Crème Brûlée To Slay Page 5

The clouds had burned off, and the slush had nearly melted away since this morning, leaving wet mucky puddles that reflected the sunlight in brilliant white laser waves. I fumbled for my sunglasses in the cup holder and slid them on.

  Despite the setback of the snowstorm, I was holding out hope for an early spring. It had been a long, gray winter, and my skin felt like it was jumping for joy at the sunshine warming it through the window.

  I drove down Baker Street and pulled into the B&B’s driveway. The Johnson’s car was there, which was good news for me. Maybe I could get to the bottom of why she’d left during dinner.

  I parked the van and climbed out. As I walked down the driveway, a high-pitched barrage of barking arrested me in my tracks.

  Peanut.

  She streaked out from under the bushes and toward me, her tongue hanging out. Normally, I would have dropped to my knees to welcome her, but my mouth dropped instead. The fawn-colored Pomeranian was black with mud, her fur slicked back like a seal’s.

  “Oh my—”

  Her intense, happy yipping cut me off. I frantically looked around for Oscar O’Neil, her owner and our next door neighbor. She danced at my feet on her back legs as her front paws scrabbled against my pants in a plea to pick her up.

  There was no sight of the crotchety old man.

  A bad feeling crept over me. “Come on, Peanut.”

  Oscar was intent on calling the pup Bear, but the dog never answered to it, and I was in no mood to play name games today. Best just to call her Peanut, the name Oscar’s late wife had bestowed on the pup.

  I walked across the squishy yard and down my neighbor’s driveway. He wasn’t in sight, which was rare. The dog was never outside without him unless she’d escaped.

  I knocked on the door. After several minutes and harder knocks, it became apparent he wasn’t coming to the door. That meant he had to be outside, somewhere. I eyed the muddy yard, the conditions of which grew worse around the side to the back. There was nothing for it. Groaning, I picked my way around the worst of the mud puddles to go search for Peanut’s owner.

  “Mr. O’Neil!” I yelled. “Oscar!”

  “What are you caterwauling about? I’m back here,” called the grumpy voice that I’d grown to love. He may be a bit prickly, but through the months of walking Peanut, I was getting to know the teddy bear he was on the inside.

  His arthritis kept him from walking the dog, but you’d never hear a whisper of that from him. No, in his eyes, he was still the same hardened man that he’d always been. It made me wonder what he’d done for a living before he’d retired. I’d have to ask him, one time.

  I came around the corner to see him nearly knee deep in mud. He looked at me with a scowl, but I saw relief on his craggy, old face.

  “What are you doing out here, Oscar?” I said, trying to pick my way over to him.

  He’d sunk to nearly the top of his rubber boots. Mud was smeared across his arms and legs like he’d fallen at least once, fighting to get out.

  “What do you think I’m doing?” he snapped. “Checking my boots for holes?” He struggled forward again, arms waving, but his feet were stuck tight.

  “Okay. Don’t worry. I’ll get you out,” I said, quickly glancing around for anything that could help—a rope, tree branch, a board.

  “I’ll be right back,” I shouted, and half ran, half skidded around the other side of the house. Peanut leapt at my feet, barking madly, loving all the excitement.

  At the front of the house were several planks of wood leaning against the peeling clapboard. Frank had brought them over a few weeks earlier, ready and waiting for the first day of good weather to replace the rotting boards on Oscar’s porch steps.

  They were a good size—two by twelve. I heaved one up on my shoulder and slowly squelched my way back. My sneakers now looked like globs of black tar.

  Oscars white eyebrows lifted at the sight of the board. “Good girl,” he hollered. “Bring it here.” He lifted a red arthritic hand toward me to reach for one end of the board.

  I did my best to lay it flat across the mud. Peanut scampered across it, leaving muddy, pint-size paw prints.

  Oscar struggled to get on the board, but it was of no use. His boots were stuck fast, from the suction, or what I couldn’t tell. But he wasn’t getting free.

  I slowly walked out onto the board and offered him my arm. He grabbed hold of me and, with lots of grunting, managed to extricate his foot from the boot. He stepped onto the board. Then, leaning heavily on me, he pulled his other foot out. A black sock dangled from his toes. I was worried for a moment when the board did a tipsy motion, but then we were shuffling down to the end, leaving his boots behind.

