Criminal Confections

by Colette London

  Okay. Now I was getting annoyed. Remember how I told you I’m not easily ruffled? I guessed I’d spent too much time with Christian, because suddenly my live-and-let-live policy felt deeply shortsighted. “Exactly what are you suggesting?”

  He shrugged. “You tell me. How ruthless are you, Hayden?”

  I looked at Christian sitting there, ostensibly waiting for me to (I’m spitballing here) fess up to overdosing Adrienne to hide my “failed consultation” at Lemaître. My blood boiled.

  At least I knew now how ruthless he was. That he could even contemplate such a cold-blooded scheme spoke volumes about him.

  At the very best, he had a really morbid sense of humor.

  With effort, I kept my cool. “Look, Christian. I’m in demand. I intend to deliver my report—on our agreed-upon due date—and then go on to my next consultation. In the meantime, you should really have a look at your abysmal house amenities. Trust me, they need work. The fact that you aren’t aware of their defects only shows exactly how much you need someone like me.” Not that it was going to be me. Not after this. “Consider that info a parting gift,” I added, just in case my intentions weren’t clear. “Oh, and by the way—your killer spa equipment needs some serious refurbishment, too. See to it.”

  I’d already left the pertinent details with Portia and Britney. I got up, intending to leave Christian sitting there, looking chocolaty and stunned. He obliged me—for a few seconds.

  Then he applauded. “Bravo! Now I want you more than ever!”

  Well . . . “You’re just going to have to go on pining, then.”

  There was no way I was taking another job with Christian. Not now. Not in this crazy place. I didn’t even break my stride.

  I’d almost made it to the office door by the time he reacted. “Hayden, wait!” His chair creaked loudly behind me. Candy bar wrappers rustled as Christian trod over them. Amid the thudding of his treadmill, he followed me. He grabbed my arm.

  I froze, fighting an urge to unleash some choice self-defense moves on him. It was Barcelona all over again.

  I clenched my jaw. “Don’t touch me, Christian.”

  He let go, then spread his arms wide. “You’re mad? Hey, no. Don’t be mad about that.” Hastily, Christian circled around to face me, partially blocking the door. He nodded toward his desk. “That, back there, between us? That was just a technique I learned in B-school. Pressure-cooker interviewing. You passed!”

  “I’m thrilled,” I deadpanned, then opened the door.

  At least I tried. It thudded into Christian’s shoulder.

  “Whoa!” He chuckled, rubbing his arm with a fake whimper. He shook his head. “Easy there with the killer instincts!”

  I frowned, then hesitated. As long as we were being all chummy, I realized, I might as well push a little harder.

  “Speaking of killer instincts,” I said, crossing my arms as I faced him again, “where were you when Adrienne died?”

  Christian balked. Then seeming enlightenment crossed his face. He pointed at me. “Hey—clever! You double-bluffed me.”

  I’d done no such thing. I arched my eyebrow, waiting.

  At least he didn’t really think I was a murderer. It just went to show you—sometimes conjecture could get out of hand.

  “I was with my uncle,” Christian told me, semi-huffily.

  Hmm. Bernard told me he was with Isabel, I remembered.

  “And Isabel?” I pushed. Maybe they’d made a threesome.

  No, not that kind of threesome.

  Christian made a face. Plainly, there was no love lost between him and his uncle’s younger wife. “Who knows? Plastered someplace would be my guess. Probably topless, if I know her.”

  I guess I wasn’t the only one who’d noticed Isabel’s proclivity for nudity. Could she and Christian have . . . Nah. No way.

  “Well?” Impatiently, Christian eyed me. “What’s your decision?” He hesitated. Then, “Don’t think I didn’t recognize that tactic you just ran on me, either. I’m savvy to that. Sun Tzu could have taken notes from me on The Art of War.”

  I didn’t know what kind of “B-school” gibberish he was rattling on about. All I wanted to know was if Christian had an alibi for the night of Adrienne’s murder. Now I did.

  I didn’t believe it, but I did. Either Christian or Bernard was lying about his whereabouts. But until I saw Bernard . . .

  “No, I don’t want Adrienne’s job,” I told Christian in no uncertain terms. “No one can fill her shoes. Not even me.”

