Francine looked my way. She wore a long black dress with a sprig of red roses pinned to the chest. It was a completely different style than last night’s Victorian caroler costume. “I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced.” She extended a hand.

  I almost let out an audible gasp when I stared at her fingers that were painted with a bloodred polish. Could she be the woman Bethany had seen in the cellar with Jon?

  “Many apologies. Allow me.” Lance cleared his throat. “Francine, this is Ashland’s resident pastry muse, Juliet Montague Capshaw. And, Juliet, I know you’re already familiar with the work of the legendary Ms. Francine La Roux—singer extraordinaire of stage and screen.”

  She dismissed him with a flick of her wrist, but I could tell from the smile tugging at her lips that she relished the praise. “Enchanted.” She held her hand out again, waiting for me to respond. I wasn’t sure if she wanted me to shake it or kiss it. After a minute of hesitation, I went with the shake.

  “Lovely nail polish,” I noted.

  Francine stared at her fingers. “Thank you. It’s Christmas red. Fitting for the season, wouldn’t you say?”

  I nodded. I wanted to kick Lance under the table but didn’t trust his response. “We heard you at the Winchester last night. Your performance was amazing.”

  “Thank you, dearest. You are too kind.” Francine fluffed her dark hair that I was fairly sure was a wig. Up close it was obvious that Francine used a heavy hand when it came to stage makeup.

  “It’s such a shame that things ended the way they did though. If it weren’t for Cami’s death it would have been a perfect night.”

  Francine coughed, then she massaged her neck.

  Lance waved our waiter over. “A cup of hot lemon tea for the lady, please.”

  Francine gave him a look of gratitude. She tried to swallow but couldn’t.

  “Are you all right?” Lance jumped from his seat.

  She pressed the sides of her neck and forced a swallow. It looked painful. “Sit. I’m fine. My vocal cords are seizing up on me, that’s all.”

  The waiter came with the tea. Francine timidly took a sip. I wondered if she was in a lot of pain because she grimaced each time she swallowed.

  “Dearest,” Lance addressed her with her preferred greeting. “I think you should sit the next set out, you don’t want to do any permanent damage.”

  Francine started to protest but winced when she tried to speak.

  “Do I need to call the company physician?” Lance asked with concern.

  “No.” Francine held up a finger. The deep red nail polish was impossible to miss. She swallowed another sip of tea. “There’s no need for a doctor.” Her voice was husky. “You know as well as I do that the show must go on. The people have come tonight to hear Francine La Roux, and I will give them Francine La Roux.”

  I’ve always been suspicious of anyone who refers to themselves in the third person.

  Lance placed his menu on the table. “Yes, I of all people understand the draw to give our audiences what they want, but not at the expense of your instrument.”

  Francine squeezed lemon into the tea. “This will do the trick. I can’t leave those three to their own devices. They’ll end up entirely off-key.” She looked off toward the bar where the rest of the quartet was drinking a round of hot toddies.

  Our waiter returned to take our order. Lance opted for the fettuccine with grilled prawns and I went for a stuffed Tuscan-style chicken. Francine declined dinner.

  “Can’t you call an understudy?” Lance suggested. “I have the names of some wonderful singers who would gladly step in.” He was careful to frame the idea with lavish praise for Francine’s abilities. “Certainly, they aren’t anywhere near your caliber but in a pinch they’ll do.”

  “No. I will perform tonight as intended. I must.” She was insistent to the point that I wondered if there was more to the story.

  Lance shrugged. “If you change your mind, let me know. I can make a call and have someone here in five.”

  That I didn’t doubt.

  Since it was obvious that Francine wasn’t budging, I decided to try and shift the conversation back to Cami’s murder. “I take it you’re not performing at the Winchester tonight because of the murder?”

  Francine scowled. “That’s right. My manager had to scramble to find us something for tonight. The holidays are the busiest season, so we can’t allow any opportunity to go to waste.”

  Lance kicked me under the table. I had no idea why.

