A Sleuth Is Born Read online

  Inside her suite, Bea was overjoyed to see a housekeeper had already tidied everything up. Her “FUDGING LOVE CHRISTMAS” sweater was placed with care on the bed, as if it were made of the finest cashmere. She turned on the bathroom light and noticed it, too, had been immaculately cleaned. A delicate lemon scent hung in the air, and the fixtures sparkled.

  Bea was still using the bathroom when she heard a shout from Pat’s suite.

  “Oh no!”

  “What?”

  “It looks like we’re out of luck,” Pat yelled back. “The troll has locked down his phone.”

  “How’d he do that if we’ve got the phone?”

  “Must be an app on the phone. There are apps that let you log in from any computer and turn your phone into a useless toy.”

  Bea washed her hands and walked through the adjoining door to join Pat. “Any idea who owns it?”

  “That’s the worst part. There’s a message on the screen. Take a look—it seems it’s a pre-paid cell. That would make it untraceable.”

  Bea walked up behind Pat, who was seated at her desk fiddling with the phone. As she peered over Pat’s shoulder, she suddenly let out a shriek of laughter.

  “Because ‘Cash only?’ Bwahahaha!” Bea her shoulders were shaking, like they always did when enjoying a hysterical laugh.

  “Pardon me, lady, but what’s so funny?”

  “Do you think the cell provider would put four exclamation points after ‘cash only’?” asked Bea. The message on the phone read:

  IF YOU FIND THIS PHONE LEAVE IT WHERE YOU FOUND IT

  CASH ONELY!!!!

  DON’T STEAL IT OR YOUR IN TROUBLE

  Pat spun in her chair and looked at her gleeful elder apprentice. “Come to think of it, I’d have also thought they’d know how to spell ‘only.’ But I still don’t get why you’re laughing so hard.”

  Bea roared even louder with laughter.

  Pat sighed and waited.

  “OK, OK, I’ll tell you. I know who our troll is! But first, join me in a happy dance!” She coaxed Pat out of her chair, and the two spun around in a circle, Pat wearing an indulgent, confused expression on her face.

  Winded, Bea plopped down on the bed and explained to Pat how the phone had to belong to Cash—the dimwitted thief who’d tried to get rich by stealing a Betty manuscript a few months before. As she concluded her story, her tone grew sober.

  “Sometimes, life seems truly unfair,” said Bea, making an effort to sound solemn.

  “You mean because he’s after you again? I was wondering why you didn’t sound more scared. It’s no joke, Bea. This guy attacked you and broke into your house.”

  “Yeah,” Bea replied, holding her head down, looking serious. “It’s truly unfair because I had so much fun crushing him the first time, I can’t believe I get to do it again!” She was cackling with abandon now, slapping her knee as she always did at her own jokes. “Can you believe how dumb that guy is—trying to scare us with that message?” She was getting winded from laughing so hard.

  “You had me going, there, Bea.”

  “Sorry. I love pulling off a good bluff.”

  “How is it he’s back on your trail? Out on bail?”

  “Yep. But here’s the best part. He’s not allowed to go anywhere near me. Just turning up here is enough to put him back in the can. Probably with new charges, too. He is such a birdbrain! No wait—that’s an insult to birds!

  “I’ve got a way to stop him—and get all of his photos, too. We’ll need Aseem’s help,” Bea said. She called Aseem on the internet tube and asked him to join them.

  “While we wait for him, we’ve still got that photo I texted to myself,” said Pat. “Let’s try to figure out who those two dudes are.” She picked up her own phone to send the image to her computer.

  “Three dudes, don’t forget,” said Bea. “There’s that shadow in the bush. Someone is spying on them. Maybe they’re a trio of cheaters worried about who’s double-crossing who. I’ve encountered some poker cheats in my time. Nobody is more paranoid about being cheated than a cheater.”

  “Let’s take a closer look.”

  Chapter 22

  “You all set, Ms. Garcia?” Jackson had wheeled the dolly into Angela’s suite and was placing the heavy box on her desk.

