“Bienenstich cake. Bienenstich is German for ‘bee sting’.”
“How did it get its name?” she asked, picking up the wedge Liz had served, then stuffing half in her mouth.
“Pierre says it’s one of two things, either the creator of the cake was stung by a bee when he was working on the honey-and-almond topping. Or, when the dough for the brioche was put in the oven it swelled up like a bee sting often does.”
“Which one do you think it is?”
“I would pick the second. I hate to think that the chef who created this recipe endured any pain, because it’s such a luscious cake.”
Francie nodded her head, and crumbs fell onto her plate.
When they’d finished, Francie got up and washed the cake plate and carafe and put them into a shopping bag. Liz knew it was a signal to leave, but she had one last question relating to the photo in the trash. “You said your parents were friends with the Harringtons. Did you ever hang out with Regina when you were young?”
“No one hung out with Regina. She was almost ten years older than me and attended private school. She was too good for the likes of us locals, even though her great-grandfather used to live in a shanty on the Indian River Lagoon. I might have been in the same room with Regina when I was younger, but she never once glanced my way, let alone talked to me.”
“Do you have any idea who would have killed her?”
“I believe it was a robbery. Plain and simple.”
Not so simple, Liz thought as she got up from the table. Francie handed her the shopping bag with the clean carafe and cake plate, then walked with Liz to the front door.
Francie said, “Maybe Regina got what she had coming to her because she murdered her father. I talked to one of the staff on Percival II’s yacht about the day he was killed. He had a heart attack, but mysteriously the medicine that might have saved him was missing from his jacket pocket. He told me Regina was right next to her father, looking, or should I say pretending to look for his meds. I wouldn’t doubt it if she swiped them so she could inherit his riches. I guess the joke was on her, because she didn’t receive anything.” She put her hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry, that sounded crass.”
Liz didn’t have a response for that one. All she could think about was why Francie had been questioning Percival II’s death with his yacht staff. “Well, I’m glad you’re better. I hope to see you at the emporium tomorrow.”
She pushed against the screen door and stepped onto the porch. Coming toward them up the walkway was Agent Pearson. Liz brushed past and said, “Good to see you, Detective. I have to run.” Then she booked it to the Blue Bomber, wishing she’d put the top down so she could hop over the driver’s door and slide into the seat for a quicker getaway. Instead, she opened the door, got in, started the engine, and drove like a bat flying out of a Dark Shadows crypt.
Chapter 32
As Liz cruised north on A1A, her hair blowing in the breeze from the open windows, she was pleased with herself for getting Francie into the shower and a better frame of mind. However, she wasn’t too proud of herself for snooping in Francie’s bedroom. Liz needed to share with her father what she’d learned about Francie and have him ask Agent Pearson if she had an alibi for Saturday night. Minna had told Liz a completely different version of Francie’s whereabouts at the time of the murder.
Instead of turning into the Indialantic, Liz kept driving north toward the Melbourne Beach Public Library, where her seventh-grade teacher, Mrs. Ingles, now the assistant director, might help Liz gather some info on Francie’s family connection with the Harringtons, along with the history of the sunken treasure ship San Carlos that had netted Percival Harrington II the jewels that were to be eventually stolen from his daughter’s neck and ears.
The ocean view out the car’s windows was like no other. The temperature was in the upper seventies and the wind was mild. Liz turned on the radio. Betty’s old DeVille didn’t have a CD, cassette, or even an eight-track player. Usually, Liz alternated between a pop station and a country station. She liked all kinds of music, from opera to New Age, but since her ordeal with Travis, her new favorite was contemporary-country. She liked it for its simplistic message—enjoy the little things in life and don’t put up with a good-for-nothin’ man. As she pulled up to the library, a country singer crooned about a two-timing man and Liz thought about Captain Netherton. She parked and turned off the ignition, realizing that she’d never made a complete suspect list. Before talking to Mrs. Ingles, Liz would find a quiet corner in the library and use the note function on her phone to create one.
A short time later, she finished the list and e-mailed it to herself. Before she got ahead of things, she would first visit her father and bring him into the loop. Maybe she would learn more about the investigation because of his ties with his new gal pal, Charlotte. If he felt obliged to keep what he knew to himself, she would present her theories, then watch his face. Fenton Holt had an obvious tell when playing poker. Aunt Amelia and Liz called it the famous, one-sided Elvis lip-curl. After seeing her father, Liz planned to pick up her new bundle of
