A Batter of Life and Death (22 page)

“No, thank you. He gives me the creeps too. I’m really glad you didn’t tell him I live upstairs.”

“I’d never tell anyone that. I guess everyone in town already knows, but you know what I mean. Not a stranger. Are you cool? Do you need me to watch out for anything?”

“Thanks, I’m good, but if he comes around again will you let me know? I’ll tell Thomas too.”

“Good idea, and yeah, I’ve got your back, Jules. We all do.”

That’s what I love about being home again. I smiled. “I better get to the bakeshop. I’ve got a pie to make tonight.”

“Feel free to swing by if you need a taste-tester. I’m always happy to help.” He picked up a pair of hiking boots on the front window display and tied the laces. “Catch you later, Jules. Be careful out there.”

I didn’t like that Sebastian was asking around about me. He already knew where I lived. I didn’t want to say that to Mark, but he’d seen me go upstairs last night. What possible reason could he have for asking where I live?

Locals took advantage of the break in the weather, sitting at outdoor bistro tables being warmed by portable gas heaters. Fall is such a lovely time to dine al fresco. Most restaurants have invested in heaters or fire pits to allow customers to enjoy the fresh air and changing foliage for as long as possible. Soon winter would arrive with snow and more rain showers. I greeted familiar faces as I made my way along Main Street.

The door at A Rose by Any Other Name, Thomas’s family’s flower shop, stood propped open. I breathed in the scent of roses and fresh cut lavender.

“Hey, who’s sniffing around out there?” Thomas yelled from behind the counter.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” I said, stepping into the shop.

A cement-block counter stretched the length of the small shop. Thomas and his parents use it as a workspace to assemble bouquets. This evening it was piled with sprigs of lavender, evergreen boughs, and pale purple roses. Buckets with bunches of flowers waiting to be sold were arranged around the room, and in the far corner of the space was a glass case displaying preassembled bouquets in vases and tied with raffia and brown paper.

I’ve always loved the quaint, country vibe in the shop. It almost feels like stepping into a farm flower stand.

Thomas set a pair of heavy-duty shears on the counter. “I’m here for all your floral needs. This sounds like an emergency. Probably calls for orchids. My mom says when in doubt, go with the orchid.”

I picked up a sprig of lavender and ran it between my fingers. The friction intensified its scent. “Sadly, no, I’m not here for flowers.”

Thomas scrunched his face. “Let me guess. I’m not going to like the reason you are here, right?”

I smelled the lavender. I should make lavender shortbread cookies, I thought. I could dust them with sea salt, a nice balance with the herb and a hint of sugar.

“Jules?” Thomas interrupted my thought just as a recipe was solidifying in my head.

“Yeah.” I sniffed the lavender again.

“Why are you here?”

“Right.” I put the lavender back in the pile. “Sebastian.”

“What about him?”

“I think he’s the killer.”

“Juliet Montague Capshaw. You just broke our deal!”

“No one calls me that,
Tommy
.” I pretended to snarl at him. Even Mom didn’t call me by my full name anymore. I’d thankfully shaken off my Shakespearean title years ago.

“You got me.” Thomas grinned. “So do tell. How has that lovely brain of yours deduced that Sebastian is our killer?”

I folded my arms across my chest. “Now you’re just making fun of me.”

“Me? Never.” Thomas gave me a dopey look. “Do I ever make fun?”

I tightened my arms around my chest.

Thomas brushed pollen from his hands and came around the counter. “Okay, okay. You’re not going to drop it, are you?”

I shook my head.

“Tell me what you know, then.” He grabbed his iPad.

“Sebastian followed me last night.”

Thomas started to click something on the iPad, stopped and looked up. “He followed you?”

“Yeah.” I nodded and let my arms fall loose. “He was dressed completely in black and sneaking around the plaza. He ran into me in front of my apartment.”

His voice lost any trace of playfulness. “This is serious, Jules.”

I explained my theory about Sebastian breaking in at Torte, how I overheard him in the alleyway speaking perfect English, and about him asking the owner of Elevation where I lived.