  Then I gave him a pointed look, waited for him to back up, and sailed through the doorway, past the obviously eavesdropping (and now far less ennui-filled) admin. Somewhere, I figured, Eden’s girl-reporter instincts had to be clanging like crazy.

  She’d obviously scrounged up a few informants during the chocolate retreat. If she wasn’t there within half an hour to interview Ms. Bored Blonde for Chocolat Monthly, I’d eat one of Christian’s economy candy bars . . . with a waxy Magic Shell coating poured on top and a discount diet soda to wash it all down with.

  If I was going to terminate my taste buds, I decided in a burst of recklessness, I might as well go all the way.

  Chapter 13

  I wanted to have a steadying recap with Danny next (not to mention try to find something more substantial than ice cream for at least one meal that day), but fate wasn’t on my side.

  First, I couldn’t find Danny in his adjoining room (which may have been a good thing—for him—given that he’d kinda/sorta been going on a date with the blond server earlier). Next, I was too late for lunch and too early for Maison Lemaître’s all-chocolate happy-hour spread (which was definitely a good thing for my waistline, but left me too hungry to think straight). Room service was a possibility, but I don’t like holing up in my room with a tablecloth-covered cart. (It makes me feel like a luxurious prisoner enjoying a gourmet-catered lavish last meal—pampered, yes, but ultimately destined to come to a bad end.)

  Nobody traveled as much as I did and survived on room service chow. Driven by my rumbling stomach out onto the resort’s posh grounds, I shaded my eyes, looking for another source of sustenance. Yesterday there’d been a chocolatier selling chocolate-chip gaufres de Liège—the scrumptious, buttery waffles that Belgians made, with crackly caramelized sugar bits inside. One bite would transport me straight to Ghent—and at least keep me from keeling over from low blood sugar. But today that tent was shuttered, probably out of respect to Rex.

  At least a few people—besides me and Nina—were sorry Rex was dead. The city’s newspapers had done a 180 on Melt’s CEO in their coverage, deeming him everything from “respected” to “innovative.” Several of Rex’s tearful exes had been interviewed, too, blinking rapidly to safeguard their mascara and letting their artfully lip-glossed lips wobble just so. Their numbers had posthumously confirmed Rex’s reputation as a ladies’ man and made for a day’s worth of salacious local news. I couldn’t help feeling that Rex would have been thrilled by all the attention.

  A breeze lifted the ends of my ponytail and pulled me back from contemplating Rex’s premature demise. Forcing my attention on the mission at hand (find a nosh, stat!), I looked around.

  Nearby, the valets ran to and fro while parking cars. I watched them for a minute, wondering which one of them might have covered for Isabel’s getaway. Maybe the hunky surfer dude?

  The whole setup didn’t look super secure. Testing it, I sailed past the valet stand, glanced at Mr. Hang Ten, then beelined toward the remote lot designated as valet parking.

  As I expected, he followed me. “Uh, miss? Yo, wait up!”

  I kept going, wondering if I could brazen it out.

  Nope. “Hey! You’re, like, not supposed to be here!”

  I stopped while eyeing all the parked cars, arrayed neatly beside some trees. Isabel’s Mercedes would have been parked in this lot, right alongside all the BMWs, sporty MINI Coopers, Jaguars, Lexuses (Lexi?), and hybrids. (Hey, it was California.) But so fa
r, it looked as though Isabel probably couldn’t have sneaked in and retrieved her car herself—not without catching the attention of one of the Dudley Do-Rights of valeting.

  “Oh, hey!” I turned, trying to look apologetic. “I, um, I’m, like, totally sorry to bug you?” I said in my best So-Cal patois, giving him the old baby blues. “But I think I must have, like, left my purse in my car, or something? You know?”

  He nodded. “Yeah, that’s a bummer, dude.”

  “I know, right?” I played with my ponytail, then went pigeon-toed like a socialite on the red carpet. “So, like, I was just hoping to, you know, look in my car? I didn’t want to bug you? But I really need my purse? You know, girly stuff and all?”

  All my up talk was giving me a headache. But I had girlfriends who lived the full Valley Girl lifestyle, complete with beaches and malls. Sometimes their lingo came in handy.

  This was one of those times. “Sorry,” Surfer Guy said, giving me a goofily elaborate frown while checking out my bare legs in my shorts. He shook his shaggy blond locks. “Guests aren’t supposed to be over here. It’s, like, a liability issue?”