  “I am, thank you, Jackson—and please don’t forget, you can call me Angela, at least when no guests are around, for sure.”

  “Will do, Ms. Gar—er, Angela,” Jackson said with a smile as he folded up the dolly and carried it away.

  Angela pulled her sweater off the top of the box. Where to start? She wasn’t even sure she knew the difference between cilantro and cinnamon.

  Angela hadn’t inherited her mother’s culinary flair, nor had she embraced Maria’s many attempts to teach her. She was always too busy building her marketing business—and now she was even busier, working on becoming a full-fledged media mogul. Plus, one of her mother’s fantastic home-cooked meals could be had for the price of a drive to Sacramento almost any time she wanted. She suspected that was why her mother stopped pushing the issue. Mouthwatering home-cooked dinners were a reliable way to make sure she saw her only daughter occasionally.

  Let’s see, does any of this stuff look like it’s been tampered with? Angela thought. Flummoxed about where to start, she decided she’d roughly sort dessert ingredients from dinner ones. She could do that even with her complete lack of cooking knowledge. Like, say, this bag of chopped onions—easily classified as a dinner ingredient.

  She held the gallon bag up to the light. Yep, looks like onions to me, she shrugged. But how can I tell if it’s been doctored? Angela noticed a milky liquid in the bottom. Could be onion juice. Could be lethal poison. She had to laugh—she was the last person who’d know the difference.

  When she turned the bag around, she saw that the chef had labeled it with a marker: “diced onions, dinner, night two –Ming.” That confirmed what it was for. And Angela had to assume it had started out as just an innocent bag of onions. But had Foxy—or anyone else—done anything to it? It looks fine to me, she shrugged. But who knows?

  Angela was discouraged, but too curious to give up. She pulled more ingredients from the box and noticed that some were separated into a tray within the box.

  As she lifted the tray out of the box and onto the desk, she spotted a sticky note on the side. In handwriting different from the chef’s, the note on the tray said “Important: dessert ingredients for night one.” Huh. Presumably, Lee’s writing.

  She picked the biggest item out of the tray—the gluten-free flour canister Chef Ming had shown her in the kitchen. It was large but light; although its lid said ten pounds, it was more than half-empty. The antique-style decoration on the outside of the container proclaimed it “Napa Mills Old-Fashioned Pastry Flour, Now 100% Gluten-Free.”

  Under that headline was another sticky note in Lee’s hand: a large one, reminding the chef that “this flour must be used for night one dessert.” Angela noticed that Lee had taken the extra step of taping down the unglued side of the sticky note. Curious, she picked at the edge of the tape with her fingernail and peeled it back. The note concealed information on the canister that might have been important:

  “Attention: Not an Allergen-Free Food. Please see bottom label for allergy information.”

  Angela held the canister overhead to read the allergy information. Small traces of adhesive still clung to the metal, but the label was gone. The company’s website address was stamped on the container, though. Angela switched on her laptop and entered the company’s URL, then clicked on the page for gluten-free pastry flour.

  “Napa Mills’ Gluten-Free Pastry Flour is our proprietary formulation. It contains no grains nor any other sources containing gluten. We’ve put our expert bakers to the test and they’ve come up with a baking flour so good, you’ll never believe it’s gluten-free! And it’s simple, to use, too: just measure and use it like any cake flour.”

  The enticing descriptio
n sat above a gallery of images of delicious-looking baked goods—all supposedly made with Napa Mills’ gluten-free flour. But underneath the pretty pictures, in fine print, was another message:

  “Important note for consumers allergic to nuts and legumes, and the chefs who serve them: this flour is guaranteed free of gluten, but contains almond, lupine, and soy flours, all of which may cause life-threatening reactions in people allergic to tree nuts, peanuts, and other legumes.”

  Perhaps this was the sort of information that was on the canister’s missing label, Angela thought. But who removed it? The most obvious candidate was Mrs. Glastonbury. Foxy had the opportunity, too, though. Maybe he had been covering her—or their—tracks.

  There was that ever-present friction between them, though. Then again, if you wanted to hide the fact you were allies, acting like you didn’t get along would be a logical tactic.

