Crème Brûlée To Slay Read online

  Crème Brûlée To Slay

  CeeCee James

  Copyright © 2018 by CeeCee James

  *All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  For my Family

  Contents

  Blurb

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Blurb

  Georgie Tanner's excitement to be part of her historic town's annual Franco-American commemorative charity event, but fun turns to tragedy when Gainesville's least favorite resident drops dead at the party. In the chaos that follows the town harpy's death, a priceless heirloom goes missing—the sword George Washington gave to the war hero who detained Benedict Arnold.

  While Georgie is always ready to help her town solve a mystery, this one turns personal when someone suspects that Georgie may have been the one to serve the toxic dish! She must identify the culprit before she becomes the primary suspect... although as the investigation progresses, it’s not long before being a murder suspect is the least of her worries.

  Chapter 1

  Some mornings start out great. Some are more of a three cups of coffee before you talk to me kind of day. But this morning began with someone saying they wanted to kill me.

  Granted, that person was Kari Missler, my best friend of thirteen years. Though her threat was half-hearted, there was a tone in her voice that made me wonder exactly where our friendship stood at the moment.

  “Georgie Tanner,” her voice growled on the other end of the cell phone. “I’ve just been cornered by Mrs. Vanderton for ten minutes at the grocery store, her finger shaking and everything, yelling at me about what a terrible person I was. You know how she is—picture her screeching at you, with her dyed black hair in those ridiculous fat curls just quivering with indignation. I had to stand there, juggling milk and fruit, while she went on and on. Luckily Colby took off, so I had an excuse to go. Otherwise, I’d probably still be trapped there. And it’s all your fault.”

  Colby was Kari’s nine-year-old son, and very active and always on the brink of trouble. She had more than one hair-raising story of rescuing that boy. It’s probably how, even after having two kids, she was still the same size as when she was a teenager in high school.

  I was about to ask how it was my fault when Kari rattled on. “I was there for you when you volunteered me for the zoo parental supervisor for the day care. I was there when you volunteered me for the town’s clean-up day. But this … this is too much. You made me look like such a jerk.” She huffed a sigh, and I could almost see her roll her eyes.

  Thoroughly confused, I blurted out, “What did I do?”

  “The charity dinner! We’re going, and you’re the one serving us!”

  Ah, I understood. The charity dinner Kari was referring too was an annual event that Mr. and Mrs. Miquel held in commemoration of the moment when George Washington awarded John Paulding a ceremonial sword and the Fidelity Medallion, the first military decoration ever given. He’d earned the award for capturing British Major John Andre, the spy who tried to set Benedict Arnold free through his surrender to the British. The crowning moment of the event was the display of the actual sword. The money donated went to Gainesville parks and museums for the upkeep of the American Revolution memorabilia. Mr. Miquel was very proud of the sword and his event, and only those with very deep pockets were invited to attend.

  “So there I am,” Kari continued grousing, “clutching my blueberries in one hand, and trying to get Colby out of the soda display, while attempting to figure out why Mrs. Vanderton is so angry. Apparently, she thinks it’s very priggish of me to attend the dinner with you serving. I was so shocked that you didn’t tell me you’d be there that I didn’t know what to say. She has such a way of making you feel like a jerk. I wished I’d told her to mind her own business. But it does bring up a good point. How am I supposed to enjoy myself sitting all posh while you’re working to make us happy? I don’t understand why would you do something like that on Valentine’s Day? The dinner always has plenty of help.”

  “I’m sorry you got yelled at on behalf of me. Who cares if I’m serving and you’re a guest? Don’t let her rattle you. The truth is, I don’t mind helping at all. It gives me something to do on Valentine’s Day,” I said, then added, “Plus … Derek.”

  Valentine’s Day had lost its blush for me after my fiancé had died two years before. I’d left my job at an estate attorney’s office and moved back to Gainesville, Pennsylvania to take a job as a historical tour guide at my Aunt Cecelia’s bed-and-breakfast. To complicate matters, Cecelia wasn’t really my aunt, but rather my grandma’s best friend. But I’d grown up calling her that, and now she was the only family I had left in the world.

  So Valentine’s Day was a lonely day for me, one that I wanted to cram full of things to help me forget. And serving rich folks fancy food seemed like the perfect chore to take my mind off roses, cupids, and happily-ever-afters.

  There was silence on the other end. And then a sigh. “Georgie, I feel so stupid. Now it makes sense. It’s just going to be weird sitting there having you serve me.”

  “Which brings us to the real news. You’re attending?”

  She let out a bark of laughter. “Quit sounding so shocked. Yes! I’m actually one of the guests. I guess Mrs. Vanderton found out we were coming, and that was why she was laying into me, since she knew you were volunteering. It must have been a shock to her system when she discovered commoners would be present at the table.”

  “I want to hear this. How did you get an invite? Isn’t it one of the conditions that you’ll write five-figured checks.”

