Criminal Confections

by Colette London

“How long did you know Adrienne?” I asked Bernard.

  In the pause that ensued, I realized that I couldn’t remember seeing him (or Isabel) during the mêlée last night.

  “A few years,” Bernard confided, his gray hair ruffled by the breeze. “Adrienne used to work for one of my charities. Christian persuaded her to work directly with Lemaître, instead.”

  He’d poached her, was what Bernard meant, I figured. But bonus points to Adrienne. She’d done charity work, too? The world really needed to quit thinking of her as a druggie.

  At the end of that tangential thought, I glanced back at Bernard. He looked . . . wistful. He was probably a sentimentalist.

  “Well, Adrienne was very talented. I can vouch for that.”

  “She was.” Bernard cleared his throat. “Very talented.”

  I was making the king of chocolate cry. Nobody wanted to hire a chocolate whisperer who made people cry. What was the matter with me, grilling Bernard like this? Next I’d be asking . . . “Did you have a few final moments with her, at least?”

  I barely murmured it. But Bernard heard me. He frowned.

  “I’m afraid I was with my wife at the time.” Frostily, Bernard glanced at his watch. It was much less ostentatious than his nephew’s. “Speaking of the time . . . I have to run. Thank you for your help, Hayden.” He shook my hand. “Enjoy the retreat.”

  That sounded, chillingly and finally, like a good-bye.

  Had I just committed career suicide by offending one of the most important people in the chocolate business? I hoped not.

  Before I could decide, Bernard was striding back to the patio, back to the all-chocolate buffet, back to his jealous (much younger) wife. He moved with all the strength and purpose that had enabled him to haul me away from the scary ridge’s edge during our scavenger hunt yesterday. If Adrienne had been killed in a more physical way, I mused, and I were a more cynical type . . .

  Well, I’d have to say that Bernard could have done it.

  But that was insane. Bernard Lemaître was a well-respected chocolatier and businessman . . . and a beloved city figure, too. He’d just asked me to make sure Adrienne was honored later today.

  How secretly evil could Bernard possibly be?

  I wasn’t there to pinpoint suspects and assemble alibis, I reminded myself staunchly. I didn’t know anything about that stuff. I didn’t want to, either. I’m a get-in-and-go gal. That’s it. I’ve got no expertise that doesn’t pertain to chocolate, traveling, or knowing how to get people to cozy up to me in a heartbeat. For whatever reason, strangers are happy to dish to me about their problems, challenges, and new ideas. That’s how I stumbled into my unconventional job in the first place—not to mention innumerable conversations on planes, trains, and city sidewalks all across the world.

  I guess I have “one of those faces” or something.

  But my tell me everything face was no help to me now. Not with the day I had ahead. Shaking my head over Bernard’s abrupt departure, I fished out my phone again. Within a few impatient steps (mine), Travis’s sexy rumble came over the line.

  “Hey, hot stuff!” I felt enlivened already. Moving on (and talking to my travel-phobic financial advisor) tended to have that effect on me. “Here’s a new one for you—got any tips for improvising a eulogy? Because I’m on the hook for a doozy in about half an hour.” I hauled in a breath, then gazed toward the rocky nature trail in the distance. Was that Danny running along the ridge? Had he foregone junky fast food for exercise? No way. Deliberately refocusing, I exhaled. “It’s got to be good, too.”

  “Come on now, Hayden.” Travis’s voice was like butter on toast. Hot fudge on ice cream. Crème fraiche on old-fashioned molten chocolate cake. It was meltingly good, is what I’m saying. “Everything I do is good. Give me all the details.”

  Grateful for his help, I did exactly that.

  Chapter 6

  After the chocolate retreat’s opening session-turned-memorial service (the hybrid nature of which still rankled me), I needed to get away. The ballroom where the session was held felt too packed, too corporate, and too reminiscent of the ballroom from last night. Plus, sitting still was getting to me.

