Criminal Confections

by Colette London

  “I can’t!” I sniffled. “I lost it!” I gestured to my most reliable hiding place. “I left it where no one else could find it, in my best hiding place of all, the one that never fails—”

  “Inside the torn bottom lining of your wheelie bag?”

  I gawked at him. I nodded. “The frame hides lumps.”

  That niche had seen me through Vietnam, Mexico, Belgium, and countless other international locales. It was rock solid.

  “Yeah.” Danny looked away. “It’s not that secure.”

  “Well, I can see that now!” I wriggled out of his grasp, then paced away. “At least the nutraceutical truffles are safe,” I reflected. “I sent them to Travis for analysis, to try to find out if any of them contained enough caffeine to—” Kill Adrienne.

  Danny didn’t let me say it. He crossed his arms. “Travis?”

  “He’s got guys, too. Just like you. Guys who know things.”

  “Yeah. Line-item deductions and interest rates.”

  “I trust Travis. He’s the one who hooked me up with an expert on anhydrous caffeine in the first place.”

  The merger of pharmaceuticals and chocolate had been new to me. I hadn’t wanted to wade in without assistance on hand. Plus, I’d gotten a long, sexy chat with Travis out of the deal.

  Mindlessly, I went on tidying. Doing something—anything—felt better to me than standing around, dizzy and scared.

  “You should have trusted me.” Danny’s voice followed me. There was a pause. “Adrienne’s notebook is safe. I have it.”

  “You have it? Are you sure?” I didn’t know whether to be relieved or annoyed. I settled for argumentative. “What for?”

  “For keeping it out of the wrong hands,” he told me, already (sort of) earning his new salary. Given a choice, I would have preferred he protect me, but I was in no position to split hairs just then. After all, I had technically blundered into danger moments ago. “If it’s as valuable as you say it is, I figured someone would come after it. Sooner or later.”

  He was right. In a way, maybe this had been inevitable.

  “We’re switching rooms,” Danny announced. “Right now.”

  “No.” I frowned. “I’m not just running away!”

  “Or you’re running away,” he bargained. “Solid idea.”

  I can’t say I wasn’t tempted to leave. I was.

  I had the means, the motive, and (now) the opportunity to call it quits on the chocolate retreat and save my skin. Believe me, I wanted to live to fight another day (and taste another devil’s food cake with vanilla Swiss buttercream). But someone had just rifled through my stuff, clobbered me on the head, and left me for dead in a hotel hallway. Before, this whole situation had been troubling and confusing. Now it was personal.

  I might not have been ready to leave Maison Lemaître after my room was looted, but I was ready to unwind with that warm chocolate-fondue body wrap I mentioned before. Especially after Danny sternly marched me down to see the resort’s on-call physician to have my head examined (let’s just skip the obvious joke here), only to learn I had a concussion. It was supposed to clear up with rest and time. In the meantime, I’d been told I could expect headaches (check), dizziness (not anymore, thanks), trouble sleeping (I hoped not), mood swings (what else is new?), and, uh, one more thing. What was it? Oh yeah. Memory problems.

  Double check mark on that one, as it turned out. I still couldn’t remember . . . something about what had happened right before I’d been hit. The doctor had warned me to guard against repeated concussions. I’d let him know I’d do my best not to get walloped by surprise anytime soon, then I’d beat it out of there with Danny in tow, frowning at me. It had become his new default. But I guessed a guy didn’t get to be a professional security expert without being able to foresee every possible (grim) scenario. I figured Danny was probably preoccupied with thinking up ways I might wind up dead. It was possible I’d scared even him. It couldn’t have been fun for him, I knew, to have found me that way. He must have thought, for a second, that I was dead, too.

  Not that Danny would admit as much. He was way too tough for that. So, with the doctor’s visit duly completed, I decided to . . . Wait, where am I? (Just kidding. You’ve gotta laugh, right?)

  I was still scared, but I wasn’t scared away, if you catch my drift. It would take more than messing up my stuff—as unsettling as that had been—to make me abandon ship and leave.