Thomas’s phone rang. It was the theme song from
Skyfall
. Thomas is a huge spy movie fan. When we were dating in high school we used to argue about our polar-opposite tastes in movies. I preferred romantic, and sometimes weepy romantic flicks. He opted for as much action as possible. Although he usually let me win. When we’d walk to the little video store on the plaza (that’s now long gone) we’d browse each section. He’d usually come up to me with puppy-dog eyes and a stack of guy flicks. We always left with a romantic comedy (my choice) and a box of Junior Mints (his).

I figured he could have the Junior Mints if he was willing to sit through two hours of a sappy movie with me.

He nodded into the phone and tapped his iPad. Holding the phone to his ear with one hand, he navigated the iPad with the other. “Got it,” he said. “I’m right across the street. I’ll head over now.”

“Who was that?” I asked when he ended the call.

“The Professor.” He frowned. “It sounds like you might be onto something here. Apparently the fingerprints we pulled from Torte this morning came back with a match.”

“Sebastian?”

“Yep. Only according to his police record, the French chef is actually from Ohio. He has quite the record. An assault charge from ten years ago. Guess who filed the charges?”

“Who?”

“Chef Marco.”

Chapter Twenty-seven

“I knew it!” I punched Thomas in the arm.

He rubbed his shoulder. “Easy, there. We have this thing in law enforcement and the justice system called ‘innocent until proven guilty.’”

“You have to admit, that’s some pretty compelling evidence.”

“Nope. Not evidence in Marco’s murder.” Thomas clicked the iPad off. “Evidence that he was at Torte, but those prints could be from anytime. We need more proof. Or better yet, a confession. All we have now is some circumstantial evidence. I’m heading over to the Merry Windsor to question him right now.”

“You’re not going to arrest him?”

“On what charge?”

“What do you mean? You can’t just let a killer have free rein around town.”

“Slow down, slow down.” Thomas held his arm out in an attempt to stop me. “We have procedures we have to follow, Jules. I’m not about to let a potential murder suspect out of my sight, but I don’t have anything to hold him on at the moment. Prints at the scene don’t prove that he vandalized Torte. We found multiple prints. You run a successful business. Half of the town’s prints are in there.”

“But in the office?”

Thomas hesitated. “Listen, I’m following the Professor’s orders. I need to go interrogate the suspect.” He squeezed his iPad under his arm and stepped toward the door.

“So you did find his prints in the office?” I followed him.

“Jules, this is a murder investigation. I can’t discuss specific details of the case. I could get myself in big trouble.” He held the door open for me.

Thomas may not have been able to share details, but I knew that he’d found Sebastian’s prints in the office. It was what he wasn’t saying that was a dead giveaway. Bad pun, Jules, I thought as I tagged after Thomas.

He stopped in mid-stride. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Coming with you.”

“No way.”

I batted my lashes at him. “Please.”

“Knock it off, Jules, you are so not the girly type.”

“I had to give it a shot.” I tried to wink and continued walking across the plaza. “Come on. I’m not going to interfere with your investigation, it just so happens that I have some important business with Richard Lord.”

Thomas threw his head back and laughed. “Yeah, right.” His shoulders slacked a little. “Fine, but I don’t want you saying a word. Not a single word, understood?”

“Of course.” I crossed my heart. “You’ll never know I’m there.”

Thomas sighed. “How do I get myself into these situations with you, Juliet Capshaw?”

I figured it was better if I kept quiet now and followed him past the bubbling fountains and across the street to the Merry Windsor in silence.

The same apathetic kid sat behind the reception desk. Thomas flashed his badge and said he needed to speak with Sebastian. The kid pointed toward the kitchen without looking up. “He’s one of those chefs, right? Kitchen’s that way.”

Thomas gave me a warning look as I tiptoed behind him.

“I’m so quiet,” I whispered.

He pursed his lips and smiled. “Jules, I’m serious. Not a word.”

I gave him a salute as he flashed his badge again. The dining room was practically deserted. Not a good sign for Richard. Sure, it was the off-season, but clearly Richard wasn’t pulling locals in the way we were at Torte. Could his bravado be an act? Maybe things weren’t as merry at the Merry Windsor as Richard would like to have us all believe.

Thomas peered into the kitchen. He flashed his badge again. “I’m looking for Sebastian.”

The cook pointed to the back door. “He’s having a smoke.”

