Final Fondue (A Five-Ingredient Mystery) (5 page)

“Loud and clear. How did you sleep?”

“Badly. Kept thinking about that nice girl lying there dead. You know, she reminded me a lot of you.”

Not a welcome comparison.

“She really didn’t look anything like me.” Val took a carton of eggs from the refrigerator.

He sat down at the kitchen table. “I wouldn’t say that. You’re about the same size. She was cute like you, not hot like the bride. Her disposition reminded me of the way you used to be.”

Val would much rather be hot than cute. “I was never, ever as bubbly as Fawn.”

“Sure you were. Except for the occasional temper tantrum, you had a sunny outlook . . . at least when you were younger. People complain about teenagers being sullen. But the few years you all lived here with us, when your father was stationed in Annapolis, you always looked on the bright side. Nothing would get you down.”

She cracked and separated the eggs, trying to conjure a memory of herself as a teenage version of the bridesmaid Fawn. Val couldn’t. But compared to her brother, who’d gone through a surly stage during the three years they lived in Bayport, she must have come across as Little Miss Sunshine. “I loved living here with you and Grandma. We all did, but I don’t have Fawn’s cheerfulness.”

“You don’t have it anymore, that’s for sure. You changed from upbeat to uptight after you went to New York. You were stressed out there. Moving here was the best decision you ever made.”

She gave him a long, hard look. Had he somehow gotten wind of her job offer? “You’ve never said that before.”

“Fawn brought back memories of what you used to be like.” He took off his bifocals and wiped them on his plaid shirt.

He should clean the lenses he used for peering into the past. How could he possibly think he had a better memory of what she was like than she had? Well, different people made different memories from the same events. Chef Henri’s version of what happened the night Val drove his vintage car bore no relationship to hers. To keep his pride intact, the chef had to point the finger at her. Her grandfather did his share of finger pointing too.

“I’m not the only one who’s changed, Granddad.” She whisked together the yolks, ricotta, and sugar. “Ever since I moved in with you, you’ve made me a scapegoat for anything that goes wrong.”

He folded his arms. “I don’t do that.”

Whenever he had a cooking disaster, he faulted her recipe rather than his failure to follow it. But she didn’t want to put him on the defensive. What he did from now on mattered, not what he’d previously done. “This weekend you can prove that you don’t play the blame game. I suggested you rent your extra bedrooms to tourists. You agreed to it. That means we’re in this together. From now on, let’s both be more positive and less critical.”

He gave her a thumbs-up. “It’s a deal.”

The first test of this resolution was coming. She brought him a cup of coffee, sat across from him at the small kitchen table, and told him about her encounter with Chef Henri.

Granddad sipped his coffee and set his cup on the saucer. “What’s a hoity-toity chef doing in Bayport?”

“He’s here to judge the cook-off. His restaurant failed because he spent more time being a celebrity than a chef. He didn’t give his staff credit for their work and faulted them for his own mistakes. He did the same to me. If he finds out you’re related to me, you have no chance of winning the cook-off.” Granddad would at least have a valid excuse for losing.

His eyebrows lowered. “Just because you got on his bad side I’m gonna lose the cook-off?”

“That’s coming close to blaming me for something I can’t help. We can hope Henri won’t find out we’re related.”

“Does he look like an aging Napoleon with a mustache?” She nodded, and Granddad continued. “He knows we’re related. He came to the door looking for you yesterday when you were out.”

A current of fear shot through Val. Henri had checked out where she lived. Maybe he’d come back here last night, intent on revenge, spotted a woman who resembled her, and strangled her. “What did he want?”

“He didn’t say. I told him I was your grandfather and could give you a message. He didn’t leave one or even tell me his name. With all the to-do about the guests arriving and Fawn’s murder, it slipped my mind.” Granddad peered at her over the rim of his cup. “You look pale. Are you okay?”

She didn’t want to share her fears about Henri with him. “I’m fine. Our guests will be down for breakfast soon. I’d better get the pancakes ready.” Cooking would calm her down. She returned to the counter. “How about cutting up the melon for a fruit salad?”

He stood up, went to the refrigerator, and took out a cantaloupe and a honeydew melon.

Val added flour to the bowl with the other ingredients and stirred vigorously when she should have done it gently. She forced herself to slow down her mixing and to rein in her fears about Henri. By showing up at her door, he’d reinforced her suspicion that he intended to hound her while he was in Bayport, but that didn’t make him a murderer.

Her grandfather banged a drawer closed and opened another one. “What are you looking for, Granddad?”

“The good knife.”

