For Better or Hearse (11 page)

“You did what?” I stared at Kate in shock.

“Emilio might have gotten suspicious if I refused to give him my number.”

“But why give him mine?”

Kate shrugged. “You told me I shouldn't play the field so much.”

“But I should?” Before I could launch into a proper tirade, my cell phone rang and I flipped it open. “Wedding Belles, this is Annabelle.”

“Annabelle, honey. This is Darla Douglas.” The voice slurred slightly. “Debbie and I have a quickie question for you.”

I looked at my watch. It was already afternoon, so they must be past their first cocktail of the day.

“We're thinking of doing the groom's cake in the shape of Turner's black lab, Binger. Do you know a cake baker who could do that for us?” She paused and took a drink of something. “He just adored that dog.”

Past tense? I gulped. “Binger isn't alive?”

“No, but we think it would be a special way to remember him on the wedding day.”

By serving him to the guests? I rubbed my head. “Okay, can you send me a picture of the dog?”

“We'll pop one right in the mail to you. Now, does this baker do a good rum cake?”

I cringed at the thought of the booze-themed wedding that seemed to be solidifying. “Of course, but you can do a tasting to make sure.”

“That's a great idea. We want to make sure it's as flavorful as my grandmother's recipe. Most people go too light on the rum.”

Nothing like getting drunk off a slice of the beloved, deceased Binger.

“I'll set up the tasting for you,” I said. “How's next week?”

“Perfect. I'd better run. Debbie and I don't want to miss our court time at the club.”

I hung up my phone. “Remind me not to eat the groom's cake at the Douglas wedding.”

“Let me guess, martini flavored?” Kate asked.

“Close enough,” I groaned. “Rum cake in the shape of a dead dog.”

“It must be a wedding.” A deep voice from behind startled me.

I spun around, clutching my hand to my heart. “Reg! Don't sneak up on people like that.” My heart raced as I wondered how much he'd heard.

The tall, wiry banquet captain laughed as Kate clutched my arm. “D-Didn't mean to scare you.”

“Thanks,” Kate mumbled as she walked to a nearby cocktail table and sat down. “I think I lost a year off my life.”

“What are you two doing back here so soon?” Reg
ran a hand through his unruly brown hair. “I thought you'd steer clear of this place after the police finally let you go.”

Kate nodded. “That would make sense, but we're trying to help—”

“Darcy.” I jumped in before Kate could mention Georgia and tip off one of our suspects. “We stopped by to see if we could help Darcy since she's so swamped with work now that Georgia is gone.”

Reg's face clouded. “Poor Georgia. She didn't have anything to do with Henri's murder.”

“How can you be sure?” I took a seat next to Kate. This didn't sound like someone who wanted to frame her for murder.

“Georgia is too s-s-sweet to hurt anyone,” he insisted, with a slight stutter. “You can tell about people, and Georgia is no killer.”

“Then who do you think killed Henri?” Kate laced her fingers together and rested her chin on them.

Reg pressed his lips together and sank into a chair across from us. “I don't know. If I had any clue that could help Georgia, I would've told the police already.”

“Georgia is lucky to have a friend like you, Reg,” I said.

“I don't think she considers me a friend.” Reg smiled weakly. “We didn't run in the same circles. She's much too glamorous to socialize with a banquet captain.”

I looked at the shy banquet captain with cowlicks pushing his hair in all directions and a stutter that emerged when he was nervous. Did Reg have a crush on Georgia?

“I t-t-tried to visit her in jail, but they wouldn't let
me in,” he continued, his face flushed pink. “I wanted her to know that some people still care about her.”

“Listen, Reg.” I grabbed his hand. “Did you see anyone go into the Colonnade before Henri was murdered?”

“I went in to double-check the room setup, but Henri wasn't there. The waiters were at the cocktail hour since we'd set up the room so early, so it was only me.”

“Did you see any of the chefs in the room?” Kate asked.

He chewed on his lower lip as he thought. “Gunter and Emilio were leaving through the back kitchen door as I came in.”

So they were telling the truth. “What about Jean?”

“Nope.” He shook his head. “The cake was already set up, and I didn't see him all afternoon.”

“And Mr. Elliott?” I asked. Emilio had claimed that Reg had been with the general manager.

Reg frowned. “The GM followed me in the room. He was on the warpath that day.”

“What do you mean?” Kate raised an eyebrow.

“Some days he seemed to look for something or someone to p-p-pick on. Saturday was one of those days.”

“Did he find anything?” I pressed.

“I don't know,” Reg said. “He told me to leave the Colonnade so that the photographer could get some room shots before the guests came in. The next thing I knew, Henri was dead, and the police were swarming the place.”

“Mr. Elliott was setting up room shots?” I exchanged a look with Kate. We both knew the photographer hadn't been in the hotel until after the murder took place.