  I stretched my legs with a walk to the resort’s swimming pool. Because most of the retreat’s attendees had stayed to network after the opening session, the place was tranquil. It was also luxurious. The pool boasted clear sky blue waters; the impeccable landscaping, comfortable lounge chairs, and lavishly outfitted cabanas surrounding it promised to pamper. Each cabana held its own stock of signature Lemaître chocolates. On the menu at the adjacent outdoor bar were cocoa martinis, cacao-mint mojitos, and chocolate porter. I was supposed to be networking. All I wanted to do was kick off my shoes and forget everything.

  It was probably too early to get boozed up. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t consider it, though. It had been a stressful day already. My eulogy had gone over well. So had everyone else’s.

  Unbeknownst to me (and apparently Bernard), Nina had hedged her bets when it came to remembering Adrienne. My tribute had been preceded and followed by fond remembrances from several Lemaître staff members, including Nina herself and (gallingly) Christian. Even Isabel had raised her Bloody Mary in a toast.

  So much for Isabel harboring undying resentment toward her supposed rival, I mused now as I did toe off my shoes. So much for Bernard’s eulogy to Adrienne being indicative of them having had any kind of special relationship, too. I bent to scoop up my flats, enjoying the familiar, faraway sounds of the Maison Lemaître kitchen staff preparing for service. So much for Adrienne not being remembered if I didn’t help make it happen.

  Bernard and I had both overestimated our own importance.

  Theoretically at least, the rest of my morning was loose. Attendees were supposed to make business connections, taste chocolates, and sample the cacao-themed spa services. The event was really one big ego stroke for Christian, who got to host the whole shindig and take credit for all Lemaître’s success, while Bernard was shunted to the sidelines of the company he’d built.

  I couldn’t be too disapproving of Christian’s tactics, though. If Bernard wasn’t bugged, why should I be? Besides, I was there because I wanted to benefit, too. That’s why I’d accepted Christian’s invitation—the deferred deadline on my report was just a bonus, though he seemed to have recanted that offer. I have an admittedly prestigious list of satisfied clients to my credit, but I can always use more.

  Speaking of which . . . on the phone, Travis had confirmed that my financial situation was holding steady. Just like he was. Meaning, I didn’t have to take on a sleaze like Rex Rader as a client. So part A of my two-part A.M. resolution was taken care of. As far as part B went . . . well, in the sunshiny light of another northern California morning, making sure that none of my fellow attendees was a crazed murderer seemed like a nonissue to me.

  At least it did . . . until Christian Lemaître sneaked onto the pool deck beside me, tapped me on the shoulder, and smirked.

  He might as well have stabbed me. I jumped that high.

  “If you’ve got time to resort, you’ve got time to report,” Christian gibed. He gave a tsk-tsk. “Don’t you have work to do?”

  I felt like Adrienne being badgered by him at the scavenger hunt. Heart pounding with pointless alarm, I shook my head. “I’m just enjoying Maison Lemaître,” I told him. What was with the Lemaîtres following me today, anyway? “As a retreat attendee.”

  Christian narrowed his eyes. As dirty looks went, his was second only to the doozy he’d aimed at Adrienne when he’d found her hunting chocolate-themed clues instead of molding truffles.

  It occurred to me that he’d seemed to have a beef with Adrienne, too. Just the same way Isabel Lemaître had. Had Christian’s issue with Adrienne been deadly serious, though?

  “I didn’t invite you so you could skulk off alone,” he said, giving nothing away except his usual autocratic attitude.

  “I didn’t come so I could be hounded.”
The amended deadline for my report was still a few days away. I had plenty of time.

  “You’re supposed to be networking,” Christian pushed, checking his watch. “What are you doing out here at the pool?”

  I thought about it. “Taking up Olympic diving?”

  He wasn’t amused. “I want you to be seen, Hayden.”

  “You’ve obviously ‘seen’ me ‘skulking,’ ” I shot back, not content to be his trophy. I might have mentioned before that I don’t like being bossed around. If I haven’t . . . I don’t. Especially by a dictatorial type like Christian. “What’s the problem?”

  He compressed his mouth, looking annoyed. If Christian was a secret murderer, it occurred to me absurdly, then I was an idiot to get on his bad side this way. What was I thinking?

  The man was going to write me a paycheck within days.

  “I’m sorry,” I amended hastily. I considered myself pretty brave—but not pointlessly stupid. “I’m being confrontational. I don’t mean to be. I guess we’re all still upset about Adrienne.”