  Great. Now we were both doing it. “Really? For reals?”

  “I’m afraid so.” He glanced back at the valet stand.

  As he did, I caught sight of a uniformed resort employee striding toward the farthest row, jangling keys in her hand.

  “But it’s my first day!” I improvised, getting in deeper. I bit my lip. “And, like, my name badge is still in my purse?”

  “Oh.” Comprehension dawned. He smiled. “You want employee parking. It’s on the far end.” He gestured to the last row.

  “Oh! Thanks!” I followed his pointing finger, then pouted a little. “Should I, like, go a different way next time? I mean, this has been fun and all?” I gave him another dose of goo-goo eyes. “But the next guy who busts me might not be so cute?”

  Surfer Guy broadened his grin. He puffed out his chest a little, too. “Yeah. You want the path over there.” Helpfully, he put his arm around my shoulders. He turned me to face it. “See?”

  I did. “Oh! Thanks!” I enthused. I gave him a flirty wave. “Well, see you next time? Okay? Thanks, like, a million!”

  I scampered off with a little extra wiggle, knowing he was watching, then veered toward the farthest row of parked cars, feeling a little disgusted with myself for my ditzy subterfuge.

  If Danny could have seen me, he would have broken a rib laughing. But as I’ve told you before, I can be a chameleon when it comes to fitting in. Sometimes that’s a pretty useful skill.

  At least now I knew, I told myself as I fell into step behind two more (uniformed) employees, then gave Surfer Dude a twee over-the-shoulder wave, how Isabel could have sneaked out her Mercedes and left Maison Lemaître unnoticed last night. All Isabel would have had to do was wait for a little shielding darkness, head for the designated (unmonitored) end of the valet parking lot, then make a play for her car when the valets were busy elsewhere. It would have been easy—except for one thing, I reflected as I caught sight of one of the resort’s typically understated signs. FOR PROTECTION OF VEHICLES AND GUESTS, the sign informed me, THIS AREA IS MONITORED WITH SECURITY CAMERAS. PLEASE BE ADVISED.

  That was a new wrinkle in my breakdown of Isabel’s getaway. It was a potential big lead, too. How many other security cameras might be in use on the Maison Lemaître property?

  I had to find out. I knew just the guy to help me.

  If I told you I collapsed cold, faint from hunger, right about now, you shouldn’t be surprised. Ice cream (however delicious) is not an all-day meal. My stomach growled in protest as I ducked away from the parking lot while Surfer Guy’s back was turned, then hurriedly doubled back toward Maison Lemaître.

  Right about then, Danny’s sad leftover banana sounded pretty good. I felt light-headed with hunger and wobbly from my still-healing knee injury . . . which might have explained why I weaved on my way to meet up with Danny. Deciding it was better to be safe than double concussed, I sat on a nearby bench beneath a ginkgo tree. Its leaves rustled in the bay breeze, lending a sense of serenity to the resort’s lush surroundings.

  As I looked out over the acres of grass and landscaped shrubs, the rows of flowers and the distant bay, I could almost forget that two people had died at Maison Lemaître this week. In the distance, the Golden Gate Bridge arched over the sparkling water, freed of the blanket of fog that had cloaked it earlier.

  I could really learn to love it here, I knew. I liked the Noe Valley, the Mission, SoMa . . . all of it. I liked San Francisco’s temperamental weather and its attitude of rebel nonchalance. I even liked climbing its hilly streets, which rivaled the steep, labyrinthine rues of any number of seaside Côte d’Azur villages.

  I didn’t want to think about Christian’s preposterous offer to take over Adrienne’s job. My mind was made up. Still, I couldn’t help mulling over everything it would mean. A place to unpack my duffel for good. A home base for family and friends. A routine that didn’t involve airports and customs checks and jet lag, but did include normality, coziness . . . a cuddly dog of my own.

  Sometimes, when striding through a piazza on my way to a job or dodging commuters headed for the Yamanote Line in Tokyo, I spotted a street vendor or a boutique selling pet supplies. Sometimes I stopped to examine the food bowls and leashes, whimsical collars and tiny outfits made for four-footed friends.

  Sometimes I even imagined I saw a dog coming right toward me. I blinked. Nope. That was a real dog. It was Isabel’s dog.