That’s what he called her versatile five-inch knife. This wouldn’t be the first time he’d misplaced it. Sometimes she’d gone for days without her favorite knife until it turned up in the unlikely spot he’d put it down—on a windowsill or the porch railing or most often, in one of his many junk drawers. “It’s not in the knife drawer where it belongs?”

“I wouldn’t be searching for it if it was. Maybe it’s with the fondue forks and other stuff in the dish drainer.” He checked the drainer. “Nope. Hey, there are only six fondue forks here. There should be seven.”

“Did you wash seven yesterday?”

He scratched his head. “I dunno. The phone rang when I was in the middle of washing them. Ned called to say he was on his way to the pizza place. I was running late, so I finished washing the fondue stuff real quick. I didn’t pay attention to how many forks were there.”

He might have gone to answer the hall phone with a clean fork in his hand and left it somewhere between the kitchen and the hall. Another explanation for the missing fork occurred to Val. “Fawn might have taken a fork to the backyard last night, along with the strawberries and chocolate.”

“I didn’t see it in the yard when I went out there to check if she was really dead. And I looked around.”

The missing fork didn’t bother Val as much as the missing knife. “I’m sure the police did a more thorough search. The fondue fork is probably in an evidence bag.”

The floorboards on the second floor creaked. Nothing unusual about that. You always knew when someone was walking upstairs. But after a murder in the backyard and a missing knife in the kitchen, familiar creaking noises sounded sinister. Probably Granddad had misplaced the sharpest knife in the house, but what if someone staying upstairs had taken it? A body in the yard was bad enough. One in a bed was far worse.

He looked up at the ceiling. “Better start cookin’ the hotcakes. Those folks will be down soon.”

Val reminded herself that she’d jumped to conclusions after each of the recent murders in Bayport. Now she was doing it again. Most of the time, a berserk chef is just a man acting out, not a murderer. Most of the time, a missing knife doesn’t turn up as a weapon. Still, she couldn’t help wondering how many people would come to breakfast.

Granddad sliced a kiwi. “You know what else is missing besides the fondue fork and the knife? Fawn’s cell phone. Last night after you left, the police called the number they got from the message she sent Noah. They were hoping the phone would ring somewhere in the house, but they only reached her voice mail.”

Val monitored the pancakes. “Maybe the strangler called or texted her to arrange a meeting last night and then took the phone so the police wouldn’t find out.” Out of the corner of her eye, as Val flipped the pancakes, she saw Noah go into the butler’s pantry, probably enticed there by the aroma of brewing coffee. How would he and the others deal with Fawn’s death the morning after?

She hurried across to the kitchen to the butler’s pantry. “Help yourself to the coffee. Breakfast will be ready shortly. I hope you slept well.”

“I did, until a dog woke me up. It sounded really loud even though my window wasn’t open.”

“Yeah. I heard that barking too.” Val scurried back to the kitchen.

She stacked the pancakes onto a platter as Sarina helped herself to coffee. At seven thirty Granddad took the platter to the table. Val brought in the fruit salad and moved the insulated coffee pot to the table.

Sarina and Noah were sitting across from each other in the same chairs they’d occupied yesterday for the fondue. They’d marked off their territory. No sign of Jennifer. A missing knife and a missing guest combined to make Val jittery.

She tried to sound nonchalant. “Where’s the bride-to-be? Sleeping in?”

Noah eyed the pancakes. “She’s on the phone with Payton. She told us to start without her.”

Val relaxed.

Granddad gestured with an open palm toward the pancakes. “Dig in, folks. Another batch of hotcakes will be ready soon.”

Noah pointed to the blueberry syrup. “That doesn’t look like maple syrup. Do you have any of that?”

“Coming right up,” Granddad said.

Val followed him back to the kitchen and poured batter onto the griddle for a second batch of pancakes. “The two of us can eat at the kitchen table instead of sitting with them in the dining room.”

“They’ll talk about Fawn’s murder,” he whispered. “We gotta listen and wait for someone to slip up. We figured out who the murderer was last time. We can do it again.”

Last time they’d had a personal stake in identifying the killer. Val held her thumb and forefinger a quarter inch apart. “You came this close to being arrested for the murder that time. We had a strong reason to identify the killer then. We don’t have one now. Let the police handle it.”

“We’re involved because the murder happened here. Fawn was a nice girl, and I want to catch her killer.” Granddad took the maple syrup from the refrigerator to the dining room table.

When he returned, he peered at the pancakes she’d flipped. “That’s the way I like my hotcakes—a little brown. Don’t overdo them.”

“Cooking tips from the codger.” She gave him a left-handed salute, while using the spatula to remove a pancake from the griddle.

