused. Her pit bull, Henry, a rescue from Frog Ledge Animal Control, had looked the same way the first time she'd seen him. “So he's been staying here?” Stan asked.
“Yes. And Kent is right. We could get in trouble. I just don't know what to do.” She gazed at the dog sadly. “I may have to take him to the shelter.”
Didn't it just figure? Stan wanted to hit her head against the pastry counter a few times. “Which shelter?”
“I don't know. There's a bunch of places around, I think. . . .” She trailed off.
“Most of those places put dogs to sleep in a few days. If not sooner. Do you think Pierre would want that?”
Jessie sent her a raised-eyebrow look, but Stan ignored her. The poor dog did not deserve that sort of ending just because his owner had gotten himself killed.
“No,” Greta said uncertainly. “Pierre rescued him about five years ago from some people who weren't very nice. His name was Jaws then. They were trying to make him sound fierce and get him to do bad things. Pierre actually bought him from them so he could save him. He talks about it, like, all the time.” She rolled her eyes. “I don't mean it in a bad way, you know? I mean, I like dogs, but Pierre was kind of obsessed with him.”
Finally, a redeeming quality about Pierre that Stan could respect. She wondered if Pierre used to bake him treats. She bet he had.
“Plus Pierre wanted a protector. He was having a rough time back then,” Greta said.
“Something happen?” Jessie asked.
“He doesn't talk about it much. Just that he had some people giving him trouble.”
“He didn't say who?”
Greta shook her head.
“None of Pierre's other friends can take him?”
“I haven't asked anyone. I don't think most of them like dogs,” Greta said.
“What about his family?”
“What family? He doesn't have one. Well, like parents and stuff. They died a long time ago. I don't know about other family.”
Sure they did.
Pierre must've really been embarrassed about his past to tell people his parents were dead. Stan sighed. She had no choice. “Do you have a leash for the dog?”
Jessie and Greta both stared at her.
“A leash,” Stan repeated. “You know, you hook it on the dog's collar and walk them with it?”
“Right. A leash.” Greta dashed out back to get it.
“And what are you going to do with the dog?” Jessie asked.
“I guess I'm going to call Nikki.”
“Yeah, but how are you going to
get
him to Nikki?”
Stan shrugged. “We can take the Metro-North out of Grand Central back to New Haven. They allow dogs. Then I'll have to figure out how to get him somewhere until I can track her down.” She pondered that. Jessie would never go for it—Jake had told Stan many times that while Jessie didn't dislike dogs, she had no desire to live with any. She could ask Jake, but he was already helping Brenna watch Stan's crew this weekend.
“You don't even know anything about this dog,” Jessie said, just as Greta rushed back out waving a red leash triumphantly. It had the name of the pastry shop on it.
“Here you go. What are you going to do with him?”
“I'm going to take him to a friend who runs a rescue,” Stan said. “At least he won't be in danger there, and she'll find him a good home.”
“You will?” Greta's face lit up, then as understanding washed over her, her expression went from elated to distraught. “But . . . I'll miss him!” She threw her arms around the dog and buried her face in his fur.
“I'm sure you will, but if you can't keep him in a real apartment, that's not fair to him,” Stan said.
Greta sniffled. “I know.”
“What do you know about him? Is he good with other dogs? Cats? Kids? Does he prefer men to women?”
Confusion drew Greta's perfectly shaped eyebrows together. “I have no idea. I never did a personality test on him. He's always been well behaved. Pierre took him to school. He's got a little degree and everything.”
Canine Good Citizen, probably. That was a plus. Maybe Nikki wouldn't kill her. Still, she was going to wait until the dog was in her possession before calling her. Nikki would never turn down an animal in need, but best to leave her no choice.
Stan could feel Jessie's eyes drilling a hole into the side of her head.
Great,
she'd be thinking.
Now we have to go traipsing around questioning this other woman dragging a dog with us.
Well, Jessie would have to deal with it.
“Are you going to tell me where he goes?” Greta asked. “I feel like I need to know.”
“Sure. Where should I call—”
A loud rap on the door behind Stan startled her, and she turned to see two men looming in the doorway. They were large, scowling, and looked like they were about to bust the door down if it didn't open for them immediately.
BOOK: Murder Most Finicky
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