Murder After a Fashion by Grace Carroll Page A

reading that the murderer is often a friend or someone who knew the victim very well, so didn’t it stand to reason that the man or woman was here in this room? I couldn’t leave without at least trying to find out who it was. Someone in this room knew. Someone at least had a suspicion. And I didn’t mean Jack. Jack thought I’d done it. How preposterous was that?
    “Tell me,” I said, “who do you think killed Guido?”
    He stepped back for a second as if I’d spoken the unspeakable. But why? Why wasn’t everyone else talking about it? Was it wrong?
    “You mean…” he said.
    “I mean everyone knows he was murdered,” I said. Why beat around the bush when it was common knowledge. Or was it?
    “Do they?” he said. “But why? That’s what I keep asking myself. He was such a good guy. Not your usual full-of-himself star. Everyone liked him. Who would want to kill Guido?”
    “He must have had some enemies,” I said. “Maybe someone who was competing with him? Someone with another cooking school, one of the other iron chefs or Food Network stars?”
    “Non possibile,”
he said, giving me a dark look as if he didn’t know what I was talking about, and then he walked away looking at least slightly offended. But that didn’t stop me. I was determined to talk to as many people here as I could whether they were in denial or not. I was glad when Dolce found me. I needed a break from crime solving. She said she’d had some wonderful tiramisu, that traditional Italian cake. “Here, have a bite,” she said.
    “I don’t think I’m ready for dessert yet,” I said. But I couldn’t resist tasting the traditional cake made of sweetened mascarpone cheese, ladyfingers, chocolate and coffee.
    “It’s wonderful,” I said, “like heaven in your mouth.”
    “I told you,” Dolce said, licking her lips. “Have you found out anything?” She looked over her shoulder to make sure no one was listening.
    “I found out that everyone loved Guido—at least his students and his friends did. And I heard that everyone, including your best customer Diana Van Sloat, has been questioned.”
    “What?” Dolce said. “I didn’t know that. Why Diana? She loved Guido. What possible motive…”
    “I guess Guido being a high-profile personality, they are going beyond the pale. But I don’t know about how far they’ve gonewith his family. And then there’s Meera. Surely she’ll be hauled down to the station, if she keeps blabbing about how much she disliked Guido.”
    “The Romanian.”
    “Yes, she said he stole her recipes.”
    “So you’re thinking maybe she’s the killer.”
    “Maybe,” I said. “But it’s so obvious. That’s not the way it works. It’s always the person you least suspect.”
    “Well?” Dolce said.
    “I have no idea who that might be, but I heard there are two people in this room who are taking over his classes in Italy. The thing is, they were probably in Italy when Guido was murdered.” I looked around, scanning the room for suspects. “I’m not leaving this event until I do have a better idea. Somebody here knows something. I just know it. I’d give anything to know what Detective Wall is thinking at this moment. Look at him standing at the bar with a glass of dark red wine. He looks pensive, don’t you think?”
    “Maybe he’s already solved the case,” Dolce suggested.
    “Maybe, but I’ll be damned if I’ll ask him,” I said.
    “What can I do?” Dolce asked. “Besides eating too much of this delicious food.”
    “Keep your ears open,” I said quietly. “Who stands to benefit from Guido’s death? Who inherits this place, for example?” I looked around. It was a nice place, but it was hardly the Cordon Bleu. Was it worth murdering for? Or was it something else that Guido had?
    “But is money always the motive for murder?” Dolce asked as if I were some kind of expert. I guess after helping solve two murders in my recent past, maybe I was.
    “Usually,” I said.