“I’ve almost finished with my private eye course. Now I need practical experience. Identifying the murderer will give my new career a big boost.”

So that was his real motive for wanting to solve the murder—self-promotion. None of his reasons to play detective persuaded Val to help him. She had a different reason to help. If they managed to prove that one of the guests was the murderer, she could stop worrying that Henri wanted to kill her.

She moved the last hotcake from the griddle to the serving platter. “Okay, let’s sit with the guests and hope that stuffing pancakes into their mouths will force out incriminating words.”

“I’ll take the hotcakes to the table.”

And, given the chance, he would take the credit for making them. She gave him the plate and followed him to the dining room.

As they took their seats, Sarina said, “Who found Fawn dead?”

“I did.” Val put a pancake on her plate.

“Then you can tell us how she was killed.”

Val didn’t want to tell them the chief had warned her against talking about what she’d seen. She’d rather leave the impression of ignorance than of hiding what she knew. “I really can’t. I was taking the trash outside when I glimpsed her. I saw only enough to know she was dead. Then I ran back inside. I was afraid that whoever killed her might still be out there.”

Sarina’s fork paused on its way to her mouth. “She was probably shot. With the fireworks going off, no one would have paid attention to a gunshot.”

Jennifer came into the room, her eyes red-rimmed. She wore designer blue jeans and a crisp button-down shirt. “Good morning—no, it’s not a good morning.” She sat down in the same seat Fawn had occupied the day before, across from Val, with Granddad between them at the head of the table. He poured her a cup of coffee while the others passed her the pancakes and the two syrups.

Sarina peered across the table at her. “Are you coping?”

Jennifer nodded and put a pancake on her plate. “I called Payton to tell him about Fawn. He said I shouldn’t stay in Bayport with a murderer on the loose. He wants me to go home today and not spend another night here.”

Here, as in Granddad’s home?
Yesterday’s dump had become today’s death house.

Granddad leaned toward Jennifer, his face sympathetic. “Your fiancé is worried that you’re in danger.”

Noah stabbed a pancake with his fork. “Is Payton going back to Washington with you?”

Jennifer’s eyes filled with tears. “He wanted to, but with a house full of guests, his parents can’t spare him this weekend. They’re throwing a big party tonight.”

“The police chief asked us to stay in Bayport.” Sarina swirled blueberry syrup around her plate with her fork. “You spent a lot of time setting up appointments to see party venues. If you leave, you have to cancel all of them.”

“I’d do that even if I stayed. I’m too upset about Fawn to look at places for celebrations.” Jennifer reached for her coffee cup. “I’ll postpone the appointments to another weekend.”

“If you wait, someone else might reserve the venues you want, and I won’t be here to visit them with you. Saturdays and Sundays are the days I paint.” Sarina cut a pancake into small pieces. “I set aside this weekend to help you make wedding plans, but I’m not coming back here again . . . until the wedding, of course.”

Granddad frowned at Sarina. He probably thought the same thing as Val—that this bride needed a new maid of honor.

Jennifer wiped away a tear. “I don’t know what to do. Should I listen to Payton or the police? If I stay, should I keep the appointments or not? What do you think, Noah?”

He laid down his fork and met her eye. “It’s not
my
wedding, Jennifer.”

More emotion went into that reply than into anything else Val had heard Noah say. Had he been jilted recently?

Granddad glared at him and then turned to Jennifer. “Do what
you
think is right.”

She dipped a piece of pancake into the syrup on her plate. “I don’t want to be by myself at home. At least here, I’m with other people and Payton’s nearby.”

Sarina flicked her wrist. “Payton’s overreacting. One maniac killed a random woman in Bayport. In Washington the murder rate is much higher. How is going there safer than staying here?”

Noah’s fork paused en route to his mouth. “Random murders by strangers get a lot of publicity, but most murder victims are killed by people they know. That’s probably the case here. Fawn was divorcing a rotten man. She told me he’d gotten in trouble with the police. He could have followed her and killed her.”

The statistics Val had seen on female victims supported Noah’s view. A high percentage of murdered women were killed by their husbands or significant others, whether former or current. But why would Fawn’s ex choose to kill her here and now? Val looked across the table at Jennifer. “How recently did Fawn break up with her husband?”

“I don’t know exactly when they broke up, but at least six months ago.” The bride-to-be turned sideways toward Noah. “I like your theory. If Fawn’s husband killed her, he doesn’t pose a danger to me or any of us. Will you convince Payton of that so he’ll stop telling me I should pack up and leave?”

“I’ll try.” Noah checked his watch. “I want to get to the harbor early for the regatta. It starts at ten thirty. When do you expect Payton?”

