Criminal Confections

by Colette London

  “Have a seat, Nina,” I invited. “Won’t you join us?”

  Maybe I could peer-pressure Danny into caving in.

  Or not. “Not me. Sorry.” He held up his phone. “Emergency.”

  Liar, I mouthed to him as he took off and Nina sat. But by then, I was stuck, exactly the way he’d intended I would be.

  For all I knew, Danny was off to score a salty, fatty, junk food-y Egg McMuffin and hash browns. That was more his speed, anyway. Me, I’d started considering attacking the buffet in earnest. A girl needed sustenance, right? Chocolate sustenance.

  “Thanks, Hayden.” Nina flicked an errant strand of hair from her eyes with shaky fingers. Her gaze darted around the patio, then settled on me. “I just wanted to touch base with all the attendees. Make sure everyone is okay. Because there’s nothing to be afraid of, you know. Last night was awful, of course, but it was a complete aberration. At Lemaître, we—”

  “Are you okay?” I interrupted, frowning with concern. She was obviously under a lot of stress. I didn’t want Nina keeling over, right there beside the buffet station featuring chocolate fondue, brioche croutons, and fresh strawberry skewers. I’d had enough tragedy for one lifetime. “This must be very difficult for you. I don’t imagine Christian is a very forgiving boss.”

  “Christian is a brilliant and accomplished man.” Her words sounded rehearsed—especially since that particular man hadn’t given a single day off to the only employee who’d tried to help Adrienne last night. But then, Nina was a PR exec. Her job was to smooth over any disruptions and make Lemaître look good. “He wants everyone to know how truly sorry he is about Adrienne.”

  With a sob, Nina broke off. Seeming appalled by her own lapse in politesse, she clenched her hands. She looked away.

  I couldn’t help feeling affected by the obvious difficulty she’d been having. And still was. “Look, you don’t have to put on a brave front with me,” I assured her. “I know you did all you could last night.” I tried not to think of any specifics. “Adrienne must have been glad to have a friend by her side.”

  As I fumbled for a polite way not to bring up any morbid details, Nina nodded. “I did try to help her. I called for help as soon as I realized something was wrong! But it was too late.”

  Nina went on to describe how she’d found Adrienne vomiting blood . . . inadvertently lending credence to Danny’s overdose theory. She described the same kinds of sweaty, chilled feelings I’d experienced . . . accidentally lending a sense of terror to me.

  So much for omitting any morbid details. I got the impression Nina needed to talk, though. So I listened. Still, the whole exchange was pretty awkward. I didn’t know Nina very well. Plus, her skittish gaze kept jerking around the patio as she spoke, as though she needed to get busy with something else—probably reassuring all the other retreat attendees of Lemaître Chocolates’ undying concern for their well-being. One by one. For that personal touch. I knew what a taskmaster Christian could be. Which reminded me, unhappily, of my overdue report.

  Ugh. When was I going to find time to finish it?

  Prompted by the anxiety that thought provoked, I glanced again toward the all-chocolate buffet. Speak of the devil.

  Christian Lemaître had arrived, wearing a “business casual” getup composed of gray trousers, mauve oxfords, and a pink pique polo with the collar turned up. Very “Preppie Meets Eurotrash.”

  His whole look sported that distinctive sheen that only gobs of money could provide—of course—along with a fat gold Rolex. For all his faults, Christian had taken an outdated, dying company and turned it into a screamingly profitable one.

  One that was going to do even better, with my expert help.

  Back to Nina. “Were you and Adrienne close?” I asked.

  I faced her fully, feeling guilty for woolgathering.

  “Yes, we were. Very.” The PR exec gave me a weary smile. “Before the changeover, a lot of us were close. We lost so many people, unfortunately.” She had to be referring to Christian’s takeover of Lemaître, when he’d ousted his kindly (horny) uncle, Bernard. “But that’s business, isn’t it? It’s all for the best.”

  Frankly, that speech sounded pretty rehearsed, too. But I couldn’t fault Nina for giving it. She had a job to do, just as I did—and that job wasn’t gorging on pain au chocolat, the way I’d been considering doing ten minutes ago. Despite that fact, though, Nina did accept a demitasse cup of drinking chocolate from the server. We listened as he outlined the buffet by rote.