  “I know. I know. Joe got the invite from Mr. Miquel himself. He was the contractor on Mr. Miquel’s pool-house remodel job last year.”

  “That’s amazing!” I said, sincerely happy for her. “Are you excited? It’s going to be a fancy evening.”

  “I don’t know about excited,” she said, but I could hear the smile in her voice. “But we have a babysitter, which is like a twice-a-year event around here. So I plan to whoop it up. Waiter! More wine!” She groaned. “Oh, my gosh. I forgot you’re the waiter.”

  “Ha! Don’t you worry. I’ll keep your glass full.”

  She took a deep breath and exhaled. “I just wish you’d told me so I didn’t feel so blindsided.”

  “You’re making a big deal out of nothing. You know how Mrs. Vanderton is. Nothing makes her happy. The entire town knows that about her.”

  “She’s a bitter, bitter old woman who wears misery like it was a cosmetic.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “So you don’t want to kill me anymore? You forgive me?”

  “Yeah, I forgive you. Just keep my glass full so I forget I’m having dinner with Mrs. Misery.”

  “I promise,” I said, laughing. “Trust me, it’ll be a good time.”

  Little did I know—not only would I break my promise, but it would be a night the entire town would never fo
rget.

  Chapter 2

  Baker Street Bed and Breakfast had just one set of guests that evening, Mr. and Mrs. Johnson, a retired couple from Topeka, Kansas. They were there specifically to attend the charity dinner.

  The night of the dinner, Mr. Johnson cornered me with a forty-minute sit-down on the B&B’s couch where he made me scroll through hundreds of pictures of his war memorabilia, pausing at each one to explain the history. His enthusiasm made me smile. To say he was excited to see the sword being displayed at the dinner was an understatement.

  Fortunately, his wife—after gently hinting for about ten minutes—flat-out demanded that he get ready for the dinner. He harrumphed, saying it only took him fifteen minutes to dress, while it took her two hours, but he lurched off the couch and went with her.

  Cecelia was also volunteering at the charity dinner and had already left for the Miquel manor. Earlier that morning, she’d confided in me that Adele, the caterer in charge of the event, had called in a panic. Apparently, Mrs. Vanderton had gotten wind of the menu and had come unglued on poor Adele over the food choices. Adele was just starting out in the catering business, and being thirty years Mrs. Vanderton’s junior, was easily intimidated.

  Adele had called Cecelia crying, saying it was much too late to change the menu. Now, Cecelia was softhearted, but she had an iron core. No one was going to get into Cecelia’s business and tell her what to do, and she bolstered Adele with that same attitude.

  Cecelia had given Adele the same kind of pep talk that I remembered from when I was a kid. When Cecelia had finished talking with me, I’d felt like I could climb Mt. Everest, and the young caterer had felt the same. The menu was six courses, with the main dish being Beef Wellington. For all her hard work, Adele deserved for the dinner to go well.

  Mr. and Mrs. Johnson, came down the stairs of the B&B at about half past five, and I admired her red dress and fur stole.

  “This was my grandmother’s,” she said, stroking the fur as Mr. Johnson adjusted his bow tie and slipped into his overcoat.

  “You both look lovely!” I said. Then, glancing at the clock on the wall, I realized I was a few minutes late. “I’ve got to run. I’ll see you there!”

  Dinner wasn’t until eight, but there was wine tasting and a historical presentation at the manor beforehand, where the sword that had been given to John Paulding would be taken from the vault and displayed.

  I climbed into my work van, a retired catering vehicle that I fondly called Old Bella. I’ll admit, that fondness quickly evaporated on mornings I couldn’t get her to start. She was getting a bit more finicky as of late, and I dreaded the moment I had to take her to the garage to get work done. Money had been tight through the Christmas holidays since the B&B’s business slowed, but spring was around the corner, and it should pick up soon.

  She started right up this time. Just as I was about to shift into gear, my phone rang.

  Trying not panic about being late, I dug through my purse for the phone. It was Cecelia.

  “Hello?” I said.

  “GiGi? Have you left yet?” Her voice sounded anxious as she used my nickname.

  “Nope. Still in the driveway.”

  “Oh good! Can you go grab the pan on the stove for me? I forgot to bring it.”

  “Absolutely! I’ll see you soon.” I couldn’t help my smile as I undid the seatbelt and scooted out. For once, being a little bit late turned out to save the day.

  I jogged up to the front steps and let myself in, sliding to a halt in front of the hall mirror. I’d put my short, dirty-blonde hair in a ponytail while my hair was still damp from the shower, and it now had a ridge sticking up right down the center of my scalp. I took out the rubber band and tried to smooth the ridge down, but it was no use. Sighing, I scooped it back up again and twisted the band in it as I made my way to the kitchen.

  The pan was on the stove already covered in foil. I lifted the corner and peeked inside. I had no idea what it was, but a warm vanilla scent rose up, and I breathed in deeply.