  Christian gave me a noncommittal glance.

  “I understand you’d known her longer than most people at Lemaître,” I went on (knowing when to quit has never been my strong suit), “since you recruited her from Bernard’s charity?”

  But this time, Christian laughed. “That sorry excuse for a tax write-off? I can’t believe my uncle still talks about it.”

  I have to say, his answer didn’t give me the warm fuzzies. What kind of guy dissed charities? And his kindhearted uncle?

  I didn’t believe for one second that Bernard had calculatingly established a charity for its tax advantages.

  “He sounded proud of it,” I said. “What’s its mission?”

  “Officially? Offering training in the culinary arts to at-risk high-school students.” Christian made a face. “In reality? Adrienne was wasting her time in that dive.”

  “You saved her, then. She must have been grateful.”

  Christian scoffed. His face turned unexpectedly chilly.

  “Not grateful enough for her not to sabotage me,” he said.

  That was interesting. “Sabotage you?” Adrienne? “How?”

  “Forget I said anything.” Disappointingly, Christian backpedaled just when things were getting juicy. He crossed his arms over his chest, then shook his head. “It’ll all be swept under the rug now, anyway. You know how it is when people die.”

  “Nope. This is my first time. How is it?”

  He actually cracked a grin at that. Like I said before, I have a knack for making friends fast. Whether I wanted to stay friends with Christian was debatable. But I was interested now.

  “Everyone will forget what Adrienne was really like,” Christian told me. He looked disgruntled. “What she really did.”

  “Which was?” At his suspicious glance, I waved my shoes. “Come on. I’m a barefoot chocolate whisperer who’s never stayed in the same city longer than a month. Who am I going to tell?”

  With a nod that said you have a point, Christian relented.

  “She was selling secrets—recipes—to a rival chocolatier.”

  No way. I didn’t believe it. “Which one?” I breathed, sounding as giddy as a gossipy girl at a slumber party.

  It was a tactic that usually inveigled out secrets pretty effectively. Most people wanted to share. If you’re guessing that gushy sounds inauthentic on me, you’re right. It does. Fortunately, most people don’t notice. Unfortunately, Christian did. Either he hated gossip or was smarter than I thought.

  “I’m surprised you don’t already know which one, after all your time consulting at Lemaître,” he said. “Your reputation was better than that. I was told you offered a complete approach.”

  Ouch. Way to sucker punch a girl when she already had low blood sugar. Christian was more vindictive than I’d thought. He obviously had no compunction about casually playing dirty.

  But where did he draw the line when it came to the employee who’d (allegedly) sold him out? I wondered. If Christian believed Adrienne had committed corporate espionage, he might have felt justified in slipping her a deadly caffeine overdose.

  You know . . . as crazy as that sounded. And it definitely did.

  The thing was, mulling over potential reasons people may have wanted to murder Adrienne was starting to seem more reasonable by the minute. It occurred to me that Christian—almost solely among his staff—knew of the powdered caffeine’s hypothetically lethal effect. At least he did . . . if he’d read my preliminary report, which had dutifully outlined its dangers.

  I’m a procrastinator, sure. But I do turn in detailed work.

  “I can always ask Rex Rader,” I bluffed. “He’ll tell me.”

  It was a shot in the dark. Although I’d done my share of chitchatting with other attendees, Rex’s name came first to mind because he’d been pestering me. But somehow I struck a nerve.

  “Talk to Rader, and you’ll never work in the chocolate business again,” Christian threatened. “Speaking of which—”

  “Speaking of . . . which? My imminent blackballing? Or speaking of Rex?” I frowned. “Let’s be clear, so I know when to break out my woobie. If you’re trying to warn me that mmm-Melt is in trouble, I already knew that.” Because Rex tried to hire me.

  Like I’ve said before, I go glib when cornered. I’d hate to let Christian think he’d cowed me the same way he had Adrienne.

  On the verge of saying more, Christian snapped shut his mouth. He looked at me blankly. “Melt is in trouble?”

  Was he really so clued-out that he hadn’t heard? I knew Christian was ridiculously self-absorbed. But there was garden-variety narcissism . . . and then there was corporate hari-kari.