  Kindly, Nina didn’t point out to that nervous-looking waiter that she, as a Lemaître exec, knew everything there was to know about the all-chocolate buffet, down to the last muffin.

  My estimation of her went up a notch. People who are kind to wait staff get the thumbs-up from (former wage slave) me.

  After he nodded and left, Nina’s gaze fell on the flyer about Adrienne’s memorial service. I’d left it between me and Danny during my tirade. “Ah. You’re coming today, aren’t you?”

  “Nah.” I shrugged. “I’m jetting off to Barbados, instead.”

  She gawked. I felt bad for being flip. What can I say? I sometimes go glib under pressure. Comforting someone you barely knew was pressure. I couldn’t believe Danny had stuck me here.

  “Kidding.” I noticed Isabel and Bernard had arrived, too.

  “Of course.” Nina’s composure returned. “The memorial service was a last-minute thing, I’ll admit. But Adrienne deserves to be remembered somehow. The police don’t know how long it will take to find any relatives and notify them.” She gave a rueful head shake, then touched the flyer. “Graphic design isn’t my forte. After I finished dealing with the police and locking up the ballroom, I was up all night doing the layout.”

  With new insight, I looked at it again. Suddenly, it didn’t seem so heartless after all. Also, Danny’s championship of Nina was starting to make more sense. That’s a nice gesture, he’d remarked earlier in her defense. Maybe because he did like Nina.

  “It’s very thoughtful,” I said. I couldn’t help it.

  Far be it from me to kick a PR flunkey when she’s down.

  “Thanks.” Nina brightened. “Now I have to make my rounds. Thanks for the company, Hayden. I hope you will stick around.”

  As I cracked wise about my gridskipping ways (some people never learn, okay?), Nina absentmindedly gathered her clutch in one hand and my demitasse of drinking chocolate in the other.

  “Whoops!” I caught her before she made off with it. I gave her an apologetic gesture. “It looks as though we have something in common,” I said. Something besides being the only two people who want to honor Adrienne. I was starting to like Nina more by the minute. “We both ordered the same drinking chocolate.”

  Mutely, she gazed down at her cup. In her grasp, it clattered against the saucer. I wondered if she’d ever calm down. Poor Nina. She’d need to go to Barbados after this event.

  “That cup’s mine,” I clarified, reaching for it.

  “Oh!” She laughed. “They look identical, don’t they?”

  As she switched cups and then waved good-bye—off to chat with other retreat attendees—I frowned at my cup. It did look the same as Nina’s. Just the same way Adrienne’s green juice had looked the same as mine had last night. We’d both set down our drinks during the photo op. Was I in danger? If Adrienne had accidentally served herself my drink after retrieving them . . .

  She might have died in my place, just as Danny had surmised. With new concern, I examined the patio full of people.

  Nobody appeared the least bit sinister. Of course.

  Well . . . except Rex Rader. I expected him to look creepy. But even the Melt CEO had toned down the smarm-and-charm routine in the wake of Adrienne’s death. I noticed him leave the buffet with an empty plate in hand, approach Nina, and lower his head to speak with her. Rex put his free hand gently on Nina’s arm.

  His face looked somber, his demeanor attentive. Obviously, he’d noticed Nina’s distress,
too, and was trying to help.

  Given that, it was tough to hold a grudge against the guy.

  Sure, Rex had propositioned me (multiple times), but that wasn’t a crime. If it were, two-thirds of the male populations of Italy, France, and Spain would be incarcerated. Besides, Rex had sacrificed the streusel-topped chocolate-chip coffee cake he’d been eyeing in order to help Nina. That went above and beyond.

  Wow. Was I seriously thinking nice things about Rex?

  Just as I realized it, he caught me looking at him.

  He started. He glanced at Nina—who was talking to him—and frowned briefly. Then Rex held up his hand to me with his thumb and forefinger extended. Cheekily, he mouthed, Call me.

  For an incentive, he waggled his eyebrows. Then he slid his gaze down my tank-top-covered chest, over my skirted hips, all the way down to my bare legs. It was an unequivocal ogle.