Reg nodded. “If a wedding made the hotel look good, he always got promotional pictures.”

The wheels in my head were slow to turn. What would Mr. Elliott gain by killing Henri? “Reg, is there any reason Mr. Elliott would've wanted Henri dead? Anything at all?”

“No one really liked Henri,” Reg explained. Hardly breaking news. “But he was the highest-paid employee, aside from the general manager himself. Henri caused lots of problems in the hotel, but he would have created even more if they tried to fire him.”

“Did Mr. Elliot want to fire Henri?” I cast a glance over my shoulder as a bartender brought a rack of glasses to the bar at the end of the foyer. “We heard he'd been looking for a reason to fire Georgia.”

“I think he would have been happy to get a troublemaker like Henri out of the hotel,” Reg whispered. “He seemed intimidated by Georgia, so maybe he tried to kill two birds with one stone.”

My mouth fell open. “You think this was the GM's idea of budget cuts?”

“Well, it does save on a severance package,” Kate said.

“As horrible as Mr. Elliott sounds,” I said, “I have a hard time believing that he killed Henri just so he wouldn't have to fire him.”

Reg grimaced. “You don't know the people in Human Resources, do you?”

“Annie, this would explain why one person would kill Henri and frame Georgia for it,” Kate said. “It sounds like Mr. Elliott was the last person in the Colonnade before Henri's death.”

I nodded as I processed our clues. Mr. Elliott could have easily gotten a chef's jacket from the kitchen and
confronted Henri once he had assured himself that no one would disturb the “room shots.” It would've taken only a few minutes to push Henri into the ice sculpture, then ditch the jacket and return to the front of the hotel.

I had one last question for Reg. “Do you think there's any reason why Gunter would have acted strange when we questioned him?”

“Are you sure that Gunter wasn't being himself? He's never been the friendliest fellow.” Reg gave an almost apologetic laugh.

“That's putting it mildly,” Kate said.

“He's not very social with the staff,” Reg continued. “He seems to tolerate his fellow chefs, but that's about it. Never really fit in. And he drives them all crazy with his tape measure. I doubt he'll stay at the hotel once he gets his green card and can change jobs.”

“Thanks, Reg.” I stood up as I saw a few people began to wander down the stairs. “You've been a lot of help.”

Reg reached out and shook my hand tentatively. “Will you tell Georgia that we all miss her?”

“Of course, Reg.” I squeezed his hand. “I'll tell her that you asked about her.”

Reg flushed and stepped away. “Tell her I'd do anything to help her.”

“Come on.” I pulled Kate by the sleeve toward the elevators. “I think we've gotten all the information we're going to get today.”

“Don't you want to talk to Gunter again?” Kate asked. “I thought you said he was hiding something.”

“I did.” I pressed the elevator call button in rapid fire. “I still think he knows more than he said. Maybe he's even covering for Mr. Elliott. But I don't think we're going to convince him to spill his guts.”

“What about Mr. Elliott?” Kate followed me into the empty elevator car. “He seems guiltier every second.”

“And more dangerous,” I agreed as the elevator surged up toward the lobby. We were quiet for several seconds, then I said, “If he planned Henri's murder to get rid of two problem employees, then he won't be very willing to talk to anyone about it.”

“So what do we do next?” Kate hurried behind me as I exited the elevator.

“I think it's time to give some of our information to the police.” I dug in my purse for my valet parking ticket. “They can question Gunter and Mr. Elliott and get more information than we can.”

“I thought you didn't trust the police to keep looking for the killer since they have Georgia in custody.”

I pushed through the glass revolving doors that led out of the hotel. “I don't, but we have so much information now that they can't ignore it.” I handed my parking ticket to the valet attendant and held up a finger. “First, we have the video, which shows that the murderer was a dark-haired man in a chef's jacket. Second, we've determined that all the chefs came in and out of the Colonnade prior to the murder. Unfortunately, they all corroborate each other's alibis. Emilio and Gunter saw Mr. Elliott and Reg come into the room after they left, and I'll bet Gunter saw more than that by the way he clammed up. We have a general manager who everyone knew wanted Georgia fired and apparently also wanted Henri out. He cleared the room for photos that you and I know couldn't have taken place because there was no photographer. That gives him motive and opportunity.” I sucked in a breath. “And he has dark hair. Well, some at least.”

“You think Gunter is covering for him?”

I nodded. “It seems like all the chefs are concerned with saving their own necks. Turning in the boss isn't the smartest move, especially if your green card is dependent on keeping your job. I wouldn't be surprised if all the chefs know more than they're willing to admit.”

Kate gave a low whistle. “What a hornet's vest!”

“Help has arrived,” Richard called out as he swung his silver convertible Mercedes into the Fairmont's circular drive with a squeal of tires.

