Criminal Confections

by Colette London

  Danny looked down at himself. “You’re just figuring that out now?” He grinned. “I think you need glasses.”

  We both knew I didn’t. But there was no point going there.

  “What’s more important is that Adrienne’s notebook wasn’t in there,” I informed him, grateful that I’d stowed it elsewhere before leaving for my rendezvous. “It’s safe and sound. Although I still don’t understand why Adrienne brought it to the chocolate-themed scavenger hunt in the first place. Even if Nina was right—and Adrienne didn’t realize how valuable it was—that doesn’t explain why she was carrying it around with her.”

  “Maybe she needed it to work on her chocolates?”

  “Maybe.” But if that had been the case, I knew, Adrienne would have needed it to finish the gilded caffeinated truffles we’d worked on together at the last minute for the reception.

  “Well, what matters is that her killer’s been brought to justice,” Danny said in a voice that meant he was ready to move on. He gazed toward the Golden Gate Bridge. “Now what’s next?”

  “The same thing that’s always what’s next,” I told him, joining his unsentimental gaze toward the bay. “Moving on.”

  But first, I had a few people to square things with.

  First up was Christian. I felt bad for suspecting him of murder (wouldn’t you?), but more pressingly, I had a report to deliver to him. So I went back to room 334, pulled myself together, and grabbed my masterwork before I ran out of juice.

  This time, Ms. Bored Blonde (Christian’s admin) wasn’t stationed outside his office. So I hefted my report and took myself inside. At his desk, Christian scowled at me.

  “I have to go speak to the police,” he complained. “Again.”

  Leave it to him to make Nina’s arrest all about him.

  “I won’t keep you long.” I plunked my report on his desk. “There. Job done. Follow my recommendations, and Lemaître will flourish. If you have any questions, you know how to reach me.”

  Via Travis, of course. All my official business was channeled through him. Travis said it was because I was too softhearted—because I would take every hard-luck chocolatier job that came around. I didn’t think Travis was right.... However, looking at Christian’s woeful face, I began to have my suspicions about me.

  Trying to ignore my (supposedly) inherent softheartedness, I turned and headed for the door. Christian’s voice stopped me.

  “Hey, Hayden?”

  “Yes?” I waited for him to try to make amends. After all, there were good reasons I’d suspected him of cold-blooded murder.

  “When you talk to Eden from Chocolat Monthly about me, try to make me sound good, okay? I’d really appreciate it. Thanks.”

  I laughed. “I won’t be talking to Eden.”

  “But if you do, just remember to talk me up. Thanks.”

  “I won’t.” I raised my hand. “Good luck, Christian.”

  I made it a few more feet before . . . “Uh, Hayden?”

  I sighed—then smiled liked the professional I was. “Yes?”

  “Are you sure,” Christian prodded, “you won’t reconsider that head chocolatier job?”

  “I’m absolutely sure.” I wanted out of this cabal of liars, thieves, and backstabbers. Because even though Christian had turned out to be innocent of murder, he wasn’t innocent.

  Besides, now that I’d glimpsed that upcoming SFO flight reminder on my phone, I was feeling pretty keen to get going.

  Once a globe-trotter, always a globe-trotter, I guessed.

  “I’m, uh . . .” Christian cleared his throat. He frowned, then gave me an honest look. “I’m sorry I was such a jerk about your report. Nina was really riding me about it. Every time you dodged me and I came away empty-handed, I felt like a loser.”

  Did he want me to comfort him? “Forget about it. It’s fine.” That was the closest I could bring myself to reassurance.

  But Christian wasn’t done. “So much so,” he went on—speaking rapidly, as though he didn’t want to lose his nerve—“that I’m quitting Lemaître. I’m giving the company back to Bernard and going to work for someone else, doing what I really love.”

  “Contract dictator work? Belittling people full-time?”

  “Very funny.” He rolled his eyes. “Corporate raiding.”

  That sounded about right to me. “Good luck,” I said.

  God help the companies he tried to take over. I could only hope that none of them were good chocolatiers, like Torrance.

  Then I took myself out of there before Christian could headhunt me into abandoning chocolate to rule the world instead.