  §

  I might be getting too old for this poker thing, Walter thought as he walked silently with Jackson to the business center. I’ll tell Lee this will be my last one. Or maybe I’ll stick with it for Gstaad in January—and then maybe the Caymans in February. Oh, and Monaco will be lovely in May. She may be annoying sometimes—ok, all the time—but she sure picks pretty hives to attract rich bees. So with all those fabulous tax havens to choose from, why’d she have to pick this horrible little place? I knew it would be a problem somehow.

  Almost on cue, the phone in his pocket buzzed with a familiar tone. Lee. Walter hung back a bit, letting Jackson walk ahead as he answered it with a blunt “yes.”

  “I know I overreacted before. Now you’re doing the same. We shouldn’t make the same mistake twice. Yes, I recognize that what I did can’t be taken back! Acting in haste now won’t change that, and could be just as bad. Nothing can tie us to—er, you-know-what.” He had lowered his voice to an urgent hiss.

  “Why aren’t you relieved? If anything, that call you got seems to suggest suspicion in another direction. No, I have no idea who was seen in the kitchen. But I’ll make sure it wasn’t one of us.”

  As he approached a corner, Jackson politely slowed down to let Walter catch up. Walter stopped to finish his call, lowering his voice, worried that Jackson might overhear.

  “Listen, I have to go,” he said, at a normal volume. “One of the staff is kindly showing me to the business center, and I’m being terribly rude. I’ll talk to you later.”

  “I hope you didn’t hang up on my account,” Jackson said.

  “Don’t worry, it was no one I can’t call back.”

  “Well, we’re here—our little business center. You can see it’s not large, but we put a lot of effort into outfitting it. You use your card key to enter, like this.”

  Jackson opened the door and revealed a compact office with a computer, printer, scanner/fax, speakerphone, and a tidy cabinet packed with various office supplies.

  “Since most people have laptops these days, we assumed what guests want from a place like this is printing, faxing, and add-ons you can’t easily bring with you—so that’s what you see here. You can also hook up to super-fast wired internet if you need to work with large files.”

  “I guess I’m like everyone else, then,” said Walter. “I really just need to print my boarding pass.” But as he said it, he was checking on the scanner in detail.

  “Great, well I’ll leave you then to check out what we have here. Feel free to call me at the front desk or drop by if you need help.”

  Jackson shut the door behind him as he left. Walter took his cell out of his pocket and hit redial.

  “Listen, I still think it would be wrong to overreact. We could blow up everything over nothing! But if we have to activate the nuclear option, we’ve got everything we need.” Walter had his phone tucked under his cheek and was inspecting the workings of the printer while he talked.

  “Mr. Wells?” said Jackson, popping his head back in through the door. “Sorry to interrupt your call. I remembered you said that you brought your own color ink. The printer’s loaded up with it already, so no need to supply any.” It occurred to Jackson that printing a boarding pass seemed a little weird. But what business was it of his?

  Walter tapped the mute button on the phone a little harder than necessary. “Yes, I can see that. Thanks.” He shut the lid of the printer.

  “No problem, Mr. Wells,” said Jackson amiably, closing the door again behind him.

  Walter waited a few seconds, until he felt sure Jackson was gone, then unmuted the phone. “I’m back. No, there’s nothing to worry about. If it becomes necessary, we can do everything we need to do right here.”

  Chapter 23

  “Boop-boop-boop. Angela calling,” said the internet tube in Bea’s suite.

  “What’s up, Angie?”

  “Lots,” said Angela. Then she told Bea how she’d run into Foxy nosing around in the kitchen. “You were right, Bea. He’s not trustworthy. I think I might have been blinded by his charm, at least a little.”

  “You know I’d never say ‘I told you so,’ girlie,” Bea replied. That was, of course, a blatant lie, even if Bea actually believed it when she said it.

  “My mom’s brought her own ingredients. She’s getting started in the kitchen.”

  “Your mother’s a woman of many talents. And she sure loves you!”

  “Believe me, I know how lucky I am right about now.”

  “Have you told Bossybritches yet?”

