Criminally Cocoa

by Amanda Flower

  I rolled my eyes. “Charlotte doesn’t look like a Catholic nun.”

  “From the back she might. Anyway, why weren’t you answering your phone? I tried to call too!”

  I pulled my phone out of my pocket. I had put it on silent during our last shooting session and forgotten to turn the sound back on. Whoops.

  “Seriously, Bailey, you’ve lived in Holmes County too long. I think being away from electronics has addled your brain. You don’t know how to behave in normal society.”

  “What is normal society?” I asked.

  She shook her finger at me, and as she did, her purple bangs fell into her eyes. “Don’t you go and get philosophical on me, King!”

  Before I could make a comeback, she retorted, “Jean Pierre sent a car for us. I left it just up the street. It was the only place that the driver could find to park. We have to go. No one keeps Jean Pierre waiting if they know what’s good for them.”

  That much was true.

  The ride through the city to JP Chocolates was slow, but by the looks of it, Charlotte didn’t mind a bit. She had her nose pressed up against the tinted glass, taking everything in. I could just imagine the stories she would tell my grandmother and Emily Keim, my other shop assistant, when we got back to Swissmen Sweets.

  When we finally walked through the front door of JP Chocolates, a wave of nostalgia hit me. This was where I had spent six years of my life working eighty to one hundred hours a week. Unlike Swissmen Sweets, my grandmother’s Amish candy shop back in Ohio with its hardwood floors and pine shelving, JP Chocolates was striking white and sleek, accented with chrome. It might have looked sterile or plain if it had not been for the chocolate itself. Elaborate chocolate creations sat under glass encasements. There was a replica of the Statue of Liberty that I had carved in white chocolate in one of the glass cases.

  With Easter just a week away, Jean Pierre Chocolates was dripping with Easter bunnies in every size and flavor of chocolate. I even saw Easter rabbits made out of molded peanut butter.

  “I wish I could have spent more time with you in the last week, but you know what a nuthouse this place is around Easter,” Cass said as she walked through the showroom to the back of the shop, where the chocolate happened. Cass was the head chocolatier at JP Chocolates, and it was obvious that she was the woman in charge as the under chocolatiers backed away from her, not making eye contact as she passed by. Cass didn’t seem to notice the power that she had over them in the least.

  I most certainly did. Before Cass got the position as head chocolatier at JP Chocolates, I had been next in line to receive the promotion as Jean Pierre’s protégé, but then my grandfather died and I found myself giving up the position to live with my grandmother in Holmes County, Ohio, to help with the candy shop that had been in our family for generations. I left thinking that I would never be back in the city for more than a short visit, but then Linc offered me my own show on his network. I didn’t think much would come of it, but to my surprise, the network loved the pilot we shot in Harvest, and the next thing I knew I was in NYC shooting my own candy-making show. Somehow fate was giving me the best of both worlds: Holmes County and New York, the two places on earth that had captured my heart. I called it fate, but my Amish grandmother would have called it providence.

  “Ma cherie!” Jean Pierre floated into the giant kitchen. “You have come back to me. Please say that you plan to stay!” Jean Pierre Ruge was a tall, thin man with a Parisian nose who carried himself as erect as any dancer. He moved his arms in such a way that it seemed he might have been just that once upon a time.

  I gave Jean Pierre a hug. He always smelled of chocolate, which wasn’t all that surprising considering what he did for living. But the thing was that he wasn’t supposed to be doing it for a living any longer. Months ago, he had retired from the candy shop when Cass took over. From what Cass said, he was there every day giving her advice. Cass said that she didn’t mind it, because it made the day go faster.

  “You know I can’t stay, Jean Pierre. Charlotte and I leave tomorrow morning. We just dropped by to say our goodbyes.”

  “Oh dear me, how are you getting home?”

  “We have a flight going out of Newark.”

  “A commercial flight?” He shuddered. “You should take my plane. No protégé of mine should ever fly commercial.”

  I chuckled. “I appreciate the offer, Jean Pierre, but the network paid for the flight and Charlotte and I will be more comfortable sticking with that plan.”

  He sniffed. “What kind of television network would fly their star commercial? It is a disgrace!”

  “Not to worry, Jean Pierre,” Cass chimed in. “Hot Cop is picking them up from the airport.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Hot Cop” was the name Cass had given my sheriff’s deputy boyfriend Aiden back in Ohio. Her description was accurate on all counts, but it was also embarrassing. As of yet, Aiden hadn’t heard the nickname, and I would do everything in my power to keep it that way.

  He set a long finger against his cheek. “I do not know of this Hot Cop. How do I know if Hot Cop is trustworthy?”

  Cass patted his arm. “I gave him the once-over, and she has my support on this one. We both know what a bulldog I can be.”

  Jean Pierre sniffed. “This is very true. You make a judgment on a person’s character and stick with it. I like that decisiveness on your part. This is a good skill to have in chocolate and in life. In chocolate, there are no second chances.”

  “In life there might be,” I mused.

  Jean Pierre smiled. “This is my wish for you, ma cherie.” He clapped his hands. “Now if you want to help us carve some more chocolate Easter baskets, we won’t turn you away.”

  I grinned; making chocolate Easter baskets and weaving with chocolate had been one of my favorite jobs at JP Chocolates. I planned to teach my grandmother the fine art when I got home. “I thought you would never ask.”

  I was just settling in to weave chocolate when my cell phone rang. The ringer went off since I had turned it back on after Cass’s reprimand. I removed my gloves and pulled the phone from my pocket. When I checked the screen on my cell phone, I saw the name Margot Rawlings there. Margot was the village instigator of Harvest. Whatever she had to say to me, chances were high I wouldn’t like it. Against my better judgment, I answered the call.

  Without so much as a hello, she said, “I need to talk to you about a rabbit.”

  And a dark cloud of foreboding fell over me.

  About Amanda Flower

  USA Today bestselling and Agatha Award–winning mystery author Amanda Flower started her writing career in elementary school when she read a story she wrote to her sixth grade class and had the class in stitches with her description of being stuck on the top of a Ferris wheel. She knew at that moment she’d found her calling of making people laugh with her words. She also writes mysteries as USA Today bestselling author Isabella Alan. Amanda lives in Northeast Ohio. Readers can visit her online at www.amandaflower.com.