  With him still leaning on my arm, I walked him around to his front door. His porch was in horrible disarray, so I knew a little—or in our case a lot—of mud wouldn’t make a difference, but I didn’t want Peanut to run into the house.

  “If you get me a towel, I’ll bring her inside and bathe her really quick,” I suggested.

  “Bathe her? Back in my day, a dog’s worth was measured by the dirt on its back. Showed it was a working dog.” His words were an empty protest. He took one look at the dog, and grudgingly said, “I’ll be right back.”

  I waited on the porch with Peanut, whistling every now and then to call her back whenever she raced off the porch. The door opened and Oscar handed me a blue-and-white striped towel, one that had definitely seen better days.

  “Bear!” “Bear!” And then lower, “Confound it. Peanut!”

  The little dog came running to the owner at the sound of her name, her feet a blur, like they scarcely touched the ground. I was afraid she’d bowl him over with her excitement. As little as she was, he appeared completely done in from his time struggling in the mud. I intercepted her with the towel and wrapped her up.

  “Okay, show me where the bathroom is,” I said.

  He led me down the hallway, past his family pictures. My heart always squeezed when I saw his lovely wife. He had two boys, but I’d never seen them, and he never talked about them.

  The bathroom was hideous in the way only a bachelor’s bathroom can be. The tub didn’t look like it had been cleaned in years.

  Oscar disappeared, only to come back with a bottle of dog shampoo. “Missus bought it,” he sniffed.

  I turned on the water, holding the wriggling dog on my lap. “Thanks, Oscar. If you can get me a clean towel, and maybe some type of household cleaner and sponge, I’ll wash the mud away when I’m done.”

  He mumbled something that I couldn’t understand, but held the tone of a complaint. Still, he left to go track down the items I’d asked for.

  When the water was warm, I plugged the tub and set the little dog in. Oscar came back with the things I’d asked for, plus a plastic cup.

  “Thought it might be useful to rinse off the mongrel,” he said.

  I saw through his words. More than once, I’d caught the man kissing the top of Bear’s head.

  “Thank you. Maybe go get some clean socks and make yourself a cup of tea to warm yourself. I’ll be out in just a minute.”

  “Tea?” he said indignantly. “It’s whiskey that warms a man.” Sock still dangling from one foot, he headed out, presumably to the kitchen.

  I laughed and squeezed some of the dog shampoo into my hand. It had a lovely, floral scent. “You’re going to be so pretty, aren’t you girl?”

  The happy dog panted up at me. I washed her fur and carefully untangled some burrs. Soon, she was clean and rinsed. I dried her off as best as I could and set her on the floor. She shook herself off vigorously and then raced out of the room like there was a pork chop dangled before her.

  I held my breath, listening. A few moments later I heard a loud, “Oof! Confound it, Bear!” I chuckled as I started scrubbing the tub. She must have jumped on his lap. I made a bet with myself that she’d still be there when I was done.

  Cleaning took a little longer than I expected. Once I’d finished the tub, the si
nk looked terrible, so I cleaned that. And then I couldn’t just leave the toilet that way, so that got a scrubbing, too. Finally, I took the wet towel that I’d dried the dog with, and wiped the floor. I was really pleased with how the bathroom looked when I was finished. I washed my hands and flicked the light off with a smile.

  “Where do you want me to put these towels, Oscar?” I asked, coming into the living room.

  He was sitting in his easy chair with Bear on his lap. A steaming cup that looked suspiciously like tea sat next to him. But I gave him the benefit of the doubt that it also held a large helping of whiskey.

  “Through the kitchen’s the laundry room,” he said. And then quieter, “Thank you for your help.”

  “You’re welcome,” I said.

  “It pays to have a nosy neighbors sometimes,” he quipped back.

  I rolled my eyes, but couldn’t help smiling. I chucked the stuff into the laundry room, and tried to turn a blind eye to the mess in the kitchen. One thing at a time.

  Back in the living room, I asked him, “You got everything you need?”