  “Did they have to cancel tonight’s feast?” I asked Francine.

  “Yes, and it’s ridiculous if you ask me.” Francine’s voice cracked as she spoke. “That foul woman ruined everything.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  What was Francine talking about? Cami ruined everything?

  Lance beat me to the questioning. “Dearest, did you know her?”

  “Know who?” Francine asked.

  “Cami—the deceased.”

  “No.” She recoiled at the thought.

  “But you just said that she ruined everything.”

  A look of horror flashed across Francine’s face. She tried to speak but nothing came out.

  Lance kicked me again.

  I shot him a look to knock it off.

  Francine coughed twice. “I don’t know the dreadful woman. I only had one interaction with her and that was plenty for my taste.”

  “What did she ruin?” Lance pressed.

  “This.” Francine swept her hand across the dining room. About half the room was made up of skiers and snowboarders back down from the mountain, drinking beers and refueling with loaded plates of fries smothered with gorgonzola, green onions, and chilis. The other half were diners who had come for a festive evening out. They were dressed for the occasion and sampling stuffed mushrooms, prime rib crostini, and crab cakes. “I’m stuck playing the lodge instead of the Winchester—which attracts more of my crowd, if you know what I mean.”

  She pushed a lemon wedge into her tea with a spoon and stared at the table next to us where a group of snowboarders in their twenties were drinking pints of frothy beer. “Who knows how long it will be until the police give the McBeths the green light to continue. We could be out of work for the remainder of the season. Do you know that I have been the lead singer at the Dickens feast for the last fifteen years? The McBeths have always given me free rein in putting together my quartet, song choices, everything. The Dickens feast is the best gig in town. Highly revered food, exquisite atmosphere, top-notch customer service, a paying job every night of the week for thirty days, and guests who always leave us lovely tips.”

  The waiter arrived with our food. Francine slugged more of her tea and then excused herself to go prepare for the next set.

  When she was out of earshot I leaned across the table. “Why did you keep kicking me?”

  “Because she’s lying, darling. She doesn’t have a manager.”

  “She doesn’t?”

  He scoffed. “No. Don’t get me wrong. Ms. La Roux has graced many a stage and even performed in a few movies back in the day. But let me emphasize ‘back in the day.’ No manager is getting her gigs here at the lodge, or even at the Winchester for that matter.”

  “Fair enough, but why does that matter? She seems like she likes the attention and flattery. Maybe she’s just trying to make herself sound more important.”

  “Maybe. Or maybe she’s the killer.” Lance stabbed a prawn.

  “I know. Did you see her nails? They were just like Bethany described. Why would she have tried to poison Jon though? Maybe she was trying to stage a distraction? She could have been the one who broke all of the ornaments too.”

  Lance twisted his fork. “It’s possible.”

  “I still don’t understand why Jon wouldn’t have admitted that he had shared a drink with someone. Do you think he knows who drugged him and is scared?”

  “Perhaps, but that doesn’t feel quite right, does it?” Lance swallowed the shrimp. “Let’s consider what we do know. Reading between the lines it sounds to me like Francine needed the consistent cash. If she caught wind of the fact that Cami had plans to bludgeon the Dickens dinner to death, that gives her a solid motive for murder.”

  “That’s true.” I cut into my juicy chicken breast that had been stuffed with olives, tomatoes, artichoke hearts, and feta cheese. My toes and hands had finally warmed, thanks to the heat from the fire. Snow was piled so high on the deck outside that the wall of windows behind the stage were completely white.

  “She was in the dining room when the lights went out,” Lance added.

  “Was she?” I tried to replay the details of the evening, but some of it was a blur. “She definitely would have known her way around the hotel. Emma told me that they reserve a suite for her for the entire month. That way the quartet can change upstairs and have a quiet space to rest between sets.”

  Lance was in the zone now. He snapped both fingers. “Spot on, darling! Francine has been performing at the Winchester for decades. She must know the ins and outs of the inn—see what I did there?”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “She easily could have done the deed and then snuck back upstairs to her suite with no one the wiser.” He dug his fork into another prawn. “Juliet, I do believe we have another suspect.”