  For a very physically gifted man, Rex was surprisingly inept at reading people. I was sorry I’d softened toward him, however briefly. I slung on my crossbody bag, signaled for the check, then scrawled my name and room number on the printout.

  Suddenly, sadly, I didn’t have an appetite. Not even for chocolate. Not even for white chocolate bread pudding and cacao beignets. That’s how I knew I had to do something—something to reassure myself that (A) I’d never have to consult for a creep like Rex Rader, and (B) nobody at the retreat was a murderer.

  Because if they were—and they were after me—how could I be safe? Ever? Several of the most prominent chocolatiers in the world were in attendance at the Lemaître retreat. So were a number of other industry insiders. These were my colleagues. If one of them wanted me dead, it was better to find out now, while my guard was up (and Danny was on hand for backup) rather than later, when I was blithely doing something like troubleshooting chocolate praline macaroons for Ladurée in Paris or attempting to improve those delicate, irresistible (but tricky) chocolate-hazelnut Kinder Bueno bars for Ferrero in Villers-Écalles.

  Scratch that. Just forget I mentioned any names, okay? For the record, I’m not confirming I’ve consulted for any big-time chocolatiers. Name-dropping isn’t cool, anyway. Moving on . . .

  I’d start, I decided, by casually chatting with all the principal players. Just to reassure myself that nobody else found anything suspicious about the situation with Adrienne. Just to make sure that I could move on safely. After that . . .

  . . . I’d write my report. Definitely. No question about it.

  But first, I decided as I ducked through an ironwork arbor bordered by flowering azure wisteria vines and then headed toward Maison Lemaître’s main building, I’d call Travis.

  I needed to check in. Also, it would be nice (aka reassuring) to hear my advisor’s sensible (aka distractingly sexy) voice over the phone line. Besides, it would be smart to check my financial situation. As far as I knew, I’d been sticking with the kooky requirements of my uncle Ross’s will—the stipulations necessary to guarantee myself an income stream.

  But what if I wasn’t? What if I hadn’t? What if my inheritance had crashed overnight? There would be no sense getting all principled about not working for Rex Rader if I had to do it to stay afloat. Things changed. Stuff happened.

  For instance, Adrienne probably hadn’t expected not to wake up today. That meant time was short. I don’t know if my friend’s untimely death had me feeling my own sense of mortality more intensely than usual or what, but all at once I needed to talk with Travis. Not because I doubted his financial acumen in managing things for me (because that would have been folly, plain and simple). The man was a genius. But just because . . .

  I couldn’t think up an excuse. Not under pressure with no all-chocolate breakfast goodies to fire up some neural circuits.

  Fine. I craved the sound of his voice. Okay? Happy now?

  Feeling a rush even as I pulled out my phone, I got ready to dial. I’d tell Travis I’d read an actual paper newspaper that morning, I decided. An old-school guy like him would probably be impressed by something so ridiculously traditional. Even a loosey-goosey type like me could tell that getting the news courtesy of Twitter hashtags probably wasn’t super responsible.

  My phone started ringing . . . just as someone tapped my shoulder.

  I must have jumped six feet in fright. LeBron James had nothing on me. Heart pounding, I whirled on the resort path.

  Bernard Lemaître stood there, twinkly-eyed and exuding concern. Being scared of him was like having a Mr. Rogers phobia. It just didn’t make sense. I gave a repentant grin.

  “Mr. Lemaître! You startled me.” I stowed my phone.

  Nothing less would do when the patriarch of chocolates came calling. Travis could wait. I’d been tapped by the king.

  “I’m sorry about that, Ms. Moore.” Bernard frowned. “Ms. Mundy? Ms. Mundy Moore?” He chuckled. “During the scavenger hunt yesterday, our conversation was mostly limited to ‘I’m coming!’”

  Oh yeah. That was because I’d been trying to roust him and the missus out from whatever hidey-hole they’d sneaked into to make out, I recalled. That made seeing him now a bit awkward. At his (likely unintentional) double entendre, I think I blushed.