  Sadly, I tucked the foil down again. None for me. I carried the tray to the van and set it on the floor. After wedging an umbrella against it to keep it from moving, I climbed back into the driver’s seat, adjusted the mirror, and stepped on the gas. Old Bella lurched forward with a belch of black smoke.

  It was a fifteen minute drive, and by the time I arrived, the manor’s driveway was filled with cars. Out at the end, a man dressed as an American Revolutionist waved at me to stop.

  I rolled down the window as he came around. “If you could just pull in under the portico, someone there will greet you and park your car.”

  “Thanks,” I said to him, while immediately adding under my breath, “Lovely.” Some poor sap was going to have to drive this relic. The van shuddered to the front of the manor and arrived with a backfire. Several valets jumped at the sound, and then laughed, while one looked disgusted.

  “At least I know how to make an entrance,” I murmured. I opened the door, and a valet handed me a number. His nose wrinkled at the sight of the interior.

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  He looked at me with surprise. “Robert.”

  “Robert,” I said, straight-faced. “You be careful with my baby. I just had her detailed. Not a scratch.”

  He stared at me, disbelieving, while I retrieved my tray and a pair of black shoes. Then I followed the walkway around to the back of the manor to the kitchen door.

  The inside of the kitchen was bustling when I arrived. Adele was shouting commands while still somehow sounding sweet. Cecelia had her apron on and was buttering rolls to brown in the oven.

  I walked over to her with the pan. “How’s it going?” I asked, setting it next to her.

  “Oh, thank you for grabbing that, GiGi. Well, the guests have been in the drawing room for some time hearing a lecture. Soon, the butler will call them to dinner, so we’re just waiting for word that they’re seated.”

  She gestured to a wall where several garment bags hung from a coat rack. “Go get dressed. The restroom is over there.”

  I hurried to the garments. After searching inside the bags, I finally located a medium and rushed to the bathroom. Quickly, I changed into the plain black dress and white apron. There was a cap, presumably to mimic a 1780s dress code. I undid my ponytail and tied the hat to my head. Then, after slipping on my shoes, I washed my hands and headed out.

  “Go refresh the glasses in the drawing room,” Adele said when she spotted me. She pressed a bottle of wine in my hand. “It’s down the hall to the right. You can’t miss it.”

  I took the bottle, wrapped in a white cloth, and headed out to the drawing room. The manor was huge, feeling even more so with ceilings that stretched two stories above me. The heels of my black loafers clicked against the marble floor that sparkled from overhead chandeliers.

  All the doors I passed were closed, but I knew which one was the drawing room. Violin music floated down the hall. I finally came to the heavy oak doors that opened to a luxurious room.

  Larger than my whole apartment, the pretentiously cozy room was furnished with red velvet chairs that I assumed were brought in for the event. The presentation was over and the guests were mingling. I recognized our state senator, the meteorologist from our local news station, and the Gainesville mayor.

  Pretending I was invisible, I slipped in and went from guest to guest, gesturing to a person’s empty glass with my eyes, before tipping in a couple inches of wine and then going to the next.

  The French doors were open in the back, allowing entrance to a smaller room filled with several couches. It had a roaring fire going in a natural stone fireplace, and was much cozier, in my opinion, than the other was.

  It was there that I found the widow Veronica Vanderton arguing with Gayle Marshall, the wife of the man who owned and rented several buildings to Gainesville’s businesses. Gayle and her husband also owned one of the town’s antique shops, set apart at the edge of town.


  I was about to approach the women when Mrs. Vanderton saw me and waved me off. As I was leaving, I heard Gayle Marshall say, “If you’re going to be eavesdropping, don’t complain if you don’t like what you hear.”

  “Of course I don’t like it. It’s unfair and untrue.” Mrs. Vanderton snapped back. “I could sue you for libel. You’re stressing me out so much, I need my asthma inhaler. What are you trying to do, kill me?”

  Back in the main room, I spied Kari and her husband, Joe. They were laughing with the mayor, and it reminded me that despite Joe’s good luck in scoring the tickets, Kari really was considered the upper crust in Gainesville society. Her parent’s had once owned the manor two doors down, before they sold it to buy a place in Florida and their yacht.

  Kari broke away from the men when she saw me. I have to admit, she looked sophisticated in her blue gown.

  “Hi!” she said, squeezing my arm. I figured by her smile she’d already had a few glasses of wine.

  “More?” I asked, holding up the bottle.

  “Oh, no. I really shouldn’t. Okay, maybe a little.” She giggled, holding out her glass.

  I was glad to see her having a good time.

  “Hey, you want to go play peacemaker? There’s a battle brewing in the other room.” I poured her an extra measure of liquid courage.

  “Peacemaker? I’m on it!” She waggled her fingers at Joe and elegantly walked into the other room.

  I continued through the party until the bottle was empty. As I headed back down the hallway to the kitchen, I heard footsteps pacing near the foyer. A voice rose in a seething growl. Curiosity got the best of me, so I took a peek.