  On the plus side, it was unlikely my room had been searched at random. That meant I had something someone wanted. Since I’d taken only Adrienne’s notebook, Rex’s portfolio, the (maybe lethal) nutraceutical chocolate samples, and the tiny Baggie of anhydrous caffeine Adrienne and I had used, I figured that meant there was more going on with someone at Lemaître than I knew.

  Christian wanted Adrienne’s notebook. So did whoever she’d been conspiring with. Rex wanted his portfolio. So might one of his competitors—because, after all, Melt had made a name for itself by becoming San Francisco’s “modern” chocolatier, right about the time that Christian had taken control of Lemaître. In a business like mine, intel is always valuable. Then there were the caffeinated chocolate samples . . . but I didn’t know who’d want them. A die-hard chocolate fanatic, maybe? A hungry housekeeper?

  Neither of those categories of people would ransack my room and then bludgeon me to get away with truffles—especially not when there were chocolate samples at every retreat session and more chocolates being given away (like my delicious frappe) on the resort’s grounds. Nothing made sense. Too concussed to trust my own judgment about things for a while, I swapped my stuff with Danny’s, then sensibly moved into his (militarily tidy) room next door. He took possession of my (now tainted) former room, moving with an ease that confirmed that Danny packed as lightly as I did. We were two peas in a pod.

  With that done, feeling more secure, I picked up the spa menu card, gazed at it . . . and realized there would be no decadent spa treatments for me today. Not now that I’d spent my precious free time unconscious on the hallway floor and/or being scrutinized by the resort’s physician.

  It was almost time for the banquet being held that evening to honor chocolate-industry leaders. There was a reason Nina had been preoccupied arranging it, I knew. The event was being held picnic style, outdoors on the Maison Lemaître grounds, at twilight. From my window, I could already see tables being set with snowy tablecloths. Resort staffers arranging strings of lights and freestanding torches. Other employees setting up a temporary dais for the guests of honor.

  The overall effect was already impressive, and it wasn’t even finished yet. Further meticulous preparation was needed. Otherwise the fête couldn’t work its necessary magic—which was, of course, making Christian (and Lemaître Chocolates) look good.

  Traditionally, I’d learned, the banquet was a highlight of the annual retreat—the time when Christian typically unveiled new products and innovative flavors. The banquet had to happen early enough that the attendees could buzz about whatever the “it” chocolate of the moment was . . . but late enough that no one would be tempted to start nitpicking the specifics. Thus, it was taking place now, smack-dab in the middle of the retreat.

  As marketing strategies went, the banquet was effective. So, I had to admit, was Christian. He’d almost single-handedly led Lemaître to shed its dowdy image and emerge a chocolate superstar. If there’d been a Steve Jobs of truffles, it would have been Christian.... And speaking of truffles, I’d expected him to ask me about the nutraceutical samples Adrienne had made—if not earlier, then certainly now. It was likely that he’d remembered their nondebut, so I’d thought he might decide to introduce them that evening, instead. To my surprise, he hadn’t.

  Unless he’d broken into my room to find them earlier . . . and had been disappointed in his search, of course.

  More likely, Christian had opted (wisely) to play it safe, I mused as I performed a few touch-ups in room 334’s bathroom mirror. After all, if those gilded caffeinated
truffles had accidentally caused Adrienne’s death, it would be a colossally bad idea to serve them to a couple hundred people tonight. Even Christian had to recognize when common sense should prevail.

  Except when he didn’t. Because as I was wrestling with my hair, trying to achieve something fancier than a ponytail (since I didn’t have too many clothes to work with in my vagabond’s existence), I heard a knock on the door of the room next door.

  That was Danny’s room, my (old) room. Intrigued— and, frankly, picturing a clandestine visit from Nina and/or Eden—I quit futzing with my hair and listened. Nina and the Chocolat Monthly reporter had both been giving Danny the eye during “Name That Chocolate!” I hadn’t noticed Danny returning their interest, but my old pal was pretty stealthy. When we were together, I never (for instance) caught him checking out another woman—but I knew he had to be doing so. What red-blooded guy didn’t? I liked to think Danny was just being respectful (unlike Rex), but I knew he had (shall we say) needs. Would he opt to satisfy them with the fresh—but overtly conniving—reporter or the married woman?