  The funny thing about packing, I’ve learned over the years, is that it’s clarifying. While trying to fit all your worldly possessions (in my case, I do mean all of them) into a 22-by-18-by-10-inch bag weighing not more than fifty-one pounds, it’s necessary to figure out what you really need and when.

  Will this scarf double as a poolside sarong and a mosquito net? you ask yourself. Can I get by with only one pair of shoes, even on cobblestone streets in a European village? How much duct tape is really necessary for a flight to New Zealand with one layover?

  The answers to those questions can be more illuminating than you might think. For me, packing up my things to leave the Maison Lemaître chocolate retreat behind me was . . . bittersweet.

  Once I was gone, I knew, Adrienne would fade from my memory. Just a little. So would Bernard and Poopsie, Isabel and Rex, Christian and the murderous chocolate-fondue body wrap machine. Thankfully, so would Nina. I felt much less melancholy about that eventuality. I was still shaken by her breakdown.

  I guessed desperation made people do desperate things. That was true even when those people had regular access to cocoa oil massages, cacao-bean-and-espresso-nib pedicure scrubs, and molten chocolate cakes (an oldie, but a goodie) with ice cream.

  In the bright light of another springtime California morning, Nina’s desperation felt much farther away from me than it had last night. I knew it would fade even more in time. I was glad that I’d caught her and relieved that I’d escaped. I didn’t want my obituary to be printed for a long time yet. I definitely didn’t want it to read “death by chocolate” as the cause of my demise. The irony of that would be too preposterous.

  As clarifying as my packing ritual was—and as satisfying as crossing off Lemaître Chocolates from my to-do list was—it didn’t take long. Within moments of hearing Danny’s shouted (now routine) “Going for a run!” through the connecting door, I was up and in action. I was headed for breakfast.

  This time, on the very last day of the chocolate retreat, I was getting some of those chocolate goodies—and I was getting them hot. But first, I had one more thing to do. So I grabbed Adrienne’s notebook, skated downstairs, and caromed onto the grounds. As usual, they were stunning. So was the view. But I was content (for now) to keep moving. Anything else was a dream.

  Seeing my little Yorkie buddy scamper up to me as I approached Bernard’s cottage made me falter a tiny bit. But only that. Because as lovable as Poopsie was, I wasn’t in the market for anything that would make me settle down. A dog. Travis. Or—

  Isabel Lemaître ran in her dog’s wake. “Poopsie! Come here, ma petite!” Laughing, she scooped up the Yorkie. “Ma belle!”

  On the porch behind her, Bernard watched inscrutably.

  On the walkway leading to the resort’s private cottages, a very well-built man stood wearing track pants, sneaks, and a muscle shirt. Hank, I presumed. Everything fell into place.

  Isabel had run off with Hank, the personal trainer.

  She glanced up, spotted me, and smiled. “Hayden! Mon amie!”

  Just as though it were perfectly normal to do such a thing while her lover and (I’m assuming) soon-to-be ex-husband looked on, Isabel rushed over to give me les bises—kisses on the cheek.

  Have I mentioned that lingerie models can get away with things that ordinary mortals (like me) simply can’t?

  For a long, a
wkward (for me) moment, Isabel held my hand. She smiled at me. “Hank and I are in love! So in love that I simply forgot to bring my precious petite Poopsie!” She nuzzled the dog, still holding her Yorkie in her other hand. “I had to come back to get her, of course. And to explain to Bernie.”

  Isabel gave her husband a jovial nod. He nodded back.

  It seemed there were no hard feelings between them.

  “But I simply cannot linger! Good luck, Hayden!”

  Then, as unexpectedly as she’d appeared, Isabel hugged Poopsie closer, released me, and rushed across the grass to Hank. He caught her in his arms, gave Bernard a wave, then left.

  Left alone on the porch, Bernard lowered his arm. Standing there all white-haired and abandoned, he no longer looked scary. He only looked . . . well, “relieved” was the best description. Probably because he didn’t have to worry about what had happened to the missing Isabel. Bernard really had only been grieving, I guessed, not losing his mental sharpness to rapid-onset dementia.