Kate hopped into the backseat and I slid into the front, giving Richard a sheepish smile. “Thanks for coming. I don't know what they did with my car.”

“We waited for over an hour, and they still couldn't find it.” Kate stuck her head between the two front seats. “At least they didn't make us pay.”

“This is a bad sign, darlings.” Richard pulled the car back onto Twenty-fourth Street and slid a pair of sunglasses on. “First your car is stolen, next we're all going to find ourselves bound and gagged and being shipped off to Abu Dhabi. You know I would be a prime target for white slavery.”

“I would only assume.” I rolled my eyes. What a drama queen. “This is nothing more than bad luck.”

“Don't you think it's an awfully big coincidence that when you start your own mini murder investigation,
your car disappears?” Richard peered at me over his dark glasses. “And that the suspects you're questioning happen to have access to the garage where your car is parked?”

“I think the chances are greater that the valet lost the ticket than that someone intentionally took my car,” I argued.

“Don't forget the time a parking attendant crashed my car driving it up the garage ramp.” Kate raised her voice above the traffic. “Parking attendants aren't the sharpest knives in the door.”

“It's drawer.” I shot a look over my shoulder. “And thanks, that's very comforting. I'm sure they'll find my car.”

“You're out of your mind if you think this is some wild coincidence,” Richard insisted. “I told you not to stick your nose in this case.”

I gaped at Richard. “No, you didn't.”

“I didn't?” He looked genuinely surprised. “Well, I certainly meant to. Consider this a slightly belated warning not to meddle anymore.”

“I'll consider myself warned.” I settled back in my seat and looked around M Street as we entered Georgetown. Narrow restaurants with brightly colored awnings lined the streets, and a row of black sedans and a couple of motorcycle cops sat in front of the Four Seasons Hotel across the street. I wondered which dignitary was in town this time.

“I know that look,” Richard sighed. “You have absolutely no intention of minding your own business, do you? Why would this day be any different? Why doesn't anyone listen to me?”

Soap operas had less angst than this. “I'll make a deal with you, Richard. If you give us a ride to the po
lice station, I'll turn over my evidence to Detective Reese and retire from the case.”

“Really?” Richard gave me a suspicious look. “What's the catch?”

“No catch.” I shrugged. “Let me run inside my apartment and grab the videotape, and then we can go straight to the police.”

“What videotape?” Richard made a sharp right on Thirtieth Street and sped around a car trying to parallel park.

“The video that shows the murder of Chef Henri,” Kate chimed in from the backseat. “The wedding videographer didn't even know she'd filmed it through the glass walls.”

Richard's eyes widened as he paused momentarily at a stop sign. “Can you tell who the killer is?”

“It's not totally clear,” I confessed. “But you can see that whoever did it has dark hair and is wearing a white chef's jacket.”

Richard drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “So another chef did kill him.”

“Or someone who snagged a chef's jacket.” Kate waved a finger in the air. “It would have been a great disguise.”

Richard pulled to a stop in front of my building. “So, did you narrow down the field of dark-haired people at the hotel?”

“I thought you were against snooping around. I wouldn't dream of sullying you with our ill-gotten information.” I opened my door and blew him a kiss while Kate stifled her laughter. “I'll be back in a flash.”

I pushed open the heavy front doors of my narrow stone building and ran up the stairs two at a time. I
caught my breath when I reached my apartment on the third floor and took a second to listen for footsteps or squeaking clothing. So far no sign of Leatrice. I dashed into my apartment, grabbed the videotape off the top of the VCR, and shoved it back in the paper bag it had arrived in. I went back down the stairs at a more leisurely pace since apparently I didn't need to dodge Leatrice this time. I walked out of my building and stopped short. I'd spoken too soon.

Leatrice sat in the backseat next to Kate, wearing a hot pink cowgirl hat accented with white rickrack. Richard's lips were pressed together so tightly they'd disappeared entirely.

“Leatrice.” I tried to sound happy to see her. “What are you doing?”

“Kate told me that we're taking the video to the police station.” Leatrice beamed. “You don't think I'd miss that, do you?”

I arched an eyebrow at Kate. Richard looked as if he couldn't decide which one to throttle first.

Kate batted her eyelashes. “I may have mentioned something.”

The chances of convincing Leatrice to stay behind were slim to none, and I didn't relish the idea of dragging a little old lady kicking and screaming out of a car in broad daylight. Richard looked like he was pondering the same options.

“No jury in the world would convict us,” Richard finally said in a conspiratorial whisper. “Not when we admit the hat as evidence.”

I ignored him and got in the car. “Okay, Leatrice, you can come, but we're only going to be a few minutes. We're dropping the tape off and leaving. I'm afraid it's not going to be very exciting.”

“Don't you worry, dearie. It beats watching reruns on the Game Show channel.”

