Éclair Case of Murder: A Culinary Cozy Mystery (A Rosie Kale Culinary Cozy Mystery Book 2) (3 page)

Chapter 6

After the detective left, I sat in my chair, still feeling dazed. Celia had a call to take and though I felt bad about adding to her workload, I really needed to talk to her some more.

I just couldn’t wrap my mind around it all—how the happy smiling wife from the party could have gone home that night and killed herself. It didn’t make any sense.

A few minutes later, Celia hung up from her call and came over to sit down.

“Rosie,” she said in her gentle crisis-center voice. “I meant what I said earlier. None of this is your fault. I heard you on that call. You did everything you could to help that caller.”

I nodded and looked into Celia’s kind eyes. They were so sweet and sincere—it was no wonder she was so successful at her job.
If only she had answered the call.

“But she seemed so happy at the party,” I said. “That’s what I came in all excited to tell you this morning. It seems so stupid now but I was sure I’d saved her.” I let out a bitter laugh.

Celia sighed. “Sometimes that happens. It’s part of it.”

I looked at her, not understanding and she explained that sometimes when someone has actually decided to kill themselves, it’s like a weight has been lifted from their shoulders. “Often, when a person finally makes the decision to go through with it, they’re happier than they’ve been in ages. Because they’re so relieved to have made the choice.”

I nodded, trying my best to believe her, to accept that that’s what happened with Helen, but somehow I just couldn’t.

“I want you to go on home,” Celia said, squeezing my hand. “You need to process this. Believe me, it’s hard enough when it happens to a pro. I wish I never asked you to take that call on Friday.”

“Me too,” I said with a sad smile. I stood up to leave. “Celia, how did the police even know that she’d called the crisis line?”

“The detective told me they checked her home phone records. They spotted the call she made here at 1:00pm on Friday.”

As I grabbed my bag to leave, she gave me a hug and then looked me in the eyes. “You call me if you need to talk. Okay, Rosie? Don’t hesitate.”

I nodded. “Thanks,” I said. Then I headed out.

Chapter 7

As I left the crisis center, I thought about going to the bakery to tell Nana and Birdie about what had happened—but then decided not to. I knew it would only upset them, especially after we’d catered the anniversary. Word would be out soon enough anyway and I was suddenly beyond exhausted. I couldn’t imagine doing anything more strenuous than going home and taking a nap.

At home, I made myself a glass of chocolate milk then curled up with my cat, Cupcake, on the sofa and turned on the TV. Not that I was in the mood to watch anything—I just needed the noise as a distraction. I needed something to take my mind off the queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach—the one that told me I was responsible for another person’s death. The one that said that a person in need had come to me for help and I was unable to save her.

No matter how rationally Celia had explained that it wasn’t my fault, or how many times I told myself the same thing, that sick feeling just wouldn’t go away.

After a two hour nap I awoke feeling slightly more clearheaded. I checked my phone and saw a text from Casey reminding me that he would be back in town at 10:00pm. I couldn’t wait to see him.

I’d planned on cooking a celebration meal for him (or at least buying a celebratory meal and pretending I’d cooked it) but I was no longer in the mood to celebrate. Though I wanted to see him, now more than ever, it was more a case of having a desperate need for a hug and shoulder to lean on than anything else. Luckily his shoulders were big, strong and available for leaning, and I was counting the hours till he came back.

I was just about to get up from the couch and go out for a run, when I noticed that Patsy Blair, the perky newswoman from channel four, was on my TV. She was standing outside a large mansion, frowning somberly towards the camera.

With a growing sense of dread, I turned up the sound.

“…and so… after a late-night celebration for their fourteenth anniversary, the Wrights returned home to this Maple street mansion – where at six this morning, the body of Mrs. Helen Wright was discovered by her young son, dead, of an apparent suicide.”

I sat back on the couch, unable to look away, as the camera focused in on the elegant mansion. Then it panned back to the Patsy as she continued her tragic tale.

“By all accounts, Mrs. Wright appeared to be happy and carefree at her party last night, dancing and celebrating the night away. However in a News Four exclusive, we have learned earlier on the day of her anniversary party, Helen Wright made a call to the local crisis hotline, telling them that she intended kill herself. Sadly the crisis counselor who answered the phone was not able to help, and Helen Wright’s life was cut tragically short. And now, back to you, Chet.”

It was now Chet Humperdink’s turn to look toward the camera as he sat at the News Four desk. He intoned in a low, somber voice. “That’s a true tragedy, Patsy. Do we have any idea why the crisis center didn’t do more to save Mrs. Wright’s life?”

“As yet, we don’t know why the crisis center dropped the ball, Chet. But we do know that the phone call was answered by a rookie. We’ll be looking into that further, Chet.”

Great.
Now it wasn’t just me that was blaming me—it was News Four and all their millions—or at least thousands—of viewers. I turned off the TV and got up to take a bath.

As I headed into the linen closet to grab a clean bath towel, I heard a knock at the front door. Thinking it was probably Nana, I went to answer it—not that I felt like talking about the sad news, but I realized that maybe she wanted to. So I opened the door.

And there stood Casey.

All six feet four of him. All gorgeous green eyes and chestnut hair of him. He smiled a dazzling white smile, his eyes piercing me through the heart.

“Casey?” I said. I blinked a few times to make sure he was even real.

“Rosie.” His voice was low as he took a step towards me. His hand reached out and brushed my hair off my cheek. The tingle on my skin assured me that he was indeed real. I held onto his hand and leaned my cheek against it.

“Casey, you’re early,” I whispered. “You weren’t supposed to be here until ten.”