  I hoped neither. Just because Danny could do better. But on the other hand, I could have used some garden-variety scandal to liven up my mood. The painkiller I’d taken earlier had worked to crush the aches in my knee and elbow, but it was scarcely making a dent in my headache. Wincing at the pain, I listened closely.

  Christian’s loud voice made me recoil in surprise.

  “Where is Hayden?” he demanded to know. “I need her!”

  Frustratingly, everything went quiet. I could almost make out a murmur—probably Danny cutting short Christian. Then . . . “If she’s double-crossing me with the information she’s gathered for her report,” Christian said next, sounding loud and vindictive—and maybe drunk, too—“I swear I’ll make her—”

  Another murmur. Danny didn’t need to yell to get attention.

  Apparently, Christian didn’t need real evidence of treachery to accuse someone of it, either. That detail put a serious dent in his accusations about Adrienne’s “sabotage.” On the other hand, an out-of-control guy making threats not long after a murder? That guy looked pretty guilty to me.

  “She owes me that report!” Christian protested next, his voice muffled by the walls between us. “I want it. Tomorrow!”

  Inwardly, I groaned. My written consulting reports were the bane of my existence. I loved doing the work necessary to gather the information. I did not love cataloguing every detail of it.

  This time, at least I had good reasons for procrastinating. Also, it wasn’t due yet. Why was Christian pressuring me?

  As quickly as it began, Christian’s encounter with Danny ended. Danny said something else—probably something unprintable about Christian’s rampant Napoleon complex—then shut the door.

  I was still crouched in a ready-to-eavesdrop position when Danny arrived in my room, courtesy of his spare keycard. (He seemed to have multiples.) He came straight to the bathroom.

  “Oh, hi! Am I that obvious?” I asked, pretending to mess with my hair again. For added veracity, I’d even had the foresight to stick a bobby pin between my teeth. I arched a brow. “Exactly how did you know you’d find me in here primping?”

  Danny grinned. He leaned in the doorway, watching my efforts with shrewd eyes. “I knew you’d be here because this is the best place to listen in on my conversation with Christian.”

  “Your what?”

  He laughed, not buying my wide-eyed, born-again naïveté. “I’m pretty sure he thinks we’re having a hot and heavy fling.”

  “Well, of course. Why else would you be in my room?”

  Except the obvious—security detail. I was happy to let Danny play decoy, though. After discussing it, we’d opted not to report the break-in into my room—or our subsequent decision to swap room assignments. What was done, was done, anyway. Whoever had searched my room hadn’t taken anything, and I didn’t want to waste time giving the Maison Lemaître security (or the police) the same non-information I’d given Danny. Besides, now I had Danny for protection. He’d sworn to stick close by me.

  As proof, he’d outfitted himself appropriately. I examined his outfit for the banquet. “A suit, huh? Nice. But no tie?”

  He touched his collared shirt, inadvertently calling my attention to the muscles beneath. “Guys like me don’t own ties.”

  “Surely you need one for all those premieres you go to?”

  But Danny didn’t want to talk business. Not then. “You must have heard—Christian wants your report. Are you late again?”

  “You make me sound like you,” I hedged. There. Hair done.

  I applied some lip gloss while Danny watched me amusedly. “You probably shouldn’t antagonize Christian. He hired you.”

  Have I mentioned that Danny is very interested in growing my business? “Don’t worry,” I assured him, shimmying past to grab my clutch. “Even if my consulting tanks, I can pay you.”

  That was the wrong thing to say. Danny didn’t like talking about my newfound, undeserved wealth. You know . . . unless he was pushing me to spend some of it on hiring his security services.

  It occurred to me that I still needed to call Travis.

  “Are you ready yet?” He followed me. “You look ready.”

  I was. I sighed. “Do you think anyone would notice if I skipped this shindig and went to the spa, instead?”

  “Hey, for all you know, you’re being honored tonight.”