  He nodded and seemed more relaxed in his chair. I was starting to think there really was something stronger in his teacup.

  “Sit down,” he indicated a chair filled with magazines across from him. I hesitated, wanting to talk with the Johnson’s. I’d already been gone for too long. Still, I was intrigued that he was inviting me to stay. I cleaned out the magazines and sat.

  “Hard to believe I needed rescuing,” he said with a sigh. “Never needed it before.”

  “Don’t worry about it. That mud was crazy. Since you brought it up, what was it you did before you moved here?”

  He laughed.

  “What’s so funny?” I asked.

  “I was employed by the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and now I’m getting rescued from my own backyard.”

  My mouth dropped. I couldn’t believe it. “Are you serious?”

  “Yes ma’am. Official FBI agent here.”

  “What did you do?”

  He squinted an eye at me. “You know if I tell you, I’d have to kill you.”

  Well, I knew he was kidding. But the expression in his eye kept me from pressing for any more details.

  “Mm,” he said, stroking Bear’s fur. “She smells like she did when Claire was here.”

  “You must miss her a lot,” I said, sympathetically.

  “I do. I do. She was my life.” His eyes got misty, and he wiped at one with a calloused hand. “Confound it,” he muttered.

  “I— I get it,” I said. He looked over at me sharply. “I lost my fiancé a few years back. In a horrible accident.” An accident that to this day I didn’t understand. We’d been driving from the city, with me following him in my car. For no reason that I could understand he simply veered off the road. His car crashed through a guardrail and flipped end over end down the embankment. I swallowed hard at the memory, feeling very misty-eyed myself.

  “What was his name?” Oscar asked.

  I cleared my throat and tried to speak as though there wasn’t a lump in there. “Derek. Derek Summers.”

  He sat up straighter in his seat. “What was his last name?”

  Chapter 9

  The intent expression on Oscar’s face gave me chills for some reason. I repeated the name. “Derek Summers.”

  He sat back, his gaze tracking down to the dog. His eyebrows bunched together. Finally he said, rather anti-climatically, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Okay… what was that about? I didn’t know how to respond. When it was apparent he wasn’t going to say anything more, I glanced at my watch and stood to go. “You sure you have everything you need?”

  “I’m fine. I’m fine,” he said, waving me off. “Get out of here and take care of those guests of yours.”

  “All right. Good bye, Peanut,” I said as I walked to the front door.

  “Bear!” Oscar roared.

  I smiled as I let myself out. I hated to put my shoes back on because they weren’t much more than giant mud balls, but I didn’t have much choice. When I looked down at my clothes as I crossed the lawn to the B&B, I realized I was a muddy mess. For a split second, I was hopeful, remembering my change of clothes from the dinner the other night. I can at least change into clean clothes. Then I realized I’d left them at the Miquel’s manor in the chaos of the evening.

  Sighing, I slipped the shoes off at the bottom of the stairs so I wouldn’t track mud on the wood and let myself in. Hoping to avoid the Johnsons, I hurried to the kitchen.

  “Hi GiGi. Oh my—” Cecelia’s eyes widened at the sight of me. “What in the world happened to you?”

  As fast as I could, I filled her in with my dealings with Oscar, and then immediately begged, “Please tell me you have something, anything, that I can change into.”

  “Of course, dear.” Her matter-of-fact attitude snapped back into place. She led me into her room, where she pushed me toward the bathroom. “Go clean up and take a shower. I’ll just have some things for you on the bed.” She shut the bathroom door behind me.

  I stripped off the dog hair and mud-encrusted clothes and turned on the hot water, and let out a big sigh of relief as I climbed in. The lovely water sluiced off my body, along with Cecelia’s fruity scented shampoo, bringing energy back into me. Climbing out, the scent of lavender greeted me as I dried off with a fluffy towel. I held it to my nose and sniffed again. It smelled like home.

  Out on the bed, Cecelia had laid out a t-shirt, a cardigan, and a pair of sweat pants. Beggars couldn’t be choosers, and I was grateful for clean, warm clothes.

  I didn’t have a brush with me, so I ran my fingers through my short hair as best as I could, and then bunched it into a bristly ponytail.