  “It’s sweet that you and Mrs. Lemaître are so in love,” I told him, offering a handshake. His clasp was dry and firm, full of surprising vigor for a man his age. “Hayden will be fine.”

  “All right. Hayden.” Bernard glanced back toward the patio. It occurred to me that he must have left Isabel. I hoped she wasn’t performing an impromptu striptease. He probably was, too. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I wanted to ask you something.”

  “It’s no bother at all!” He was such a gentleman. I could see why the people of the Bay Area—especially kids—loved him.

  I resented Christian all the more for pushing him out.

  “But first . . . you weren’t leaving, were you?” Bernard gestured toward the path I’d been on. It led through the grass, past some pink floribunda roses, then circled a tinkling Italianate fountain before angling toward the valet stand. “We need you.”

  Technically . . . they did. The company’s latest pet project—the nutraceutical line—was a disaster. The alternative approaches I had in mind for my report would ameliorate that problem and open up new markets for Lemaître. But I’d been under the impression that Christian had hired me mostly in secret. So I was surprised to hear Bernard be so open now about my consulting mission.

  I hoped he didn’t ask me about Adrienne’s caffeinated truffles. I wasn’t 100 percent on my game so early in the morning. Plus, I didn’t want to turn over those bittersweet (potential) killers to anyone yet. They were hidden in my room, along with Adrienne’s packet of anhydrous caffeine.

  “No, I’m not leaving,” I assured him. “I’m just enjoying the grounds. You really have a breathtaking spot here.”

  Bernard nodded. He inhaled, taking in the sparkling water views. “Christian is a brilliant and accomplished man.”

  Okay. That was just eerie. Those were exactly the same words Nina had used to describe her boss. Exactly the same.

  “You must deserve some of the credit too,” I pushed, wondering why he didn’t have any animosity about being ousted.

  But Bernard only shrugged. “I’m happy where I am. Which is why I wanted to talk to you.” He leaned nearer, offering me a whiff of old-fashioned aftershave. He must have worn it for Isabel. That was sweet, too. “Nina asked me to talk at the opening session today—to give a eulogy, of sorts, for Ms. Dowling. But I’m not sure that would go over altogether well.”

  “Why not?”

  He flinched. Too late, I realized I’d stepped in it.

  After a brief hesitation, Bernard confirmed my blunder. Maybe I ought to have known his secret already? “Especially with Mrs. Lemaître,” he said gently. “She’s a bit . . . possessive. Hearing me speak about Adrienne, especially in the glowing terms she deserves . . .” Bernard broke off. “I just couldn’t say no to Nina. And I did know Adrienne quite
well. But after some thought—”

  Aha. “Enough said.” I held up my palm, embarrassed for both of us. A man like Bernard shouldn’t have had to make excuses for his wife. “I’d be happy to”—keep you out of the doghouse—“say a few words about Adrienne today. Don’t worry about it at all.” I could see how Nina’s PR-stoked dynamism could steamroller poor Bernard. “I’ll keep it on the down-low, too. With Nina.”

  The stark relief on his face surprised me. Was Bernard serious about Isabel being jealous of a deceased employee?

  I knew jealousy was a largely irrational emotion. But really? Isabel was a (stunning) former lingerie model. Could she truly have considered a dowdy (older) chocolatier like Adrienne to have been a rival for Bernard’s affections? If so, how far would she have gone to eliminate that potential rival?

  Far enough to kill her?

  There’d been no love lost on Adrienne’s side of the equation, either, I mused. Who knew what had gone on between her and Isabel before I’d come on the scene? My friend’s disparaging remarks about Bernard’s wife at the scavenger hunt had been the snarkiest things I’d ever heard her say. If there was some kind of bad history among Adrienne, Bernard, and Isabel . . .

  But that was crazy. Who was I, the new Miss Marple? I didn’t need suspects and theories and wild suppositions. I was seeing ghosts. What I needed, just then, was a proper eulogy.

  Because Adrienne deserved it. Because I’d made a promise.

  Because it was, in all honesty, the least I could do.

  At that, a fresh wave of melancholy struck me. I fidgeted (hey, maybe an attack of dancing feet could save me?), then leaped onto the first diversionary tactic I could think of.