  My supposition was confirmed when I reached him. The founder of Lemaître Chocolates greeted me with a hearty handshake. “Hayden! I’m so glad you’re here.” He lowered his voice, then gave me the full twinkly-eye treatment. “I got the impression last time that I scared you, and I’m sorry.”

  He’d petrified me. Now I laughed it off. “No worries.”

  “I didn’t mean to,” Bernard explained. “I’ve been a little up and down lately. Ever since losing Adrienne, you see. The resort physician gave me some medication to help, but I think it was making things worse. I felt so foggy all the time. So moody.” Dolefully, Bernard shook his head. “It’s not like me.”

  “I never thought it was.” Only for a few seconds. Over and over again. Gladly, I patted his arm. “You heard about Nina?”

  He nodded. “It’s better to know. Just as with Isabel.” He scanned the resort’s grounds. In the distance, his (soon-to-be) ex-wife walked arm in arm toward the valet stand with buff Hank. “Isabel knew that my heart really belonged with Adrienne. That only became clearer to us both after Adrienne died so suddenly.”

  I understood. “That brings me to the reason I’m here.” As Bernard watched interestedly, I pulled out Adrienne’s notebook. With a heartfelt sense of rightness, I handed it to him. “It’s not a diary, like you wanted, but I think you should have this.”

  “Thank you.” Seeming moved, he ran his wrinkled fingers over the notebook. When he lifted his gaze to mine, Bernard seemed contemplative. “Despite what I told you before, I don’t think there ever was a diary,” he confessed. “Adrienne said she was bringing it to the scavenger hunt, full of details about our affair, to show Isabel—to try to force me into making a decision. She wanted me to get divorced, but I was too worried about hurting Isabel.” He gave a sheepish smile. “I guess I shouldn’t have been. I’m an old softy like that sometimes.”

  I believed him. Plus, now I knew why Adrienne had brought her chocolate notebook with her. Like the one I’d brought to my ill-fated meeting last night, it had been a decoy. A bluff.

  Adrienne must have changed her mind about confronting Isabel, I realized. She’d tried, but she had been too kindhearted to go through with it. That explained why she’d seemed so torn about having drawn a Team Yellow T-shirt when I’d first run into her that day. It explained why she’d given me her notebook, too.

  She’d realized, with Christian bearing down on us both, that exchanging her notebook would make it seem as though she’d needed to consult with me about something work related. That action would have ostensibly explained her presence there (against Christian’s rules). It turned out that I’d been Adrienne’s cover story for attending the scavenger hunt. Nothing more. I’d been drawn into all the intrigue just by being there.

  Way to go, Hayden, I thought ruefully. Come for the chocolate—stay for the murder!

  With the last piece of the puzzle in place, I smiled at Bernard. “I hear you’re back on top at Lemaître Chocolates.”

  Bernard nodded. Now that he was unmedicated, he seemed much sharper than before. “I am. Christian and I still have a few details to work out, but I’m ready to get back to work.”

  “You look it.” He did. With his gingham shirtsleeves rolled up and his khaki pants freshly creased, Bernard looked ready to resume his role as San Francisco’s grandfather of chocolate. “I’m happy for you, Bernard. I really am. I’m sorry we didn’t meet under happier circumstances, but I’m glad to know you.”

  “And I, you.” He gave a faint, chivalrous bow. “Good luck, Hayden. May the chocolate always temper correctly for you.”

  I grinned at his use of our industry lingo. As a substitute for part of that old Irish proverb, it seemed apt to me.

  “You too, Mr. Lemaître.” I shook his hand, then left.

  I still had one more thing to do . . . and it was a doozy.

  At our shared breakfast table at the final Maison Lemaître all-chocolate brunch of the retreat, Danny gave in first.

  “Ugh. That’s it!” He dropped his napkin on his chocolate-smudged plate with a groan. “I can’t take any more.”

  I looked. “You haven’t even finished your French toast.”

  “It’s got chocolate chips in it. It’s dessert.”

  “Or your almond croissant with caramel and chocolate.”