  We finished our dinner before Francine and her merry band of singers returned. On our way out, Lance stopped at the hostess station. “Now, remember, use my name when you call for tickets. I want to be sure that you get the best seats in the house.”

  “So that’s how you scored a fireside table,” I said on our way to the car. “You offered her OSF tickets?”

  “Of course, darling. That’s how business is done. I should have sweetened the deal with breakfast at Torte. Then she really would have rolled out the red carpet.”

  I was lost in thought on the drive home. Could Francine be the killer? She had made no attempt to mask her hatred of Cami, but was the Dickens performance motive for murder?

  “What do you say to a nightcap?” Lance asked when we pulled into the plaza. “It looks like there’s a crowd at Pucks.”

  “That hot buttered rum did the trick for me. I think I’ll take a rain check.”

  Lance pointed to the roof of his car. “Not so fast, darling. You’re forgetting an important detail. My tree. What am I supposed to do with the wild weed on top of my car? You promised to help. There’s no sloughing off your best-friend holiday duties.”

  “I would never think of it. I just meant that I don’t need a nightcap.”

  “Fine. To my place then?”

  Lance’s house was up Scenic Drive with sweeping views of downtown Ashland and the east hills. The opulent stone mansion was gated, with a private drive that led to terraced decks that reminded me of the homes I’d seen in the Italian lake district.

  The interior was equally posh with marble floors, a grand staircase, and ornate chandeliers. We brought the tree inside. “Where do you want it?” I asked.

  Lance pointed to the formal living room with picture windows that reflected the city lights. “It has to go there, don’t you think?”

  “Absolutely. It’s like it was made for a Christmas tree.”

  We maneuvered the tree into position. Lance’s stylish furniture and impressive collection of art were styled in such a way that they could have been a set on OSF’s stage. It hardly gave off a warm vibe.

  “Do you have decorations?” I asked.

  Lance lifted a pitch-stained finger. “Yes, let me wash my hands, pour us some hot tea, and I’ll bring out the decorations from the garage.”

  If Lance’s garage was as pristine as his house, it could probably serve as a clean room in a lab.

  While I waited, I wandered through the living room, parlor, dining room, and study. Every room was painted a monochrome gray with white trim. None of the mid-century-style teal and gray couches looked as if they’d ever been sat in. I knew that Lance, like me, spent most of his time at work—in his case OSF—but his place reminded me of a set for the stage, not somewhere anyone actually lived.

  A few framed photos of Lance with his parents and brother were on display in the study with its floor-to-ceiling bookcases, but otherwise the entire first floor was devoid of anything personal. A wave of sadness washed over me. One lonely tree, regardless of how beautifully we decorated it, wasn’t going to fill the void. I decided on the spot to invite Lance to Christmas Eve dinner and Christmas brunch at Mom and the Professor’s new house.

  He returned with a neatly packed box of gold, silver, and opaque white ornaments. “What are the rest of your holiday plans?” I asked as we strung tiny golden lights around the tree.

  “You’re looking at it, darling. It’s going to be me and a martini in front of the fireplace.” He paused and with a hit of a button on a remote control sitting on the coffee table his gas fireplace burst on.

  “That sounds great.” I formulated my approach to convince him to come spend the holidays with us.

  “There’s nothing like a reprieve for the soul. I have a stack of new plays to read and headshots to look through. I plan to spend the next two weeks on my couch before the madness of the new season begins.”

  “Fair enough.” I clipped a silver partridge to the tree. “I have to ask you a favor though.”

  “Anything, darling. You know that—anything.”

  “Will you come to Christmas at my mom’s place?”

  Lance’s lips turned down. I knew that he couldn’t stomach the thought of pity. “Why?”

  “I don’t think I can do it alone. Mom and the Professor are so over the moon, which—don’t get me wrong—is wonderful, but I’ve been missing Carlos and Ramiro, and I could really use some moral support and a friend.”