“I just couldn’t wait to see you.” He took me in his arms. “I told the plane to go faster.”

I leaned into his strong chest and sighed as he gave me a tight squeeze. I felt like I could breathe for the first time that day. “I’m so happy to see you,” I said. “I didn’t realize how much I need you here.”

He held on to me and just as I was starting to relax and think that things were maybe, possibly, hopefully going to be okay, he released me from his grip and motioned with his head.

“What?” I said, not understanding. 

He motioned his head again and I looked towards the door.

Which is when my evil step-cousin, Laila stepped forward from out of the shadows on the patio.

“Ahh!” she screamed excitedly. “Surprise! Can you believe I met your boyfriend on the plane? Isn’t that a crazy coincidence? What are the odds?”

She gave me a tight hug, and I caught the scent of citrus and flowers as she continued talking without even pausing for a breath. “Can you believe it? We were seated next to each other on the plane and we started talking and we both realized we were coming to the same place and so I insisted we share a cab together! And he thought maybe we should call and warn you. But I said, “Where’s the surprise in that??” And he said…”

I zoned out and looked over at Casey who was shrugging at me apologetically.

“Laila. Don’t you want to go say hi to Nana?” I interrupted. “She’s right through there. Right past the pool. You should go now and surprise her. Now."

“Great idea. I will!” She clapped her pinkly manicured hands together. Then she hugged me again and headed across the patio, her slim, perfect body looking…well…slim and perfect—in her skinny jeans, a pink midriff top and five inch heels.

I slumped against the door.

“Sorry,” Casey said. “But she is your cousin.”

“I know,” I sighed. “And I’d normally be excited to see her—sort of—but I just had some tough news today.”

He looked at me, concerned as he came inside and closed the door behind him. “I’m all yours—come here and tell me what happened. Let me make it all better.”

If only you could, I
thought. But as I sat next to him on the sofa with his arm around me, snuggled up against his shoulder, listening to his soothing British voice, I started to think that maybe he actually could.

Chapter 8

I woke up and blinked several times, unsure of where I was. Then I looked around and realized I was at home in the guest house.

But still…something felt…off.

I stretched and smiled a dreamy smile, remembering my wonderful reunion with Casey. How just being there in his strong arms, made everything feel more bearable. How later we’d gone over to Nana’s who whipped up a delicious pesto dish for us all.

Oh no.

It was the ‘us all’ part that tipped me off to just exactly what was wrong: My step cousin Laila was in town.

As if reading my mind, she bounded into the bedroom at just that moment, looking fresh as a daisy, her blond hair pulled back in a pony tail, a purple mud mask on her face. She was carrying a tray of coffee and two slices of burnt-ish toast.

“Look what I brought you Rosie!” she said in a voice that was much too loud and chipper for the morning. “I’m so happy we’re going to be roomies again! Just like when we were kids and we’d visit Nana, remember? Isn’t this fun?”

I smiled wanly as she put the tray on my lap then plopped down on the bed next to me, causing the coffee to slosh over the mug and onto the tray.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather stay at Nana’s condo?” I asked, looking at her and wondering how she could still look so beautiful, even with purple mud caking her face. “Nana has so much more room over there. You wouldn’t have to sleep on the couch. You’d have your own bedroom.”

“But I want to be close to you!” she squealed. As she did, she reached over and squeezed my foot through the fluffy white comforter.

“But you’d only be twenty feet away,” I said, still smiling. I was still hoping to nudge her into moving into Nana’s and out of my hair. “It’s thirty feet tops.”

“Please! I’d never do that to you. I wouldn’t abandon you at this time. I know how hard it is on you…what with that lady’s suicide and you feeling guilty because it’s all your fault.”

Boom

And there it was. The reason I had trouble tolerating Laila: Because, as nice as she was, she always had a way of putting me down and making me feel like crap. I took a sip of the lukewarm coffee, made a face, then put the cup back on the tray.

“Well, it’s not
exactly
my fault,” I said, realizing that this is exactly what Nana and Celia and Casey had been trying to convince me of all day yesterday. But when
they
said it, it only made me feel guiltier somehow.

Ironically, it took Laila’s actually accusing me of murder, to make me accept my own innocence in the matter. Somewhat, anyway.

“Of course it’s not,” she said making a sympathetic, pouty face and squeezing my foot again. “I’m sure you did the best you could. Who cares what the internet is saying?”

“The internet? What’s the internet saying?” I moved the tray aside and picked up my laptop from the nightstand.

It seemed to take forever to turn on but luckily I had Laila there to fill me in on how everyone was blaming me, the rookie crisis center worker, who couldn’t save the beautiful heiress from her deadly smoothie.

“Go to the Gossipz site!” Laila said excitedly when I finally got my computer up and running.

I frowned and nervously navigated to the creepy Gossipz website— and there, in large purple letters was the headline: HEIRESS KILLED BY POISONED BLUEBERRY SMOOTHIE! CRISIS WORKER TO BLAME!

“Great,” I muttered under my breath, quickly scanning the article. My heart pounded crazily in my chest as I realized what had happened—the story of the tragic beautiful heiress had gone national.

I continued reading almost to the end, then I put my computer away, unable to read any more.

“Sorry,” Laila said, wrinkling her forehead and pouting her lips but otherwise looking not sorry at all. “Oh! So, Rosie……what are we going to wear to the memorial?”

“The memorial?” I looked at her, fearing the worst.

“The memorial for Helen Wright. Everyone who’s anyone will be there!” she said excitedly. “It’s this weekend. We have to go! Especially you.”