  I decided to school him. “You’re not saying it right,” I told Christian with a grin. “Try again. mmmm-Melt.”

  My sexed-up Melt pronunciation didn’t even merit a smirk. We’d been becoming such buddies a few minutes ago. On the other hand, we were discussing one of Lemaître’s rivals. Business was never a laughing matter. Not to men like Christian Lemaître.

  “Never mind,” he muttered. “This is a waste of time.”

  He turned to leave. As he did, I touched his arm. For a nouveau riche whiz kid, I noticed, Christian was pretty buff.

  If Adrienne had, instead, been pushed to her death . . .

  I have to say, Christian could have done it.

  “Wait!” I said. “If talking with Rex Rader is the kiss of death to my consulting business, I’d rather skip it.” Earnestly, I looked into his eyes. “Help a girl out, willya?”

  For a second, he almost relented. I gave all the credit to my bare feet and baby blues. I might not spackle on L’Oréal on a daily basis, but I do like to rock a slamming pedicure. Maybe Christian had a foot fetish, because he leaned even nearer.

  “I almost forgot to mention,” Christian said coldly. “I want that notebook Adrienne gave you. In my hands. Today.”

  Her notebook? I’d thought he hadn’t seen that exchange outside on the Maison Lemaître grounds. I remembered Adrienne handing it to me, looking panicky, warning me that she couldn’t allow Christian to have it—telling me she had to keep it safe.

  Was there more to that notebook than chocolate recipes?

  “You must mean my report,” I bluffed. “It’s coming up.”

  I didn’t want to betray Adrienne’s trust by doing anything else. She must have given that notebook to me for a reason.

  She must have brought it with her for a reason. But why?

  Luckily, Christian didn’t push me any further. “It’s company property,” he said. “I want it.” Then he gave me another smirk, popped his “where’s the kegger?!” pink collar at a sharper angle, and headed back inside to rejoin the retreat.

  After my showdown with Christian, I felt pretty shook up.

  I didn’t think he had deliberately hurt Adrienne. He might have wanted to hurt her, but I didn’t think he had. Not once I had a chance to consider things
rationally. Because, after all, Danny and I had run into Christian coming out of the ballroom kitchen ourselves. Since I had to trust my own eyeballs, Christian Lemaître had about as rock-solid an alibi as anybody could have.

  Unless he’d overdosed Adrienne and then doubled back to the kitchen to look especially guilty, I reasoned, he was clean. Spiteful and overbearing, but clean . . . aside from those incriminating fingerprint-size chocolate smudges I’d noticed on his shirtfront last night, that is.

  Adrienne had had chocolate on her fingers while working, I knew. Nobody dipped truffles without making a minimal mess. She’d been wearing foodservice gloves, of course. But if she’d had to physically ward off her killer, that struggle would have left evidence. Evidence similar to what I saw on Christian.

  Then, too, Christian did look guilty for another reason, I mused as I left the pool area. He’d been constantly pressuring Adrienne to work faster on the nutraceutical chocolates line. What if he’d tried to goose her performance by scooping extra caffeine into her “energy” drink? He didn’t have to have meant to kill Adrienne, I reasoned, to have done it accidentally.

  So far among my informal suspects, I had to count Mrs. Green-Eyed Monster, Isabel, and Mr. All-Business, Christian. As I bounded across Maison Lemaître’s grassy grounds sometime later with a spa menu in hand, I was forced to add a third suspect. Because while passing by the fountain, I glimpsed the same reporter Rex Rader had been feeling up at the welcome session last night. She was perched on the fountain’s Italianate stone, beside her former paramour, holding a cell phone in his face.

  In case this was something kinky, I didn’t want to linger.

  “What do you say to those people who claim there was bad blood between you and Adrienne Dowling?” the reporter was asking. Firmly. “After all, you did reportedly threaten her.”

  Intrigued, I slowed down. Casually, I looked back.

  Rex appeared trapped. I guessed the phone was recording.

  “Aw, baby, be reasonable.” He wiped sweat from his handsome temple, then attempted a smile. “You said you’d write a profile of me for your magazine—not come at me with a hatchet job.”