  “Yep. She didn’t like it. But it’s not her decision. It’s up to the Inn to protect its guests.”

  “Now that sounds like the strong Angie I know and love.”

  “Would you believe the earth did not stop rotating on its axis because Lee Glastonbury was disappointed?”

  “She’d be even more disappointed to know you’re onto her. She’s one of those people who uses being permanently annoyed as a way to get what she wants.”

  “I’m glad we have a contract,” Angela laughed. “And I’m even gladder she prepaid 50% of it. And—above all—I’m glad tonight is our last tournament.”

  “Amen to that, sister. I’m glad I’ve still got one more chance to win one of these suckers. By the way, Perry and I figure some players are cheating.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “We saw it happen. And Perry was planning to confirm with video—I think he might even have done that already,” Bea fibbed.

  Bea decided it was best not to tell Angela about Aseem’s video recording failing two nights in a row. Perry told her that Aseem was really embarrassed about the whole thing. Bea thought if Angela knew, it might crush the poor guy’s confidence. Besides, it was entirely possible—even probable—that the videos weren’t failing, but were sabotaged.

  “We’ve got a plan to throw a monkey wrench into their little scam tonight. It’ll be fun, girlie!” Bea said. “Somebody’s going to be taught a nice lesson.”

  Angela instinctively opened her mouth to protest that it might disrupt the evening, then realized she was falling right back into her people-pleasing habits. “I’ll look forward to seeing that play out,” she said instead. “Please be careful. There’s something else we need to talk about—something I found in the kitchen.”

  She then gave Bea the highlights of how she became suspicious about the flour, and how she came to suspect Lee, or Foxy—or both—might have been behind a deliberate poisoning of Eddie.

  “I called Officer McGregor,” Angela said. “He didn’t take the possibility of Foxy being involved too seriously. But he said he’d come by in the morning to pick up the flour and other ingredients as possible evidence. He also said he could send over the detail cop that Perry knows to provide a little extra security tonight if we want.” She decided not to mention what Foxy had said about the tournament being illegal—not to McGregor, naturally, nor to Bea. At the moment, she preferred not to acknowledge the possibility the Inn was hosting a felony.

  “Oh good,” said Bea. “Aseem is helping me and Pat tonight with a side project. We thi
nk we figured out who has been posting those pictures and reviews. We want to catch him in the act. Aseem’s on the case. The cop could stand in Aseem’s place by the control room, while the door’s open for the games.”

  “It won’t be dangerous, will it, Bea? I mean, whoever it is seems to just sneak around taking pictures, but they are doing it in the middle of the night.”

  “Don’t you worry about your boyfriend, girlie.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend.”

  “I still think you have a shot—even though you haven’t been treating him so great since Mr. Fancypants got here. Everyone’s noticed how goo-goo-eyed you’ve been around Foxy, especially Aseem.”

  “You’re imagining Aseem cares about that,” Angela said. She managed a neutral tone of voice, even though she was mortified by fresh memories of her silly behavior with Foxy.

  “I think Aseem wants a chance to impress you, Angie—and I think you’re gonna be impressed.”

  “He’s a grown man. He can do what he wants. Just promise me… promise you… oh, never mind!”

  “You’re right. He’s a grown man. Besides, Perry is lending him his gun.”

  “What?!”

  “Don’t worry so much, girlie! Perry had time to give him a lesson on using it this afternoon.”

  This only made Angela worry more, but there was no time to discuss it.

  “There’s more I want to talk to you about, Bea. Based on my research, it looks like Eddie was poisoned on purpose. And I’m still looking into a few other clues. But we’ve got to get ready for tonight, and I’ve still got to make sure my mom has everything she needs in the kitchen.”

  “Pat, Perry, Aseem, and I are planning to meet after the tournament to compare notes. We’re meeting at Aseem’s casita, to stay out of range of prying eyes and ears. Join us?”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  The tube disconnected the call and Angela ran through what she had to do next: shower, hair, makeup, dress, check in with Maria about dinner, get the detail cop into position. A long list, and she wasn’t long on time.