  What was Poopsie doing here on her own? Isabel had seemed to cherish her little Yorkie. I couldn’t believe Isabel would have left—of her own volition—without her travel companion.

  Cautiously, I held out my hand. “Poopsie! Here, girl!”

  The dog perked up. She glanced at me, tongue lolling.

  “Come on!” I slapped my thighs, hoping I hadn’t gone off the deep end and hallucinated Poopsie altogether. “Come here!”

  Obediently, the Yorkie did. Her collar tags rattled.

  When she was within reach, I cooed. I caught her—not that Poopsie put up a struggle. She all but collapsed in my grasp as I hauled her onto my lap. She slobbered on my bare arm while I examined her. She must have been outside awhile, I realized. Her formerly pristine fur was dirty and studded with burrs.

  “Where have you been?” I baby-talked, petting Poopsie. For one crazy moment, it occurred to me that the Yorkie was technically a stray. She’d been abandoned. I could keep her!

  I was already making wild plans to ditch my wheelie bag and invest in a small pet carrier when I remembered: Bernard.

  He’d given Poopsie to Isabel. The Yorkie belonged to him.

  Resigned to doing the right thing, I got up.

  Then I sat again, the dog still cradled in my arms. Her little face turned to me quizzically. Her tongue lolled. Aw.

  A few minutes wouldn’t hurt, I told myself. With a fast glance around to make sure no one was watching, I gave Poopsie a pat on the head, then gave in to baby talk all over again.

  Hey, it was my only chance. I was taking it. For now.

  By the time I made it to Bernard’s (and Isabel’s) deluxe cottage on the outskirts of Maison Lemaître’s main buildings, I was in love. Poopsie had the most adorable quirks, the most brilliant melty brown eyes, the most lovable canine demeanor ever. When I’d sat down with her, she’d collapsed trustingly against me like a real, live teddy bear and then gazed up at me adoringly. And okay, so there’d been a tiny bit of that gooey, boogery stuff at the corner of her eyes, and she had dribbled dog slobber all down my couture sweatshirt, but I didn’t care.

  Poopsie and I were forever. Or for the next ten minutes.

  Still intending to do the right thing, I ascended the steps of Isabel and Bernard’s cottage, then stood on the tidy door mat and looked around interestedly. In the daytime, the place was a Pacific beach cottage in miniature, with a covered front porch, Craftsman-inspired construction and t
rim, and a crisp pastel paint job that coordinated with the main resort’s subdued tones.

  The cottage was, in a word, well-appointed. (Or is that two words? Do hyphens count?) Either way, every similar cottage on the resort’s grounds offered two primary benefits: privacy and spaciousness. Here, unlike in my room, a retreat attendee could play the bongos, indulge in scream therapy, or blast Beyoncé at full volume without disturbing anyone. It was the perfect place to cheat on your husband. Sabotage your nephew. Or simply disappear from in the dead of night, abruptly and mysteriously.

  Before I could knock, the door opened with a whoosh. Bernard stood there, white-faced and considerably less twinkly-eyed than usual, staring at me with a mixture of hope and fear.

  As I watched, his face crumpled. “I heard footsteps.” He swallowed hard, trying to compose himself. “You’re not Isabel.”

  I wasn’t the police, either, come to give him bad news about his wife. I could see that dawn on him as I waited.

  Bernard’s gaze dropped to Poopsie. “You found her!”

  I didn’t want to let her go, either. “She was wandering around the grounds. I recognized her and brought her home.”

  “Thank you, Hayden.” Bernard’s face softened. He looked at me, his expression less muddled than before but no less forlorn. “Please, come inside. I’ll get you some iced tea.”

  Chivalrously, he stepped back. He nodded invitingly at me.

  I cast a guarded glance over my shoulder. Given all the scary things that had been going on at Maison Lemaître, it probably wasn’t wise to sequester myself with anyone who wasn’t Danny. But I figured I could always outrun elderly Bernard.

  Besides, I was still starving. From my vantage point, I glimpsed an extravagant spread of fresh fruit, crusty baguettes, nuts, and a variety of artisanal cheeses, all neatly laid out on the cottage’s homey, white-painted sideboard, just steps from its flowery upholstered sofa. I decided I had to come in.

  Somebody had to help Bernard eat all that food, right?