I followed Thomas, retracing my steps from earlier in the morning, to the back alley.

Sebastian had his back propped against the building and a long, thin cigarette hanging from his mouth. He didn’t react when Thomas held up his badge prominently. “Sebastian, I need a word,” Thomas said.

Sebastian took a long drag from the cigarette. He held the smoke in his lungs before exhaling. “Yes.”

“I have a few questions for you.” Thomas secured his badge on his chest and opened the cover to his iPad. “We can either talk here, or I can walk you over to the station.”

“Here is fine, yes.” Sebastian maintained the French act, while puffing on the cigarette.

Thomas launched into a round of questions. At first Sebastian acted completely unimpressed by Thomas’s questions. He smoked his cigarette, snuffed it on the ground with his shoe, and lit another one while Thomas asked him where he’d been last night.

“In ze kitchen.”

Thomas continued to push, asking for specific timelines and who might be able to confirm Sebastian’s whereabouts.

Sebastian answered all of Thomas’s questions with the French accent, smoking like a grease fire the entire time. I coughed and waved smoke away twice when Sebastian blew it in my direction, but otherwise I followed Thomas’s order and blended into the wall.

It was all I could do to keep from jumping in. I could feel my muscles tense as Thomas continued his slow and steady style of questioning. This wasn’t working. Sebastian didn’t even look nervous.

Thomas swiped something on his iPad and held it out for Sebastian to see. “Do you know what this is?”

Sebastian choked on his own smoke.

Thomas slid his finger over the document. “This is on your public record. It looks like you failed to mention that you and Chef Marco were previously acquainted during our initial investigation.”

Sebastian dropped the cigarette and mashed it into the ground.

“Not only were you and the late chef acquainted, but it seems you were involved in an altercation which led to your subsequent arrest. Is this sounding familiar?”

Sebastian tried to remove another cigarette from the pack but his hand shook. He gave up and tucked the pack into his pocket.

Thomas was on a roll. “The way I see it, you lied to us about knowing the chef. You lied to us about your record, and you lied to us about killing him.”

“Non, no.” Sebastian’s accent faded.

“It gets worse for you, I’m afraid.” Thomas clicked onto a new document on the iPad. “We found your prints at Torte, which was vandalized last night. Murder, vandalism, prior assault conviction. It’s not looking good for you, Sebastian.”

I’d never seen Thomas interrogate a suspect before, and I had to give him credit. Somehow he managed to strike a balance between being a tough detective and actually sounding like he was sincere.

It may have been the sincerity that finally made Sebastian crack. He covered his face with his hands. His arms trembled. I almost felt sorry for him.

“You don’t understand.” Sebastian’s voice held no trace of an accent. “It’s not what you think.”

Thomas tapped the iPad. “This has nothing to do with what I think and everything to do with the facts right here in front of me.”

Sebastian removed his hands from in front of his face. “I know, but can I explain?”

“Get started.” Thomas caught my eye. “I’m waiting. First, I’d like to know what happened to your accent.”

Sebastian looked at me. “Is she with the police or something? I thought she was a bakeshop owner.”

I started to answer, but Thomas cut me off. “She’s here because it’s her shop that was vandalized. She’s probably going to press charges. That is, if I don’t book you for murder first.”

Sebastian swallowed. “I didn’t murder Marco. I swear. I didn’t.”

Thomas waited.

“Okay, I confess. I’m not French. In fact, I’ve never even been to France.”

“Go on.”

“I’ve always wanted to be a pastry chef. I’m originally from Ohio, and no one in my family cared about pastry the way I did. I can remember being a kid and practicing my sugar art on our dining room table. My dad used to get so mad at me for staining the table with food coloring.”

I could relate. Not necessarily to staining the table, but to having an interest in the culinary arts from a young age.

Sebastian continued. “After I graduated, I took off for New York.”

Maybe we had more in common than I thought.

“I didn’t have a plan. I didn’t have a job, any money, but I knew I had to be in New York. That’s where all the top pastry chefs were. I figured I’d get my start in New York and then I would have a résumé that would take me to France. That’s always been my dream. I’ve studied French on my own, read every book by some of the most famous French chefs that I can get my hands on, and I spend all my spare time watching videos of French chefs.”