  “Why is it called a croissant when it’s rectangular? In French, croissant means crescent. You know that as well as I do.”

  “Or your white-chocolate whiskey bread pudding with cherry sauce and candied almonds. The drizzle of ganache on top is—”

  “Too much! Plus, it’s alcoholic. Even I don’t want whiskey at breakfast—at least I don’t if I haven’t been up all night. Maybe not even then.” Danny switched his gaze to my plate, which I was currently struggling not to lick clean. He gave me an incredulous look. “Where did you put all yours, anyway?”

  “Right in here.” Contentedly, I patted my belly. “Every last bite was delicious, too. The chocolate was sweet but complex, melty when it was supposed to be and smooth when it wasn’t. The pastries were delectable, the ganache incredible, and that chocolate-swirled speculoos butter . . . out of this world!”

  “You’re an animal,” Danny told me.

  “You’re broken somehow. You really don’t like chocolate?”

  “I like it.” He looked away, mulling it over. “I guess.”

  Sacrilege. “You need some serious rehabilitation, mister.”

  He gave me a fond look. “I guess you’re just the expert I need for the job, then. I don’t think you can do it, though.”

  “Those sound like fighting words.” I was up for the challenge. When wasn’t I? “Where are you off to next?”

  “Wait, what?” Danny gave me a faux astonished look. “We’re not going every place together from now on?” He shook his head. “I thought I was your bodyguard. I thought you needed me.”

  “You’re my on-call bodyguard. I told Travis to put you on retainer,” I explained blithely. “If I need you, I’ll call.”

  “You’ll need me,” he assured me. He’d never lacked confidence. Only the gene that involved chocolate tasting.

  Danny couldn’t possibly be tasting it correctly, I knew, and still wind up so utterly apathetic about chocolate’s ambrosial qualities, could he? No. He couldn’t.

  “So . . .” I arched my eyebrow, then exercised all my willpower to allow the server to clear away my plate. “Where to next?”

  “No place.” He shrugged his burly shoulders. “I’m staying here for a few days.” His gaze arrowed to mine, full of sudden, inexplicable exasperation. “Your dumbass financial manager—”

  “You can call him Travis.” It sounded as though they were having another one of their feuds. That was my cue to vamoose.

  “—only booked me a one-way ticket, that cheapskate. So I thought I’d spend a little time exploring San Francisco.”

  Ah, I got it. “Exploring, huh? With your detective friend?”

  “May
be.” Mischievously, Danny looked up. “You?”

  I shrugged, reluctant to say good-bye.

  “You’re already booked,” Danny prodded, “to . . . ?”

  Anguilla. That’s what it was supposed to have been. Except...

  “I changed my flight,” I told him with a nonchalance I didn’t begin to feel. I wasn’t ready to embark on a new job. I didn’t have a home to speak of. But I did have an intriguing offer, I remembered. “The Caribbean can be so crowded. After this, I feel like going someplace a little moodier. Rainier.”

  “London,” Danny surmised. He knew how I loved it there.

  I stayed mum while I signed for our breakfast. My treat.

  I stood, grabbing my (temporary) clutch. RIP, crossbody bag.

  “Not London.” With feeling, I grabbed Danny, then gave him a hug. With him staying in California, we wouldn’t see each other again for a while. “Not this time. Soon, though.”

  If I’d hoped to distract him from his original question about my destination, I’d forgotten who I was dealing with.

  Danny leaned back. He frowned. “Where are you going?”

  I gave an offhanded wave. “Seattle. You know, just for a few days.” I gave Danny a grateful smile. “Thanks for all your help with . . . everything. You know you’re the best, Danny.”

  He crossed his arms. “You can’t sidetrack me. Seattle?”

  We both knew what that meant. I didn’t want to admit it.

  But with a successful consultation behind me, a first-time murder resolution to my credit, and a belly full of scrumptious chocolate, I guess I didn’t have the wherewithal to hold out.

  “I thought I might pop in on Travis,” I admitted. Stupidly, my heart rate picked up just from saying it. “You know . . . see what he’s like in person. I think it’s about time we met, don’t you?”