  I didn’t think that was likely. I essentially worked undercover. “Hey, I must be having one of those cognitive lapses the doctor mentioned,” I teased as I double-checked my keycard. “Because I think you just complimented me.”

  “Don’t get used to it.” Danny opened the door. “Try not to concuss yourself walking out the door this time, you klutz.”

  Both of us knew that wasn’t what had happened. But it made me feel better to pretend I hadn’t been targeted hours ago.

  Besides, that was more like it. “Anything you say, boss.”

  Then we headed downstairs and got ready to hear speeches.

  You know how awards shows sometimes “play off” the winners in the middle of their acceptance speeches? Generally, I hate that. I like hearing ordinarily restrained professionals gush about their spouses, directors, cast mates, agents, and caterers. But at the Lemaître Chocolates banquet, I found a new appreciation for cutting those speeches short. Because if you weren’t one of the aforementioned spouses, directors, cast mates, agents, or caterers, I learned at sunset while seated at one of those long, luxe tables in the green, lush surroundings of the resort’s grounds, then listening to tipsy, teary-eyed types ramble on about chocolate and “excellence” was boring.

  Drifting away from the tedium, I let my gaze wander, appreciating all the effort that had gone into staging the event. Nina had done a spectacular job coordinating things. You would never know she’d had cause to stress out about it. The food had been divine. The drinks had been delicious. And the dessert . . . well, it went without saying that triple-chocolate mousse torte with boozy Armagnac whipped cream and candied orange peel was out of this world. Sated and slightly sleepy, I listened to the Torrance Chocolates rep accept a “renaissance” award. She managed to thank her boss, her boss’s wife, her boss’s father—pretty much anyone related in any way to her boss.

  So far, Torrance Chocolates sounded like a lot friendlier place to work, I couldn’t help thinking, than Lemaître did.

  A breeze ruffled the tablecloths and threatened my hair. I tried to nudge a stray dark strand back into position, feeling grateful for the rapidly fading twilight and the flattering torchlight—which was doing an excellent job of hiding the hasty efforts I’d made getting ready. Away from the tables full of attendees, additional lights glimmered among the tree branches.

  Far across the grounds, the Golden Gate Bridge arched over the water. Its cables and towers were illuminated to highlight its Art Deco features and famous International Orange paint color. The ai
r smelled sweet with chocolate and redolent with flowers. It was warm. I was secure with Danny beside me. I hadn’t received an industry award, but in that moment, I didn’t care. Lulled by all the speeches, the fine food, the overflowing wine, and three kinds of chocolate, it seemed to me that I might have imagined everything—Adrienne’s death, my own amateur poking and prodding among my informal suspects, even my concussion.

  Then, a few awards (and subsequent speeches) later, Bernard took the stage and blew my newfound equanimity to smithereens. It started off mildly. Accepting an “initiator” award, the gray-haired Lemaître Chocolates founder beamed out at the audience.

  “First, I’d like to thank everyone for coming tonight.”

  Uh-oh. Stifling a yawn, I prepared for the worst. Usually, when someone led off with “first,” it meant they intended to go on. And on. And on. Plus, Bernard had that faintly hesitant cadence to his voice that the elderly—and probably the more deep-thinking members of society—sometimes had while winding up for a good, long rumination. We might be here awhile.

  Surreptitiously, Danny nodded at one of the servers—an attractive blonde—signaling for another Guinness. I silently requested more wine. As usual, we were on the same wavelength.

  “Especially my dear nephew, Christian,” Bernard was saying when I tuned in again, “who kicked this doddering old fool out of his comfort zone and into a new life.” He gave his trademark twinkly-eyed grin to the attendees. “I’m grateful for that.”

  He went on to natter about the subjects of chocolate, being on morning television in the ‘80s and ‘90s, and the challenges of marriage. Around me, people shifted. Bernard had officially entered the “play-off music” zone. But no one would have dared.

  I reminded myself that this man was the patriarch of modern chocolate making as we knew it. It was because of people like Bernard that I have a thriving industry to work in at all.