Richard adjusted his rearview mirror in a huff. “The hat has got to go. I can't see a thing behind me.”

“But it matches the boots.” Leatrice raised a hot pink cowboy boot in the air for inspection. They did, indeed, appear to be a matching set. “They'll look silly without the hat.”

“I don't think the hat deserves all the blame,” Richard muttered.

“How about you take it off for the ride over?” I bargained. “So it won't blow away?”

“Good thinking.” Leatrice took off the hat and gave me a pat on the shoulder.

Richard glanced over at me before he gunned the engine. I'd be paying for this for the next decade.

Despite Leatrice's insistence on singing “One Hundred Bottles of Beer on the Wall” during the drive and Richard's noticeable acceleration as each bottle of beer happened to fall, we arrived in front of the police station in one piece.

“No singing,” I said as we walked up the sidewalk to the glass front doors. “We're here to turn this over to Reese, explain what we've learned, and leave.”

Leatrice nodded silently as she bounced through the door on the toes of her boots. The officer at the desk glanced up, and then did a double take when he saw Leatrice. I guess it wasn't every day you saw an elderly woman in pink cowgirl regalia. Especially in D.C.

“Wait here,” I said to Leatrice.

She and Kate sat on two plastic chairs lined against the wood-paneled wall while Richard followed me to the desk. Clearly he'd rather take his chances with the cops than be associated with Leatrice.

“I'm here to see Detective Reese. Is he in?” I asked the desk clerk. “I need to drop something off.”

“Oh, yeah?” The tall, pasty officer looked past me to where Leatrice sat swinging her legs. “What's her name?”

“No, I'm not dropping off a person,” I explained.

Richard elbowed me. “This is a once-in-a-lifetime chance. Don't be a fool. Take it.”

I shot him a look and then turned back to the cop. “I'm dropping off evidence in a murder case.” I held up the paper bag by its handles.

The officer's eyes widened and he stroked his thin blond mustache. “He's questioning someone, but I'll see if he can be disturbed.”

“It's not too late to change your mind,” Richard whispered as the cop disappeared in the back. “I'm sure they'd take good care of her.”

“Very funny, Richard. You know Leatrice isn't crazy. She's just a bit colorful.” I followed Richard's gaze and saw that Leatrice had twisted her boots around so that her feet looked like they pointed in the wrong direction. She and Kate were giggling like fiends.

Richard put his hands on his hips. “I say we leave them both.”

“What's this about evidence?” Detective Reese's gruff voice startled me and I spun around. He wore a rumpled shirt and at least a day's growth of stubble. “We're kind of swamped with homicides right now.”

My cheeks got warm when I saw him, but immediately cooled when I remembered his bleached blonde cupcake at the restaurant. I cleared my throat. “We didn't mean to disturb you, but we have something that might change your mind about Georgia.”

“I doubt it.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I'm finishing an interview with another hotel witness, and it's not looking good for your friend.”

I held out the bag. “Wait until you watch this. The wedding videographer inadvertently caught the murder on tape through the glass walls while she filmed in the courtyard.”

Reese took the bag from me and pulled out the video. “You've watched it?”

I nodded. “It's not crystal clear, but you can tell that the person who killed Henri had dark hair and wore a chef's jacket.”

Reese raised an eyebrow and tapped his fingers on the black cassette. “This might be interesting.”

“And we talked to the chefs in the hotel today,” I said, pausing to take a quick breath. “They all have alibis, but the sous chef, Gunter, seemed to be hiding something. We think he may be covering for someone. The general manager cleared out the Colonnade for a photographer to take room shots, but the photographer wasn't even in the hotel at the time. Maybe Gunter saw the GM with Henri but is afraid to say anything because he might lose his job and his chance for a green card.”

“So much for letting us do our job.” Reese leveled his eyes at me. “If you're doing so well on your own, why give this to me?”

“For God's sake, don't encourage her,” Richard groaned.

“We don't think that we can get any more information out of the suspects. We figured we'd turn over our evidence and you could interrogate Gunter and the general manager and let Georgia go.”

“I'm afraid it won't be that simple.” Reese dropped
the cassette back in the bag. “Gunter won't implicate the GM.”

I balled my hands into fists. “How do you know unless you try?”

“I know because he's dead. We got a call only a couple of minutes ago that one of the Fairmont chefs accidentally electrocuted himself. I was about to head out to join the investigation when you arrived.”

“You're sure it's Gunter?” I felt light-headed.

“Yep. It's a hard name to forget.” Reese patted me on the shoulder. “Bad luck for him and you, huh?”

I felt numb. Gunter's death didn't have anything to do with bad luck. I felt more convinced than ever that he'd known something about Henri's death. And unfortunately the murderer had made sure he'd never get the chance to tell anyone.