“At eleven. I’ve got an idea. I’ll suggest he meet us at the harbor instead of coming here so you can talk to him.” Jennifer looked at Granddad. “When will the regatta be over?”

Granddad shrugged. “It’ll take most of the morning. From the harbor, the boats will sail to the bay and go around the peninsula. They’ll turn at buoys near the festival park and go back to the finish line at the harbor.”

Sarina speared the last piece of pancake on her plate. “I’m going to take a camera to town and get some shots of the historic district and the harbor before they get too crowded. I might end up with a photo to use as the basis for a painting.”

“Well, I don’t want to be alone this morning,” Jennifer said. “After breakfast the three of us can walk toward Main Street. You can take pictures, Noah can go look at boats, and I’ll walk around town. We can all meet at the harbor at eleven.”

Noah laid his fork and knife on his empty plate. “What else is happening at the festival today, Mr. Myer?”

“There’s a boat docking competition this afternoon. You might like that. The harbor, the park dock, and nearby farms will all have special events. Val can tell you more about them. She was in on the planning.”

“The Chesapeake Bay retriever demo is always popular.” Val didn’t detect much interest among the bridal group in dogs playing fetch in the water. No point in telling them about the crustacean chalk circle. She couldn’t imagine these city dwellers rooting for crabs scuttling to the edge of a chalk-drawn circle. “You can visit a corn maze on a farm about fifteen minutes from town. It has paths carved through a cornfield that goes on for acres.”

“I’ve never heard of a corn maze,” Sarina said.

“The maze has clues to help you navigate.” Granddad pointed at Val with his thumb. “Ms. Trivia over there made up the questions. Answer correctly and you’ll get on the right path.”

“How does it work, Val?” Noah asked.

She pegged him as a fellow trivia buff. “You get a passport before you enter the maze and, once inside, you look for numbered signposts. When you see one, you answer the question in your passport that corresponds with the number. A correct answer tells you the next turn you have to make to get out of the maze.”

“And an incorrect one leads you deeper into the corn jungle,” Sarina said.

“You’ll hit another sign before long. Every group gets a flag on a stick to take into the maze. You can use it to signal if you’re lost.” Val raised her arm and waved an imaginary flag. “The corn cops will find you and lead you back to the right path.”

Granddad nodded. “At night the corn maze turns into an open-air haunted house. Scary scarecrows and sound effects.” He pretended to be a monster about to pounce.

Jennifer smiled for the first time since she came downstairs. “I’ve never been in a haunted maze, but I love haunted houses.”

“You may want to go to the outdoor concert tonight at the festival park.” Val certainly preferred a concert to a haunted maze.

The house phone rang. She jumped up to answer it in the front hall. The caller ID read Florida and a phone number Val recognized as her mother’s. How would Mom react to the news about the murder?

Val decided to put off telling her. “Hi, Mom. I’m in a hurry. I have to leave for the festival.”

“I won’t keep you long. Your father’s gone on a weekend fishing trip to the Keys. I decided to take a little trip myself. I’m sitting on a plane waiting for takeoff.”

“Exciting. Where are you going?’

“To Baltimore-Washington Airport. Then I’ll rent a car and drive to Bayport.”

Oh, no.
“Didn’t Granddad tell you we have tourists staying in the upstairs bedrooms for the weekend?”

“He told me, but I thought one of them might not show up or would check out early. If not, there are plenty of hotels between Bayport and Baltimore.”

“Everybody showed up.”
And one checked out early.
If Mom was coming to town, she’d hear about the murder soon enough. Val had better prepare her for it. “A woman who came here for the weekend was murdered last night.”

“
Another mur—
” Mom broke off, probably not wanting nearby passengers to hear her. “Tell me more.”

Val gave her a brief summary, leaving the worst for last. “It happened in our backyard.” She heard nothing in response. Either the call had been dropped, or Mom was too stunned to speak.

“When I was growing up,” Mom said at last, “we never had any crime in Bayport, and now this happens in the backyard. The flight attendant just said to shut off electronic devices.”

“Have a good flight, and don’t worry about the murder. The police will probably solve it by the time you arrive.” Val didn’t believe it, but maybe her mother would.

“The police department is in good hands with Earl Yardley. See you later.” Mom hung up.

Val sighed. Twenty-four hours ago, the food for her booth had been her major concern and Granddad’s guests a minor matter. Now, one of those guests was dead. A murderer was at large. Another guest, or even Val herself, might be the next victim. Her grandfather was playing sleuth. And to cap it off, her mother was coming. What else could go wrong?