  When I returned to the kitchen, Cecelia gave me a smile of approval. “You look much better,” she said as she rolled out the dough for biscuits.

  “Thank you so much,” I said gratefully. “Do you have anything for me to do?”

  “Well, dinner is already prepared and baking. Maybe you could set the table,” she suggested.

  I grabbed the service basket and carried it into the dining room.

  There was an open entrance between the dining room and the living room, and I could hear the Johnsons softly talking. I laid out the silverware, the china dinner and salad plates, the cloth napkins, and then polished the wine glasses and set them in place.

  Once finished, I set the basket on the sideboard and headed through the white archway into the living room. I didn’t want to disturb the couple, but I was hoping they wouldn’t mind some company.

  The Johnsons looked up from their cards as I walked in.

  “Hello, Georgie. Don’t you look comfy. It’s a wet day, out there, eh?” Mrs. Johnson said.

  I glanced at my sweat pants and cringed. “I had to rescue a muddy dog and her owner, so Cecelia gave me a change of clothes. I am pretty comfy now, though. How are you both doing?”

  “Well, my sweetheart here is kicking my rear playing Rummy,” Mrs. Johnson laughed.

  He snorted. “Don’t let her fool ya. She just likes to lull you into a false confidence before she runs you over. She’s already got five games on me at this point,” Mr. Johnson said. He tossed his cards face down and stretched.

  Mrs. Johnson set her cards down as well. “You ready to be done?” she asked. When her husband nodded, she gathered the cards up and began to reshuffle.

  “Look at her.” Her husband admired. “Just like a card shark in Las Vegas.”

  His wife blushed and laughed, the cards making a soft shushing in her hands as she shuffled. “Have you heard anything more about that poor woman?” she asked.

  I sat on the sofa across from them. “The last bit of news I got was that they’re trying to track down what she ate.”

  “What she ate?” Mrs. Johnson’s eyebrows drew together.

  “Oh, I guess the new news is that she didn’t choke. It turns out it was a severe allergic reaction.”
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  “My stars!” she said, her hand flying to her chest.

  “Really?” added Mr. Johnson. He shook his head in surprise.

  “Yeah. But as far as I know, they haven’t been able to find the allergen that she ate. There didn’t seem to be anything in the menu that could have caused her reaction. It’s weird. Hey, I do have a question,” I hedged. Now seemed as good of a time as ever to let it fly.

  “Hmm?” Mrs. Johnson smiled at me.

  Word it carefully. “Err. Someone mentioned they saw you leave the table. Did you see anything of interest?”

  I sat back, fully expecting her to say she went to the rest room.

  Instead, she blushed. “Oh yes. I forgot my stole.”

  I remembered the fur stole she’d had on that night. “Where did you leave it?”

  “In the drawing room. It was so warm, I’d draped it over the back of a chair.” Her cheeks turned pinker. “After the glass of wine, I seemed to have gotten a little forgetful.”

  “Did you see anything out of the ordinary while you were in there?” I asked.

  She bit her bottom lip. Her hands wrung together. “I did find something. I thought it belonged to one of the other guests so I picked it up.”

  “What was it?”

  “It was a peacock pin. I actually have it in my room.”

  Mrs. Vanderton was wearing a peacock head piece. “Who did you think it belonged to?” I asked, just to see if she had the same suspicion.

  “Well, I remembered Mrs. Vanderton was wearing a similar piece. I assumed it belonged to her.” She frowned. “But I never did get to see her again to ask her. I’d meant to give it to Mr. Miquel, but in the commotion, I forgot about it.”

  I nodded. “Can I see it?”

  She closed her eyes, her very being vibrating nervousness. Her eyelids fluttered, and her hands gripped the fronts of her legs. “Am I in trouble?”

  “Of course not,” I said. “Don’t worry. But I think we should share this with the police.”

  She beckoned me to follow her to her room. Once there, she found her purse and, after a thorough search, she found the pin and handed it to me.

  I didn’t want to take the piece of jewelry into my hand just in case there was a chance of fingerprints. “Just set it on the dresser top,” I said.