  I wasn’t sure, but I guessed that Lance could see through my excuse.

  “What, and leave all of this?” He swept his hand over the tree. The décor felt almost Parisian.

  “Please, for me?” I bit my bottom lip and begged.

  Lance sighed. “Oh fine. I suppose I can muster up the strength to spend the holiday with you. Only because I find Helen most delightful and the Professor excellent company. What do I bring? What should I wear?”

  “Just bring yourself or a favorite bottle of wine.” I knew that Mom and the Professor would both be fine with me inviting Lance. “And, it’s strictly casual. Come in your pajamas on Christmas morning. It’s tradition. Mom will make brunch and we’ll lounge around all day, gorging ourselves on food, playing games, watching old Christmas movies.”

  “How positively charming. It sounds like a scene from a Frank Capra movie.”

  I could tell that he was secretly pleased with the invitation. We finished decorating the tree and called it a night. I might not have had any answers as to why and how Cami was killed, but at least I could sleep well knowing that my friend wasn’t going to spend Christmas alone.

  Chapter Eighteen

  We were in the mad dash to the finish at Torte for the next few days. Personal orders ramped up in the days leading up to Christmas. It happened every year. People would have grandiose plans of baking pies, cakes, and cookies themselves, but once the calendar approached December 25 they placed frantic calls to the bakeshop asking if there was any chance of getting a dozen sugar cookie cutouts or a Christmas butter stollen. We did our best to say yes to as many people as we could. It meant some late nights and early mornings, but it was worth it.

  The closer we came to December 24 the busier we became. There were only three days left until Christmas Eve and I found myself giving the team a daily pep talk.

  “We’re in the home stretch,” I said, kicking off our morning meeting. “I know we’re all running on fumes and caffeine.” I held up one of Andy’s pine-infused lattes. “We’re almost there though, so try to keep your spirits up.”

  “It’s hard to do when Richard Lord is your first customer of the morning.” Andy stuck out his tongue. “I don’t know what that guy is up to, but he’s been at the door every morning this week. I’m tired of starting my day with his angry face.”

  “Let me handle Richard this morning.” We reviewed the day’s orders and set off to our individual tasks. I wanted to bake some specialty tarts that we could sell as both individual slices and whole versions. The local chocolatier who supplied us with all of our chocolates had dropped off red and white striped peppermint chocolate buttons that would be a perfect decoration for the tart I had in mind.

  I started by making a chocolate shortbread crust. In a food processor I combined butter, flour, sugar, cocoa powder, and vanilla to create a crumbly, sandlike dough. After greasing a tart pan, I firmly pressed the dough along the bottom and up the edges and then I set it in the oven to bake for twenty minutes.

  Meanwhile I whisked eggs, heavy cream, sugar, cornstarch, and peppermint extract over low heat to form a bubbling pudding. Once the pudding had thickened, I added a few drops of red food coloring to give it a festive candy color.

  “Your shortbread is ready, Jules,” Marty said, as he delivered the wonderfully crisped and aromatic crust. “The smell of this makes me want to shove it in my mouth.” He contorted his face. “I need to walk away now.”

  I had to agree with him. The entire kitchen smelled like butter and chocolate. I allowed the crust and pudding to cool, and turned my attention to adding whipping cream, sugar, and a splash more of the peppermint extract until it formed stiff peaks.

  Now my chocolate shortbread tart was ready to assemble. I carefully removed the crust from the tin. Its fluted edges gave it an elegant appearance. Next, I spread the red peppermint pudding with a flat spatula. Then I layered on the whipped cream and finished it with a circle of the striped red and white peppermint chocolate buttons and a dusting of red sugar.

  “That is so pretty,” Rosa said when I brought the tart upstairs to be displayed in the pastry case.

  “Thank you.” I set the tart on the top shelf. “Go ahead and serve this in slices. Bethany is making more in ten and six inches for customers to purchase whole.”

 

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